Six months after the events in Death in the Ozarks, Sally Witherspoon is trying to put that terrible time behind her. She books a river cruise down the Mississippi to get away and relax.
Unfortunately relaxation is not to be as as she's called on to get to the bottom of a mysterious death that occurs on board.
A combination of Cheers bartender and Miss Marple, Sally Witherspoon is as determined as ever to solve it.
Praise for Murder On The Mississippi:
"An enjoyable, but deadly cruise down the Mississippi that will keep you in suspense from start to finish! A relaxing trip down the river that turns into a nightmare for main character Sally Witherspoon is a delightful mystery for readers... Lots of twists make for an entertaining read. And like Sally, once it’s over, I’m ready for the next adventure. Looking forward to more in the Sally Witherspoon series!" ~ Ivanka Fear, author of the Blue Water Mysteries and Jake and Mallory Thrillers
Book Details:
Genre: Traditional Mystery, Cozy Mystery Published by: Level Best Books Series Links: THE SALLY WITHERSPOON MYSTERY SERIES on Amazon & Level Best Books
GUEST POST:
What Makes Sally Witherspoon Tick?
I
have always thought about writing a mystery novel as I've loved reading
mysteries since pretty much forever. Growing up, my mother had most of
the Agatha Christie novels and I especially liked the ones with Miss
Marple. I now have many of the books myself as well as the TV series
with Miss Marple and could engross myself in the stories over and over.
They are just so entertaining!
At
the beginning of the pandemic back in 2020, I had a lot of time on my
hands (as did so many of us), so I decided to begin writing the first
book. I thought a lot about what kind of detective I would want to
create and where I would place this person in the world. The most
important thing for me on creating my detective was that I knew it
should be a female detective who is in her mid- to late 50s. There are
many great amateur detectives out there these days, but (IMHO) too many
are thirty-something, inheriting a bakery or something from a relative. I
wanted my detective to stand out. Sally Witherspoon was born in
Savannah, Georgia, one of my favorite places on the planet, and moved to
Atlanta for college. She met and married her husband there and had a
long career in finance.
At
some point in her early 40s, she decided she needed a change so she
divorced her husband and left her job in finance. She decided to move to
the Arkansas Ozarks, where she had been once with her now ex-husband
and where a good friend of hers was from. To top it all off, she decided
to do something completely different, so she bought an old bakery
outside the town of Berry Springs and turned it into a biker bar.
Life
is fairly quiet until she finds a dead body behind the bar one Saturday
night. Thus starts her amateur detective side hustle, which she
discovers she loves.
The
setting of the Arkansas Ozarks was inspired by a trip there back in
September 2015. I just loved the atmosphere, the small-town feel, the
people and altogether the remote location fit well to a small-town
mystery.
Find
out more about Sally in book 1: Death in the Ozarks and book 2: Murder
on the Mississippi. Both were published by Level Best Books, with an
audio version of book 1 published by Blackstone Publishing.
I hope you enjoy reading the books!
If you are interested in more on me and my writing, check out my author website.
A cross between Agatha Christie's Miss Marple and a Cheers bartender, Sally Witherspoon, a 50-something accountant turned biker-bar owner, loves solving puzzles. Up to now, she has focused on helping neighbors and friends find lost jewelry, lost pets, and lost loves.
But when she finds her best friend and business partner, Bill Arnold, dead in a dumpster behind her bar on a Saturday night, she needs all her wits and grit to find out who did it.
And she won't stop until she does.
Author Bio:
Currently in Austria, Erik S. Meyers is an American abroad for years and years who has lived or worked in six countries on three continents, the longest in Germany. He is an award-winning author and communications professional with over twenty-five years of expertise in a variety of corporate roles. Reading and writing are his passions, when he is not hiking one of the amazing trails in Austria or elsewhere.
Curran’s enemies thought he was dead.
They were wrong.
He thought his past was left on the Voula Beach Road.
He was wrong.
Now, that nightmare is drawing his enemies out.
The halls of power are being targeted—but by who?
Is the secret of the Voula Beach Road behind the chaos?
