Review of Forewarned by Tracey S. Phillips (#contests- Enter to win a Bookshop.com Gift Card-2 winners.)

FOREWARNED

by Tracey S. Phillips

September 29 - October 24, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

For 15-year-old Daphne Ann Post, the summer of 1976 at Lake Carlson should be filled with new friendships and carefree late-night parties. But something darker lurks beneath the surface—her chilling premonition that someone is going to drown.

Wishing she could escape the shadow of her fractured family and her mother’s too-soon rebound relationship, Daphne reluctantly heads to the family lake house in Northern Indiana. The tension with her mother is thick—especially when Daphne is the only one who knows her mom's boyfriend is hiding a dangerous secret. But Daphne’s burden is far heavier than family drama. She harbors an unsettling gift—an ability to know the hidden truths of anyone she touches.

Last year that same intuition failed her when her best friend ignored Daphne’s warning before a tragic accident. Now everyone at school blames Daphne for what happened. Haunted by guilt, Daphne is determined to keep her ability a secret.

When she meets the Vaughans—cool, popular, and effortlessly perfect next-door neighbors—Daphne is drawn into their world, seduced by the thrill of fitting in. Over the summer, whispers of danger from the lake grow louder. Her intuition screams someone will die, and not even the haze of weed can numb her fear.

The clock is ticking. Daphne knows that to save a life, she’ll have to confront her darkest secret and risk losing everything she’s worked so hard for. Can she stop the inevitable without exposing her truth? Or will the lake claim a victim—this time, someone she loves?

Forewarned Bonus Content:

Unlock the ultimate reading experience with the Bonus content of this Amazon Music Playlist to accompany Tracey S. Phillips' Forewarned!

Book Details:

Genre: YA Paranormal Suspense
Published by: Three Elements Publishing
Publication Date: August 1, 2025
Number of Pages: 320
ISBN: 979-8-9908191-1-5
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

1

A Monotone Song
Carlson, Indiana; June 4, 1976: Daphne Ann Post

“Who’s gonna see the lake first?” My mom sang the monotone song ending on a mystery note with a minor third. It conjured the kind of anticipation and excitement I felt watching scary movies. And this time it triggered a new dark melody. I heard it in the sinister thrum of the car’s engine and in the wind roaring through the windows.

Nothing seemed to have changed along East Lake Shore Drive. The winding narrow road that led to Nana’s cottage in Carlson, Indiana was treelined on the lakeside, farmland on the other. Lush greenery and sprouting corn grew beneath cloud-specked Indiana sky as far as the eye could see. On the breeze, faint smells of cornflowers, manure from nearby farmland, and lakeweed.

Wind from the open car window blew my short haircut, styled like the Olympic ice skater Dorothy Hammill, in every direction. I searched between the trees for the telltale reflection of the sun on the lake. I wanted something happy to cheer me up. Today was my fifteenth birthday.

“Who’s gonna see the lake first?” my mom repeated.

“It’s right there, Marianne.” I’d been calling my mom by her first name since she divorced my dad last year.

“I saw it!” announced my younger brother Brandon. “I saw the lake first!” Brandon was nine and a half. He was born when I was five, and from the moment he could walk, Marianne and Dad expected me to help look after him. Most days it took all three of us to keep track of him.

“Why are you still calling me that, Daphne?” Marianne asked.

I shrugged. The only way I knew how to deal with my rage about the recent divorce was to disassociate from her. To pretend she was just a friend. To call her Marianne.

Despite knowing I’d be expected to babysit my brother and two younger cousins, I usually felt excited about our yearly summer trip. But this year, I resented Marianne for pulling me away. I wanted to celebrate my birthday with Dad. I wanted to start driver’s ed. I wanted to be with my friends.

Who was I kidding? I didn’t have any friends. Not after Ruth turned everyone against me.

Icy dread laced with a sense of danger crept up my arms. Not my typical reaction to approaching the lake for the summer. I loved to water-ski, and I was good at it. I loved to lie on the dock and listen to the water lap against the pillars. I loved the musty, mildewy smell of the cottage. I loved searching for fossils and beads in the clear shallow water.

This chill skittering from my elbows to my hairline evoked a sense of déjà vu. It reminded me of the day my best friend Ruth stopped being my friend.

It’s all your fault, Ruth had said. I’d believed it. My stomach flipped and I wanted to throw up. Ruth made me feel so guilty.

Marianne said, “When we get there, I need help unloading the car before you can play with your cousins.” She glanced in the rearview mirror at Brandon in the back seat. After the divorce, my mom changed her look and started dating again. Today she wore a paisley lace-up top and bell-bottom jeans. Her new shag haircut showed off bright green eyes and long hoop earrings accentuated her high cheekbones.

I looked nothing like my mother.

Between the trees the lake glittered as if sprinkled with shards of broken glass. Lavish summer homes with three- and four-car garages lined the shore. Some, newly remodeled, towered above the rest with third-story additions. Others behind the trees were unpretentious cabins, blending in with the forested shore. An adjacent golf course with green carpet-covered hills smelled like fresh-mowed grass.

