Guest Post By Dee Armstrong Author of Haunted By A Broken Oath (#contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card- two Winners.)

 

HAUNTED BY A BROKEN OATH

by Dee Armstrong

 February 2 - March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

 

Synopsis:

A JD WOLFE INVESTIGATION

When a hero dies and children vanish, PI JD Wolfe must confront a deadly conspiracy--and the ghost that's haunted her since childhood.

A decorated military hero is found hanging from a rope. Two young boys vanish without a trace. And private investigator JD Wolfe's world begins to unravel.

The deeper she digs, the closer the danger creeps--not just to her, but to the family that saved her and the career that keeps her sane. JD knows these crimes aren't random. They're a message. And she might be the target.

Once called Diamond in a grim orphanage, the Wolfe family adopted JD, but she's never felt like she truly belonged. She harbors secrets too dark to speak. Secrets that landed her in an asylum. Secrets tied to a ghost that's haunted her since the night her mother died in a fire.

This ghost doesn't sleep. It invades JD's cases, her dreams, and even her heart. She's kept it buried for years. But now, with lives on the line, JD must do the unthinkable.

She must let the ghost in.

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller with a touch of paranormal
Published by: Outliers Press . Suspense Publishing
Publication Date: November 11, 2025
Number of Pages: 424
ISBN: 9798999682994 (Paperback)
Series: A JD Wolfe Investigation, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

GUEST POST:  

Does Genre Choose the Writer?

On storytelling, truth, and listening to the stories that won’t let go

I didn’t wake up one day and decide to write romantic suspense with a paranormal edge. I didn’t study the market and make a calculated choice. What I did was listen to the stories that kept showing up—the characters, memories, grief, and questions rattling around in my head and heart, asking to be put on the page.

Those stories came with urgency. With shadows. With emotional weight. And they needed a home big enough to hold all of it.

I didn’t choose my genre—it chose me.

Romantic suspense and paranormal mystery give me the space to explore emotional truth under pressure. Suspense brings momentum. It asks, What happens if the truth stays buried? The paranormal gives voice to what refuses to stay quiet—grief, memory, unfinished business. And romance, even when it’s quiet or complicated, reminds us what’s at stake. Who we love. What we’re willing to risk. What we’re afraid to lose.

Together, these genres let me tell the kinds of stories I care about most—stories where justice and compassion exist side by side, and where love doesn’t erase trauma, but maybe softens it, or at least learns how to live alongside it.

I think writers are often drawn to genres that reflect how they experience the world. Some see life as a puzzle to be solved. Others experience it as inward and lyrical. I see the world as layered—what’s visible on the surface and what’s hidden underneath. The past doesn’t stay put. Silence leaves marks. And doing the right thing often costs more than we expect.

That isn’t something I could write cleanly in a single lane.

Genre-blending, for me, isn’t about breaking rules. It’s about telling the truth of the story. When a ghost appears on the page, it isn’t there to be spooky—it’s there because something unresolved is demanding to be seen. When romance weaves through the plot, it isn’t decoration—it’s pressure. It raises the stakes and forces harder choices. And when suspense drives the story forward, it’s because time matters. Waiting has consequences.

Readers often tell me they respond to this blend because it feels like real life: messy, haunted, hopeful, and still reaching for connection and justice. We don’t experience our lives in neat categories. Fear, love, grief, and hope don’t arrive one at a time. They collide. They overlap. They argue with each other.

So do my stories.

I think writers sometimes worry they’re doing something wrong if they don’t fit neatly into a box. But in my experience, genre isn’t something you choose as much as something you

recognize. It shows up in the stories you can’t stop telling, in the themes that repeat no matter what you try to write next, in the questions that won’t leave you alone.

When I stopped asking what genre I should be writing and started paying attention to what I was writing, everything became clearer.

The genre didn’t limit me. It gave me permission.

Permission to explore justice without pretending it’s simple. Permission to let the dead speak when the living won’t. Permission to believe that love matters even when it doesn’t fix everything.

That’s the kind of story I’m compelled to tell. And it’s why Haunted by a Broken Oath lives where it does—at the intersection of suspense, the paranormal, and the complicated, stubborn belief that truth still matters.

Because in the end, the genre didn’t just choose me.

It gave me a place to tell the truth.

Read an excerpt:

 

Chapter 1

The first rule on my “JD Wolfe’s Survival List” was: Don’t trust the ghost, because she couldn’t leave anything alone. Not when you were awake, not when you were asleep, not when she was haunting you. Not when the only surprise you received for your eighth birthday, other than the death of your mom in a fire, was for the ghost who had tormented her to transfer that torment to you.

And torment you forever.

During the thirteen years since the fire, I went from homeless to orphan to private eye. I reinvented myself. I became stronger. When life comes at you, and you have no one to protect you, and flight isn’t an option, you either fight or surrender.

I chose fight.

I took my adopted family’s surname and changed my name from Diamond, the girl with no last name, to Justyne Diamond Wolfe, or JD for short. I haven’t forgotten my survival rules.

