Spotlight: Friends to Lovers by Sally Blakely

On sale July 22, 2025

Canary Street Press Paperback Original

About the book: Always each other’s plus-ones, but never each other’s real dates, two childhood best friends have one last summer wedding to fall in love in this dual-narrative debut. 

One of The Washington Post’s ‘8 Romance Novels to Read this Summer’!

Best friends Joni and Ren have been inseparable since childhood. So when Joni moves across the country for her job, the two devise a creative way to stay in touch: they’ll be each other’s plus-ones every year for wedding season, no matter what else is happening in their lives.

It’s a tradition that works, until a line is crossed and the friendship they once thought was forever is ruined.

Now Joni is back at their families’ shared summer home for her sister’s wedding, and she’s determined to make the week perfect, even if it means faking a friendship with Ren—and avoiding the truth of why they have to fake it in the first place. How hard can it be to pretend to be friends with the person who once knew you best?

But as sunny beach days together turn into starry nights, Joni begins to question what her life is without Ren in it. And when the wedding arrives, bringing past heartaches to the surface, she’ll be forced to decide if loving Ren means letting him go, or if theirs is a love story worth fighting for.

Excerpt

SUNDAY

I pull up to the salt-weathered house late Sunday afternoon, seagulls announcing themselves above and the ocean crashing in far below. As I step out of the car, I suck in the Pacific Northwest air, like it’s the first breath I’ve taken in two and a half years. It’s briny out here on the coast, where the sky stretches endless and blue over water that sparkles in tiny fractals, and where one week from now, my little sister will be married under the red-roofed lighthouse that juts out from the green headland a short walk away.

The trunk of the rental car heaves open with a groan, a stark contrast to the perfect Oregon day. It’s fitting that my return to the West Coast would not only be on the heels of losing my job, but involve a dented Mazda that sounded like a freight train running off the tracks the entire way from PDX. Coming back here was never going to be easy, but the journey could have been a little kinder.

Inside, the house is largely the same. The kitchen sits at the front, the long oak table that we can all fit around under the windows. Through a small mudroom opposite are French doors leading to the screen porch that runs along one side of the house. When everyone else arrives the day after tomorrow, there will be laughter rolling in from the yard, conversation in the kitchen, music playing.

For now, there’s only silence.

I drop my car keys on the granite island and walk my bags into the living room, where the sun streams in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I should go upstairs and unpack, start the week on a responsible note, settle myself in before the others arrive. But a wave of all the memories this place holds suddenly washes over me, and I find myself unable to move another step. This house has seen me through so many versions of myself, and this newest one feels like a stranger here, an intruder.

I brace myself. If I’m going to survive this week, I need to pretend that I haven’t intentionally been staying away these past few years. I take another deep breath, pour a glass of wine, and fold my legs under me on the couch. It was this view of the ocean that sold my parents and the Websters on the place when they purchased it together twenty years ago. And now, with the familiar feel of the sun warming my shoulders, the sight of the waves shimmering before me, that same view quiets my mind for the first time in days.  

MONDAY

I wake up the next morning sprawled face down on top of the comforter, a dull throb behind my right eye. What started as one glass of wine turned into three on the back deck as I watched the sun go down over the ocean, curled under a well-loved Pendleton throw in one of the Adirondack chairs out there.

I close my eyes again for a minute, listening to the waves rolling in, enjoying the cool breeze drifting through the window as it brushes across my neck.

And that’s when I hear the front door.

My eyes fly open. I sit up and scramble for my phone, checking to see if Stevie has texted that she and her fiancé, Leo, decided to head up early, but I don’t have any new messages. Still, it wouldn’t be that unlike my sister to show up unannounced. I stand with far too much confidence for a hungover woman alone in a coastal house, and shuffle downstairs.

Just in case, in the living room, I pick up a heavy geode from a sideboard and raise it above my head as I approach the kitchen, ready to—what? Pummel someone at short range?

At the sound of keys being tossed onto the counter, I lower the rock, my heart slowing. “Hello?” I call. “Stevie?” I poke my head through the door, catch sight of the person turning at my voice.

It is not my sister.

At first, I think I might be making him up, as if despite the energy I’ve spent repressing him since the second I stepped foot inside this house, some memory managed to spring free and wander around like a reminder of everything I’ve been missing. But this person is flesh and blood, fully corporeal.

I take him in like there’s a curtain slowly rising up to reveal him. Here are the long legs that used to bike around town with me when we were kids, here are the forearms that used to lean against the bar across from me, here are strong shoulders and here is a head of messy, dark hair.

“Joni,” Ren says, my name familiar on his lips. “Hi.”

