The Last Summerville Annabelle Lewis Publication date: September 1st 2026 Genres: Adult, Psychological Thriller, Romance, Suspense, Thriller
Twenty-two-year-old Georgia Parker already carries more regret than most people twice her age. Practically an orphan, she’s reeling from the death of her grandmother, Mimi—the one person who made her feel safe from the chaos of her mother’s world. Alone in Carson City, Nevada, Georgia is determined to start over, to stand on her own. Yet Mimi’s final words echo in her mind: Take risks. Trust people again. Be brave.
Then Heath Summerville steps into her life—charming, magnetic, protective, and so perfectly attuned to her needs it feels like fate. But the closer Georgia gets, the more she feels the pull of something she can’t name—something just beneath the surface of his charm.
Strange silences. Half-truths. High-society circles and an ancestral house that feels more like a trap than a refuge.
Lies are waiting to unravel. And by the time Georgia sees the truth, it might already be too late.
“Get me out of this godforsaken town and back to civilization,” Vicky grumbled.
Georgia, behind the wheel, glanced at her mom, Vicky, who was shakily applying lipstick while looking in a handheld compact mirror. Vicky clicked it shut, then pulled down the passenger visor, only to find the old car devoid of a larger mirror. She swatted it back up, then garbled a sound of exasperation before diving back into her purse in search of something else.
Georgia didn’t see the lure of Las Vegas like her mother did. It was one of many differences between them. “No!” she suddenly exclaimed when Vicky put a cigarette to her lips, intending to light it. “Not in the car.”
“Why are you such an old damn scold, Georgia?” Vicky scowled. “You’re twenty-two years old, for fuck’s sake. Your holier-than-thou bullshit has gotten worse. Every time I see you.”
Vicky shook her head, then turned to stare out the window. Georgia swallowed back the words she wanted to throw in her mom’s face.
Not today. Not after all they’d been through.
They spent the rest of the drive to the Carson City airport in awkward silence. Georgia pulled to the curb at the departures area and then walked to the back of the Ford Bronco to help retrieve the bags. Vicky took them, mumbled goodbye, and walked away without a hug.
“Goodbye, Mom,” Georgia called loudly as she shivered in the cold, standing next to the back of her Mimi’s Bronco. She watched Vicky drag her bag, her head bowed, her eyes already on her phone. She didn’t turn to give Georgia one last look of goodbye, nor acknowledge Georgia’s use of the tender moniker of “mom,” rather than the usual “Vicky.” It hurt. But why Georgia expected Vicky to suddenly become maternal was the bigger question. And neither of them had made falsely loving or empty promises to keep in touch.
Author Bio:
Annabelle Lewis—a pseudonym for the author—lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Regrettably? Perhaps. She still believes she’s a Texan even though the math no longer supports that. Nor her birthplace. Nor her residence. No offense, Minnesota. You’ve got your good points too, but only about six months of the year.
In her youth, Annabelle was a complete failure. Ask anyone who knew her. Any of her teachers and family would tell you this. High school graduation was a sad day for all when Annabelle walked proudly off the high school stage, her thoughts consumed with boys, beer, and after-parties, and later into the arms of her parents. Her father’s laughter and singular remark? “I didn’t think you’d make it. Get a job at the post office, they have a good retirement plan.”
A high bar and words to live by, but Annabelle wanted more. She needed to flunk out of college too. But damn, she sure did have a good time. Trivial arrest records not-withstanding, it was a growth period for our girl. And if you look closely, you’ll see a bit of what was to come when she majored in criminal justice. Her lifelong aspiration was to become a judge. Hmm.
For better or worse, Annabelle didn’t graduate from college but did find gainful employment and a fulfilling career. This path ended when she became a mom. Married to her wonderful George, who to this day can hardly remember an actual proposal, Annabelle finally became a mother. She didn’t have a clue how hard she would need to work to keep those self-imposed requirements of Downey-fresh, iron-pressed sheets, home-baked meals, and mom-of-the-year awards arriving. She composed a small self-affirmation song and made her children sing it to her for money. She was a very good mom.
After clearing the largest hurdles of motherhood and regrettably, begrudgingly, and not-without-tears, launching her children onto the world, she looked around and realized she had a lot to say. Picking up a laptop, she got to work.
Annabelle spends her days continuing to tackle the challenges of motherhood, for both her humans and canines. She also writes. And reads. And cleans. And cooks. And bakes. And cleans again. She also supports her husband, George, in an administrative capacity for their small business. She’s in charge of payroll and cuts George’s checks. This leads to no marital acrimony.
In the beginning, with the blank page staring at her and possibly in a hostile mood after being literally mauled by a dog and by the world in general, she had an idea. What if she could wield a force of good upon unsuspecting evil-doers? What if she had the resources to get the job done without dealing with committee and anyone else’s whiney-ass opinions?
It was gold. It took off. Annabelle sat down and began to write and couldn’t stop. To date, having written over a million words in the Carrows Family Chronicles and her second series on the Boston Clairvoyants, several items have become quite clear. Annabelle had a lot to say. Annabelle really enjoys writing. And although she hates all things technology, she begrudgingly pounds her head on her desk daily as obstacles are thrown in her path. Almost a hero.
Since entering her world of make-believe, she has rebelled against all intrusion of real-world responsibilities. Her house is a mess, but she tries. Her family is fed, but more often than not, on takeout. She vows to shower every day, but no, it’s a vow she’ll never keep. Her friends are neglected, but not in her heart.
