Favorite Quotes on Books and Reading

"A book is a gift you can open again and again." Garrison Keillor

Literature is a textually transmitted disease, normally contracted in childhood.” Jane Yolen

"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it." Oscar Wilde

"Books have furnished, burnished, and enabled my life." Julia Keller

Monday, August 10, 2020

Book Showcase: THE NIGHT SWIM by Megan Goldin



The Night Swim by Megan Goldin
ISBN: 9781250219688 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9781250219701 (ebook)
ISBN: 9781250752499 (digital audiobook)
ISBN: 9781250752505 (Audiobook on CD)
ASIN: B082VMB1R7   (Audible audiobook)
ASIN: B0818N4HC8   (Kindle edition)
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Publication Date: August 4, 2020


After the first season of her true crime podcast became an overnight sensation and set an innocent man free, Rachel Krall is now a household name―and the last hope for thousands of people seeking justice. But she's used to being recognized for her voice, not her face. Which makes it all the more unsettling when she finds a note on her car windshield, addressed to her, begging for help.

The small town of Neapolis is being torn apart by a devastating rape trial. The town's golden boy, a swimmer destined for Olympic greatness, has been accused of raping a high school student, the beloved granddaughter of the police chief. Under pressure to make Season Three a success, Rachel throws herself into interviewing and investigating―but the mysterious letters keep showing up in unexpected places. Someone is following her, and she won't stop until Rachel finds out what happened to her sister twenty-five years ago. Officially, Jenny Stills tragically drowned, but the letters insists she was murdered―and when Rachel starts asking questions, nobody seems to want to answer. The past and present start to collide as Rachel uncovers startling connections between the two cases that will change the course of the trial and the lives of everyone involved.

Electrifying and propulsive, The Night Swim asks: What is the price of a reputation? Can a small town ever right the wrongs of its past? And what really happened to Jenny?




Purchase Links: #CommissionEarned   IndieBound  |  Amazon  |  Amazon Kindle  |  Audible  |  Audiobooks  |  AudiobooksNow  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Nook Book  |  B&N Audiobook on CD  |  BookDepository  |  Books-A-Million  |  Downpour Audiobook  |  eBooks  |  !ndigo  |  Kobo Audiobook  |  Kobo eBook




Read an Excerpt


1

Hannah

It was Jenny's death that killed my mother. Killed her as good as if she'd been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The doctor said it was the cancer. But I saw the will to live drain out of her the moment the policeman knocked on our screen door.

"It's Jenny, isn't it?" Mom rasped, clutching the lapel of her faded dressing gown.

"Ma'am, I don't know how to tell you other than to say it straight." The policeman spoke in the low-pitched melancholic tone he'd used moments earlier when he'd pulled up and told me to wait in the patrol car as its siren lights painted our house streaks of red and blue.

Despite his request, I'd slipped out of the back seat and rushed to Mom's side as she turned on the front porch light and stepped onto the stoop, dazed from being woken late at night. I hugged her withered waist as he told her what he had to say. Her body shuddered at each word.

His jaw was tight under strawberry blond stubble and his light eyes were watery by the time he was done. He was a young cop. Visibly inexperienced in dealing with tragedy. He ran his knuckles across the corners of his glistening eyes and swallowed hard.

"I'm s-s-sorry for your loss, ma'am," he stammered when there was nothing left to say. The finality of those words would reverberate through the years that followed.

But at that moment, as the platitudes still hung in the air, we stood on the stoop, staring at each other, uncertain what to do as we contemplated the etiquette of death.

I tightened my small, girlish arms around Mom's waist as she lurched blindly into the house. Overcome by grief. I moved along with her. My arms locked around her. My face pressed against her hollow stomach. I wouldn't let go. I was certain that I was all that was holding her up.

She collapsed into the lumpy cushion of the armchair. Her face hidden in her clawed-up hands and her shoulders shaking from soundless sobs.

I limped to the kitchen and poured her a glass of lemonade. It was all I could think to do. In our family, lemonade was the Band-Aid to fix life's troubles. Mom's teeth chattered against the glass as she tilted it to her mouth. She took a sip and left the glass teetering on the worn upholstery of her armchair as she wrapped her arms around herself.

I grabbed the glass before it fell and stumbled toward the kitchen. Halfway there, I realized the policeman was still standing at the doorway. He was staring at the floor. I followed his gaze. A track of bloody footprints in the shape of my small feet was smeared across the linoleum floor.

He looked at me expectantly. It was time for me to go to the hospital like I'd agreed when I'd begged him to take me home first so that I could be with Mom when she found out about Jenny. I glared at him defiantly. I would not leave my mother alone that night. Not even to get medical treatment for the cuts on my feet. He was about to argue the point when a garbled message came through on his patrol car radio. He squatted down so that he was at the level of my eyes and told me that he'd arrange for a nurse to come to the house as soon as possible to attend to my injured feet. I watched through the mesh of the screen door as he sped away. The blare of his police siren echoed long after his car disappeared in the dark.

The nurse arrived the following morning. She wore hospital scrubs and carried an oversized medical bag. She apologized for the delay, telling me that the ER had been overwhelmed by an emergency the previous night and nobody could get away to attend to me. She sewed me up with black sutures and wrapped thick bandages around my feet. Before she left, she warned me not to walk, because the sutures would pop. She was right. They did.