I stare back at him. Dust particles catch in the bands of light filtering in through the kitchen windows behind him like he’s a particularly well-lit figure in an indie film. His gray T-shirt sits against the tan of his arms, Wayfarers tucked into the front pocket.

I had one more day to get ready for this, one more day to live in delusion that this moment might never come, that I would never have to face him. The person who knows—knew—me better than anyone in the world. The reason I’ve avoided Oregon for so long. I was going to be cool, casual, act like nothing had changed between us while our families were around and ignore him the rest of the time. I wasn’t going to be alone with him.

If the vague nausea I was feeling before was because of the wine I drank last night, now it is firmly due to the fact that not only do I have to face him alone, but I have to do it pantsless, in only a Portland Mavericks T-shirt that hangs partway down my thighs. As luck or fate or the laughably unfair universe would have it, he’s here a day early, wrecking my plans. 

“Hi, Ren,” I croak. I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” Obviously. 

My eyes snag on the barely there lines that frame the corners of his mouth, twin parentheses serving as proof of how much joy I know can fill up his body. They deepen even when there’s just a hint of a smile on his face. I used to chase them like I did his laugh. But Ren isn’t smiling now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, in what might be the most quintessentially Ren answer possible. He’s apologizing, like he really did break into my personal vacation home. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I would have called if—”

“No, it’s okay.” I hadn’t told anyone I’d be here early, hadn’t wanted to alert them to the reason—the sudden and dramatic end of a job I loved—behind my last-minute schedule change. There’s no way Ren could have known I would be here. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.

It takes Ren a beat to answer. He reaches up to either tug at his hair or rub at his neck, but he releases his arm at the last second, settles his gaze on me. “I thought I’d head up before everyone arrives tomorrow to get some things out of the way,” he says. “You know, mow the lawn, clear the path down to the lighthouse, that sort of thing.”

Right. Ren would be here out of selfless reasons. As Stevie’s maid of honor, I have a list of all the things I’ll need to prepare for starting tomorrow, but Ren, helper that he is, is diving in well before anyone even asks him to.

“Of course,” I say. “Same.”

“Your hair—” Ren says, and I glance up in time to see him nodding toward me.

“Shorter,” I say, smoothing the back of my hair, which just clears my shoulders, the only vestige of its former self my bangs. I cut it a year ago, after Stevie told me hair holds memory or emotion or something along those lines. I was willing to try anything to fill the hole that had taken up residence in my life. 

“You’re still—” I gesture at him, coming up short, nerves climbing up my neck. His hair looks like it’s been trimmed recently, but it’s still his usual style. His shoulders seem like they might be broader under his T-shirt, but he’s always been in good shape, so maybe it’s just a trick of the light. The ways he’s different are too minute to mention: a face and body two and a half years older in ways only someone intimately familiar with them would notice.

“—tall,” I finally finish, wincing a little. 

“Yeah,” Ren says. “Been trying my hardest to knock off a few inches, but…” He shrugs, and I realize too late he’s trying to make a joke, so my laugh comes out stilted.

“Well,” I say. “I’m in my old room, but I’ll stay out of your way.”

Ren raises a fist to his forehead. For a moment, the mask falls, his eyes honing in on me again. Ren’s always had a way of seeing through me, and suddenly I’m sixteen again, crying against his shoulder because I just failed a math test, or eighteen, anxiously poring over a dog-eared welcome packet as we drive north to Portland as college freshmen, or twenty-seven, standing on a cold sidewalk on New Year’s Eve, the last time I saw him.

“Right,” Ren says, eyes still on mine, then, “Actually, I should probably mention—” He stops short when he sees the small flinch on my face, like I’m bracing for what he’s going to say next. His fist drops to his side. “We’re on the screen porch again this year.”

I clamp my lips together. “Hmm?” I say.

“You and I,” Ren says, nodding between us like that is the part of his sentence he needs to clarify. “They put us on the screened-in porch again this year.”

“Who is they?” I ask, though there’s only one possible answer. Our families. The other people you’ve been avoiding.

“Well,” Ren says. “The last couple years—” He pauses. 

I paste as placid a look on my face as possible, like it’s normal that I haven’t been here for the last two summers, like it’s normal that he and I are no longer a we, bound together by something that I used to think was profound, and now just feels like time, proximity, all those things that can tie people together.

“Stevie and Leo have been in the room you two used to share, and Thad’s in the one I usually take.”

“No worries,” I say, smile tight, already angling my way out of the kitchen. What did I expect? That they’d walk by my room in hushed reverence all this time, maintaining it like a shrine when there’s hardly enough space for all of us as is? That Stevie and Leo wouldn’t use it as their own? “Let me know if you need any help. Otherwise, I’ll meet you on the screened-in porch tomorrow.”

His brows bend toward each other and his eyes go dark. “Right. I won’t get in your way, then.”