Trespassing on the golf course was forbidden. I imagined what it would be like to run on the soft grassy hills in bare feet. I wanted to sit in the gazebo high on the hill on the far side of the fairway. Though I’d never been there, I imagined it had a wonderful view of the lake.

As we drew closer to our cottage, the prickles had fled my arms to reside in my scalp. I tried to ignore the sensation and the feeling of dread. The last time I had feelings like this, my friend Ruth almost died. It happened when I touched her. She had welcomed me into her house, and she’d hugged me. The warning had become so clear in my mind—like the developing image of a Polaroid picture—that I had to tell Ruth. I pleaded with her and tried to stop her from skating on the ice.

Now I wished I’d never said anything. Because maybe then it never would have happened. Maybe if I hadn’t told Ruth, we would still be friends. My cheeks heated with shame and embarrassment, and I turned my face to the open window.

Weirdo. Freak. It was all my fault.

The road wound down a steep hill. At the bottom on the left, our sky-blue Victorian cottage, with its peaked roof and scroll details, was the oldest home on the lake. White window trim popped against the pale blue siding and dark gray shingles. Mowed grass full of pink clover and rows of orange and yellow lilies blooming along the sidewalk led to the familiar screened porch. Gabled windows and a spire on the crest of the roof gave it charm like no other house on the lake.

Duke, our half golden retriever, half collie mutt, knew this road as well as we did. He stuck his long nose out the back window of the Volkswagen bus and the wind blew back his floppy ears. When he snorted into the wind, Brandon cried out, “Gross. Duke blew snot all over my face.” He wiped his face on his shirt sleeve.

“Look, your cousins are already here.” Marianne pulled into the carport, where Auntie Beth and my cousins were unloading their station wagon.

We piled out of the VW bus, and Duke led the way.

“I’m going to play with Sammy,” Brandon said.

“No, you’re not. You need to help unload the car first,” Marianne said.

Brandon opened a white-painted wrought iron gate leading to the yard and ran to Sammy. The two boys body-slammed each other in a frenetic hug, Brandon’s wild blond hair contrasting with Sammy’s neat brown military cut. They chattered and ran toward the lake with Duke at their heels.

“Brandon, what did I say?” Marianne called.

“Happy fifteenth birthday, Daphne.” Auntie Beth pulled a suitcase from the back seat and set it on the driveway. A brown-leather barrette held back her long red hair. She wore a light-orange flower-print T-shirt and overalls. She gave me a warm hug.

“Thanks,” I said. She reminded me that I’d rather be with my dad.

“You’ve grown six inches since I saw you.” Auntie Beth was exaggerating but not by much. I’d grown taller than Marianne this spring. Now I could see the top of my aunt’s head too.

“She’s growing up before our eyes.” Marianne sparkled with something like pride. I chose to ignore it.

My aunt picked up a laundry basket full of bedding and headed toward the house. “Aubenaubee Lodge is open, so come on inside.” Years ago, Nana had named the house after Aubenaubee Creek that ran beside it and into the lake.

“Happy birthday.” Margot, who was twelve, brushed a lock of straight, walnut-brown hair away from her face. “It never feels like summer until we get here.” Her awkward, open-mouth smile revealed a flash of silver from the metal in her mouth.

“You got braces!” I said, “let me see.”

Margot showed them off with a grin more like a grimace. “They hurt and I have headgear.”

“Look what I got.” I tossed my head and pointed to two new, gold-post earrings. Marianne had finally let me pierce my ears.

“I know everyone does it, but I don’t want mine pierced.” Margot held a small gray-blue suitcase. “Did you bring your Breyer horses? Misty of Chincoteague and her foal?”

“Yeah. The two you like best.” I smiled.

“Dad got me a new Breyer horse. She’s a bay with a long mane and tail. I can’t wait to show you.” Margot was on the cusp of putting childish games away, but for some reason she wasn’t quite ready to.

Marianne opened the tailgate of the VW bus and handed me my suitcase. “The house is unlocked. Take your things up to your room and come help with the rest, please. I’ve no doubt the boys aren’t coming back.”

“Okay.” I longed to see the familiar cottage. It reminded me of happier days when my parents still loved each other. Days filled with summer sports and sunshine. Lately, the only activity that gave me joy was playing the piano. “Did Nana tune the piano this spring?”

“I asked Nana about it,” Marianne said. “That old console has seen better days. The technician said it needs too much work.”

My hopes to improve the Chopin Étude crumbled. “How will I practice?”

“There will be other things to do, Daph. You’ll be so busy you won’t even miss it.”

“You don’t know anything!” I pushed open the wrought iron gate and slammed it. This summer was quickly becoming the worst ever. It was Marianne’s fault. No Dad, no friends, and now, no piano. Life sucked.

