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1

It had taken a week, but finally I had memorized my long-lost mother’s letter. Now I was struggling to get a fire started in my fireplace in which to burn it. It hurt my heart to give up something so precious to me, but there was no other option. Now, if the dang logs would just ignite!

I rearranged the logs, and finally, after three false starts, I had a nice blaze going. I decided to recite the letter one more time before giving it up to the flames.

“Oh, goodie! Another reciting of the mysterious letter!” Latifa said. Not only did my cat’s comment enter my head, but her joy was evident in the tone of her voice.

“How do you know that? Is it one of your telepathy skills?” I asked her.

“Nothing so mysterious. You always cough twice before you begin. I thought it was part of the introduction. ‘Cough. Cough. My darling daughter, Hayden . . .’”

“Ah. Well then. Relax, sit back, and enjoy the show.”

She took my instructions literally. She jumped up on the bed, planted her ample behind on my pillow, and shifted her body this way and that until she was perfectly comfortable. Latifa leaned back against the headboard and looked like a furry, laughing Buddha.

I stared into the flames and took in a breath. It had taken forever to memorize this. Not just because it was a long letter, but because of the lifetime of emotions it brought to the surface.

I cleared my throat. Cough. Cough. I gave Latifa the side-eye, and she wiped the smirk off her face.

My darling daughter, Hayden,
I hope with all my heart that you find this letter. I have been trying in vain to reach you since you arrived in Destiny Falls. I have things I must tell you.
All your life you have believed that I abandoned you. I want you to know that I did not leave you of my own choosing. You were my life, my precious new baby. First, I lost Leonard, the love of my life, gone so fast. So mysteriously he vanished. Taking with him my little son, my heart, my precious Axel. Then I was stolen from you. Not a day has passed that I don’t grieve for you, for all that we’ve lost. Our little family, torn apart.
Your birth was a beacon. A beautiful thing, drawing evil to it. I discovered that it was the reason they found Leonard. They removed him to Destiny Falls. And it was the reason they found me. There are things you have never been told because no one knew the story to tell. I have learned much, and I will tell you some of these things now.
I have great pain and empathy for you being abandoned by your mother as a newborn. Because you see, they snatched me away from my mother, days after my own birth.
Days after I was born, I was found in Seattle, in unusual circumstances, too complicated to explain now. I was placed in a foster home with two wonderful, kind-hearted people who then adopted me. Your Nana and Granana. They did not know the circumstances of my abandonment, nor did they care. They embraced the maternal roles and raised me as their own. And then they raised you as well. They are saintly, beautiful women, and I miss them desperately.
It pains me to think they live with the belief that I left them willingly, without a backward glance. That I disappeared without a trace. Well, except for that horrible note that I was forced to write. The words cut me deeply and they created a scar on my heart that I feel to this day. “I can’t do this. Take the baby. Goodbye.” The smudges on that paper were remnants of my tears.
There are so many things that Nana and Gran did not know. Things that they could not know, for their safety and yours. Facts that were well hidden.
I was not a normal baby found in abnormal circumstances. Anything but normal. I didn’t know my background until I was stolen away from you. That’s when I began to learn the truth, in bits and pieces, over years of searching, prodding, and discovering one small piece at a time.
My mother brought me to Seattle. She had escaped with me from a cold, dangerous island called Gladstone, which is where I was returned and where I remain.
There is one family here that holds a power within them: the Gladstones. It is a power that fuels the engine of Gladstone. They need the family here to maintain their illusions and their magic.
There is a parallel place where you find yourself now. Destiny Falls.
Gladstone and Destiny Falls are two halves of what was once a whole. The yin and the yang, the dark and light, the moon and sun. Destiny Falls is the positive half, but it is also fed by the power of a family—the Caldwells. Your father was needed there for that reason, as the Caldwell power runs through him.
Hayden, you need to know something very important. My birth name was Emily Gladstone, and the Gladstone power runs through me. That makes you half Caldwell and half Gladstone. You are unique. I do not know exactly in what ways. I can only imagine what powers might flow through you. In all my studies, I have not found there to be another like you.
Keep this information well hidden. Do not tell anyone, as it can be used against you if the truth comes to light. I have learned in life that there is no one you can trust. Especially here. Be wise in this. Hold this information close. Memorize this letter and then destroy it.
I will continue my attempts to reach you, but so far it has been hopeless. Please know that I love you with all my heart. Be careful, my sweet daughter. I hope to see you some day. Stay safe.
Love, your mother,
Emily

I heard the soft puff of two furry paws being tapped together. “Brava! If I weren’t wearing these furry mittens, you’d hear my applause. Sometimes I feel like Bernie Sanders.”