Curran knows the answer.
It’s all in The Whisper Legacy . . .
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran was once a freelance intelligence operative swashbuckling around the world—until Greece—until the Voula Beach Road. There, he lost everything and nearly his life. Now, he’s a luckless, aging PI living on guilt and nightmares—barely paying his rent if not for Tommy Astor, a well-connected Washington powerbroker. Curran becomes a suspect in the murder of a philandering husband. He has an alibi—but that will get him arrested. Is committing crimes trying to resolve other crimes still a crime? For Curran it is, especially after he’s a suspect in two murders. Chasing the real killer, Curran is haunted by his demons from the Voula Beach Road, and something called Whisper. On his trail is an angry, vengeful US Deputy Marshal, gun-happy assassins, and a shadowy figure thwarting Curran’s every success. For each step forward, there’s another threat, another roadblock, another piece of evidence stacking up against him. Whisper is at the center of his nightmares—whatever Whisper is. Is Whisper why Charlie Cantrell had to die? Why bodies are dropping across Washington? Why the President’s short list for running mates is getting shorter? Faced with old foes and aided by his last surviving Voula Beach friend, Curran must stay ahead of the assassins, rescue a kidnapped little girl, and find the deadly secrets hidden within The Whisper Legacy.
THE WHISPER LEGACY Trailer:
Book Details:
Genre: Political Thriller, Action Thriller, Detective Mystery Published by: Level Best Books Publication Date: March 25, 2025 ISBN: 978-1685129149 Series: A Pappa Legacy Novel, Book 1 Book Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Bookshop | Goodreads | BookBub
GUEST POST:
Who Is Lowe Curran and Why Is He Trying to Be Me?
I have written almost a dozen novels. Of those nine have been published, two are on their way, and one was re-written into a sequel. In those stories, there is always a character or two (or four) stolen from my real-life adventures as an anti-terrorism consultant—past and present. Sure, sure, we all promise that “names, characters, and places are the work of fiction and aren’t anyone living or dead” blah, blah, blah. That’s true overall, except come on people, get real. Most of our main characters—the good and the bad—are part of us in some way. Well, except for Oliver Tucker who’s a dead detective in my paranormal mystery series. I’m not dead yet. But in my thrillers, the main characters are sort of a Frankenstein of people I’ve known along my travels. And, yes, the main characters carry a lot of me with them. Marlowe “Lowe” Curran, without a doubt, tries the most to be me—more than any protagonist I’ve ever written.
Sorry, it wasn’t planned that way.
Curran—that’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an—the narrator and main character in The Whisper Legacy, is a down-on-his luck private investigator and security consultant. He was once a hired gun for the US Government protecting big shots and bad guys overseas. Until the Voula Beach Road mission that ended his career, nearly his life, and wiped out almost all his friends and colleagues. It destroyed him for years. Now, he’s fighting back and trying to evade a murder wrap in order to find out who or what Whisper is. It won’t be easy. First, he’s coming to grips with loneliness and age. He creaks and groans too often. Can’t pass a bathroom without a pitstop. He’s slowing down and no longer the swashbuckler he once was. If he can overcome all that, he might live long enough to learn what Whisper has to do with his past and why it might end his future. Oh, and why the body count of Washington DC elite is rising.
Me, too.
Well, not the Washington body count, but everything else.
I, being of sound mind and aging body today, am a private investigator and anti-terrorism consultant. While I was never washed up in the old days, I certainly felt that way many, many times. After leaving my dream job as an OSI agent running its anti-terrorism program, I was lost. Depressed. A failure. I had to leave, mind you. Divorce took my children ten hours away and a life travelling the world and doing OSI’s bidding would have left me without them. That was not acceptable. I resigned. Boom. My life’s dream was crushed.
It took me a couple years to rebuild a career and finally feel like I was back in “the game.” Then, a few years later, the company where I was an executive, sold out and left me alone and on my own again. Boom. A failure. Alone. I was neither, but those feelings haunted me like Curran’s nightmares plagued him.
