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

 

 

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…

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:

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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Book BZlitz of Intimate Secret by D.C. Stone (#contests- Enter to win An Amazon Gift )

Intimate Secret
D.C. Stone
(Empire Blue, #6)
Publication date: April 17th 2025
Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance, Suspense

A murder was captured on satellite and multiple law enforcement agencies are trying to solve it. One of the detectives on the case, Jake Gonzalez, is led right to the front door of a local author, Francesca Conti. Sparks fly as Jake realizes he’s insanely attracted to his primary suspect, and her father is one of the most ruthless mafia bosses in the city, and someone he’s been investigating for years.

Francesca wants to escape this life her father has set for her and has been putting money away, looking for her opportunity to disappear. And much to her dismay, lately her father has been pushing her toward marrying his right-hand man, someone no woman has ever been able to say no to.

Just when she thinks she’s getting closer to escaping, Detective Gonzalez lands on her doorstep asking alarming questions, and making her heart race unlike ever before.

Goodreads / Amazon / Barnes & Noble / Smashwords

—

EXCERPT:

There’s only so many times one could say they’d been shot by the woman they loved.

Jake stared at Francesca’s shaking hands wrapped around the butt of a SIG .229. She held the gun with as much confidence as one would expect with someone who had little to no experience with such a weapon. Like a toddler taking their first wobbling, unsteady steps. Or a young child holding a chicken’s egg for the first time and being toldthey could break it if they weren’t careful.

Under the full moon, silver tears trickled down her face. A moderate wind teased at hair that had escaped the messy bun held low at the back of her head. Russet tendrils brushed along her neck and cheeks like phantom fingers. She ignored those things. But he saw it all, as if the world moved in slow motion, tracking the shifting of her eyes and hands from one person to another. Saw the way her finger tightened ever so slightly over the trigger.

The safety was off, so if she applied a touch of pressure to that metal hook, approximately ten pounds for the first shot to go off, the gun would fire the bullet waiting within.

“Frankie,” he called in a soothing yet firm voice, using the

nickname he’d started saying a few nights ago. One he’d discovered she liked when he whispered it in her ear as he sank slowly inside the heat between her legs. Her attention shifted to him for only a fraction of a second before she refocused on Dante, her father’s right-hand man. A man many did not want to fuck with. One who’d killed his fair share of folks both in and out of the city. A man who was known to be one of the most ruthless enforcers around. Dante did things in the most violent way to set examples or make a point.

 It was the only way he communicated. And it was the way he got into the position he did, leading one of the most ruthless organizations in New York City.And lucky, lucky Jake was currently in a three-way face-off, like something from the Wild Wild West, with a woman he loved and a man he’d been hunting for years.

And as if his luck couldn’t get any worse, the two had a serious

history he hadn’t been able to wrap his mind completely around.

He quickly glanced around, wishing for that backup he’d called for about ten minutes ago to show up. But with how deep they were in Central Park, that wish would never come to fruition in time. The dull light coming off the yellow haze of a streetlamp reflected dark shadows of trees in the standing puddles leftover from the rainstorm earlier. The only sound outside the passing cars on the streets lining the park and Frankie’s harsh breathing was that of leaves hitting the ground, the season of fall in full swing.

“Frankie, listen to me,” he tried again, his chest growing tight with unease. “Put the gun down. Let’s talk about this.”

“I don’t want to be a woman you love,” she said, lips trembling.

Her arms shook with either fear or adrenaline, both equally dangerous when holding a weapon.

Jake Gonzalez’s heart clenched at the words, but he pushed them away. He had to stay focused, had to sort through this mess and prevent any additional loss of life. As it was, there’d already been too much.

And if she pulled that trigger, there was nothing he could do. He

wouldn’t be able to protect her. As frustrating as it was, he had an oath to uphold. Even against a woman he loved.

Francesca Conti looked broken, disheveled, and cornered. The first two had him angry and concerned. The last…frightened.

