Guest Post by Jane Haseldine Author of Everyone Is Perfect Here-Suspense Novel. (#Contests- Win A Gift Card to Amazon or Bookshop- 4 winners.)

EVERYONE IS PERFECT HERE

by Jane Haseldine

April 6 - May 1, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

There’s no such thing as perfect.

To the outside world, English professor Carly Bennett is a rising star…. poised, confident and on a fast-track to success. But behind her professional facade lies a childhood shattered by betrayal and her mother’s mysterious death.

Fifteen years earlier, Carly was shipped off to boarding school after being accused of threats she never made and exiled by her beloved mother and wealthy stepfamily. Throughout, Carly clung to her one ally, her stepbrother Julien…. until she discovered he masterminded her downfall.

Julien, now a psychiatrist, reappears in Carly’s life, apologetic and bearing news: before a fatal break-in, Carly’s mother planned to bring Carly home. Vindicated, Carly investigates her mother’s cold case. But doing so unearths memories that cause Carly to question her sanity and finally face the truth.

Was she responsible for her mother’s murder or is something more sinister at play in her former stepfamily’s still perfect world?

Book Details:

Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Severn House
Publication Date: April 7, 2026
Number of Pages: 301
ISBN: 9781448320127 (ISBN10: 1448320127)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Severn House

GUEST POST:

As an author and a long-time journalist, I have a secret to share.

I’m generally terrible when it comes to talking about my books.

It’s not that I’m shy. I love talking to people, and most of all, hearing their stories.

And that’s where the problem lies.

As a journalist and former newspaper reporter, I’m used to being the one asking the questions, and given the chance, I generally fall into default mode.

It’s a habit that started early. We moved A LOT when I was growing up, which made me the perennial new kid in town. Searching for an ice breaker on the playground, I made it a habit to ask my classmates questions. I discovered two things back then: 1: If you asked, people would generally tell you something about themselves. And 2: I loved to hear people’s stories.

Fast forward, I published my first suspense book ten years ago. By the time the second book in the series came out, I knew I had to do better at sticking to the script about my books during author events.

So much for the best laid plans.

When book two was published, I was fortunate enough to be invited to a lovely author event at the Garland Hotel in LA, near where I live.

The hotel setup was breathtaking. It was an evening event. Authors sat outside in a courtyard under twinkly lights. The audience was comprised of educators of all stripes-elementary, middle and high school teachers; college professors; special education teachers; and I even met a woman who taught English and writing at a prison.

I was paired at a table with a historical mystery author who had an entourage, which included her agent and publicist. My entourage, my husband and our two boys, had left me at the curb of the hotel with my ginormous box of books as they headed to Universal Studios to whoop it up until I was done.

The plan was for educators to visit with the various authors whose books sparked their interest. My author table neighbor was a pro. She delivered her elevator pitch with precision, signed books with a fancy pen, smiled throughout, and kept her line moving.

It didn’t happen that way for me. Wait time in my line was longer than the one to get through the TSA line at LAX.

Instead of talking about my book, I asked the teachers (the ones who were kind enough to stop by) questions about themselves: Where did they work? What got them interested in teaching? And could they possibly recommend a book for my son Nash who hated to read?

All the teachers were so gracious with their time, their stories, and their book suggestions. One middle grade teacher even returned before the event was over to give me a complete hand-written list of 20 books that she was sure my son would love.

Teachers are the best.

In-between these wonderful conversations, little was said on my end about my book. I’d even started asking visitors in my line what mystery books they liked to read. And I commented at least a dozen times that if they hadn’t read Linwood Barclay yet, they needed to get to it. Linwood Barclay’s stories are brilliant.

When the event ended, I’d met some lovely people and had barely made a dent in signing my books that were for the most part, still inside their big box underneath the table. The historical mystery writer next to me, on the other hand, had signed every single one of her books. Her publicist even threw out the cardboard box that they came in.

As for me, I had to carry the Godzilla-sized, almost full box of my books through the lobby while wearing a stupidly high pair of pretty cute shoes that I’d purchased for the occasion and never wore again.

When my husband and kids pulled up to the curb in their fresh Universal Studios gear, I piled into the front seat, my arms still aching from hauling my books across the expanse of the hotel.

When my family asked how my book event was, I told them the truth.

It was perfect.

I love readers. Teachers. People’s stories. And Linwood Barclay books.

Maybe I’ll get better in talking about my books one day, although this column doesn’t exactly bode well for this personal aspiration.

Call me crazy. But I doubt I’ll change a thing.

Read an excerpt:

ONE

Present Day, Los Angeles
Carly Bennett

Light blue on dirty blonde.

Creative writing professor Carly Bennett did a quick scan of her face from its reflection in the window that overlooked the University of Southern California quad and smoothed a crease in her pencil skirt.

If Carly had known that the dean of the English department would schedule a last-minute meeting with her, she would’ve picked a better outfit than one that screamed, “I had no time to take this to the cleaner, so I ran a fast iron over it. But thank God the skirt is black so no one can see the stain from when my coffee cup lid jimmied its way free this morning.”

Nothing like near first-degree burns on your thigh from an errant Starbucks Pike to jolt a person awake during LA’s slog of a commute.

No matter. Here she was.

And she’d be ready. Even though she needed to master her prep on the fly.

Carly turned the corner to the English department’s Office of the Dean and forged through her speaking points that she’d deliver to her boss, Bert Scanlon.

