Matt Lincoln Presents Treasure Hunt - Crescent City Crimes Book 1 - An Interesting Display of Writing Issues...with thoughts...

 “Well,” I said, turning my head so I could give Lex a wicked grin. “If it’s a game she wants, then it’s a game she’ll get.” “What does that even mean?” Lex wondered, but I was too busy strutting away after my witty one-liner to answer.

Cal already had the pieces of the table spread out across the floor, everything else in the room shoved to the walls, and they sat in the center of the chaos, instruction booklet in hand as punk rock blasted from the Bluetooth speaker.

Josephine Simms slammed the door to her house. There were tears in her eyes that made the whole room blurry, but she hardly wobbled on her stilettos as she stalked across the room toward the bar she and her husband kept by the fireplace. She wanted to smash one of those fine crystal glasses, but she wouldn’t do that. People of her station simply didn’t go around throwing things at walls, no matter how badly they might want to. She poured herself a glass and downed it in one gulp, though the world was already swimming from the drinks she’d had at Marcus’s work function. Where she’d left him. She ran out that door like she was a jilted girl at a school dance, and she was appalled by herself, though they’d been making such a scene that she simply had to get out of there. Marcus would come home once he’d calmed down, and they would have a civil conversation about this. There was no reason that this had to be unpleasant. Josephine poured herself another drink and brought it to her lips with a trembling hand. Once she’d drained the glass, she tipped it upside down and put it back on the table. No more. She’d had enough to drink for one night. She would take a bath, she decided. That would calm her down, and then she’d be in a better state to explain herself to Marcus when he returned. She pulled her satin shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and started for the grand staircase at the back of the living room. 

Before she’d gotten five steps, the front door slammed open, and a gust of night air blew into the room. “Josephine.” Josephine froze with one foot still in the air. Marcus’s voice was low and rough, still curdled by his anger, and she could feel the hot weight of his stare against the back of her neck. Josephine lowered her leg and slowly spun, moving as if Marcus were an animal she didn’t want to startle. He stood in the doorway, breathing heavily, his cheeks reddened by alcohol and the tears now drying to his face. His tie was loose, and there was a patch of dirt by the cuff of his suit coat. “Darling,” Josephine said, trying to keep her voice smooth and calm even as her heart jumped within her chest. “I didn’t think you’d be home so soon.” “You thought I’d just let it go, did you?” Marcus sneered. He stepped further into the house and swung the door shut behind him. The thud as it hit the wooden frame made Josephine jump. “I’ve let a lot of things go over the years, but not this one. Not this time. How could you do that to me, Josephine? I love you.” “And I love you, darling,” Josephine promised. She smiled at him, spreading her hands in front of her, offering comfort. “Stop calling me darling,” Marcus growled. He stalked toward her, each step so hard and purposeful that she thought they would leave marks on the floor. She heard something thump upstairs but barely registered it, more concerned by her husband’s anger. She could fix it, though. She could always fix it. “Marcus, I’m sorry, but I thought we’d talked about this. We agreed to have freedom in our relationship--” “Freedom to pursue our own hobbies and friends, not sleep with the first hot young thing to cross your path!” Marcus bellowed, cutting her off. Josephine quailed, drawing in on herself and holding her shawl close, hoping Marcus would see how he was scaring her, but his anger had overridden all else, and his bloodshot eyes were fierce within his reddened face. “Calm down,” she said as she began to back away from him. “I’m not going to have this conversation with you while you're like this.” She could regain control of this situation again. She had to. 

She heard another noise from upstairs, some kind of scuffing sound like something was being dragged across the carpet, and she frowned, distracted even with Marcus still walking inexorably toward her. “Did you hear that?” she asked him. “I think there’s someone in our house.” “Don’t try to change the subject,” he said. “Have I not given you everything I have, Josephine? Have I not loved you enough? Am I not enough for you?” “Of course you’re enough for me, darling,” Josephine said soothingly, but that was the wrong thing to say. His eyes flashed dangerously, and she backpedaled. “It’s not a matter of enough. I love you with all my heart, I promise you I do, but I needed something different, too. Not more, not better, just different.” “I don’t understand.” Marcus’s voice cracked, and some of his anger washed away, replaced by growing despair. “I don’t understand.” She stepped toward him, no longer retreating, holding her hands out to him as if in supplication, begging him to listen with her eyes. His steps stuttered, and his advance slowed, and he was finally looking at her with something other than rage. Josephine smiled at him, the coy, playful one that she knew he liked. 