Author Bio:

D.C. “Desi” Stone is a best-selling romance author and full-time fraud investigator. She lives in the northeast with her incredibly supporting husband, two kids, a cat, and the ever-growing family of dogs.

After serving eight years of service with the United States Air Force, she went on to transition into the world of financial crimes and became a lead investigator for many years.

Reading has always been a passion of hers, getting lost in a good, steamy romance is one of her favorite past times. She soon after discovered her own love for writing and recreating stories and characters in her head. Her writing concentrates on romantic with specifics in paranormal, suspense, and erotica.

Now, when she isn’t trying to solve a new puzzle in the world of fraud, she is engulfed with coffee, her laptop, and all those crazy characters in her head. She is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Hudson Valley Romance Writers, New Jersey Romance Writers, RomVets, RWA Kiss of Death, and the Liberty State Fiction Writers. She served as the 2014 NJRW Vice President and Conference Chair. Come stop by on Facebook, Twitter, or her website and say hello!

Website / Goodreads / Facebook / Instagram / Twitter

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My Writing Process (Guest Post) by Deven Greene Author of the Novel The Organ Broker. (#contests- Enter to win a print copy of the book.)@partnersincrimetours

I would like to extend a warm welcome to Deven Greene to Books R Us. Deven is the author of the novel "The Organ Broker." The author has provided us with a guest post just for my readers. Don’t forget to enter the giveaway below to win a print copy of the book. Thanks for stopping by.

THE ORGAN BROKER

by Deven Greene

March 31 - April 25, 2025 Virtual Book Tour

Synopsis:

A devoted wife and mother faces the unimaginable as her life crumbles.

Crystal Rigler seems to have a perfect marriage. Derek, her handsome and charismatic husband, and their adult daughter, Cordelia, are her whole world. In addition to her already busy life, Crystal supports the volunteer organization she and Derek started: STOP (Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners).

STOP aims to end a new government policy of harvesting organs from executed prisoners. They learn that these organs are not distributed by the national transplant list, established to allocate organs fairly. Instead, a shadowy figure known as Broker Al pulls the strings. He expedites the execution of young and healthy prisoners and sells their organs at a high price to the rich and well-connected.

After Crystal learns a disturbing secret, events are set in motion that will potentially dismantle STOP, change her life, and cost her everything. Unless she is willing to do the unthinkable…

Praise for The Organ Broker:

"The Organ Broker by Deven Greene was intricate and captivated my attention from the first page. The story was fast-paced with not a single dull moment."
~ Readers' Favorite

"If you enjoy moral dilemmas, complex characters, and a plot that feels uncomfortably plausible, this book will leave you thinking long after the ending."
~ Literary Titan

"...electrifyingly intense... Introspective and entertaining, The Organ Broker navigates the delicate balance between principles and priorities."
~ Indies Today

"The Organ Broker … teeters between thriller, novel, a story of medical and social challenge, and more. It stands out from others about organ harvesting simply because it evolves a complex plot that engages characters and readers in a moral and ethical dance spiced with intrigue and the unexpected."
~ D. Donovan, Sr. Reviewer, Midwest Book Review

THE ORGAN BROKER Trailer:

Book Details:

Genre: Psychological Suspense
Published by: Panthera Publishing
Publication Date: April 2025
Number of Pages: 321
ISBN: 9781964620060 (ISBN10: 1964620066)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Google Books | Apple Books | Kobo | Goodreads

GUEST POST:

My Writing Process

By Deven Greene

Yesterday, I finished the rough draft of my next novel. Writing the first draft is the most fun part of the publishing process for me, but I’m plenty busy before and after that.

Prior to sitting down and typing (yes, I type as opposed to using paper and pen or pencil), I’ve spent a while thinking about what I will write. Sometimes, a plot idea pops into my head. Other times, a current event takes hold in my brain. There’s also a list of ideas I’ve made that I can refer to for future stories. Once I know what I will write about, I start my research. My works mostly revolve around science or medicine. Although I may already know a lot about the subject, there is often still quite a bit I need to learn. I think it’s best to “overlearn” the subject. I don’t feel compelled to include everything I know—I don’t want my books to read like a textbook.