I passed the little house attached to the back of the carport on the way to our big Victorian cottage and looked over my left shoulder. The neighbor’s house was still dark. The summer renters hadn’t arrived yet. But from the black windows, in the quiet stillness, I heard whispered warnings, and I knew, I just knew, someone in that house would die this summer.

***

Excerpt from Forewarned by Tracey S. Phillips. Copyright 2025 by Tracey S. Phillips. Reproduced with permission from Tracey S. Phillips. All rights reserved.

 My Thoughts

 "Forewarned" is a captivating paranormal coming-of-age thriller that drew me in from the very first chapter. I recently had the pleasure of reviewing the audiobook version of this story. I generally prefer audiobooks over Kindle or print editions because the narrators bring the characters to life, allowing me to connect with their emotions on a deeper level. The author, who also served as the narrator, did an excellent job portraying the various characters and their feelings.

The protagonist, Daphne, grows up in the 1970s. During a vacation, she has an eventful summer with the family next door, the Vaughans. Daphne is no ordinary teenager; she possesses a special gift that allows her to see the future when she touches someone. The story is filled with secrets, emotions, friendships, and hardships. It is told from the perspectives of Daphne, Laura, and Mark, which enhances the narrative flow. The ending is suspenseful, intense, and unpredictable, leaving some unanswered questions about Daphne and her future endeavors. 

I look forward to reading the next book in the series. 

 

Author Bio:

Award winning author, Tracey S. Phillips has played the piano since age three. She considers herself a serial artist who is an avid gardener, musician, piano teacher, artist, and author. She writes psychological thrillers and romantic suspense. BEST KEPT SECRETS won a Hugh Holton Award and she is a two-time finalist for the Claymore Award. In 2020 she created Blackbird Writers, a community of like-minded mystery authors. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and like some of her characters, she occasionally speaks with spirits on the other side.

Catch Up With Tracey S. Phillips:

www.TraceySPhillips.com
Amazon Author Profile
Substack Newsletter - @traceysphillips
LinkedIn
Goodreads
BookBub - @tracey64p
Instagram - @traceys.phillips
Threads - @traceys.phillips
Pinterest - @traceyspnovelist
Facebook - @Traceys.phillipsauthor

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 Disclaimer

 I received a free copy of the audiobook for my honest review and I was not compensated for my feedback.

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Showcase of Happy Sun Farm- Behind the Facade by Deven Greene (#contests- Enter to win An Amazon Gift Card.)

HAPPY SUN FARM

Behind the Facade

by Deven Greene

October 13 - November 7, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

  

She comes home to mourn her father. She stays to uncover the shocking truth.

When college student Berry returns to her family’s small Southern California farm after her father’s sudden death, she believes she’s coming home to grieve and reassure her mother that she’ll soon be back for good to run the farm. With farming in her blood, she is eager to bring new life to the failing farm through modernization and sound financial management after receiving her degree in agricultural economics.

It doesn’t take long for Berry’s plans to collapse, as she discovers all is not well in the surrounding farming community. A foreign-owned agribusiness, Happy Sun Farm, is taking over all the small farms, something her father had resisted.

As she delves deeper into the company’s campaign of coercing farm sales, Berry suspects they may have been responsible for her father’s death. She learns that Happy Sun Farm is far from a happy place. Their strange farming practices don’t make sense to her, and the unexplained deaths and secrecy surrounding the farm leave many questions unanswered.

With help from law enforcement not forthcoming, Berry sets out to explore what she can, but soon finds her own life in danger. Not knowing whom she can trust, she uncovers a diabolical plan of mass proportions no one could have imagined. 

Book Details:

Genre: Thriller
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: October 22, 2025
Number of Pages: 356
ISBN: 978-196462008
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

Fog rolled in as the sun set on the verdant hills, silent but for the small animals carrying out their daily tasks of finding food and safety while caring for their young. Below in the valley, the mist-shrouded a smattering of primitive structures—the permanent home of twenty-thousand guests of Hwasong, the largest political prisoner camp in North Korea.

All the inmates—men, women, and children—were serving a life sentence for anti-revolutionary activities or being within three generations of a person convicted of that same high crime, so-called guilt by association. Those imprisoned solely because they were related to a convicted enemy of the state lived separately on the grounds, never allowed to see their denounced relative again. Their living conditions were horrible, but not as horrible as those who had committed a serious offense.

A group of a hundred men, women, and teens wearing orange jumpsuits, tired after a long day of hard labor, shuffled into the large auditorium, hurried along by shoves and baton whacks from the guards. Already seated was an equal number of prisoners wearing blue jumpsuits, men, women, and teens who had arrived by bus a half-hour earlier from a nearby housing block. The inmates dressed in blue were emaciated, their skin loosely covering the bones underneath, while those in orange were thin but without signs of starvation. The people in orange were silent as they glanced around and sat in the vacant seats between those in blue.

If the two groups of prisoners had questions about why those in orange and blue were intermingled in this way, none dared to speak up. Ten guards armed with guns and batons stood around the room's perimeter. After all the inmates were seated, one of the officers stepped to the front of the room and commenced the evening ritual of indoctrination. The session of self-criticism would be next.