Jenny was barely sixteen when she died. I was five weeks short of my tenth birthday. Old enough to know that my life would never be the same. Too young to understand why.

I never told my mother that I'd held Jenny's cold body in my arms until police officers swarmed over her like buzzards and pulled me away. I never told her a single thing about that night. Even if I had, I doubt she would have heard. Her mind was in another place.

We buried my sister in a private funeral. The two of us and a local minister, and a couple of Mom's old colleagues who came during their lunch break, wearing their supermarket cashier uniforms. At least they're the ones that I remember. Maybe there were others. I can't recall. I was so young.

The only part of the funeral that I remember clearly was Jenny's simple coffin resting on a patch of grass alongside a freshly dug grave. I took off my hand-knitted sweater and laid it out on top of the polished casket. "Jenny will need it," I told Mom. "It'll be cold for her in the ground."

We both knew how much Jenny hated the cold. On winter days when bitter drafts tore through gaps in the patched-up walls of our house, Jenny would beg Mom to move us to a place where summer never ended.

A few days after Jenny's funeral, a stone-faced man from the police department arrived in a creased gabardine suit. He pulled a flip-top notebook from his jacket and asked me if I knew what had happened the night that Jenny died.

My eyes were downcast while I studied each errant thread in the soiled bandages wrapped around my feet. I sensed his relief when after going through the motions of asking more questions and getting no response he tucked his empty notebook into his jacket pocket and headed back to his car.

I hated myself for my stubborn silence as he drove away. Sometimes when the guilt overwhelms me, I remind myself that it was not my fault. He didn't ask the right questions and I didn't know how to explain things that I was too young to understand.

This year we mark a milestone. Twenty-five years since Jenny died. A quarter of a century and nothing has changed. Her death is as raw as it was the day we buried her. The only difference is that I won't be silent anymore.


2

Rachel

A single streak of white cloud marred an otherwise perfect blue sky as Rachel Krall drove her silver SUV on a flat stretch of highway toward the Atlantic Ocean. Dead ahead on the horizon was a thin blue line. It widened as she drove closer until Rachel knew for certain that it was the sea.

Rachel glanced uneasily at the fluttering pages of the letter resting on the front passenger seat next to her as she zoomed along the right lane of the highway. She was deeply troubled by the letter. Not so much by the contents, but instead by the strange, almost sinister way the letter had been delivered earlier that morning.

After hours on the road, she'd pulled into a twenty-four-hour diner where she ordered a mug of coffee and pancakes that came covered with half-thawed blueberries and two scoops of vanilla ice cream, which she pushed to the side of her plate. The coffee was bitter, but she drank it anyway. She needed it for the caffeine, not the taste. When she finished her meal, she ordered an extra-strong iced coffee and a muffin to go in case her energy flagged on the final leg of the drive.

While waiting for her takeout order, Rachel applied eye drops to revive her tired green eyes and twisted up her shoulder-length auburn hair to get it out of her face. Rachel was tying her hair into a topknot when the waitress brought her order in a white paper bag before rushing off to serve a truck driver who was gesticulating angrily for his bill.

Rachel left a larger than necessary tip for the waitress, mostly because she felt bad at the way customers hounded the poor woman over the slow service. Not her fault, thought Rachel. She'd waitressed through college and knew how tough it was to be the only person serving tables during an unexpected rush.

By the time she pushed open the swinging doors of the restaurant, Rachel was feeling full and slightly queasy. It was bright outside and she had to shield her eyes from the sun as she headed to her car. Even before she reached it, she saw something shoved under her windshield wiper. Assuming it was an advertising flyer, Rachel abruptly pulled it off her windshield. She was about to crumple it up unread when she noticed her name had been neatly written in bold lettering: Rachel Krall (from the Guilty or Not Guilty podcast).

Rachel received thousands of emails and social media messages every week. Most were charming and friendly. Letters from fans. A few scared the hell out of her. Rachel had no idea which category the letter would fall into, but the mere fact that a stranger had recognized her and left a note addressed to her on her car made her decidedly uncomfortable.

Rachel looked around in case the person who'd left the letter was still there. Waiting. Watching her reaction. Truck drivers stood around smoking and shooting the breeze. Others checked the rigging of the loads on their trucks. Car doors slammed as motorists arrived. Engines rumbled to life as others left. Nobody paid Rachel any attention, although that did little to ease the eerie feeling she was being watched.

It was rare for Rachel to feel vulnerable. She'd been in plenty of hairy situations over the years. A month earlier, she'd spent the best part of an afternoon locked in a high-security prison cell talking to an uncuffed serial killer while police marksmen pointed automatic rifles through a hole in the ceiling in case the prisoner lunged at her during the interview. Rachel hadn't so much as broken into a sweat the entire time. Rachel felt ridiculous that a letter left on her car had unnerved her more than a face-to-face meeting with a killer.

Deep down, Rachel knew the reason for her discomfort. She had been recognized. In public. By a stranger. That had never happened before. Rachel had worked hard to maintain her anonymity after being catapulted to fame when the first season of her podcast became a cultural sensation, spurring a wave of imitation podcasts and a national obsession with true crime.