“Making the LA Times’s ‘Thirty-Under-Thirty’ list was a complete surprise, but I’m so happy that the article will shine a spotlight on the great work our team is doing under your leadership.”

Ack. Too mealy-mouthed. Plus, it made her sound like a big-headed brown-noser. And nobody likes that person.

“Thank you for the kind words. Please know how much I appreciate that you believe in me, and I swear, I won’t let you down.”

Better, and that sentiment was from the heart.

Carly pictured her face, front and center on the page when she’d pulled up the LA Times story that morning and hoped that the people she used to know from her early Malibu days saw it too.

Elitist jerks.

As for herself, Carly had read the write-up, over and over, until she could now recite it in perpetuity.

Carly passed by the USC English department’s wall of fame, which showcased its students’ esteemed awards through the years. She paused when she saw her name, capturing a moment in time from freshman year. Her: scared to near speechlessness amongst the far cooler co-eds but finding strength behind her pen.

Winner of the 2018 Undergraduate Writing Prize—First Place: Carly Bennett

Had she really come this far? Most would’ve marked her a losing bet at age twelve, her personal line of demarcation, but sometimes, even dark horses can come from behind and win the whole damn thing.

Four. Three. Two. One.

“You got this,” Carly whispered.

She reached for the security of her inhaler in her briefcase and entered Scanlon’s office.

Gretchyn Olson, a middle-aged woman with salt-and-pepper hair was working the phone with precision. She held up a single finger when she saw Carly.

While she waited, Carly continued to clutch her briefcase in one hand and placed the other behind her back, where she dug a fingernail into a stray cuticle.

After a beat, Scanlon’s assistant put the call on hold.

“They’re waiting for you,” Gretchyn said. “Hang in there, kid. Sometimes, you need to play the game.”

They? And what game was she talking about?

Carly’s neck felt hot, but she made certain she was smiling when she entered the office, where she locked eyes with Scanlon, who rose to greet her. Scanlon had a Mr. Clean, shiny bald head, and his stomach struggled to stay behind the confines of the clasped gold buttons of his tweed coat.

Seated across from the dean of the English department was an unfamiliar male, who was well dressed, neatly manicured, and appeared to be in his early fifties.

Carly shot the stranger an equally polite smile. Who was this guy?

“Miss Bennett, thank you for taking time to swing by under such short notice,” Scanlon said.

“Of course, sir.”

Maybe the man was another reporter from the paper who covered the education beat and was writing a follow-up article on the English department.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Franklin Yeager. You taught Frank’s son, Landon, last semester.”

In that moment, Carly felt like someone had jabbed an ice pick into her high-flying helium balloon.

The room became very still as Carly struggled to find the appropriate response.

“In all due respect, if this is about my former student, I think any further discussion should be held in private and between the administration, but I was under the impression the incident and disciplinary action had been decided,” Carly said.

A robotic delivery, but at least she got the words out.

“There’ve been some developments that have been brought to my attention. I asked Frank to come in so we could clear the air, so to speak,” Scanlon said. “Please, sit, Miss Bennett.”

Carly kept her place, arms folded, standing above the men, but when Scanlon cleared his throat, she acquiesced and found a seat next to her former student’s father.

“Landon didn’t plagiarize the paper,” Yeager said.

Yes, he did! Carly wanted to scream. Instead, she slipped her hands underneath her legs, in case her palms started to sweat.

“If my son did cheat, I’d be the first to request that USC boot him out the door on his fanny,” Yeager continued. “But I know my kid, and I also know a liar, and Landon is beside himself over this false accusation. I’ll be honest with you, when Landon first told me about the whole mess, I was ready to call my lawyer, but since Bert is an old friend, I thought, why not try and hash things out man-to-man first.”

She had to respond. The words were there, ready to make her point, if only she could find the ability and the guts to say them.

“But he did ch-ch-cheat,” Carly said, despising the catch in her voice.

When was the last time she’d stuttered? Probably a year ago, during her annual review with Scanlon. She wondered if the universe would grant her a reprieve, and somehow the two men hadn’t picked up on her residual speech impediment, which still ambushed her in the worst possible moments, rising like an unkillable weed despite all her years of work to get rid of it.

She shot a glance at Yeager, whose mouth had turned up into a bow that resembled a smirk or, worse, pity.

If she were going down, at least she had to throw a punch.

“I want all my students to excel, and if they need extra time on an assignment, they know I’ll give it to them, and my door is always open if they need additional help. But the paper Landon wrote was a complete replica of one I received from a different student last year. We’re talking down to the semicolon.”

Carly looked to Scanlon, hoping for some back-up, but the dean kept his focus on Yeager.

“Then it wasn’t a case of cheating but purely accidental on Landon’s part,” Yeager said. “Or is the word coincidental? You’re the English whizzes in here, and I’m a businessman who wouldn’t know a semicolon from a hyphen, but I do know mistakes can be made, even by well-meaning young professors. How long have you been a teacher? You look more like a co-ed than a professor, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways.”

Yeager chuckled, sounding to Carly like the laugh was cover so he wouldn’t sound like a creep.

Too late.

Carly fought to speak up and defend herself. But she remained still and silent, stuck between two powerful, rich males who were doing a very fine job of reeling in the young, errant female who didn’t know her place.

“This is my second year at USC.”

“Miss Bennett is still relatively new to our school as a professor, but she’s a rising star in our English department and did quite well as a student here before joining our professional fold.”