Prisoners who occasionally slumped forward from exhaustion were struck with a baton. He or she would either straighten up or fall to the floor before being pulled by their arms out of the room, never to be seen again.

As the officer droned on about the greatness of the country and their Supreme Leader, Kim Jong Un, the guards around the perimeter continued to look straight ahead. None of the convicts seemed to notice the fine aerosol being emitted from nozzles that had poked through small holes in the ceiling high above. The mist silently spread to all corners of the room for several minutes before the apertures closed, and the spouts crawled back into the ceiling.

A short session followed in which several prisoners were required to admit to recent shortcomings, such as not working as hard as they could have or eating more than needed to survive. The other prisoners responded by agreeing that the behavior described was shameful.

When the meeting appeared to be over, the inmates in orange looked around, ready for the usual order to file into the cafeteria for a small meal. However, the doors remained shut, and all were told to stay seated. The lights dimmed, and a movie began, showing scenes of happy North Koreans at parades and concerts, playing sports, and attending school. For eleven hours, during which time the guards were replaced by a fresh batch, one film after the other played as the prisoners were forced to watch.

One of the prisoners in an orange jumpsuit began to moan. In the dim light, the officers exchanged knowing looks. The sounds of distress became louder and deeper as several more inmates, all wearing orange, began to groan. The guards started to place buckets at the feet of the prisoners in orange. Within three hours, almost all those wearing orange were groaning, doubled over in pain, as they vomited into buckets. The vomit became increasingly tinged with blood as the night turned to day. Blood and stomach contents spewed onto the floor as the prisoners became unable to control their forceful retching. Soon, the sounds of explosive diarrhea filled the air. Unable to exert any control over their bodies, the sick fell to the floor as bloody bodily fluids from both ends of their gastrointestinal systems streamed out of them, into their clothes, down their pant legs, and onto the floor. Blood oozed from their mouths, noses, and eyes.

At first, the convicts wearing blue sat still in their seats, fear drawn on their faces, but without suffering physically. At some point, one, then another, abandoned their seats and stood near the back of the room. Seeing that there were no repercussions, others followed.

Within eight hours of the start of vomiting, two prisoners in orange had died. The deaths began to mount as those in blue looked on in horror, wondering if they would be next. Two buckets were placed near them for their own hygiene needs while they waited.

Seventy-two hours later, the doors opened. The prisoners in blue, still emaciated but as healthy as they were when they had entered the building, were escorted outside into waiting buses to return them to their housing block. All of the prisoners in orange lay on the floor—dead.

Chapter 1

I handed my driver's license to the airport security agent at the Indianapolis airport and scanned the boarding pass on my phone. As I had come to expect, the gray-haired man looked up at me and smiled. “I ain’t never seen that name before. Kinda takes me back.”

“I know,” I said. “I get that a lot.” My dad was only two when John Lennon was killed, but his parents indoctrinated their son on everything Beatles. He, in turn, spent countless hours listening to Beatles music with my mom. I think they got stoned a lot when they were doing it, but they never admitted it to me.

Given that their favorite Beatles song was “Strawberry Fields Forever,” I strongly favored that hypothesis. When I was born, they couldn’t resist naming me Strawberry. Oh, and my last name is Fields. Now you know why people often have something to say about my name. I’m a run-of-the-mill blond, not a strawberry blond. I think that would have made my life unbearable.

I pulled on the cuff of my long-sleeved shirt, grabbed my driver's license, and was about to walk off when the man said, “You must be a student at Purdue. Going home to visit the folks?”

“Something like that.” I was in no mood to talk. I know the man was trying to be pleasant and make his day pass more quickly with small talk. The large P on the front of my baseball cap was known by all in the area to signify Purdue University, where I was, in fact, a student. I forced a weak smile and adjusted the shoulder straps on my backpack before walking off.

After passing through the luggage check without incident, I headed toward my gate. First class was already embarking, but I still had to wait a while before my boarding group was called. I had bought my ticket the previous night and was in the last group, my seat near the back of the plane. Fortunately, the flight to Bakersfield, with one stop in Phoenix, wasn’t in high demand, and almost a quarter of the seats in the rear were empty. With ample space in the overhead bin, I lobbed my backpack in and took my aisle seat. The man sitting next to the window glanced my way and nodded. I nodded back, glad he didn’t want to chat.

I remember taking off, but not much after that until I heard a male voice asking me if I was okay. I must have dosed off and wasn’t sure how much time had passed. I opened my eyes to see the concerned look on the flight attendant’s face, a pudgy middle-aged man who was bent over, his face close to mine. We were cruising at altitude, and tears were running down my face. Embarrassed, I tried to wipe them away. “Sorry,” I said. “I was dreaming about my dad. I’m on my way to his funeral.”

“So sorry, dear. If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll comp you a drink if that will help.”