I’ve added more to the list.

Past midnight, I sat hunched at the counter, scrolling through my phone in one of those diners you see in the movies with wide windows, cushy booths, a long counter, and pictures of All American Little League baseball teams lining the walls. You’d expect to see couples snuggled in the booths and a clean-cut, milkshake melt-in-your-mouth kind of guy in a starched button-down shirt. Instead, I was alone with Creepy Diner Guy working the counter. His hair slicked back, his shirt a stain-spattered rendering of a Jackson Pollock painting, his buttons playing hopscotch, missing every other hole.

He wiped a dirty rag around a glass jar with a MISSING flier taped to the front. A pretty, fresh-faced, school-age girl smiled for the camera wearing decades-old clothes and a Hello Kitty backpack. The change and dollar bills stuffed into the jar suggested hope was still alive.

I wasn’t so sure. In my experience, hope was for suckers.

“Get you another coffee, Red?” His nasty meth-smile busted and blackened.

“Still struggling with this one.” I swirled the sludge he called coffee in the bottom of my cup. It had created a tar pit inside my gut. I decided to check in with the office before the coffee killed me.

On the stool at my nine, a ball of light appeared. Flickered. Sparked in shades between blue, violet and eye-piercing white. The air snapped. The skin on my arms tingled and puckered like a plucked goose’s butt.

The light shifted from a pixelated pattern into a semi-transparent woman, all monochromatic shades of gray. Stringy hair stuck to her face, hiding her features. Only her silver eyes and charcoal lips showed through. A dingy nightgown hung from her shoulders and fluttered in shreds around her bare feet.

Home, home, home, the ghost whispered in my brain, where the thoughts were supposed to be mine, not hers. One of many things about the Woman that ticked me off.

Most people would call the ghost a spirit or specter, but I preferred “the Woman.”

Or “Bitch.”

Instead of playing patty-cake and singing nursery rhymes, I learned how to survive living with a not-so-dearly departed. I didn’t care how she died, only that she stuck to my mom like a nasty rash.

The second rule I learned? Never tell anyone about the ghost. Otherwise, they’ll think you’re crazy and lock you up.

Creepy Diner Guy didn’t react to his supernatural guest. He walked past and wiped down tables. That didn’t shock me. My mom had been the only other living person I’d known who could see or hear or smell the Woman.

Even when the Woman didn’t appear, she watched. Listened. Waited for a way to interfere. It was inevitable. I lived with the dead.

An overwhelming smell of lavender clung to the Woman. I gagged on the disgusting sweetness. My hand tugged at the collar of my leather jacket and the t-shirt beneath. “Why can’t you give me one day?” I whispered. “One day without your lavender scent up my nose, your annoying voice blabbing in my head, your bony butt blocking my way?”

S-s-sorry, s-s-sorry, sorry, she repeated.

“Yeah, right. If you were sorry, you’d go back to hell.”

La-la-late. The staccato beat of her words pounded against my temples. As if the ghost cared if she didn’t get forty winks.

“I’m on a job. Go away.” I worked in the family’s business, White Wolfe Investigations. Today’s job was more of a payback than a paycheck. My adopted father, Milt Wolfe—whom I liked to call Fixer Geezer in my head—owed a lifelong favor to his old Navy buddy, Master Chief Ben Palmer. I didn’t know why Master Chief had bought a 24-hour diner right off I-95. Senile? Maybe.

This kind of debt could never be paid off. How could you put a price on someone saving your life?

I understood Milt’s orders: Sit tight. Observe and report. Master Chief thought Creepy Diner Guy volunteered for the night shift to make money on the shady side of life—the side where things slip from white-lie gray to back-alley black; the side where cops close your restaurant and cart you off to jail.

My phone buzzed. No doubt it was one of the Geezers. Two brothers I considered my real fathers, and my bosses. “Sweet cheeks, I’ll be home soon.”

“Sweet cheeks?” Their voices blended into one. They’d put me on speakerphone. Great. Two opinionated, life-controlling Geezers for the price of one.

I couldn’t bring myself to call Milt anything like Dad or Daddy or Pop. Some things took time and a barge load of counseling. “Is everything okay, Sweet Cheeks?”

“Has he passed any packages? Drugs? Money?” Cliff Wolfe, a.k.a. Smarty Pants Geezer and my adopted uncle, was super stinkin’ smart. The type of smart that could send a rocket to the moon but not close the refrigerator door.

“Nope. Only coffee.” I ignored the ghost and monitored Creepy Diner Guy. He picked at a stain on his shirt and popped something into his mouth.

My stomach revolted.

“Stolen anything?” Street smart and straight to the point, Milt didn’t waste words.

“Nope. Nada. Not cash from the till or a quarter from the floor.”

“Be smart.” Uncle Cliff’s voice geared into lecture mode.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be smart.”

