Susan Kiernan-Lewis Presents Murder in Mont St-Michel: Thrilling French Mystery (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 19)

 Spotlight  Amazon book description...

Remote. Mysterious. Deadly.
Situated off the Normandy coast, Mont-Saint Michel has been many things in its history: a prison, a siege fortress and an abbey. When Maggie and Laurent—who are struggling with the revelation of a family secret that threatens their marriage—take part in a couples’ counseling weekend on the island they are thrust head first into the setting for a brutal double murder. Because a once-in-a-century storm is bearing down on the island preventing communication with the outside world, their small group of six is trapped on the island—with a murderer. And the clock is ticking. Maggie has only one night to find the killer—and elicit a confession—before the police arrive and go with the obvious evidence—all of which points directly at Laurent. This book is a clean read: no graphic violence, sex or strong language Genre: light culinary cozy mystery, women amateur sleuth. Murder in Mont St-Michel: A riveting mystery thriller set in Provence (A Maggie Newberry Mystery Book 19)

Please refer to earlier discussion for further information... I have chosen to present this as a discussion also. It appears that whoever wrote this book description is inexperienced... While many write multi-genre books, it is rare indeed when you get a clean cozy described as a riveting mystery thriller... at least in my experience... Of course, I admit to my bias against the clean description being used as a basis for evaluating any book...

As soon as I saw the setting on the cover for this book, my immediate genre was identified as a gothic mystery... Once I started reading the conceptual plot was close enough, although very modernized, that I could not escape the emotional impact that the story presents to readers. A well-known Gothic, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier soon was recalled, given that the setting is in France...in a very old but still used, perhaps haunted, but definitely with hidden escape locations, rooms that elicited fright and danger, including a cellar that, perhaps, had been haunted by the prisoners which were once housed there--during the times that it was not being used as a monastery...

It was on the bottom level of the abbey, just above the main floor, near a chapel called Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre. Maggie shivered again. Literally translated: Notre-Dame-Sous-Terre meant Our Lady of the Underworld. A caption underneath the icon on the map read: This is the oldest part of the monastery. From the first millennium. Maggie felt her scalp prickle. She jammed the map back in her jacket pocket and hurried around a tight corner to the first set of stairs that led downward. How much time did she have left? Were the three minutes up? Surely Soeur Thérèse would be waiting at the statue of the Black Madonna.

A place where you may discover in a hidden area of that building or come face to face with the Black Madonna... How will you view her being there, not as a part of the church itself, but perhaps hidden on purpose... or are you just hallucinating that she is there, where the map has led you...

That is, if you are the main character who is found throughout the book, sneaking through, searching for some way to save her husband from cruel accusations that he is a murderer... Was it an attempt to lighten up the reality of the setting and the events that was to happen to add some family connections in a Bed and Breakfast, which opens and closes the book, even including a recipe thrown in for effect, This was not an amateur detective in a cozy mystery. This was a woman fighting for her marriage. A marriage which she was so afraid of losing that it was she who proposed that she and her husband travel to what was to be a couples retreat...supposedly...

Majestic, magical, mysterious. Maggie stared up at the eighty towering meters of solid granite—topped by the famous abbey and its statue of Saint Michael. She felt her skin tingle at the sight. Mont St-Michel appeared like a floating mirage on the horizon, rising up in a heart-stopping manifestation of what the ancient monks had hoped to create—an abbey as close to heaven as possible. The base of the village loomed before them in a wall of broken rock that supported the lichen-covered eleventh-century Benedictine abbey. Maggie had done her homework on the island. But nothing had prepared her for the sheer enchantment of seeing it like this. Yes, she’d visited years ago. But she must have had blinders on at the time because she felt as if she were seeing it for the first time. “It’s magnificent,” Maggie said breathlessly. As far as hopeful beginnings went, just the sight of this breathtaking fortress was everything she could have dreamed of. Immediately she pushed away her doubts and thoughts of returning to the train station.

Halfway up the Grande Rue Maggie spotted a statue of Joan of Arc poised at the doorway to a small chapel with a plain wooden door. The plaque over the door read Église St-Pierre. The small stone chapel looked modest and diminutive compared with the drama of the abbey towering directly above it.

Maggie had been quietly dealing with almost complete silence for nearly a month, after her 20+ years of being married. Of course, as most women would, she feared he was having an affair, even though it had only been about recently that he had so changed... What else could it be?! While her husband was stoic, he had always been a solid husband and father who was dedicated to her family--a rather strange one, to be sure--still the two had adjusted their lives accordingly when faced with problems before. This time was different... Maggie had no choice. She had never kept silent before so she hoped that group counseling might help. Her husband had not disagreed, so she proceeded to schedule...

On an island, where a small group of villagers surrounded the long-standing building which had come to be a tourist attraction--which was now totally necessary since the present residents were no longer able to financially meet the needs for keeping the facility open...

There were a total of three couples and a counselor who had good references, perhaps, but quickly became questionable given his quick move to establish total control of what was to take place. Phones were gathered, no outside contact was to be permitted. The kitchen staff provided the evening meal and left for the night. Only three permanent residents were left and they did not participate in what was to come...

It had been a beautiful dinner setting, with two women serving them, along with bottles and bottles of wine for consumption... Everybody was beginning to relax, although that was hard for Maggie since her husband had stayed back in their room when she was ready to go and he'd motioned her to go on ahead... He came right as dinner was starting...

“Sometimes I try to imagine what marriage might be like with someone who actually spoke to me,” Maggie said. “I try to imagine how things would be different if I didn’t always have to interpret your grunts or decipher your silences.”