The stairs behind them creaked. She spun around. She’d heard something for sure this time, and she had to see. A figure in black stood halfway down the staircase, freezing when they realized they’d been seen. Josephine pointed, whipping her head back toward Marcus to make sure he’d spotted the intruder, too. The stairs creaked again. The intruder was coming toward them. They had to do something, had to stop this interloper. Josephine turned back toward the stairs and started to move, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure that Marcus was still with her. The three of them were moving toward each other. Josephine kept looking back and forth between the intruder and her husband, wanting to keep them both in sight, and her head swam from her quick movement and all the alcohol still in her system. The room had gone blurry again, but she wouldn’t let that stop her. How dare this person break into her home? It simply could not stand. Something cracked against the back of her head. The world fuzzed black like a television screen losing signal. Josephine felt her knees buckle. It was the last thing she ever felt. She didn’t even have time for a final, fleeting thought.

~~~~

This book begins a new series for Matt Lincoln--one that presented several interesting issues that I found  distracting. Was it on purpose? Or am I too involved in the books that I read, that I notice "issues" often? I don't have an answer, so I tend to use support to document my emotional responses when the author has written something that distracts me from the story.

First, I want to say that this is a fun book that most of you will enjoy if distractions don't pull you away from your reading. The book begins with a murder. I was 99% positive that I could predict what happened before the book was over. At that time I was 100% correct. But at least the author chose "Crimes" as his subtitle as opposed to mystery, because, this certainly didn't provide a mystery to ponder... 

Moving forward, we begin to meet the characters that have thus far been hired into a new government office. MBLIS - Military Border Liaison Investigative Services. Every reader or movie watcher has gotten use to confronting organizations that are identified with the use of cap letters... This created name seemed just a bit much don't you think. M-B-L-I-S is extremely difficult to spit out as part of an introduction. Going with MBliss is a natural choice. But, seriously, folks, would you want to try to explain that you work for M-Bliss? A new governmental unit? I began to wonder whether sarcasm was being used by the author...

Introductions of this new unit was immediately provided to the local police, even though the unit's location was still in construction, with no furniture, etc. But once the offer was made to the police chief, he soon took advantage and turned over the murder of a local woman, which included a very valuable piece of jewelry being stolen. This began a number of heists with the same MO... 

The thing is that even the new staff had never met each other, including the head of the office. And, of course, friction began as each of the individuals acted based on their former job. One former FBI agent, who becomes the main character, was given a former cop to be his partner. Tension began between the two almost immediately.  Another federal employee from another unit was also assigned to MBlis, and a new tech individual was hired for the new unit. Let's just say that it took a while for each of the employees to begin to feel comfortable in their new roles with new people...

One of them even caused me a major distraction. And required that I do a little research about specifics, even though I had known of language changes being adopted through recent years... I found an adequate overview at en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Singularthey... 

I remember most of the rules that affected the English Language being taught when I was still in high school. I had never had any problem with accepting a basic rule, even if I didn't totally agree that the rule made sense. You know what I mean... If you don't know the sex of an individual then use the masculine form of the word. Of course, I began to see that sometimes you could tell it was a female because of the sentence, so the rule didn't really make sense... Still I went by the rules...

In this book, however, we have a known character, named Cal. Yes, it could be either a male or female. But the book clarifies that the individual has chosen pronouns of they/them. That means that the author specifically chose to complicate this book. Why? Let's take a look at the introduction of the new tech employee:

“Cal Vidal is our sole lab tech for the moment, though hopefully, we’ll find someone else to join them soon.” Cal gave me a jaunty little wave when Rachel said their name and then went back to flicking through something on a sleek, silver tablet, a lock of black hair falling into their pointy face as a white bud dangled from one ear. They looked like they were barely out of school and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt like they were out with friends rather than at an office. A fresh, floral pattern tattoo stood out against their light brown skin, the space around the lines still just a little red.

Folks, I hope by now you have a fair assessment of whether I am prejudice. I have read books by anybody and rarely, if ever, commented, except for reference, noted the sexuality preference of any character or author. So, when I say that I believe the decision to use a singular "they" is not only wrong, it is crazy and makes further grammatical errors mandated for this!

Look carefully at the sample introduction above. In fact, what has occurred is that by choosing a word that is defined for multiple people/characters, it has NOT at the same time mandated synchronization... Take a look at: They looked like they were barely out of school and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt like they were out with friends rather than at an office. By accepting a singular they, but not also changing the comparable verb or adjective, readers are left with total confusion... My tongue was trained--my mind was trained to match the subject with every other word in a sentence. That is no longer the case when singular they is accepted.

It is not my intent to get into the psychological aspect of HOW an individual has the right to proclaim why they choose to not be PLACED by sex. I have no other option for those individuals, EXCEPT to create an entirely new word for that person. For instance, we know of at least one word, Androgyny, which identifies some variation in sexuality. Transsexual is another word that has caused much disagreement but, still, is a new word that describes a different individual for some reason.

It is also not my intent to interfere with medical reasons to know the difference between he and she...

But I do disagree that social culture of any sort should be adjusted so that an entire language can be corrupted by such a decision.

Was this done purposely supporting the rationale? Or was it a form of sarcasm by the writer? Readers have NO idea. And, that, my fellow book readers, creates an unwanted distraction that does harm, in my opinion, in readers trying to get to know the individual who claims to be "they." while fumbling through the sentence that the one individual is sitting in the middle of a room and calling them a they. It should be noted that the author provided no comments in introducing this character into his book other than to say to another new employee who mistakenly called Cal him, that the preference was for they... 

I have learned that American English is an extremely hard language to learn for those speaking another language and trying to learn our language. We need to think through the ramifications of what one change can make in trying to adjust to a grammatically incorrect use...of...just...one...word!

And then there was the absolute worse mistake a writer can make, in my opinion, in this book... Releasing the name of the villain! 

The only salvation to this was that, later, the villain became a known named character... But that first sight of a new name not previously shared in the book--undoubtedly that of the criminal--was devastating. To me this is an immediate awareness that proper proofreading of the book had not occurred. The book had not received a final content edit...

“Agent Greyson!” someone called from down below. I thought maybe it was Barrett, but I didn’t have time to parse it out fully. Haddow’s body tensed, preparing for motion, but I couldn’t quite tell what she was going to do, where she was going to go, so I tried to ready myself for anything. She shot right toward me, and I got ready to snatch her arm, but at the last second, she spun around me, my fingers narrowly missing her tight sleeve, and then she raced for the edge of the roof. I twisted, feet digging into the stone as I tried to pick up enough speed to stop her before she did whatever she had planned. The thief planted one foot on the ledge ringing the roof and flung herself into the air, arms wind-milling as she aimed for the adjacent building. Surely, it was too far, I thought, as I watched her fly. But amazingly, her feet slammed down, and she turned the landing into a roll, popping back to her feet in one smooth motion. It was the stupid tree all over again, and this time, I wouldn’t falter. I ran faster, just a few feet between me and that ledge, and I steeled myself for the jump, well aware that the thief had stopped to watch me. At the last second, my feet dug into the roof, and I skidded to a stop, slapping my hands down on the ledge to check my forward momentum, heart jack-hammering in my ribs. I almost pitched right off the roof, but I planted a foot against the low wall and managed to drag myself to a stop. I panted as I crouched there, hands trembling, and when I looked up, the thief was smirking at me from the other roof, confidence flooding through her body. “So close,” she said. “Oh, so close.” “I will catch you,” I said, though my tough demeanor was somewhat ruined by the fact that I had flaked out at the last moment and was now breathing rather heavily.

I included the above excerpt to not only reveal that mistake, but to also share just how much the thief "controlled" this book. In fact, it was indeed clear right from the beginning that she was challenging the lead investigator to recognize that it really was a game that she was playing--almost a female Robin Hood, but who at least in his book, actually kept what she stole! LOL... 

I consider this an opinion piece more than a review of the book. It seems to me that the United States has gone too far in one way. Specifically, just as we discovered with the Covid Pandemic, and, now, with the measles once again spreading, that many of our citizens have turned away from thinking, first, about all Americans and for the overall good of America, and rather, have chosen to think their opinion or desires are more important than the nation as a whole. 

At the same time, I recognize that many who fight for justice are doing so because they have been physically, mentally, or emotionally abused by others to the extent that they have chosen to fight to be recognized as "special" in some way. To me, we should ensure all have similar rights, rather than pick out ways in which we can punish somebody for being different from the way You think they should be... I don't think anybody can now not realize what has happened to the United States since 2015 and, even worse, at present. 

You know, folks, in many ways, I have learned more about the lives of All people around the world thanks to Donald J. Trump... More specifically, I have learned more about just how cruel, selfish, and hateful some people can and have become. I grew up in a small town, and even when I started working and began to meet people who were in some way different from me, I had no thought of thinking that they should be "more like me..." In fact, when the issue of separation of Church and State began to change things, I at first voted No not to have stores open on Sunday. Then I began to think, really think, about what I was agreeing to. I thought about the times that my sister worked on Sundays at a nursing home and that there were many who had to work on Sundays as required for supporting those who needed help that day and every day. I had begun to think beyond my own personal situation as I began to work... 

I have also learned through my career that people could be treated differently due to policies and procedures, rules and regulations, but also due to power of a few versus consideration for priorities from an overall perspective. But nothing could have prepared me for what has been done to our country beginning in 2015 and which has gotten worse, stopping briefly, only during the years of Biden's presidency.

For the first time, I've known deeply just why Jesus gave His life for all creations... With free will, we were allowed to choose how we would treat others... For many of us, there didn't seem to be an issue before. But once we saw how one man via a nearly 1000-page report started working against anybody and everybody for whatever reasons a few people wanted to have things changed so that power and riches could be gained, I discovered in me an almost obsessive need to ensure that all people be considered in relation to the whole. And that something that a few individuals might want or prefer must be overridden for the good of the many... That...is...democracy as it works for a nation...

Knowing that the few people who want to be considered outside of a basic coding system; i.e., those who decide they don't want to be looked at as male or female, for whatever reason, may need to reconsider--or--be prepared with a plan that does not immediately affect the millions of other people. I fought all the way to the State with what was happening to me on the campus. But when the turmoil created appeared to be useless, in my case, I chose to withdraw and retire early. It did not affect anybody else and, in the end, my decision though difficult, was exactly what I should have done for my own well-being.

In turn, I've chosen a way to give back to people all over the world, by reading, reviewing and sharing my thoughts to those who have benefited from my time and support. In my opinion, we must work to ensure that we do not protest on behalf of our own desires to be recognized to the detriment of others... Rather, we have been shown by all that has brought millions and millions of people speaking out against a government that is no longer by the people, for the people, that we must work to support not only our own needs but those needs of all people, trying, insofar as possible to respond to everybody or to explain to each individual how or why their needs must be denied for the benefit of the whole. It is not easy to do. And our government must be prepared to make hard and non-partisan decisions to ensure the good of the whole country is indeed what they are working for. May God help us to find the strength to recognize that all that we might want cannot be achieved until all at least have basic needs of food, shelter, and a path forward...

The United States has come too far to ever consider moving backward--losing or rejecting achievements--that others are against for personal reasons. Yes, we must learn to balance our own desires and needs within a community--a nation--that ensures that all people are treated (respected) equally in today's world. Right now, that attempt to denigrate millions by a small minority is causing some of the worst changes ever seen--mostly for no sound political reason.

The star character, doing all the thefts, is an amazing character. Kudos for her. But you'll have to decide just how close to word selection means to you... I'll be giving on those sites requiring a rank, 3 out of 5... 

GABixlerReviews

National Poetry Month - Featuring News from Poets Celebrating Especially April 29th! - Music is My Poetry!

April is National Poetry Month, a celebration of the written word organized by the Academy of American Poets. National Poetry Month “reminds the public that poets have an integral role to play in our culture and that poetry matters.

Over the 25 years since it began, it has become the largest literary celebration in the world, with tens of millions of readers, students, K–12 teachers, librarians, booksellers, literary events curators, publishers, families, and—of course—poets, marking poetry’s important place in our lives.”

EVELYN KRIEGER

Author and Teacher. Inspiring creative souls through hard times.

Share a poem for Poem in Your Pocket Day on April 29, 2021,  #PocketPoem.

Here are two poems for you dear readers:

~~~~

Dear Glenda,

"The world is never the same place once a good poem has been added to it."

~ Dylan Thomas

April is National Poetry Month, and in my hometown, there are usually many events throughout this month. Personally, I will be offering a poetry workshop at Godmothers for Women 60+. It's never too late to start writing poetry! In addition, I will be giving a reading at a local bar with other poets.

I'm also happy to announce that my sixth poetry collection, Walking Myself Home: Haibun & Haiku, has been accepted for publication by Finishing Line Press. I just signed the contract and am awaiting the publisher's timeline. I'm over the moon with excitement! As writers, it never gets old hearing that our work has been published!



https://www.dianaraab.com

APRIL Writing Prompts

Who is your favorite poet or poem?

When was the last time you wrote a poem?
What do you remember about poetry in high school?

Life on Earth: Poems by Dorianne Laux

This book was released last year and was longlisted for the National Book Award. This is of no surprise to me. I've already reread it a few times. She writes about moments that many of us have lived through by the time you reach our mutual decade.

As Publishers Weekly deftly says, "With this spellbinding seventh collection, Laux brings to life the simple pleasures and small agonies of human existence."

I've dog-eared so many poems in this book that I love. We are similar in ages, and she writes a lot about aging. I could really relate to 

"I Dare You." 

"It's autumn, and we're getting rid

of books, getting ready to retire, 

to move some place smaller, 

more/manageable."