I declined but thanked him for his offer and reflected on my mother’s hysterical call the day before. She had come home after spending all afternoon with a friend shopping and going to lunch when she found my dad dead on the kitchen floor. She had often confided in me that she felt terrible going places without him, but since he refused to leave the farm, she’d been doing things independent of him for quite some time. He’d been in good health—physically, that is—so his death was a big shock.

I reflected on the situation, different from what I had planned for before my dad died as the plane sat on the tarmac in Phoenix. I was all too aware that it was too late. I was heading home, ready or not. Hardly the family reunion I had anticipated.

I started to study a book on the economics of short-run decisions. After reading the first paragraph three times and still having no clue what it was about, I shut my eyes as the plane took off for the last leg of my trip. I’d be landing in Bakersfield in a little over an hour.

My rest was short-lived. The flight attendant came by with a cart and asked me if I would like vanilla, raspberry, or peach yogurt. I looked at the available items—individual servings of Happy Sun Farm yogurt. I’d had their yogurt before, and it was delicious.

“You’re lucky,” the attendant said. “Happy Sun Farm has donated a ton of yogurt to be served on our flights all week.”

I decided it was probably no use trying to sleep and chose the peach flavor even though I wasn’t hungry. As I started to eat, my mind wandered to Happy Sun Farm. I had never heard of them until about a year earlier when their dairy and agricultural products began popping up all over. The company heavily advertised on TV. They boasted about all their products being non-genetically modified, or non-GMO. I didn’t have a problem with genetically modified food myself but knew that a lot of Americans did. All the produce my dad grew was non-GMO because he suspected all genetically modified food to be part of a government conspiracy. A conspiracy to do what, I didn’t know.

Although I didn’t have time to watch much television, when I did, it was hard to avoid the Happy Sun Farm commercials featuring wholesome families frolicking and picnicking in a green meadow. The smiling sun logo served to reinforce that warm and fuzzy feeling emanating from their commercials. I wondered if they had a model I could follow to pursue success for my family’s farm. I’d noticed their rock-bottom prices, which was surprising since they must have spent a ton on ads. What I wouldn’t give to find out the secret to their success.

***

Excerpt from Happy Sun Farm: Behind the Facade by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry and medicine, and practiced pathology for over twenty years. Her other works include The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy, Ties That Kill, and The Organ Broker.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven's Newsletter
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @Deven_G1
Instagram - @devengreeneauthor
Facebook - @DevenGreeneFiction

 

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Review of The Regression Strain (Medical Thriller.) by Kevin Hwang (# contests- TWO winners- Enter to win an Amazon Gift Card.)

THE REGRESSION STRAIN

by Kevin Hwang

September 15 - October 10, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

Nobody’s safe when the inner beast awakens.

Dr. Peter Palma joins the medical team of the Paradise to treat passengers for minor ailments as the cruise ship sails across the Atlantic. But something foul is festering under the veneer of leisure. The brig fills with felons, the morgue with bodies, and the vacation becomes a nightmare.

Peter and his staff face a vile affliction that pits loved ones against each other and shatters the bonds of civil society.

With the ship hurtling towards an unprepared New York, only Peter can neutralize the threat, but he’s hallucinating and delirious.

And sometimes primal urges are impossible to resist.

Book Details:

Genre: Medical Thriller
Published by: Normal Range Press
Publication Date: May 21, 2025
Number of Pages: 344
ISBN: 9798992727012 (Pbk)
Book Links: Amazon | KindleUnlimited | Goodreads | BookBub

Read an excerpt:

Chapter 1

The Regression Strain

As the cab rounded the corner behind the service buildings, the full bulk of the ship rose into view, a floating city gleaming white and blue against the gray Baltic sky. The Paradise would be Peter’s home and workplace for the next month.

His shoulders tightened. Had he forgotten to pack anything? It was too late now.

The taxi ejected him into the cool summer of Copenhagen—heaven compared to the stifling heat of Texas. He checked in at the terminal counter, cleared security, and joined the stream of chattering passengers traversing the covered gangway to board the vessel. Most of them spoke in English and a few in Spanish. Others conversed in German, French, or Scandinavian tongues. They seemed affluent and confident, not at all like his impoverished patients in Houston’s Fifth Ward. That guy in front—his Rolex probably cost more than Peter’s Outback.

Peter wheeled his suitcase through a colonnade of clapping crew members and across the threshold of the grand atrium. Its rich wood paneling and glittering chandeliers were as opulent as the brochures promised. He fused with the crush of passengers piling up in front of the diagrams posted near the elevators. Living quarters for the medical crew were on the lowest deck, conveniently adjacent to the clinic.

Amid the throng, a woman was fussing over a teenage boy in a wheelchair. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear, then tousled his thick mop of brown hair. With one hand cranked tight against his chest, he lolled his head back and rewarded her with a crooked smile. Her haggard face lit up. Now that was one tired mama.

“I like his shirt.” Peter pointed to the graphic of Thor wielding his massive hammer.

