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Showing posts with label #giveaways. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #giveaways. Show all posts

Thursday, July 10, 2025

Interview of Christine Amsden Author of Knot of Souls (#contests- Enter to win a set of the 4-book Cassie Scot series -2 winners Epub)

 

  Two souls trapped in one body must work together to solve multiple murders before it’s too late – before they can no longer tell where one of them ends and the other begins…

 


Title: KNOT OF SOULS

Author: Christine Amsden

Pages: 384

Format: Paperback, Free on Kindle Unlimited

Genre: Contemporary Fantasy/Paranormal

Two souls, one body …

When Joy wakes up in an alley, she knows three things: she was brutally murdered, she has somehow come back to life … and she is not alone. She’s been possessed by an inhuman presence, a being that has taken over her dying body. That being is powerful, in pain, and on the run from entities more dangerous than he is.

Shade, a Fae prince on the run, didn’t mean to share the body he jumped into. Desperate and afraid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit, he only sought a place to hide—but if he leaves Joy now, he faces discovery and a fate worse than death.

Forced to work together to solve multiple murders, including her own, Joy and Shade discover hidden strengths and an unlikely friendship. Yet as their souls become increasingly intertwined, they realize their true danger might come from each other … and if they don’t find a way to untangle the knot their souls have become, then even the truth won’t set them free.

Knot of Souls is a stand-alone buddy love fantasy that forces two very different beings to work together … and come out stronger on the other side.

Knot of Souls is available at Amazon.


INTERVIEW:
 
Knot of Souls offers thrills, complex characters and magical moments. Which of these was the most fun for you to write?

Complex characters, always! I'm a proud character girl, and that's at the heart of everything I write. In this case, I've forced two very different characters to work together (by trapping them in the same body) ... one is powerful but doesn't know how to trust, the other is trusting but needs to claim power. Together, they work magic (literally and figuratively). 

Which of the characters from Knot of Souls do you most closely identify with and why?

Joy (the human). At the beginning of the story, she's unassertive, which is something I've struggled with in my own life. Although Shade (the Fae) has trouble trusting, which is something I've also struggled with. 

What do you think sets Knot of Souls apart from other books of the same genre?

I think the situation itself is unique ... body sharing isn't exactly a fantasy trope! Even when I asked around in various fan groups, we mostly came up with Dax from Star Trek and Venom. Plus a one-off episode of Babylon 5. But all of those are science fiction. 

Knot of Souls is urban/contemporary fantasy, with a creatively re-imagined race of Fae, plenty of mystery/thrills, magic, and of course, that beautiful relationship between the souls. 

Surprise me. What is something that happens in the book that would make my mouth drop without giving too much away?

Penguins. 

"We don’t all get to be what we want, or I’d be a penguin." -- Shade, Chapter 28

I actually had a lot of fun with penguins in this book. They're more flavor than plot, making this an entirely spoiler-free thing to share, but I enjoyed David Tennant's narration of  "Penguins: Spy in the Huddle" so much that I watched it twice and used what I learned to add some great details into Knot of Souls.

Who is your favorite contemporary fantasy author? 

Darynda Jones. I've read her Charley Davidson series several times. 

Do you think writing a contemporary fantasy novel is more complex than writing books of other genres?

Honestly, no. I think every genre has its little complications, and at a guess, I'd say historical fiction is the most complex (or at least the genre that requires the most research), but I wouldn't say urban fantasy is more or less complex than most of the others. 

What’s next for you?

I'm working on short stories for a while, but I hope to get back to a novel-length work in progress soon. It’s called The Spaces in Between (working title), and it’s my first attempt at a young adult book, although I confess to having chosen the young adult genre situationally. The thing is, I lost my central vision between the ages of sixteen and eighteen (especially when I was eighteen), and my main character is going through the same thing. Stargardts can affect children as young as ten, and it can take as long as the mid-thirties to culminate, but in my life, in my lived experience, it happened fairly rapidly and mostly over the course of a single year. The book is still fantasy, despite drawing on some real experiences. 

Thanks for having me!

Book Excerpt:



Joy

The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.

Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”

She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.

Right?

My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.

Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.

Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.

Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.

But why?

I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …

There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.

Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.

Low is such a relative word.

– Excerpted from Knot of Souls by Christine Amsden, Christine Amsden, 2025. Reprinted with permission.

About the Author
 

Christine Amsden is the author of nine award-winning fantasy and science fiction novels, including the Cassie Scot Series.

Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.

In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.

Author Links

Website https://christineamsden.com/wordpress/

X http://www.x.com/christineamsden 

Facebook https://www.facebook.com/pages/Christine-Amsden-Author-Page/127673027288664?ref=hl

Christine Amsden is giving away 2 epub sets of the 4-book Cassie Scot series (gifted through BookFunnel! This includes Cassie Scot: ParaNormal Detective, Secrets and Lies, Mind Games and Stolen Dreams

Terms & Conditions:

  • By entering the giveaway, you are confirming you are at least 18 years old.
  • Two winners will be chosen via Rafflecopter to receive one set of the 4-book Cassie Scot series each.
  • This giveaway starts July 1 and ends September 26.
  • Winner will be contacted via email on September 26.
  • Winner has 48 hours to reply.

ENTER TO WIN!

a Rafflecopter giveaway  


 
Sponsored By:

Friday, June 27, 2025

Review of Echoes on the Wind (Maggie O'Shea series) by Helaine Mario (#contests- Enter to win An Amazon Gift Card)

 

 

Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario Banner

I want to welcome Helaine Mario to Books R Us. Helaine is the author of the Maggie O'Shea Series. I had the opportunity to read book four in the series "Echoes On The Wind" A fantastic Novel. Check out my review below.

 

ECHOES ON THE WIND

by Helaine Mario

June 23 – August 1, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

THE MAGGIE O’SHEA SUSPENSE SERIES

 

TWO STRONG WOMEN, GENERATIONS APART, CONNECTED BY MUSIC…

Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario
In 1943 war-torn France, a young woman on the Night Train to Paris has a chance meeting with two very different men who will change her life, setting in motion a Dual Timeline story that will resonate like ripples on water for generations to come.

Many years later, classical pianist Maggie O’Shea is drawn to Brittany by a long-lost letter from her French grandmother and the stirring music of Chopin, whispering like echoes across the years. But as Maggie discovers the secrets of her past, her life spirals out of control, threatening her upcoming wedding and those she loves.

Set against the backdrop of World War II France, Maggie learns her grandmother’s story, chord by chord, through Chopin’s emotional Preludes. And, in one shocking moment, Maggie’s love story will take a heart-breaking turn that will change her life and echo into her future.

Past and present converge in this haunting tale of loss and sacrifice, friendship and family, courage and survival – and the transcendent power of hope, music and l

Book Details:

Genre: Romantic Suspense
Published by: Suncoast Publishing
Publication Date: June 18, 2024
Number of Pages: 364
ISBN: 9781735184975 (ISBN10: 1735184977)
Series: A Maggie O'Shea Romantic Suspense, Book 4
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads 

 My Thoughts:

Sometimes, I must force myself to finish a book, but "Echoes on the Wind" was quite different. The romantic thriller was full of adventure, secrets, love, hardship, suspense, and a memorable cast of characters that added to the storyline and kept me engaged. I finished the book in one day because it was fast-paced, intriguing, and unpredictable. "Echoes on the Wind" is the fourth installment in the Maggie O'Shea series but can be enjoyed as a standalone novel.
The author skillfully included a dual timeline, which added to the story's charm by exploring the life of Maggie's grandmother, Clair Rousseau, who lived during World War II. Clair faced many challenges, which she overcame through her love of music. Maggie discovers some of Clair's music and Chopin's emotional Preludes, using them to learn about her grandmother's history.
An exciting twist in the plot is that Maggie is stalked by a villain from the past, Dane, who is determined to kill her. While several subplots enhance the novel, I don't want to spoil them for potential readers. 

So go out and purchase a copy of Echoes on the Wind to immerse yourself in Maggie O'Shea's world. You won't be disappointed! And while you are there, pick up the other three books in the series, The Lost Concerto, Dark Rhapsody, and Shadow Music.



Read an excerpt:

OVERTURE

“Like so many things that matter, it began with an accident.”
David Ignatius, 12/28/98

NOVEMBER, 1943. THE NIGHT TRAIN TO PARIS

Light and dark.

The bleak November landscape rushed past the train’s window. Black tree branches against the dark night sky, then a sudden flash of light. Then blackness again.