I, a nearly thirty-year-old woman, salute him on my way out.

From FRIENDS TO LOVERS by Sally Blakey. Copyright 2025 by Sally Blakely. Published by Canary Street Press, an imprint of HTP Books/HarperCollins.  

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

SALLY BLAKELY studied theatre, media arts, English, and education at The University of Montana. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, or making far too many playlists. She lives in Montana with her husband. Friends to Lovers is her first novel.

Connect:

Author Website: https://www.sallyblakely.com/ 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sally.blakely/

Spotlight: Married to Number Twenty-two by Elise Faber

Release Date: July 21

I signed the contract.
I just didn't expect her to show up ten years later, ready to cash it in.

Recently traded to the Grizzlies, I’m struggling to find my place on the team. I’ve changed coasts, moved away from my best friend, from the Breakers who became family, and…I’m alone.

And it’s my birthday.

A fact that everyone around me seems to have forgotten.

Until a knock at the door proves differently.

I was in love with Luna when I was a teenager, and now she's on my doorstep, vivacious and beautiful and…holding a piece of paper I barely remember. 

One that says we’ll get married…

And I think I’m just insane enough to say yes.

Married to Twenty-Two is the first book in the brand new Grizzlies Hockey series. If you love big, bearded hockey players who fall hard and fast for the women they love, this series is for you!

Buy on Amazon

Meet Elise Faber

USA TODAY bestselling author, Elise Faber, loves chocolate, Star Wars, Harry Potter, and hockey (the order depending on the day and how well her team—the Sharks!—are playing). She and her husband also play as much hockey as they can squeeze into their schedules, so much so that their typical date night is spent on the ice. Elise changes her hair color more often than some people change their socks, loves sparkly things, and is the mom to two exuberant boys. She lives in Northern California. 

To find out about Elise Faber’s  upcoming releases and giveaways, sign up for her newsletter here

For more information on Elise Faber and her books visit: https://www.elisefaber.com/

Connect with Elise Faber: https://www.elisefaber.com/contact

Spotlight: Rachel's Deadly Inheritance by Jean-Pierre Blackwood

Mystery/Romance

Date Published: April 18, 2025

Rachel’s Past

In a city plagued by hidden crime, Rachel Remington is a solitary investigator haunted by her family’s tragic past—her mother’s murder and her father’s assassination. At 26, her obsession with finding their killers drives her into a dangerous confrontation with a shadowy underworld of illicit drug trafficking.

Will Rachel Get Her Revenge?

As hope emerges through the enigmatic Detective Trent, Rachel's life spirals into chaos. As they join forces, she discovers hidden agendas and dark secrets threatening to consume her.

Games, Betrayals, and Love

Caught in a perilous game of trust and betrayal, Rachel must uncover her family’s past while evading those determined to silence her. In a thrilling tale of revenge and unexpected alliances, will Rachel uncover the truth, seize her chance for redemption, find love, or will the shadows of her past cost her everything?

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

It’s never too late to make my dreams come true.  I was lucky to be born on the southern shores of the Mediterranean Sea, specifically in Alexandria. My summers were spent on the beach, enjoying the sunshine, the original surfboards/paddle boards, and the game of sand pickleball before it even made it to the US.

Not having TVs, I read many books, especially wartime ones, Ian Flemings’s early James Bond novels, John Le Carre, Agatha Christie, Maurice LeBlanc (Arsene Lupin), and other detective/mystery-type books. For school, we had to read all the French Classics. I was always intrigued by how the characters always managed to resolve their problems.

At the Age of 19, I came to California as a foreign student. After graduating with an engineering degree, I was able to obtain my permanent residency. I never looked back. My mother was able to join me, but unfortunately, my father passed away.

Once I graduated with a Mechanical Engineering degree, I joined an International Engineering and Construction Company and spent all my working time with them. What was great is that the company moved me to many work projects around the world, where I spent an average of a couple of years on each. My wife joined me on some of these assignments.

But my love for writing was always with me. During my stay abroad, I wrote a philosophical book and many articles for local newspapers and the Laguna Beach weekly issues, comparing life in Laguna Beach with life in Indonesia. I wrote articles for the company’s monthly newsletter, as well as for other publications.

I recently decided to use a “nom de plume”/pseudonym for my writings. My real name is Jean-Pierre Zacaropoulos. Having a last name starting with a “Z” had me called upon in classes either as one of the last ones or one of the first one. It was always a guessing game. But usually having an A or B will push you to the top (Ha! Ha!). So I decided to choose a “B”

Now, I have a little bit more time, so I decided to make my long-time desire come true. I wrote my mystery/romance novel, which will be followed shortly after by a sequel.

