Rose Hawthorne is a celebrity author in her early seventies, who dislikes the spotlight but has a penchant for Hermes scarfs, round violet sunglasses, and old colonial hotels.
One day, she receives a strange letter asking her to visit Newgrange, Ireland and look for something that has been hidden there for a thousand years.
She asks her granddaughter to accompany her, but she hadn’t expected Samantha to continually be posting photos of their progress on her Instagram account. An encounter with an old love and an unexpected discovery leads Rose further and further into the past, and she finds must make a hard decision about her future.
Don’t miss this second book in the Rose Hawthorne series!
She linked her arm around his as they walked, a natural move. She was allowed to do it. It felt right. Rose was drawn towards Bill. He was like a giant magnet pulling her and she couldn’t help but move closer to him.
They walked together, drunk and happy. She didn’t engage him in conversation. She knew the flow was right. He talked and she listened.
When they got to the next pub, he bought her another pint, and they sat down to listen to a lone fiddler. She sipped the Guinness. It was dark and warm, different from any other beer.
He’d leaned over her, and then—the kiss. The kiss came as a surprise to her. His soft lips were on hers. She could smell the beer on his breath.
After the kiss, he put his forehead against hers. They sat together, joined like that for a long time, letting the music wash over them, throbbing in time with their heartbeats.
At first, the music the fiddler played was lively, his fingers deftly danced across the strings, and a few couples got up to spin around the floor. Towards the end of his set, he played exquisite notes that washed over the pub, making the dust dance, and it rose in the air like magic. The cheering and conversation quieted down for his last song. It was a slow piece that most of them recognised. The fiddler hit the final note with such poignancy that it echoed throughout the pub. When the music stopped, the whole pub went quiet.They cleared their throats and blinked back tears, and then took a few last swallows from their pints.
“Nothing like a bit of Irish music to bring out the tears,” Bill admitted wiping an eye.
“It’s something so special,” Rose agreed with a small sniff.
And all around the pub, they raised their glasses to the fiddler and his music.
As people began to leave the pub, Rose realized that it was getting late and neither of them had eaten yet.
“Shall we eat something? Maybe grab some fish and chips?” Bill said, reading her mind.
“Perfect,” she replied in a low, quiet voice.
They bought some greasy fish and chips at a nearby takeaway. It was wrapped in brown paper and covered with the Dublin news.
Then, they walked the streets until they found a bench under the stars away from the shouts, laughter and the lights. Beside the river, they were alone. They unwrapped the greasy paper and ate the cod hungrily, stuffing the vinegar smeared fries quickly into their mouths.
“Do you want the last chip?” Bill had said softly, holding it up in his greasy fingers.
Rose raised her eyebrows and smiled. “I certainly do.”
Bill placed it gently in her mouth, looking deeply into her eyes. She kissed his fingers slowly.
Then he kissed her again. She’d clung to him and let him kiss her.
They were both tired. Bill took her hand and led her up a narrow laneway not far away.
Shannon is originally from Winnipeg, Canada but has had the great fortune to have traveled and lived in several countries. After graduating with a degree in English literature she focused on travelling for a few years and eventually found herself teaching English in Japan. After more than a decade in Japan, she returned to teach ESL in Canada and convinced her husband and daughter to join her. These days she lives in San Jose, California, and enjoys coaxing her dog to train for a Camino.
Title: River of Ashes Author: Alexandrea Weis & Lucas Astor Series: St. Benedict #1 Genre: Psychological Thriller
SOME TRUTHS ARE BETTER KEPT SECRET. SOME SECRETS ARE BETTER OFF DEAD.
ALONG THE BANKS OF THE BOGUE FALAYA RIVER, sits the abandoned St. Francis Seminary. Beneath a canopy of oaks, blocked from prying eyes, the teens of St. Benedict High gather here on Fridays. The rest of the week belongs to school and family—but weekends belong to the river.
And the river belongs to Beau Devereaux.
The only child of a powerful family, Beau can do no wrong. Star quarterback. Handsome. Charming. The “prince” of St. Benedict is the ultimate catch.
He is also a psychopath.
A dirty family secret buried for years, Beau’s evil grows unchecked. In the shadows of the haunted abbey, he commits unspeakable acts on his victims and ensures their silence with threats and intimidation. Senior year, Beau sets his sights on his girlfriend’s headstrong twin sister, Leslie, who hates him. Everything he wants but cannot have, she will be his ultimate prize.
