Spotlight: Lead Me Home by Catherine Bybee

Series: Queen Anne Hill #1

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Tropes: Workplace, He Falls First, Slow Burn, Green Flag Hero

Release Date: June 9, 2026

When spreadsheets are safer than people, falling in love becomes the ultimate risk in this powerful novel of trauma, healing, and unexpected courage from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee.

Luna Canning trusts numbers more than people—and for good reason. As a forensic accountant who specializes in exposing fraud, she knows numbers never deceive, unlike the toxic family she’s spent a lifetime trying to escape. Now living in her grandmother’s Victorian home, Luna has built a carefully ordered life behind walls she thought were unbreakable.

When her car is stolen from an airport parking lot, former FBI agent turned PI Nate Warren steps in to help—and proves more dangerous to her defenses than any thief. Despite Luna’s ironclad rules about mixing business with pleasure, their chemistry ignites, and for the first time, she considers letting someone past her guard. But just as their relationship begins to blossom, Luna’s manipulative mother arrives unannounced, dragging with her a dangerous man and decades of unresolved trauma that threaten everything Luna has built.

Now Luna must confront the ghosts of her past—both metaphorical and possibly literal, as strange occurrences in her historic home suggest she’s not alone. With a violent threat looming and her heart on the line, Luna discovers that sometimes the hardest person to trust is yourself.

Excerpt

Five minutes past nine, Luna walked into the law offices of Allen and Associates. She paused at the reception desk and started to unbutton her coat. 

“Hi Melinda.”

“Hi.”

“Marcus is expecting me. Is he in his office or the conference room?”

“They’re in the conference room,” she said.

They? Great . . . nothing like being late for more than one person.

Luna shrugged out of her coat.

Melinda stepped around the desk to take it. “No need to stress.”

“I hate being late. This jerk bumped into me, my coffee ended up on the street . . .” Luna pulled in a deep breath, stood tall, and pasted on a small she didn’t feel.

Melinda laughed. “I’ll bring coffee to the room.”

Luna sighed. “I could kiss you.”

“Not in the office,” Melinda teased.

Swiping a strand of soaked hair back, Luna made her way to the conference room.

Just outside the open door she heard voices.

“She elbowed me, her coffee took flight, and she had the audacity to act like it was my fault.”

Luna froze in the doorway.

Dark roast venti guy had his back to her.

Marcus stood to his left, shaking his head. “It feels like most people are walking around in a daze. Heads in their phones, earbuds blasting music. No one pays attention anymore.”

“Tell me about it.”

The fake smile she’d painted on only moments ago slid from her face. Seriously? This guy blamed her?

The nerve.

“There she is. My secret weapon for numbers,” Marcus boasted once he caught sight of Luna standing there.

Slowly, Mr. Venti turned.

A sinister feeling of joy bloomed in Luna’s chest as recognition hit his eyes.

Unaware of the silent communication between her and Venti, Marcus made the introductions. “Nate Warren, this is Luna Canning.”

She placed her purse on the conference table and reached out to shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Warren. You look familiar. Have we met before?”

His hand was warm, despite the fact that they’d both just come in from the cold.

“If we did, I, ah . . . certainly didn’t catch your name.” Nate gave her hand a little extra squeeze before letting her go. “Marcus has told me a lot about you.”

“All good I hope.”

To Nate’s credit, he didn’t break eye contact, even when her smirk of a smile said ten times more than her words did.

“Singing your praise, Luna. If I could sing,” Marcus said as he patted her shoulder in a warmer welcome than a handshake.

“You’re too kind.”

That made him laugh. “Since when are you humble?”

It was then that Luna purposely looked away from Nate. “I have to try once in a while.”

“Sit, sit.”

Luna moved to a seat opposite Nate.

Marcus sat at the head of the table.

“I’m sorry for being late. It’s a little . . .” She glanced at Nate. “Hectic out there.”

Amusement swam in Nate’s hazel eyes without the least bit of shame.

“So I’ve heard,” Marcus said.

Melinda walked into the room, a cup of coffee in her hand. She sat it in front of Luna with a small caddy filled with cream and various types of sugar.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get anything for you, Mr. Warren?”

Nate cleared his throat. “Ah, no. I’m good.”

Luna glanced at Nate’s Starbucks cup before doctoring her coffee to her liking.

Melinda closed the door behind her when she left.

“I’ve already told Nate about your prowess with numbers. You won’t find a better forensic accountant in the state.”

This time, Luna accepted the praise without humility.

“Nate is our new consultant. He worked as a criminal fraud investigator for the federal government. Now he works independently as a private investigator using those same skills.”