The blackout had claimed the streetlamps and cottage windows. Clair Rousseau stared out the rain-streaked glass, waiting for the next glimpse of light. A lone lantern. Car headlights tilted down, a sliver of gold beyond a cracked curtain. Sheet lightning over distant hills, a glimmer of light on water. But all she saw was the blurred, pale oval of her reflection staring back at her. Dark hair scraped back, framing huge eyes beneath winged brows, sharp cheekbones, the too-wide mouth.

No hint of the emotions flowing through her, except for the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes.

The dim, four-person compartment was cold, and she pulled her coat more tightly around her body. The seat beside her was still empty, thank God. Across from her, two German officers. One asleep, snoring loudly, his hands slack between thick gray-green uniformed knees. The other awake, a Gauloises cigarette clamped between thin lips, a jagged line of white scars marring his left cheek. The narrow fox-like face stared at her through thick round glasses and wreathes of curling blue smoke. His jacket was heavy with insignia, oak leaves, medals. Military Intelligence, she thought with a sudden chill. A high rank, SD or Abwehr. What was he thinking?

The watchful, unblinking eyes made her afraid. Like a snake’s eyes, waiting to strike. She looked away, forcing herself not to reach for her satchel, touch her identity papers for reassurance.

The carriage’s glassed door slid back and forth with an unnerving rattle as the train rocked around a bend. From the hallway came the sharp scent of burning coal, wafting back from the old steam engine several cars ahead. A cloud of steam billowed past the window like sudden fog.

She could feel the vibration beneath her, hear the rumble of the train’s wheels speeding along the tracks. The lonely call of a train whistle, echoing in the night. A quick flare of light, illuminating the rain like silver threads streaming down the window.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

Movement at the edge of her vision. A tall figure appeared in the hallway, beyond the door. Her chest tightened. Would she ever feel safe again?

A sharp crack of thunder, a sudden bright flash lighting her face.

“Mademoiselle Clair?”

Startled, her head came up. The stranger had stopped, was staring into the compartment. Across from her, the watchful German stiffened and slid pale eyes toward the voice.

Be careful.

There was something familiar about the gaunt face, the faint, questioning smile just visible above a thick woolen scarf. She stood quickly, stepping between the German and the carriage door to block the officer’s view.

Oui,” she said softly, peering into the dim hallway. The man nodded and moved closer. Something about those gentle eyes, the arch of silver brows. Memory surged. Father Jean-Luc.

She flashed him a warning glance for silence and stepped into the train’s narrow corridor, closing the door firmly behind her. “Mon Père, is it really you?”

Oui, ma petite, c’est moi.” The priest pulled the scarf down to offer a glimpse of his white Roman collar, then lost his smile as he gazed over her shoulder and saw the Germans. “But we cannot talk here. Come with me.”

He slipped a hand beneath her elbow and guided her to the end of the dark passageway, where an open exit door led across shifting metal plates to the train’s next car. She felt the sudden bite of night wind on her face, cold and wet with mist. Here the clatter of the train wheels was loud enough to hide their conversation.

They sheltered just inside the doorway, in the shadows, away from the rain. Outside, the countryside of France rushed by, then disappeared in a billow of black smoke. In the dim corridor, the planes of the priest’s face were lit by a tiny, flickering overhead bulb.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

The priest looked down at her, shook his head. “Little Clair Rousseau,” he murmured. “Now such a beautiful young woman. It’s been – what? – four years since we met? You were just thirteen, I think. Playing the piano in your parents’ apartment. Bach, yes? It was so beautiful, so stirring. I hope you are still playing?”

She shook her head. “You need hope to create music, Père.” She looked back toward her carriage compartment. The hallway was empty. “But I remember that day. The war was coming. You asked us to help you remove the stained-glass windows from Sainte-Chapelle. To save them from the bombing.”

“You were fearless, Clair. I remember watching you, swaying at the top of that impossibly high ladder. The morning light was coming through the stained glass, spilling over you like shimmering jewels. I’ll never forget it. I told myself, Clair means light, she is perfectly named.”

He leaned down. “And I can still see your sister, Elle – too young to help us, bien sûr – dancing around the altar.”

Her expression softened. “Elle loved to dance. It was the last happy day I can remember.” She lifted her eyes to his, took a breath. “Paris was another lifetime, Père.”

“You cannot lose hope,” he told her. “The glass pieces are in a safe place. Beauty and goodness cannot be destroyed. You will see the stained-glass windows back in Sainte-Chapelle when the war is over. I know it.”

She shook her head. “I wish I had your faith.”