Website: http://www.jp-blackwood-author.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/jp.zacaropoulos.9

LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/jean-pierre-blackwood-626a1016/

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

BookBuzz: https://bookbuzz.net/mystery-romance-rachels-deadly-inheritance-by-jean-pierre-blackwood/

Spotlight: Once Upon a Blue Moon by Avery Arujo

Paranormal Romance/Mystery

Date Published: July 1, 2025

Magic, mystery, and enemies-to-something-much-sweeter collide in this cozy paranormal romance full of heart, humor, and hexes.

Hazel Thornton is a small-town witch with a knack for brewing potions, botching spells, and annoying her grumpy werewolf neighbor, Blake Carter. But when a magical mishap leaves them trapped in each other’s bodies, they’re forced to work together—awkwardly, sarcastically, and very much against their will.

To make matters worse, Moonridge is on edge. Wolves are acting strange. Magic is going haywire. And beneath Hazel’s apothecary, something old and dangerous is waking up. As Hazel and Blake stumble through spellwork, supernatural politics, and a suspiciously perfect wellness guru with a shady agenda, one thing becomes clear: this body swap isn’t their biggest problem.

As Hazel and Blake race to reverse the spell, they uncover secrets that could tear the town apart. But the deeper they dive into the mystery, the more they realize their biggest problem might not be magic... it might be how much they’re falling for each other.

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About the Author

Avery Arujo is the pen name of a neurodivergent, painfully shy, and proudly introverted writer who has finally decided to dip her toes into the chaotic world of self-publishing.

Though she’s been quietly writing for years (mostly through anonymous fanfic and enthusiastic encouragement for other writers) this marks her first official foray into paranormal-romance-mysteries. (ParaRoMystery?) It was the quiet days of the COVID pandemic, the persistent voices of the Moonridge characters in her head, and the gentle (okay, sometimes pushy) insistence of family and friends that nudged her toward publishing.

Avery lives in the northern U.S., where it’s cold more often than not, with two opinionated dogs, and a significant other who is equal parts grumpy and lovely. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her watching trashy reality TV or reading with a blanket, a cup of coffee, and at least one pet trying to prove that they are more interesting than her book.

Connect:

Website: https://welcometomoonridge.com

BookBuzz: https://bookbuzz.net/paranormal-mystery-romance-once-upon-a-blue-moon-by-avery-arujo/

Spotlight: Deadly Odds 8.0 by Allen Wyler

What happens when the devices meant to save lives become tools for murder? That’s the unnerving premise of Deadly Odds 8.0, a thriller that explores what happens when cybersecurity and biotechnology collide.

It all starts with one inexplicable death—an otherwise healthy man collapses on church steps. But when the CEO of a company that manufactures AI-enhanced pacemakers gets a threatening call minutes later, it’s clear: this was no accident. Someone has found a way to hack into implanted medical devices, and they’ve just declared war. The message is chilling: shut the company down by Friday, or more people will die. Enter Arnold Gold and his team of cyber-sleuths—brilliant minds with deep technical skills and a reputation for solving the unsolvable. As they dive into the case, they uncover a pattern of manipulation and control that reaches far beyond what anyone thought possible. What begins as a tech crisis spirals into a global threat.

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

Seattle—Sunday Morning

ELIJAH BROWN—DEVOTED husband and beloved father of two—stood at the front door to the Mount Zion Baptist church, flanked by his wife Tamika and eldest son Darnell. He was complimenting Reverend Johnson on his thought-provoking sermon when his heart began to beat wildly, then stop. Grimacing in pain, Elijah flattened his right palm to his chest, groaned loudly, and dropped onto the floor of the vestibule.

Tamika, Reverend Johnson, and nearby parishioners froze in stunned open-mouth horror.

“Elijah!” his wife called, now on her knees next to him, clutching his right hand. “Elijah, speak to me. What’s wrong, baby?”  

Darnell was now also on his knees on the other side of him. He yelled, “Pops!” 

Elijah Brown didn’t answer. 

Darnell, a registered nurse, pressed his index and middle fingertips to his father’s neck feeling for the carotid artery pulse. Nothing. He adjusted his fingers, to make sure he wasn’t mistaken.

He yelled, “Call nine-one-one” while starting CPR. 

“I just did,” shouted back a parishioner in a rapidly enlarging crowd of lookie-loos clotting around the unfolding drama.

Darnell swept his right hand in an arc, moving the onlookers away, “Back up,” he shouted, then dragged his father from the threshold to a spot just inside the church, giving him more room and a better position to continue cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

“C’mon, Dad, fight!” he yelled in between breaths.

His father’s pupils were not fully dilated, which he took as a good sign. A very good sign, actually, giving him strength to continue the vigorous pumping despite the rapidly developing fatigue consuming his shoulders and arms.