The heat that Carly had felt in her neck earlier had now exploded into a full-blown, five-alarm inferno, despite Scanlon throwing her a pseudo-bone.

Carly had crossed her legs and put a hand to her throat to try and cover her growing rash when she noticed Yeager was staring at something on the bottom of her black high heel. Whatever it was seemed to give him great satisfaction.

“Mr. Scanlon . . .” Carly pleaded, but the dean interrupted.

“I appreciate that you hold your students to the highest of standards, as you should, but since Frank is a trusted friend to the school, this time, we’ll expunge the previous disciplinary action and wipe the slate clean. Landon can resubmit the assignment and finish up the course through independent study, so he won’t lose credit. I have your word that Landon will be more careful in his work going forward, Frank?”

“You bet. My kid is a good boy, and I knew we could wrangle this problem to the ground. You have my word on my kid and on my continued support. Generations of Yeagers have supported this school, and we’ll continue the tradition. “Fight on for ol’ SC, our men fight on to victory!” Yeager warbled, hitting the notes of the USC fight song slightly off-key but with great confidence in his delivery.

When Yeager stood to shake the dean’s hand, Carly looked to the bottom of her high heel and saw a Macy’s close-out sale sticker still affixed to its outsole.

Her previous high-flying balloon was now bits of spent plastic that an entitled rich boy and his adult minions had tossed into the dumpster.

“No hard feelings, OK? New teachers can make mistakes with the best of them,” Yeager said.

He extended his hand to Carly.

You sold your integrity for a buck, and to a total cheese bag when you know I’m right! Carly wanted to scream to Scanlon.

Instead, Carly remained quiet and stared at Yeager’s outstretched hand.

Scanlon cleared his throat again.

“Miss Bennett, the matter has been settled,” Scanlon answered.

The dean’s eyes narrowed, and Carly followed his cue.

She reached for Yeager’s hand, gave it a quick shake, and regretted it the second her skin touched Yeager’s.

“That will be all, Miss Bennett.”

This was so unfair. She had to stand her ground.

“Is there something else you wanted to say?” Scanlon pressed.

Carly paused, searching for the words. They were right there, but when she jumped from the platform to catch the brass ring, she missed and spiraled into freefall.

“Miss Bennett?” Scanlon asked.

“Th–th–th–thank you, sir.”

She couldn’t remember leaving the office, but there she was, back in the lobby. Carly hurried past Gretchyn, and by the time she reached the corridor, she was certain that she heard the two men laughing from behind the office door.

“HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!”

*

After escaping the humiliation-fest in Scanlon’s office, Carly lowered her head so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact, or worse, engage in fake, idle chitchat after her fall, and continued her fast walk to the USC faculty bathroom. She had ten minutes until her advanced creative writing class started, which was threading the needle a bit, but the familiar vice was constricting her chest, and if she didn’t take a pull from her inhaler soon, she’d be in the throes of a full-fledged, not to mention very public, asthma attack.

She struggled for air and rushed into an open stall. Once inside, she slammed the door, snatched her inhaler from her briefcase, and gave it a quick shake. She heard the familiar whistling sound coming from her throat and shoved her rescue inhaler into her mouth.

Feeling like a five-hundred-pound man was now sitting on her chest, Carly fought to stay calm. She closed her eyes, forced herself to hold her breath for the requisite ten seconds between puffs and prayed for the corticosteroid to kick in.

When the tightness in her lungs loosened, she could see, plain as day, her old practice phrase, the one she’d started reciting at boarding school to help conquer her stutter.

When her breathing steadied to a normal inhale-in, exhale-out, she whispered the words aloud to find her center.

“The girl wore her hair in two braids, tied with two blue bows.”

Not bad. Her voice was clear and strong this time, unlike her herky-jerky performance earlier.

How had she let herself choke, and on such an epic scale?

Feeling like she was no longer dry-drowning from her asthma attack, Carly took one more hit of her inhaler. She squeezed the metal canister and pictured Scanlon’s and Yeager’s mugs, having a big old chuckle at her expense.

“Never again,” Carly whispered, not quite believing it, but at least it was a start.

She rose from crouching position in the stall, straightened her shoulders, and then shot her middle finger in the air.

“That’s bravery right there, giving the bird to a restroom door instead of standing up for yourself. Next time will be different.”

Carly exited the stall and was relieved to see the faculty bathroom was still empty.

She splashed cold water from the sink onto her face, then patted her sticky armpits with a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. A poor girl’s spa day.

Having no idea how much time had passed since the start of her asthma attack, Carly worried that she was late for her next class. She grabbed her phone from her briefcase to check the time and gasped.

On the home screen was a photo memory, which captured a hoped-for promise never to come.

Carly ran her finger over the image of her mother and studied her twelve-year-old self. The photo had been taken by her then soon-to-be stepbrother Julien, on the day she’d met him and the rest of the Whites.

A pang of melancholy cut through her. Everybody would’ve believed her if she were a rich boy.

***

Excerpt from Everyone Is Perfect Here by Jane Haseldine. Copyright 2026 by Jane Haseldine. Reproduced with permission from Jane Haseldine. All rights reserved.

Author Bio:

Jane Haseldine is a journalist, former crime reporter, columnist, and newspaper editor, and has also worked in politics as the deputy director of communications for a governor. Jane is the author of the Julia Gooden mystery series from Kensington Publishing and her upcoming domestic suspense novel, Everyone is Perfect Here, from Severn House.