“What is happening?” Maggie said, reaching out for Laurent. But he was far away now. She saw him standing with his hands by his side, his arms long and touching the stone floor. The stone floor that Maggie suddenly realized was wet. She took a step back as she saw the hallway filling up with water. “Maggie, no,” Laurent said, his voice a long way away. “Stay calm.” “The place is flooding!” she shouted. “Don’t you see it?” “It’s not. It’s not there,” Laurent said, his voice a tiny dot a thousand miles away. Maggie was hearing his voice through her brain, through her memory. She looked around the hall and saw the walls begin to move like they were breathing. They inhaled and exhaled, sucking in and out in time with the screams of the prisoners captive in the walls. “Laurent, where are you?” Maggie screamed, looking wildly around for him. But he had gone too. The water was nearly to her knees now and it was clear it was meant to drown her—to drown them all. She turned and sloshed through the deluge, through the filthy water toward the stairwell. A man’s torso floated past, face down, but from the hair and shirt she could see it was Alex. Maggie shrieked and fell against the wall to avoid the corpse, then fell to one knee, sloshing in the water, tasting the salt foam as it splashed up into her face. She scrambled back to her feet and clutched her head to block out the screams of the abbey prisoners, squeezing her eyes shut tight as she did. She heard her name being called as if from a long way away. At first she thought it was Laurent but then it sounded like the prisoners had begun to chant her name. “Maggeeee! Maggeee!” She turned and ran, realizing the water had suddenly gone and there was now nothing impeding her. She felt an abounding joy suffuse her then and when she did, all the lights in the hall blinked on in a golden halo of grace and goodness. She felt encompassed by it. She still ran, with her mouth open in awe at the electrifying show around her, as stardust—literal stardust—sprinkled down from above coating her hair and shoulders. Then the music that had always been there in the background suddenly came to the foreground in an almost mystical crescendo of horns and percussion. Maggie slowed to stare in awe at the golden avenue the passageway had become. It looked as if it was lined in gold, glittering from every stone, every surface. As if goodness itself was imbedded in the walls. The walls pulsed around her in a shower of love and goodwill. She was still moving forward, still in wonderment, as her foot hit something solid and she stumbled. She reached out for the walls to break her fall but they moved away from her. She fell, slamming painfully onto the stone ground, her hands in front of her in an involuntary attempt to catch herself. She lay there feeling the cold of the floor emanating up into her legs, her hips and her hands. Her legs rested on something soft, the impasse that had tripped her. Maggie lay immobile, her body humming with expectation, and saw the last and final dusting of gold dust sprinkle slowly down onto her hands. She felt an incredible sadness come over her. Slowly, she turned to look at the thing she had fallen over. And started to scream.

~~~~~~

It soon becomes clear to readers that the couples were getting drunk. The resident priest had joined them for dinner and one of the wives had been seated next to him...Much to his dislike, she soon was cozying up to him! And during all of this, the counselor was talking, describing what and how the weekend would proceed... At some point, there was a call to have the couples join for the first activity... Individuals were becoming a problem... Soon the couples were no longer matched with their spouses... And the counselor did nothing to solve that strange beginning of a couples weekend... Maggie was very disturbed, when the woman who had been cozying up to the priest set her eyes on Maggie's husband!

Maggie was perhaps the only one who realized that she was experiencing what appeared to be hallucinations... And insofar as possible became alert to her own actions... She believed she had been drugged! The others too?! One thing was clear. Nobody knew what was going on with whom or why... Until a body was discovered in a location that was far away from the area where dinner had been served...

The victim's throat had been cut...

And the last person that she had been seen with...was Maggie's husband.

Who claimed that he had delivered her to her own husband... and pushed her into his arms... The husband had been so drunk the entire time that there was no way for him to agree to that claim...

With such a small number of people involved, I am purposely not including any names except Maggie's who knew she had been drugged and had no way of being able to prove where her husband was, even though she immediately claimed he was with her... Knowing that she, too, had seen her husband with the now dead woman as they had left the dining area...

But when she finally found him, it was clear that there was something wrong with him...he was sweating, woozy... She knew he'd been drugged again... And on her first hunt out into the huge building, she came upon the counselor making a tape (with a phone) of what he had decided to say to the police when they came...that he was blaming Maggie's husband as the last man seen with the dead woman!

And, worse, a major storm front had come and the entire island was soon under water, gaining strength as the rain kept coming down and the tide grew higher, soon coming into the halls in the lower areas... until Maggie, when the female nun had come to talk to her husband, explained that she knew who had killed the woman and wanted to meet him, it was Maggie who went instead, since her husband was now unconscious...

It was Maggie, too, again, who saw a door and heard the tide coming in... closer and closer... Maggie thought she heard a moan, even though she felt she was where she should be...and had seen the Black Madonna... still the nun was not around... 

but the noise of the tide grew louder and she opened the door, seeing how high the water was... And she saw a lump, a small lump already in the water... There was no stopping. she ran to see... if it was the nun...

The woman who had claimed she knew who killed the dead woman... was also... now dead... 

At least Maggie could be sure her husband could not be charged since he'd been drugged... but there was still a murderer there... The island was cut off. There was no way to contact anybody... And the priest pointed out that, in the morning was the first that the police might be able to get there since they normally came to check to see that staff were alright after a major storm...

Along the way just by meeting and observing how the couples interact, readers will meet a very needy, sexual predator, a woman who has found through a life experience that she hates all men and has perhaps murdered a man in her past... Then you will learn that during her being drugged (and didn't refer to it later) that Maggie observed a couple kissing who were not married--yes sexual involvement with another man...Maggie had learned during the early hours of the opening dinner that her husband had cheated on her and had a child by somebody who was now blackmailing him... and, oh yes, it was the counselor who had drugged everybody and had included it in very small print in their contract that he would be using drugs as part of their weekend... and, further that they were "designer" drugs created especially for him and had not...yet...been declared illegal, so they could not sue him, according to his lawyers...

Still, after all these criminal issues that were not "violent," there is, now, two murders to solve and Maggie is getting desperate. She wants to find the killer before the cops even get there so that nobody would be able to accuse her husband, even though he has broken her heart...with what she has learned about a daughter...

She continued to rub her hands up and down her arms. She wasn’t wearing a coat, only a thin pashmina shawl and it was sorely deficient for the job. She turned to peer down the long passageway. Electric sconces lit the way but also illuminated the details of rat droppings and tourist litter in the corners. What are we doing? she thought in mounting despair. This is crazy. Worse, this is useless.

Even now as I work to close this post out, I have mixed feelings about this novel... I try to forget about the book description, but find it still bothers me... The storyline is what you might call TMI... as if all these concepts were stuffed into one book and then just presented trying to explain what it was meant to tell me, the reader... 

The primary first decision, if it was indeed chosen first as the setting, clearly would set a certain tone that called out for a horror or gothic tale... And, in many ways it was, even though neither of these genres is mentioned in the description... Attempting to make it into a cozy, in my opinion, was a complete failure. Mainly because the definition of a cozy is: a subgenre of crime fiction focused on lighthearted, comforting, and escapist storytelling where violence, sex, and profanity happen off-page. I've presented more than I should about the criminal acts that occurred including that the main character was even drugged when she found the first murdered victim. There is maybe 20 pages of lighthearted family drama and that's it...certainly not a comforting book meant to escape into... At the same time, in a weird kind of way it could be a romance, perhaps a suspense romance along with the gothic atmosphere... ???

