In a small New England town, secrets don’t stay buried—no matter how deep.

When a second woman from “the Posse,” a tight-knit group of friends, is murdered, FBI profiler Gus Wheeler is called in. The case takes a chilling turn when he finds a decades-old memorial photo hidden on the body. The friends refuse to talk, but fear radiates from beneath their carefully curated lives. They’re being watched. Stalked. Hunted.

And then a third woman is attacked.

As Gus digs deeper, he realizes this isn’t just a string of murders—it’s a game of psychological warfare. Someone is exacting revenge, but is the killer inside the Posse or someone from the past they tried to forget? The clock is ticking, and Gus’s survival depends on uncovering the best liar in town.

Excerpt

Chapter One

Everyone knew Sarah Nelson loved to run. She was a triage nurse, so her days were filled with alarms and buzzers and life-or-death decisions. Running gave her much-needed quiet time, a chance to decompress and get lost in her own head without any distractions from work or kids or social media. She loved the alone time on the trails, just her and her music and the fresh smells of nature. And the endorphins; oh, how she loved the endorphins. Sarah would rave to the girls, the Posse as they called themselves, that as good as sex was with Steve (and it was pretty amazing), when she hit the zone on a run and the world melted away, the endorphins she’d get afterward were simply orgasmic. But, of course, all this was a lie, especially the Steve-sex thing. Sarah hated running, she absolutely loathed it. But deep down she loathed her vile friend, Jules, even more. Jules was a liar and a drunk and a constant thorn in Sarah’s side. Any day Sarah didn’t see Jules was a good day. But worst of all, Jules was a runner and a big-time one at that. And Sarah would be damned if that bitch did anything better than she did.

The drizzle that had been ongoing throughout her run had turned intrusive, the wind thrusting it inside her collar and up her pant legs. All around her, tree trunks were stained a sinister black from the dampness. She fought her way up the steep incline and over the crest of the hill and relief washed over her. This was the three-mile mark and that hill was the hardest part of her run. She knew she’d be at the exit to her backyard just around the next bend. But, as she turned the corner, the first thing Sarah saw was someone lying in a fetal position across the trail, their back arched her way. She stopped short and, peeling wet hair from her face, thought a moment.

She pressed pause on the phone strapped to her bicep and the music in her wireless earbuds was gone. The person wore baggy exercise pants and a form-fitting cold weather running top with its hood pulled tightly over their head. Long arms and legs uncoiled and Sarah heard a low, pain-filled moaning.

Just what I need on my day off, Sarah thought. Another patient.

She kissed the endorphins goodbye and stepped closer. “Oh, hey. You okay?”

The runner twisted their torso and pressed their face into the dirt. “Ah, it’s my knee. My leg bent the wrong way around that corner and I heard a pop. I can’t seem to put any weight on it.”

Sarah knelt down. “Here, let me take a look.”

“Ah, ah AH.”

“Sorry,” she said, sliding the pant leg up. The runner’s leg was a solid, condensed muscle. “The good news is I don’t see any swelling, so it’s probably just a mild strain.” Sarah looked to the opening to her yard a few feet away. “Let’s get you up and bandaged to keep it from swelling.”

“I’m such an idiot,” the runner moaned into the dirt.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. Accidents ha…” Sarah’s words were interrupted by a sharp prick to the back of her neck, and before she knew what was happening her throat and shoulders began to go numb. She swatted at it as if it were a bee sting and, as she did so, scrambled to her feet but not before her cell phone was tugged free from the strap on her arm.

“Wait…what…what the…?” Sarah muttered, confused, stumbling away. She looked at her assailant, who was holding up a scalpel and smiling wide, all traces of anguish and pain gone. Sarah tried to say something but slurred her words so severely even she couldn’t understand what was said. Her mind was racing and she began to have trouble breathing as the numbness made its way to her chest. Her legs wobbled and fear gripped her insides.

She turned to run but a hand grabbed her from behind and she felt searing pain erupt across her lower neck and shoulder. She pulled free and saw a thin red line blooming through her shirt as she began to shuffle-run toward the entrance of her yard. Gusts of wind spread tears across her cheeks like scattering bugs and her legs felt heavy, sluggish, as if she were running on a beach. She tried to focus on the opening in the trees to her yard but her eyes served it up in pairs.

Sarah staggered from the woods and nausea gripped her so severely she vomited down the front of her shirt. She heard a distant voice calling her name before she dropped to one knee. The world spun violently and she collapsed onto her shoulder, then her side, coming to rest atop her flowerless rosebushes. Hot pain consumed her body, her screams of agony trapped in the bile collecting in her throat.

Someone gripped her arm and the back of her neck and it felt like her flesh was on fire. She felt herself lift off the thorny branches as a mix of words and sounds swam to her confused brain. She struggled to peel her eyes open and, when she finally did, terror gripped her once again.

Then the world snapped black.

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About the Author

R. John Dingle is the author of mysteries and psychological thrillers set in New England. He and his wife currently call a small island in Mid-Coast Maine ‘home,’ both living, writing, and boating from their restored 200-year-old house. Karma Never Sleeps is John’s first novel.

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