23 April 2017

Bone White by Wendy Corsi Staub

Bone White

by Wendy Corsi Staub

on Tour April 1-30, 2017


Bone White by Wendy Corsi Staub
In Mundy’s Landing, bygone bloodshed has become a big business. During the rigorous winter of 1666, all but five colonists in the small Hudson Valley settlement died of starvation. Accused of unimaginable crimes, James and Elizabeth Mundy and their three children survived, but the couple were later accused of murder and executed. Left to fend for themselves in a hostile community, their offspring lived out exemplary lives in a town that would bear the family name. They never reveal the secret that died with their parents on the gallows… or did they?
“We Shall Never Tell.” Spurred by the cryptic phrase in a centuries-old letter, Emerson Mundy has flown cross-country to her ancestral hometown in hopes of tracing her ancestral past—and perhaps building a future. In Mundy’s Landing, she discovers long lost relatives, a welcoming ancestral home… and a closet full of skeletons.
A year has passed since former NYPD Detective Sullivan Leary solved the historic Sleeping Beauty Murders, apprehended a copycat killer, and made a fresh start in the Hudson Valley. Banking on an uneventful future in a village that’s seen more than its share of bloodshed, Sully is in for an unpleasant surprise when a historic skull reveals a notorious truth. Now she’s on the trail of a murky predator determined to destroy the Mundy family tree, branch by branch.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller/Suspense
Published by: William Morrow Mass Market
Publication Date: March 28, 2017
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 0062349775 (ISBN13: 9780062349774)
Series: Mundy's Landing #3 (Stand Alone)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Interview with the Author:

When did you decide to become a writer?

I was in third grade. I wrote an essay about Abraham Lincoln and my teacher, Mrs. Pizzolanti, praised it. I went home from school that day and told my mom I was going to be a writer when I grew up. Never changed my mind—in fact, it was a single-minded goal from that day on. 

What are your ambitions for your writing career?

Twenty-five years and nearly 90 books in, I’m blessed to have had most of my writing career dreams come true. Actually, I should say that I have MADE most of my writing dreams come true, because it’s involved a tremendous amount of work and far more sacrifice than I ever would have guessed. The major milestones—becoming a New York Times bestseller, seeing a book become a movie, winning awards, enabling my husband to take a decade away from his high pressure advertising career while our boys were young—are won and done. Would I love to have more bestsellers, more movies, more financial success, more awards? Absolutely, and I continue to work toward those goals every day. But I’ve learned that no career is made once you have those things or blown if you never achieve them. My ambition is to continue to write fresh, complex novels that will sell well for my publishers, expand my readership, and engage the loyal fans who have stuck with me along this journey.  

Give us an insight into your main character. What does he/she do that is so special?

In BONE WHITE, Emerson Mundy has traveled cross-country to Mundy’s Landing in search of her roots. She was raised by a single father and now that he’s gone, she has no family in the world—until she discovers a centuries-old letter among his belongings. It holds the key not just to her own past, but to an eerie mystery surrounding Mundy’s Landing’s first settlers. Emerson’s longing for family, roots, a place to call home bring her to a seemingly picture-perfect town populated by people who have everything she’s ever dreamed of. But as my longtime readers know, in my books, nothing is ever as it seems!

Do you have a special time to write or how is your day structured?

Ideally, I get up between 5 and 6 to sit with a few cups of coffee and deal with email and social media obligations, both of which devour a huge part of most commercial authors’ lives these days. Most days, I head to the gym by 7:30 to swim laps for an hour while plugged into an audio book on my waterfi. If I miss that window, I swim at 11 instead. I eat breakfast and lunch at my desk and write all day until around 7, when I start cooking dinner—I love to cook!—and return to social media and email before calling it a day at 8. While our boys are away in college, my husband and I tend to eat dinner in front of the TV—too late and too close to bedtime. When I’m closing in on a tight deadline, I drag myself back to my desk at 9 and stay there till midnight. 

Where do the ideas come from?

Ideas are triggered everywhere I go, in everything I see and hear (and overhear) and read and watch and do, everyone I meet. A writer’s brain is wired to “what if” all day long. You can’t turn it off. Nor can you possibly write every great idea you have.  Nor will you ever run out. 

Do you work to an outline or plot or do you prefer just see where an idea takes you?