“God has his plans. There is a reason we’ve met by chance on the night train to Paris.” Concern flashed in his eyes. “But you’ve been in Brittany? Dangerous times for a young woman to be traveling alone, Clair.”

She looked out at the black trees rushing past the doorway, and felt the blackness deep in her heart. “I am alone now, Père.”

Mon Dieu. What happened?”

“My father knew that war was inevitable. Not long after we saved the glass my parents moved us from Paris to the coast near Saint-Malo to be safe. Such irony. They had no idea how dangerous Brittany would become. And then…”

She could not stop the sudden rush of tears that filled her eyes. “The Gestapo shot my father last year, in a retaliation roundup for an act of sabotage by the Resistance. He was with the Liberty Network, they had bombed a train track. He stepped forward, admitted it, hoping to save the others. But still they took thirty innocent people from our village, murdered them in the square.”

“Oh no, Clair.” The priest made a quick sign of the cross. “I am so sorry. And your mother, your sister?”

“I don’t know, Père. I was studying in Paris, I begged them to come stay with me. But Maman refused. When I returned last month to see them, the house was empty. They were just… gone. The neighbors said the Germans took them, in the night. The mayor was told they were being relocated to Poland.”

The priest paled. “Désolé. I will pray for their souls.”

Anger erupted, spilled out. “Prayers did not help my family! I have no time for prayer now. Or sorrow. Even avenging my father will have to wait. I need all my energy now to find my mother and my sister.”

He bent toward her. “I am afraid you are still too fearless for your own good. Tell me what you’re doing, little one.”

She turned once more to scan the dark hallway, then leaned closer. “I excelled in languages in my lycée studies these last years,” she whispered. “I am fluent in several languages, including German and English. I hope to find a new job, in the Hotel Majestic in Paris, where the German High Command is quartered. Then I will join the Resistance, find a way to get news of Maman and Elle. I must find them!”

He gazed down at her for a long moment, then put a hand on her shoulder.

“Perhaps I know of another way,” he murmured.

The sound of a door opening. Wavering shadows spilled into the train’s corridor. Then the red glow of a cigarette, a spiral of smoke. She froze as the German officer turned toward them.

“Find me at Èglise Saint-Gervais, in the Marais,” the priest whispered quickly. “I am with the Resistance there. You could work with me, we need someone like you to –”

A sudden terrifying screech of metal wheels. Clair felt herself thrown to the floor as the train braked, slammed to a shuddering stop. Stunned, Clair reached out, felt the still body of the priest beside her. “Mon Père…

Shouts in German in the darkness, the clatter of heavy boots. When she raised her head she saw flashing blue lights against the night sky.

Light and dark. Light and dark.

PART 1

“An echo of the past…”
Victor Hugo

CHAPTER 1

THE PRESENT
PERFORMING ARTS CENTER, MARTHA’S VINEYARD

Light and dark.

The stage was shadowed, lit only by a handful of overhead lights. One of the lights began to flicker, a bright flash illuminating Maggie O’Shea’s face for a brief moment, then casting her into darkness.

Maggie sat at the Bechstein grand piano, marveling at the power, the responsive touch, the unique tone of the beautiful instrument. Prokofiev deserves no less, she thought.

The score propped above the keyboard was marked by penciled notations, heavy lines, arrows and slashes. Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No. 2 was the ultimate challenge for a pianist, but Maggie had chosen it because it was so emotional, so personal. So incredibly beautiful.

It has the most to say, she thought.

And, oh, she had so much she wanted to say. Always, since she’d been a young child whose bare feet did not yet reach the pedals, she had spoken through her music. Told the piano her secrets long before she told anyone else.

Her earliest memory was of being curled beneath the grand piano, listening to her mother play, surrounded – cradled – by music. Then later, sitting on the piano bench by her mother’s side. The smoothness of the keys beneath tiny fingers, the sound that seemed to magically flow from her shoulders to her fingertips. Seeing the colors, making the piano sing. Making the rest of the world disappear.

But this piece – face it, every piece lately – was giving her trouble. Something, some emotion, was just out of reach. Her mentor, the legendary pianist Gigi Donati, would say she was taking the easy way out by mastering technique but not the emotion. She could hear Gigi’s smoky, exasperated voice in the shadows. No, no, no! You are not growing, Maggie, your music is lifeless. Imagine you are kissing your lover goodbye for the last time. What do you feel? Now, again!