Read her mordacious blog! Read her books! Follow her on social platforms! Sign up for her newsletter! These are all good things. What are you waiting for? Jump into bed with Annabelle. She’s having a swell time. You should join her. theannabellelewis.com annabellelewisauthor@gmail.com IG and Twitter: alewisauthor
Worse Than Any Bullet Felicia Watson (Fidelia Mysteries, #2) Publication date: August 25th 2026 Genres: Adult, Mystery, Thriller
Everyone thinks their mother is murder but for mafia-family renegade Lucia Scafetti, that’s the literal truth.
When she laid her hitman father to rest, PI Lucia Scafetti thought she’d finally escaped her family’s criminal clutches. Ten years later, her estranged mom blows into Philly for a short visit and within days a friend’s dad is brutally murdered and Lucia is being menaced by her cousin and his fellow mafiosi. After her mother disappears, everyone: foes, friends, and free agents, descends upon Lucia in search of the thumb-drive her mom stole from a Caribbean drug lord. Lucia learns the hard way that the criminals besieging her will gladly kill to get their hands on that thumb-drive.
With the help of an intriguing ex-soldier, Lucia employs her skills, both detective and deadly, to solve the murder and unlock the secret of that enigmatic thumb-drive before it claims another life, be it her own – or that of her recently re-discovered son.
Lucia snapped into action, ordering Robbie to stay in the car with the dogs and retrieving her Glock from the secret compartment in the back seat of the Chevelle SS 454. She shook her head, indicating to Robbie he wasn’t getting an immediate explanation about the compartment and then stealthily approached the house.
Lucia decided to go around back and enter from the kitchen. The deadbolt had been defeated and there was no sound from the alarm system. This was no ordinary burglar.
Weapon ready, she crept into the living room where she could discern the muffled footsteps of someone descending the stairs. Lucia pointed her gun at the source of the noise and at the opportune moment, flipped on the lights. A hefty, masked and armed man froze on the fourth step as he realized he was facing a cocked gun.
Lucia warned, “If you’re thinking of trying anything, you better be a better shot than I am. Which is…unlikely.”
The man held his right hand out to his side, his gun loose. In a weirdly thick voice, he rumbled, “Hey, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Breaking into my house armed with a military-grade semi is a really strange way to prove that.”
He chuckled and moved the gun slightly in a non-threatening manner. “Military grade? Nah, this is just a—”
“A Beretta Cx4 Storm. Which means you are definitely prepared for trouble.”
Rather than refuting her point, he urged, “I just want the thumb-drive, the real one. The one your mother stole from me.”
Not recognizing the term ‘thumb-drive’, Lucia silently contemplated whether this guy could possibly be looking for a body-part from someone her mother had killed. “You worked with my mom? Who are you?”
“I’m not wearing this mask ’cause I’m ugly. Who I am is none of your business. Just hand over the drive and no one gets hurt.”
“Seeing as I have the drop on you, that’s a toothless threat,” Lucia declared. “And I don’t know what it is you’re looking for, but you’re not gonna find it here.”
“For your sake, lady, I hope you’re lying.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’m not the last person who’s gonna come looking for that thumb-drive. And I’m sure as hell not the most dangerous.”
Nodding at his gun, she countered, “Hard to believe. And I don’t even know what a thumb-drive is let alone—”
“It’s a computer thing,” Robbie announced from somewhere behind her back, his presence until that moment completely undetected. “You use it to—”
“Robbie?!” Her eyes remained trained on the masked man as Lucia barked, “What the hell! What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you so I came to check. Don’t worry, I left the dogs in the car. You know, so they won’t get hurt.”
“But it’s okay if you get hurt?!”
Taking advantage of the momentary distraction this argument provided, the man on the stairs suddenly leapt over the banister and dashed towards the kitchen.
Lucia followed but he was too quick for her. Standing on the back deck, listening to his footsteps retreating into the darkness, Lucia briefly considered giving chase. She quickly discarded the idea. Not only was there Robbie to think of, but Lucia was loathe to incite a gunfight that might frighten Mrs. Schwartz, the elderly widow who occupied the twin house attached to her own.
When she got back in the house Robbie held up his backpack. “I got it.” He took a deep breath and then said, “Wow, that was….”
“Terrifyingly dangerous?” she offered, while surveying the wreckage around her. The intruder had obviously conducted a very thorough search.
“Nah, exciting! I knew it was safe when I heard you handling that guy like a pro. Otherwise, I would’ve stayed in the kitchen. I swear.”
Lucia sighed heavily and impulsively put her free arm around his shoulder. “Rule number one, Rob? When guns are drawn? The situation is never, ever, safe.” She pulled him to face her and stared intently into his eyes. “Capish?”
Author Bio:
Felicia Watson started writing stories as soon as they handed her a pencil in first grade. She’s especially drawn to character driven tales, where we see people we recognize, people who struggle with their mistakes and shortcomings, acknowledge them, and use that knowledge to grow into wiser human beings.
When not writing, Felicia spends her time chasing after her not-so-brilliant, but darling and beloved dogs, is chased by her truly brilliant, darling and beloved husband, is known to friends and family as an amateur pastry chef, and still finds time for swimming and her day job as a scientist.
The Ties that Bind James Rosenberg (The Legacy of Lies Legal Thriller, #1) Publication date: July 27th 2026 Genres: Adult, Thriller
Some families build empires. Others bury secrets beneath them.
Bill Simon thought marrying Sharon Green meant entering a powerful legal dynasty and finally proving he belonged. Fresh from his honeymoon and eager to succeed at his new firm, Green & DeWitt, Bill is handed a complex real estate transaction tied to the influential Green family empire.