What I do and what I prefer are two different things! Because I’m under contract to deliver, say a three-book psychological suspense trilogy, my publisher needs some idea what they’ve bought and will be publishing. I don’t outline, and I’m fortunate that my editor cheerfully allows fluidity in my work, which is much easier to accomplish in a standalone than in a series. With a sequel or trilogy, I need a general sense, in book one, of where I want to wind up when the last book is completed. I can’t tell you how often I’ve written myself into a corner with even a minor plot point introduced in a novel that’s been published by the time I’m writing the sequel. Sure, I’d love to tweak or even veer off in an entirely new direction—but I have to stick with what I’ve established, and make it work. 

Any tips on how to get through the dreaded writer’s block?

That is a luxury I don’t allow! Everyone has off-days in any job, but you can’t turn it into a day off. I hold myself accountable to a page or word count that is “due” every Friday. I map it out months ahead, using my contract due date and figuring out where I need to be to stay on track, and every Friday on my calendar has a number on it. I’m unlikely to slack on a Tuesday if it means that I’m going to be up around the clock Thursday to get to where I need to be. Sometimes, on a Tuesday, I’ll write pure crap just to get the words down, and promise myself I can go back and fix it later. The first hour or so of writing crap usually frees up the logjam.  

What can we expect from you down the line?

In October, Crooked Lane will be publishing DEAD OF WINTER, the third title in my “Lily Dale Mysteries. Next spring, HarperCollins will publish the first book in a new trilogy I’m writing for them about an investigative genealogist who helps foundlings (people who were abandoned as infants) uncover the secrets of their biological roots.

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

July 20, 2016
Los Angeles, CA

We shall never tell.
Strange, the thoughts that go through your head when you’re standing at an open grave.
Not that Emerson Mundy knew anything about open graves before today. Her father’s funeral is the first she’s ever attended, and she’s the sole mourner.
Ah, at last, a perk to living a life without many—any—loved ones; you don’t spend much time grieving, unless you count the pervasive ache for the things you never had.
The minister, who came with the cemetery package and never even met Jerry Mundy, is rambling on about souls and salvation. Emerson hears only We shall never tell—the closing line in an old letter she found yesterday in the crawl space of her childhood home. It had been written in 1676 by a young woman named Priscilla Mundy, addressed to her brother, Jeremiah.
The Mundys were among the seventeenth-century English colonists who settled on the eastern bank of the Hudson River, about a hundred miles north of New York City. Their first winter was so harsh the river froze, stranding their supply ship and additional colonists in the New York harbor. When the ship arrived after the thaw, all but five settlers had starved to death.
Jeremiah; Priscilla; their sister, Charity; and their parents had eaten human flesh to stay alive. James and Elizabeth Mundy swore they’d only cannibalized those who’d already died, but the God-fearing, well-fed newcomers couldn’t fathom such wretched butchery. A Puritan justice committee tortured the couple until they confessed to murder, then swiftly tried, convicted, and hanged them.
“Do you think we’re related?” Emerson asked her father after learning about the Mundys back in elementary school.
“Nope.” Curt answers were typical when she brought up anything Jerry Mundy didn’t want to discuss. The past was high on the list.
“That’s it? Just nope?”
“What else do you want me to say?”
“How about yes?”
“That wouldn’t be the truth,” he said with a shrug.
“Sometimes the truth isn’t very interesting.”
She had no one else to ask about her family history. Dad was an only child, and his parents, Donald and Inez Mundy, had passed away before she was born. Their headstone is adjacent to the gaping rectangle about to swallow her father’s casket. Staring that the inscription, she notices her grandfather’s unusual middle initial.
Donald X. Mundy, Born 1900, Died 1972.
X marks the spot.