“Don’t approach anyone. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Get the intel. Get home. You’re more important than a favor.” Milt, the man who fixed everything with what he had on hand, even if it was only his brute strength or a rubber band, sounded as strong and sure as the day he saved me from St. Francis’ Group Home for Lost Souls. A fancy name for an orphanage. People rebrand and rename. It’s all the same. Group home or orphanage. I preferred orphanage. Or St. Francis’ Hell Hole.

The name didn’t catch on.

“Pleeease.” Unwanted emotions compressed my chest. I struggled to remain in character. “I know better than to talk to strangers.”

“She can handle this.” The rise in Cliff’s voice vetoed any worry.

Creepy Diner Guy inched closer with each swipe of his rag.

Unsure what he could hear, I kept my words soft. “Don’t worry. I’m a big girl.”

The Woman leaned in.

I leaned away, checking the diner’s clock. “It’s past midnight. Do you need me home?”

“A few more hours. Nothing good happens between midnight and three,” said Cliff.

“I don’t like her on her own.” Concern lined the deep timbre of Milt’s voice. “We’ll meet you there. Follow orders and stay safe.”

My face burned solar-flare hot. He didn’t trust me. How could I prove myself if he didn’t give me a chance? “Sheesh. You don’t need to pick me up. I can drive home. I’m not eleven anymore.”

Back ramrod-straight, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the Woman disapproved of my tone. You’d think after decades of death, she’d have pulled the sequoia-sized stick out of her spectral butt.

“It’s been a long time since you lived on the streets.” Milt shouted into the speakerphone. Technology wasn’t one of his strengths.

“Sweet cheeks, don’t yell.” A sick part of me enjoyed the charade. “I can hear you.” My gaze flickered to Creepy Diner Guy, and I clicked down the volume on my phone. “It’s a cellphone, not a handheld radio.”

“Milt’s right. We shouldn’t have sent you in alone.” Cliff’s words rose decibels higher than his brother’s.

They’d joined forces and wanted to pull the plug on my mission. I couldn’t let that happen.

“I’m okay.” I kept my voice light and confident. To ease their angst, I added a hint of humor. “Worrying is only going to make you grayer.” By age seven, I’d mastered controlling my voice to manipulate adults. That was how you survived when you were the proxy adult because your mom had surrendered to another drug-enhanced dream.

Bored with our conversation, the Woman hummed a song—not a pop or a rap or a country song, but that lullaby. I rubbed my temples, biting my tongue to prevent myself from begging her to stop.

“Keep us posted.” Milt barked out the order as if I was a newbie boot on his ship.

I suppressed an aye, aye, Sir, and replied, “Be home soon.” I hung up and glared at the Woman. “Don’t you start.”

The Woman switched to a jazzy tune.

I passed the time naming the stains on Creepy Diner Guy’s shirt. Red—ketchup. Yellow—mustard. There was a slick of brown across his midriff. Grease? Gravy?

The coffee pit in my belly bubbled. I didn’t want to know.

He shuffled into the back and returned with a plate stacked high with raw hamburger patties and a bag of frozen fries. He tossed the meat on the grill, dumped the fries into a basket, lowered them into grease, and wiped the grill’s metal front with his rag.

In the mirror above the grills, I scanned the parking lot behind me through the diner’s gigantic windows. Empty except for my Jeep.

Through the same mirror, Creepy Diner Guy gave me a hey-baby-I’m-the-answer-to-your-prayers look.

I shot back a don’t-make-me-shove-that-rag-down-your-throat glare. The ghost’s laughter rang in my head. A girly giggle slipped from my throat before I could kill it.

Creepy Diner Guy flipped the hamburgers. He turned, wiping his hands down his shirt. “Waiting for a boyfriend?”

“Expecting a midnight rush?” I countered. The meat smelled a little off, or maybe the nauseous odor came from him.

“Nonya.”

Was that code for something? “Nonya?”

“None ya business.” His shrill laugh shredded my eardrums. He planted his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Lived in Rubyville long?” His lunch haunted his breath. Hamburger with extra onions.

Home, home, home.

“Kinda,” I replied with my own one-word cryptic answer and snubbed the ghost.

Home, Home, HOME. The Woman didn’t like to be left out or ignored. The longer it went, the more insistent she’d become. At least her humming stopped.

Creepy Diner Guy turned back to the grill, removed the hamburgers, and lifted the basket of fries from the grease. He came around the counter. Sat on a ripped vinyl stool, sandwiched me between his onion breath and the Woman’s putrid potpourri. He leaned close. “I like green eyes and red hair. You look real good in black.”

As if I cared what he thought. Shades from onyx to ebony filled ninety percent of my wardrobe. My leather jacket and knee-high boots fell comfortably in the range. Black was easy to accessorize. It went with more black. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”

Truck pipes rumbled. I checked the parking lot in the mirror. A baby-blue, nineteen-eighty-two Ford parked out front. I’d love to have a truck like that. All shiny and clean.

Home, Home, Home.

I raised my phone as a shield between his breath and me. I texted the Geezers: Got movement, adding the truck’s description and license plate number. In a low voice, I told the Woman, “Hit the bricks.”