“Why Bernie Sanders?” I asked.

“The most famous mittens in history! Stop living under a rock, Cricket, and read the news once in a while.”

I crossed my arms and frowned at her. “And where exactly do you read the news?”

“Oh, sweetie, sweetie.” She shook her head and scrunched her nose. “Chanel and I pore over the paper every morning once Eleanor has completed her perusal of it. Your grandmother kindly spreads out the pages for us. Speaking of newspapers, when’s the next issue of the Destiny Falls Observer? You had a magnificent first issue. The story of the capture of that murderous ferry helmsman and his fiery death! Ooooo, gripping stuff! Oh. Can I say death now, or do I have to say demise?”

I ignored her reference to my aversion to the word “death.” I mean, since I had been so close to two deaths who could blame me? They were people I knew. People who had not died of natural causes. That gave me the shudders.

“The paper is on a once-a-month schedule, you know.” I lifted my chin and attempted to look confident.

“Then you best get yourself a new calendar, Cupcake. It’s been a month since your big debut.”

I knew that, of course. I’d been working diligently at my new job as editor of the Observer. But it had been an effort since we lived in a small town with little actual news.

Well, to be clear, I thought Destiny Falls was a small town, though others had indicated that I was wrong in that assumption. The enchanted location was on an island … somewhere. Where exactly was a big secret that I’d been unable to crack. Where in the world was I? It had been on the top of my list of research projects, but I kept get sidetracked.

“The lack of interesting news makes reporting a challenge. What do I put on the front page? Hmmm?” I shrugged my shoulders and tapped a finger on my lips. “Should it be the local arts and craft fair, or the ribbon cutting at the new hair salon downtown? Hardly a good follow-up to the capture of a murderer and the police car crash that killed him on the way to prison.”

“I have confidence you can dig up some juicy gossip. You’re good at that.”

“Um. Thanks? I think.”

I realized with a start that I was still holding my mother’s letter in both hands, close to my heart. I was reluctant to give it up to the flames. It answered some long-held questions, but it brought up more mysteries than it solved.

My mother did not leave me by choice. That was earth-shattering news. All my life, I’d believed I was abandoned, and I was wrong. My mother did not discard me. She loved me with all her heart and was wrenched from me as much as I was stolen from her. And Nana and Gran adopted her as a baby? How was it I never knew this?! Neither one of them was known for being able to keep secrets—and this was a doozy. What could be their purpose in keeping this from me? I couldn’t imagine.

“Gladstone has her,” I said aloud, feeling a chill zap through me.

“Da-da-da-dumm. The forbidden, mysterious island of doooom,” whispered Latifa as she slowly crept toward me across the bed.

Latifa’s theatrics jarred me out of my melancholy moment.

“And I don’t understand something.” I was pacing the room now. Questions were rolling through my head. “She says I’m unique, that there’s not another like me. But what about Axel? He was born of the same parents. Doesn’t that make him half Caldwell and half Gladstone, too? Doesn’t this power run through him as well? And, what exactly is this power she refers to?”

“It’s needed to fuel the illusions and magic. Like the great and powerful Oz.”

My cat loved her old movies and occasionally tried to tie them to real life. It was often a stretch, but this time it seemed to accurately define this very weird situation. I was a normal human being, yet was I somehow behind the curtain, making the magic happen?

“And why isn’t there a letter to Axel, too? Or one for my father? Doesn’t it seem odd that she would write only to me? Now? What about all these years that Dad and Axel have been in Destiny Falls? Something’s definitely off …”

I was pacing the room, thoughts jumbled up and swirling through my head. I couldn’t even catch some of the ideas as they raced by.

“And here I am with another colossal secret.” I sat on the floor and put my head in my hands.