Thanks to her passion for history and Robert Louis Stevenson, Emerson’s bookworm childhood included a phase when she searched obsessively for buried treasure. Money was short in their household after two heart attacks left Jerry Mundy on permanent disability.
X marks the spot…
No gold doubloon treasure chest buried here. Just dusty old bones of people she never knew.
And now, her father.
The service concludes with a prayer as the coffin is lowered into the ground. The minister clasps her hand and tells her how sorry he is for her loss, then leaves her to sit on a bench and stare at the hillside as the undertakers finish the job.
The sun is beginning to burn through the thick marine layer that swaddles most June and July mornings. Having grown up in Southern California, she knows the sky will be bright blue by mid-afternoon. Tomorrow will be more of the same. By then, she’ll be on her way back up the coast, back to her life in Oakland, where the fog rolls in and stays for days, weeks at a time. Funny, but there she welcomes the gray, a soothing shield from real world glare and sharp edges.
Here the seasonal gloom has felt oppressive and depressing.
Emerson watches the undertakers finish the job and load their equipment into a van. After they drive off, she makes her way between neat rows of tombstones to inspect the raked dirt rectangle.
When something is over, you move on, her father told her when she left home nearly two decades ago. She attended Cal State Fullerton with scholarships and maximum financial aid, got her master’s at Berkeley, and landed a teaching job in the Bay Area.
But she didn’t necessarily move on.
Every holiday, many weekends, and for two whole months every summer, she makes the six-hour drive down to stay with her father. She cooks and cleans for him, and at night they sit together and watch Wheel of Fortune reruns.
It used to be because she craved a connection to the only family she had in the world. Lately, though, it was as much because Jerry Mundy needed her.
He pretended that he didn’t, that he was taking care of himself and the house, too proud to admit he was failing. He was a shadow of his former self when he died at seventy-six, leaving Emerson alone in the world.
Throughout her motherless childhood, Emerson was obsessed with novels about orphans. Treasure Island shared coveted space on her bookshelf with Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, The Witch of Blackbird Pond
She always wondered what would happen to her if her father died. Would she wind up in an orphanage? Would a kindly stranger take her in? Would she live on the streets?
Now that it’s happened he’s down there, in the dirt … moving on?
She’ll never again hear his voice. She’ll never see the face so like her own that she can’t imagine she inherited any physical characteristics from her mother, Didi—though she can’t be certain.
Years ago, she asked her father for a picture—preferably one that showed her mother holding her as a baby, or of her parents together. Maybe she wanted evidence that she and her father had been loved; that the woman who’d abandoned them had once been normal—a proud new mother, a happy bride.
Or was it the opposite? Was she hoping to glimpse a hint that Didi Mundy was never normal? Did she expect to confirm that people—normal people—don’t just wake up one morning and choose to walk out on a husband and child? That there was always something off about her mother: a telltale gleam in the eye, or a faraway expression—some warning sign her father had overlooked. A sign Emerson herself would be able to recognize, should she ever be tempted to marry.
But there were no images of Didi that she could slip into a frame, or deface with angry black ink, or simply commit to memory.
Exhibit A: Untrustworthy.
Sure, there had been plenty of photos, her father admitted unapologetically. He’d gotten rid of everything.
There were plenty of pictures of her and Dad, though.
Exhibit B: Trustworthy.
Dad holding her hand on her first day of kindergarten, Dad leading her in an awkward waltz at a father-daughter middle school dance, Dad posing with her at high school graduation.
“Two peas in a pod,” he liked to say. “If I weren’t me, I’d think you were.”
She has his thick, wavy hair, the same dimple on her right cheek, same angular nose and bristly slashes of brow. Even her wide-set, prominent, upturned eyes are the same as his, with one notable exception.
Jerry Mundy’s eyes were a piercing blue.
Only one of Emerson’s is that shade; the other, a chalky gray.
Excerpt from Bone White by Wendy Corsi Staub. Copyright © 2017 by Wendy Corsi Staub. Reproduced with permission from William Morrow Mass Market. All rights reserved.
Wendy Corsi Staub

Author Bio:

New York Times bestseller Wendy Corsi Staub is the award-winning author of more than seventy novels. Wendy now lives in the New York City suburbs with her husband and their two children.

Catch Up With Wendy Corsi Staub On Her Website , Goodreads , Twitter , & Facebook !


Tour Participants:

Visit the other hosts on this tour for more reviews, guest posts, interviews, & giveaways!  