In that first season, Rachel had uncovered fresh evidence that proved that a high school teacher had been wrongly convicted for the murder of his wife on their second honeymoon. Season 2 was even more successful when Rachel had solved a previously unsolvable cold case of a single mother of two who was bashed to death in her hair salon. By the time the season had ended, Rachel Krall had become a household name.

Despite her sudden fame, or rather because of it, she deliberately kept a low profile. Rachel's name and broadcast voice were instantly recognizable, but people had no idea what she looked like or who she was when she went to the gym, or drank coffee at her favorite cafe, or pushed a shopping cart through her local supermarket.

The only public photos of Rachel were a series of black-and-white shots taken by her ex-husband during their short-lived marriage when she was at grad school. The photos barely resembled her anymore, maybe because of the camera angle, or the monochrome hues, or perhaps because her face had become more defined as she entered her thirties.

In the early days, before the podcast had taken off, they'd received their first media request for a photograph of Rachel to run alongside an article on the podcast's then-cult following. It was her producer Pete's idea to use those dated photographs. He had pointed out that reporting on true crime often attracted cranks and kooks, and even the occasional psychopath. Anonymity, they'd agreed, was Rachel's protection. Ever since then she'd cultivated it obsessively, purposely avoiding public-speaking events and TV show appearances so that she wouldn't be recognized in her private life.

That was why it was unfathomable to Rachel that a random stranger had recognized her well enough to leave her a personalized note at a remote highway rest area where she'd stopped on a whim. Glancing once more over her shoulder, she ripped open the envelope to read the letter inside:

Dear Rachel,

I hope you don't mind me calling you by your first name. I feel that I know you so well.

She recoiled at the presumed intimacy of the letter. The last time she'd received fan mail in that sort of familiar tone, it was from a sexual sadist inviting her to pay a conjugal visit at his maximum-security prison.

Rachel climbed into the driver's seat of her car and continued reading the note, which was written on paper torn from a spiral notebook.

I'm a huge fan, Rachel. I listened to every episode of your podcast. I truly believe that you are the only person who can help me. My sister Jenny was killed a long time ago. She was only sixteen. I've written to you twice to ask you to help me. I don't know what I'll do if you say no again.

Rachel turned to the last page. The letter was signed: Hannah. She had no recollection of getting Hannah's letters, but that didn't mean much. If letters had been sent, they would have gone to Pete or their intern, both of who vetted the flood of correspondence sent to the podcast email address. Occasionally Pete would forward a letter to Rachel to review personally.

In the early days of the podcast, Rachel had personally read all the requests for help that came from either family or friends frustrated at the lack of progress in their loved ones' homicide investigations, or prisoners claiming innocence and begging Rachel to clear their names. She'd made a point of personally responding to each letter, usually after doing preliminary research, and often by including referrals to not-for-profit organizations that might help.

But as the requests grew exponentially, the emotional toll of desperate people begging Rachel for help overwhelmed her. She'd become the last hope of anyone who'd ever been let down by the justice system. Rachel discovered firsthand that there were a lot of them and they all wanted the same thing. They wanted Rachel to make their case the subject of the next season of her podcast, or at the very least, to use her considerable investigative skills to right their wrong.

Rachel hated that most of the time she could do nothing other than send empty words of consolation to desperate, broken people. The burden of their expectations became so crushing that Rachel almost abandoned the podcast. In the end, Pete took over reviewing all correspondence to protect Rachel and to give her time to research and report on her podcast stories.

The letter left on her windshield was the first to make it through Pete's human firewall. This piqued Rachel's interest, despite the nagging worry that made her double-lock her car door as she continued reading from behind the steering wheel.

It was Jenny's death that killed my mother [the letter went on]. Killed her as good as if she'd been shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge shotgun.

Though it was late morning on a hot summer's day and her car was heating up like an oven, Rachel felt a chill run through her.

I've spent my life running away from the memories. Hurting myself. And others. It took the trial in Neapolis to make me face up to my past. That is why I am writing to you, Rachel. Jenny's killer will be there. In that town. Maybe in that courtroom. It's time for justice to be done. You're the only one who can help me deliver it.

The metallic crash of a minibus door being pushed open startled Rachel. She tossed the pages on the front passenger seat and hastily reversed out of the parking spot.

She was so engrossed in thinking about the letter and the mysterious way that it was delivered that she didn't notice she had merged onto the highway and was speeding until she came out of her trancelike state and saw metal barricades whizzing past in a blur. She'd driven more than ten miles and couldn't remember any of it. Rachel slowed down, and dialed Pete.

No answer. She put him on auto redial but gave up after the fourth attempt when he still hadn't picked up. Ahead of her, the widening band of blue ocean on the horizon beckoned at the end of the long, flat stretch of highway. She was getting close to her destination.

Rachel looked into her rearview mirror and noticed a silver sedan on the road behind her. The license plate number looked familiar. Rachel could have sworn that she'd seen the same car before over the course of her long drive. She changed lanes. The sedan changed lanes and moved directly behind her. Rachel sped up. The car sped up. When she braked, the car did, too. Rachel dialed Pete again. Still no answer.