Maggie sighed. She had been playing the first movement for an hour, with nary a lover in sight. Without Espressivo, as Gigi would demand. She would say, You don’t know the music yet. Take the time. Grow with the music. Illuminate its secrets. Make it yours.

The light high above the stage flickered again, slipping her out of the light into darkness.

Light and dark, thought Maggie. The story of my music. The story of my life.

She closed her eyes, took a deep, shaky breath, and began to play the next phrase of music.

Look into the heart of the music, whispered Gigi from behind her. Find its light. Find its soul.

A few more chords, and suddenly Maggie’s fingers stiffened, locked, slipped off the keys. Shaking her head, she gathered the sheet music and dropped it to the bench.

I just can’t, Gigi. I know what’s wrong, why I can’t play. I just don’t know how to fix it.

But deep down, she did know. What she needed was to feel. But once again, part of her was frozen.

You will not give up, she told herself. You have so much joy waiting for you. Raising her left hand to stretch tensed tendons, the engagement ring on her finger flashed emerald in the theater lights.

The flash of emerald green in a shadowed cabin. The memory washed over her and once again she was back in the moment. She saw Michael’s face, as craggy and strong as the mountains he loved, his granite eyes locked on hers.

What are you doing, Michael?

It’s called offering you a ring, Maggie. The color of your eyes, the color of the mountains. It’s been hidden in my sock drawer for months.

I know it’s a ring. I mean… What are you doing?

Jumping off a cliff, it seems. Don’t make me get down on one knee, darlin’. I’ll never get back up.

Silver eyes blazing like a torch. Marry me, Maggie.

I… You… Oh, Love.

I’ll take that as a yes, ma’am.

She smiled. Colonel Michael Jefferson Beckett. A man who had fallen in love with her when he didn’t want to, a man she hadn’t wanted to love back.

And yet.

It just was. Like music. And right this minute he was back in those beloved mountains of his, at his cabin in Virginia’s Blue Ridge. Working on a secret project, he’d told her, with Dov, the Russian teenager in his care.

She pictured the battered, rugged face she knew so well. The quirk of his mouth, the spiky silver brows, eyes like river stones locked on her. His stillness, as if he was carved from the mountains he loved. The way he listened…

Michael, standing behind her, wrapping her naked body in a woven blanket.

Michael, beneath her in the shadowed bedroom, whispering her name against her lips while her hair fell like dark rain around his face.

She breathed out in a long sigh. It had been an emotional several months but now, finally, she was letting go of the past. Moving on. Ready to marry again. To spend the rest of her life with the Colonel, Dov and their rescue Golden, Shiloh. She had never expected this gift, this second chance at love.

She shook her head, barely recognizing the woman she’d become. For so long she’d thought of herself as a city-girl. But the small cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains was becoming her center. Her home. She heard music differently in the quiet of the mountains. Listened better.

Suddenly wanting to hear Michael’s voice, she dialed his cell. Message.

“Hey you, it’s me,” she whispered. “Call me tonight, I’ll wait up. I have so much to tell you.”

If only…

If only she didn’t have to tell Michael the secret she’d been keeping from him these past few weeks. That once again, a vicious murderer was threatening all she held dear. Dane, with his scarred, wolf-like face and mirrored sunglasses hiding his eyes. The one nightmare she could not put behind her.

Because now Dane was back in her life.

+ + +

Over 4,500 miles to the East, the man who called himself Dane could not sleep. Still hours before dawn, shadows lay sharp across the tiles of the villa’s bedroom, angling from the terrace doors. Dane sat in a cushioned chair, crutches propped beside him, staring out the glass at the black Aegean far below – waiting for the sun’s light to spill over the horizon and fill the dark water with gold.

A sudden shift of the moon, and he caught his breath at his reflection in the window. All the mirrors in the villa had been shattered years ago, by his own hand. As shattered as his life. Now, caught off guard, he stared at the disfigured face of the stranger wavering in the glass.

Without warning his mind flung him back several years. He had been standing in the Kennedy Center’s Grand Foyer, his French knife secure under his tuxedo jacket, when he had caught a glimpse of himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Tall and god-like, he’d had muscles that rippled beneath the silk, a strong carved face, flowing hair the color of wheat, streaked by the Provençal sun. A diamond in his left ear, mirrored aviator glasses that hid tiger-colored eyes. His stride had been long, fast and as powerful as the Jaguar he drove.

And then he had crossed paths with Magdalena O’Shea.