Catch Up With Our Author:

www.JaneHaseldine.com
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X - @janeeyre77
Facebook - @janehaseldinebooks

 

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Guest Post By TG Wolff Author of Murder On Site -Mystery. (#Contests- Win An Amazon Gift Card- 2 Winners.)

MURDER ON SITE

by TG Wolff

March 16 - April 10, 2026 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

The Rizk Brothers Legal Mysteries

 In the corridors of Indiana’s justice system, power is both a weapon and a curse.

Jakob Rizk never expected to become Indiana’s acting attorney general—especially not after his mentor’s sudden death. Two weeks in, he’s losing sleep, battling a ruthless rival, and facing off with a powerful senator focused on his downfall. The last thing he needs is for his twin, Seth—a Miami cop hiding secrets of his own—to arrive unexpectedly.

Jakob is under pressure to prosecute a young engineer for the murder of a hard-nosed inspector famous for rooting out corruption. But with scant evidence and clear signs of political interference, the case is a minefield. Jakob has always lived by the law, but now one misstep could cost him a career.

Together, the brothers must unravel a web of greed and deception, each dead set on appearing strong in the other’s eyes. As they race the clock, which matters more: the truth, their careers, or fragile bonds that could be shattered forever?

MURDER ON SITE Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery; Legal Mystery, Whodunnit
Published by: Tule Publishing
Publication Date: February 23, 2026
Number of Pages: 279
ISBN: 9781969218989 (ISBN10: 1969218983)
Series: The Rizk Brothers Legal Mysteries, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub | Tule Publishing

GUEST POST: 

Inspiration can come from the most unexpected places. Take, for instance, a serious training about anti-trust topics like bid rigging, price fixing, and insider information. Say it’s presented by a very serious lawyer who thinks he’s presenting ripped-from-the-headlines examples to keep you (meaning me) on the straight and narrow but he actually has my head nodding because … yes, I can see how that would be a motive for murder!!

I’m not usually the dullest crayon in the box, but financial tomfoolery sails far over my head. I get why someone would rig a bid, I just can’t imagine how. Well, a big thank you to the unscrupulous contractors out there. Your forays into fuzzy math and slight-of-hand were very educational … especially when thoroughly documented in the publicly available documents of a legal trial.

In writing Murder On Site, the first Rizk Brothers Legal Mystery, I would have worried that I was making clues too obvious or evidence too easy to capture if not for the proof that some of these guys are really bad at keeping secrets. My very serious lawyer instructor shared screen captures of text chains used as actual evidence that sounded like my teen son texting or snapping with his friends.

Dude: You want this bid?

Other Dude: Nah. You take this one. I’ll get the next.

Dude: Works. Don’t go under 25mil. Still working on deets.

Other Dude: NP. Any thoughts on a wedding gift for Dude Tres?

Dude: IDK. I hear candlesticks make good gifts.

(The above are not actual texts used in a case. Many liberties were taken. Thank you Bull Durham.)

Like they say, truth is stranger than fiction and I’m convinced fiction has higher standards.

The training enabled me to devise a bid rigging scenario that wasn’t exactly ripped from the headlines but certainly was inspired by them. Once I had the mystery generally figured out, I built the world around it. Leveraging experience as a consulting project engineer and manager and working for a construction company let me really get physical with the scene.

I know what the trailers look and feel like, how the barricades would be set up, how the contractor’s professional staff would be separated from the engineer and state’s staff. Some of the side characters may resemble my real life co-workers but it’s only because I had their voices in my head fixing the scene and telling me how they would react. I appreciated the chatter as the physical positioning became important to who saw what and when.

The victim had to be someone who would notice if things were just a little off center – an OCD construction inspector fit the bill. The killer had to have high stakes – the self-assured man who saw his very comfortable lifestyle being threatened. Because this is a mystery, other suspects were needed. Not one to take risks alone, Inside Man pulled his unwitting co-conspirators into the murder to ensure their cooperation—and then there were three. Just like in real life, each decision snowballed into a bigger problem. Add in a lover’s fight and a hot-headed competitor and I had motive and opportunity abound.

The root of this evil was greed. It resulted in killing (fictionally, of course) a construction inspector, implication of an innocent man (have to have a fall guy), destroyed a marriage, ripped a family apart, and jailed four conspirators.

I have no knowledge if similar ripples were felt in the real cases, but there was undoubtedly fall out. News articles seldom cover the trickle down consequences of crime. I like to think that’s the purview of us fiction writers. It is our gift and our charge to go beyond headline.

All that, from a mandatory training on anti-trust.

My advice, no matter where you are, look around … inspiration is everywhere.

 

Read an Excerpt:

~Jakob~

Wednesday. 2:30 p.m.

Jakob Rizk didn’t notice the concrete sidewalks of downtown Indy. He didn’t see the people. His body was on automatic pilot, his mind back in the office of the Marion County prosecutor. They’d worked a few cases together back when he, Jakob, was a senior attorney in the criminal department.

Which was last week.

Then Jakob had stepped into the role of interim attorney general after Harrison Stanley died unexpectedly. The death and appointment were as much a surprise to him as the rest of the state. From assistant county prosecutor to the state’s top attorney in three years. The change left no time to plan, to think, to grieve. Noon Monday, the governor publicly announced the interim appointment. An hour later, Jakob sat behind the shiny desk in the office with Harry’s name on the door, scouring through emails and hand-annotated notes to pick up where Harry had left off on Friday.

A shoulder bounced off his arm.