What begins as routine due diligence quickly spirals into something far more dangerous.
Hidden behind layers of shell companies, offshore accounts, and falsified property records, Bill uncovers connections to cartel money, political corruption, and a network of powerful men determined to keep their secrets buried. The deeper he digs, the more he realizes the conspiracy may reach directly into his father-in-law’s inner circle—and possibly into his own marriage.
As Bill digs deeper, Sharon Green fights to protect her family’s public image while uncovering other sinister connections between her family and the drug cartel. As others question the legitimacy of her father’s enterprises, she tries to find answers about the empire she was born into.
As they uncover disturbing connections between her father and the Mexican drug lord,Sharon and Bill are trapped between loyalty and truth, ambition and survival.
And in a world where power protects its own, exposing the truth could cost them everything.
The heat wafted above the scrubland. Three trucks waited in line, engines idling low in the darkness.
Each truck had a driver and one passenger, and together their primary responsibility was to get the trucks over the border less than thirty miles away.
Rafa Medina kicked at the dried ground as he waited for confirmation to move. They were still on schedule, but barely.
Luis Cortes sat in the passenger seat of the second truck, window cracked. A folded manifest lay on his lap. Medina tapped his window twice. Luis glanced over and gave a short nod.
The third truck’s driver shifted in his seat. Medina caught the movement and shook his head once. He could accept fear. Panic only caused mistakes.
Medina felt the vibration in his pocket. The signal, at last. He raised his hand.
As the trucks shifted into gear, the whine of their engines intensified. The first truck rolled forward, followed by the second, and then the third. They stayed in tight formation as they turned onto the paved road heading north.
Medina jogged to his Jeep, climbed in, and maneuvered his vehicle in behind them.
He considered moving to the front of the line to take control, but before he could decide, gunfire echoed from the brush to his right. The lead truck swerved, glass spraying off to its side.
The truck regained its footing, tires screaming, as it came out of its fishtail.
The second shot came from the opposite side of the road, from cover behind a grouping of bushes.
The muzzle flashes were sequenced and controlled. Now was not the time for panic. He knew immediately it was a rival crew, one that had studied the route and wanted it.
The first truck accelerated, pushing past the shots.
When a new round of shots burst from the right, the second truck was directly in front of it and caught a barrage of automatic fire in the passenger side door.
As the bullets tore through the truck, Luis jerked sideways, his body snapping against the window as glass exploded outward. The driver screamed and hit the gas. The truck lurched forward, out of the danger zone.
As the trucks moved ahead, Medina pulled out his Glock and aimed toward the brush where he had spotted the muzzle flashes. From his slightly elevated position, he fired twice, forcing the shooters back. They withdrew, retreating into the darkness.
Their message had been delivered.
Medina didn’t chase. The trucks came first.
He ran to the second truck. Blood was everywhere.
The driver was shaking, hands locked on the wheel, eyes wide. Medina yanked the door open and pulled him out.
“We have ten minutes. Your truck won’t make it to the border. Transfer the cargo. I’ll take care of Luis.”
The driver nodded.
Medina climbed into the cab. Luis’s eyes were open, unfocused. He checked for a pulse. There was none. This simplified matters.
Medina scampered to the other side of the truck and grabbed Luis under the arms, dragging him from the cab.
Ten minutes. That was all they had.
He pulled the body into the brush. He worked with his hands and a tire iron he grabbed from the back of the truck, digging quickly, ignoring the ache in his shoulders.
Medina lowered the body into the ground, then shoveled dirt to cover it. The land closed over the shape easily, swallowing it. He didn’t mark the grave and offered no words.
He crossed himself and then wiped his hands on his pants.
The damaged truck was next. Medina drove it behind a clump of bushes. No one would notice it for months. No one would care.
This was no man’s land.
The other trucks waited.
Medina jogged back to the road and waved the trucks forward. They didn’t hesitate. The second truck’s payload had already been transferred.
Medina climbed back into his vehicle and pulled in behind them.
The convoy moved north, engines steady.
Dust flew from their tires and then settled behind them.
Author Bio:
James Rosenberg is a 3rd-generation trial attorney with plenty of stories to tell.
Inspired not only by the courtroom stories his father and grandfather used to tell
him when he was a child, but also by the wild adventures he’s encountered through
his own experience as a lawyer. James is fascinated by the intricate, interpersonal
dynamics of every trial he’s endured. Whether it’s the raw emotion on display in
court, the tension in the air that builds until someone wins, or the impact that a
case’s decision has on the parties involved, James is always paying attention and
keeping tabs on what’s happening.
In his debut novel, “Legal Reserves”, James flexes his creative muscle outside of the
courtroom to share his stories, with a fictional twist, through the eyes of archetypes
he knows well.
A native of Pittsburgh and a graduate of Taylor Allderdice High School and the
University of Pittsburgh School of Law, James has been a trial attorney in Pittsburgh
for almost 30 years. He started writing legal thrillers as a stress reducer and finds
this creative outlet to be a fun and meaningful diversion from his day job.
When he’s not trying cases, he’s either dreaming up his next book idea, spending
time with his wife and three kids, or both.
To contact James email Rosenberg@marcus-shapira.com or follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/RosenbergWrites/
Check out his website: www.JamesRosenbergAuthor.com
Please become part of my email list and get updates about my latest launches. https://subscribepage.io/fcVT4h
One Leg on Earth ‘Pemi Aguda Publication date: May 5th 2026 Genres: Adult, Horror, Occult Fiction, Thriller
From the author of the National Book Award finalist Ghostroots, a debut novel that thrills with its eerie mix of folklore and history.