Once I sit down to begin, I have a goal of writing a certain number of words a day. That usually takes me several hours, leaving me free to think about details that I might want to add or change. I don’t edit much at that point—I just type. I often need to check on facts as I proceed or make a note to check something out later. Some days are a bit tough—I might have a scene I planned out in my head, only to find when I write it out that something isn’t working right. I need to figure my way out of whatever quagmire I’ve written myself into. Some days, on the other hand, are a breeze—I pretty much know what I’m going to write before I sit down, and the words just flow.

When I’m done with the first draft, the hard work begins. I wait a few weeks, then start the arduous task of proofreading. At this point, I check spelling and grammatical errors. I may find a plot hole or contradiction that needs to be corrected. I often decide I don’t like the names I’ve chosen for some characters and spend some time choosing names I like better. The software makes it easy to search for the old name and replace it with the new one.

Then comes the moment of truth: having other people read my manuscript. It may be months before I feel I have enough input. That often results in more changes, but the story is stronger because of it.

Thanks for reading.

Read an Excerpt:

Chapter 1

The East Texas sun was hotter than usual for September, the few clouds high above providing no relief. A half-hour earlier, overcome by heat and exhaustion, Crystal had let her sign reading “Save Kwami” slip to the ground. Standing near the front of the crowd, Crystal pushed up the visor on her baseball cap to get a better look at her surroundings. She was pleased with the impressive turnout which she estimated to be close to one thousand people. It was the largest they’d ever had. Most of the other protestors continue to hold their placards high, displaying myriad slogans such as “Justice for Kwami,” “Let Kwami Live,” “Impeach Gov. Percy,” and the most popular, “STOP.” She took a deep breath and lifted her sign again, fighting the pain in her fingers as she held it as high as she could.

The crowd of protestors was comprised of a cross-section of the community— young, old, couples, families, Black, White, Hispanic, and Asian. A colorful array of baseball caps, bucket hats, visors, straw hats, and cowboy hats protected most of the heads from the constant flood of the sun’s rays.

The makeshift podium and public address system were rudimentary, and there was the usual milling around often seen in large gatherings, but the audience, for the most part, was paying attention to the pudgy young man with a man bun speaking to them. At times, the crowd burst out in synchronous claps and hoots of approval. The assembly was peaceful, with only a few skirmishes breaking out at the edges where police stood watch.

Still thirsty after having finished her bottle of water, Crystal let her mind wander as the speaker droned on about the immorality of what was about to take place. Her clothes clung to her sweaty body, and despite wearing sunglasses with polarized lenses, the bright sun hurt her eyes. Looking down, she swatted away a bug that landed on her arm. Uncomfortable and impatient, she was eagerly awaiting the next speaker.

Finally, the man at the podium looked up and announced, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting to hear, the leader of our organization, Mr. Derek Rigler.”

The mood of the crowd changed, and participants started chanting “STOP” in unison as they raised and lowered their signs. A tall, muscular man with tan skin and wavy blond hair, took to the stage next to the previous speaker and scanned the crowd with his magnetic blue eyes. Crystal looked up and smiled. His handsome, chiseled features gave him the look of a confident leader. Although he was nearly fifty years old, he looked at least ten years younger. He hasn’t lost the ability to attract attention whenever he enters a room.

Derek took his place on the podium and held out his arms as if to give a benediction. After almost a full minute of roaring applause, he raised and lowered his hands several times to quiet the crowd.

Crystal looked around, energized by the enthusiasm bubbling over. She noted more press vans set up around the perimeter than in the previous protest. Their organization, STOP, was gaining traction.