This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Wendy Corsi Staub and William Morrow. There will be 3 winners of one (1) Print copy of Bone White by Wendy Corsi Staub. The giveaway begins on March 30th and runs through May 2nd, 2017. This giveaway is for US residents only. Void where prohibited by law.
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10 April 2017

The Fixer: The Killing Kind by Jill Amy Rosenblatt

The Fixer: The Killing Kind by Jill Amy Rosenblatt on Tour April 1-18, 2017

The Fixer: The Killing Kind

by Jill Amy Rosenblatt

on Tour April 1-18, 2017


The Fixer: The Killing Kind by Jill Amy Rosenblatt
Kat’s back and in over her head with crooks, cops... and killers.
Christmas is around the corner but professional “fixer” Katerina Mills isn't feeling the holiday spirit, juggling college classes, a lovesick cop, and demanding clients.
Obnoxious hedge fund manager Simon Marcus wants his prized Porsche back from his vengeful wife. The job is hard enough until wise guy Anthony DeSucci shows up and orders her to bring the car to him.
Rock star writer, Paul Patel needs something “special” to finish his next bestseller, something that will get Katerina a “Go Straight to Jail” card if she gets caught.
And what about mysterious Thomas Gallagher? His jobs are simple and easy. Is he just a bored billionaire, or is he watching Kat’s every move, making his own plans for her?
As the jobs heat up, handsome, elusive thief Alexander Winter re-enters Kat’s life to tutor her in all things criminal. But can she trust him?
Katerina Mills is still haunted by her first assignment...and her first assignment is about to come back to haunt her...a deadly enemy who's closer than she thinks...

Book Details:

Genre: Suspense, Thriller, Crime
Published by: Jill Amy Rosenblatt
Publication Date: November 28, 2016
Number of Pages: 348
ISBN: 1539839443 (ISBN13: 9781539839446)
Series: Fixer - Katerina Mills Series
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