A slim and powerful volume!

~~~~

Words are so Powerful, 

said in poetic manner or as a prayer

Or as a cry for help...

 Words may be in different languages,

 but the tone--the very words

 of those who speak tell so much...

There are no words for War, 

though some men speak loudly

of hate and violence against others

Why is that? Why do we strike out

In fear, anger and often purposefully

Yet, we instantly know regret

May the world come to Thee

Seeking in Earnest of Peace

And May we Accept Your Truth and Love...

Gabby

Truth is a Whisper: A Christian Cowboy Romance - Wolf Creed Ranch Book 1 - Author Mandi Blake

 

Why hadn’t Ava moved on? Why was Jameson the only one who hung around in her thoughts? She’d dated, but they’d all been so forgettable.

“Yeah. I read the Bible, but that’s not what makes me a Christian. I believe in Jesus Christ, and I’ve dedicated my life to Him.”

You know folks, sometimes I find a need to read a book where you just automatically become one of the characters--that is, you feel a connection with that person who doesn't exist, but yet, speaks as you might want to do in your own life... It doesn't even have to be of a certain genre, although I'm finding Christian books seem more important these days when there are those that are making a mockery of Jesus Christ, the Son of God...

Truth is a Whisper--a lovely title, don't you think?-- is a book such as you might choose. I didn't know that at the time I started reading, however. I read few westerns, so I didn't really know what to expect. Certainly not what happened in this book... Since mostly getting books from BookBub, I'm discovering many new authors and new series, so you might want to sign up for free and low price books there... Frankly, the title drew me in to this one. It feels, to me, at least, that Truth is no longer a normal characteristic for people you might meet, so having Truth in the title was promising... And there certainly was a wealth of Truth finally being shared which readers will find fascinating!

Mandi Blake has a lot of fan videos for her books, provided FYI to check out...

The POV moves back and forth by chapter between Ava and Jameson. This couple met while they were still teens and were immediately drawn to each other. Ava had been kept away from the Ranch owned by her mother, Linda's parents, since she was born. Ava would be there to meet her grandmother--at her funeral... She was devastated, yet drawn to family that she never knew she had. And, thus, susceptible to Jameson's kindness and concern as she was learning both of a family, but at the loss of an important one. Her mother's mother... Why had she been kept away from this beautiful ranch and wonderful people?

Indeed, when Ava met Jameson she shared that she was going to start on a degree program when they returned to Denver. However, little by little Ava instead became more attached to her mother, who was a newscaster and ultimately, Ava took a job to be her mother's assistant in preparing for the day's news. Years passed. Linda became more and more demanding of Ava's time and attention. She still lived with her mother as well.

And then one day she was contacted by her grandfather who asked that she come to visit him for a while. He noted that he'd had some medical problems, but, in truth, explained that his foreman who was retiring and planning a trip with his wife, but kept procrastinating, fearing something would happen to his boss and best friend. Ava would provide alternative attendance to him and, hopefully, the trip would begin.

That was the point of a major change to Ava's life. For one thing she would be able to get to know her grandfather who she'd visited only that one time when his wife had died. And second, Jameson was still at the ranch! Ava soon began to realize that her being asked to come was for a variety of reasons, one of which was her grandfather's awareness that Jameson and Ava had years ago developed a close relationship. One that resulted in Ava not wanting to leave him and the ranch...

Ava's grandfather had indeed had medical issues, but that had been about a month ago. Readers will realize however that during that time period, he had obviously been thinking about the future of the ranch after his death. He didn't want to be caught off guard again! And, it wasn't long before he began to share his vision for the future of the ranch... And, as she was thrilled to do, Ava soon began to be taught the part of the ranch that he was in charge of--buying, selling--all financial issues...

And, of course, Ava and Jameson were brought back together! The only issue was whether she would stay longer than the week she had planned. Readers will become totally involved in a ranch that was much more than a normal ranch. It was also in the summer, a Dude ranch where people came to take part in a wide variety of activities planned specifically for sharing the life on a ranch with horses, an acreage that was huge, and fantastic cooking... (video of a well-known ranch provided below...)

So what's the key suspense, the plot that moves the story further along, other than the normal relationship events on a ranch? Well, it center on Linda, who is quickly identified as a monster that is out of control. Her demands for her daughter to return includes threatening to kick her out of their home and later, opening her home and inviting the friend who had been taking Ava's place during her time away, to move in! But that's not all... Linda also kept a major secret that is now being questioned. As well as a villain who demands that he take over the ranch! Even though Ava's grandfather never wants to sell it... That sounds familiar! Are all rich men selfish and cruel?!

Other than the rich guy, a really great set of characters provide readers with a diversity of emotional reactions--good and bad--as daily activities take place to deal with emergencies, preparing for each meal, getting the horses in from pasture each day! Exciting for those visiting! Including Ava!

A faint vibration rumbled beneath Ava’s feet, and a cloud of dust whirled over the pasture beneath the sun rising over the mountains. “What’s that?” Grandpa lifted his cup. “They’re bringing in the horses.” The rumbling grew, and soon she could make out the silhouettes of the first riders and horses. She stood and stepped closer to the fence, entranced by the sight of the herd. There had to be dozens, all galloping together toward the stables. Soon, the pounding of hooves thundered through the valley, rattling her bones and sending her heart racing along with them. What a way to wake up. She stood near the fence, stunned at the adrenaline running through her system, despite the calm morning. When the herd slowed and the wranglers dismounted, Ava spun around to her grandpa. “Do they do that every morning?” “Yep. Guests can’t ride the horses if the wranglers don’t bring them in from the east pasture.” She took her seat beside him. “That was amazing. They’re so beautiful.”

Throw in a few quiltin' parties with the women, a few discussions and thoughts from Jameson's related to a new knowledge that Ava had never even been invited to know about going to church and Jesus... A book or two that grandfather shared with her... And readers will learn at some point Ava has started talking to God... Just like all of us who do that from time to time... LOL

I think everybody is going to enjoy this one for one reason or another... Have fun and know there is a happy every after on this one...

GABixlerReviews

Colin Conway Presents The Fate of Our Years - The 509 Crime Stories Book 11 - One of Saddest Books Ever Read...

The need to be in the fight against evil no longer felt important. Unfortunately, I didn’t know what else was out there. What waited for me in retirement? All the plans I had with Bobbie no longer existed. Fulfilling them alone seemed hollow.

Overhead, a sugary song played. I could make it out, but I tried not to focus on it. I didn’t want to know what it was. “Look at me, Dallas,” she said softly. “Is that why you seem off?” Off. That was one word for it. Shortly after my wife’s death, I began waking to snippets of music. At first, I wondered if Bobbie was trying to communicate from beyond the grave. Once I decided she wasn’t, the music changed. The songs attacked my consciousness during the day. I felt on the verge of a breakdown. My work suffered, and the department ordered I see a therapist. He identified the music as auditory hallucinations. They went away not long after that. I knew I wasn’t crazy, but the diagnosis didn’t make me feel better. She squeezed my hand. “You can tell me.” “No, the music isn’t back.” “Then what’s wrong?” I stared at her hand in mine. She had nice fingers. What a stupid observation, I thought. She squeezed my hand again. Her voice was gentle. 