“No need to be like that. I’m not going to hurt you,” Creepy Diner Guy replied, his tone operator-smooth. He rubbed a piece of my hair between his fingers. My hair. “Red’s my favorite color.”

My muscles tensed. One swift back fist. That’s all it would take. He could add fresh blood to the stains on his shirt. Bright red would enhance his color palette. Besides, red was his favorite.

But I was on a job. A job I couldn’t mess up by spilling his blood. “Don’t you have more burgers to flip? Potatoes to peel?”

“You wanna peel my potato?”

The coffee tar backed up into my throat. Leaning into my third rule—keep everything important safe in your boots and everything important will keep you safe—I palmed the knife from my boot and showed him the blade. “I can peel more than that. Wanna play?”

Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad, the Woman chanted. The lights in the diner flashed.

I slid the blade of my knife against his jaw, giving him a free shave. “You’re not really bad, are you?”

The diner’s door opened. I shifted, keeping my back between the door and the knife. No need to frighten a customer or warn off the pick-up guy.

Creepy Diner Guy’s face turned morgue gray. Scared stiff worked for him. He scrambled backward, helter-skelter, and side slipped from the stool.

“That’s what I thought.” I lowered my knife.

Like a buck caught in the crosshairs, he froze. A tsunami of fear flowed over his face. He gazed over my head. Neither my blade nor the Woman caused his locked stare.

Someone scarier than a knife to his throat stood behind me.

Dread dripped down my backbone like bacon grease from a hot pan, setting my nerves on fire. I tucked my chin and snuck a peek over my shoulder.

Scary didn’t do the guy justice. He was a mashup of Godzilla and King Kong—butt ugly and horribly wrong. A massive neck—a monster mama would be proud of—steel-studded earlobes, his hair spiky and nuclear green. He’d claimed this cement jungle and declared himself king.

And I?

I was the bug in his way. But I wasn’t Diamond, the girl with no last name, anymore. I was JD Wolfe, Private Eye.

***

Excerpt from Haunted by a Broken Oath by Dee Armstrong. Copyright 2025 by Dee Armstrong. Reproduced with permission from Dee Armstrong. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Dee Armstrong writes thrillers and romantic suspense with a paranormal twist — stories that squeeze the heart, rattle the nerves, and still leave room for love, laughter, and sass.

She pits tough heroines against bad guys you’ll love to hate — with twists that keep the pages flying and endings that fight for hope.

A former U.S. Air Force Russian linguist and three-time Taekwondo Black Belt National Sparring Champion, Dee believes the vulnerable should be protected and justice must be fierce—because the past never stays buried, and the truth never sleeps.

When she’s not writing about danger and desire, Dee is chasing after her littles, sipping tea on the porch, and plotting against the weeds in her garden.

Find her on social @DeeArmstrongAuthor for sneak peeks, behind-the-scenes chaos, and stories that leave a fingerprint on your heart.

Catch Up With Dee Armstrong:

DeeArmstrong.com
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Interview of Winter Austin Author of Bait The Devel-A Bounty of Shadow Series Book Two. (#contests-Win An autographed Copy of the Book and a Gift Card.)

BAIT THE DEVIL

by Winter Austin

February 2 - March 13, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

 

A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS

In bounty hunting, clean jobs are a myth. Dot knows—she’s seen the blood.

Dot Ybarra doesn’t bluff. Fresh into her bounty hunting career, she’s already earning a reputation for results. But when a “routine” rogue bounty—taken as a favor to her lawyer cousin—turns lethal, she’s staring down a case with international reach, bodies in its wake, and the stench of power.

Her business partner, T.J. Roman, is hiding a secret. If Dot finds out … well, she can’t find out. It would end the effective partnership they’ve built. But the trail won’t wait. What should have been a clean pickup of a fellow military veteran spirals into a hunt through the shadows, where one wrong move could see them both buried in an unmarked grave.

To stop the predators at the center of a violent trafficking ring, they’ll have to go straight into its core—and make themselves the bait. Every step makes them vulnerable to each other as well.

The devil’s coming for them.

Dot plans to be the one still standing after he bites.

Bait the Devil Trailer:

 

Book Details:

Genre: Modern Western Thriller
Published by: Tule Mystery
Publication Date: January 19, 2026
Number of Pages: 285
ISBN: 9781969218651 (ISBN10: 1969218657)
Series: A BOUNTY OF SHADOWS, Book 2 {Amazon, Tule}
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Apple Books | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Mystery

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

Two hours later, they had managed to corral the quickly sobering Freddy into the back of the Suburban, with no more eventful chases, and turn him over to the county jail. Freddy’s bail bondsman paid out their fair share of the bond and a huge tip after some hard pressing on T.J.’s part about the circumstances leading up to Freddy’s apprehension. Once the check was cashed, a celebratory late lunch at one of the best Basque eateries Dot had found in Boise was the best way to top off a successful day of bounty hunting.