"Damn it, Pete." She slammed her hands on the steering wheel.

The sedan pulled out and drove alongside her. Rachel turned her head to see the driver. The window was tinted and reflected the glare of the sun as the car sped ahead, weaving between lanes until it was lost in a sea of vehicles. Rachel slowed down as she entered traffic near a giant billboard on a grassy embankment that read: WELCOME TO NEAPOLIS. YOUR GATEWAY TO THE CRYSTAL COAST.

Neapolis was a three-hour drive north of Wilmington and well off the main interstate highway route. Rachel had never heard of the place until she'd chosen the upcoming trial there as the subject of the hotly anticipated third season of Guilty or Not Guilty.

She pulled to a stop at a red traffic light and turned on the car radio. It automatically tuned into a local station running a talkback slot in between playing old tracks of country music on a lazy Saturday morning. She surveyed the town through the glass of her dusty windshield. It had a charmless grit that she'd seen in a hundred other small towns she'd passed through over her thirty-two years. The same ubiquitous gas station signs. Fast-food stores with grimy windows. Tired shopping strips of run-down stores that had long ago lost the war with the malls.

"We have a caller on the line," the radio host said, after the final notes of acoustic guitar had faded away. "What's your name?"

"Dean."

"What do you want to talk about today, Dean?"

"Everyone is so politically correct these days that nobody calls it as they see it. So I'm going to say it straight out. That trial next week is a disgrace."

"Why do you say that?" asked the radio announcer.

"Because what the heck was that girl thinking!"

"You're blaming the girl?"

"Hell yeah. It's not right. A kid's life is being ruined because a girl got drunk and did something dumb that she regretted afterward. We all regret stuff. Except we don't try to get someone put in prison for our screw-ups."

"The police and district attorney obviously think a crime has been committed if they're bringing it to trial," interrupted the host testily.

"Don't get me wrong. I feel bad for her and all. Hell, I feel bad for everyone in this messed-up situation. But I especially feel bad for that Blair boy. Everything he worked for has gone up in smoke. And he ain't even been found guilty yet. Fact is, this trial is a waste. It's a waste of time. And it's a waste of our taxes."

"Jury selection might be over, but the trial hasn't begun, Dean," snapped the radio announcer. "There's a jury of twelve fine citizens who will decide his guilt or innocence. It's not up to us, or you, to decide."

"Well, I sure hope that jury has their heads screwed on right, because there's no way that anyone with a shred of good old-fashioned common sense will reach a guilty verdict. No way."

The caller's voice dropped out as the first notes of a hit country-western song hit the airwaves. The announcer's voice rose over the music. "It's just after eleven A.M. on what's turning out to be a very humid Saturday morning in Neapolis. Everyone in town is talking about the Blair trial that starts next week. We'll take more callers after this little tune."



Excerpt from The Night Swim by Megan Goldin. 
Copyright © 2020 by Megan Goldin. Published by St. Martin's Press. 
All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission.




Meet The Author



MEGAN GOLDIN worked as a correspondent for Reuters and other media outlets where she covered war, peace, international terrorism, and financial meltdowns in the Middle East and Asia. She is now based in Melbourne, Australia where she raises three sons and is a foster mum to Labrador puppies learning to be guide dogs. The Escape Room was her debut novel.


Connect to the author via her Website, Author Blog, Facebook, GoodReads, or Twitter.



This excerpt and tour brought to you by St. Martin's Press

Saturday, August 8, 2020

Guest Post: Marlene M Bell - SPENT IDENTITY




If you're an avid reader, like me, one of the first things you probably do is check out the cover art after looking at the title, author, and then proceed to read the synopsis. I've got to admit to being somewhat of a cover-art snob. If the artwork doesn't grab me right away, even if I like the author and synopsis, I may put the book on my TBR list and wait sometime before I pick it up to read. Then there are some covers that just completely turn me off due to the amateurish artwork and is doesn't matter how good the writing may be, I can't get beyond the cover art. I know, that's petty and I'm working on it. Today, I'm pleased to welcome the author of Spent Identity, Marlene M. Bell, who will be discussing with this us the importance of book covers. I hope you'll sit back and follow what she has to say, put Spent Identity on your TBR list, and follow along with the rest of the blog tour. Thank you, Ms. Bell, for spending time with us this Saturday. I now turn the blog over to you.



Why Book Covers are So Important

The key to choosing a cover is knowing your genre. Deciding on a cover doesn't necessarily mean you can pick anything you like. It's more what the reader who reads in your genre is expecting to see as your cover. If trying for new, groundbreaking cover art to intrigue, you may find yourself lacking in book sales. Readers want to be visually pulled into the story, but only if they can understand your story—in your genre—from your cover art.

If you can swing a professional book cover designer, I highly recommend that source versus a basic ready-made cover. Stock photos are so common and easy to slap together, but what does that say about you as an author? Stock images are ho-hum boring! I've seen a few photos that have worked well as long as there are interesting elements added to a standard photo. Only a few creative designers can pull that off well, however. 