Something is haunting the pregnant women of Lagos. Across the city, they are walking into water . . . and drowning.
Twenty-three-year-old Yosoye arrives in Lagos ready to start her life. Working for a slick architectural firm, she finds a city of adventure and opportunity. Her new world is one of fancy gallery openings, glamorous friends, and all the shiny potential of the future, encapsulated in projects like Omi City, the ultra-luxury development her company is building, a symbol of the dawn of a brighter Lagos.
But Yosoye’s idyllic vision of Lagos soon begins to seem naive, and its darker, stranger layers trouble her. Something is not right about Omi City, and as construction speeds ahead, stories of strange deaths in the city’s open waters reach a fever pitch. And then, after a chance encounter, Yosoye discovers she is pregnant . . . a revelation which puts her on a collision course with an inexplicable force that is as seductive as it is deadly. A masterwork by a writer hailed as “an astonishing talent” (Lauren Groff), One Leg on Earth is an ambitious novel like no other: a coming-of-age story, an uncanny exploration of motherhood, and a chilling vision of the dark side of progress.
MIRIAM AIKI PRAYED FOR THE FRUIT OF THE WOMB for thirteen years. Thirteen years of chafed knees: blood and shredded skin staining church altars, shrine altars, her bedside rug, her mother-in-law’s living room tiles. Thirteen years begging for a miracle, for strength, for patience. Her cries were answered. At thirty-eight, her womb was unfurling its first bloody fruit.
Now, in the passenger seat of her husband’s car, she smiled at her taut six-month belly. An ugly joy stirred within her. Ugly because it sat heavy on
top of her growing baby, nausea amassing saliva in her mouth. But mothers who’d hunted long for that title knew that this unpleasantness was welcome, embraced.
Miriam smoothed a hand over her lace buba. She smiled at her husband, Victor, who frowned at the standstill traffic. They were running late for his cousin’s wedding and hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. His knuckles tapped an agitated beat on the steering wheel along to soft jazz playing on the radio. Past her husband’s head, the blue BRT bus keeping them in merciful shadow advertised a “We Are Lagos” music concert. Celebrating our oneness together! Miriam turned her beaming face to her window, gap-tooth a narrow darkness in an otherwise white smile.
These shining eyes, these stretched lips, these deep dimples. The people of Third Mainland Bridge stuck in traffic with Miriam would always remember the fizzy happiness in these details.
Miriam’s bliss bubbled up, feathering her insides, shimmering around her baby, erupting from her throat in a giggle—a curious misplaced sound in that car.
Victor turned to her, startled. His hand brushed her thigh, her rounded belly.
“Are you okay?”
Miriam giggled again. Her head slid down the leather headrest, neck tilting backward for more happiness to escape, clavicle bared to her husband’s confused gaze. This frothing joy within Miriam, she wanted to warble it out, to dance through it, until she and her baby were heady with the fervor of it.
She pushed the passenger door open. Stepped out. Victor sat there, blinking in shock for what would later seem like two lifetimes. The humid air crowded in to displace cool air-conditioning. He clicked the radio off, leaned toward the open mouth of the door.
“Miriam? What are you doing?”
Miriam kicked her sandals off, flung the fuchsia-pink slingbacks behind her. One heel struck the car’s bonnet, leaving a silver chink. She wound between the bridge’s stalled vehicles: engines turned off; gears stuck in neutral. She skipped and spun and squealed. Even in the midst of that sweltering Lagos day of thumping car music and raucous engines and the truck that honked at her for dancing too close, Miriam’s squeal stood out, a siren.
Passengers lowered their half-eaten Pure Bliss wafers and leaned out of windows to watch this odd but entertaining episode. Drivers, stretching their legs in small huddles, paused their whining—about traffic and heat and wives and money and that new backache that made their worlds flush dark when they bent at the wrong angle. All necks craned toward Miriam. Hawkers hitched boxes higher and nudged each other to behold the spirited pregnant woman.
Miriam swayed, shoulders shaking with laughter at a joke nobody else could hear. Her legs kicked. Hands stretched, twirling as if being spun about. What joy! What joy!
Victor leaned on the horn. His feet hit tar, finally going after her. Had she gone mad? He yelled her name, using the tone his father wielded on his mother, demanding Miriam return to the car immediately.
But Miriam didn’t want to get back in the car. She wanted to dance, to be free, to glide forward with the happiness surging from her womb, her baby. Her husband navigated between fascinated watchers. He shouted, “Miriam! Miriam! Miriam!” But by the time he got to the railings, she had
launched herself off Third Mainland Bridge, laughing and screeching into the lagoon below, belly-first, like a child jumping into the arms of a beloved parent.
Author Bio:
Pemi Aguda is a Nigerian writer known for her short stories and debut collection Ghostroots (2024). Her work often explores complex themes surrounding motherhood, identity, and the supernatural. Ghostroots, which includes previously published stories such as "Breastmilk" and "The Hollow", was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Award for Fiction and received critical acclaim for its unifying themes and narrative cohesion.
Aguda's stories have been widely recognized, earning multiple accolades, including an O'Henry Award in 2022 for "Breastmilk" and again in 2023 for "The Hollow". Additionally, "Breastmilk" was shortlisted for the 2024 Caine Prize for African Writing. Her forthcoming novel, The Suicide Mothers, which won the 2020 Deborah Rogers Foundation Award, is slated for release in 2025.