Luna lifted the coffee to her lips and talked over the rim of the cup. “You’re a little young to be retired from the Feds.”

“I was more interested in the private sector with more room to do my job than bureaucratic red tape allowed.”

Luna sipped her coffee, then put the cup down.

“And more lucrative,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “No one likes to wait for Congress to approve their paycheck.”

“Their loss, our gain,” Marcus said. “And I have a feeling that with the two of you, we’ll be an unbeatable team.”

Luna placed her fingers on the charm she had hanging from her neck and slowly slid it along the chain.

Marcus handed them each a folder. “Our client is Joel Mercier . . .”

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About the Author

New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee has written nearly 50 books that have collectively sold more than 11 million copies. Her titles have been translated into more than 20 languages. Raised in Washington State, Bybee moved to Southern California in the hope of becoming a movie star. After growing bored with waiting tables, she returned to school and became a registered nurse, spending most of her career in urban emergency rooms. She now writes full time and has penned the popular Not Quite, Weekday Brides, Most Likely To, First Wives, D'Angelos, Heirs, and Queen Anne Hill series. 

Connect:

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Spotlight: What Remains After by Pauline J Grabia

Literary Psychological Suspense Fiction

SOME STORIES DO NOT END WHEN THE DANGER PASSES.

Beth Clark has not returned to her hometown in decades, since the childhood she survived there nearly destroyed her.

When her estranged mother dies, Beth comes back to rural Alberta for a funeral that feels carefully rewritten. The eulogies are tidy. The past is sanitized. But inside the abandoned bungalow where she and her brother once lived, Beth finds objects that shatter the illusion—and awaken memories of abuse, neglect, and the systems that failed to protect her.

When Beth's younger brother is critically injured in a sudden accident, the present collides with the past. Keeping vigil at his hospital bedside, Beth is drawn back into the summer that changed everything: the violence in their home, the silence of those who should have intervened, and the foster family whose quiet faith offered the first real safety either child had known.

Told across dual timelines, What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel about trauma and memory, belief and betrayal, and the long, unfinished work of survival. It asks what it truly means to forgive—and what remains when the truth is finally spoken.

Excerpt

Coverville Baptist Church smelled musty and old, like the memories trying to escape the recesses of Beth’s mind. That’s all that remained now of her mother. Like her life, nothing at the church had changed in over forty years. It had simply aged, with splintered oak pews and grubby carpets that had been there when she was growing up. 

It was unnaturally quiet in the church, which she remembered used to almost roar after a service with the lively voices of congregants discussing the sermon or what was coming up in their week. Children used to run around, shrieking and squealing in both joy and frustration. Now, it was still. Eerily so. 

Beth ignored the stares from the other mourners who had arrived early for the service. When she tried to meet their gazes to say hello, they looked briefly, with pity, before looking away. She stopped looking at people. She had only arrived when she had to so she could find Otto and talk to him before it started. He wasn’t in the lobby. Maybe he was in the sanctuary. 

She waited in line at the guest registry, attended to by one of the funeral directors. When it was Beth’s turn, her hand trembled as she picked up the ridiculous feathered pen and hesitated before writing down her name. Should she use her married name or her maiden name? Her ex would have a conniption if she wrote down his, and she was changing her name back anyway, so she entered “Elizabeth Clark.” 

When Beth had seen her mother’s obituary on Facebook, she’d realized that, despite her hesitation, she would go to the funeral. The only other attendees were townsfolk—mostly members of Virgie’s church—and family. She suspected that most came out of curiosity rather than grief. Beth’s reasons were less clear. Her hatred for her mother had lessened over the years, but had never completely gone; still, she felt an odd urge, almost a duty, to attend. She told herself it was just an excuse to see her brother, Otto, not the urn.

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About the Author

Pauline J. Grabia is a Canadian novelist whose work explores trauma, memory, faith, and the moral consequences of silence. Writing under the Stories of Consequence banner, she is drawn to stories that face difficult truths without spectacle and seek light without sentimentality. What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel rooted in rural Alberta and shaped by questions of survival, forgiveness, and what endures.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/paulinejgrabia/

Website: https://paulinejgrabia.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/70032333.Pauline_J_Grabia

Spotlight: The Good Sister by Bonnie Traymore

When her mirror twin goes missing, Casey is led to a deadly paradise where no one escapes…

Casey and Nora are mirror twins, identical—sort of. Casey is right-handed, Nora is left-handed. Their moles sit on opposite cheeks. In terms of personality, they are also diametrically opposed.

So, when her high-strung sister disappears after a fight with her husband, Casey shouldn’t be as concerned as she is. Nora’s done it before.