“Yeeeesss.” Latifa hissed out the word. “She warned you. ‘Do not tell anyone,’ she said. She did not say, ‘Do not tell anyone except Axel.’ Or ‘Do not tell anyone except your father.’ Or “Do not tell . . .”

“Ugh! I get it, Latifa!”

I stood up and walked over to the fire. It was time to do this. Tears came unbidden, and I gently kissed the paper that had been handwritten by my enigmatic mother. Then I slowly moved it over the flames. I gasped and yanked the paper back before it caught.

The back side of my letter had the impression of writing. Like when someone presses on paper with a pen and leaves a shadowy indent on the page beneath it.

What did my mother write on the page before my letter? Did she write a letter like this to Axel or my father before she wrote mine? Or was it something as mundane as her grocery list? I needed to find out.

I tilted the paper back and forth but could not see more than a bit of a shadow in spots.

I remembered back to when I was little. Gran and I used to write secret messages to each other using this technique. We’d press hard on the top page, leaving what we called “invisible ink messages” on the page below. The reader would decode the message by gently rubbing the side of a pencil over the page.

I took the letter over to my desk and pulled out a pencil. Starting at the top of the page, I gently sketched over the imprinted letters, and as I hoped, some words showed up. It took a while, but I had lightly drawn over the entire page. I puzzled over the words that appeared:

6. Write letter to Hayden
7. Transfer letter to Nakita
8. Pay Nakita “postage”
9. Reapply for ticket?
10. Lazarus??????

Clearly, this was the second page of a list. I wish I knew what the first five items were! Could letters to Axel and my father be on this list? It would certainly help if I knew that—then I could discuss the letter with them. Without knowing this, I was hesitant to expose the secret.

Nakita was the ferry captain who had been murdered right after she mailed the mysterious box of documents to me. It appeared that my mother paid her to deliver the letter to me—at least that was what I took this to mean. Did “reapply” refer to the illegal tickets on the ferry between Gladstone and Destiny Falls? My mother’s name had been on several lists apparently related to the transport scheme, but the word DENIED always followed. Was she going to try again?

The question marks after Lazarus on number ten were darker than the rest of the writing. As if she pressed much harder on those than all the other writing. Who was Lazarus? Was she frustrated or confused about him? Or did she simply have no idea what her next plans were?

I needed more time to make sense of the message. Perhaps another session of research at the library would uncover more pieces to this puzzle, including who Lazarus of Gladstone was. I would hide the letter for now and examine it again later. And to think! I almost dropped it into the flames!

I carefully folded the letter and tucked it inside a paperback mystery I kept on hand as a backup in case my Kindle ever lost power. I zipped the book into the pouch of my backpack and placed it on the shelf of my closet.

With that done, I changed into my running clothes and made my way downstairs.

***

Excerpt from The Ghost Camper’s Tall Tales by Elizabeth Pantley. Copyright 2021 by Elizabeth Pantley. Reproduced with permission from Elizabeth Pantley. All rights reserved.

We arrived at an area of private docks in a town called Oistins. The driver stopped at the base of a wharf that anchored power boats of every size, speed, and description. One power yacht stood out as the choice of the fleet. The Sun Catcher. My guide hustled us both directly to the carpeted gangplank that led on board a vessel that could pass for a floating Ritz Carlton.

The engines were already revving. I was escorted to a padded deck-lounge with maximum view on the foredeck. I had scarcely settled in, when we were slicing through late-afternoon sea-swells that barely caused a rise and fall.

My guide, still in suit and tie, brought me, without either of us asking, a tall, cool, planter’s punch with an ample kick of Mount Gay Rum. For the first moment since Mick O’Flynn told me that someone was asking for me, I made a fully-considered decision. This entire fantasy could easily turn into a disaster that could outstrip New Orleans and Montreal together, but to hell with it. It was just too elating not to accept it at face value – at least for the moment.

My mind was just settling into a comfortable neutral, when I heard footsteps from behind that had more heft than I imagined my guide could produce. I made a move to swing out of the padded deck-chair, when I felt the touch of a hand with authoritative strength on my shoulder. The voice that went with it had the same commanding undertone.

“Stay where you are, Michael. I’ll join you.”