She wondered if Derek had picked her out of the crowd. If she were taller, he’d probably see her—she wasn’t far from the front—but she imagined her five-foot two-inch frame made her visage difficult to identify in the sea of people. From what she could glean, Derek hadn’t spotted her. After all, she was just another brunette under a baseball cap, surrounded by many others. Even so, Crystal smiled widely, wondering if anyone nearby recognized her. After all, she was notable as Derek’s wife and the mother of his child, Cordelia.

As Derek started his familiar diatribe against the Texas death penalty laws, Crystal tried to lock eyes with him, but his eyes never found her. Instead, he focused on members of the audience near and far, concentrating his gaze on one person for several seconds before moving on to the next pair of waiting eyes.

Crystal recognized the usual arguments against the event that was scheduled to take place momentarily—the uneven death penalty sentencing, the ugliness of exacting revenge, and the irreversibility of the punishment once meted out. The speech was powerful, and she agreed with everything Derek said. She could recite the words by heart, not only because she had heard them during Derek’s practice sessions, but because she had written them herself. Every time the crowd reacted with hollers and claps, she felt taller, each breath a bit more satisfying. She’d been to over six of these rallies in the past year, each protesting the execution of a prisoner found guilty of a crime deemed fitting for capital punishment.

The death penalty had never sat well with Crystal, but over the past two years, the practice had escalated, with four more executions scheduled over the next six months in Texas alone. Not only was the ultimate punishment meted out more often, but the evidence leading to convictions was frequently less convincing. She’d made up her mind to do something to stop the injustice and had established STOP almost a year earlier. A small, grass-roots collection of like-minded people, it was taking hold, thanks to her speech writing, community outreach, and organizational skills, bolstered by her husband’s charisma. He was the face of the organization.

Derek’s address was interrupted by a loud commotion as the officers stationed around the perimeter began to forcefully clear a path through the protestors to the entryway of the large building looming behind the speaker. Despite shouting and resistance from the crowd, with the most passionate demonstrators being handcuffed and dragged away, the police were able to open a wide berth.

“We are nearing the time,” Derek shouted above the commotion, “the time when our brother Kwami will be taken from us in an act that can only be described as state-sponsored murder. Let all those who have participated in this mockery of justice one day pay for their crimes, and let all those who directly benefit from this violent act realize the wrong they have participated in.”

A police transport moved through the clearing in the crowd as demonstrators chanted “Kwami, Kwami” in unison. Although the windows of the vehicle were covered, all knew who was inside—Kwami McKinney, sentenced to be executed that day. The van didn’t stop until it was a mere five feet from the door to the building. A massive construction of cement and glass six stories high, the structure dwarfed the trees and other buildings nearby. Derek was silent as he turned to watch the Black prisoner, his head shaved, exit the van's side door.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit accessorized with ankle and wrist shackles, Kwami was escorted by two armed guards, each holding onto one of his arms. Two more prison officers took up the rear. As the party of five walked towards the glass doors of the building, a Black woman around fifty years old ran towards them screaming. She was forcibly stopped by police, who grabbed onto her arms long before she could interfere.

Everyone there knew the woman was Sally McKinney, Kwami’s mother. She yelled and cried hysterically, flailing against those restraining her as her son was led through the automated doors that opened before him and the guards. They disappeared inside the structure as the glass doors shut.

People in the crowd yelled and cried, drowning out Ms. McKinney's wails. Frustrated tears filled Crystal’s eyes; their protest had done nothing to dissuade the authorities from carrying out their sentence. She hadn’t expected the proceedings to be halted, but held onto a glimmer of hope until now, irrational as it was.

She looked to Derek for comfort, hoping they might finally lock gazes and convey their sadness to each other, but Crystal’s thoughts were interrupted by a female acquaintance. “Fantastic speech,” the woman said.

“I can’t disagree,” Crystal answered, buoyed momentarily by the woman’s words.

“You must be very proud, being his wife. He’s so handsome, and brilliant to boot. You two are the perfect couple. I’d sure like to be a fly on the wall at your dinner table to hear about all his great ideas.”