But this time, things feel different. It’s a twin thing; Casey knows it in her bones. Something is terribly wrong.

Casey hires private investigator who discovers that Nora’s been on the dark web—lured by an entity that calls itself Switzerland, promising to take away your pain and leave you in a state of eternal bliss, for a hefty fee.

The trail leads to a luxury wellness retreat hidden in the Mexican jungle. Determined to find her sister before it’s too late, Casey poses as a resort guest and heads to Mexico to rescue her sister.

As Casey digs deeper, she finds something far more sinister than she could have imagined, and it’s possible that neither of them will get out alive.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time before someone misses her.

I grab the key card out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride, instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering, and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound, I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of that?

I find a vein on the top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I hesitate.

Before this moment, it was self-defense.

It’s her or me, though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not Cameron.

Then I make my move.

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,” a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful there.

For the first time in months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first mistake.

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About the Author

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon bestselling author of fourteen domestic/psychological thrillers. Her thrillers feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time.  

Bonnie loves Hitchcock movies, psychological thriller novels, coffee, and dark chocolate, not necessarily in that order and sometimes simultaneously. She has a doctorate in United States history and resides in Honolulu with her family. She's an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

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Spotlight: A Jewel of a Crime by Valerie Taylor

(Venus Bixby Mystery, #3)

Publication date: June 2nd 2026

Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.

In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.

When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.

A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.

Excerpt

“Where do you think Margo is?”

Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.

“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”

“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.

Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol’ Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.

“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.

“Probably in the back. Should we check?”

I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze. 

The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.

The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years. 

This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.

Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?

“Margo?” I called.

Silence.

At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”

I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”

Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.

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About the Author

Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical "average Jane." She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT'S NOT SAID, WHAT'S NOT TRUE, and WHAT'S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.

Connect:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20248997.Valerie_Taylor

https://valerietaylorauthor.com/

https://www.facebook.com/valerietaylorauthor/

https://www.instagram.com/valerieetaylor/

https://x.com/valerieemtaylor/

A Jewel of a Crime Blitz

Spotlight: The Soft Underbelly by Carlisle Richardson

He did not get twenty feet from the duo before he heard the click of the gun. Simon’s last thoughts as a bullet hit the back of his head were of his mother and Gina. He hoped they would forgive him. It had all been for them.

A murdered customs worker accused of stealing imported goods; collusion between competing politicians to overthrow the sitting Prime Minister; an international weapons trafficking syndicate one step ahead of British authorities; and a mysterious expat living on a small Caribbean island.

In what used to be a tropical paradise, police officer Gerald Brookes and MI6 agent Fiona Sawyer race against time to connect these seemingly isolated dots. But for the mastermind of these acts, there is a far more nefarious revenge plot in play. A grand design that would lead to an assassination and the resumption of a decades-old international conflict.

Excerpt

The cold night air tickled the back of Simon’s neck as he slunk along the dirt path. He knew he should not be there. He had been weaned on the stories of the area. “No good comes from unsettling the ghosts of the past,” his grandmother used to say.

He had parked in the bushes behind the cul-de-sac, just out of view from the main road, and he planned to walk the rest of the way. The track zig-zagged through a little village, passing wooden, one-story chattel houses with galvanized roofs that had been built haphazardly over the years. In the dead of night, they seemed abandoned and haunted. He tried to move more quickly so as not to be detected, but he need not have agonized about that possibility. In these old villages the inhabitants locked the doors with rusted hooks and tightened the screws of the hurricane shutters whenever the first signs of night descended. They remembered their ancestors’ fables and hugged their progeny close. Even the stray dogs sensed that his presence was unusual, as rather than barking at him they whimpered, and ran behind the houses.

He could not stop a shudder running through his body. Was he that superstitious? Or was it apprehension of the night’s mission? She would understand.

The ‘she’ in his mind alternated between his mother and Gina, his ex-girlfriend. He sought to convince himself they would not be disappointed in him if they knew his intentions tonight.

At the edge of the village, he looked around once more to verify there were no witnesses. Darkness and bush loomed before him, as the reach of the lone streetlight extended no further. In this part of the village there was no need for light. Anyone venturing into the bush of ‘The Rocks’ at night would make no request to be seen clearly.

He slogged through the muddy track between the acacia trees, putting his hands up to shield his face from the thorns. The path was overrun with harsh vegetation, but he kept moving. The cuts on the palm of his hands stung from each additional scratch, but this was the only way to protect his face. The quarter moon’s sliver provided little light on the few occasions that it peaked out from the gathering rain clouds. Despite his increasing distance from the village, he still tried to be as silent as he could, navigating around the twigs beneath. With each crack he grimaced and contorted his body, channeling the sound into himself.