“Again?” Katerina asked as a whipping wind whistled around the parked car. “This is the fourth time.”
“There’s been a delay,” Jasmine said.
A few weeks earlier, Jasmine, MJM Consulting’s “Iron Maiden” gatekeeper, had called late at night. Thomas Gallagher, one of New York’s billionaire one percent, needed an assistant. Except he probably didn’t. Katerina Mills had already learned the first rule of a fixer. The job is never the job.
“Does he want a consultant or not?” Kat asked, her mouth overruling her mind. Careful Katerina. Don’t antagonize. You have to stay in. It’s too dangerous to be on the outside on your own. Not after the last assignment...
“Yes,” Jasmine said. “Any other questions?”
Katerina answered by clicking off the cell phone. Burrowing deeper into her coat, the heavy bangs of her short blond wig brushed her eyebrows as she focused on the apartment building diagonally across the street.
“Bad news?” came a voice behind her.
Katerina didn’t bother turning around. On the floor of the backseat, her current client, Lester Callahan, rearranged himself, kicking the back of Kat’s seat. She sighed.
“I hear you,” Lester said. “It’s tough. People are no good, you know? They give their word, it don’t mean shit.”
Katerina assumed Lester spoke from experience.
A pretty woman, swathed in a fur coat, exited the building and hustled to the corner, her hand in the air to hail a cab.
“Is that her?” Kat asked.
Rustling from the back seat. “Nope.”
Katerina crushed herself further into her coat. She didn’t want the work but she had to keep her hand in this world, to protect herself. And I need the money. But instead of a steady windfall of cash, the jobs had been few and far between. Lester needed an item retrieved; but she didn’t know what the item was. From his babbled tale of rambling half-truths, Kat pieced together a picture: Lester had dangerous connections, something had gone wrong, and he needed to disappear. He was about to board a Greyhound bus when he realized he had forgotten something.
“You know it’s not easy to get lost.”
“So you said,” Kat answered.
“Yeah, people don’t understand how big their digital footprint is, you know? Take you for instance. You’re a young girl. You on social media?”
“Dating sites? Not that you need one.”
Lester shifted again; Kat’s seat lurched forward. She sighed.
“You’re smart, you know. There’s a lot involved. I hired a professional to help me. Rebel One.”
“Yup,” Kat said, glossing over the sound of Lester’s voice. Am I smart or did it just work out that way? she thought, reflecting on her training by her first boss, shady lawyer and ex-lover, Philip Castle. Stay away from the computer unless it can’t be helped. Never leave a trail. Katerina realized Lester was still talking.
“It’s a stupid name but I didn’t say that. I didn’t want to hurt the kid’s feelings. Anyway, Rebel One can make you disappear. You don’t realize you do a thousand things every day and leave clues how to find you: the phone, the credit card, the bank account, your magazine subscription to Cosmo... everything.”
“I don’t read Cosmo.” My college transcript. My library card. Could I get away clean if I needed to?
They sat in silence.
“You have a family?” Kat asked.
“Yeah? And you’re just taking off?”
“It’s okay, I made arrangements, you know? I left some cash, told the wife we’d get a condo when I got settled.”
“Is that what you told your girlfriend?” Kat mumbled.
“I’m sensing judgment coming from the front seat. I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“Sorry,” Kat said.
As they fell back into silence, Kat’s thoughts turned to her father, William Mills. She had plenty of judgment for him. After walking out on her mother weeks earlier and breezing through the Big Apple with his new bimbo, where was he now? Had he left a digital footprint? Could he be found?
Her father wasn’t the only one to pull a Houdini. Where was Lisa, who had brought Kat into this life as a “fixer”? Where had she vanished to? And then there was Alexander Winter. If it hadn’t been for him...
She relived the robbery in her mind; Winter taking her by the hand, leading her through the break-in to retrieve the client’s requested item. He had schooled her, protected her, and brought her home safe. Kat realized that not a day passed without her thinking of him. Except for a post-robbery “all clear” text, he had disappeared. Where is he now?
A young woman, rock star groupie attractive, wearing leopard Ugg boots and a winter-white fur coat over black pants exited the apartment building.
“Is that her?” Kat asked.
Rustling from the back seat. “Yeah, yeah, that’s her.”
Katerina shook her head. This anemic, two-bit hustler is hooked up with the jailbait leaving the building. “Let me guess. You bonded over shared interests.”
“You know, sarcasm is not attractive in a woman. It shows a lack of self-esteem.”
Said the man hiding on the floor of the back seat. “Uh-huh.”
“You got the code, the key, and the phone, right?”
“Yes,” Kat said, her heart racing like she was on the track waiting for the flag to come down. She slipped on her sunglasses, fussed over the wig hiding her long, chestnut-colored hair, and shrugged a large black bag onto her shoulder.
“Call me as soon as you’re in the apartment,” Lester said.
Katerina cracked the car door, checking for oncoming traffic. Getting out, she slammed the door and crossed the street. Punching the numbers on the keypad, she slipped into the building.
Remember, keep your head down. There are cameras everywhere. She made a mental note to change out her coat afterwards. The elevator chimed, the doors opened, and Kat ducked inside.
Getting out on the fifth floor, Kat stole down the hall. Apartment 512. She slipped the key out of her coat pocket, letting herself in. Taking the phone from the bag, she punched in the number. After two rings, Lester picked up.
“I’m here,” Kat said. “What am I getting?”
“Go into the bedroom,” he said.
Kat entered a room drowning in feminine pinks. “Okay, what?”
“You don’t see it?”
“Obviously not,” she said. “Is it a bill, a laptop, a deed to the apartment?”
“Go back into the living room.”
Katerina retraced her steps and froze in her tracks. A West Highland white terrier stared at her, its head cocked to one side.
Don’t bark. For the love of God and all that’s holy, do not bark.
“You didn’t tell me there was a dog in the apartment,” she whispered. What I wouldn’t give for a Snausage right now.