Truthfully? I can't imagine a love so deep that, upon death of the beloved, all life must stop. And, yet, Colin Conway has presented such a relationship. One that was so invasive to the individual left living, that, reality seemed to slip away...when she was gone...

Perhaps it was because he was a detective in major crimes? That doesn't seem the answer since he'd been dealing with this type of case during his entire career. Yet, when his wife died, he removed all sources of sound from their home, especially music...

Comprehension of such a fate is not possible for me. Yet, even as the story moves on to get into individual case work, if some distant notes of music came to his ears, he would be distracted...

My wife was somewhere in the quiet of my home. When I stopped looking for Bobbie in the music of my subconscious, I realized she was always with me in the stillness of our home. A weight draped itself over my shoulders, and I lowered my head.

The phone in my pocket buzzed once. I pulled it out to find a text message from Marlene—I’m sorry for being weird last night. 

I looked at Bobbie’s grave and immediately felt a surge of guilt. “It’s from a friend.” Shame was an emotion I’d never felt with Bobbie. I’d never done anything inappropriate while we were married, so it was stupid to feel something like that now. I slipped the phone back into my pocket. “I don’t know why I started thinking about it.” My head bobbled. “Retirement, I mean. The job’s the only thing I’ve looked forward to since you’ve gone away.” Two foreign cars raced by the cemetery. I watched them go. When I faced Bobbie’s headstone again, I studied it for a moment. “The music made you being gone easier.” I waved my hand in frustration. “That didn’t come out right. I meant it distracted me. Gave me something to focus on besides your absence. You being gone isn’t easy.” The old man at the other marker walked away. He shuffled with his head down. Is that how I moved after talking with Bobbie? Probably. 

What do you want? It was a strange question and sounded like Bobbie’s voice in my head. I knew it couldn’t be. She was dead, and I wasn’t crazy. No matter how much I wanted her back, that wouldn’t happen. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced the question was in my own voice. Regardless, I was bothered because of the question’s open-ended nature. Perhaps it was related to retirement. Or maybe it was linked to Marlene, but how would Bobbie know? I hadn’t told her anything. Either way, I didn’t feel like answering it even if I had asked it of myself. And what if she had asked the question? Then answering it would definitely mean I was crazy. I looked at my watch. “I have to go.” I squatted and touched the marker. “I love you.”

 *** 

“How was your night?” Glenn asked. He hung his suit jacket over the back of his chair and then flopped into it. “Fine,” I said. I hadn’t told him about any of my meetings with Marlene. It wasn’t any of his business. 

Interestingly, much of the investigation took place in a local bar, with music playing all of the time. Readers know what is happening, at least enough to understand the specific manner in which a murder had occurred. But even here, again, we find another man with a past that he could not forget. Yet was murdered through an entirely different set of circumstances. Is the writer trying to show a side of humanity that is, really, totally subject to the whims of fate? I found myself becoming disenchanted with that possibility, even as the case moves forward and, indeed, what occurs resulted in a death which made no sense in the real world. It was a fluke that it occurred. Or was it? Was his death meant to actually be retribution? 

You see, when you consider Fate as your way of life, it removes what, I believe, God has given to all of us--Free Will. During the entire book, music became either an instrument of potential torture or a pre-determined choice that he must make in order to survive...

I expected my subconscious to attack me then with Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.” Perhaps it would have been some of Eddie Van Halen’s guitar noodling or Alex Van Halen’s skipping drum intro. Hell, it might even have been David Lee Roth’s infamous “I’m not tardy” line, but my brain remained quiet. I felt oddly alone with the silence inside my head. Glenn continued. “You wouldn’t believe how hot this one is. She could have been a centerfold.” He ruefully shook his head. “So, what do you say?” “To centerfolds?” “To the teacher.” “No.”

Finally, folks, I was more involved in watching the cop pass up classic rock or jazz, etc., so that he wouldn't be drawn back into a life that could never exist again, that I didn't want to watch his self-fulling prophecy:

self-fulfilling prophecy is a belief about a future outcome that helps to bring about its own fulfillment. This happens because the unconscious expectations that we hold can influence our actions and ultimately cause the initial prediction to become true.

Besides that, living without music is impossible to even think about for me, so even if the cases were interesting, I found myself hoping that he keeps getting therapy...

Yes, the book is well written, has a sound basis for police procedure activities... Fate as a key factor in policing? I don't think so... Check it out and decide for yourself... This is a personal opinion review

GABixlerReviews

Tony Hillerman Presents The Shape Shifter - A Leaphorn and Chee Novel Book 18

 “Pretty mean around here?” Leaphorn asked. “Pretty mean everywhere,” Bydonie said. “Nobody’s got any respect for anything anymore.”

Once again, a top writer has finished a book, leaving a, in my opinion, very important issue, hanging without closure... It involves a navajo rug...and I was left wondering, just like this cowboy, what happened to the rug?!

Otherwise, I enjoyed very much learning more about our brothers and sisters of the indigenous people who lived here on lands now called the United States. Tony Hillerman is one of the most known writers of fiction for the Navajo tribal police with Leaphorn and Chee as officers of the community... In this book, Leaphorn has officially retired, but as most of us do when retired, we keep on thinking about our work that took up most of our lives, hopefully, in a manner in which we felt fulfilled for at least the majority of time...

Eleven days earlier… The boom of the lightning bolt caused Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn, retired, to hesitate a moment before he climbed out of his pickup in the visitors’ parking lot. He took a serious look at the clouds building up in the western sky as he walked into the Navajo Tribal Police building. End of autumn, he was thinking. Monsoon season pretty much over. Handsome clouds of fog over the Lukachukai range this morning, but nothing promising a really good female rain. Just a noisy male thunderstorm. It would be hunting season soon, he thought, which normally would have meant a lot of work for him. This year he could just kick back, sit by the fire. He’d let younger cops try to keep track of the poachers and go hunting for the city folks who always seemed to be losing themselves in the mountains. Leaphorn sighed as he walked through the entrance. He should have been enjoying that sort of thinking, but he wasn’t. He felt…well…retired. Nobody in the police department hall. Good. He hurried into the reception office. Good again. Nobody there except the pretty young Hopi woman manning the desk, and she was ignoring him, chatting on the telephone. He took off his hat and waited. She said: “Just a moment,” into the telephone, glanced at him, said: “Yes, sir. Can I help you?” “I had a message from Captain Pinto. Pinto said I should come in and pick up my mail.” “Mail?” She looked puzzled. “And you are?” “I’m Joe Leaphorn.” “Leaphorn. Oh, yes,” she said. “The captain said you might be in.” She fumbled in a desk drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, looked at the address on it. Then at him. “Lieutenant Joe Leaphorn,” she said. “Is that you?” “That was me,” Leaphorn said. “Once.”