“You hear that, Calvin? He likes it.”

Calvin’s nose crinkled above the sparse stubble dotting his chin. She retrieved a ChapStick from her floral fanny pack and slathered Calvin’s lips first, then her own.

She offered the tube to Peter with a glistening smile. “Want some?”

He cringed. That was weird. “Uh, no thanks.”

“Want him?”

Peter’s eyes snapped up to hers. “Excuse me?”

“You can take him for a while.” She smiled and tipped her head. “He doesn’t eat much.”

“Ah…”

“Ha ha, it’s a joke.” She licked her moistened lips. “I’ve been on this boat too long. Cabin fever.” She gave him a little nod and wheeled the kid into the elevator.

The adjacent elevator dinged open, revealing a family that looked right at home, mom admiring the decor, two school kids horsing around. Sipping coffee in his striped polo, dad looked a bit like Peter’s microbiology professor—placid and plump.

Peter pulled his suitcase to the side with a smile. It was nice to see people relaxed and carefree. And if they needed medical attention—well, he could offer it. It would be a relief to simply treat patients. No rationing medications against their rent. No fighting through nettles of bureaucracy just to get a CT scan. He wasn’t built for that fight, and the last few rounds had left him bruised.

The younger child in the elevator darted out. Mom lunged and grabbed his collar, jostling dad into Peter. Coffee sloshed out of the man’s cup and down his jeans.

An animal snarl flashed over the man’s pale, doughy face. “Watch it, prick.”

“Sorry, I didn’t expect…”

The man leaned in, eyes glowing hot behind round bifocals.

Peter jerked back. “Whoa, are you okay?”

As the man cocked his fist back, Peter watched the sleeve of his polo shirt ride up his bicep, almost in slow motion. Peter quickly raised his open palms.

“Honey,” mom hissed. She tugged her little one back, and he huddled under her frail wings.

The man lowered his fist, the stench of coffee hot on his breath.

Peter nodded. “It was an accident. I’ll buy you another coffee. Or jeans.”

The heat in the man’s eyes dissipated and he blinked a few times, looking at Peter’s face yet his attention was directed elsewhere. “Ah, shoot.”

Sorry, mom mouthed and hustled the whole family away.

Peter stepped into the elevator among passengers who seemed oblivious to the encounter. His heart hammered in his chest, and his mouth soured with adrenaline. Microbiology professor? Scratch that—this guy was more like that assistant principal caught in a minivan with the high school girl. And here he’d nearly gotten into a fistfight on his first day.

But hey, he’d defused the situation. He was still supposed to be here. This was going to work out. He closed his eyes as the last passengers got off and the elevator continued to the bottom level.

The doors opened onto a hallway with plush burgundy carpet and polished handrails. Colorful abstract prints enlivened the walls. This was where everything could begin again, even at age thirty-two. He would be a healer on the high seas, applying his hard-earned expertise to help people on vacation.

But the aura disintegrated when he opened his cabin door. Inside was a single bed, a nightstand no larger than a magazine, and a built-in desk with a swivel chair. The sheets lay twisted in a lump at the foot of the bed, exposing a mattress with stains the color of dirty bathwater. A smudged TV hung crookedly from the ceiling, and a stale scent lingered in the air. The only feature that distinguished the cabin from a hospital on-call room was the round porthole window giving view to rusty shipping containers on the dock.

Well, he wasn’t on vacation, after all, even if everyone else was. Peter heaved his suitcase onto the lumpy mattress and began stowing his clothes. Luckily he’d packed light for this trial run. The tiny closet contained a white uniform, starched and waiting like a suit of armor, as well as an orange life vest and a safe the size of a cigar box.

The only real valuable he’d brought was his new 3M Littmann Cardiology IV, an upgrade from the battered stethoscope from residency. He fished around in the side compartment of the suitcase but came up empty. It should’ve been right there.

He checked every zippered pocket, then rummaged through his backpack. Nada. How could he have forgotten his freaking stethoscope, of all things? He’d followed his packing list. He loved lists, for heaven’s sake, loved checking off each item. Little good it had done. He drew a deep breath in then out, trying to clear his mind by counting to ten like the therapist said.

Ten seconds was a long time to think about nothing. Maybe he needed a higher dose of Lexapro. He’d been reluctant to accept his diagnosis, one he himself had given to so many patients, but the antidepressant seemed to help with his mood, concentration, and sleep.

The ambiance of the bathroom matched that of the bedroom, with black spots of mildew mottling the lower edge of the shower curtain. The sink offered little space for personal items.

He opened his bottle of Lexapro, shook a tablet into his palm, and swallowed it dry as he stared into the dingy mirror. Working aboard a cruise ship would be a huge change, and he needed to bring his best. He set the bottle on the narrow counter, but it clipped the edge, flipped out of his hand, and plopped into the toilet with an insulting splash.