I've personally used a husband and wife team from Australia who design all elements on their covers from start to finish. I found them after I fell in love with one of their winning covers in a contest. I was thrilled with my cover for Stolen Obsession! The extra money spent on a fully designed cover was well worth the effort. The cover for Stolen Obsession won the 2018 Independent Book Award for Best Cover in the Fiction Category and the IndieReader cover award. 

In my second book, Spent Identity, I went into a different direction to find my cover designer because my first designers were overloaded with new clients and I would have a long wait. 99 Designs is an online website for graphic designers all over the world. I found Isabel Robalo from Portugal, there. The cover for Spent Identity is simple yet portrays a feeling of foreboding that goes along in the mystery/suspense genres. The book won the 2020 Independent Press Award and has been named as a finalist in other contests currently running this year. It's well worth your time to research many cover designers before you make your final choice. Expect to pay from $200 to $600 for top designers who create more than stock premade covers.






Spent Identity

by Marlene M. Bell

on Tour August 1-31, 2020




Synopsis:


Spent Identity by Marlene M. Bell

Farm For Sale. 360-acre lot with ranch-style home. Refurbished barn. Corpse not included.



To find her missing aunt, she has to unearth the secrets of the past. But lies and deceit run through the very heart of their town…

What started out as a promising relationship with adventurer and tycoon Alec Zavos has fizzled into an uncertain future for antiquities expert Annalisse Drury. Returning to Walker Farm in Upstate New York to see her Aunt Kate should have been a welcome homecoming and distraction. Instead, she finds the childhood home she expected to inherit is for sale, without her permission. What's worse, Kate's ranch manager makes a gruesome discovery in the barn: the body of an unidentified man, dead by foul play.

Annalisse turns to Alec for help. She and her aunt shelter on his estate in the Catskills while the authorities canvass the scene. But when Kate herself disappears without a trace, Annalisse fears the worst: that one of the many secrets of her hometown has ensnared her family—a secret someone is willing to kill for to keep hidden.



Book Details:


Genre: Mystery
Published by: Ewephoric Publishing
Publication Date: December 11th 2019
Number of Pages: 378
ISBN: 0999539426 (ISBN13: 9780999539422)
Series: Annalisse Series #2 || This is a Stand-Alone novel but the reader may gain more about the character's past if they pick up the first book.
Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads




Author Bio:


Marlene M. Bell
Marlene M. Bell is an award-winning writer and acclaimed artist as well as a photographer. Her sheep landscapes grace the covers of Sheep!, The Shepherd, Ranch & Rural Living, and Sheep Industry News, to name a few.

Her catalog venture, Ewephoric, began in 1985 out of her desire to locate personalized sheep stationery. She rarely found sheep products through catalogs and set out to design them herself. Order Ewephoric gifts online or request a catalog at TexasSheep.com.

Marlene and her husband, Gregg, reside in beautiful East Texas on a wooded ranch with their dreadfully spoiled horned Dorset sheep, a large Maremma guard dog named Tia, along with Hollywood, Leo, and Squeaks, the cats that believe they rule the household—and do.

Catch Up With Marlene M. Bell:


MarleneMBell.com, Goodreads, BookBub, Twitter, & Facebook!



Tour Participants:


Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!






Giveaway Image


Enter To Win!:



This is a Rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Marlene M. Bell. There will be 4 winners. Two (2) winners will each win one (1) Amazon.com Gift Card. Two (2) winners will each win a set of autographed books, a notebook, and silver jewelry. The giveaway begins on August 1, 2020, and runs through September 2, 2020. Open to U.S. and Canada addresses only. Void where prohibited.


a Rafflecopter giveaway




Book Showcase: THE DAY LINCOLN LOST by Charles Rosenberg



The Day Lincoln Lost by Charles Rosenberg
ISBN: 9781335145222 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9781488055799 (ebook)
ISBN: 9781488208461 (digital audiobook)
ISBN: 9781094104683 (Audiobook on CD)
ASIN: B082YDB7D4   (Audible audiobook)
ASIN: B07XC2XV63   (Kindle edition)
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Publication Date: August 4, 2020


An inventive historical thriller that reimagines the tumultuous presidential election of 1860, capturing the people desperately trying to hold the nation together—and those trying to crack it apart.

Abby Kelley Foster arrived in Springfield, Illinois, with the fate of the nation on her mind. Her fame as an abolitionist speaker had spread west and she knew that her first speech in the city would make headlines. One of the residents reading those headlines would be none other than the likely next president of the United States.

Abraham Lincoln, lawyer and presidential candidate, knew his chances of winning were good. All he had to do was stay above the fray of the slavery debate and appear the voice of reason until the people cast their votes. The last thing he needed was a fiery abolitionist appearing in town. When her speech sparks violence, leading to her arrest and a high-profile trial, he suspects that his political rivals have conspired against him.

President James Buchanan is one such rival. As his term ends and his political power crumbles, he gathers his advisers at the White House to make one last move that might derail Lincoln's campaign, steal the election and throw America into chaos.

A fascinating historical novel and fast-paced political thriller of a nation on the cusp of civil war, The Day Lincoln Lost offers an unexpected window into one of the most consequential elections in our country's history.