Parked behind the Bar Gernika, she and T.J. sat in the back end of the Chevy Suburban with the hatch up eating chorizo sandwiches with smoked cod croquetas and a bowl of green olives dripping in garlic olive oil. Dot slurped down half of her Coke, then shook the ice in her cup.

T.J. pointed the remains of his smoked beef chorizo at her. “We should register for the SHOT show in Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because we can.” T.J. pulled his duh face.

Dot rolled her eyes and bit into her sandwich.

“Have you ever been there?” T.J. asked.

She shook her head, wiping smokey chorizo juice from the corner of her mouth.

“The woman raised to be a hunter and a firearms collector has never been to the great SHOT show?” He lowered his reflective sunglasses and eyed her over the top of the rims. “Never?”

“You do realize my family wasn’t made of money.” Dot popped one of the croquetas into her mouth. “And that’s in the dead of winter, when we couldn’t just up and run off while we were in the middle of lambing season.”

“All the more reason you should go now.” T.J. grinned. “A lot of the best bounty hunters meet up there.”

Dot scowled at her partner and sometimes bunk buddy. “Lemme guess. You wanna show off your shiny new partner to the boys?”

“Maybe.” His grin turned devilish. “Or maybe I wanna see you kick their asses.”

Dot wadded up the sandwich wrapper and chucked it at T.J.’s head. “I’m not a toy.”

The crumbled ball of waxed paper bounced off his forehead and landed on the Suburban floor between them.

“Really? Then why are you so easy to wind up?”

“You sonofa—” Dot lunged for his throat but was quickly subdued.

Their moment of levity was interrupted by a shrill ring from T.J.’s phone.

“Damn it,” he snapped and patted down his body in search for his cell.

Dot found it lying on the makeshift floor behind his hulking frame. She snatched it up and checked the screen. She batted her eyelashes at T.J.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarled.

She pressed the green icon to answer the call. “Well, hello, cousin dearest.”

Lawyer-extraordinaire and covert purveyor of information, Vivian Montgomery was Dot’s second cousin. And apparently had earned a spot on T.J.’s contact list under the moniker of Hot Ass Lawyer.

“Dot? When did you start taking business calls?” Vivian asked, her brisk tone underscored by the sound of her heavy breathing.

“What are you doing?” Dot asked. “You sound like you’re saving the horse and riding a cowboy.”

“Oh, grow up. I’m on a treadmill. Put T.J. on the phone.”

“You shouldn’t run on those things. They destroy your knees and back,” Dot chided.

“When I want health advice from a cigar smoker who jumps from helicopters for fun, I’ll call.”

“I don’t jump from the helo. Unless it’s crashing. Even then, that’s sketchy shit.”

T.J., giving a rumbling growl, jerked the phone from Dot, and pressed it to his ear. “Vivian, what do you need?” He waited a moment, then with another low growl, pulled the phone from his ear and put it on speaker. “You’re on speaker.”

“I need a huge favor from the two of you.”

“When you say huge favor, how huge are we talking?” Dot asked.

“You know, I think I liked you better when you were a brooding, isolated eremite whose main goal in life was equal parts trying to piss off her mother and keep her out of trouble,” Vivian shot back.

“Love you too, coz.”

“Now shut up and let me finish.” The whining sound of the treadmill belt slowing echoed over the phone connection. “I just got a call from one of my colleagues. She had a client fail to appear today.”

“Shouldn’t the defendant’s bail bondsman be calling us?” T.J. asked.

“It’s … complicated.”

Dot smiled as T.J. groaned.

“Vivian, every time you rope us into one of your firm’s problems with their unruly children, we’re out money, time, and patience. We’re called bounty hunters for a reason. Bounty is in the name.”

“Roman, if you keep up the condescending behavior, I’ll expose your dirty little secret.”

“Dirty secret, huh,” Dot piped in. “What’s that?”

He thrust a finger at her nose. “None of your business. Vivian, if you so much as breathe out of line, I’ll make you regret it.”

“Will you do me the favor?”

T.J. stared at Dot, who shrugged as if to say, Why not?

“Fine. Mark my words, I’ll be cashing in on this huge favor sooner than you think.”

“I wouldn’t have bothered you with this, expect the guy is a veteran, and you two being veterans yourself, I figured he’d be more likely to work with you than anyone else.”

“What’s on his file?” Dot asked.

“That’s the complicated part. Officially, his file says he was picked up a third time for carrying with the intent to sell. Unofficially, he’s … classified.”

Dot frowned as she and T.J. locked eyes. As a former army ranger who spent a lot of time flying in and out of forward operating bases in Afghanistan, T.J. knew all about classified situations. Dot, as the main helicopter pilot shuttling him and his team back and forth, though never read in on his actual missions, typically was under strict orders of her own.

“Vivian, I’m not getting fuzzy feelings about this,” T.J. said.

“Neither am I. It’s why I’m calling the two of you in. The judge wants to issue a bench warrant. My colleague was able to ask for a delay before it’s submitted. She was given three hours to present her client or the warrant is released. If you’d rather, you could consider this job PI work instead of fugitive recovery.”