Night Home Rose Titus Publication date: December 2nd 2017 Genres: Adult, Paranormal, Thriller
When Muriel Aubrey inherits an old house in a small town, she imagines that moving into the rural community will be deathly dull. But the old house once belonged to her eccentric granduncle, a professor who was said to be researching something very mysterious and unusual before his untimely death. While exploring the slightly rundown Victorian age home, she finds the research notes that had been hidden away and discovers that the professor was researching vampires.
It isn’t long before Muriel meets residents of the small town who knew the professor almost a century ago, and that everything he wrote in the notes he kept is true… And she suddenly finds herself stalked by a vampire hunter.
There was the usual convenience store stuff on the rack: Tabloids, celebrity gossip, fashion magazines, newspapers. The store sold lottery tickets, junk food, candy, beer, a few grocery items, even a few small appliances. She noticed the guy who owned the place was watching her. It made her nervous. Not because he watched her, but because he was so pale. He did not look unhealthy. It was like he just never got out into the sun.
“You must be the new girl.”
“Huh?” She spun around to face him.
“You’re new in town. You just moved into that old house.”
“H-how do you know?”
“Well, how could I not know? I live across the field and saw the light was on for the first time in a long time.”
“Oh,” she felt silly. “Yeah. That’s right. I’m new in town. The house will need some work, but it’s not really that bad. My eccentric old uncle owned it a long time ago and—”
“I know. Professor Aubrey. He was a good man,” there was sadness in his voice.
“Yeah, that’s what they say—” how the hell would he know if he was a good man? This guy looked no more than thirty. The old guy had been dead for at least since 1936, according to the old newspaper clipping.
“Elton.” He seemed to smile as he introduced himself. “Elton Masaryk.”
“Muriel Aubrey.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
She went up to pay for the magazine she picked.
“You let me know if you need anything over there, all right? I live just across the field. If you need anything, don’t hesitate. Really.”
“Thank you.” She went for the door but turned around. “You sound as if you know something about Professor Aubrey?”
He hesitated. “A little. Why?”
“He was related to me, but I hardly know anything about him. I heard he was murdered by his colleague from the University and—”
“Yeah. That’s right. The same guy who murdered your uncle also killed three other people too. They gave him the chair. Bastard deserved it.” But then he was silent. He was beginning to sound as if he knew more than he could tell. As if it still angered him somehow. “Oh well.” Then he went silent.
“Okay. Thank you.” She left. She returned home as the sky began to brighten, and finally slept.
Author Bio:
Rose Titus resides somewhere in cold, dreary New England with two manipulative cats and a very out of date computer with which she creates horror and fantasy fiction. She also has a restored classic Buick to ride around in while in search of adventure.
For travel she has stayed the night in an allegedly haunted castle, has taken a boat ride on Loch Ness, and has visited the Bermuda Triangle -- without getting lost.
Her work has previously appeared in Lost Worlds, Lynx Eye, Bog Gob, Mausoleum, Weird Terrain, Descend, The Dead River Review, and other literary magazines. She also writes regularly for Blood Moon Rising Magazine.
When she's not working or writing or messing with her old car, she waits by the mailbox for her Fortean Times to arrive.
Tell Them Goodbye E. R. Sanchez (Third Death Series, #1) Publication date: December 17th 2025 Genres: Thriller, Young Adult
16-year-old Sino and his 17-year-old cousin, Martín, run away from their family’s ranch—El Petaco—after witnessing their cousin Adal murder their cousin Javier over Adal’s marijuana business.
Not wanting to be forced into Javier’s job, Sino and Martín plan to run, knowing that Adal will come after them and anyone they tell. Although running away will leave people confused, Sino and Martín agree that leaving will protect both them and their loved ones from Adal’s wrath.
The pair realize the journey ahead of them is going to be rough, so before leaving they hatch a plan that includes stealing two goats, making it to Arteaga, getting on as many buses as it takes, and paying a coyote to smuggle them across the U.S.-Mexico border.
Sino and Martín don’t know much about life in 1970s America due to their sheltered life on El Petaco, but they’ve heard of a potential better life waiting for them in America and assume it’s the only option for freedom. The harrowing path ahead of them has them constantly looking over their shoulders for Adal’s assassins, fighting off robbers who attempt to take what little possessions they have, and weaving their way through Mexico’s class prejudices, violence, and exploitation.
“Tell Them Goodbye” is an unflinching, gritty immigrant story based on true events. It’s more than just a tale about two cousins trying to get to the United States; it’s an offering to all immigrants who only make it as spirits and an offering for humanity’s unstoppable determination to risk everything to accomplish any goal or dream.
E. R. Sanchez is the author of Fried Potato Press’s first full-length novel, Tell Them Goodbye. He also has poems and stories published online and in print.
Julie Walker thought she knew her life: three teenagers, a husband, and her job at the Ottawa library. But when a stranger confronts her with a shocking claim about her late father, everything she believed about her family is thrown into question.
At first she struggles to know what to believe. But once the truth is revealed, a series of unsettling incidents escalate into real danger: her family has become the target of someone with resources she cannot match and few limits to what they might do. Drawn into a web of menace and betrayal, and uncertain who to trust, Julie must find the strength to confront an enemy she doesn’t fully understand.
Layered with dread and emotion, THAT OTHER FAMILY is a domestic thriller about fractured loyalties and one mother’s fight to keep her family safe.
Melissa, thank you for sharing your blog space with me today. I’m happy to get a chance to chat with your readers.