Purchase Links: #CommissionEarned   IndieBound  |  Amazon  |  Amazon Kindle  |  AppleBooks  |  Audible  |  Audiobooks  |  AudiobooksNow  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Nook Book  |  B&N Audiobook on CD  |  BookDepository  |  Books-A-Million  |  Bookshop  |  Downpour Audiobook  |  eBooks  |  Google Play  |  !ndigo  |  Kobo Audiobook  |  Kobo eBook




Read an Excerpt


Chapter 1


Kentucky

Early August, 1860


Lucy Battelle's birthday was tomorrow. She would be twelve. Or at least that was what her mother told her. Lucy knew the date might not be exact, because Riverview Plantation didn't keep close track of when slaves were born. Or when they died, for that matter. They came, they worked and they went to their heavenly reward. Unless, of course, they were sold off to somewhere else.

There had been a lot of selling-off of late. The Old Master, her mother told her, had at least known how to run a plantation. And while their food may have been wretched at times, there had always been enough. But the Old Master had died years before Lucy was born. His eldest son, Ezekiel Goshorn, had inherited Riverview.

Ezekiel was cruel, and he had an eye for young black women, although he stayed away from those who had not yet developed. Lucy has seen him looking at her of late, though. She was thin, and very tall for her age—someone had told her she looked like a young tree—and when she looked at herself naked, she could tell that her breasts were beginning to come. "You are pretty," her mother said, which sent a chill through her.

Whatever his sexual practices, Goshorn had no head for either tobacco farming or business, and Riverview was visibly suffering for it, and not only for a shortage of food. Lucy could see that the big house was in bad need of painting and other repairs, and the dock on the river, which allowed their crop to be sent to market, looked worse and worse every year. By now it was half-falling-down. Slaves could supply the labor to repair things, of course, but apparently Goshorn couldn't afford the materials.

Last year, a blight had damaged almost half the tobacco crop. Goshorn had begun to sell his slaves south to make ends meet.

In the slave quarter, not a lot was really known about being sold south, except that it was much hotter there, the crop was harder-to-work cotton instead of tobacco and those who went didn't come back. Ever.

Several months earlier, two of Lucy's slightly older friends had been sold, and she had watched them manacled and put in the back of a wagon, along with six others. Her friends were sobbing as the wagon moved away. Lucy was dry-eyed because then and there she had decided to escape.

Others had tried to escape before her, of course, but most had been caught and brought back. When they arrived back, usually dragged along in chains by slave catchers, Goshorn—or one of his five sons—had whipped each of them near to death. A few had actually died, but most had been nursed back to at least some semblance of health by the other slaves.

Lucy began to volunteer to help tend to them—to feed them, put grease on their wounds, hold their hands while they moaned and carry away the waste from their bodies. Most of all, though, she had listened to their stories—especially to what had worked and what had failed.

One thing she had learned was that they used hounds to pursue you, and that the hounds smelled any clothes you left behind to track you. One man told her that another man who had buried his one pair of extra pants in the woods before he left—not hard to do because slaves had so little—had not been found by the dogs.

Still another man said a runaway needed to take a blanket because as you went north, it got colder, especially at night, even in the summer. And you needed to find a pair of boots that would fit you. Lucy had tried on her mother's boots—the ones she used in the winter—and they fit. Her mother would find another pair, she was sure.

The hard thing was the Underground Railroad. They had all heard about it. They had even heard the masters damning it. Lucy had long understood that it wasn't actually underground and wasn't even a railroad. It was just people, white and black, who helped you escape—who fed you, hid you in safe houses and moved you, sometimes by night, sometimes under a load of hay or whatever they had that would cover you.

The problem was you couldn't always tell which ones were real railroaders and which ones were slave catchers posing as railroaders. The slaves who came back weren't much help about how to tell the difference because most had guessed wrong. Lucy wasn't too worried about it. She had not only the optimism of youth, but a secret that she thought would surely help her.

Tonight was the night. Over the past few days she had dug a deep hole in the woods where she could bury her tiny stash of things that might carry her smell. For weeks before that, she had foraged and dug for mushrooms in the woods, and so no one seemed to pay much mind to her foraging and digging earlier that day. As she left, she planned to take the now-too-small shift she had secretly saved from last year's allotment—her only extra piece of clothing—along with her shoes and bury them in the hole. That way the dogs could not take her smell from anything left behind. She would take the blanket she slept in with her.

She had also saved up small pieces of smoked meat so that she had enough—she hoped—to sustain her for a few days until she could locate the Railroad. She dropped the meat into a small cloth bag and hung it from a string tied around her waist, hidden under her shift.

Her mother had long ago fallen asleep, and the moon had set. Even better, it was cloudy and there was no starlight. Lucy put on her mother's boots, stepped outside the cabin and looked toward the woods.

As she started to move, Ezekiel Goshorn appeared in front of her, seemingly out of nowhere, along with two of his sons and said, "Going somewhere, Lucy?"

"I'm just standing here."

"Hold out your arms."

"Why?"

"Hold out your arms!"

She hesitated but finally did as he asked, and one of his sons, the one called Amasa, clamped a pair of manacles around her wrists. "We've been watching you dig in the woods," he said. "Planning a trip perhaps?"

Lucy didn't answer.