The words stung slightly, as Crystal chuckled politely. She was accustomed to being thought of as a mere appendage of her charismatic husband, but, she’d tried to convince herself that a successful protest, with Derek delivering a resounding speech, was all that was important. She didn’t need the admiration of others like he did. “Our dinners aren’t as interesting as you might think. Mostly, we talk about how we’re going to pay our bills.”

Members of the press, who until now had been scattered amongst the protestors while taking notes and silently recording videos, were now talking and interviewing people on camera. The crowd thinned, but Crystal didn’t want to leave. She’d have liked to remain until she knew Kwami had taken his last breath, but that moment was hours away.

She listened as a nearby male telecaster spoke into a camera. “Emotions are again high as another execution is about to take place. While many people feel that the crimes Kwami McKinney was convicted of, armed robbery and hostage-taking, justify the death sentence, some feel the punishment is too severe for the crimes the prisoner was convicted of. Still others believe he is innocent of the charges against him.”

The reporter turned to a middle-aged female bystander and asked, “What do you think of today’s events? Do you think justice is being carried out today?” After posing the question, he shoved the microphone close to the woman’s mouth.

“This is a travesty of justice,” she answered. “The real criminal was wearing a ski mask during the robbery, and escaped capture immediately following the crime. That was made clear during the trial. We also learned that Mr. McKinney was picked out in a lineup by two unreliable witnesses days later. There was a boatload of evidence that the so-called witnesses had drug charges against them dropped shortly after identifying Mr. McKinney. What kind of justice is that?”

The telecaster quickly turned to the camera and continued his reporting. “Despite the controversy, Kwami McKinney is still scheduled to be executed here and now at New Lake Hospital. While we are happy for the families of the six unnamed individuals who will be the recipients of much-needed organs, many are questioning the legality and morality of what is now becoming a common method of organ procurement. The objections are being led by the organization STOP, which stands for Stop Transplants of Organs from Prisoners.”

***

Excerpt from The Organ Broker by Deven Greene. Copyright 2025 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

Deven Greene lives in Northern California, where she enjoys writing fiction, most of which involves science or medicine. She has degrees in biochemistry (PhD) and medicine (MD), and practiced pathology for over twenty years.

She has previously published the The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), and Ties That Kill, as well as several short stories.

Catch Up With Deven Greene:

www.DevenGreene.com
Subscribe to Deven's Blog
Amazon Author Profile
Goodreads
BookBub @Deven_G1
Facebook @DevenGreeneFiction

 

 

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Interview of Maxime Trencaval Author of The Matriarch Messiah (#contests- Enter to Win An Amazon Gift Card- 2 Winners)

 

THE MATRIARCH MESSIAH

By

Maxime Trencavel

BLURB:

Zara Khatum, a woman haunted by ancient visions, finds herself drawn deeper into the heart of a perilous quest. Guided by a mysterious voice, she seeks to fulfill an ancient prophecy and find the cavern of blue light - a sanctuary rumored to hold the key to saving humanity. But the path to salvation is fraught with danger, and Zara is torn between her destiny and her heart.

A shadowy organization, known as NiQihs, seeks to exploit the power of the legendary black object, the source of Zara's visions, for their own sinister ends. They are not alone. The world's superpowers, driven by greed and ambition, race to control the artifact, threatening to unleash unimaginable devastation.

Joining Zara in this dangerous pursuit is Rachel Capsali, a brilliant Israeli archaeologist driven by a personal quest to uncover evidence of Asherah, a forgotten goddess who held a pivotal place in ancient Israelite faith. Unbeknownst to them, both women are bound by a shared destiny - a prophecy foretelling the cavern of blue light and a final, heartbreaking truth: two women will fight to the death, and only one will save us all.

