by Lis Angus
February 23 - March 20, 2026 Virtual Book Tour
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.
Book Details:Genre: Domestic Suspense
Published by: Next Chapter
Publication Date: December 29, 2025
Number of Pages: 290
ISBN: 9798241761187 (Paperback)
Book Links: Amazon | Kindle | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads | BookBub | Additional Links
GUEST POST:
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!
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.
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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Gregory Funaro is the NY Times best selling author of Disney-Hyperion's ALISTAIR GRIM'S ODDITORIUM (an Amazon Best Book of the Month for January, 2015) and ALISTAIR GRIM'S ODD AQUATICUM (2016), which received a Kirkus starred review. WATCH HOLLOW (HarperCollins, 2019) received starred reviews from School Library Journal and ALA Booklist, and was a Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection. The exciting sequel, WATCH HOLLOW: THE ALCHEMIST'S SHADOW, was published in February of 2020. He has also written two thrillers, THE SCULPTOR and THE IMPALER, for Kensington/Pinnacle. Gregory is a professor emeritus and lives with his family in Rhode Island, where he is busy working on his next novel. Please visit his official web site at www.gregoryfunaro.com.
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