"Well, we have a little trip to St. Louis planned for you instead."

As Ezekiel pushed her along, she turned to see if her mother had been awakened by the noise. If she had, she hadn't come out of the cabin. Probably afraid. Lucy had been only four the first time she'd seen Ezekiel Goshorn flog her mother, and that was not the last time she'd been forced to stand there and hear her scream.



Excerpt from The Day Lincoln Lost by Charles Rosenberg. 
Copyright © 2020 by Charles Rosenberg. 
Published by Hanover Square Press. 
All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission.




Meet The Author

Photo by Deborah Geffner


Charles Rosenberg is the author of the legal thriller Death on a High Floor and its sequels. The credited legal consultant to the TV shows LA Law, Boston Legal, The Practice, and The Paper Chase, he was also one of two on-air legal analysts for E! Television's coverage of the O.J. Simpson criminal and civil trials. He teaches as an adjunct law professor at Loyola Law School and has also taught at UCLA, Pepperdine, and Southwestern law schools. He practices law in the Los Angeles area.



Connect to the author via his Website, Facebook, Instagram, or Twitter.



This excerpt and tour brought to you by Hanover Square Press

Monday, August 3, 2020

Guest Post: Vicki Delany - TEA & TREACHERY


Happy Monday, book people. I hope you all had a wonderful weekend and got some reading done. It seems as if COVID-19 is going to be with us for a little while longer, so I've been traveling vicariously through the stories I've been reading lately. I've visited Detroit, Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York City, and Boston (man, do I miss Boston; I lived there many, many years ago). I'm pleased to welcome Vicki Delany as today's guest host and she'll be whisking us off to Cape Cod (another place I miss visiting IRL). I hope you'll enjoy her introduction to the Cape and her new Tea by the Sea series starting with Tea & Treachery. Thank you, Ms. Delany, for stopping by this morning and evoking some fond memories of Cape Cod for me. 



Escape to the Seaside! By Vicki Delany


When I started writing the new Tea by the Sea series for Kensington, I had no doubt at all as to where I'd set the books. Cape Cod. 

After all, what would be nicer than visiting a tea room called Tea by the Sea or staying in a B&B named Victoria-on-Sea? Cozy mysteries are largely about escape. We read cozies because they provide a break from our normal lives, particularly in stressful times such as these. If you're not able to get away this year to your favorite holiday location, you can at least go in the pages of a book. And what better than an escape to the sea, to stay in a beautiful historical mansion, enjoy afternoon tea, and forget all about viruses, and social distancing, and missing friends and family. 
  
I myself live nowhere near the sea but I love visiting for the drama of the ocean. The beaches on a calm day, the tide pools teeming with life, the wild storms. All of which, of course, provides an author with a marvelous background for descriptions and for creating atmosphere in a book. I have found that people like reading books set in places they have visiting for vacation. I know I do:  it helps to bring back those fond memories. 

The Sherlock Holmes Bookshop series, which I also write, are set on a different part of Cape Cod, in the Lower Cape near the town of Chatham, on both the Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Sound. I moved the Tea by the Sea series further north, to the Outer Cape, and put the tea room and the B&B just outside the town of North Augusta. North Augusta is fictional, but it's located (supposedly) near North Truro, looking west over Cape Cod Bay.

At five to six, Éclair and I made our daily commute across the yard toward the house. The property is perched on the west side of the long curving peninsula that makes up the Outer Cape section of Cape Cod, overlooking Cape Cod Bay toward the mainland. The sun doesn't rise over the water, but the morning view is still spectacular when the long rays of light creep slowly across the bay. There was no wind this morning, and the surface of the water was as smooth and shiny as the surface of the glass tray we served breakfast muffins on. By Cape Cod standards, we're pretty high here, about a hundred and twenty-five feet above sea level, giving me a nice view of the morning's activity on the bay. Working fishing boats, charters, and sailboats dotted the calm blue water. In a few hours the whale-watching boats would pass by, heading for the top of the Cape and the open ocean and the animals' feeding grounds. I stood at the edge of the bluffs, and leaned on the fence protecting walkers from the sharp drop-off. I breathed the sea air and felt the soft, salty wind caress my face, while Éclair ran in circles, sniffing at the ground. I could think of no better place to start the day. Whenever I began to regret leaving Manhattan, I came here, stood still, and simply breathed. 

Tea and Treachery by Vicki Delany. Copyright © 2020 by Vicki Delany. 
Published by Kensington Books. All Rights Reserved.

I hope you're able to join me this summer on Cape Cod Bay and simply breathe.


Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Book Showcase: LIES, LIES, LIES by Adele Parks



Lies, Lies, Lies by Adele Parks
ISBN: 9780778388142 (hardcover)
ISBN: 9780778360889 (trade paperback)
ISBN: 9780778388142 (ebook)
ISBN: 9781488208638 (digital audiobook)
ISBN: 9781094103648 (audiobook on CD)
ASIN: B081ZFZGMN  (Audible audiobook)
ASIN: B07R52L4NN   (Kindle edition)
Publisher: MIRA Books
Publication Date: August 4, 2020


Daisy and Simon's marriage isn't what it seems…


After years together, the arrival of longed-for daughter Millie sealed everything in place. They're a happy little family of three.