“My apologies,” he said automatically. Lifting his head, he saw a swarm of young teens in identical blue T-shirts. He bobbed and weaved, feeling like he was swimming upstream.

The metaphor applied to more than the sidewalk. He reached an intersection, pressed the “walk” button, and waited.

Three hours ago, his mobile rang. Glad to see a familiar name come up, Jakob had answered without hesitating. But he wasn’t calling as a friend, he was calling as a county prosecutor. He had a problem and needed Jakob’s advice. Could he come over to talk?

So, Jakob went.

“Walk. Walk. Walk.”

Jakob obeyed, staying between the white lines out of habit rather than intent.

The problem was a dead woman named Lucy Torok. Her body had been found in her truck, parked under the interstate bridge where she worked as a construction inspector. The Indianapolis Metropolitan Police Department had a suspect but evidence was so thin the odds of securing a conviction were single digits. On the surface, the case was murder. But beneath the waters lurked a political bear trap. Should he hold out for more evidence or move forward to appease the well-connected family? And that was where his friend needed advice.

What would Harry do if he’d gotten the call …

“I like your shoes.” A rough, worn voice pulled Jakob from his thoughts. He glanced at the Italian leather on his feet. “Thank you,” he said to the man sitting against the nearest building. Likely homeless, the clothes were oversized for the man and too heavy for the hot June afternoon. But his shoes, those were pristine. A point of pride. “I like yours. It’s a challenge to keep white clean.”

“It is, but worth it,” the man said. “Yessiree. I like those shoes. But truth, I liked your other ones better.”

Jakob’s mind raced to decode the comment. Had the man seen him before and noticed his shoes? He had a collection that would be embarrassing if anyone but his wife saw it. More likely the man suffered from a mental illness. Addiction. Delusional disorder. What else could make a man imagine shoes? Didn’t matter. He needed to get back to Harry’s office.

“I like those, too,” he said, playing along. “But you have to mix it up sometimes. Have a good one.” Jakob hurried along to discourage conversation. One more street and he entered the building through the revolving door. Crisp cool air greeted his face and hands. He was tempted to pull off his suit jacket, but knowing he’d been sweating, he left it in place.

“You’re back again,” Anthony Raymond called out. The security guard was one of Jakob’s favorite people, always having a smile to share. “What a surprise.”

“That’s me,” Jakob said dryly as he put his phone in the bowl, backpack on the table. “Just full of surprises.” He walked through the metal detector, then waited on the other side for Anthony to clear his bag.

“I guess your plans fell through.”

“You mean my meeting? No, I had it. It didn’t take long.”

Anthony’s face betrayed his bewilderment.

“Meetings do occasionally end early.” Jakob chuckled. “It’s rare, but every once in a while, we get a few minutes back in our day.”

“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir, I’m sure they do.” Anthony pushed the backpack toward Jakob but didn’t let go. “I just have to ask. Why did you change clothes again?”

Did Anthony get him mixed up with someone else? He felt a little hurt. He saw Anthony as a—well, they weren’t friends, but acquaintances. Apparently Anthony saw him as just another suit.

“The governor expects us to dress when we’re in the building. We need to paint the right picture, you know. Have a good afternoon, Anthony.”

“You, too,” Anthony called after him.

Jakob headed to the elevator, grateful the doors opened nearly instantly. They closed and he was alone with his ego, dented after the reminder he wasn’t special at all. He shared the short ride up with his reflection. A familiar stranger. Neither different nor the same, who was he now?

The doors opened and he put on a façade that included his confident smile.

He walked through the glass entryway that had been the gateway to his work for the last three years. The receptionist, Ivy O’Neil, wasn’t at her post. A rarity. He headed left, to the office of the attorney general. He nodded to a staffer, who blinked without nodding back.

Jakob was beginning to think there really was something different about this upcoming generation of attorneys and it wasn’t their overwhelming social skills.

The desk and area outside the AG’s office was the territory of Executive Assistant Lisa Hastings. The most senior person in the office, who was also conspicuously missing.

“Where is everyone?” Jakob had a moment of panic. Had he forgotten a meeting? An event?

Voices came from behind the door to Harry’s office. A dull thump. Something heavy hit the floor. What the hell was going on in there?

Jakob sucked air in, then narrowed his eyes at the closed door. Someone was looting Harry’s office. Confidential information was everywhere, valuable to both sides of the aisle, to corporations, to plaintiffs and defendants.

Not on his watch!

Jakob shouldered the door open, leaping inside. “Stop what you’re doing!”

The desk fell from two pairs of hands, the muted slap of wood against carpet. Four faces turned to him. Three wore slack-jawed expressions. The fourth grinned like a pirate looting treasure.

“Seth?” Jakob stepped inside, blinking to see if his twin brother was really there or a figment of his overloaded mind. “You’re in Miami.”

“Jakob.” Seth looked around the large corner office. “I almost like the digs.”

“Jakob?” Lisa Hastings took a step away from the man who looked strikingly like her boss. Her head was on a swivel.

Jakob. Seth. Jakob. Seth.

Amusement washed over Jakob and brought a smile to his face for the first time in days. “I apologize, Lisa. I should have warned you that if I showed up shouting ridiculous orders, you were to call an ambulance and have them bring restraints.”

Seth chortled.

“You’re twins,” she said, now shaking her head. “Identical.”

“I’m better-looking,” Seth said as Jakob said, “I’m smarter.”

Jakob scowled as he covered the distance to his brother in three strides. “You show up, unannounced, and you rearrange my office?”