Adding to the complexity, a passionate triangle forms as Rachel vies for Peter Gollinger's affection, a man deeply entangled in the ancient mystery. Zara, torn between fulfilling her destiny and her own feelings for Peter, finds herself caught in a web of conflicting desires.

As Zara and Rachel navigate a treacherous landscape of hidden agendas, betrayal, and relentless pursuit, their rivalry for Peter's affections intensifies. Can love survive the forces that threaten to tear them apart? Will the quest for salvation lead to a heart-wrenching sacrifice?

INTERVIEW:

 Can you tell us when you started writing?

When I was a child. I had wanted to emulate the Captain Horatio Hornblower novels in primary. That was a fail. But later in secondary school, I wrote morality plays that the theater group practiced. Actually, tacking a novel as an adult did not happen until corporate life took a liberating turn. The Matriarch Matrix was the result.

Can you tell me who or what the inspiration for the book was?

The Matriarch Messiah is the sequel to The Matriarch Matrix. So, when writing the first book I had the second one already in mind. Hence the nearly seamless connection between the two. In writing the second book and the summer release prequel, I had the third book in the series in mind.

Now what inspired the first book? 

I felt the world needed a story which linked customs and faiths which come under western ire and fire to be linked to the ancient days before written words and oral traditions. We are more alike than different when one sees the life through this perspective.

Can you tell us how you came up with your title?

The original title for the first book was “The Object”. All the books’ storage files are marked The Object I or II or III, etc. At the time the manuscript went to beta readers, I had to make a commitment to a title. The theme of the book already changed from patriarchal legend to matriarchal legend, the word Matriarch became prominent. Lulu used to have a title scorer using algorithm which would give your idea% chance of bestseller title. The Matriarch Matrix scored well, although other names did better. I wanted to highlight the matriarchal nature of the series, so away we went.

Can you tell us a little about your main characters?

Zara is a devout Kurdish woman whose life has been shaped by conflict and a deep faith. She seeks to find peace and understand the voice of the divine, struggling to reconcile her traditional beliefs with the complexities of the modern world. She forms a unique bond with Peter, a man who challenges her traditional views and helps her understand her true destiny.

Peter is a Californian man who has inherited a family legend and a deep connection to his ancestors. He is often perceived as eccentric or even delusional, yet he possesses a strong moral compass and seeks to use his knowledge to protect the world from the forces of destruction. He forms a profound bond with Zara, a woman who challenges his worldview and helps him embrace his true calling.

Alexander is a ruthless and ambitious magnate who seeks to control the world through his technologically advanced empire. He is obsessed with finding the source of the blue light and believing that the world is a chessboard that he can manipulate for his own purposes. He possesses an uncanny ability to use people for his own gain, often betraying those he claims to love.

Rachel is a dedicated Israeli archaeologist and Torah historian who seeks to uncover the truth behind the ancient scriptures. She has inherited a family legacy of vengeance and feels a profound obligation to unravel the secrets of the past. She forms a partnership with Peter, a man who shares her thirst for knowledge and helps her navigate a world full of conspiracies and hidden agendas.

Do you ever suffer from writer’s block? If so, what do you do about it?

I had a five-year block. At the beginning of 2020, I was incorporating the copy editor’s edits and editorial commentary. Then, a global pandemic harkening of the century earlier Spanish Flu changed all of our paradigms. Then the global turmoil, the political turmoil, new wars all ate up share of mind. Four plus years later, new year resolution time comes. And with it the commitment to revisit a nearly finished manuscript. And the sequel launched four months after that online file folder had been opened again. The key issue of such a long gap of time is I lost the brand equity built from the first launch. So, there is no synergistic spend for this latest launch.

What’s next on your writing to-do list?

We’re on a roll now. The prequel, The Matriarch Mission, is now with a developmental editor and beta readers. Outlining The Matriarch Mandate will start shortly while wandering around the shores of Mallorca.

Can you tell me about your experiences finding a publisher for the book?