So what if Simon drinks a bit too much sometimes—Daisy's used to it. She knows he's just letting off steam. Until one night at a party things spiral horribly out of control. And their happy little family of three will never be the same again.

In Lies, Lies, Lies, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author Adele Parks explores the darkest corners of a relationship in free fall in a mesmerizing tale of marriage and secrets.




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Read an Excerpt


Prologue

May 1976

Simon was six years old when he first tasted beer.

He was bathed and ready for bed wearing soft pyjamas, even though it was light outside; still early. Other kids were in the street, playing on their bikes, kicking a football. He could hear them through the open window, although he couldn't see them because the blinds were closed. His daddy didn't like the evening light glaring on the TV screen, his mummy didn't like the neighbours looking in; keeping the room dark was something they agreed on.

His mummy didn't like a lot of things: wasted food, messy bedrooms, Daddy driving too fast, his sister throwing a tantrum in public. Mummy liked 'having standards'. He didn't know what that meant, exactly. There was a standard-bearer at Cubs; he was a big boy and got to wave the flag at the front of the parade, but his mummy didn't have a flag, so it was unclear. What was clear was that she didn't like him to be in the street after six o'clock. She thought it was common. He wasn't sure what common was either, something to do with having fun. She bathed him straight after tea and made him put on pyjamas, so that he couldn't sneak outside.

He didn't know what his daddy didn't like, just what he did like. His daddy was always thirsty and liked a drink. When he was thirsty he was grumpy and when he had a drink, he laughed a lot. His daddy was an accountant and like to count in lots of different ways: "a swift one', "a cold one', and 'one more for the road'. Sometimes Simon though his daddy was lying when he said he was an accountant; most likely, he was a pirate or a wizard. He said to people, "Pick your poison', which sounded like something pirates might say, and he liked to drink, "the hair of a dog' in the morning at the weekends, which was definitely a spell. Simon asked his mummy about it once and she told him to stop being silly and never to say those silly things outside the house.

He had been playing with his Etch A Sketch, which was only two months old and was a birthday present. Having seen it advertised on TV, Simon had begged for it, but it was disappointing. Just two silly knobs making lines that went up and down, side to side. Limited. Boring. He was bored. The furniture in the room was organised so all of it was pointing at the TV which was blaring but not interesting. The news. His parents liked watching the news, but he didn't. His father was nursing a can of the grown ups' pop that Simon was never allowed. The pop that smelt like nothing else, fruity and dark and tempting.

"Can I have a sip?" he asked.

"Don't be silly, Simon," his mother interjected. "You're far too young. Beer is for daddies." He thought she said 'daddies', but she might have said 'baddies'.

His father put the can to his lips, glared at his mother, cold. A look that said, "Shut up woman, this is man's business." His mother had blushed, looked away as though she couldn't stand to watch, but she held her tongue. Perhaps she thought the bitterness wouldn't be to his taste, that one sip would put him off. He didn't like the taste. But he enjoyed the collusion. He didn't know that word then, but he instinctively understood the thrill. He and his daddy drinking grown ups' pop! His father had looked satisfied when he swallowed back the first mouthful, then pushed for a second. He looked almost proud. Simon tasted the aluminium can, the snappy biting bitter bubbles and it lit a fuse.

After that, in the mornings, Simon would sometimes get up early, before Mummy or Daddy or his little sister, and he'd dash around the house before school, tidying up. He'd open the curtains, empty the ashtrays, clear away the discarded cans. Invariably his mother went to bed before his father. Perhaps she didn't want to have to watch him drink himself into a stupor every night, perhaps she hoped denying him an audience might take away some of the fun for him, some of the need. She never saw just how bad the place looked by the time his father staggered upstairs to bed. Simon knew it was important that she didn't see that particular brand of chaos.

Occasionally there would be a small amount of beer left in one of the cans. Simon would slurp it back. He found he liked the flat, forbidden, taste just as much as the fizzy hit of fresh beer. He'd throw open a window, so the cigarette smoke and the secrets could drift away. When his mother came downstairs, she would smile at him and thank him for tidying up.

"You're a good boy, Simon," she'd say with some relief. And no idea.

When there weren't dregs to be slugged, he sometimes opened a new can. Threw half of it down his throat before eating his breakfast. His father never kept count.

Some people say their favourite smell is freshly baked bread, others say coffee or a campfire. From a very young age, few scents could pop Simon's nerve endings like the scent of beer.

The promise of it.


Excerpt from Lies, Lies, Lies by Adele Parks. 
Copyright © 2020 by Adele Parks. Published by MIRA Books. 
All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission.




Meet The Author

Adele Parks Photo by Sekkides

Adele Parks was born in Teesside, North-East England. Her first novel, Playing Away, was published in 2000 and since then she's had seventeen international bestsellers, translated into twenty-six languages, including I Invited Her In. She's been an Ambassador for The Reading Agency and a judge for the Costa. She's lived in Italy, Botswana, and London, and is now settled in Guildford, Surrey, with her husband, teenage son, and cat.



Connect to the author via her website, Facebook, Goodreads, Instagram, and Twitter.



This excerpt brought to you by MIRA Books