There was insufficient character development as well for a supposed need for couples counseling, especially when it was turned into a criminal event on the part of the presenter... Readers are left with no early development of what was really going on with the marriages of the main couples... a mystery normally provides clues along the way to allow the reader to become more invested in following the potential villain. However, there was just insufficient information and a time crunch for us to even keep who was husband and wife for two couples... Simply because the tragic main character was running around trying to save her husband--also not a normal task for an amateur detective concept... The very real drama and panic this woman was going through as presented was simply excessive, for want of a better word... for a cozy.

There were also 3 locations in the book where duplicative material was presented, without being corrected. And, of course, creating stumbling blocks to readers as we were forced to reread in an effort to understand what was really being said...

As I had written earlier in a different post, it was perhaps unfortunate that I chose two books to read consequently which both had been declared "clean." I have since learned that Amazon decided to add this as part of their sales pitch. But I have no way to verify whether the writer agreed to this designation. However, whoever considered this has probably never read such a book as this one. And perhaps didn't even read the book being discussed. The murders may not have occurred in the book. That was made irrelevant by the atmosphere that had been created by choosing the site that was used. The location and routine descriptions reeked of tension, danger, and fear... Adding a major storm only added to that affect and couldn't possibly have not prepared readers for possible harm around each corner...

And yet, while reading, it was the setting that kept me reading. It was the mystery, the awareness of the age of the building--that it had once been a prison where prisoners had died... as well as now being a monastery which normally provided a closed off, secretive community that was controlled by religious caretakers who were being assaulted by drunkenness, lies, murder and more...even excessive sexual advancement by one of the wives... Seriously? I just couldn't make it jive into a book that left me satisfied, even with an interesting ending that was totally a surprise...

This discussion will be provided as a personal opinion piece and not submitted to Amazon as a sales support ranking... I will say that learning about this amazing building was fun as a fan of architectural wonders... So I'm suggesting that if you find a similar interest, you spend some time reviewing the many videos available for this now major tourist attraction...

Thought, feedback welcome...

Gabby

Rosie Reed Brings Delight and Fun in Murder At Magic Cakes Cafe: A Paranormal Cozy Mystery (English Village Witch Cozy Book 1) Playlist+

 

That’s vhat I like about the human vorld. Humans are considerate to each other most of the time.”

There was something magical about England in springtime – a veritable explosion of new life – a delightful assault on the senses after the musky dormant chills of winter. Luke, Leia, and I drifted past the various tents, which included plenty of places to shelter. The residents of Maiden-Upon-Avon had obviously experienced springtime in England before, and knew all about the famous April showers.

The above song wasn't on the playlist which I'll be sharing, but when it started, I just couldn't not use it... after all, readers may feel like they've actually traveled over the rainbow when you start to read... LOL This is funny, as opposed to any fears or worries about the witches, werewolves, vampires, and more, that you'll be meeting in this cozy mystery set somewhere in a little town not too far from London...

I was on my way back to the bar, when a masculine voice said, “Hello again.” I glanced up and saw Vikram in front of me. He was gazing at me as if he thought he was the top prize in a Hunk of the Year contest, and I was the lucky winner. Ordinarily, I’d run a mile, but here was my chance to ask him where his boss bought his stationery!   “Vik Charma,” he said. “Delighted to meet you properly.” He grabbed my hand and lifted it towards his lips to kiss it. 

I don’t think so! I wrestled my fingers out of his grip. “Ah,” I said. “Charma by name, slime-ball by nature.” He laughed raucously. “I saw you here yesterday talking to Raven. What was that about?” I tried to emulate Inspector Taylor’s blank face, but it was really hard. “Just a casual chat. You’re Edward Hamilton’s assistant, aren’t you?” Vikram smirked. “Well, I’m a bit more than that – I’m his second-in-command.” I pretended to be impressed. “Oh wow, I bet you know everything that’s going on with him.” “Well, yes, I do.” 

“Why was he shouting at the police just now?” “Oh, he was saying he wants DI Taylor to give him round-the-clock protection from the person who keeps harassing him. He doesn’t see why he should have to put up with threats and constant questioning.” “From Jagar Volfson?” I asked. He shrugged. “I heard you’re Marilyn Eldritch’s daughter?” “News travels at the speed of light in this village, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, well. Marilyn used to vote for the other side.” I frowned. “How do you know that?” “She displayed the alternative candidate’s poster in her café window. So, I was just hoping we could rely on your support. If you’re taking over the café?” “Oh crikey no! I won’t be sticking around long enough to be on the electoral register, believe me.” “That is a shame.” 

I rolled my eyes – I was unimpressed by men like this. But I did wonder whether political candidates had taken to killing off their rival voters? It would certainly be one way of winning the election. Edward Hamilton definitely wasn’t going to win it on his charms after tonight’s little outburst. Although, of course, Vikram had an abundance of charms himself – if you didn’t mind drowning in his smarmy slime. “So, where were you the night Marilyn died?” I asked, hoping to sound casual. He answered far too quickly. “Edward and I were out of town.” “Really. And which night was that again?” “Are you a police officer?” he asked, suspiciously. I opened my mouth to reply, but Luke drifted over.

 “Hey man, you’re an India fan, I see!” Vikram glanced down at the sport’s top he was wearing. “Yeah! Hey, you like India?” I felt Luke’s spirits rise at the chance to talk about cricket, whilst mine did a total nosedive. It was just so dull. “Well,” Luke said, “Obviously my loyalties lie with England, but no one will ever replace Kapil Dev. The way he spun those fast balls was just perfection – utter genius.” “Oh, I know,” Vikram said, practically salivating. “You play also? Sorry, didn’t catch your name... I’m Vikram.” “Luke...” They shook hands. “Well, I used to play for the county. But I love watching it too; never miss a Test Match.” They launched into a lengthy conversation about cricket, so I decided to retreat, lest I slip into a coma. I edged away. I knew Luke had probably just come over to see if I needed any help with Vikram, but apparently he’d found his new best buddy. I was pleased for him – and hopefully it would stop him from talking to me about the world’s dullest game. 

I wandered off to find Leia, to congratulate her again on her excellent performance. We grabbed another drink from the friendly vampire behind the bar, and I watched Luke and Vikram chatting – wondering what the MP’s second-in-command might be hiding behind that charming front of his. I felt optimistic as Luke, Leia, and I left the pub. It’d been a good night. I’d made a few friends – although beer always helped there – and I was eliminating suspects, even if I wasn’t any closer to actually solving Marilyn’s murder. Another reason for my optimism was how well Luke and Leia seemed to be getting on, as they chatted ahead of me. 

I purposely hung back, and as I walked past an alleyway alongside the pub, I noticed a man down there, bent over, leaning his arm against the wall to prop himself up. To put it politely, he’d been taken ill. Rather noisily. Investigating dark dank alleyways wasn’t on my list of favourite hobbies, especially with a murderer on the loose, but my compassion took over and I approached the man. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He groaned. “I’m throwing up down the side of a pub, what do you think?” He glanced up, realised it was me, then groaned again. “Ms Eldritch. Of course.” “Hello, Inspector Taylor.” He stood up very carefully and leaned back against the wall, before sliding down to his haunches and burying his head in his hands. I crouched too. “Is there anything I can do for you?” He shook his head imperceptibly. “Is it, um... just too much to drink?” A small nod. “This is a new low for me.” “This hasn’t happened before?” He squinted at me. “I’ve never been stumbled upon by a pretty stranger before.” I glanced around for the pretty stranger, which made Inspector Taylor laugh out loud. Oh, he meant me? Even in his drunken dishevelled state he was gorgeous. But despite how much I fancied him, I’d probably say no to a snog right now. “I expect a cup of tea will make you feel better,” I said. “I think I might need a bit more than a cup of tea, Ms Eldritch.” I was about to say he was welcome to talk it over, but Luke joined us. “You all right, Evelyn?” “Luke, this is Detective Inspector Taylor.” Luke looked surprised. “Really? Is he looking for clues down there?” Inspector Taylor glanced at Luke, then groaned again. “Is there anything we can get you?” I asked. He shook his head. I could tell he was getting agitated with this audience now. I squeezed him on the shoulder. “We’ll leave you alone. Make sure you talk to somebody though. Whatever’s troubling you, you shouldn’t keep it in.” He grunted, then threw up again. Well, I hadn’t exactly meant that. I left him to it, wondering why I was always attracted to handsome men with issues. This one had incredible green eyes. And hopefully the green tinge to his skin would fade once he sobered up tomorrow.