She would understand.

Gina had been so pleased when he had become a customs officer. Many of their classmates had suffered the indignity of unemployment after high school. Gina liked his uniform, and the pride he took in wearing it. But she encouraged him to do more, told him this job was just a building block, that he had potential and shouldn’t be idle like the others he worked with.

How he wished he had listened to her.

When she had been accepted to the University of the West Indies on a full scholarship to become a lawyer, he was deflated. She was his one and only love. No one else mattered. They had promised each other to always be together, and ten years later, this was still all he wanted. But now she was gone to another island, possibly with someone else stroking her face while she studied.

She had offered to help him apply for loans, encouraging him to get a degree. But he’d pushed her away. He refused to admit it at the time, but he was jealous of her success. He could not wait to finish high school so that his days of studying were over, but she wanted more. He had no desire to pick up a textbook ever again, and he told her this in one of their rare arguments. He also accused her of being a snob, of looking down on where they were from, and it hurt her. But then she was gone, and he had lost her. He never had the chance to apologize, and his regret knew no bounds.

He would get her back. He had to get her back. He would go to university too. He would get the money.

While working at the customs department, Simon observed many things. He knew that once every month a container arrived that only Mr. Lincoln, his supervisor, was allowed to examine. He also knew that Mr. Lincoln was able to afford a luxury vehicle on a government salary. Most interestingly, Simon knew that the container in question belonged to Mr. Antonio Del Vasto.

Del Vasto. People said many things about him, including that he was connected to drug lords in the Americas and revolutionaries in Eastern Europe. The official story was that he was a wealthy retired businessman. He certainly had enough money and political connections that people lowered their gaze when he walked by. And he had purchased this derelict, cursed land, The Rocks, for development.

Simon did not want to pursue illegal activities. He had seen too many of his contemporaries succumb. He knew of the risks involved in accepting Mr. Del Vasto’s request for this late-night private meeting, but if he agreed to turn one blind eye, maybe, just maybe, he would make enough money to win Gina back.

This was how he found himself walking towards an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of a construction site, far off the beaten track, in the darkest hours of the night.

He hoped his mother’s heart would not be broken. This was the woman who had sacrificed so much for him and his siblings. Their father had migrated to Miami years before, promising to send for them once he had settled. He never did. So, she worked overtime and extra jobs to ensure they were secure. Truthfully, he could not complain about his childhood.

They had food on the table, clothes to wear, and a roof over their heads. He personally knew of those denied such luxuries. But why did she have to work so hard for the basics? Every time he turned on any show based in North America or Europe, people his age and younger were enjoying a life of which he could only dream. Having a starter vehicle straight out of high school? Unreal. The ability to travel the world in a gap year? What did that even mean? Opportunities to join a Fortune 500 business and work his way to the top on pure determination? In which company around here? She would understand.

He walked past the remnants of homes that were built more than a century before. They had been abandoned for so long that they had become part of the terrain. He thought briefly about the history of the place. This was the area spared for the former slaves to inhabit following the Emancipation Proclamation. It was uninviting, desolate, and near barren, save for the acacia trees and shrubs. The historians had deduced that the area had been selected for the newly freed persons precisely because agricultural productivity would be slim. They would have to maintain contact with their former oppressors if they wanted to survive. Stories abounded of the great suffering that persisted. Tales of robberies, disappearances, and murders infiltrated the psyche of the inhabitants to the point that they were convinced the area was cursed, that anyone venturing there risked being cursed themselves.

The howling winds screamed, and Simon hugged his body. He was terrified, and he wondered if his fear was due to the yarns he had heard as a child about the area, or his apprehension of the night’s mission.

He inhaled, expecting the crisp night air to be fresh with the aroma of the moist foliage, but instead there was a faint stench growing stronger as he moved through the bush. He stumbled over a rock and fell headfirst, scratching himself. He yelped in pain and recoiled in horror when he saw the decomposing carcass of a bull, just inches from his face. The stench was at its peak there. He struggled to move away, retching as he scrambled to stand up. The bile settled in his throat, and he ran through the bush until the air cleared. He hunched over, gasping for air, wishing he was home. Why, oh why, had he got involved in this?

He straightened up. The acacia trees swayed in the breeze, casting shadows. The cold chill on his neck returned as his imagination and conscience wreaked havoc in his mind, making him believe that the trees were actual people. Perhaps they were the forces of nature warning him to deviate from this path. But it was too late. He dared not cross Del Vasto.