The nature of this series creation mitigated any strategy of pitching to traditional publishers. Why? They are not written to genre. They are the inverse. Whatever genre is needed to tell the story is used for that section’s prose or chapter. So, AI analytics define several genres for these books. The readers who like these books appreciate the read, but without a concise defined genre, traditional book marketing would likely fail. So, an LLC filing and away we go.

If you were going to hang out with one of your characters, who would that be?

Lunch with Rachel could be amusing if only to listen to her go on and on incessantly about the injustices committed by Torah scribes writing Asherah out of the scriptures. But, hanging with the evil incarnate himself, Mr. Alexander Murometz, would be awe-inspiring. How the world’s most powerful puppet master controls government heads worldwide. How he controls the world media. But of course, he would find a way to have me to pay the check.

What do you like to do for fun when you’re not writing?

I travel when family availability or business needs arise. With high-speed internet and laptop, one can work from most anywhere. I take hikes or bike rides to stay fit, clear the head, and ponder what and where the current book in progress should head. That means straight to the keyboard upon returning

 

READ AN EXCERPT:

Another dewdrop hits her nose. But this time, she does not wipe it off as it mingles with the drops from her eyes while she searches inside for the strength to remember that which remains

unresolved in her life, with her family, with her destiny. Is he really the one? Should she reveal what should only be revealed to the one man who will bring her to her destiny?

A purse of her lips and she finally says, "Sara, my great-grandmother, she was our link to the wisdom of generations of spiritually inspired women before her."

Still facing away from Peter, she says, "Sara liked you. She saw something in you when she first met you at that first dinner at her ancestral house when we were staging for our mission to retrieve the object."

Turning back to him, she says, "Sara said to my grandmother Roza, her daughter, that you harbor the same light her husband, a Sufi imam, my great-grandfather, had within him when they first met."

She points to his eyes. Blue ones which naturally go with his once-blond and now-sandy-brown hair. “Sara said the light is blue. The light we should seek is blue. The world thinks the light is white. But the one we seek, we yearn for, we die for, is blue. She so feared dying before she could find the blue light. For in the blue light, we shall return”, she said.

Peter, who knows so much trivia because he is an editor of all sorts of topics, papers, and books, is speechless until he finally mutters, "Blue? Where did that come from? I'm not getting the connection to the mystery of the ancient matriarch we solved."

"As you had with your grandfather, your pappy, who entrusted you with an ancient family oral tradition, passed from mouth to mouth, from generation to generation, as far back in time as that temple, the world's oldest temple, which our follies led to be destroyed, so there is a line of similar wisdom passed down in my family line. But through the women. Mother to daughter and to granddaughter."

 

About the Author: 

Maxime has been scribbling stories since grade school, from adventure epics to morality plays. Blessed with living in multicultural pluralistic settings and having earned degrees in science and marketing, Maxime has worked in business and sports, traveling to countries across five continents and learning about cultures, traditions, and the importance of tolerance and understanding. Maxime's second novel, The Matriarch Messiah, was conceived, outlined, written, and edited in different locations in Belgium, including the Turkish and Kurdish neighborhoods of Brussels, in various islands of the Caribbean, in Colombia, in Madrid, Malaga, Mallorca, Spain, London, UK, and on the two coasts of the United States.

 

Connect With the Author:

Book and author website: https://tailofthebird.com/

Author Blog: https://tailofthebird.com/blog

https://www.facebook.com/MaximeTrencavel/

https://www.instagram.com/maximetrencavel/

Links to The Matriarch Messiah pre-sale at $0.99 intro pricing (release date March 17, 2025):

Amazon- https://amzn.to/4l9sEfS

https://www.kobo.com/us/en/series/mystery-of-the-matriarchs

https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-matriarch-messiah/id6742783963

https://books.google.com/books/about/The_Matriarch_Messiah.html?id=I_9LEQAAQBAJ

GIVEAWAY:

The author will be awarding $20 Amazon/BN gift cards to two randomly drawn winners.

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