As the victim toll mounts, it becomes clear that someone must stop Beau Devereaux.
The light from the fire pit chased away the shadows from the woods along the outskirts of Devereaux land. Beau warmed his hands as Mitch Clarkson, the towering ebony-skinned player from the football team, recounted their last victory against Martin High. Josh Breeland, the defensive end with arms as big as tree trunks, sat next to him while Jenson Theriot reclined against a stump across from Beau. The redhead’s eyes darted between them, appearing unsure.
Mitch popped the top off a beer bottle. “That Boulder kid got past you last week. You didn’t see him comin’, did ya? Made you miss a block and almost got Beau’s ass sacked.”
“Almost cost us the game,” Beau added.
Jenson put down the beer Mitch swiped from his old man’s stash. “Yeah, I know, I blew it. That’s why I was surprised you asked me to come out here. I’ll make it up to you at the next game. I promise. I’ll make every block, Beau. You can count on me.”
Beau traced a circle in the dirt with a stick. “I know. You just need a little incentive. That’s why we’re here.”
Jenson peered into the thick covering of pine and oaks surrounding their fire. “You got a sweet place, Beau. I never knew these woods were behind your house. Kind of creepy, though.”
Josh cracked open another beer and handed it to Jenson. “The last time we camped out here, I heard a bunch of shit crashin’ through the brush. Mitch said it was deer. My guess is a pack of raccoons.”
Beau’s grip on his water bottle tightened. “It was wild dogs. We get them on the property. My dad thinks they come over from The Abbey grounds. Even shot a couple.”
Jenson looked at his two beers. “I shot a buck once. I didn’t like it much.” He set one of the beers down.
“Then you didn’t do it right,” Beau insisted. “The fun is tracking down your prey. And make sure it never sees you coming.”
“Dude, chug it down,” Josh said, picking up Jenson’s beer. “Ain’t gonna get fun ‘round here until you’ve emptied a six-pack.”
“Hell yeah!” Mitch hollered.
Beau grinned at his friends’ enthusiasm. He couldn’t carry out his plan without them.
Beau stared down at the sleeping giant curled up next to the fire. Jenson drooled as he slept off the beers Josh had practically force-fed him. Beau racked the shotgun in his hand, ready for the festivities to begin. He nudged Jenson’s hip with the weapon. “Wakey, wakey, Jenny. We’re going hunting.”
Jenson stirred, his eyelids slowly fluttering open. Then he bolted upright, wide-eyed.
Beau, Mitch, and Josh stood around him, wearing grotesque dog masks. Beau liked how the shadows cast by the firelight made them look like monsters. He liked the fear in Jenson’s eyes even more.
Beau aimed the shotgun at him. “Run, dog.”
Jenson scrambled to his feet, pulling at his falling jeans. “What the hell?” He held up his hands. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Aw, come on, Jenny,” Mitch teased, slapping his shoulder. “You’re gonna be our prey tonight.”
Jenson stood, the vein along his neck pulsating. “Guys, come on, now. Stop foolin’. I don’t wanna go runnin’ in these woods.” He motioned at the trees. “Beau said they got wild dogs—”
The boom of Beau’s gun going off pierced the night.
Jenson cowered while Mitch and Josh snickered.
“Run, Jenny, run!” Beau shouted.
Jenson took a step away, not appearing too motivated.
Beau pointed the gun at his head. “I said move.” He growled.
Jenson tripped over a log as he hurried to the edge of the firelight. He hesitated before the curtain of darkness that led to the deepest reaches of the Devereaux Estate and glanced back at Beau and his friends. Wiping his eyes, he took in their dog masks, then eased between two tall pines and disappeared.
“Run, Jenny!” Josh called out.
Beau lowered his weapon and turned to his friends. “Chase him down the trail to the point I showed you. By then, he should learn to move his ass faster on the field.”
Josh howled, getting into character. He took off into the darkness, carrying Beau’s flashlight.
Mitch followed right behind, wielding one of the electric lamps Beau brought from the house.
Beau tucked the rifle under his arm and returned to the campfire. He grabbed a backpack and set out in the opposite direction from the others. He had work to do.