A hand tapped Darnell’s right shoulder as a deep male voice asked, “Want me to spell you?”

With sweat dripping from his chin now, his shoulders burning with lactic acid, Darnell kept on compressing his dad’s heart, counting to ten, then inflating his lungs. Pop’s eyes flickered open with the first sparkle of life since collapsing. He’d be damned if he’d risk delegating such a critical responsibility to someone whose CPR skill was unknown.  

“Appreciate the offer,” he gasped, “but I got this.”

“What do we have here?” Darnell heard a commanding voice ask. A moment later a hand gently pulled him away from his father. He glanced up to see a paramedic in a dark blue short-sleeved Seattle Fire Department shirt kneel and put a stethoscope to Pops’s chest. Darnell stopped the CPR. After a quick listen, the medic ripped open Pops’s white dress shirt and grabbed a set of defibrillator paddles.

Darnell heard Moms yell, “Wait! There’s a defibrillator in him.”

Without breaking flow or slowing his well-rehearsed movements, the paramedic said, “I can see that, ma’am. But it’s not working.”

A moment later, paddles in place, Darnell heard the paramedic yell, “Clear!” just before sending 150 joules of electric current into Pops’s body, triggering a massive muscle spasm.

Sunday Morning—Seattle

John Harris replaced the steaming mug of freshly brewed Starbucks French Roast on the kitchen table just to the right of his laptop, then scrolled to the next page of The New York Times. His first cup of coffee on Sunday mornings had, over the years, become a sacred ritual, performed with the reverence of a devoted priest preparing communion for his flock. 

He did not just savor the fresh aromatic brew but also glorified each small detail of the process: storing whole beans in a sealed bag in the bottom shelf of the refrigerator to maintain roasted freshness; running the beans through a Braun grinder to a perfect texture before pouring them into his cherished Chemex; then subjecting them to the precise volume of scalding water.

To complement his coffee, each Saturday he would pick up three flawless hot-out-of-the-oven croissants from La Parisienne French Bakery to savor with fresh salty butter and blackberry jam. Admittedly, the pastry was a day old by Sunday, yet its flaky dough still held the unquestioned distinction of being the best croissants Seattle had to offer. After all, with his office a mere two blocks south of the bakery, it was no problem to run over and pick them up Saturday morning since typically he was in his Cor-Pace office catching up on paperwork anyway. Unless, of course, he was away on business. Which had been happening more often lately.

His cellphone rang. 

He was annoyed at being interrupted during his one morning a week of total relaxation and respite from work. He glanced at the phone. Unidentified.

Unidentified?

In that case, why bother answering?

He dumped the call.

Although robocalls were way down these past few years, they occasionally came, annoying and inconveniencing him. Worse yet, spam texts were beginning to sprout up.

Ten seconds later the marimba ringtone sounded again. 

Damn. Same goddamn unidentified number.  

Undoubtedly someone dialing a wrong number. In other words, if he didn’t answer the call and set the idiot straight, it would ring again. 

Goddamnit! 

He swiped accept, raised the phone to his ear, and barked, “Yes?” 

An electronically distorted voice asked, “Mr. Harris?” in a strangely demanding tone.

The disorienting, out-of-context voice shocked him, jolting a surge of adrenaline through his arteries, tingling his fingertips and toes, robbing him of speech. He glanced at his familiar surroundings for a reality check. Yes, Joyce, his wife, was still on the other side of the kitchen table, oblivious to the acute sense of vulnerability clawing at his heart. Instinctively he understood that an electronically distorted voice from an unidentified number meant bad news.

“Mr. Harris,” the voice repeated, more demanding this time.

What now? Answer? Hang up? What?

Was this some sort of joke? Hard as that was to believe…

John Harris stammered a tentative “Yes?”

“Until this moment you didn’t know I existed. I mean, why should you? But I know I exist, and now so do you. And as of this moment, I’m the most important person in your life.” Pause. “Care to know why? Of course you do.”

A prank? Was that what this was? 

Distortion aside, the words rang with enough sincerity to make him question it being a prank. 

“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you,” the weirdly metallic voice stated flatly. “I’ll explain. As of today, I hold absolute power over your company’s destiny. Shall I explain this too?”

Confused and now afraid, Harris was speechless. 

“Because I can control every Cor-Rate II in your Everest trial.”

What

A spike of raw anger stabbed his heart.

“Bullshit,” he blurted.

“Bullshit? Really?” 

The icy intonation in the back-to-back questions flipped his anger into fear again. The caller knew his name and his cellphone number. Not only that, but he knew about their clinical trial. This was sobering, giving the outrageous claim a distinct ring of credibility. Harris slowly closed his mouth and listened for the asshole’s next words.

Three seconds of heart-thumping silence ticked past.