~~~~~~

Streamers of England flags were proudly fluttering on every shop front, reminding me that it was St George’s Day this coming weekend. I could well-imagine the Maiden-Upon-Avon residents celebrating proudly with a few rounds of Jerusalem and God Save the Queen. This village was quintessentially English, with its red telephone box, country pub, and cobblestones – it made me want to break into Land of Hope and Glory.

 Although I’d much rather listen to the surrounding sound of sweet bird song. Ancient oaks stood amongst the ivy-covered shops, looking even older than the village itself, which had clearly been here centuries. Luke pointed to the first shop in the row of many – the facia of which was blue, peeling, and woodworm-ridden. “I’ve never seen an ironmonger before. I’m not even sure what they... monger.” I chuckled. “Iron, I suppose.” Next to the ironmonger was a haberdashery and then an apothecary. “It’s all so delightfully charming,” Luke said. “Oh, let’s go in here actually.” “Newsagents? Why?” “Buy a paper. I need to find out what decade this is!” Luke gestured to the huge plastic bottle-bank standing at the side of the newsagents. “Well, at least they have recycling facilities in the back of beyond – very modern.” We wandered inside and said hello to the lady behind the counter. She had a friendly face, was aged around fifty, and was knitting. The stock was crammed on the shelves, and there were all sorts of random things for sale – bath plugs, coloured sequins, an assortment of gloves, hats, and scarves, puzzle books, doormats, and much more besides. I picked up a copy of the local newspaper.  Luke kept his voice low so as not to offend. “Look at this headline: Sheep Escapes From Maiden Farm – hilarious!” I tried not to laugh at how quaint it was. “Nicer than the usual shootings and stabbings in the London papers. Look at the name of the reporter – Jager Volfson. Sounds Scandinavian.” “I wonder what brings him to this little village,” Luke said. “A time machine, I suppose.” I noticed a smaller headline. “Local MP wastes money on designer cricket kit.” I glanced at Luke. “Corruption exists everywhere!” We both sniggered at this heinous crime. I read out loud, “‘Detective Inspector Taylor made no comment – as usual’. It sounds like the shaky relationship between the police and the press exists here too.” “Are you planning to buy that?” the shopkeeper asked, continuing to knit. “Or just laugh at it?” “Sorry,” I said, guiltily lowering the paper. “You’re not from round here, are you?” the lady said. “No, just visiting. Come on, Luke, we should get going.” “I do hope they find that missing sheep,” Luke said, managing to keep a straight face. I was about to put the newspaper back, when a gruff man strode into the shop. The lady’s demeanour plunged to unfriendly. “What are you doing here, Mr Hamilton?” Glancing at the newspaper in my hands, I realised that this newcomer was in fact the local MP we’d just been discussing. The one who’d allegedly been wasting council money on designer cricket gear.  The Right Honourable Edward Hamilton was tall, greying, and tetchy. Not your usual smarmy politician, but someone who’d fought to be in his position, and wasn’t about to be defeated.  He was wearing a rosette on his grey suit. Of course, there was an election coming up next month. The local journalist was clearly vying for the other side.  “Don’t believe a word of that rubbish,” the MP said, pointing to the newspaper. The lady behind the counter spoke with a tremble in her voice. “I thought I asked you not to come in here anymore.” Edward Hamilton grabbed the newspaper from my hands. “And I told you not to sell this rubbish anymore, Helen!” Helen drew herself up to her full five-foot-six height. “I’m the local newsagent, Edward, how can I not sell the local paper. It’s my raison d’être!” “Oh, we speak French now, do we? Well, hear this, je ne regret rein!” Helen put down her knitting. “Please just leave me alone.”   Luke stepped between them. “You need to leave.” Edward guffawed. “I’m the local MP, boy. Don’t you know anything?” “I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England. This is Helen’s shop, and she’s asked you to leave, so I suggest you do.”

~~~~~~

Somewhere in a small village where many different people from many different backgrounds had come to live together, we arrive into a new cozy series just when a senior witch has been murdered! She was the owner of a small cafe where cakes, and more, were sold. Some said they were magical, but that could have been just because she had won the local festival cake competition for each year so far back that nobody could remember... This year, somebody new would win because Marilyn Eldrich had been poisoned, they later determined, and had died. She had been well liked in the community and would be much missed. Especially by her helper and apprentice, Leia, who wasn't quite sure where her future would lead, but she had learned that the new owner would be coming soon, so she had hopes she would be as nice as Marilyn had been...

But learning about her inheritance was a complete surprise for Evelyn who was, as the first chapter opens, literally up a tree, to help get a cat down (bless her!). So when her phone rang during the storm that had started during her climb, she was becoming more and more... Well, you should know she talks to herself and describes herself as an idiot for climbing a tree to get a cat...(the cat wasn't hers...) In any event, she was somewhat shocked... No, she was really shocked to learn that her biological mother had died and she had inherited her cafe...and she needed to travel quickly to learn more...

Thankfully she could talk her cousin into traveling with her and they were soon on their way, leaving London, and heading to a small town with a really strange kind of a name... Whoever had heard of a town with a hyphenated name!  Luke was her sister's son and was in medical school, but they agreed that this shouldn't take long... But, of course, readers are already guessing that she's going to be staying, right?! At least I did...

“Evelyn, darling!” She kissed me on both cheeks, then grabbed my hand to drag me to the kitchen. “Your magic training begins! I need to explain a few things first, and then we’ll try some spells.” “You’re all insane around here.” She chuckled, pushing me down into a kitchen chair. “Darling,” she said, standing over me. “You are going to have to accept, sooner or later, that you are a witch.” I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t believe in any of this. It’s bonkers.”  Her voice was business-like. “Right, now that you’ve been given your powers, you must learn how to use them.” “No I don’t.” “Yes you do. If you’re magical, you have to train how to use it, or else it will use you. Or worse – the darkness will come to take you.” I rolled my eyes in disbelief. “What darkness?” “I hope you’ll never find out, Evelyn, I really do.” She sounded deathly serious. But actually she was mentally deranged, wasn’t she? Or I was. And I didn’t think I was. “First things first,” Joanie continued. “I need you to promise me you won’t tell a human soul any of the following, other than Leia, who’s a friend of Beings of Magic.”

Evie was not prepared for all that she was to discover. Indeed almost as soon as she arrived, she was no longer Evi, but was soon to be called Evelyn... And soon after she arrived, she was called into a meeting where she was proclaimed sergeant of arms and expected to take over the role that her mother--a woman who she had never met--had once held... But that wasn't the only surprise. She soon learned that she was a witch by birth, and even if she didn't know about her heritage, she was expected to take on the role and learn... Her grandmother was going to teach her! Now as if that wasn't enough, this was not a family such as we knew whose wife twisted her nose and did cute magic tricks, nor was this the charmed ones... 

In fact, Leia who worked at Magic Cakes and was there to greet Evie and Luke knew more about her mother's activities that her daughter. Marilyn had shared her skills with Leia, even though she was human and had no actual abilities. While Evie, when she began to receive lessons failed just about every attempt she made... Which was great fun, especially when she was attempting to create a cake, only to have it explode all over her and Leia... Did I mention that there is lots of humor to look forward to in this book as well?!

Leia had also learned and did most of the cooking, as well as introduce Evie and Luke--with whom she quickly develops an attraction which is reciprocated--within the community and also plays the guitar! 

But, as every cozy reader already knows, Evie was immediately on the hunt for, once learning that her mother was actually murdered, who was guilty! And she wasn't going to give up until she learned the who and why... So, of course, in doing so, Evie becomes immediately attracted to the hunk who was the detective on the case, who has no desire or need for assistance, and even fights his attraction, while somehow they seem to become partners in some events... Often meeting up at the local pub where everybody congregated evenings... On open mike night, Leia was to play...

I found myself wondering whether they were human or Beings of Magic. But I quickly stopped that train of thought. What difference did it make? We were all part of this village, of this community.

The thing I liked most about Reed's book is that when there was a potential individual about whom she considered a possible "person of interest," she provides a "back story" for each. For instance, she saw a woman with a silver cross necklace which was said to have been her mother's.... We learn more about Evie as she enters into each of these situations and her response to each....

And then, of course, the magic beings are known only if they happen to be identifiable... Take for instance, one man who Evie immediately questioned as he forced her to attend a meeting on the very first contact, but then, his wife had no alibi for not being there as well--at least in her opinion... Readers will enjoy the love story of this couple, like one you've never read about before--or at least I hadn't... LOL...

Seriously, when the overall story becomes more fascinating to me than the mystery to be solved, I was hooked! This book is fun, joyful--even when murder happens, and a wonderful way to begin a new series, which I highly recommend if this post sounds at all interesting to you... Folks, you really have to visit Maiden-Upon-Avon... to understand ...and ...know... Enjoy!

Folks this took me away from the madness and chaos...

"Something Stayed" seemed to be a song that I wanted to added as well...

GABixlerReviews

Meet the Author Writing the Will Trent TV Stories - A Fantastic Program and Author! - Karen Slaughter Presents Unseen! - With Playlist!

She tried to put herself in the shooter’s head, figure out what he was thinking. Two cops. Both with guns they hadn’t used. One was on the floor. The other hadn’t moved, hadn’t shot back, hadn’t screamed or jumped out the window or charged him.

I had a pleasant surprise when I picked up this book by Karen Slaughter, one of the best authors that is now writing! And when I learned that she was also behind the Will Trent TV program, I understood... You see, I've been watching this program, I think, since it came on television. But I had noticed just how much more complex and involved they were becoming. Seriously, quite a difference. I didn't take the time to do the research as to when Slaughter became involved, but I will say that the last shows of one of my routinely watched cop programs were much better than I'd remember there being... Whether or not Slaughter was a contributor to that improvement is really not relevant--it's enough to report that Will Trent has certainly improved as time has gone on... I'm loving it! The characters are outstanding and the closeness of the individuals in this particular group of officers is a wonderful contrast to the reality we see as we watch ICE work to destroy our neighborhoods... Especially since the cast is a pleasant group of multi-racial individuals who reveal no biases or prejudices against others in the show... It's a relief to watch the normal lives of all citizens as they play roles on normal entertainment events...