The shingle hanging outside their business office did say private investigators. At this point, that title belonged to T.J. and T.J. alone.

“Still not selling me on this,” he said. “If there’s no bench warrant, there’s no cash for catching him.”

“Hang on.” Vivian spoke to someone, her voice muffled, then she was back. “The firm will pay you a finder’s fee.”

T.J. continued to stare at Dot. She could sense what he was thinking. He was torn. Take this off-the-cuff job and cash in on the favor department with Vivian to help a fellow veteran? Or say fuck it and play hooky for the rest of the day like he’d planned?

Dot didn’t really have much of a say in the business dealings of their partnership since she was eight months into the training phase as a fugitive recovery agent and she wasn’t a licensed PI. It didn’t stop T.J. from pressing her for her opinion, who argued that, because she was about to start taking bounties on her own, she needed to take the reins more often.

“If it helps you make a decision, I’ve got his last known address and a phone number along with a photo,” Vivian said. “This won’t be a hard catch.”

“Stop saying that. Every time you tell me it’s an easy one, it turns into a disaster,” T.J. snarled.

“He’s right,” Dot added.

“Okay, I retract my statement. But, please say yes. Huge favor to me. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?”

Dot glared at him.

“Within reason,” Vivian shot back.

“We’ll do it,” Dot said, tired of T.J.’s runaround. “Send us the four-one-one, and we’ll go check it out.”

T.J. glared at her; his dark eyes flashed a warning. Dot returned his glare with a smug look of her own that dared him to bring it.

“Thank you, coz. Hurry. There’s only two hours left before the bench warrant goes out. Then it’ll be a free-for-all.”

“You couldn’t have called us about this an hour ago?” T.J. groused.

“Shut your yap, Roman,” Vivian said. “There. Info sent.”

His phone dinged.

“His name is Cade Porter. He was a staff sergeant in the Marine Corps.” Vivian sucked in a breath. “Oooh.”

“Oooh, what?” T.J. insisted.

“If this is right, he was in an artillery unit.”

“Oh my God.” T.J. groaned.

Dot grinned. Not only did acting on a favor for Vivian chafe T.J. in the chaps, but doing it for a Marine with explosives expertise was going to make that chafe burn. Throughout their long, storied history, there had always been a deep-seated friendly animosity between the army and the Marines. Push came to shove, however, they still had each other’s backs.

“If that crayon eater blows us up, I’m going to haunt you,” he said.

“I look forward to the visits. Now get going.” Vivian ended the call.

T.J. shoved his phone in a side pocket of his cargo pants. “Tell me again why we let Vivian help us out?”

“Because,” Dot said as she scooted out of the SUV’s backend, “she’s good for the money. And I trust her intel more than I would some of your bail bondsmen.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“Nire familia da. Garrantzitsua da.”

T.J. paused before closing the hatch. “I speak Pashto, Arabic, some Spanish, and Oklahoman. I do not speak Basque.”

Dot chuckled. “Time to learn, Danger Ranger.”

“Load up and let’s roll.”

***

Excerpt from Bait the Devil by Winter Austin. Copyright 2026 by Winter Austin. Reproduced with permission from Winter Austin. All rights reserved.

INTERVIEW:

If you could tell your younger writing self anything, what would it be?

It’s going to take a long time to get to your goal, but you never give up. It’s a lot harder than it looks too.

Favorite childhood memory involving books?

Most every memory I have involved books. When I went horseback riding, I pretended to be reliving scenes in the westerns I was reading at the time. (I rode alone most of the time for this work and had a fantastic horse who knew where he was going.) Books have always been a part of my life even from an early age. My parents read to me when I was a baby, and when I was strong enough to sit on my own and crawl around, my mom would find me with a book in my lap and babbling out the story to myself.

If you could dine with any literary character, who would it be and why?

Only one?! If I had to choose only one, I guess it would be Walt Longmire from the Longmire series. I have a penchant for getting old war dogs to tell me their stories, some they have never revealed to anyone else, and I think I’d get Walt to reveal a few. Also, he’s so much like one of my great uncles it would be like reliving my childhood all over again. A few drinks at the Red Pony with Henry and I’d be in heaven.

Did you want to be an author when you grew up?

Yes, I did. It’s a part of me and it all stems back to reading my first Walter Farley Black Stallion book and learning he had become an author at a young age. Then I earned the right to go to a young writer’s conference with a mystery, all very 4th grade-ish. The love of writing and a sense of purpose was cemented. And here I am today, living my dream.

If you could own any animal as a pet, what would it be?

Well, since I’m a farm gal, and have had a lot of the animals that were actual pets and some that became pets that probably shouldn’t be. Hopefully one day here very soon, I’ll be on my own farm property where I plan to keep a herd of goats, some as show goats for my nieces and the rest as working goats, and keep a few horses and cattle, along with a huge flock of chickens and dogs and cats for pest control. Yeah, nothing really out of the norm here.

How do you select the names of your characters?