A matching deck-chair was set beside me. I found myself looking up at a shadow against the setting sun that appeared double my bulk and yet compact as an Olympic hammer-thrower. The voice came again. “You’re an interesting study, Michael. I may call you ‘Michael’, right? I should. I probably know more about you than anyone you know. You might have guessed that by now.”

An open hand reached down out of the shadow. I took it. The handshake fit the shaker. It took some seconds for the feeling to come back into mine.

Before I could answer, the voice was coming from the deck-lounge beside me. “No need for coy name games. You know that I’m Wayne Barnes. And you know that I’m one of the, shall we say, associates in that little clique we call the Monkey’s Paws. In fact, your escort here, Emile, tells me it was the mention of my name that swung your decision to get on that plane.”

He nodded to my nearly empty Planter’s Punch. “Another?”

Before I could answer, he gave a slight nod to someone behind us. Before I could say “Yes”, or possibly, but less likely, “No”, a native Bajan in a server’s uniform was at my left taking my empty and handing me a full glass.
I was three good sips into the second glass before I said my first word since coming aboard. I looked over at Wayne. I seemed to have his full focus. His engaging smile seemed to carry a full message of relaxed hospitality, and none of the threatening undercurrents I was scanning for. “You have an interesting way of delivering an invitation, Mr. Barnes”

He raised a hand. “Wayne.”

“’Wayne’ it is. You must have an interesting social life.”

“I do. Do you find it offensive?”

I looked over the bow, past the deepening blue crystal water to the reddening horizon. I felt the soothing caress of the slightly salted ocean breeze. I took one more sip of the most perfectly balanced planters punch of a lifetime, and looked back at Wayne. “Not in the slightest. Yet.”

“Ah yes, ‘yet’.”

“Right. I’m sure this won’t impress you, Wayne, and it’s not a complaint, but I’ve had a week full of enough tragedy to fill a lifetime. Hence the ‘yet’.”

His smile and focused attention remained. “I know more about your week, perhaps, than even you do. But go on.”

The second planter’s punch was having a definitely mollifying effect. “I have no idea what you mean by that last statement, Wayne, so I’ll just pass on. Given that week, and the abrupt transport from hell on earth to . . . paradise on earth, I’d have to be Mrs. Shane’s backward child not to listen for a second shoe to drop.”

The smile expanded. Still no alarms. “Or perhaps you’ve come into a sea-change of good luck, Michael. Why not go with that?”

“Why not indeed? For the moment. Just one question. ”

“Alright. One question. For now. Make it a good one.”

“Oh it is. It’s a beaut. Ecstatic as I am with all this, why the hell am I here?”

That brought a bursting laugh. “I think I’m going to enjoy having you around for a couple of days, Michael. You have an instinct for the jugular. No chipping around the edges. We won’t waste each other’s time.”

“Thank you. But that’s not an answer.”

“No it isn’t.” He looked out to the diminishing sunset. “The only answer I can give you at the moment that would do justice to the question is this. And you’ll just have to live with it for now. You’re here for a quick but depthful education. I think you’ll find it well worth two days of your life. Are you in?”

“Do I have a choice?”

We both looked back at the rapidly diminishing shore-line behind us. “None that comes to mind. Now are you in?”

That brought a smile from me, another healthy sip of the planter’s punch, and a deep breath of the ocean-fresh breeze. “I’m in.”

We chatted through the sunset on far-ranging subjects that had no association whatever with Monkeys Paws, Maroons, murder-suicides – in fact nothing that gave a clue as to why my gracious host had chosen my company over the undoubtedly vast range of his acquaintances. By then, the moon had risen.

At some point, I was aware that the engines had stopped. The splash of two anchors could be heard on either side. The sun had set. The shift from twilight to a darkness, penetrated only by a quarter moon went unnoticed.

I was slowly sipping away at my third or possibly fourth Planter’s Punch, when I became aware of a bobbing light approaching from the port side. Without interrupting the flow of conversation, I noticed that Wayne was following its approach with more than the occasional glance until it reached the side of the yacht.

Within a few minutes, my original guide, still in suit and tie, approached Wayne’s side with an inaudible whisper. I sensed that a bit of steel crept into Wayne’s otherwise conversational tone. “I’ll see him.”