He thanked her, took the envelope back to his truck, and climbed in, feeling even more obsolete than he had as he’d driven by the police-parking-only spaces and stopped in visitors’ parking. The return address looked sort of promising. Why Worry Security, with a Flagstaff, Arizona, street address. The name penned under that was Mel Bork. Bork? Well, at least it wasn’t just more of the junk mail he’d been receiving. “Bork?” Leaphorn said it aloud, suddenly remembering. Smiling. Ah yes. A skinny young man named Bork had been his fellow semi-greenhorn westerner friend from way, way back when both of them were young country-boy cops sent back East to learn some law enforcement rules at the FBI Academy. And his first name, by golly, had been Melvin. Leaphorn opened his Swiss army knife, slit the envelope, slid out the contents. A page of slick paper from a magazine with a letter clipped to it. He took off the clip and put the letter aside. The page was from Luxury Living, and a color photograph dominated it. It showed a grand high-ceilinged room with a huge fireplace, a trophy-sized rack of elk antlers mounted above it, a tall wall of shelved books on one side, and a sliding-glass door on the other. The glass door offered a view into a walled garden and, above the wall, snow-capped mountains. Leaphorn recognized the mountains. The San Francisco Peaks, with Humphreys Peak lording over them. That told him this Luxury Living home was somewhere on the north edge of Flagstaff. The assorted furniture looked plush and expensive. But Leaphorn’s attention was drawn away from this by an arrow inked on the photograph. It pointed to a weaving that was hanging beside the fireplace, and under the shank of the arrow were the words: 

Hey, Joe, Ain’t this that rug you kept telling me about? And if it is, what does that do to that arson case of ours? Remember? The one that the wise men ruled was just a careless smoker. And take a look at those antlers! Folks who know this guy tell me he’s a hunting fool. See attached letter. Leaphorn let the letter wait while he stared at the photograph. It did remind him of the rug he had described to Bork—a great rectangle of black, gray, red tones, blues, and yellows all partially encircled by the figure of Rainbow Man. It seemed to be just as his memory told him. He noticed a symbol for Maii’—the Coyote spirit—at his work of turning order into chaos and others representing the weapons that Monster Slayer and Born for Water had stolen from the sun to wage their campaign to make the Dineh safe from the evils that had followed them up from the underworld. But the photograph was printed much too small to show other details that had impressed Leaphorn when he’d seen the original in Totter’s trading post gallery before it burned. He remembered seeing faint suggestions of soldiers with rifles, for example, and tiny white dots scattered in clusters here and there, which someone at the gallery had told him the weaver had formed from parts of feathers. They represented big silver peso coins, the currencies in the mountain west in the mid-1860s. And thus they represented greed, the root of all evil in the Navajo value system. That, of course, was the theme of the famous old rug. And that theme made it a sort of bitter violation of the Navajo tradition. The Dineh taught its people to live in the peace and harmony of hozho, they must learn to forgive—a variation of the policy that belagaana Christians preached in their Lord’s Prayer but all too often didn’t seem to practice. 

And the rug certainly didn’t practice forgetting old transgressions. It memorialized the worst cruelty ever imposed on the Navajo. The Long Walk—the captivity, misery, and the terrible death toll imposed on the Navajo by the white culture’s fierce hunger for gold and silver—and the final solution they tried to apply to get the Dineh out of the way. But could this picture torn from the magazine be of that same rug? It looked like it. But it didn’t seem likely. Leaphorn remembered standing there examining the rug framed on the gallery wall behind its dusty glass. Remembered someone there telling him of its antiquity and its historical value. If this was a pre-fire photo, then how had it gone from the wall of this lavish house at the edge of Flagstaff to Totter’s gallery. The other possibility was that it had been taken from the gallery before the fire. Furniture and other items in the room suggested the photo was recent. So did a distinctly modern painting on another wall. Leaphorn put the magazine page back on the car seat, and considered another old and unpleasant memory the photo provoked from the day after the fire. 

The angry face of Grandma Peshlakai glowering at him through the window of his patrol car while he tried to explain why he had to leave—had to drive over to meet Captain Desbah, who had called him from Totter’s place. “It’s a federal case,” he’d told her. “They had a fire over at Totter’s Trading Post Saturday. Burned up a man, and now the FBI thinks the dead man is a murderer they’ve been after for years. Very dangerous man. The federals are all excited.” “He’s dead?” Leaphorn agreed. “He can’t run then,” Grandma said, scowling at him. “This man I want you to catch is running away with my buckets of pinyon sap.” Leaphorn had tried to explain. But Grandma Peshlakai was one of the important old women in her Kin Litsonii (Yellow House) clan. She felt her family was being slighted. Leaphorn had been young then, and he’d agreed that the problem of live Navajos should be just as important as learning the name of a dead belagaana. Remembering it now, much older, he still agreed with her. Her case involved the theft of two economy-sized lard buckets filled with pinyon sap. They had been stolen from the weaving shed beside her hogan. She’d explained that the loss was much more significant than it might sound to a young policeman who had never endured the weary days of onerous labor collecting that sap. “And now it’s gone, so how do we waterproof our baskets? How do we make them so they hold water and have that pretty color so tourists will buy them? And now, it is too late for sap to drip. We can’t get more. Not until next summer.” Grandma had bitten back her anger and listened, with traditional Navajo courtesy, while he tried to explain that this dead fellow was probably one of the top people on the FBI’s most wanted list. A very bad and dangerous man. When he’d finished, rather lamely as he remembered, Grandma nodded. “But he’s dead. Can’t hurt nobody now. Our thief is alive. He has our sap. Two full buckets. Elandra there”—she nodded to her granddaughter, who was standing behind her, smiling at Leaphorn—“Elandra saw him driving away. Big blue car. Drove that direction—back toward the highway. You policemen get paid to catch thieves. You could find him, I think, and get our sap back. But if you mess around with the dead man, maybe his chindi will get after you. And if he was as bad as you say, it would be very, very bad chindi.” Leaphorn sighed. Grandma was right, of course. And the sort of mass murderer that was high on the FBI’s Most Wanted list would, based on Leaphorn’s memory of his maternal grandfather’s hogan stories, be a formidable chindi. Since that version of ghost represented all of the unharmonious and evil characteristics that couldn’t follow the dead person into his last great adventure, they were the sort any traditional Navajo would prefer to avoid. But, chindi or not, duty had called. He drove away, leaving Grandma staring resentfully after him. Remembering, too, the last theory she had offered. When he’d asked Grandma Peshlakai if she had any idea who would want to steal her pinyon sap, she stood silent a long moment, hesitating, looking around, making sure Elandra was out of hearing range. “They say that sometimes witches need it for something. That sometimes a skinwalker might want it,” Grandma had said. That was a version of the witchcraft legend he had never heard before. Leaphorn remembered telling Grandma Peshlakai that he doubted if this very worst tribal version of witchcraft evil would be driving a car. She had frowned at him a moment, shook her head, and said: “Why you think that?” It was a question he couldn’t think of any answer for. And now, all these years later, he still couldn’t. 

He sighed, picked up the letter: Dear Joe, If I remember you correctly, by now you’ve stared at that picture and examined the rug and you’re trying to figure out when the photo was taken. Well, old Jason Delos didn’t buy that mansion of his on that mountain slope outside of Flagstaff until just a few years ago. As I remember your story, that famous old “cursed” rug you told me about was reduced to ashes in that trading-post fire long before that. Yet there it is, good as new, posing for the camera. You remember we agreed there was more going on in that crime, and that maybe it really was a crime, and not just a careless drunk accident and a lot of witchcraft talk. Anyway, I thought you’d be interested in seeing this. I’m going to look into it myself. See if I can find out where old man Delos got the rug, etc. If you’re interested, give me a call and I’ll let you know if I learn anything. And if you ever get as far south and west as Flagstaff, I’ll buy you lunch, and we can tell each other how we survived that FBI Academy stuff. Meanwhile, stay well, Mel