Darth Vader said, “Shocked?”  

Again, Harris knew better than to answer. The unprecedented situation robbed him of a rational response as his innate canniness cautioned against saying anything in error.

A moment later his strong pragmatism kicked in, giving him an objective overview of the situation. 

So what if this nutcase knew the name of their clinical trial?

Everyone from the Cor-Pace board of directors to the enrolled patients’ family members knew that. And besides, his name and phone number were at the end of the consent form. In other words, every scrap of information that the mystery voice had thrown out to intimidate him was in the public domain if you knew where to look. 

His confidence began building.

And what about the bastard’s outrageous claim of being able to control their devices?

Impossible. The device passcodes were vaulted in an ultra-secured encrypted database. No way could he get his hands on those.  

His initial helplessness was shouldered aside by blood pressure-pounding anger at this asshole for playing games with his Sunday morning.

All for what? To satisfy some infantile urge to prank someone? 

Sunday mornings were his alone to savor. He needed them. No, he deserved them. They were not to be frivolously disrupted. Bootstrapping a start-up medical device company from a concept into a marketable product in an ultra-competitive environment was hard enough without having to endure the harassment of some fraternity-level bullshit prank. 

“I’m sorry,” Harris said, “what did you say your name is?”

“I didn’t,” replied the metallic voice. “But if you feel a need to give me a name, why not call me Hacker. Or, better yet, make that Mr. Hacker.”

Hacker? That word drove a fear-laden voodoo pin through his heart, unleashing a previously unthought-of possibility.

Maybe, just maybe this whacko—for despite the electronic masking, Harris was convinced that the voice was male—was somehow able to penetrate their database. If so, maybe he could manipulate one of their devices.

Was that possible?

He thought hard about it.

No, no way. How could he?

The devices themselves were encrypted and their serial numbers stored in an encrypted database. Meaning that for the claim to be possible, this self-proclaimed hacker would’ve needed to break into their secure database as well as know their encryption key.

No, that combination of events wasn’t possible.

His fear flip-flopped back to anger. How dare the sonofabitch! Time to call the bastard’s bluff.

“Look, Hacker, I have no idea who the hell you think you are or why you’re getting off on this little charade, but I don’t respond well to crank calls and I—”

“I’m sorry to hear that, John, because this isn’t a crank call, and you haven’t even heard my demand yet.”

Demand? Christ, that did it. 

Your demand? Listen to me, you crazy bastard, I’m going to hang up now.”

“I wouldn’t advise that, John.”

Something in that tone of voice…something floating over the electronic distortion, kept John Harris from pushing the red disconnect icon.

Something that made him ask, “Why’s that?”

“Because the same thing that happened to Elijah Brown can happen to the rest of your patients if you simply blow this off.”

Harris froze. That name…wasn’t he one of their patients? Yes, he was sure of it. 

“Caught your attention?” the unnerving voice asked.

By now Joyce was eyeing him questioningly, mouthing, Who is it?

Waving away her question, Harris scrambled for something to say, something non-inflammatory that could draw out more information. 

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Author Allen Wyler draws from years of neurosurgical experience to deliver heart-stopping authenticity. A two-time Thriller Award nominee and longtime member of the crime writing community, he specializes in stories that are both intellectually sharp and pulse-pounding. Find out more about his background and books at allenwyler.com.

Spotlight: A Deceptive Game Ensues by Sophie Barnes

House of Croft, Book 4

Historical Mystery / Thriller / Romance

Date Published: 06-17-2025

An unexpected menace threatens their newfound freedom…

Acquitted of the crime he was accused of, Adrian Croft begins an investigation that could link a duke to his sister's death. But with a fresh series of murders leading straight to Saint George's Hospital, Adrian is torn between his quest for revenge and the need to catch an active killer. For though he may have sworn to yield his power in order to gain a pardon, all bets are off when villains threaten his city.

Having proven her unfailing loyalty to her husband, Samantha Croft settles into married life - an idyl that quickly crumbles when she and Adrian get caught up in a new series of murders. As they follow a trail that leads them through subterranean tunnels and to a secret organization, they face another threat too: a ghost from Adrian's past who's about to bring war to their doorstep.

Excerpt

Chapter One

September 10th, 1818

The air was cool. Chilly even. A hint of mildew clung to it. Most likely because the room lacked windows and was hard to air out.

Lying on a narrow table, Polly Griffin took a deep breath and released it slowly. There was no need to fret. No reason for her pulse to be racing. She was in capable hands. All would be well. The surgeon whose help she’d sought came highly recommended. She’d been referred to him by her physician. A man who’d helped cure her ailments numerous times in the past. If he’d sent her here, then it was because he believed in the treatment she would receive.