I began to get up to provide privacy. Wayne held my arm in position. “Stay, Michael. Let your education begin.” My guide nodded to someone behind us and lit his path with a small flashlight.

I settled back, as a fiftyish man with narrow, cautious eyes and thinning grey hair that might have last been combed by his mother came up along Wayne’s right side. The loose wrinkles in his ageless cotton suit indicated that he might have been close to six feet, but for a constant stoop as if to pass under an unseen beam. The stoop caused his head to bob and gave him the look of one asking for royal permission to approach.

Wayne’s eyes turned to him. I noticed the stoop of the back became more noticeable. Wayne’s voice was calm and soft, but it commanded his visitor’s full attention. “Do you have it? I assume you wouldn’t be here without it, yes, Yusuf?”

The thin mouth cracked into a smile that conveyed no humor. “Of course. Of course. But perhaps our business . . .”

Wayne nodded toward me. “No fear. Mr. Shayne is here for an education. We shouldn’t deprive him of that, should we?”

The smile on the man’s lips did not match the apprehension in the tiny eyes, but he nodded. “As you say.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

The man gave a slight glance to either side as if it were the habit of a lifetime. He reached into some deep pocket inside his suitcoat. I noticed a slight but tell-tale hesitation before he slipped out what appeared to be a hard, flat, roundish object, about seven inches across. It was wrapped in several layers of ragged cloth.

He held it until Wayne extended a hand and took it onto his lap. He laid it on the small tray on his stomach. He looked back at the man, who simply forced a smile .

“I assume it all went well?”

“Oh yes, Mr. Barnes. No problems,”

Wayne smiled back. “How I do love to hear those words.”

My eyes were glued to Wayne’s hands as he carefully peeled back one layer of cloth after another. When he turned over the last layer, the object in the shape of a disc sent out instant glints of reflections of the rising moonlight.

I could see Wayne running the tips of his fingers over the entire jagged surface of the disc. He took a flip cigarette lighter out of his pocket, opened it, and lit the flame. When he held it close to the object, I could make out the resemblance of a human face, coarsely pieced together from chips of green stone.

Wayne held it up toward me and ran the flame in front of it.

“Do you recognize it Michael?”

“I’m afraid not.”

He nodded. “Most wouldn’t. Your friend, Professor Holmes, would spot it immediately. The Mayans made death masks to protect their important rulers in their journey to the afterlife. They go back to around 700 A.D.”
“What stones are these? They look like jade.”

“Good spotting. The eyes were made of rare seashells.”

“And I assume valuable?”

He laughed again. “Right to the crux of the issue. Right, Michael.”

He turned the object over and ran his fingers over the back side of it. “One that apparently goes back as far as this, and belonged to the ruler we have in mind, the right collector will pay half a million. Isn’t that right, Yusuf?”

Yusuf’s grin was beginning to become genuine. “Oh yes. Oh yes. And more, as you would know, Mr. Barnes.”

Wayne swung his legs over the deck-lounge toward me. He sat up and very carefully replaced the wrapping that had covered the mask. He stood up and walked toward the man. “And the key to its value is that it is absolutely authentic.”

Wayne looked down at the grinning eyes of Yusuf for several seconds. I think I let out a yell that came from the pit of my stomach when Wayne hurled the wrapped object over side of the yacht, into the pitch blackness that absorbed it with barely a splash.

I thought that the man would crumble to the deck. He barely held his balance. In the blackness of the night, I couldn’t make out his features, but I know to a certainty that every drop of blood left his face.

Wayne called a uniformed attendant.

Before the man moved, Wayne took hold of his arm. I was almost as frozen to the spot as the man. I think we were both certain that he would be following the object into the blackness below.

Wayne held him close enough to speak directly into his ear, but spoke loudly enough, I’m sure, so that I could hear.

“It’s a fake, Yusuf. I’m sure you know that. But you’ll live to do me a service. You’re a delivery boy. Nothing more. I want you to take a message back to Istanbul. I want you to say just this. ‘You had my trust. I give it sparingly, and not twice. Rest assured, we’ll speak of this again.’ Do you have that Yusuf?”

The man had all he could do to nod.