Seth’s smile grew until it reached both ears. “You nailed it in one, Counselor.”

“God, I missed your stupid head.” Jakob grabbed his twin, pulling him in for a hard hug.

“Well, don’t think I missed your ugly face,” Seth said but hugged him just as hard.

Ivy picked up the law book from the floor. “We can put it all back,” she said, looking to the law clerk who always seemed to be lending the young woman a helping hand.

“Absolutely. Just take a minute.” Jakob lifted one end of the desk.

“Leave it where it is,” Seth ordered.

Jakob gave his brother the look that had gotten him accused of witness intimidation. “This is my office. I say where Harry’s desk goes. Put it—”

“—where it is.” Seth dragged him until they were face-to-face. “Haven’t you learned anything about security? Your desk does not go in front of the door. It gives a shooter a direct line of sight.”

“Ohmygod.” Ivy dropped the book in her hands. The dull thud was louder on this side of the door.

Jakob held out his palms as if to calm a frightened child. “It’s okay. Leave it for now. We’ll decide where to put Harry’s desk later.”

“We all have work to do.” Lisa herded Ivy and the clerk out of the office. “And you two … behave.” She closed the door behind her.

Seth pulled his arm back and dropped onto the long leather couch now positioned to face the door. “I bet nothing gets by her.”

“That’s it?” Jakob threw up his hands. “Are you just going to pretend like you didn’t appear out of thin air? What are you doing here, Seth?”

“I came to see you. It’s not every day I become related to the attorney general of a whole state. These are moments to be savored.” He stretched, inhaling deeply. “Feels good. I like it. How about you?”

Jakob gave his brother his perfected “don’t mess with me” stare.

Seth gave up the pretense with an eyeroll. “Put away your weapon. I give up, Counselor. I’m here for Harry’s funeral.”

“Thank you, Seth, but we talked about this,” he said, walking to his desk. “I told you not to come.”

Seth snorted. “Since when has that worked? I’m here and you’re stuck with me until I book a return flight. Now, how’s it feel to be the attorney general for Indiana?”

“I’m the interim AG, and it’s fine.” Jakob slid his hip onto the corner of his desk. “When did you get in? How was your flight?” The conversation drifted into the usual commentary on air travel and Indianapolis traffic. When it came to accommodations, there was no discussion. “You’re staying with us. We have plenty of room. Let me call Courtney and tell her you’re here.”

“I have a better idea.” Seth’s grin became mischievous. “We’ll trade clothes.”

“It’s not going to work. We’ve been trying to pull off a switch since Courtney and I dated at Indiana University. We’re 0 for, like, twenty. She won’t fall for it. She never does.”

“She doesn’t know I’m here,” Seth argued. “I’m darker, but as long as your olive ass isn’t next to me, she won’t notice the difference.”

Jakob shook his head. “She’s smarter than both of us.”

“I’m not denying it, but she can’t always win.” He studied his twin, head to toe. “Why did you cut your hair so short? I hate our hair short. We look like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer. Why is yours so long? We look derelict. You working vice or something?”

“Something.” Seth ran a hand through the thick, wavy black hair their father passed on to them. Their build and features came from their father’s Mediterranean ancestry, with one notable exception—their eyes. They both had their mother’s Scottish misty gray eyes.

Seth hadn’t answered the question, but Jakob let it go. For now. “I’ll bet you a dollar Courtney knows it’s you in under a minute.”

“A minute? Done.”

His cell phone rang. His friend the prosecutor was calling back. Good news didn’t happen that quickly in Jakob’s experience. He looked to his brother.

Seth popped to his feet. “Come find me when you’re done. I’ll be wherever Lisa says you’re buying me lunch.”

***

Excerpt from Murder on Site by TG Wolff. Copyright 2026 by TG Wolff. Reproduced with permission from TG Wolff. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

TG Wolff has never been able resist a good puzzle. With an engineer’s mind for logic and a lifelong love of mysteries, she crafts whodunnit stories that challenge readers to outsmart her detective. Her books are filled with quirky characters, red herrings, and—because she firmly believes solving (fictional) murders should be fun—a healthy dose of humor.

TG earned both her Bachelor’s and Master’s degrees in civil engineering, learning early to see every problem as a mystery and each solution as the answer the result of asking the right questions. That same curiosity drives her fiction, where nothing is ever accidental and every detail counts.

When she’s not plotting fictional crimes, TG is a mystery reader and reviewer, and the co-creator / co-host of the whodunnit mystery podcast Mysteries to Die For. A Cleveland, Ohio native, she now lives in northeast Indiana with her husband and two sons, where dogs and mysteries are always welcome.

Catch Up With TG Wolff:

TGWolff.com
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Spotlight of The Siren Of Paris by David Leroy

 

A soul seeking peace after his failures in finding love during World War II.

Journey through the dark, violent, and haunting landscape of World War II in Paris and beyond – Take on a harrowing tour through the depths of human depravity, exploring themes of love, loss, guilt, and redemption in this gripping historical tale.

Marc Tolbert, a young French-born man from a prominent American family, takes off to Paris for a fresh start after a breakup in 1939. Pursuing his dreams of attending a prestigious Parisian art school, he soon makes friends with some of history’s most notable figures, including Sylvia Beach and William Bullitt. Falling in love with an art model from one of his classes, he is blinded to the escalating violence around them as the war inches closer to the City of Lights.

What started as an adventure quickly becomes a nightmare as the war worsens, and Marc is faced with choices that will change his life forever.