“Okay, good. You got it.” “I wouldn’t say that—wait … what? I’m here for the dog? You’re leaving—and you want the dog?”
“No, no,” Lester said. “The dog has a microchip in it. I need the chip.”
“Because if the dog is scanned, the chip has my information. They’ll find my wife and then, you know—they find me. Digital footprint.”
Katerina blew out a mouthful of air. Still staring, the dog sat down.
“The chip is implanted by the right shoulder blade,” he said. “It’s the size of a grain of rice. It’s nothing to take it out.”
“I left my veterinary degree in my other purse.” Moron. “And what do you suggest I use for a scalpel, a Ginsu knife?”
“If you think that’s best. I’m not really attached to the animal. I don’t think she is either, truthfully. I mean, look, she doesn’t even take it with her when she goes out. I paid a shitload of money for that thing.”
Katerina clamped her eyes shut.
“I was told you agency girls are up for anything. Anything. I need the chip. Get the chip.”
Katerina clicked off the phone. She stared at the dog. It raised a paw as a greeting, then lay down on its back, baring its belly for a scratch.
Katerina hustled into the car, depositing the bag on the passenger seat. She revved the engine and took off.
“Did you get it?” Lester asked.
“Yup,” Katerina answered.
Katerina dropped Lester Callahan off at the Greyhound bus terminal. Then, she parked the car and sent a text.
Done. W. 42nd. 8th Ave. Thanks
She got out of the car and walked away. The text had gone to Luther, an entrepreneur with his own limousine service. Luther’s clients paid in cash. Luther saw nothing, heard nothing, and asked no questions. Luther had a lot of clients. He had gotten the car through Moose, a man Katerina had yet to meet. The car would disappear and turn up somewhere else: different state, different plates, different color. Five thousand of Kat’s take had already gone for payment for the service. Contacts liked to be paid up front. That was a problem; she didn’t get paid until the job was done.
Kat passed the Plaza and entered an elegant, gleaming office building. A few minutes later, she was standing in the empty, dark paneled anteroom of MJM Consultants.
“Come in, Katerina,” she heard Jasmine’s hard-edged voice call out.
With her bag slung over her shoulder, Kat entered the small, immaculate office. Jasmine, wearing her signature black Chanel and pearl teardrop earrings, glanced up from her laptop; she didn’t bat an eye at the wig on Kat’s head.
“The job is finished,” Kat said.
“The client called.”
I know. I was there. Right before he got on a bus.
“And then he called back again.”
“You never showed him the item he wanted retrieved.”
Katerina caught the hint of a smirk on Jasmine’s lips. Is this part of the ‘probation’ test? You are not cheating me out of my money. Think fast, Katerina.
“The client never said he wanted to see the item. He just said retrieve it. I retrieved it.”
Jasmine was about to speak when Kat’s bag moved, a sliver of fur peeking through the top. The smirk vanished. “Is that a dog in that bag?”
“You’re not a pet person?” Katerina asked.
“Is that the item?”
“It’s the item that contains the item.”
Opening a desk drawer, Jasmine removed two rubber banded packets of bills. She held them out to Katerina. “Get it out of here.”
Katerina took the money, turned on her heel, and left.
Stepping out of the building into the bright, chilly day, she placed a call.
“Whatever it is, it’s gonna cost you a lot of money,” the raspy voice said through the line.
“Morning, Doc. I need something removed,” Kat said. “But the patient isn’t human.”
The raspy voice broke out into a low gutteral laugh.
Katerina watched over the sleeping Westie. A clean-cut man, wearing surgical gloves and a gown, used a feather touch to perform the procedure. He held up the forceps, showing Kat the tiny chip. Moving to the microwave on the counter, he placed the chip inside, closed the door, and hit a few buttons. Kat watched the plate rotate. A few sparks later, the chip was cooked.
Kat turned to Doc, perched on a stool, his frame struggling under the weight of his bulging stomach. Between wheezes, he puffed on a cigarette.
“Thanks, Doc,” she said.
“Don’t bother. You still have to pay me.”
Kat nodded. At least he’s honest. This little act of benevolent kindness is about to take another healthy bite of my take-home pay.
A woman entered the room without knocking. Dressed to the nines, she looked to be in her late sixties, a cross between a gracefully aging Audrey Hepburn and Jackie O., complete with swing coat and pillbox hat.
“Miss Kitty, this is Gertie. She provides pet relocation.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Gertie said with a flourish of her hand. “Now darling, time is money. You want a major city or you prefer something rural?”
Thousands of criminals in the city and I get the Dolly Levi of pet theft.
“What do you have?”
“Oh, honey, it’s carte blanche. I always have a waiting list for Westies; very popular breed. Lucky you came along. People are so careful these days. Owners almost never leave them unattended.” “You steal to order?”
Gertie’s eyes opened wide. “Steal? I beg your pardon,” she said. “Darling, I connect pets with loving families. I provide a service. You think Social Security pays enough to live on? A girl’s gotta get by. I used to be in the garment business—before they moved everything to China—no disrespect.” She gave Kat the once-over. “I can get you a coat at cost. You’d look to die for in a Saint Laurent Chesterfield. You want a coat?”
Kat shook her head. “No thank you. Any location far away from here will be fine.” She wanted to apologize. It wasn’t judgment. Kat didn’t know why, but she never quite felt prepared for the world she found. Even after what she had seen so far, she could be surprised. Maybe I’m not up for anything. Maybe I just don’t have what it takes.
The man finished scrubbing at the sink. Drying his hands, he turned to Kat.
“How long have you been a veterinarian?” Kat asked.
The man smiled.
Oh shit. Kat turned to Gertie.
“Meet my nephew,” she said.
The family that steals together... that’s one my father missed.
“Still lots to learn, Miss Kitty,” Doc said. “Lots to learn.”
Katerina glanced over at the sleeping dog. Pulling out the packets of money, she counted out fifteen thousand, half of her cut.
A girl’s gotta get by.
She certainly does, Kat thought, watching Gertie and Doc divvy up the cash. And not for the first time, she wondered how she would get by.