Wayne signaled his attendant. “Take him back.”

The man was escorted, practically carried toward the back of the vessel. In a few minutes, I could see running lights heading away from the yacht.

Wayne sat back down. “What do you think, Michael? One more Planter’s Punch before dinner?”

I could only smile at the abrupt change of tone and subject.

“No? Then shall we go in to dinner. The chef should be prepared by now.”

When he stood up, I saw that he took something from under his deck-lounge. My mouth sprung open when a glint of light from an opening door of the yacht cabin lit up the death mask. I could see amusement in the smile of my host.

“What on earth did you throw overboard?”

“Oh that. I substituted my lap tray in the wrapping for the desk mask. I’ll keep the mask.”

“But if it’s a fake.”

“It is, but a fake by a well-respected forger of these antiquities. It has enough value for that reason alone to pay the expenses I’ve already incurred in acquiring it. Shall we go to dinner?”

***

Excerpt from Deadly Depths by John F Dobbyn. Copyright 2023 by John F Dobbyn. Reproduced with permission from John F Dobbyn. All rights reserved.

ZERO MINUS FOUR HOURS

CHAPTER 1

Sheriff Jax Turner swerved his patrol car off Highway 101 and took a sharp right onto an unmarked dirt road leading to the beach. Tourists didn’t come to Misty Pines for the summer to swim in the ocean or the lakes. Too much mist; too much murkiness. The few outdoorsmen drawn to the area for fishing off the ragged ocean jetties had long gone for the season.

His Glock 22 rested on the seat next to him, along with a miniature wooden chair. He’d finished carving it during another sleepless night for a dollhouse he’d never complete, for a tea party that would never happen.

Jax followed the smooth road as it transitioned into rock, his upper body swaying and bouncing with the uneven terrain. When it leveled, he floored it, the tires spinning before they found their footing on the sandy flat.

Aimed toward the sea, he parked on a stretch of solid pack a few yards from the surf. The foamy fingers of the ocean reached for his cruiser, coming up short. The weather report called for ninety degrees in the city located eighty miles east, which meant an inversion for everyone on the coastline. His future, or lack of one, floated in the horizon, where gray ocean met gray clouds, both soon to be indiscernible in the impending fog. Damn, he was tired of being tired.

The window down, he sucked in the brackish scent of the seaweed-littered shores. Seagulls swarmed overhead. Their plaintive cries sent a wave of grief through him.

Misty Pines should have been a fresh start, a place to heal the wounds of the past. Instead, the salty air had entrenched itself in the ten years since he’d arrived. The torture would never end on its own. An hour spent unloading his ammunition at the shooting range into a silhouette target hadn’t helped this time.

Except he hadn’t unloaded all of it.

He leaned over the passenger seat to retrieve two sealed envelopes from the glovebox. A dragonfly drawing done with blue-green Crayola and glitter slid out. He fumbled and then caught it before it floated to the floor. His finger trembled as he traced the wings, remembering Lulu’s soft pink cheeks. He laid his daughter’s gift on his lap and propped the envelopes on the dash right before picturing them splattered in his blood. They’d accuse him of many things when they discovered his body. He wouldn’t let heartless be one of them. He placed the items back, securing the latch.

At least when they were found, the people who’d cared about him once would know why. One letter was for his former partner, Detective Jameson. He would understand if no one else did. The other to Abby. Ten years married, and their only child lost to cancer.

Lulu’s brave smile flashed in his mind, making the lump in his throat swell. Abby said she didn’t blame him, but he blamed himself enough for them both. And despite what she said, the light had dimmed in Abby’s eyes the night their little girl passed. Their marriage died that day too. They just hadn’t properly buried it until last year.

He balanced the gun on his lap and held the miniature chair in his hand, letting the gulls’ cries and the roaring surf fill his mind one last time. The rearview mirror reflected his weary eyes and the bags that had taken up residence under them. He ran his broad hand over his graying sandy hair and back around to the stubble on his chin.

Time to get to it.

He lifted the gun, holding the barrel in his mouth. The cold, metallic weight pushed against his bottom teeth. His throat closed, and he forced a swallow. Quit stalling. Eyes squeezed shut, sadness flooded his chest. Regret shoved him. Don’t think. He drew in the cool air through his nostrils one more time. Held it. Waited. Was this what he really wanted?