Finally, I found my feet again consulting with a Washington DC thinktank on anti-terrorism with Homeland Security. Yeehaw. Back on my feet. Off to the races. Except now, I was older. Slower. Out of shape and yep, had to keep an eye out for the men’s room. Okay, TMI. Sorry.
Even though I was supporting Homeland and doing important work, I still struggled with the loss of my prior adventures. Sure, sure, maybe those adventures were long ago and not as super-cool as I recalled. But they were mine and they made me who I am. Now, I wasn’t quite “that guy” any longer.
Why do I tell you all this poor-me? Because it somehow slipped into Lowe Curran’s character and became his resume. No, I never lost my team on Greece’s Voula Beach Road. But wait! My first brush with terrorism was on that very road back in the late 1980’s. That event gave me the realism to write Curran’s fictional ambush—the breeze of salty sea air, the smoke from roasting lamb, and the smell of gunfire and explosions. Ah, the good old days…
In The Whisper Legacy, Curran operates out of an old barn loft apartment helping his aged, yet still beautiful and alluring landlady stop her cheating husband. After OSI, I lived in a barn loft apartment. No, my landlady wasn’t a Janey-Lynn, but hey, a guy can dream. Right?
Poor Curran is trying to stay in shape and regain his glory days. Me, too. I used to run five miles a day and ten miles twice a week. I studied Martial Arts, weight lifted and stayed in great shape. Age stole all that. Oh, yeah, sure, probably a little laziness and excuses, too. Now, in my early sixties, I’m back to working out two hours a day to fight my body’s natural love of good food (which I cook, of course). I feel for Curran. He hates aging. Hates not being “that guy.”
Dammit, man, me, too!
Oh, and Curran is a man about dogs—he steals, er, rescues Bogart, a black lab, from a nasty POS. I have three rescues and two rescue cats. Just sayin’.
So, life imitates art? Or is art the canvas for life? For Lowe Curran, well, we’re stuck with each other. I love him. Not because he’s so much of me, but because he fights the good fight with laughs, good nature, and sheer will. I try to do that, too. Though, I think he pulls it off better than me most of the time.
The Whisper Legacy has far more about my world than just Lowe Curran. Give it a read. See if you can find me, my world, and my fears in there. Maybe there’s a few of yours in there, too.
Read an excerpt:
Chapter One
Marlowe “Lowe” Curran
Getting old is not for the meek. Especially when in your youth, you were an adventurer and risk taker—a man of mystery and worldliness. You know, stuff that made your heart rumba and your pulse sizzle. Having to perform menial, boring deeds in your later years is tough. Especially when you sit around with good bourbon and reminisce about the old days. You tend to drink too much and pine for those glory days and lost adventure. So much that it eats at you. Not that I’ve ever done that, mind you. Just saying, you know, it happens to other people.
For instance, if anyone had told me twenty years ago that one day I’d be standing outside an old, two-story brick Rambler in Leesburg, Virginia, at ten in the evening, wearing old, raggedy pajamas, an ill-fitting robe, and carrying a dog leash—absent the dog—I would have been offended. Such a scenario might have suggested I’d lost my faculties too early in life. Perhaps I’d gone crazy or became homeless. Of course, I’d never seen a homeless person wearing pajamas and a robe at ten in the evening, crazy or not. Still, you get my concern.
I’m Curran. That’s Ker-in, not Kuur-an. It’s Irish—not that it matters. But pronunciation is important.
Don’t get the wrong idea about me. I don’t normally dress up in old pjs and walk neighborhoods with a dog leash. It just seemed like the thing to do tonight. I’m also not that damn old, either. At present, I’m pushing my early-mid-fifties and have a full head of dark, reddish hair, and almost always in need of a shave. It’s not that I’m trying to be suave and cool. I’m sorta lazy about shaving. I’ve been told I look like the dashing Sean Bean. No, not Mr. Bean—Sean Bean. Anyway, that’s me and I’ll explain more later. For now, my pjs were falling down and the ratty robe I had on wasn’t fitting all too well, either.