THURSDAY - ATLANTA, GEORGIA 

Hospital elevators were notoriously unreliable, but Dr. Sara Linton felt that the ones at Atlanta’s Grady Memorial were particularly creaky. Still, like a gambling addict hitting a slot machine, she punched the button every time on the off chance that the doors would open. “Come on,” Sara mumbled, staring at the numbers above the doors, willing them to hit seven. She waited, hands tucked into the pockets of her white lab coat as the digital display showed ten, then nine, then stayed at a solid eight. Sara tapped her foot. She looked at her watch. And then she felt her body fill with dread as she saw Oliver Gittings trotting toward her. As a pediatric attending in Grady Hospital’s emergency room, Sara was in charge of several students who—despite some evidence to the contrary—assumed that one day they would become doctors. Night shifts were particularly tedious. There was something about the moon that turned their little brains into mush. Sara often wondered how some of them managed to dress themselves, let alone get into medical school. Oliver Gittings was one of the better examples. Or worse, as the case tended to be. In the last eight hours, he’d already spilled a urine sample on himself and accidentally sewn a sterile cloth onto the sleeve of his lab coat. At least she hoped it was accidental. He called, “Dr. Linton—” “This way,” Sara told him, giving up on the elevator and heading toward the stairs. “I’m glad I found you.” Oliver ran after her like an eager puppy. “An interesting case came up.” Oliver thought all of his cases were interesting. She said, “Give me the highlights.” “Six-year-old girl,” he began, pulling on the exit door twice before realizing that it opened outward. “Mom says the girl woke her up in the middle of the night for some water. They’re going down the stairs. The girl starts to fall. Mom grabs her arm. Something pops. The girl starts screaming. Mom rushes her here.” Sara took the lead down the stairs. She guessed, “X-ray showed a spiral fracture?” “Yes. The girl had a bruise on her arm here—” Sara glanced back to see where he indicated. “So, you suspect abuse. Did you order a skeletal survey?” 

“Yes, but radiology is backed up. My shift is almost over. I thought I’d go ahead and call D-FACS to get things moving.” Sara abruptly stopped her descent. The Division of Family and Children’s Services. She asked, “You want to go ahead and put the kid in the system?” Oliver shrugged, as if this was nothing. “The girl’s too quiet. Mom’s antsy, irritated. All she wants to know is when they can leave.” “How long have they been here?” “I dunno. I think she was triaged around one.” Sara looked at her watch. “It’s 5:58 in the morning. They’ve been here all night. I’d want to leave, too. What else?” For the first time, Oliver seemed to doubt himself. “Well, the fracture—” Sara continued down the stairs. “No specific fracture is pathognomonic to child abuse. You call D-FACS and it’s a legal matter. If this mother is an abuser, you want to make sure she doesn’t get away with it. You need corroborating evidence. Does the girl seem scared of her mother? Does she look you in the eye and answer questions? Are there other bruises? Developmental delays? Continence issues? Is there a history of ER visits? How did she present otherwise?” Oliver didn’t immediately answer. Sara prompted, “Is she healthy? Well nourished?” “Yes, but—” “Stop.” Sara wasn’t looking for a discussion. She checked her watch again. “Dr. Connor is taking over for me, but you’ve got all of my numbers. Order the skeletal survey to see if there are any past breaks or fractures. Notify security to keep an eye on the mom. Call the other ERs to see if the girl’s ever been admitted.” Sara moderated her tone, trying to make it clear she was teaching him something, not punishing him. “Oliver, sixty-five percent of child abuse cases are flagged in emergency rooms. If you stay in pediatrics, this is the sort of thing you’re going to be dealing with on a weekly basis. I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying you need to know all the facts before you turn this girl’s life upside down. And her mother’s.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” He headed down the stairs, hands tucked deep into his coat pockets. Sara didn’t immediately follow, cognizant that Oliver’s ego was fragile enough without her snapping at his heels. Instead, she sat on the bottom stair and checked her hospital BlackBerry. Sara’s eyes threatened to roll back in her head as she scrolled through the administrative detritus littering her mailbox. Meetings, conferences, denied requisitions, and new procedures for requisitioning, attending conferences, and scheduling meetings. She felt around in her other pocket and traded the BlackBerry for her personal phone. This was much better. Her father had emailed a silly joke about snails that he’d heard at the Waffle House. Her mother had forwarded a recipe that was never going to happen. There was a long email from her sister with a picture of Sara’s niece attached. She marked this unread and saved it for later. The next message was a text from Sara’s boyfriend. An hour ago, he’d sent her a photo of his breakfast: six mini chocolate doughnuts, an egg and cheese biscuit, and a large Coke. Sara didn’t know which one of them was going to have a heart attack first. The door popped open. Dr. Felix Connor stuck his head into the stairwell. He eyed Sara suspiciously. “Why do you look so happy?” “Because I can go home now that you’re finally here?” “Gimme a minute to hit the can.” Sara dropped the phone back into her pocket as she stood. Oliver wasn’t the only one who wanted to get out of here. Sara had pulled several night shifts in a row courtesy of a stomach flu that was running rampant through the hospital. She was beginning to feel punished for her own good health. Home. Sleep. Silence. She was already making plans as she walked through the ER. Thanks to her crazy work schedule, Sara had four full days of freedom ahead of her. She could read a book. Take a run with her dogs. Remind her boyfriend why they were together. This last bit widened her smile considerably. She got some curious looks in return. Not many people were happy to find themselves at Grady, which was the only publicly funded hospital left in Atlanta. The staff tended to take on the hardened demeanor of combat veterans. If practicing medicine was an uphill battle, working at Grady was on par with Guadalcanal. Stabbings, beatings, poisonings, rapes, shootings, murders, drug overdoses. And that was just pediatrics. Sara stopped at the computer by the nurses’ station. She pulled up Oliver’s patient on the monitor. The X-ray clearly showed where the child’s right humerus had been twisted. Either the mom was being truthful about what had happened on the stairs or she was savvy enough to fabricate a believable lie. Sara looked up, scanning the open-curtain area, which was predictably filled with repeat customers. Several drunks were sleeping off benders. There was a junkie who threatened to kill himself every time he got arrested and an older homeless woman who belonged in a mental hospital but knew how to game the system so she could stay on the streets. Oliver’s little girl was curled up asleep on the last gurney. Her mother was in a chair beside her. She was sleeping, too, but her hand was laced through her daughter’s. She hadn’t yet noticed the security guard standing a few feet away. Not for the first time, Sara wished that nature had devised a system to alert the rest of the world to people who were abusing children. A scarlet letter. A mark of the beast. Some sign that let decent people know these monsters couldn’t be trusted. Up until a few years ago, Sara had lived in a small town four hours south of Atlanta. She’d done double duty as the county’s pediatrician and medical examiner. Her father liked to joke that between Sara’s two jobs, she got them coming and going. While this was certainly true, too many times, Sara had been put in the position of witnessing firsthand the awful things people could do to children. The X-rays that showed repeatedly broken bones. The dental records revealing teeth that had rotted from neglect. The skin that was forever marked from burns and beatings. Now that she was living in Atlanta, Sara had the additional knowledge that came from dating a man who’d grown up in state care. Sara’s boyfriend didn’t like to talk about his childhood. When she touched her fingers to the healed cigarette burns on his chest, or kissed the jagged scar on his upper lip where the skin had been punched in two, she could only imagine the hell he’d survived. Still, there were far worse things that could happen to a child. The system was flawed in many ways, but it was also there for a reason. “I wish you’d stop smiling.” Felix Connor dried his hands with a paper towel as he walked toward Sara. “I gotta say, I’m still having a hard time shaking this flu.” Sara made her voice chipper. “Better sick at work than sick at home.” “Is that what you tell your patients?” “Just the babies.” Before Felix could come up with an excuse to leave, Sara started running down her cases. She was wrapping up the details on Oliver’s patient when she felt a rush of heat come to the back of her neck. Sara glanced over her shoulder, feeling like she was being watched. She did a double take when she saw her boyfriend. Will Trent was leaning against the wall. He was dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit that was nicely tailored to his lean body. His hands were in his pockets. His sandy-blond hair was damp, curving against the nape of his neck and stopping just shy of his collar. He smiled at her. Sara smiled back, feeling a familiar tingling in her chest. She had known Will for almost two years—met him in this very hospital—but lately their relationship had turned into something more. The depth of her feeling was an unexpected treasure. Sara had lost her husband five years ago. She had assumed she would spend the rest of her life alone. And then she’d met Will. Sara said, “Felix, I—” She glanced around, but he was gone. Will pushed away from the wall and walked toward her. “You look nice.” Sara laughed at the blatant lie. “What are you doing here? I thought you were working.” “My briefing’s not for another hour.” “Do you have time for second breakfast?” Will slowly shook his head. “Oh.” Sara realized he hadn’t just dropped by. She asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“Maybe we could go somewhere?” She led him toward the doctors’ lounge. The door was about thirty feet away, giving Sara just enough time to work up a full-on worry. Will was a special agent with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. He’d been working undercover for the last ten days. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—tell Sara the details of his assignment, but he kept calling from strange numbers and showing up at odd hours. She had no idea where he came from or where he was going, and anytime she asked, he either changed the subject or found a reason to leave. When Sara wasn’t busy feeling mildly annoyed by all this, she was consumed with fear that something bad was going to happen. Or had already happened. Sara’s late husband had been a cop. He was murdered in the line of duty, and losing him had almost killed her. The thought of the same thing happening to Will was too much to bear. “Let me get that.” Will reached in front of Sara to open the door. Fortunately, the lounge was empty. He waited for her to sit down at the table before taking the chair across from her. She repeated, “What’s wrong?” Silently, he took her hand. Sara watched as Will ran his fingers along her palm, traced the inside of her wrist. Will watched, too, his deep blue eyes tracking the movement of his fingers. There was something about the way he watched himself touching her that made Sara’s skin start to tingle. She stilled his hand. All she needed was for one of her students to walk in and find her purring like a cat. Besides, she recognized Will’s stalling tactics by now. She leaned forward. “What is it?” He gave a half-smile. “Diversion not working?” “Almost,” she admitted.