“Jax,” his radio crackled to life. “Sheriff…please….”

His eyes flew open, and he withdrew the gun from his mouth. Trudy. Had he heard something in her tone? Hard to tell with her voice coming in and out. He wouldn’t miss the shoddy technology in this godforsaken place. No. He was imagining it. He shook his head. Raised the gun.

“Sheriff Turner, we have a Code Ten-Fifty-Four. Urgent. Response needed.”

Lost child or runaway. Could be either. He’d been equally useless in both instances in the past.

“Sherriff Turner. Answer your damn radio.” Trudy’s voice blared that time.

He bristled and lifted the receiver off the hook. “What’re you talking about, Trudy?”

“There you are. It’s Emily Krueger’s kid. She didn’t get on the school bus.”

Allison. The little girl with the gap-toothed smile who used to wave when he walked past the bookstore. Not so little now, right? A teenager?

“Emily check with her friends?”

“No one’s seen her, hon.”

“Have Chapman handle it. I’m a little—”

“Gone this week,” Trudy said. “Alaska fishing trip. Remember?”

Right.

He scrubbed the exhaustion from his eyes. “On my way.”

He dropped the mic into its holder and secured his gun. Hopefully, this wouldn’t take long, and he’d be back in an hour to contemplate finishing the job.

***

Excerpt from Hidden Pieces by Mary Keliikoa. Copyright 2023 by Mary Keliikoa. Reproduced with permission from Mary Keliikoa. All rights reserved.

Prologue:

September 13, 2018

The girl on the video monitor stared up at the ceiling as blood trickled from her eyes and nose. Her only movement an occasional spasm of coughing.

Nothing unexpected, given the progression of the disease.

Dr. Edmund Haley shut off the overhead fluorescent lights and let himself adjust to the dim glow of the screens lining the back wall of the office. Only the girl’s monitor still played a live feed, but it lit the room well enough.

And, either way, darkness suited him fine.

He’d spent so much time stuck in this tiny godforsaken place, he could’ve found the desk and computer with his eyes closed. Haley dropped into a chair and adjusted his glasses, trying to ignore the sharp tang of antimicrobial soap that clung to his hands. It smelled like life in the hospital. Like the servitude of medical practice.

He hated it as much now as he had before he’d lost his license. But at least this time, he’d be well paid for his efforts. And soon, it would be over. He refocused on the girl’s image. The only question was when.

Light sliced into the room behind him as Margaret bumbled inside. He made no move to acknowledge the nurse, even as she pulled up a chair beside his. As idiotic as she otherwise seemed to be, she’d know by now not to bother him. He shifted his attention from the video monitor to the computer, where he pulled up the patient’s chart.

Patient: Octavia MILLS, 18 yo, Af-Am, F, #4
Vitals: 5’5”, 110 lb.
updated (9-10) 108.8 lb.
updated (9-11) 106 lb.
updated (9-12) 104.1 lb.
Provider Notes: Click to open

He scrolled to the section for his notes and, after a click of the mouse, entered the details of that day’s exam. “9-13-18; Liver and kidney function both continue to decline. Discrete purpuric patches expanding from face and trunk now merging. BSA involvement approximately 80%. Note third spacing.”

The third spacing, a condition where the skin separated from the tissue beneath and filled with blood, was something new. Margaret’s report of it had been the primary reason he’d put himself through the nightmare of protective gear and protocol it’d taken to do a physical exam himself. He wasn’t going to let it be said that he hadn’t been thorough.

Haley glanced back up at the monitor in time to see a bubble of blood form between Octavia’s lips. The thing grew with each shallow breath. When it reached the size of a small orange, it burst, splattering more droplets of blood onto her face and neck.

Octavia made no move to wipe them away. He’d given her enough morphine. She would be long past caring. And, more importantly, the extra dosage meant she’d finally quit staring out at him with that awful, confused look on her face.

He didn’t care. Not really. Except that it had been distracting, and he needed to focus. Needed to understand why was she still alive. What had he missed? Perhaps another round of blood work would—

The blare of an alarm sounded over the video feed and, more faintly, from the hall. Three more followed.