When he finally faces the reality that he must leave Paris, fate deals him a cruel hand. Surviving the sinking of the RMS Lancastria, Marc is haunted by the deaths of his friends and the regret of not leaving sooner.

Returning to Paris, Marc is drawn into the resistance movement, risking everything to help those trapped behind enemy lines. But after being betrayed, he is captured and sent away to face the horrors of war and the guilt of his past mistakes.

The Siren of Paris is a powerful and emotional story that will keep you on the edge of your seat. With its compelling plot-driven narrative, vivid scenes, and intense action, this novel will transport you to the heart of war-torn Paris and leave you contemplating the weight of human choices and their impact on others. Whether you’re a fan of historical fiction, war stories, or symbolic themes, this novel will captivate and intrigue you from start to finish.

⤷The Siren of Paris is available at Amazon.

╰┈➤Book Details

• Genre: Historical Fiction
• Sub-genre: Magical Realism
• Language:English
• Pages: 352
• Paperback ISBN: 978-0983966715

╰┈➤Here’s What Readers Have To Say!

“The soul of this book is found in LeRoy’s analysis of human nature through the main character. There really is nothing like a life-or-death situation that can split human nature so cleanly and show us what being human really means. The author shows us how a person can be completely changed from this experience, how in a few short years, in a few short moments, or even in a split second, everything can become drastically different. This book is suited for those with a love for history and those with a love for fiction alike. This novel brought tears to my eyes and left me with a more enlightened heart, so it is with absolute pleasure that I say The Siren of Paris is highly recommended.” – Boyu Huang, Allbooks Review Int.“I’ve just finished reading Siren of Paris by David LeRoy and it’s a story that will stay with me for a while. It has a complex, well developed plotline and presents the story in a tantalising way. I’ve read quite a few books set during the Second World War… this one especially gripped me.” – Dianne Ascroft Ascroft 

╰┈➤Read if you love…

Thrilling Historical Novels

Dramatic Sagas

Paris During WWII

Psychological War Narratives

Brings Tears to Your Eyes

Love, Loss, Guilt, and Redemption

*****

Excerpt: 

September, 1967—Saint-Nazaire, France

“May the Lord be with you,” the priest’s voice rang out to all gathered at Marc’s graveside. It was September 1967.

The cloaked man stood taller than all others gathered, self-luminous with the hood of his smock pulled over his head. In his right hand he held a staff with a round clock mounted on top.

Marc stood beyond the gathering, gazing back upon his grave. He saw his only sister, Elda, surrounded by all his other friends from France. The body of his soul beamed a reddish-golden light, as he anticipated the final moment he would leave in peace. He strained to see the face of the priest obscured from view under the hood.

“And also with you,” Marc whispered, looking toward the release from his life.

“Let us pray,” the priest said softly. With a rush, the first eleven souls appeared around him. They had come from the graveyards of Angoulins-sur-Mer, Les Fortes, Saint-Charles-de-Percy, Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, Saint-Palais-sur-Mer, Chatelaillon- Plage, Saint-Sever, Traize, Brest, Saint-Hilaire-de-Talmont and Saint Pancras. They wore drab olive-green uniforms, kit bags ready for war. They were soaked to the bone. Only a few had boots. The dial on the clock stopped as a moment of Marc’s life flashed before him.

“I no longer want to see you, Marc. It is finished.  It's over,” Veronica stood shivering outside his dorm room.  Winter, 1939. He dropped out of medical school after that. He decided to run. Marc’s soul turned a dark red. The pain came back, searing.

“O God, we pray you lead us to truth, deliver us all from violence, battle, and murder, and from dying suddenly and unprepared,” the priest said as he glanced up from under his hood, then down again before Marc could catch his face.

Twenty-two more souls gathered by the grave. They came from the graveyards of Bretignolles-sur-Mer, L’Aiguillon-sur-Mer, Port-Joinville, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Nantes Pont du Cens, Sainte Marie, Yves, Piriac-sur-Mer, Olonne-sur-Mer, Coulac and Charroux. Among the soldiers stood one woman dressed as a nurse, a Belgian boy and little girl, all with no name

Again, the clock stopped. Another memory surfaced. 

“I can watch out for myself, you know. I am not small anymore. You should go,” Elda was only eight years old at the time. Marc could see she blamed herself. His soul constricted. The hands of the clock moved again. His light turned blue.

“O God, we pray for those who suffer in silence with guilt, and for those who suffer with shame, regret, and remorse.”

“I've seen enough,” Marc cried out to the priest. Thirty-three souls arrived from the graveyards of La Couarde-sur-Mer, La Turballe, Saint-Denis-D’oléron, Sainte-Marie-de-Ré, Olonnes, Bouin, Saint-Gilles-Croix-de-Vie, Aytré and Barbatre. The clock stopped.

“One-way ticket, first class, June 14, crossing on the Normandie, please.” Marc’s soul recoiled from this moment. He knew why he had left. The hands on the clock resumed. His light turned a dark purple.

“Please, let this go, it is just the past,” Marc called out to keeper of the clock. The staff remained steady.

“O God, our time is in your hands. Look upon us with favor as we, your servants, begin another year of life.”