~~~~

The GBI was equivalent to the FBI on the Federal Level. But in this book, Will Trent was undercover. Will was also involved with a woman and, it was a closer relationship than on tv. I enjoyed the longevity and closeness of this main character, who, once you know his back story, you will find that he is one of the most unique that you will find within a law enforcement agency. If you haven't yet seen any of the tv series, I highly recommend! For the first time for me, I'm tending to prefer the tv series as opposed to the book. It's probably because I've become invested in the lives of those in the tv series, which includes all of the agents in his area... But the importance of the topic covered in Unseen is one that calls for details of the reality...

The investigation was broad, but had becomes somewhat pinpointed on the fact that those involved were not afraid to go after the cops as well. At the same time, One of the officers who had a bad reputation with some people, was in trouble again... She had been partnered with a police officer who was killed during a shootout. That had been years ago, but, now, she was married to a relative of the wife of her former partner. And he'd been shot during a new criminal action... Was she bad luck, or was it just what the job was all about? Talk was spreading across GBI and relatives of agents...

And Will was at the scene, undercover when a raid went down... But more was yet to come!

MACON, GEORGIA

 SEVEN DAYS AGO—THE DAY OF THE RAID Dawn turned the morning light a cobalt blue as the raid van roared down a gravel road. There were ten cops in back, five on one side, five on the other, all jammed shoulder-to-shoulder so that every bump of the tires made them jerk in unison. The radio speakers were blaring Ice-T’s “Cop Killer.” The air inside the van vibrated with the raging beat. Cop killer. Better you than me. Lena Adams steadied her shotgun as they hit another rut in the road. She checked the Glock strapped to her thigh, made sure the Velcro held the gun tightly in place. The voice in her head screamed along with Ice-T’s as they got closer to the target. She took a few quick breaths, not to clear her mind but to make it spin, to amp up the adrenaline and the absolute high that came from knowing she was a few moments away from the biggest bust of her career. And then everything stopped. The music snapped off. The red light came on over their heads. Silence. Two minutes until arrival. The van slowed. Gravel crunched under the tires. Guns were drawn, magazines checked. Helmets and protective glasses were adjusted. The smell of testosterone got thicker. Nine men and one woman. All of them suited in Kevlar vests and black fatigues, loaded up with enough ammo to take down a small army. Lena breathed through her mouth, tasting the fear and excitement circling inside the van. She took in her team. Eyes wide. Pupils the size of dimes. The anticipation was almost sexual. She could feel the exhilaration building around her, the way everyone shifted in their seats, gripped their guns tighter in their hands. They’d been staking out the house for the last two weeks, had planned their attack even as the junkies and whores streamed in and out like ants on a mound. There would be piles of money. Percocet. Vicodin. Hillbilly heroin. Coke. Guns. Lots of guns. Overnight surveillance told them that four men were inside the house. One was a low-level thug on parole off assault charges. The second was a junkie scumbag who would suck off a dog to feed his Oxy habit. The third was Diego Nuñez, an old-school enforcer who enjoyed getting his hands dirty. The fourth was their leader, a bastard named Sid Waller who’d been questioned on a rape and two different murders but somehow managed to skate on all of them. Waller was their main target. Lena had been tracking him for eight months, doing a masochistic hokeypokey—locking him up, letting him go, locking him up, letting him go. Not this time. The drugs and guns would put Sid away for twenty years, minimum, but Lena wanted more than that. She wanted him to know for the rest of his miserable life that a woman had cuffed him, jailed him, convicted him. Not that he would have a long life once Lena was finished. She wanted Sid Waller on death row. She wanted to watch them jam the needle in his arm. See that last flicker of life drain out of him. And she was betting her career on making that happen. For two weeks, she’d been fighting the brass, pushing them to keep the operation going, pleading with them to extend the overtime, authorize the manpower, spend the money, and pull in the favors for the snitch who’d brought them all to this house in the middle of the woods. Sid’s crew wouldn’t last long behind bars. Diego Nuñez would hold out, but the other two were junkies, and with Sid Waller out of the way, getting high would trump being loyal. In less than twenty-four hours, they’d both be scrambling to make deals, and Lena had a DA who was ready to hand them out. Sid Waller had killed a nineteen-year-old kid. He’d raped his own niece and slit his sister’s throat when she’d called 911. Every cop in this van wanted to be the one to take him down. Lena didn’t bother with wanting it. She was actually going to do it. She looked up at the ceiling, staring at the red light until it flickered off and then on again. One minute. Lena closed her eyes, going over the plan. They had pulled the records on the house. It was a foreclosure, one of many on the outskirts of town. Brick, which was good because it would stop bullets. The single-story structure was in the middle of two point-five acres bordered by a national forest on one side and a rural route on the other that bisected Macon and fed into Interstate 75, heading north into Atlanta. Searching the tax commissioner’s office had netted them a builder’s diagram: den, bathroom, and two bedrooms in the back. Dining room and kitchen in the front, with a set of stairs opposite the sink that led down into the basement. They’d rehearsed the raid so many times that Lena saw it like a tightly choreographed dance. DeShawn Franklin and Mitch Cabello would breach the side door with a Monoshock Ram. Lena would take the front of the house with Paul Vickery, her partner for the last year. Eric Haigh and Keith McVale would clear the bathroom and two bedrooms in the back. DeShawn and Mitch would secure any prisoners. The remaining men would guard the perimeter of the house and make sure no one slipped out through a window or door. Lena had wanted at least eight more bodies on the team, but the operation was already pushing the million-dollar mark and Lena knew better than to ask the brass for more. They always worked in twos; no one entered a room alone. The layout of the house was choppy, each room walled off with nothing but a door in and out. Back at the station, they’d taped off the garage, mapping the rooms to scale. Lena and Paul had two doorways to contend with before they reached the basement: den to dining room, dining room to kitchen. Each opening represented a new opportunity to get shot. The basement was going to be the trickiest part. The builder’s diagram showed a wide-open space, but that had been drawn in the fifties, when the house was built. Sometime in the last sixty years, the basement had been finished. There would be walls they didn’t know about. Closed doors and closets. There was no door to the outside, only two narrow, boarded-up windows that a grown man couldn’t fit through. The basement was a deathtrap. Back at the station, they had drawn straws to see who would go down first. Lena’s team had won, but that was only because she had been holding the straws. The van downshifted to a crawl. There were no windows in the back, but Lena could see past the driver’s head. The sun winked underneath the visor. A thick stand of pine trees arced around the side of the house. Aerial photos showed a straight shot to the rural route less than two hundred yards through the forest. If the bad guys decided to run, that was the direction they’d take, which was why two cruisers were assigned to patrolling that stretch of road. The van stopped. Overhead, the red light flickered again, this time staying off. Lena pumped her shotgun, loading a cartridge into the chamber. She checked the Glock again. Her team followed suit, checking their weapons. The driver, an old-timer named Kirk Davis, whispered into the radio, letting the brass know they’d arrived. The mobile command center was parked a mile away in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. If history was any indication, Denise Branson would wait until Lena’s team had secured the house, then roll in and take credit for everything. So be it. Lena’s credit would come when she had Sid Waller on the ground, her foot on his neck, thick plastic zip ties cutting into his fat wrists. It was the only thing left in her life that she wanted to do—could do. It got her up in the morning and it went to her empty bed with her every night. Lena grabbed the door handle, then looked back at the group, stared each man in the eye to make sure they were ready. There were nods all around. She pulled open the door. And the dance began. Lena jumped out first, heading toward the house at a fast trot. She heard footsteps pounding behind her—nine guys armed to the teeth and ready to break some heads. She kept her shotgun tight to her chest as she ran toward the carport. Her Glock tapped against her thigh. She scanned the woods around the house, took in the trash littering the ground, the broken bottles and cigarette butts. The perimeter team swarmed into position. Lena led the rest of her men into the carport. They lined up two on each side. Paul Vickery jammed his shoulder against Lena’s. He winked at her, like this was nothing, though she could see his chest heaving up and down underneath his vest. Inside the house, they heard the laugh track from a TV show, then music. The Jeffersons. “Movin’ On Up.” Lena started the timer on her watch. She gave the nod to DeShawn and Mitch, who were holding the Monoshock, waiting for her signal. They swung back the ram twice to build up momentum, then slammed the sixty-pound metal cylinder straight into the door. The wood splintered like glass. Lena yelled, “Police!” as they rushed in—guns drawn, ready to light up the place. 