My feet were sore from my ambling down a block of crumbling sidewalk in the middle of this beautiful August night. Of course, August in Virginia was hot, humid, and, well, hot. My ensemble was cooler than jeans and sneakers, but it did not include slippers. Barefoot was not accidental. It’s for effect.
See, I was going for that crazy old dude persona.
Most concerning to me was my partner. Or lack thereof. Actually, he was my long-time friend and co-conspirator in many such episodes of my life. He’s missing. Stevie Keene should have been here an hour ago and running countersurveillance. He should have been watching my back and ensuring I wasn’t walking into a gunfight or a pair of handcuffs.
He wasn’t.
Stevie hadn’t responded to my cell calls. He also wasn’t in the van parked across the street from our target like he should be. That was bad. Real bad. I was going in blind.
“Stevie? Where in the flying monkeys are you?” I whispered to his voicemail again. “You’re late. I can’t wait any longer. If you get here while I’m inside, stay put and watch my escape route. And brother, you better have a good story—like being abducted by aliens.”
I peeked at the old Rambler’s front windows and dangled the dog leash. I called out as loud as I could, “Rufus? Come on boy. I’ve got cookies.”
No, I had no dog named Rufus. I also had no cookies. Try to keep up.
The house windows were blacked out—odd even for this part of town. I knew someone was inside. First, a thin sliver of light escaped through a corner of the window. Second, the electric meter around the side was whirling away like a NASA satellite station. Third, and perhaps most important, I’d seen the short, pudgy, receding hairline kid with his embarrassing attempt at a beard slip inside an hour or so ago. He looked like he’d glued stray hair here and there on his cheeks. His eyes were inset, or maybe his fat cheeks hid them.
Billy Piper reminded me of that dumpy loser who tried to smuggle dinosaur eggs off the island in Jurassic Park. He got eaten in the first thirty minutes of the movie. Served him right—poor defenseless dinosaurs.
“Rufus? I’ve got cookies.” I banged loudly on the door and rattled the doorknob. “Don’t hide on me, Rufus. Don’t be a bad dog.”
If Piper was trying to be stealthy, he failed. I heard him approach the door inside before he peeled back the window covering and glared out.
“What are you doing, old dude? Get lost.”
As I’ve already said, I’m not that old. But, given I’d put on a shaggy gray wig and plastered fake beard crap on my face, I give it to him.
A dog barked then yelped as the face pushed closer into the window. “Shut up, mutt. What good are you? This old fart is almost in the house and you just noticed?”
Time to play the role.
“You got my Rufus? Give me my dog.” I banged on the door again. “Now, before I call the cops. Dog napper.”
“It’s my dog, old dude,” Piper yelled. “Get off my property or I’ll kick your old ugly butt.”
I held up the leash and took a step back, turned in a slow circle to appear dazed. Then, I began to cry. It took nearly a full minute before Piper opened the door and stepped cautiously outside.
“What the hell is wrong with you, old dude? My dog isn’t Rufus.”
I turned to him, reached up to wipe my tearless eyes, and let my bright red identification bracelet show below my pajama sleeve.
“Where am I? Who’s Rufus?” I turned in a circle again and let a few more whimpers out. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”
At first, Piper turned red-faced with anger. Then, when he saw my medical bracelet, he reached out and grabbed it. “Oh, you’re one of those Alzheimer’s people. Get the hell out of here. Understand? Go home. Shoo.”
Home, indeed. “This is my home. What are you doing here?”
Beside Piper, a brawny black lab trotted into the doorway and barked. Not a threatening bark. More like an obligatory “woof.” After two such woofs, he trotted up to me and sat wagging.
“Useless dog. What are you doing inside?” He grabbed the dog by the collar and dragged him past me. He shook him several times, cursing. After berating him again with another smack to his hindquarters, he found a short chain affixed to a big walnut tree in the front yard and clipped it on his collar. “Flippin’ mutt. You’re supposed to warn me before they get to the door.”
“Don’t hurt my Rufus,” I yelled.
The chain was twisted and wrapped around the tree. The lab only had about two feet of room to move. There was no water bowl and no signs of one anywhere. The wear marks on the grass suggested the dog spent too much time chained to that tree.