As a writer of suspense fiction, I do my best to keep things moving in the story. That often means cutting out scenes that slow down momentum, even though they may provide an interesting perspective on a character or plot point.
So how about a peek behind the curtain? I thought your readers might like a dip into my “outtakes” file. Today I’m sharing a couple of scenes that didn’t make it into the final version of That Other Family.
The first was one of my early opening scenes. Though nothing much happens — that’s why I decided to skip past it — it does give some insight into the kind of person my protagonist Julie is, and how she interacts with other staff at the library where she works.
Julie starts her day.
The air was still cool on Thursday morning as I walked to work, though the forecast for Ottawa was for another hot day.
I stopped for a moment on the pedestrian bridge at Somerset Street to take in the view: the straight stretch of the canal below, with the towers and ornate gables of the Chateau Laurier hotel in the background. As always, the scene gave me a shot of pleasure, a sense of being part of Ottawa’s evolving history.
Arriving at the library just before nine a.m. I checked my Fitbit. Great, nearly 4,000 steps already.
On my way in the front entrance, I stopped for a moment to say hello to Abdi, who was staffing the security desk that morning. His wife had just had a new baby girl. “How’s your little one today?” I asked.
He smiled and bobbed his head. “Very good, thank you, Mrs. Walker.” Most of the staff called me Julie—my first name—but Abdi insisted on addressing me “properly,” as he put it.
As Co-ordinator at the library’s Main Branch, I liked to use that first hour before we opened to the public to do a walkthrough, checking in with my staff and reviewing the program schedule for the day.
I ended up with Tony at the information desk in the main lobby and congratulated him on his acceptance into a local college program. “You’ll do well—and if I can do anything to help, just let me know.”
“Thanks, Julie.” His youthful face broke into a smile.
Half an hour later I was in my office, working on next month’s staff schedule as well as reviewing my boss’ agenda for our next meeting, when Tony buzzed me.
The second scene originally appeared about two-thirds of the way through the novel. Andrew is the boyfriend of Julie’s seventeen-year-old daughter Olivia. He corners Julie at the mall, desperate to find out why Olivia is not replying to his messages. But Julie doesn’t want to give him any answers.
Andrew wonders where Olivia is
I figured I had time in the morning for a quick stop at our local strip mall to pick up bread and milk. As I came back to my car, I heard a voice. “Mrs Walker!” Repeated in an urgent tone. “Mrs. Walker!”
I swivelled to see who was calling. Olivia’s boyfriend Andrew was running toward me across the parking lot. He clearly wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings: he’d paid no attention to the car that almost plowed into him, the driver of the car slamming on his brakes at the last minute.
“Watch out!” I called. “That car almost hit you!”
The driver glared and pulled out to exit the parking lot.
Andrew stopped in front of me, panting. “I’m so glad to see you! I didn’t know where you’d all gone!”
I gave him a hug. “Oh, Andrew, we’re sorry. There’s been so much going on!”
His face took on a hurt expression. “I haven’t heard from Olivia since Saturday. And she’s not answering her phone or texts.”
I sighed. “Yeah, she can’t get your messages now. She and the boys are with my mom, and they’re not in cellphone range.”
“Oh.” Andrew looked confused. “Why is that? I thought Olivia’s grandma lived downtown.”
I nodded. “Yes, she does. But they’re not at her place. They’re staying somewhere else.”
Andrew wasn’t a security risk at all, but he could inadvertently reveal their location if he knew it. So I wasn’t even going to mention the words cottage or cottage country or give him information.
His face had a perplexed expression. “Why didn’t she let me know?”
Olivia might be using this enforced separation to create some distance, but I didn’t know. “Andrew, she’ll be back in touch with you, I’m sure. Just give her some space for now.”
That’s it for today. For more, you’ll have to read the book!
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
JULIE
The woman slid three photos to me across the table, her manicured nails immaculate. “I know you don’t want to believe me. But you need to look at these.”
I was already on my feet, having told her—Frances Boyle, she said her name was—that we had nothing further to discuss. She had no business coming to me with this preposterous story, and certainly not here at the library where I worked. Her manner suggested she wasn’t used to people saying “no” to her, but I wanted her gone.
Yet I couldn’t help glancing at the faded snapshots she’d spread in front of me. All showed the same grouping: a couple, seemingly in their forties, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl.
“That’s my family,” she said, a rasp deepening her voice. “My parents with my brother and me. That was the year before Papa died.”
Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the man in the photos. “Papa,” she’d called him. He sure looked like Dad. My memories of him were vivid, though I was only eight when he died. That dark hair, cut short, with a white streak just off-center. Neat ears, firm chin, and warm smile. And those pointed eyebrows: unmistakable.
But I’d never seen the other people in those photos before.
Heat flared at the back of my neck, and the walls of the small meeting room felt like they were closing in on me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water in with me.
Frances leaned forward, the gold chain around her neck glinting as she moved. “From your reaction, Julie, I’d say you recognize him.” Her gaze intensified. “Now do you believe me? Our father had two wives, two families. Yours and mine.”
This couldn’t be true. I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath, fighting to get my emotions under control. Who was this woman and what was her game? Inspecting her more closely, I guessed she was in her late forties, a little older than me. Well-groomed. Stocky but not fat. Wearing cropped pants and a short-sleeved silk blouse, a good choice for the hot weather we were having. Her clothes looked expensive, more Nieman Marcus than Walmart.
“Can you show me some ID?” I demanded. Maybe I should have asked for that earlier.