And according to what she’d been told since she’d arrived here, the procedure she’d undergo would be quick. Not entirely painless, but simple enough that she would be able to get back to work tomorrow. This assurance had pleased her immensely for if there was one thing she’d no wish to do, then it was to disappoint her employer.

Lady Ottersburg was a lovely woman who treated all her servants well. Unlike other members of the peerage, the viscountess engaged her servants in conversation, even going so far as to take an in interest in their families. And the lady always remembered which footman had a sickly parent or if a maid was about to become an aunt. It was most impressive and helped instill a sense of worth in everyone who worked at Ottersburg House. 

Polly had always considered it a distinct honor to serve there. Even if she feared her dream of becoming the viscountess’s personal lady’s maid would never be realized. Such promotions were rare. More so when Rose, who currently filled the position had not yet turned thirty and was far more qualified than Polly. Who’d only been employed to attend the downstairs.

Her day started early. By five o’clock she was in the parlor, opening the curtains to let in the morning light. The grate would be cleaned and the fire re-laid before she set about sweeping the rugs and wiping down every surface with a damp cloth before she moving on to the next room.

Lady Ottersburg often claimed her home to be the cleanest she’d ever set foot in. High praise that made Polly proud of her job. It also filled her with a desire to prove herself capable and worthy of the lady’s regard. To not disappoint her. As Polly feared she might if it became known that she’d gotten herself with child out of wedlock.

She’d have to leave Ottersburg House before she started to show. To prevent her sin from rubbing off on the family. Worse, to avoid the awkward conversations and pitiful looks that would likely precede her inevitable departure. Mama would never forgive her or the diminished financial support such an outcome would lead to. She herself would have to live with the guilt of knowing she’d ruined numerous lives in a foolish moment of weakness.

This was for the best. A quick procedure to help her take control of her future.

She turned her head and allowed her gaze to sweep the lime-washed walls of the room she was in. Until she found the man who stood nearby. Middle-aged with a hint of aristocracy to his overall bearing, he wore a kind expression that seemed to convey immense understanding for the predicament in which she found herself. 

His back was to her as he bent over a smaller table on which she’d seen him place various supplies.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” he said, his voice soft. Gentle and soothing. “It’s important I make sure all of my tools are at the ready before we begin.”

Polly nodded, as best as she could. “Of course.”

He glanced at her and the pleasant smile curving his lips put her at ease. All would be well. No need to be anxious. 

She wriggled her fingers and the rope that would hold her still while the surgeon worked chafed her wrists. Additional restraints had been used on her legs and ankles. A necessity, she’d been informed, since the slightest movement on her part could prove disastrous.

“Drink this.” The surgeon held a cup to her lips with one hand while using the other to lift her head.

A shiver of apprehension curled around Polly’s breast. “What is it?”

“Laudanum, to help you relax.”

“It smells different than usual.” 

His expression was calm, his eyes full of understanding. “Because of the wine and herbs I added to mask the bitterness. Make the flavor a little more pleasant.”

A thoughtful notion, Polly decided. She’d always hated the way the stuff tasted. But if it was mixed with other ingredients, it might not be so bad.

She parted her lips and the liquid entered her mouth, surprising her with a hint of berries, ginger, possibly sage, and something she failed to identity. It was sweet too and not entirely unpleasant. Truth be told, she wouldn’t have guessed it contained any laudanum at all, had the surgeon not mentioned it.

 “That’s it,” he murmured, tilting the cup a bit more to help her drink. “You’ll feel the effect of it soon.”

Polly lowered her head until she was staring up at the ceiling. The plaster was filled with fine cracks, like veins shooting out in every direction. She blinked, then blinked again when her vision blurred. It was as if a haze had descended over her eyes. A woozy sensation spread through her limbs, reminding her of that time years ago when she and her cousin had pilfered Uncle Theo’s bottle of brandy.

It had to be… Had to be…

She tried to think, but her brain was empty. Vacant. And then she was falling backward. Into herself. As the world around her vanished.

#

The fog creeping over the Thames had started retreating by the time the hackney Chief Constable Peter Kendrick had hired arrived at the docks. Dawn had broken nearly an hour ago but heavy cloud coverage cloaked the streets, reducing visibility.

The carriage slowed and Peter allowed himself a moment to reflect on the turn his life had taken in recent weeks while he waited for the carriage to pull to a halt. He’d been sacked. A young and competent Runner named Jackson, who presently sat on the bench beside him, had taken his place. Together, despite forces working against them, they’d managed to root out corruption within the legal system.

A judge was still under investigation for the part he’d played in convicting Adrian Croft of murder. Viscount Carver, who’d been one of the Prince Regent’s most trusted advisors, had fled the country. Peter’s former boss, Sir Nigel, had been stripped of his duties. And Mr. Croft himself had received a full pardon, though it had cost him the blackmail files that made so many people pray for his death.