What an asshole.
“What are you doing to my Rufus?” I growled. “Where’s his food and water?”
“Screw the dog. Maybe now he’ll bark when he’s supposed to.” Piper shoved me sideways and reentered the house. “Get the hell out of here or I’ll call the cops.”
“Call? I didn’t call you.”
“Jesus, I don’t have time for this.” He squared off on me in the doorway. “Get lost, old dude.”
“What about my Rufus?” I shoved Piper back a step. That surprised him. I guess old men with Alzheimer’s should be weak and defenseless. “Get out of my house.”
Piper reared back to strike me and held his fist in a threat. “I’m gonna put you straight.” His smartwatch buzzed wildly and flashed like Dick Tracey was calling. If you don’t get the shout out to Dick, forget it. You’re way too young to understand. “Go dammit.”
“Not until I get my Rufus.”
His watch signaled him again.
“Ah, shit. No. No. No.” Piper shoved me sideways and I feigned a fall just inside the doorway. He kicked at me and barely connected as I parried with my arm. “Get outta here, old dude. Wander or doddle your way back where you came. I got my own problems.” He shoved me out the doorway, swung the door to shut it, and ran down the hallway.
I, not being a confused old geezer, lodged my foot in the door before it closed. With no more than a sore big toe when it hit, I kept the door ajar.
I followed his footfalls to the back of the house. I might be committing a few felonies soon, so I slipped on leather driving gloves to eliminate the chance of any fingerprints. After all, my felony count had just started and the night was young.
I know cool TV stuff like that.
At the end of the hall, I descended the stairs into a dark basement. There, a small room lay ahead, lighted by a single overhead light that bathed the room in a hazy illumination. There were only a few old boxes stacked around and a bicycle hanging on a wall rack. Ahead was a heavy, steel door, still ajar. A carnival of flickering lights escaped through the opening. Beyond, I heard Piper cursing and babbling in a panicked voice.
I eased inside and found a larger section of the basement. The space was lined with soundproof tiles and heavy industrial carpeting. There was a refrigerator and small stove on one side of the room, and cabinets of computers and electronics on the other. Between them was a command console and two gamer’s chairs facing a wall of computer monitors and large video screens. The walls not blocked by computer gadgets were covered with movie and book posters of every major spy thriller I’d ever heard of. One was a poster of a pale-faced Alec Guinness wearing oversized, dark-framed glasses—an aged, probably original collector’s poster of John Le Carre’s Smiley’s People.
Holy crap, Billy Piper was a wannabe spy.
“Shit, they caught me.” Piper stood in front of a shelf of electronics and spun around when I stepped inside. “What the hell, old dude?”
We had to talk about that old dude thing. I was getting there, but really, how rude?
“I told you what would happen if you didn’t leave.” Piper balled his fist and came toward me. “It’s gonna cost you. You should’ve left to find Rufus.”
“Who the hell is Rufus?” I asked.
I don’t know if it was my sudden calm, steady voice, or the silenced .22 pistol in my hand—aimed at him—that startled him the most. Either way, I had his attention.
“What the … who are you, old dude?” He stared at the pistol. “You don’t have Alzheimer’s.”
“Nope.”
“Who then?” He took a step back as his face tightened and filled with so much anger his cheeks were ablaze. “Ah, shit. Are you with them?”
“Them?” I waived my pistol back and forth to keep his attention. “Explain.”
“Screw you.” He spun around as his computers began wailing some kind of alarm. “Come on man, I got bigger problems than anything you can bring. If you don’t get outta here, those problems are going to be yours, too. Go find Rufus or whatever. Get out.”
I aimed the pistol at his head. “I think not, Billy.”
He spun back around at me. “You know me? Did they send you?”
“Oh, I know you.” Boy was he slow. “I’m here about money and information. I have no idea who ‘they” are. Although, ‘they’ might be like my clients. You hacked them and now they want their files and money returned. Right, Chip Magnet?”