She smiled coolly and reached into her leather bag, pulling out a passport. The photo was definitely her, but with shorter hair. Her name: Frances Louisa Boyle. Date of birth: 1975.
“Wait a minute. Boyle?”
“That was Papa’s name—James Boyle.”
The tightness in my shoulders loosened. “So. That’s not my dad.”
“When he married your mom, he used the name James MacMillan.”
That was Dad’s name—but this was ridiculous. She was claiming not just that he’d had two families, but two names.
She sat back abruptly. “I can see you’re having trouble accepting it,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to take in.” Her expression hardened. “I only found out after Mama died in February and I was going through her papers. I found some old letters tucked away, referring to his other family.” She raised her eyes to mine again. “Your family.” After a moment, she added, “I have a couple of the letters with me, if you want to see them. They’re in my safe at the hotel.”
My mouth tasted of something bitter, metallic. “What are you after?”
She clasped her hands together. “I had a private investigator locate your mother, your family. I came here to find out more.” Her gaze swept over me. “I thought it was best to come to you first, to see if you knew about it. Before I approach your mother.”
“You can’t be thinking of disturbing my mother with this!”
“I’m sorry, but that’s why I’m here. To find out what she knew, or knows, about what happened.”
If Frances confronted Mom with this story, it would devastate her. “Give me some time to think about this first.” There must be some way to check this woman’s claim. “Can I have copies of those photos?”
She pushed them toward me. “Those are for you.” She rose and pulled a card from her purse. “I realize you may need a bit of time to get used to the idea. Here’s my cell number. When you’re ready, give me a call.” She dropped the card on the table. “But don’t take too long. I can play tourist here in Ottawa for a couple of days, but then I’ll need to talk to your mother.” She straightened her shoulders and left.
I watched her cross the library’s open lobby, passing Tony at the info desk, heading toward the main entrance. I paced back and forth in the hallway, fuming. What she was claiming couldn’t be true.
But a coldness was rising in my stomach. Could Dad really have done this to Mom? To us?
#
Returning to my office, I closed the door and collapsed into my chair, my stomach churning. I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared blankly at the ceiling. Frances’s story kept echoing through my mind. It had to be nonsense…except for those photos. That guy did look like Dad.
When she asked for me by name at the front desk, I had hoped the interruption would be short. I hadn’t anticipated how shaken our conversation would leave me.
I needed to get back to work; I had to post next month's staff schedule soon. But after staring at my computer screen for a few minutes, I picked up my phone to call Caroline.
She and I had been friends since our university days in Toronto. I was studying library science and she was a psychology grad student. We met when we both moved into a shared student house near campus and clicked from the beginning. We’d stayed close friends ever since.
I came back to Ottawa after graduating. When she moved to Ottawa as well, joining the psychology staff at the Royal, our friendship grew. She had become my rock, the person I turned to first for advice.
“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.
“I do. What’s up?”
I quickly recapped my meeting with Frances and the story she’d told.
“That’s quite the tale.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “But you don’t think it’s true?”
“I’m not sure.” I wanted to say no. But those photos had left me with doubts.
“Have you told Matt?”
My husband. “No. I haven’t had a chance.” I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell him.
“Or your mom?”
My jaw clenched. “If Dad had another family, if he deceived Mom, I don’t see any need for her to know about it after all these years. She’d be heartsick.”
“But you say Frances wants to talk to your mom. How can you prevent that?”
“Maybe I can’t. But I wish I could find out first…”
“If it’s true?”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a foolproof way to check. A DNA comparison.”
Trust Caroline to have a scientific suggestion. “Yeah. But I don’t know if Frances would agree to be tested.”
“Why wouldn’t she? She’s the one who says you’re related.”
I sighed. “Testing takes time, and I don’t think Frances wants to wait.”
She paused. “Do you know about Ancestry.com?”
“…I’ve heard of it, but don’t really know—?”
“It’s a site where people upload their DNA, and check to see if they match with anyone. I keep hearing about people finding linkages there to relatives they didn’t know about.”
“So we could check that site to see if we’re related to Frances?”
A doubtful tone entered her voice. “Well, maybe not, if you’ve never sent in a sample. If you send one in now, it could take several weeks for results to show up. And you don’t even know whether anyone on Frances’ side has uploaded there. If not, there’d be nothing to match to.”
I grimaced, disappointed. “Doesn’t sound like DNA’s going to help us. In the short run, anyway.”
“Yeah, maybe not. So let’s look at this another way. Is Frances’ story plausible? Could that have happened?”
Frustrated tears were pressing behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. But I wish I remembered more about our family, how things were before Dad died. I was so young, and my memories are pretty thin.”
“How about your brother? Would he remember more?”
I sat up at the thought. “That’s a good idea.” Patrick was four years older than me, so his memories of our family life back then would be better than mine.
#
Calling Patrick was complicated by the fact that he lived in Canberra, where he moved when he married Melissa six years ago.
Checking my watch and doing a time conversion, I realized it was still the middle of the night in Australia. But if I called around 4 p.m. my time, it’d be 6 a.m. there. I didn’t know what shift he’d be working—he was a paramedic with the Capital Territory Ambulance Service. If he was on the day shift, he’d be up. I’d text to see if he was awake.
He replied with a yawning-face emoji, but I took that to mean I could call. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah.”
I cut our usual time-and-weather chitchat short. “Listen. A woman came to see me today with a weird story.” I blurted out Frances’ claim that Dad had had two families, ours and hers.
His reaction was immediate. “That’s ridiculous.”
Thank you. “I know, right? It’s just not possible.”