His stomach clenched and he squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe, by some miracle, the bottle had landed upright with the tablets safe and dry inside, like a lifeboat. A tiny boat in a tiny toilet on a gargantuan ship.

He peered down. Nothing doing—the bottle floated on its side, surrounded by white tablets bobbing in the murky water like pearls of pasta in chicken broth. Why did the water have to look like that? Was it just reflecting the grimy inner surface of the toilet bowl?

Didn’t matter. His mental health was officially soaking in shit.

The half-life of Lexapro was around thirty hours, and he’d taken one yesterday back in Houston. He could just retrieve the tablets, wash them off, and dunk them in rubbing alcohol. Without more doses, the effects would diminish over the next few days. He could picture his exit interview: I’m sorry, Dr. Palma, you came ill-prepared.

One hand drifted to his pocket. At least he’d remembered to pack his favorite metallic pen. Even in the age of digital everything, a quality pen remained one of his favorite tools—that and old-fashioned index cards. His fingers closed around the pen, clicking the top: Ta-tick, ta-tack. Ta-tick, ta-tack.

Someone knocked on the door, but the bolt clicked open before he could reach it. The slight, olive-skinned man turned back to the hall almost as quickly as he’d come in. White shirt and charcoal vest—must be a steward.

“I’m sorry, I come back later,” he said with a duck of his bald head.

Peter waved him in. “It’s all right. I just got here.”

“Nobody clean your room yet?”

“I guess not.”

“You the doctor, no?”

“One of them.” He propped the door open for the man’s cart.

The steward glanced around the tiny room. “It will be my pleasure to serve you. I come later when you have gone out.”

Peter suspected the man’s cheerful acceptance hid the same bone-deep fatigue that had weighed down his own mother. She used to clean offices, back before Felipe joined the army, and she was always exhausted. Chemical fumes permeated her clothes and hair, and her knuckles cracked and bled until he bought her the non-latex gloves that her cheap-ass boss wouldn’t pay for.

Before Peter could return to the bathroom, somebody else came knocking: a petite woman in blue scrubs, probably late thirties. A tight ponytail held back her glossy chestnut hair. Her sharp cheekbones and jawline were all business.

“Luisa Calderone, nurse on staff.” The strength in her bony handshake matched the intensity of her hazel eyes. “They said this is your first gig.”

Yep, a fresh start, a sorely needed one. “Sorry. I’ll try to learn quick.”

“We can do a proper tour later, but let’s just walk and talk for now.” She nodded back at the hallway. “I can give you some time to get changed, but we have patients—so not too long, please.”

Right back into it, then. He was a kid on a roller coaster cresting the first big incline—the moment before the bottom fell out. He opened the closet and confronted his uniform. Sure, he’d paid for the ride, but that didn’t make it any less stomach-churning.

***

Excerpt from The Regression Strain by Kevin Hwang. Copyright 2025 by Kevin Hwang. Reproduced with permission from Kevin Hwang. All rights reserved.

 MY THOUGHTS:

I thoroughly enjoyed "The Regression Strain." I was captivated from the very first chapter and finished the book quickly. Unlike some books that start slowly and make it challenging for me to stay engaged, this one was entirely different. The author crafted a thrilling story that combined elements of suspense, psychological drama, and mystery, all set within a realistic and engaging narrative filled with well-developed and interesting characters.

As a registered nurse, I was impressed by the accuracy of the medical procedures depicted in the story. It was clear that the author conducted extensive research and effectively integrated it into a compelling narrative. Each character had their own story to tell, and the protagonist, Peter, faced difficult decisions while trying to manage the outbreak. As someone who enjoys cruising, I sincerely hope never to experience such a situation firsthand. I give the book five stars. Excellent work, Mr. Hwang!
 

Author Bio:

Kevin O. Hwang, MD, is a professor of internal medicine at McGovern Medical School at UTHealth Houston where he sees patients and teaches residents. His academic work has appeared in leading medical journals. Nothing excites him more than chicken enchiladas, index cards, and appropriately sized packaging. The Regression Strain is his debut novel.

Catch Up With Kevin Hwang:

KevinHwang.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @kevin847
Instagram - @kevinhwangmdauthor
X - @KevinHwangMD

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Guest Post by Celeste Fenton ( From Barbie to Breakdown:Writing About Complex Women.) Author of Lost Heart in King Manor

 

I want to welcome Celeste Fenton to Books R Us. Celeste is the author of "Lost Heart in King Manor." The author has provided a guest post just for my readers. Thanks for stopping by.

 

Lost Heart in King Manor

By Celeste Fenton

Publisher: Independently Published (April 15, 2025)

ISBN: 979-8280071773

ASIN: B0F2ZML3M9

Print length:  347 pages (also available as ebook)

 Book Summary:

 

Some secrets are worth killing for.

And some hearts don’t break quietly.

At 45, Gabby Heart isn’t looking for drama—just quiet days on Dost Island
running her village gift shop, teaching art, and keeping her past tucked safely
away. But when her mother suffers a sudden health crisis, Gabby is pulled into a storm of family secrets, betrayal, and a dark legacy buried within the walls of the once-grand King Manor. 