Names are usually picked in regard to family heritage and setting location. Once I have a few narrowed down, I let the characters tell me who they really are and go from there. But sometimes, a name will come to me out of nowhere, and I know who that belongs to.

If you could live in any time period, what would it be and why?

1850-1900’s As bad as death and sickness were along with war and hate, I feel this was my time period. I’ve always wanted to brave those wilds of western America and live among the people there. I’d love to hope that I would not be a product of my upbringing and be exactly like I am now, but it’s hard to say.

When did you write your first book?

I want to say it was the handwritten western I wrote the summer before I started high school. I wrote a lot of stories and fan fiction—though I didn’t know that was what I was doing at the time—but my first real book had to be that western.

What sparks your creativity/how do you get your ideas?

Reading and watching shows that are inline with what I’m writing at the time. I need that creative outlet and that’s where I get it. Listening to music while I’m driving to and from work helps a lot with the imagination and fuels future scenes in my books too. Real life will filter in as well, adding to that adage of What if?

What do you like to do when you’re not writing?

Just nap. I’m so busy all the time with work, family, my animals, upcoming goat show schedules along with fairs and writing, just decompressing and taking a nap is nice. I love to cook and bake too, and have taken a serious turn into preserving and canning in the last few years, which is tedious, but extremely satisfying for me because I’m always looking to learn new things and excel at it.

 

Author Bio:

Winter Austin perpetually answers the question: “were you born in the winter?” with a flat “nope,” but believe her, there is a story behind her name.

A lifelong Mid-West gal with strong ties to the agriculture world, Winter grew up listening to the captivating stories told by relatives around a table or a campfire. As a published author, she learned her glass half-empty personality makes for a perfect suspense/thriller writer. Taking her ability to verbally spin a vivid and detailed story, Winter translated that into writing deadly romantic suspense, mysteries, and thrillers.

When she’s not slaving away at the computer, you can find Winter supporting her daughter in cattle shows, seeing her three sons off into the wide-wide world, loving on her fur babies, prodding her teacher husband, and nagging at her flock of hens to stay in the coop or the dogs will get them.

She is the author of multiple novels.

Catch Up With Winter Austin:

AuthorWinterAustin.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @WinterAustin
Instagram - @iasuspensewriter
Facebook - @author.winteraustin

 

Tour Participants:

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Book Blitz Of Arcanum Books 1 and 2 by Kelly O'Hearn.(#Contests- Enter to win a 30 Munute Tarot Reading by the Author.)

Arcanum: In the Temple Shadows
Kelly O’Hearn
(Arcanum, #1)
Publication date: May 20th 2024
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

Arcanum: In the Temple Shadows is Book One in a series of novels channeled through the tarot cards by noted intuitive Kelly O’Hearn—the first of its kind!

In this sexy past life romance, sometimes happily ever after takes more than one lifetime. Meet Sarah Fuller. It’s her 40th birthday and things are starting to get weird. Is it deja vu? A midlife crisis? Nervous breakdown? Who is this dark, handsome stranger she feels like she’s met before? Not on Fifth Avenue or through her luxury fragrance company but, like, many lifetimes ago?

Her husband, her best friend, her shrink: everyone seems to think they know what’s best for her these days. Sarah’s always been a skeptic, but when she meets this intriguing psychic who tells her she might have been a Pharaoh’s lover and powerful mystic in ancient Egypt, thousands of years ago, it feels so right that she’s determined to find out more.

“I was given early access to the manuscript of Arcanum, and I was immediately immersed in this unique and sassy book! It’s like Carrie Bradshaw meets Cleopatra. The tension and drama between the characters was enthralling, both in their current lives and their past lives. I can’t wait for the second book in the series!” K. Lewis

Arcanum: Whispers In The Forest
Kelly O’Hearn
(Arcanum, #2)
Publication date: May 13th 2025
Genres: Adult, Fantasy, Romance

From noted intuitive channeler Kelly O’Hearn comes the spellbinding second installment in the critically acclaimed Arcanum series—a mesmerizing blend of romance, reincarnation, and sensual awakening that spans across centuries.

When Manhattan parfumier Sarah Fuller abandons her picture-perfect life to pursue an obsession with an ancient rose in the South of France, she never expects to unearth secrets buried for centuries. What begins as a professional quest quickly transforms into a soul-stirring journey, cosmically interwoven with that of a medieval maiden with mysterious powers.

As her marriage crumbles and her closest friendship fractures, Sarah’s carefully constructed reality begins to unravel. Between the gleaming penthouses of New York and the sun-drenched fields of Provence, she discovers that the fragrance she seeks may be the key to unlocking a past life—and a love that has endured across time itself.

But some secrets are meant to stay buried, and as Sarah delves deeper into her past, she must decide: Will she heed the whispers that call to her from the forest, or will she lose herself to them completely?

Goodreads / Amazon

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EXCERPT:

All of a sudden she felt an invisible ripple along her spine, a jolt of something. Her eyes flew open, and she saw a man standing about five feet in front of her.