Author Bio:

Jill Amy RosenblattJill Amy Rosenblatt is the author of Project Jennifer and For Better or Worse, published by Kensington Press. She has a Masters Degree in Creative Writing and Literature from Burlington College.
“The Fixer” mystery/suspense series is Jill’s first adventure in self-publishing. The Fixer: The Naked Man (Katerina Mills, Book 1) is available in e-book and paperback formats. The second book in the series, The Fixer: The Killing Kind, released on November 28, 2016. She is currently at work on the third book of the series, The Fixer: The Last Romanov (when she’s not watching NY Rangers hockey).
She lives on Long Island.

Catch Up with Jill Amy Rosenblatt on her Website, her Twitter, & her Facebook.


Tour Participants:



This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours for Jill Amy Rosenblatt. There will be 5 winners of one (1) Print copy of The Fixer: The Killing Kind by Jill Amy Rosenblatt. This giveaway is open to US residents only. The giveaway begins on April 1st and runs through April 19th, 2017.
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08 April 2017

Grimm Woods by D. Melhoff

Grimm Woods

by D. Melhoff

on Tour April 1 - May 31, 2017


Grimm Woods by D. Melhoff
A remote summer camp becomes a lurid crime scene when the bodies of two teenagers are found in a bloody, real-life rendering of a classic Grimm’s fairy tale. Trapped in the wilderness, the remaining counsellors must follow a trail of dark children’s fables in order to outwit a psychopath and save the dwindling survivors before falling prey to their own gruesome endings.
Drawing on the grisly, uncensored details of history’s most famous fairy tales, Grimm Woods is a heart-pounding thriller about a deranged killer who uses traditional children’s stories as tropes in elaborate murders. Set against the backdrop of modern-day Michigan, it’s a journey through the mind of a dangerous zealot and a shocking glimpse into the bedtime stories you thought you knew.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Bellwoods Publishing
Publication Date: December 2016
Number of Pages: 384
ISBN: 0992133130 (ISBN13: 9780992133139)
Purchase Links: Amazon | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

July 7th, 5:44 a.m.
One hacksaw. One hammer, six boxes of nails. Twelve Mason jars, four hunting knives, two pairs of handcuffs. Fifteen gallons of gasoline divided evenly among three dented jerry cans.
It’s time.
A work glove hovered over the table where the objects were laid out side by side and began ticking the air as though marking off an invisible checklist. The chamber reeked of mildew, and the walls had no windows or electrical sockets—no lamps, no wires, no switch covers. A single red candle provided the only light, its crimson wax dripping down its shaft like blood.
The hand picked up a piece of paper from the table and slipped it into a blank envelope. Below, a beetle scuttled across the floorboards. The insect—its gangly antennae tuned to some foul frequency in the gloom—raced past the sole of a giant boot just as a drop of liquid fell through the air and struck it dead center, engulfing its body in a hot, gelatinous blob that filled its orifices and burned it from the inside out. Another droplet tumbled from the candle, plopping onto the envelope this time, and then a brass stamp came down and pressed the wax into a hardened seal.
Drawing in heavier, raspier breaths, the figure held the envelope up to a corkboard that was bolted to the wall. More than a dozen pictures of young men and women were tacked to the panel by their throats and foreheads, smiling in the shadows.
The figure pinned the envelope to the board and stepped back to take in the room again.
The table and the switchblade.
The book of matches.
The iron rods, the hatchet, the .22 Smith & Wesson.
The smiling faces.
Now, the figure mused, watching the photographs flicker in the bloodred light. Who’s the nicest, Who’s the worst, who wants to hear a story first?

Author Bio:

D. MelhoffD. Melhoff was born in a prairie ghost town that few people have heard of and even fewer have visited. While most of his stories are for adults, he also enjoys terrifying younger audiences from time to time, as seen in his series of twisted picture books for children. He credits King, Poe, Hitchcock, Harris, Stoker, and his second-grade school teacher, Mrs. Lake, for turning him to horror.

Catch Up with Mr. Melhoff on his Website, Twitter, & Facebook.


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