It's embarrassing to admit I STILL haven't managed to get the book listed on Google. What in the world am I doing all day?! But the book is live everywhere else--in fact, it's even available in print. So, hey, maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this thing called publishing.
I think I mentioned Kale Williams will do the audio (probably in December).
Anyway, it's live. my first new release since...November? GULP.
Next up, The 12.2 Per Cent Solution. And then, with whatever time is left in the year, The Medicine Man Murders. I just don't write as quickly as I used to. It's just the way it is now. It's frustrating to you. It's frustrating to me. It's not that I wouldn't love to be able to crank out 13 books a year like I did back in the old days. It's just not possible.
Anyway, KILL YOUR DARLINGS
BLURB:
At this mystery conference, murder is more than just another
plot twist...
Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of the
job.
Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spent
years curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscript
is handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collides
with fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pile
submission—it’s a direct threat.
U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hill
all those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly the
mysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what?
With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on the
horizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detective
Finn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has a
lot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussion
panels.
EXCERPT:
It was much cooler and breezier down by the water. Sea lions
barked from the far rocks, and gulls
wheeled overhead, their cries sharp and
fleeting.
Finn’s back was to me, and as I grew nearer, I saw that he
was on his phone. Or had been. The call seemed to have ended.
The waves didn’t completely drown out my approach—or, more
likely, Finn possessed more situational awareness than most people—and he
glanced around.
His wary expression changed infinitesimally, but then he
held up his phone and smiled ruefully. “The kiddo,” he said, as if our a.m.
encounter at the pool had never happened.
The kiddo was Finn’s son, Byron, who was in his
freshman year at UCLA.
I asked automatically, “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. He’s a little homesick, I think.”
My understanding was UCLA was less than an hour from home,
but being homesick is not something I know anything about. I left Steeple Hill the
day after I turned eighteen, and I never looked back.
I nodded and said, “Finn, I owe you an apology. You have
every right to work with whomever you choose. Lila’s an excellent editor. It
probably is time to work with someone who can look at the series with
fresh eyes.”
His eyebrows rose. He remarked, “That was interesting, this
morning. Outside of discussing books and having sex, I think that was the first
completely unguarded reaction I’ve ever had from you.”
He spoke calmly, but the effect of that almost clinical tone
was as cold and hard as if I’d been knocked down by one of those waves pounding
the shore.
I was still trying to absorb it, when he added, “But, no. I’m
the one who needs to apologize. I blindsided you. I’m sorry, Keir. You didn’t
deserve that. I should have expressed my concerns two weeks ago.”
Expressed my concerns. Jesus. That was formal. Maybe
he should have filled them out in triplicate while he was at it.
I didn’t say that, of course. I took another couple of steps
forward, close enough to catch the scent of that herbal aromatic aftershave,
close enough to reach out and touch him, though I was pretty sure I’d never
touch him again. “Yeah. That might have helped. What are your concerns?
Because the last time we were together—”
“Why didn’t you tell me your father had died?” he
interrupted.
It was so far out of left field, my jaw dropped.
“I didn’t know you knew him,” I shot back.
“Another gut reaction,” he observed. “You’re offended. And
angry.”
What the hell? I was starting to get angry. “I wasn’t
close to my father. And that, you do know.”
“I do know that. Yes. That’s the extent of what I know about
your family.”
I spread my hands in genuine bafflement. What the hell did
my family have to do with anything?
Finn said, “I’m not sure how to put this without hurting
you. More than I already have. And that’s the last thing I want to do. I
really…really care for you. It’s not about writing or my career, though
yes, I’m grateful. I do feel—will always feel—that I owe you. A lot.”
“I don’t want gratitude.”
“I know.” He drew a hard breath. “And that’s not what this
is. This is about…us.”
He stopped again. This time I couldn’t think of anything to
say.
At least I hadn’t imagined that there had been, briefly, us.
Finally, Finn said, “You’re a good friend. You’re intelligent
and charming and…insightful. You’re generous. I think you’re genuinely kind.”
Insightful.
I said through stiff lips, “That’s funny. I thought you were
kind, too.”
His eyes, green as the waves pounding the sand, flickered. It
hit home, I think, but he hardened his jaw. “I like being with you. And I did
want—for a long time I hoped maybe there would be more.”
My heart was slamming against my ribs in heavy thuds. If I’d
been hooked to a cardiac monitor, I think alarm bells would have been going
off. I could almost hear the panicked jangle of my emotions, like windchimes
caught in a hurricane. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. I wanted
to walk away. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
“But there’s something…”
Wrong with you.
Those were the words he was looking for.
What he said instead was, “…going on with you. It isn’t
anything new. I realized it a long time ago. At first, I thought you were just
very reserved. Then I thought it was hard for you to trust. That you’d been
hurt. I told myself you had a fear of intimacy. But it’s more than that, isn’t
it?”
I said tightly, “You tell me, Dr. Phil.”
He didn’t bite. “We were together for almost four days and
you never once mentioned your father had died the week before. I know you weren’t
close, but there should have been some reaction.”
“How would you know, a week after the fact, what reaction I
had?”
“You also didn’t mention you’d been in California for his
funeral. We’d been talking about seeing more of each other, seeing where
this…friendship might lead.”
“That trip was before,” I protested. “Before we
talked about any of that.”
In fairness, we hadn’t even really talked about that
in any practical sense. We’d just sort of agreed that we both wanted more and
that Monterey might be the time to explore some of those possibilities.
“I know.” He seemed genuinely apologetic—but also absolutely
adamant. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to put it into words without— What
I’m trying to say is, I’ve known—felt—for a long time that something isn’t
right. Finding out about your father’s death crystallized it for me.”
I made a sound of disbelief.
“My instinct is you’re…hiding something. And I’m too old to
wake up and find myself in a-a Dateline special.”
I think it was random, a shot in the dark, a little flicker
of black humor. Or maybe it really was a cop—former cop’s—instinct?
But it hit home, hit the target dead center. Bullseye.
I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t breathe for a moment.
No small part of my horror was the belated understanding of
what it would have meant to drag someone else—to have dragged Finn—into the
mess I found myself in.
I guess I’d gotten away with it for so long, I’d started
believing I really had escaped. The risk to someone else hadn’t occurred to me
until Finn articulated it. But yes. If—and now it was feeling more like when—the
truth about Dom’s death came out, the wrecking ball wouldn’t just hit me. It
would smash into whoever was sharing my life. I didn’t want that. Would never
have been okay with that. I would never knowingly have done anything to hurt
Finn.
As Finn stared at me, realization slowly dawned on his face.
He looked stunned. And then aghast.
He said incredulously, “I was thinking more on the lines of secret
wife.”
“No, you weren’t.”
His voice dropped; I couldn’t hear it over the crash of
waves hitting the shore. But I saw his lips form soundless words, “What the
hell, Keiran?”
I had no answer. What could I say? To Finn, of all people.
The idea that we were going to build some kind of
Happily Ever After? I must have been out of my mind.
I could feel a weird smile forming. It wasn’t humor. I don’t
know what it was aside from an inappropriate response to extreme nervous
tension. But I could see Finn’s eyes getting darker and bleaker.
“Is this funny to you?” he asked.
I turned and walked away.
WHERE TO BUY:
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