But they were late to the party. Two men sat on a yellow corduroy couch opposite the television. Their shirts were off. Jeans slung low. One had his hand tucked into his front pocket. The other guy held a can of beer. Both had their eyes open. Parted lips showed missing teeth. An array of handguns covered the battered coffee table in front of them. Neither moved, or ever would again until the coroner came to pronounce them. Their throats had been cut. The skin gaped open, showing white tips of vertebrae among the dark red sinew inside their necks. Paul checked for pulses, though even from ten feet away, Lena could tell both men had been dead for hours. Waxy skin. The odor of decay. The junkie was one of the deceased—Elian Ramirez. His bare chest was concave, the ribs standing out like toothpicks. His murderer had saved him the cost of killing himself with Oxy. Paul checked the second man, turning the head to get a better look at him. “Shit,” he cursed. His disappointment spread around the room. Diego Nuñez, Sid Waller’s right-hand man. Lena watched a fly crawl across his eyeball. Nuñez’s purple-black tongue lolled out of his mouth like a chow’s. According to statements, Diego had taken his turn with Sid Waller’s niece once his boss had finished with her. He’d been behind the wheel during the drive-by that killed a nineteen-year-old kid who’d been stupid enough to mouth off to Waller. Lena’s guess was that, as a reward for good service, Diego had joined in on the fun with Waller’s sister. The woman had been brutally raped and beaten before her throat was sliced open. Murderer. Rapist. Thug. He’d died with a beer in his hand and his eyes glued to the TV. “Shit,” Paul repeated. He had found another body behind the couch. This one had been spared the slit throat, but part of his head was missing. It was a clean cut straight across. Lena guessed the ax leaning against the wall was the reason why. Long strands of hair and chunks of scalp and white bone were caked onto the edge of the blade. Eric Haigh’s hand clamped to his mouth. Vomit spewed between his fingers as he ran out the door. As far as Lena was concerned, he could keep running. She had little tolerance for weakness. And she sure as shit wasn’t going to let her team get ambushed while they stood around with their thumbs up their asses. She snapped her fingers for attention, the crisp sound cutting through the chorus booming from the TV. Lena pointed to the three corpses, then held up her hand, showing four fingers. Surveillance had four guys in the house. Sid Waller was yet to be found. They didn’t need further prompting. DeShawn guarded the door so there wouldn’t be any surprises from the rear. Mitch took Eric’s place and followed Keith into the back hallway. Lena headed for the dining room, Paul behind her. They kept at a low crouch as they walked. Trash was scattered across the floor—mostly beer cans and empty fast food bags. 

The carpet underneath was thick with grime. It stuck to the soles of Lena’s boots as she moved toward the open doorway to the dining room. She kept her tread light, mindful of the basement. She imagined Sid Waller down there, gun pointed up, listening for a sound he could shoot at. The Jeffersons theme wound down with a gospel flourish. Lena could barely hear it over the sound of blood pumping in her ears as she stood to the side of the open dining room doorway. Her shoulder was against the wall. Plaster, lath, a few studs. Easily punctured by a nine-millimeter Parabellum, which Lena knew for a fact was Sid Waller’s ammo of choice. Paul tapped her leg twice, giving her the go signal. She spun around the doorframe in a low stance and pointed her shotgun into the room. There was no dining room table, just a bloodstained mattress on the floor with the usual detritus found in a shooting gallery. Crack pipes. Scorched aluminum foil. Spent hypodermics. The sharp vinegar smell of heroin burned Lena’s nostrils. Water damage from a recent rain had caused the ceiling to collapse. There were chunks of plaster on the floor. The hardwood was warped, cupping like the hull of a canoe. Lena scanned upward, making sure no one was hiding in the rafters. The room was empty. Through the broken window, Lena saw one of the other detectives in the front yard. He held his Colt AR-15 at chest level as he scanned back and forth like a pendulum. He stopped to shake his head at Lena, indicating no one had come out of the house. She glanced back at Paul, then pointed toward the next doorway. This one was closed. The kitchen was beyond, then the basement door. As rehearsed, Paul took the lead. Lena kept her shotgun braced against her shoulder as she walked backward, guarding the rear. From the bedrooms, Mitch yelled, “Clear!” Lena tapped Paul’s leg, indicating he should go. His movements mirrored her earlier ones as he kicked open the door and pointed his Glock into the kitchen. Lena swiveled with her shotgun. Empty. None of the cabinets had doors. Half the ceiling had fallen down. The other half was stained dark brown. The sink had been pulled out. Plaster was missing where copper pipes and electrical wire had been ripped out of the walls and sold for scrap. The stench from the open drain was nauseating. Paul pointed his Glock into the ceiling as he checked for hiding places, then shook his head, indicating it was clear. 