First, the badly burned hand, thanks to an encounter with Magdalena’s Colonel at a Provençal abbey. He held up his right hand, now encased in a tight black glove. Then the botched plastic surgery in Italy after being forced into hiding. The scarred, distorted face, the loss of an eye. And then, months later… He looked down at his withered legs. The fall. The sickening feeling of spinning into the void. The excruciating pain that followed. The months of unbearable physical therapy.

All because of one woman. Magdalena O’Shea.

He glanced at his Rolex. Early evening in the states. Firas should have arrived in Martha’s Vineyard by now. He smiled. Until the time came, Firas would be his legs.

The image in the glass wavered, dissolved, and Dane turned away. “For death remembered should be like a mirror,” he whispered. “Who tells us life's but breath, to trust it error.”

***

Excerpt from Echoes on the Wind by Helaine Mario. Copyright 2020 by Helaine Mario. Reproduced with permission from Helaine Mario. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Helaine Mario

Best-selling author Helaine Mario grew up in NYC and is a graduate of Boston University. Now living in Arlington, VA, this mother of two, grandmother of five, and passionate advocate for women's and children's issues came to writing later in life. Her first novel, The Lost Concerto, won the Benjamin Franklin Award Silver Medal. Echoes on the Wind is her fifth novel and the fourth in her Maggie O'Shea Classical Music Suspense Series. Royalties from her books go to children's music and reading programs. Helaine recently lost her husband, Ron, after 57 years together. Her new book echoes with loss, grief, and, ultimately, the healing power of love.

Catch Up With Helaine Mario:

HelaineMario.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @helainemario
Instagram - @helainemario.author
Facebook - @helaine.mario

 

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Monday, June 23, 2025

Spotlight of Burying Ben - Book 1 of the Dot Meyerhoff Mystery Series (#contest- Enter to Win A Bookshop Gift Card)

https://partnersincrimetours.com/burying-ben-by-ellen-kirschman/ Banner

BURYING BEN

by Ellen Kirschman

June 23-29, 2025 Book Blast

Synopsis:

The Dot Meyerhoff Mystery Series

 

Burying Ben by Ellen KirschmanAs her police department’s newest hire, police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff has much to prove. No one on the force sees any reason to have a shrink on staff. When a rookie cop commits suicide, everyone blames Dot—even Dot herself. How had she missed the signs that he was at the end of his rope?

With her reputation on the line, Dot searches for answers. What she discovers is the dark underbelly of a police force that has no patience for a woman who asks too many questions. Determined to get to the truth behind the young officer’s tragic death, Dot risks losing both her job and her life. . .

Burying Ben is on Sale, June 23-29! Click Here and Start Reading the Series Today!

Praise for Burying Ben:

"A deftly crafted novel of compelling complexity," this first book in the mystery series featuring cop therapist Dr. Dot Meyerhoff is "absorbing".
~ Midwest Book Review

"Riveting, compelling and authentic! Ellen Kirschman’s been-there done-that experience makes this a real standout."
~ Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today-bestselling author of The House Guest

"Psychological thriller writing at its finest."
~ D.P. Lyle, award-winning author of the Jake Longly series

"Highly satisfying . . . Perceptively treats complex racial, feminist, personal, and political issues while providing intimate knowledge of cops’ shop procedure."
~ Publishers Weekly

"Gutsy and emotionally anchored in real life."
~ Hallie Ephron, New York Times–bestselling author of Careful What You Wish For

"Ellen Kirschman is one to watch."
~ Bookreporter.com

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Psychological Suspense, Domestic Suspense, Amateur Sleuth, Woman Sleuth, Police Procedural
Published by: Open Road Media
Publication Date: April 23, 2024
Number of Pages: 280
ISBN: 9781504094160 (ISBN10: 1504094166)
Series: The Dot Meyerhoff Mystery Series, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | BookBub | Open Road

The Rest of The Dot Meyerhoff Mystery Series

The Right Wrong Thing
The Right Wrong Thing, #2

The Fifth Reflection
The Fifth Reflection, #3

The Answer to His Prayers
The Answer to His Prayers, #4

Call Me Carmela
Call Me Carmela, #5

Read an excerpt:

From Chapter 1

It is a day of firsts. My first day on the job and my first dead body. Chief Baxter wants me to see it. His whole face is concentrated with the effort to make his point, as though he were explaining blood spatter analysis or the biomechanics of tasers. He is wearing gold cufflinks shaped like barbells. Short and barrel chested, he looks like a well-dressed fireplug. I can imagine him as a street cop, pugnacious and badge heavy.