Finally, in the distance, he saw the silhouette of a warehouse. The surrounding area had been cleared of all trees and bushes, and it stood on the top of an incline, a lone shadow in the dark.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

Just a simple thing, he had been told by Mr. Del Vasto’s assistant. Pick up the package from the freight before it’s processed in customs and put it in your backpack. Nobody will notice. Bring it to us on Sunday night. Easy ten thousand dollars.

He could begin his university dream with that sort of money. Why did it all feel so wrong?

He approached two figures outside the warehouse. “Mr. Lincoln,” Simon said, recognizing him as he got closer. He looked at the other man and froze. His stomach tightened. The foreboding he had felt earlier returned in a flash. Finally, he forced words out in a whisper. “Please. I won’t tell.”

He knew the other man only as ‘Phantom’. Hollow, dead eyes. Black lips from smoking since childhood. A rasping voice from a ruptured voice box in the gang war. A known hitman.

Simon tried to remember the prayers he used to garble through on mornings in Sunday school, but he had never truly cared at the time, and his mind now drew a blank.

“Tell who what, eh?” Mr. Lincoln asked. “What you gonna tell? Just give us the package then go your way.”

Simon fumbled in his backpack and pulled out a small box. He dropped it nervously, bent to retrieve it, and dropped it again. He slowly got on his knees and reached for the box again, but his middle finger was stabbed by a twig. He stifled a yelp as the pain seared through his finger. Maybe the pain was exaggerated, brought on by the dread he felt. He tried to remain calm, and this gave him the strength to grasp the box firmly. While on his knees, he handed it over to Mr. Lincoln’s outstretched hand.

“Can I leave now?” he pleaded, standing and backing away slowly, the words barely escaping his throat, which felt so tight it hurt. “I promise I’ll be quiet about the package.”

He was met with cold stares, and he knew it was over. He was at the place cursed with untold suffering of his ancestors, and now he was destined to join the ranks of the wretched.

If he could just make it back into the bush, he might have a chance. It was dark enough to evade them there.

Simon turned and sprinted away. His heart pounded, and he could feel the blood flowing through the veins of his temples. His lungs were on fire as he pumped his arms with all the might he could muster. All thoughts of his face getting scratched by the needles of the acacia trees had disappeared, as survival was now his only instinct. He was almost there.

He did not get twenty feet from the duo before he heard the click of the gun. Simon’s last thoughts as a bullet hit the back of his head were of his mother and Gina. He hoped they would forgive him. It had all been for them.

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About the Author

Carlisle Richardson, author of The Soft Underbelly, is an International Relations expert. He has served as Ambassador of St. Kitts and Nevis to the United Nations, and as an Economic Affairs Officer of the United Nations. He is currently based in Melbourne as a Lecturer in International Relations, and as an independent consultant supporting organisations in their multilateral engagement and in implementing the SDGs. 

Carlisle has published articles on international relations in the International Peace Institute, the Lowy Institute, and the Australian Institute of International Affairs and is author of the book, Island Journeys: The Impact of the Island Way of Life at Home and Abroad.

As a fiction writer, Carlisle has published short stories in Litro Magazine, Lolwe Magazine, Bookends, and Mystery Tribune.

He recently published a Children’s Picture Book, entitled “Rose Grows Veggies,” which addresses sustainability, making new friends, the importance of community, and the joys of gardening.

The Soft Underbelly is his debut novel.

Spotlight: The Rainy Day Bookshop by Raeanne Thayne

Life is full of plot twists...

Sandwiched between caring for her mother and rebuilding the relationship with her estranged daughter, Emma, Rosie Lucas’s life is full. In the best way. With Emma and her 3-year old daughter, Olive, back home, Rosie has a partner for The Rainy Day Bookshop, the family business, and a chance to fix the past. What she doesn’t have time for is a romantic relationship. And even if she did, Andrew Morgan is the last person she’d choose. Not only is he an arrogant and reclusive writer, but he’s a single dad with two young kids. She’s already been there, done that.  Still as an irresistible flirtation builds between them, he becomes her unexpected confidante on the distance Rosie can’t seem to overcome with Emma, a secret she can’t quite unravel…

Emma isn’t proud of her past. But she’s pulled herself up by the bootstraps, caring for her own daughter, and protecting her mom at all costs. Just as she always has. She never told Rosie what she saw all those years ago and she never will. But some secrets refuse to stay buried, and sometimes the truth is more shocking than fiction. Rosie and Emma will have to navigate an unimaginable path forward. Together.

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About the Author

New York Times bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne finds inspiration in the beautiful northern Utah mountains where she lives with her family. Her books have won numerous honors, including six RITA Award nominations from Romance Writers of America and Career Achievement and Romance Pioneer awards from RT Book Reviews. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached through her website, raeannethayne.com.