They both looked at the basement door. This was unexpected. There was a wooden brace like you’d find across a barn door. A two-by-four rested on two metal U-channels that were bolted to each side of the doorframe. Paul gave Lena an inquisitive look. She could practically hear his thoughts. They’d talked a great deal about the basement door. In all the scenarios, they had assumed two things: the door would be locked and a bad guy would be standing on the other side with a loaded gun. The plan called for them to work with their backs to the wall—use the butt of the shotgun to break off the knob, the lock, or whatever was in their way, then yank open the door and rush into the hell that was waiting for them. The bracing changed things, but maybe not too much. Lena stood to the side, back flat to the wall as she used the muzzle of her shotgun to try to push up the wood. The fit was too tight. There was no way to slide it out. One of them would have to use both hands to heave it away, leaving his or her body as an open target to whoever might be standing on the other side of the door. Lena didn’t think about it for long. She tossed her shotgun to Paul. He caught it with his free hand, then backed up to give her cover. She had to put her shoulder into moving the brace, kneeling down and pushing up. The damn thing was wedged in there. It wouldn’t budge. She tried again, bending deep at the knees and exploding up. That worked—sort of. The board finally slipped free, but Lena stumbled back in the process, losing her balance and falling flat on her ass. So much for the element of surprise. The board clattered to the floor. Her tailbone felt like it had been cracked. There was a sharp, biting pain in her scalp where her head had met the sharp edge of the laminate counter. Her helmet had tipped forward, smashing her safety glasses into the bridge of her nose. Lena put her hand to the back of her head. The hair was wet. She looked at her fingers: blood. Paul stared at her, his brow furrowed, like he couldn’t understand how she’d screwed up something so easy. Lena couldn’t either, but there was no time to figure it out. She pulled herself up, keeping an eye on the closed door. She tried to shake it off. Her vision was blurry. Her nose felt like a metronome was pounding inside. She took off the safety glasses. They were cracked at the bridge. She tossed them into one of the open cabinets. There was a low whistle from the other room: Don’t shoot. Keith came into the kitchen. Mitch followed. They were both big guys, their shoulders so wide that they made the kitchen feel more like a closet. Lena felt a bead of sweat roll down the back of her neck. She used her hand to wipe it away. Her fingers were sticky. It wasn’t sweat, it was blood. Paul chewed his tongue between his front teeth, a tic she’d spotted their first week working together. It meant he was about to disagree with her. He didn’t do it much, but when he did, he meant it. Lena opened her mouth to take back command, but by some silent agreement, Mitch and Keith stepped forward, pulling out their flashlights as they stood on either side of the door. They all looked at Lena, but this time it was with irritation rather than expectancy. Reluctantly, she moved over to the sink and jammed the shotgun to her shoulder so she could at least back them up. The laugh track on the television seemed to mock her. Lena couldn’t make out the words, just the low rumble of Weezy’s voice followed by a high-pitched response from George. Mitch swung open the basement door. No one shot him, so he went down the stairs. Keith followed. Paul stood at the top, Glock pointing down in case someone managed to get past the combined four hundred–plus pounds of cop. And then the waiting started. Time changed. Even the particles in the air floated at a different frequency. Paul didn’t move. Sweat dripped from his hands, spotted the floor. Lena held her breath as she waited for some kind of resolution—guns firing, men yelling. Her head ticked down the seconds. Five. Ten. Another roar of laughter came from the television. Weezy again. Then Lionel. Twenty seconds. Paul still hadn’t moved. He was like a statue. Lena quietly let out the breath she’d been holding. She inhaled again. Thirty-five seconds. Forty. Finally, Keith called, “Clear.” Paul’s hands lowered. Lena felt her lungs shake as she exhaled. “Do the second sweep,” she ordered, propping the shotgun against the counter so she could take off her helmet. There was a string of curses from below, but Lena didn’t care. Three dead men were in the house—a house that had been under twenty-four-hour surveillance. She’d spent a million bucks of the department’s money on this clusterfuck. She’d managed to rip open her scalp and bruise her nose. Her ass ached like a motherfucker. Her head was pounding. Meanwhile, Sid Waller was probably on a beach somewhere sipping a margarita and wondering which woman he was going to follow home and rape tonight. Lena looked down at her watch. The timer was still running. They’d been in the house four minutes and thirty-two seconds. “Shhh-it,” Lena drew out the word. She looked up at the ceiling. The bare rafters showed white specks of mold. A clump of plastic bags was shoved into a hole in the asphalt shingles. She heard heavy bootsteps in the next room as the rest of the team came in to see what had happened. Lena raised her voice so it would carry through the house, ordering, “We clear out of here A-SAP. This is an active crime scene.” DeShawn called back, “Branson’s on the way. Coroner’s thirty minutes out.” “Great,” she said. “The more the merrier.” Paul took off his helmet. He ran his hand through his sweaty hair. “You okay?” Lena shook her head, too angry to speak. This was supposed to change things. This was supposed to make everything better. The only goddamn thing she had in her life right now that was working was her job, and she’d managed to screw that up, too. She unstrapped the Velcro around her vest so she could breathe. Her shirt was stuck to her back. She knew her neck was covered with blood. This wouldn’t stop with Denise Branson. The chief would want answers. The brass would show up. Internal Affairs. Lena would need to call her husband to bring her a change of clothes so she didn’t look like she’d gotten her ass handed to her while they chewed her out. Not that Jared was answering her calls. Not that he probably even thought of himself as her husband anymore. Lena covered her face with her hands. Shook her head. She had to get her shit together. She couldn’t fall apart now. “I’ll back you up with Branson,” Paul said. “Whatever you need.” Lena dropped her hands. “I need to know why that door was braced.” Paul’s brow furrowed again. She could see he hadn’t thought that far into it. Lena said, “You butcher three guys and you get the hell out. You don’t stick around inside the house. You don’t barricade the basement.” She indicated the door. “Look at the edge of the wood—somebody pounded it in.” Lena wiped away the sweat pooling on her brow. The house was like a kiln. “Goddamn it. Branson’s probably gonna bust me down to patrol for this.” “You and Jared can ride together.” “Go to hell.” “Hey.” Paul put his Glock on the counter. His hand was on her arm, then her face. He smiled at her, trying to make everything okay. 

Lena pulled away from him. She stamped her boot on the floor so they’d hear her in the basement. “Cabello? McVale? What’s taking so long down there?” “Found some money!” Keith called back. “We’re rich!” “Thank God.” Lena headed toward the basement. “Please let it be a million dollars.” A drug seizure like that would at least pay for all the overtime.

Drugs, cops being killed, tension is high and Lena, the one woman who has both earned her position, and the disdain from many, had pushed for a raid. One that was aimed at finding one of the top leaders of the criminal crew... 

But Lena quickly realized that something had changed because when they got there, some were already dead and the fourth individual who showed up on an earlier check could not be found until they saw a basement door which was blocked from the inside! They did find some drug money, but they also found that fourth man...and somebody behind him...

And this changed the scope of the full investigation to one that could not have been foreseen...

One of the most startling things Will had found in Macon was not the wildlife, but the divide between rich and poor.

“Well, I’m pretty upset tonight,” she quipped. “You know, my daddy told me a long time ago that wanting revenge is like sipping poison and waiting for the other person to die.”

Everything about him asked, What’s in it for me?

“I know you’re taking heat for me.” “Shit,” Denise muttered. “I wish it was heat. I’m standing in a damn ring of fire.”

“You’re the first person in my life who’s ever really seen me.”

She felt overwhelmed by the knowledge of the terrible things that happened to children.

He put her in a dog crate to teach her a lesson. Took about a week to break her, then he put her up for sale on the Internet. One-sixty for the lunchtime special, two-fifty for an hour. Four hundred for two hours. She does ten, fifteen clients a day. Her habit runs a couple hundred dollars. Not a bad business model. Do the math.”

If you haven't yet read Karen Slaughter, this would be a timely and complex book to start with! Enjoy!

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