What was supposed to be a safe place for her mother’s recovery becomes the backdrop for a chilling mystery. Strange incidents begin to unfold, and it becomes clear: someone inside King Manor has a deadly agenda. 

As a hurricane traps Gabby inside the sprawling estate, she’s forced to work alongside two very different men—her maddeningly attractive officemate and a charming new neighbor, both hiding dark secrets. One man may want her heart. The other may want her dead.

But can she trust her instincts before it's too late?

Publisher: Independently Published (April 15, 2025)

ISBN: 979-8280071773

ASIN: B0F2ZML3M9

Print length:  347 pages (also available as ebook)

 

GUEST POST: 

 From Barbie to Breakdown: Writing About Complex Women

By Celeste Fenton

When I was little, Barbie ruled the world. She was a gorgeous fashionista with impossible measurements (seriously—who could get a waist like that, even with a corset?). As the years rolled by, Barbie proved she could be anything: astronaut, teacher, veterinarian, rock star, tennis pro. But what she could never be was messy. Barbie didn’t have to figure out how to pay the mortgage, juggle a job and parenting, wrestle with guilt, or worry that her Spanx might roll at a dinner party.

When I began writing Lost Heart in King Manor, I knew my women weren’t going to be plastic-perfect dolls. They were going to be loving, sometimes mean, complicated, contradictory—in one word: real.

Take Gabby Heart, my protagonist. At forty-five, she’s endured heartbreak, carries both visible and invisible scars, and still manages to laugh, fight, and stumble her way through danger. She’s strong, but not “Hollywood strong.” Hers is the kind of strength that comes with being a single parent paying bills, holding her mother’s hand in the hospital, comforting a sick daughter at two in the morning, and realizing the handsome man across the room may not be as charming as he seems.

Then there’s Lola. If Barbie had a wild, sharp-tongued cousin who smoked with an opera holder and sold adult toys out of the trunk of a pink convertible while wearing leopard print, that would be Lola. She’ll cut you down with a quip and then slip you her last dollar. She’s flamboyant, loyal, and yes—she has tantrums. But don’t we all? Except Barbie.

Anna is the scholar. On the surface she’s got it all together—degrees, research, and a reputation for brains. But perfection comes at a cost, and Anna’s quiet cracks show in the choices she avoids, the relationships she sidesteps, and the fears she hides behind footnotes. Barbie never warned us about academic burnout. Or loneliness. Anna could write the book.

Abe may be a bestselling children’s author, but her success conceals scars from a brutally abusive childhood. She still battles panic attacks, though she keeps them tucked behind her polished smile. As the group’s moral compass, Abe has an unshakable sense of right and wrong, yet layers of insecurity hum beneath her calm surface. Her strength isn’t about never faltering—it’s about faltering and moving forward anyway.

Gabby’s daughter, Valentine, struggles to carve out her own identity, separate from the shadows of both her mother and grandmother. Composed and seemingly serene, Connie, Gabby’s mother, is no saint. Beneath her polish lie secrets and regrets. And then there’s Gail, who manages to hold power and vulnerability in the same body. Her daughter, Beth is the caretaker, steady on the outside but stretched thin within. Rosa Morales juggles her no-nonsense role in law enforcement with the chaos and loyalty of navigating life alongside her

two sisters. Lavanda projects the wild, lush temptress, but beneath the surface she wrestles with deep insecurities that drive her choices.

Writing these women has reminded me that female characters don’t have to be flawless. They don’t even have to be likable all the time (I can hear Barbie gasping). What they must be is real. They have to carry contradictions, make mistakes, and sometimes fall apart—because that’s where readers see themselves.

So from Barbie to breakdown, from glossy perfection to glorious imperfection, the women of the Mysteries of a Heart novels are a celebration of resilience, humor, and the beautiful mess of being alive. And honestly—would you want them any other way?

Purchase a copy of Lost Heart in King Manor

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About the Author

Celeste Fenton holds an M.Ed. and Ph.D. in education and has over thirty years’ experience in higher education. Her writing is fueled by a lifelong love of mystery, a fascination with the complexities of the human heart, and just enough
real-world experience to keep things interesting. A widow, mother of adult twin sons, proud grandmother, dog lover, and semi-retired professor living in Florida, she weaves imagination with insight to create stories that are both emotionally rich and laced with suspense.

When she’s not writing, reading, or plotting her next twist, she’s often off exploring small towns across America—setting out solo for month-long adventures, much to the awe (and occasional alarm) of friends and family. Her latest obsessions include escape rooms, mastering the perfect miter cut for a DIY bathroom remodel, and making the impossible decision of where to travel next.

You can follow the author at: 

Website: https://celestefenton.com/

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/people/Celeste-Fenton-Mysteries-of-a-Heart

IG: @cherylgreybostrom  https://www.instagram.com/cherylgreybostrom