“Don’t sit around your office and wait for cops to come to you. That’s why I’m giving you a car and a scanner. Get out in the field.”

He speaks in short staccato bursts as though he is transmitting over the radio, dropping any unessential words. A slight spray of saliva leaves shiny droplets on his desktop. He walks around the desk and stands close to me. I smell his pine-scented aftershave and mouthwash.

“This is why I have credibility. I make it my business to suit up and get out on the street once a month. I stay in shape. And I always carry.” He opens his jacket and shows me his shoulder holster. He is wearing “a custom fitted dress shirt that shows off the inverted triangle made by his broad shoulders and narrow waist. “Street cops are the lifeblood of this organization. The street is where I started. I’ve never forgotten that and I don’t want anyone else to.”

He leans against the edge of his desk, his arms folded over his chest. “I have a rookie on scene at a suicide. Ben Gomez. He’s been having trouble. Talk to his field training officer. See what you can do to help him. I’ve met the kid. Not my best hire, but I think he’s salvageable.” He lifts his index finger. “I’m putting a lot of faith in you, Dot. I’ve had a lot of trouble in my organization since I took over as chief. Some days I feel like Typhoid Mary. I’ve got four officers on stress leave and three on admin leave under investigation. No telling when any of them will come back to work. I have a small organization—seventy-five officers. I can’t afford to lose this rookie, too. It’s bad for morale plus my overtime budget is off the charts.”

He extends his hand to me. “It’s one thing to study us and write books about us. It’s another thing to hit the streets with us. You come highly recommended by Mark Edison. That says a lot. Most men don’t have much good to say about their former wives.”

He laughs a little too loudly. I wonder if he has an ex and, if he does, what she was like.

“So, welcome aboard. I know this is a tall order, but Dr. Edison said you’re the one for the job. Don’t disappoint me or him. Now, get in your car and get out in the field.” He opens the door to his office and shows me out.

As the new department psychologist, I am in no position to protest or to tell him that I’m scared to death because I’ve never seen a dead body before. Not even my father’s. What if I embarrass myself, faint or, God forbid, get sick to my stomach? I wonder how he expects me to suit up. Maybe I should put wheels on my “couch and tow it behind my car?

The radio traffic on my scanner crackles briskly, drowning out my thumping heart. Listening to it is a guilty pleasure, like eavesdropping. This is the best of two possible worlds, close to the action but at a safe remove– the unobserved observer listening to the breathlessness of the chase, the escalating octaves that betray fear, the barked commands, the unnatural calm of the dispatcher, and the final “Code 4” signaling that the short reign of terror has given way to hours of report writing and investigation.

I drive under a cool green canopy of old oaks. Light filters through the leaves dappling the street. Fifty years ago this old northern California neighborhood was considered the ultimate in affordable, architect-designed family houses. Now the current selling prices are beyond my reach and the reach of any Kenilworth cop, firefighter or schoolteacher. Neighbors are congregating in small worried clusters on the sidewalk in front of a uniquely shabby one story home. They watch as I park my car. I take ten slow deep breaths and step to the sidewalk. Spindly trees flank the walk that leads to the front door. The grass on either side of the cracked concrete path is brown and freckled with splotches of hard, dry dirt. The front door is open. I grit my teeth and walk in.

***

Excerpt from Burying Ben by Ellen Kirschman. Copyright 2013 & 2024 by Ellen Kirschman. Reproduced with permission from Ellen Kirschman. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Ellen Kirschman

Ellen Kirschman, Ph.D. is a police psychologist. and clinician at the First Responders Support Network. She is a member of the International Association of Chiefs of Police, The American Psychological Association, Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and the Public Safety Writers Association. She is the recipient of the California Psychological Association’s award for distinguished contribution to psychology as well as the American Psychological Association’s award for outstanding contribution to the practice of police and public safety psychology. Ellen brings her expertise and decades-long experience to both fiction and non-fiction. She is the author of three non-fiction books and a five-book mystery series featuring police psychologist Dot Meyerhoff.

Catch Up With Ellen Kirschman:

EllenKirschman.com
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub - @EllenKirschman
Instagram - @ellen.kirschman.copdoc
Facebook - @ellen.kirschman

 

 

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