“Wait, let me put on some coffee.” A series of indistinct sounds came through the phone. Then he was back. “Tell me the whole thing. From the beginning.”
I ran through it all, starting with Frances showing up at the library, and ending with her dropping a card as she left.
“Ridiculous,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “You think it’s Dad in those photos?”
“I don’t know.” I breathed out. “It looks like him. But photos can be manipulated…”
“Can you send me copies?”
“Sure. Hold on. I’m sending them now.”
While he waited for the images to arrive, he asked, “Are you thinking it’s some kind of scam?”
“Well, what could she be after? It’s not like there’s any inheritance or anything…”
He gave a small cough. “What about Mom? Are you going to tell her?”
“No! Can you imagine her reaction?” I swallowed. “Even raising it…I don’t want to spoil her memories of Dad.”
“Hold on—the photos are coming through.”
***
Excerpt from That Other Family by Lis Angus. Copyright 2025 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Lis Angus is a Canadian suspense writer. Originally from Alberta, she has also lived in Germany and Toronto. Before turning to fiction, she worked with children and families in crisis, and later as a business writer, conference organizer, and policy advisor. Her debut novel, Not Your Child, was a finalist for the 2021 Daphne du Maurier Award and was published in 2022. That Other Family is her second novel. Lis is a member of Sisters in Crime, International Thriller Writers, Crime Writers of Canada, and Capital Crime Writers. She lives in a small town south of Ottawa with her husband.
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Lies the Dirt Keeps Heidi Christopher Publication date: November 13th 2025 Genres: Adult, Horror, Thriller
She came home searching for her sister. What she uncovered could destroy them all.
Johnna LaGrange photographs death for a living. But when she gets the call that her younger sister Ori has vanished from their hometown of Sweetwater, North Carolina, the decay she’s drawn to becomes chillingly personal.
Returning to a town that never forgave her for surviving, Johnna finds her family in tatters—her mother drowning in vodka, her brother partying like nothing’s wrong. Only Shannon, her ex turned detective, is willing to help. But as they dig into Ori’s disappearance, buried memories start to surface—of the stepfather Johnna killed in self-defence, and the darkness that’s lingered in the farmhouse ever since.
When people start dying, and Johnna wakes up with dirt on her hands and blood in her mouth, she begins to question everything—including her own mind.
But the truth is far worse than she ever imagined.
A haunting, explosive thriller about guilt, memory, and the lies we tell to survive—Lies The Dirt Keeps is perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn, KL Slater, and Shalini Boland.
Heidi Christopher was born in West Virginia, raised in southern North Carolina, and now resides on a mountain in Virginia with her family. Her household includes a golden retriever, a golden doodle, and four sassy cats.While studying English Literature at Shenandoah University, Heidi contributed to the University’s newspaper. She is now a freelance editor, specializing in academic editing for grades K-12.Her debut psychological thriller is set to be published in November 2025.To learn more about Heidi, you can follow her on:
Book Title: THE QUANTUM REVELATIONS byStuart Heinrich Category: Adult Fiction (18 +), 474 pages Genre: Sci-fi, Mystery, Thriller, Scientific Publisher: Endless Tree Books, LLC Release date: July 31, 2025 Content Rating: PG-13. My book is rated PG-13 for some religious profanities, violence involving firearms, as well as mature themes such as global warming and ecological collapse.
Book Description:
The world is on the brink of an apocalyptic climate crisis and quickly spiraling out of control into a dystopian nightmare. As everything collapses around them, two scientists struggle for relevance in their quest to build the world’s first practical quantum computer. They discover so much more: a mystery of physics that goes
deeper than they could have ever imagined...
Stuart Heinrich holds a PhD in computer science and a passionate interest in the fundamental nature of reality. The Quantum Revelations is his debut novel.
Twenty-two-year-old Georgia Parker already carries more regret than most people twice her age. Practically an orphan, she’s reeling from the death of her grandmother, Mimi—the one person who made her feel safe from the chaos of her mother’s world. Alone in Carson City, Nevada, Georgia is determined to start over, to stand on her own. Yet Mimi’s final words echo in her mind: Take risks. Trust people again. Be brave.
Everyone thinks their mother is murder but for mafia-family renegade Lucia Scafetti, that’s the literal truth.
Bill Simon thought marrying Sharon Green meant entering a powerful legal dynasty and finally proving he belonged. Fresh from his honeymoon and eager to succeed at his new firm, Green & DeWitt, Bill is handed a complex real estate transaction tied to the influential Green family empire.
Pemi Aguda is a Nigerian writer known for her short stories and debut collection Ghostroots (2024). Her work often explores complex themes surrounding motherhood, identity, and the supernatural. Ghostroots, which includes previously published stories such as "Breastmilk" and "The Hollow", was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Award for Fiction and received critical acclaim for its unifying themes and narrative cohesion.
When Muriel Aubrey inherits an old house in a small town, she imagines that moving into the rural community will be deathly dull. But the old house once belonged to her eccentric granduncle, a professor who was said to be researching something very mysterious and unusual before his untimely death. While exploring the slightly rundown Victorian age home, she finds the research notes that had been hidden away and discovers that the professor was researching vampires.
16-year-old Sino and his 17-year-old cousin, Martín, run away from their family’s ranch—El Petaco—after witnessing their cousin Adal murder their cousin Javier over Adal’s marijuana business.
Johnna LaGrange photographs death for a living. But when she gets the call that her younger sister Ori has vanished from their hometown of Sweetwater, North Carolina, the decay she’s drawn to becomes chillingly personal.