Happily, the new chief magistrate, Mr. Hastings, had encouraged Peter’s return to Bow Street. A request Peter had gladly accepted even if it meant answering to a man he’d recently issued orders to. 

Jackson, however, had instantly asked to resume his former duties at Runner so Peter could regain his title of chief constable. The younger man had joked that he’d rather someone else took the blame when a case went unsolved. As was, Peter hated admitting, far too often the case.

The carriage rocked, axels creaking as the carriage came to a standstill. Dressed in a greatcoat in case it rained, Peter thrust the door open and stepped down onto the uneven cobblestones. Jackson, followed him out.

“Ready?” Peter asked.

Jackson responded with a firm nod. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”

They strode toward the spot where a small group of men had gathered. Two of the people were holding lanterns, which helped illuminate the area. The pungent smell of rotting seaweed clawed its way up Peter’s nose. He reached inside a pocket and pulled out the silver case that housed his cheroots. It took no more than five seconds before he was able to inhale the smooth taste of Indian tobacco. 

A bell rang somewhere in the distance. Peter stepped forward with purpose, his attention going briefly to the obscure shape that lay at the edge of the dock before honing in on the man who stood nearest. 

“Good morning.” Peter stuck out his hand and the man, a scruffy fellow with dark whisps of hair poking out from beneath his cap, shook it. “I’m Chief Constable Peter Kendrick and this is my colleague, Mr. Jackson. We’ve come in response to the message delivered to Bow Streat a short while ago. A body was mentioned.”

“Aye.” The man shoved both hands in his trouser pockets, hunching his shoulders against the damp air while jutting his chin toward the shape on the ground. “We covered ‘er up. Out o’ respect.”

“It’s a woman then,” Jackson observed.

“Aye. Young one, by the looks o’ it. Shame really.”

Peter took a long drag from his cheroot, tilted his head back, and sent the smoke skyward before saying, “We’ll need all your names for our records.”

No one argued. The man he’d been speaking to straightened a little. “I’m Jones. First name, Randolph. This ‘ere’s Benjamin Clarence, David Lee, Finn Stevenson, and Ian Ackroyd.”

Jackson jotted the information down while Peter crossed to the body. It had been concealed beneath a large piece of canvas, possibly sack-cloth, judging from the coarse appearance. Peter dropped to a crouch and drew back the edge to reveal the woman. Mr. Jones was correct. She was indeed young. Most likely in her early twenties.

“I need more light,” Peter said while scanning her pasty skin. Her eyes were closed, as though in slumber, her dark hair slicked back due to wetness – a few strands partially pasted to her right cheek.

Footsteps approached and a soft glow spilled over Peter’s left shoulder, flooding the woman’s face. It was clear now, judging from her appearance, that she’d been in the water a while. At least a couple of days, Peter reckoned.

He glanced up at Jackson, who’d brought the lantern over, then shifted his gaze to the men still gathered behind him. “Which one of you found her?”

There was a long pause before Jones chose to speak up. “Clarence and me. We was preparing the boat we use to ferry goods across the river when we saw her floatin’ nearby.”

“A possible case of self-murder then,” Jackson murmured while Peter returned his attention to the dead woman. 

The Runner wasn’t wrong to suppose such a thing. These types of deaths happened from time to time, especially on the river where those who wanted a way out of life would jump from one of the bridges. Victims of foul play were rarely found in the Thames, most likely because those guilty of murder were wise enough to weigh the bodies down. Make sure they were never discovered.

Peter pulled the sack-cloth back farther. The body appeared to be intact, so Jackson could be right. Were it not for a tiny detail that snared Peter’s attention. He lifted the woman’s wrist, turned it slightly, and waved Jackson closer with the light.

Sure enough, the skin in one spot looked raw with a purplish bruise directly beneath. Like something or someone had gripped her.

Of course, it could be nothing – no more than an accident of the woman’s own making. Peter had no intention of making assumptions. But he’d been at this long enough to know that this finding could be evidence of foul play.

As such, it warranted further investigation. 

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About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author Sophie Barnes writes historical romance novels in which the characters break away from social expectations in their quest for happiness and love. Having written for Avon, an imprint of Harper Collins, her books have been published internationally in eight languages. With a fondness for travel, Sophie has lived in six countries, on three continents, and speaks English, Danish, French, Spanish, and Romanian with varying degrees of fluency. Ever the romantic, she married the same man three times—in three different countries and in three different dresses.

When she’s not busy dreaming up her next swoon worthy romance novel, Sophie enjoys spending time with her family, practicing yoga, baking, gardening, watching romantic comedies and, of course, reading.

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