~~~~

Seeing the rug, as presented on the cover, is a cultural phenomenon, that is most significant for the representation of man as well as because it was the women of the Tribe who created these masterpieces. There was no doubt in Leaphorn's mind that the picture he had received by an old friend did indeed very much appear to be the same one-of-a-kind rug that he had once closely studied in a gallery he had visited. He knew he wanted to know more, but did not imagine that it would be quicker than planned because the friend who had first contacted him about the rug...was...now...dead!

After talking with Mrs. Bork and hearing her fear as she shared a threatening call:

 “Mr. Bork, I have some very serious advice for you. You need to get back to minding your own business. Stop trying to dig up old bones. Let those old bones rest in peace. You keep poking at ’em and they’ll jump out and bite you.” Silence. Then a chuckle. “You’ll be just a set of new bones.” The tape clicked off.

Whether he was now retired or not, Leaphorn knew only one thing--he was on the case! And he would be heading for Flagstaff to learn more about the rug, the present owner, and if Mel had actually visited there, and what had happened...

An interesting character was introduced at the location of the rug. Tommy was an orphan brought from overseas and had been taught how to cook, take care of his boss's needs, and more. On the other hand, his boss had little time to deal with Leaphorn's questions, especially when Mel's name was brought up. While acknowledging that Mel had visited, he made it quite clear that Mel had spent little time with the owner of the rug...  

But Leaphorn used his connections and sought an autopsy, which confirmed that Mel had been dead before his car went over the mountain... He had been murdered. And Leaphorn was fairly sure just how it had been done...

Because the same thing could have also killed him!

Even if that were true, the old stories of shape shifters kept coming into his mind and he wondered if his mind was still able to put together the entire set of events that seemed to be happening...

Leaphorn had no comment on that. He held his wristwatch close enough to read its hands, looked out at the brightening sky, and found himself confronting the same need for self-analysis he’d felt a few days ago when he was home alone, analyzing what he had run into since he’d begun this chase of Mel Bork and the tale-teller rug. Wondering if he had slipped prematurely into senile dementia. Why was he here and what did he expect to accomplish? He couldn’t quite imagine that. But on the other hand, he couldn’t imagine turning back either. So they may as well get on with it...

In the early chapters of the book, there had been a story about a grandmother who had contacted Leaphorn to help her catch a thief of a very important substane used in their basket weaving. During that conversation, Leaphorn had been called to a fire location where a man had been killed and he told her he'd have to leave. She pointed out that the man was already dead, while he was alive and the thief who had robbed her was also alive, so he should work on her request for assistance before going to look at a dead man. Leaphorn had silently agreed, and also agreed with her even as the book closed... So, in his own way, he made sure that he had sufficient money to pay her for what she would have made if he had first caught her thief.... So in all ways, other than the retrieval of the stolen rug, if that is what had happened, I loved how Hillerman closed out each detail for the characters in the book...

And the rug? My guess is that, in some magical way, the rug would be returned to the Navajo tribe from which it had been stolen...

GABixlerReviews

Lisa Jackson Presents Unspoken: A Riveting Novel of Suspense

 

It reminded her that she was closing in on Bad Luck, a tiny town not far from Austin, a town she’d sworn she’d never set foot in again. The sunroof was open, harsh rays beating down on the top of her head, strands of her red-blond hair yanked from the knot she’d twisted to the base of her skull. She didn’t care. She’d kicked off her high heels at the airport and was driving barefoot, her eyebrows slammed together in concentration, the notes of some old Madonna song barely piercing her consciousness. She took a corner a little too fast, and the tires on the Caddy screeched, but she didn’t slow down. After ten years of being away, ten years ostracized, ten years of living life her way in Seattle, she couldn’t wait to pull up to the century-old home where she’d been raised. Not that she’d stay long. Just do her business and get the hell out.