Sixty-five souls appeared in a flash from the graveyards of Le Bois-Plage-en-Ré, Château-d’Olonne, Saint-Hilaire-de-Riez, Ile d’Yeu, Beauvoir-sur-Mer, Saint-Georges-D’oléron, Ars-en-Ré, La-Barre-de-Mont, Dolus, Saint-Trojan, L’Épine, La Plaine-sur-Mer, Noirmoutier-en-l’Ile, L’Herbaudiere, and Le Clion-sur-Mer. Again Marc felt the weight of time pulling him backward.

“Happy birthday, young man. Better get a move on it. You have a ship to catch today,” his mother handed him his hat the morning he left for France. The words pierced him. She drank herself to death from worry in the spring of ’42.

“Why must you show me this? Is this my judgment?” he cried again. His light turned dark green. The clock bearer looked up briefly from under his hood. The clock began to move.

“O God, whose glory fills the whole of creation: Preserve and protect those who travel from every danger and bring them in safety to their journeys’ end,” the priest intoned.

233 souls, men, women, children and soldiers from the graveyards of Saint-Nazaire-sur-Charentes, Les Moutiers-en-Retz, Prefailles and La Baule-Escoublac gathered around Marc. Time compressed. The clock slowed to a stop. Dread replaced fear.

“When you get to Paris, let Ambassador Bullitt know you are in town. He would be glad to see you. We were classmates back in college before the war.” His father pulled the car up to the French Line Pier. The image flickered before Marc in the fading light. His father never took art school seriously. The pain of these last words to him before a heart attack killed him in ’44 brought Marc to his knees. Two eyes peered from under the hood as Marc’s face twisted in anguish. The clock dial started to spin.

“O God, we pray for those who have died. May your love and light keep them eternally yours in peace and life without end.” Everyone who had gathered whispered a name. Marc swallowed hard. 370 souls gathered from the graveyards of La Bernerie-en-Retz and Pornic to join the other souls. The clock stopped.

“You should have left Paris, Marc, and never returned,” she said before the Gestapo officer read the charges. Marc groaned under the weight of this most painful moment, feeling regret and shame. His light turned dark as obsidian and the clock began to run.

“Make this stop. I have forgiven her,” he pleaded. The priest removed his hood and bared his face.  Marc recognized him instantly: the betrayed priest he had known during the war. Yves. 

“O God, the Father of all, who commanded us to love our enemies: Lead us both from hatred and revenge and, in your good time, enable us all, who are known unto you to stand before you in eternal peace,” the priest looked directly at Marc. The words ripped through him in shock waves, fracturing him on his side three times, and once down the middle. The clock stopped spinning. Marc noticed that the second hand now moved steadily forward with temporal time.

An unknown number rose from the sea, the beaches, and ditches to join the 859. Marc, overwhelmed, stared in disbelief at the priest’s face before him. With all his strength, he strained to whisper, “Why?”

“Why, you ask?" the priest voice thundered through the sky in a quick response. "Your marker reads ‘Known unto God!’ That is why,” Yves voice reverberated back to Marc, his face staring back in shock.  “Those are souls who died without last rites, final confession, or do not even realize that they are dead, just waiting in limbo until they can be found,” Yves said, his voice booming and vibrating with a strange undulation as he raised his eyes towards the assembly that had gathered.  

“I am the soul collector of the lost and forgotten of this war.  This is my calling.  Behold the assembly of those ‘Known Unto God,’” Yves said, his voice clear, natural and crisp. His form glowed as he raised his arms towards the assembly that rose high into the sky, looking back upon Marc and the Priest.  He struck his staff once on the ground.  

“I will not treat you any differently than I have any one of them who now lie in wait until the time arrives to stand before the Lord,” Yves said as he stood in the center of a Dodecagon of souls of number unknown. He rapped his staff a second time on the ground.  Marc's eyes snapped into focus on the staff with a nausea of anticipation.  

“The life review is to examine your conscience for sin and prepare for your final confession,” Yves said with a stoic glare.  Marc glanced at the clock on the staff to read the time. Yves struck the staff a third time. A shockwave emerged from the clock traveling in all four directions. “The clock is now set," he said, "May the Lord Be with you.”  

The clock reached June 18, 1939, eight thirty at night. A fear greater than the judgment of hell filled Marc, as he realized he would now watch his life during the war all over again.

***

 June 18, 1939—East Bound Atlantic Ocean

The S.S. Normandie’s bow parted the sea as she carried her passengers toward France that Sunday. Marc dressed for dinner in his finest tuxedo. Before taking the last dinner at sea, he entered the chapel of the ship for his evening prayers.

“And may you, my Father in heaven, keep my family in your protection. I pray for my mother, Lynette, my father, Eldon, and my little sister, Elda. Amen,” Marc knelt alone in the chapel. He made the sign of the cross as he rose to leave for dinner.

– Excerpted from The Siren of Paris by David LeRoy, David Dribble Publishing, 2012. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author

David LeRoy is an author and avid explorer of the intersection of philosophy, psychology, and art. His debut novel, The Siren of Paris, is a poignant work that emerged from personal family research he undertook in 2010 to locate missing persons of WWII.

LeRoy's fluency in French and two-year sojourn in France afforded him unique insights into the French culture he deftly weaves into his literary work. With a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and Religion, an MBA from California State University Sacramento, and an MSc. Applied Data Science from Paris, France, LeRoy is a polymath with diverse interests and an insatiable curiosity for knowledge.

He currently resides in California, where he continues to write and pursue his creative passions.

Connect with him on social media at:

╰┈➤ Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesirenofparis

╰┈➤ Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/14760740-the-siren-of-paris?ac=1&from_search=true&qid=v6UbhLIMmb&rank=1

 

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