Alexandrea Weis, RN-CS, PhD, is a multi-award-winning author of over twenty-seven novels, a screenwriter, ICU Nurse, and historian who was born and raised in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Having grown up in the motion picture industry as the daughter of a director, she learned to tell stories from a different perspective and began writing at the age of eight. Infusing the rich tapestry of her hometown into her novels, she believes that creating vivid characters makes a story moving and memorable. A member of the Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers Association, Weis writes mystery, suspense, thrillers, horror, crime fiction, and romance. She lives with her husband and pets in New Orleans where she is a permitted/certified wildlife rehabber with the Louisiana Wildlife and Fisheries and rescues orphaned and injured animals.
Lucas Astor is from New York, has resided in Central America and the Middle East, and traveled through Europe. He lives a very private, virtually reclusive lifestyle, preferring to spend time with a close-knit group of friends than be in the spotlight.
He is an author and poet with a penchant for telling stories that delve into the dark side of the human psyche. He likes to explore the evil that exists, not just in the world, but right next door behind a smiling face.
Photography, making wine, and helping endangered species are just some of his interests. Lucas is an expert archer and enjoys jazz, blues, and classical music.
One of his favorite quotes is: “It’s better to be silent than be a fool.” ~Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird)
For Hazel, an introvert with a knack for people watching, campus life is awkward and hard and…lonely. That is, until she starts to let her guard down around her roommate, Maeve—who’s fun and has a wicked flair for drama. Could there be more than just a friendship here? Maybe. But Hazel has a lot of family trauma to work through before figuring out the other big parts of her life. For now, she’s just happy to have someone to talk to.
All seems to go well until a night in the Trap—the university’s green space—leads to a tense encounter with some drunk guys. When one of the guys ends up dead, Hazel is implicated, and she and Maeve set out to solve the crime before police can connect either of them to it. But how can two amateur sleuths put together a solid case to hand over to the police in time? By following the campus online diaries, that’s how.
Set at the beginning of the internet age, people are just starting to share all their deepest, darkest secrets via the World Wide Web, yet the assumption of online anonymity may be a critical mistake. As the perpetrator posts their criminal diary for public consumption, Hazel and Maeve scramble to use technology to piece together the murderer’s identity. Can they hack their way out of becoming suspects? And if so, could they ever go back to their boring majors?
“The rain subsided a little; its pounding beat softened to a patter, and Aunt Liddy relaxed her shoulders. She punched the radio back on, and the soothing tones of “I Can See Clearly Now” filled the car.
As Aunt Liddy hummed along, I worried a hangnail on my thumb, savoring the little sting of pain. It reminded me who I was, where I was going, and that I was doing it alone. The road stayed slick with water and sounded like its own river as we drove over and through puddles.
Suddenly, a sharp bite stole my breath as I lurched forward in my seat, the seat belt digging into my collarbone and chest. Aunt Liddy put her arm in front of me as if that would be enough to stop my head splitting against the windshield. The dashboard was mere inches from crushing the bridge of my nose.
She stomped the brakes and yelled and cursed. Bright red taillights filled our windshield, sparkling and reflecting in the last of the raindrops that hadn’t been swiped away. The back of our car started to edge around. Back and forth, fishtailing as Aunt Liddy tried to gain control. Her face flushed pink, expression strained.
Life was supposed to flash in front of my eyes, but I hadn’t lived long enough for anything to really show up. I saw my mom smiling and heard my dad laughing, and nothing more. Were they—and everything they’d been through—all my life had amounted to?
Miraculously, Aunt Liddy steadied the car. She laid on the horn. It blared long and loud.
“Did you see him? He cut me off!”
The truck in front of us was massive, with a set of mud flaps showing the curving silhouettes of two naked women. Classy. The truck driver stuck his middle finger out the window.
“Stupid dick.” Aunt Liddy drew in a deep breath. “He’s gonna get someone killed.” She turned to me. “I’m sorry. Are you okay, hun?”
I could barely breathe. My heartbeat pounded in my throat and ears. My eyes watered and felt as though they were barely in their sockets. But sure, I was fine and said as much. That stupid song continued. Its singer insisted life was all clear blue skies and obstacles could be seen from far off, which was a damn lie. Trucks came out of nowhere, and so did bad people. Red flags didn’t look like red flags until after the fact.”
Jessica Cranberry lives in the Sierra Nevada foothills with her family and spends days striking a balance between parenthood, teaching, editing/proofreading, and writing–suspense novels and eclectic short stories mostly. When she’s not doing those things, she’s reading, attempting to garden, or hiking around town. She’s an okay baker, and has been known to paint on occasion.