“We need to talk.” “What the hell are you doin’ here, darlin’?” Disappointment clouded his blue eyes, and a part of her wanted to run to him and throw her arms around his neck and say oh, Daddy, I’ve missed you. But she didn’t. Instead she swallowed back the urge to break down altogether and stiffened her spine. She was no longer a frightened little girl. “Alone, Judge. We need to talk alone.” She stared pointedly at his latest gofers. The men, dismissed by a nod from their boss, kicked out their chairs, and with muffled words and hasty assurances from Judge Cole that they’d get together later, walked stiffly around the back of the house and through a gate. In the ensuing stillness, when the sound of bees humming and a woodpecker drumming were all that could be heard, Shelby didn’t waste any time. She reached into her briefcase, pulled out the manila envelope, ripped it open and spilled its contents onto the glass-topped table where the ice in three half-consumed drinks was still melting. The black-and-white photo of a girl of nine or ten stared up at them, and the Judge sucked in his breath as he slowly sat down again. Shelby noticed that his wedding band had cut a groove in the ring finger of his left hand, a ring that hadn’t been removed in over thirty years, and on his right, he sported a flashy diamond that most Hollywood brides would envy. Shelby leaned over the table so that the tip of her nose was nearly touching her father’s. With one finger she pointed to the black-and-white picture. “This is my daughter,” she said, her insides quaking, her voice unsteady. “Your granddaughter.” She looked for any sign of recognition in the old man’s face. There was none. “She looks just like me. Just like Mom.” The Judge glanced at the photo. “There’s a resemblance.” “No resemblance, Judge. This girl is a dead ringer. And here”—she edged a piece of paper from beneath the photograph—“this is a copy of her birth certificate. And this ... the death notice of her as a baby. Read it—Elizabeth Jasmine Cole. She was supposed to have died, Judge—of complications, heart problems—right after birth. You . . . you told me she hadn’t made it. That those ashes I spread in the hills ... oh, God, whose were they?” she asked, her voice cracking, the immense pain rising up again. Shaking her head, not wanting to hear any more lies, she said, “Don’t . . . oh, God.” Shelby’s throat was clogged and she thought she might throw up. “You lied to me, Dad. Why?” “I didn’t—” “Don’t! Just don’t, okay!” She held both her palms outward, in his face, and stepped back. Bile roiled in her stomach. Beneath her skin, her muscles were quivering in rage. “Someone, and I don’t know who, sent me all this. I got it yesterday, and so I came back here to clear it up. Where’s my daughter, Dad?” she demanded through teeth that were clenched so hard her jaw ached. “What the hell did you do with her?” “Now, darlin’—” “Stop it! Right now! Don’t call me darlin’, or sweetie, or kiddo, or missy or any of those cute little names, okay? I’m all grown up now, in case you hadn’t noticed, and you can’t smooth-talk your way out of this, Judge. I’m not a little girl. I know better than to believe a word that passes through your lying lips, and I only came back here to find my child, Judge—my daughter.” She thumped her chest with her thumb. “Yours and who else’s?” he asked, his smile having disappeared and the old, hard edge she remembered coming back to his voice. “That—that doesn’t matter.” “Doesn’t it?” The Judge scattered the papers across the table and frowned, his eyes narrowing behind wire-rimmed reading glasses. “Odd, don’t you think? You get proof that you’ve got a kid during the same week that Ross McCallum is going to be released from prison.” “What?” Her knees nearly buckled. McCallum couldn’t be given his freedom. Not yet. Not ever. Fear congealed her blood. She was suddenly hot and cold all at once. “Oh, so you didn’t know?” The Judge settled back in his chair and played with the ivory handle of his cane. He looked up at her over the tops of his glasses. “Uh-huh. Ross is gonna be a free man. Oh . . . and Nevada Smith, he’s still around.” Her stupid heart skipped a beat, but she managed to keep her face bland, her expression cool. Nevada was out of her life. Had been for a long, long time. Nothing would change that. Ever. “Yep,” the Judge went on, fingertips caressing the smooth knob, “inherited a rocky scrap of land that he’s tryin’ to ranch. No one knows how he’ll handle Ross’s freedom, but the word is that there is certainly gonna be hell to pay.” He bit his lower lip and scowled thoughtfully, as he’d often done while hearing long-winded summations when he was on the bench. “And now someone sends you bait—a little chum in the water to lure you back to a town you’ve sworn you’d never return to. Someone’s playin’ you for a fool, Shelby,” he said, slowly nodding his head, as if in agreement with himself, “and it ain’t me.” For once she believed him.

Lisa Jackson was one of those favorite authors during my early years of reading purely for pleasure. So, when I grabbed Unspoken, I was disappointed. There was little, if any, suspense that you could identify. The villain was clearly identifiable, since he was already a part of the main character's life. Indeed, he had already attacked her during high school!

But, for me, the most devastating was that Jackson totally ignored the WHY of having been lied to that her baby had died at birth... When you call a novel suspenseful, you'd better ensure that you clear up what caused the suspense! Duh...

Since there was little to actually concentrate on in this supposed riveting novel, I did get involved more closely with the family dynamics. Unfortunately, this was another book where a main character comes right out of today's headlines... Shelby's father was a Judge--a man who thrived on power and who felt he had a right to do what he wanted to do--sound familiar? When Shelby got pregnant in high school, the Judge made it clear that she had brought shame to the family structure and he would handle everything... Shelby was naive enough to accept that the baby had died and that she would not need to bear the pain of seeing her child.

But she had been relocated during the pregnancy and the boy who she felt was her baby's father was left out of everything that occurred. It was a shock, then, when Shelby went to him and told him she'd had a child and she believed he was the father.

Somebody wanted her to know, and had sent a picture of the child, who looked exactly like Shelby. That mystery was also not a problem to figure out the whodunit... 

“That’s what I was told by everyone, but now... now I think I was lied to, and that she’s alive, but I don’t know where. She was probably adopted through the black market.”

Nevada was still single, but had little to do with activities in the town, so Shelby caught him with news he didn't know how to deal with, at least at first. But it wasn't long that he was willing to try to find his daughter. Around about that time, it seemed that there were more people knowing what was going on than there should have been, with little explanation for those involved and their actions. I began feeling like Jackson was under a deadline and continuity and rewrites were ignored to finish the book... even if that was not the case... To complete what I felt should have been explained and merged into the overall story would have taken about 20 pages--not too much to ask from a well-known author, is it?

Ol’ Judge Cole 

 Was a nasty old soul

  And a nasty old soul was he

He called for his noose

  And he called for his gun

  And he called for his henchmen three.

 The poem made her cringe inwardly, but she refused to let it get to her. 

Right now all she could think about was finding Elizabeth.

 And what about Nevada? her mind taunted,

 but she wouldn’t fall victim to those old feelings again. 

Nevada was a man whom she had to deal with—the father of her child. Nothing more. Until she located her daughter, nothing else mattered. 

Shelby's actions are understandable as she is learning just how much and how long she was deceived. My impression of Nevada was that he handled the situation much better and was willing to, for the most part, accept how deeply Shelby had hurt him by just leaving. This relationship was the only salvation for a bright spot in the novel... You will have to decide about this one...

GABixlerReviews