“Holy shit,” she blurted. “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.”

“Other than the two hundred people hobnobbing in the Temple of Dendur?”

“Yeah, other than those jerks.”

His smile was a knockout. If she weren’t happily married…scratch that. Tall, dark, probably of Middle Eastern descent? Gorgeous tux. Crooked smile. She’d have to be dead not to find him…attractive.

That was one word for it. Hot-as-fuck might be another.

“Harry Aiken.” He held out his hand.

Was her mouth agape? Sarah settled herself. “Of course you are…”

She took his hand in hers, and the two of them stood there for way too long. Maybe it was only a second or two, but she felt—well, she felt everything. The power of his grip, the warmth of his skin, the clean smell of him, the slight bristle of the hairs on the back of his hand, his eyes—but beyond all of those sensory, well, pleasures, really, she felt like he was definitely part of whatever gut-roiling recalibration or transformation was going on inside her today. He was somehow in on it.

She released his hand and backed away a step, as if he had burned her.

Or could.

And then she started breathing again.

“Weird day.” She shook her head and started walking slowly around the atrium.

“Do you want to be alone?” he asked.

“Not necessarily. I just didn’t want to be in a room with hundreds of people.”

Harry put his hands in his pockets and walked alongside her. “Same. I left right before the guest of honor arrived. Just all a bit too much for me, you know.”

Sarah realized his clean, buttoned-up smell was just a top note. Sandalwood, tobacco, myrrh: this man was into expensive fragrance of some sort or another, and their heat had brought it to life. A deep, masculine scent. Her mortal weakness.

“You’ve never met her?”

“No. I’m not really even sure why I’m here. I met this hilarious guy named Max—”

She couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, I know him.”

“Right? I met him last week. Turns out he’s best friends with the CEO of this company I do business with whom I’ve been trying to meet for years. She’s got a firewall of assistants around her. Max is a great guy and all, but he was like, ‘You should totally come meet Sarah and learn more about her new foundation, yadda yadda…’ and I was like, ‘Great, I’d really appreciate the introduction. ’and then he’s like, ‘I got you on the list to her surprise party Saturday night ’and I’m like, ‘Well, that’s a little weird to show up at someone’s fortieth birthday party uninvited, if I’ve never even met them, don’t you think? ’But he’s kind of persuasive and funny, and it all seemed like a good idea last week. But now I’m just like a fish out of water…and now I’m babbling—”

When he turned to face her, their eyes caught again, and held, like they had when they’d shaken hands. “I’m not usually nervous, but you’ve caught me off guard,” he said.

Sarah just gave herself permission to stare at him. Why not? It was her birthday, wasn’t it? And maybe he was her gift. Her lip must have lifted slightly on one side when she thought that, because his glance darted to her mouth and his pupils dilated.

Then, as if realizing that what he was doing could be construed as creepy, his eyes flew back up to hers.

Her smile widened.

You can look at my mouth anytime you like, she almost said—but caught herself before she did something…regrettable.

“So, is this going to be like some Cinderella story?” he asked, his voice deeper, stronger, if that was even possible. “Are you going to introduce yourself, or am I going to have to enlist the cavalry and ride my steed throughout the kingdom tomorrow to find out your true identity?”

Harry Aiken on horseback, commanding an army. Wheeling his horse around with perfect control. Mastery. Smoke and leather and the clang of ancient weapons and still, always, his eyes on her, always on her. Tracking her, minding her, loving her.

“I could see that,” she whispered, then turned to walk back toward the party. “I guess it is a bit of a Cinderella story,” she continued, forcing her voice to take on a more carefree tone. “Because I’ll definitely turn into a pumpkin if I don’t get back to hobnobbing.”

Author Bio:

When Kelly O’Hearn first stepped off the train in the city of Florence, Italy, as a 20-year-old, she had the overwhelming instinct that she had been there before. In a place famous for its maze of medieval streets, O’Hearn navigated the city as if she had lived there for a lifetime. Born in New York City, O’Hearn first put her intuitive skills to work as a professional wine taster, instructor, and sommelier in the elite institutions of New York, Portugal, and Aspen. After raising her two children and enduring a personal health crisis, in 2012, she was drawn to begin reading the tarot cards, an ancient practice which does not presume to “predict the future” but offers a collection of stories, perspectives, and self-reflections that can guide one to become one’s most authentic self. O’Hearn is in high demand for her readings, with clients on every continent but Antartica. While most people were baking sourdough or riding their Pelotons during the Covid pandemic, O’Hearn used the tarot cards to channel her own past lives. Weeks of readings, all captured on video, yielded six storylines of herself as several powerful women over the millennia and around the globe: the same one soul, over time, persevering against all odds in the quest for happiness and the love of a soul mate. This time-bending saga inspired O’Hearn to conceive of a series of novels titled Arcanum. Book One: In the Temple Shadows is available now. Book Two: Whispers in the Forest will be released Spring of 2025.

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GIVEAWAY!

Arcanum Books 1 & 2 Blitz

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