“Oh, man. You are them.” His face blanched and the tough guy drained away. “Dude, I got money. I can pay. I pay you and you say I wasn’t home. Deal?”
Desperation replaced his bravado he’d taunted me with moments ago. “Chip Magnet, are you for real? What a totally bullshit handle, Piper.”
He shrugged. “It means—”
“I know what it means, idiot. Look, Billy, you hacked the wrong people—my people. I’m here to fix things. And in the future—if you have one—you might take care who you hack. Some folks out there don’t go to the police. They don’t hire lawyers or call the credit bureau.”
“Huh?” His eyes locked on my pistol as it raised to eye level. “What?”
“They send me.”
Chapter Two
U.C.
The man in the expensive Saville Row suit and Gucci loafers sipped his vodka martini and settled back on his king bed, pillows plumped and perfectly positioned by the staff. He glanced around his Waldorf Astoria suite feeling very pleased with himself. Never had his accommodation been as nice. Never had his payment been as nice—nor as often—as with this assignment. He wondered how long it would be before it would all end.
The man wore a collarless shirt that fit snug over ripped muscles. His head was mostly bald but for close-cut, thinning dark hair around the sides and back. His face was narrow and strong, accentuated by a salt and pepper beard that was three days of growth meticulously trimmed for effect—a dangerous, stay-clear effect. In the years he’d operated at the higher end of his profession, he found his persona and image as daunting to his prey as his skills. The million-dollar benefactors he serviced expected a little refinement and image, not to be confused with Hollywood assassins cloaked in black leather feigning brooding personalities. His clients demanded thoughtfulness, the ability to move in any surroundings—Washington dinner clubs or Bangkok brothels.
U.C. had mastered the chameleon persona years before.
The satellite phone on his nightstand vibrated. He scooped it up. The Controller didn’t like to wait. Not for the million-dollar price tag for U.C.’s services. Glancing at the screen, the call wasn’t from the Controller, but one of the minions sitting in a lesser hotel room somewhere in the bowels of Alexandria, Virginia.
“Yes?”
The voice was frantic. “U.C., I found him. There’s a problem.”
“Problem?” U.C.—bestowed upon him many years prior because of his preference to operate against his targets Up Close—sipped his drink. “If you found the target trying to hack our servers, just send me the address and—”
“He got through.”
“What?” U.C. bolted upright and spilled his drink. “You told me the security was impenetrable.”
Silence.
“Well?”
“Someone left some nodes insecure, maybe. I don’t know.”
U.C.’s mind raced. “An inside job?”
“Maybe.”
He closed his eyes. “Sweet Jesus.”
“U.C.?” The caller hesitated. “The hacker got all the way into the E-Suite.”
He was on his feet now, moving around the room gathering his things—the most important ones—his shoulder bag, jacket, and silenced pistol.
“Did you hear me?”
U.C. grunted, “Text me the address. Get four men there fast. I’ll meet you there.”
Hesitation, then, “Orders?”
“Don’t be stupid.”
U.C. tapped off the call and instantly activated the satellite text program. As he did, the Sat phone concurrently launched an encryption program that NSA would take years to break—another luxury of working for the Controller.
He typed out a simple message—Urgent. Hack successful. Compromised. I’ll contain.
Miles away, across the Potomac, the Sat Text arrived at the Controller’s private office. It took only moments to return a response.
U.C. rarely initiated such calls. Rarely one marked with “Urgent.”
The Controller—Define compromise.
U.C.—Total.
The Controller—Confidence?
U.C. finished his text and exited his suite—Whisper is compromised.
***
Excerpt from The Whisper Legacy by Tj O'Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O'Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O'Connor. All rights reserved.
Author Bio:
Tj O’Connor is an award-winning author of mysteries and thrillers. He’s an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. In his spare time, he’s a Harley Davidson pilot, a man-about-dogs (and now cats), and a lover of adventure, cooking, and good spirits (both kinds). He was raised in New York’s Hudson Valley and lives with his wife, Labs, and Maine Coon companions in Virginia where they raised five children who supply a growing tribe of grands.
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
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.”
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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.