Octavia’s body spasmed, convulsing again and again as she vomited up a grainy black-red mix of blood and tissue. The progression was as repulsive as it was now familiar. The vomit mixed with the brighter red flowing from her eyes and nose as the virus moved into its final stage. Blood, still unable to clot, flowed until it covered her face and chest. Until the bedsheets were saturated and no longer white.

Octavia’s muscles tensed, seizing all at once before releasing. Her body too gruesome to look peaceful, even as she finally came to rest.

Neither he nor Margaret moved from their chairs.

The alarms echoed unanswered down the empty hall. Haley clicked off the monitor and most of the noise with it. “That’s better.”

God knew it had taken long enough. He turned back to the computer, closed Octavia’s chart, and opened another document saved to the desktop as “Subject Outcomes.” He scrolled down, missing Octavia’s name the first time, then tapped the cursor back up until he found it. She’d been number four of twenty-five subjects, and hers was the last empty field in the column marked TPOI for Total Period of Infection. From the time she had been exposed, it had taken four days for the disease to take its course. At least a full day longer than any other subject.

“About fucking time.” He spoke under his breath as he typed the final entry in with one finger. He still didn’t know why the girl had survived so long, but it was no matter. By any measure, his work there had been an overwhelming success. Haley pulled off his glasses and tapped them against Margaret’s shoulder. “Get me a copy of the subject files, including all of the relevant video footage.”

Margaret flinched away from him. “Yes, doctor.” She pulled a thumb drive from a desk drawer and plugged it into the video system. The system — which had been his idea — had not only allowed them to observe the patients from a safe distance but also recorded the progress of the disease in each subject.

Having such an accurate, time-stamped record of their experiments would be invaluable to his employer. As he had been. Haley cleaned the lenses of his glasses with the edge of his lab coat. Knowing what was coming, it didn’t hurt to have insurance. Which was why he had contingency plans stashed in safe deposit boxes across the city. It was a point he would be sure to make when he and his employer spoke.

No matter what, he wouldn’t end up like the others.

He pointed to Margaret as she collected the files. “Once you’re done, wipe the system clean.”

She looked at him, her eyes a question. What happens now?

He didn’t bother responding. Some part of her had to know already.

Stupid.

The kind of people who would hire her to do what she’d done weren’t the type to assume money would be enough to keep her quiet. She was a loose end who — unlike him — had no continuing value. Not that what happened to her mattered. And if she hadn’t been smart enough to see that going in… Well, she’d as much as made her bed, hadn’t she?

He put a layer of steel in his voice. “Do it.”

Margaret’s gaze flicked away. She pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and waited for the computer to comply, removed the thumb drive, and dropped it into his waiting hand.

He turned the small device over in his palm. Amazing that so many lives could be held in such a small device. But then, these lives weren’t the kind anyone cared about. Nobodies and throw-aways. The kind of people who would volunteer for a drug trial for pennies and not be missed when they didn’t come back. He’d done the world a service, really.

Haley slipped the thumb drive into a padded envelope, scrawled the address he had memorized at the outset of the project on the front, checked twice to make sure he’d stuck on enough postage, then slid the envelope into his briefcase.

“Take care of that, won’t you?” He tilted his head toward the hallway leading to the patient rooms, where the girl’s body lay waiting.

Margaret didn’t look up from the computer. “Of course, sir. Same as with the others.”

Haley tucked the briefcase under his arm, whistling as he left the facility for the last time. With his part done, the rest could finally could begin.

***

Excerpt from The Carolina Variant by Brooke L. French. Copyright 2023 by Brooke L. French. Reproduced with permission from Brooke L. French. All rights reserved.

Chicago, February 2014

One secret of success in life is for a man to be ready for his opportunity when it comes.—Benjamin Disraeli

Micki

Today’s the day. Best suit. Flawless hair and makeup. Every inch the polished senior associate. No four-inch heels, though. Frederick Lanscombe, managing partner, is a little sensitive about his height and this meeting is the crucial first step in the campaign to be the next partner at Miller, Lanscombe, Baker, Francis, Masters, and Hargrove.

The door to the small conference room is wide open, Fred at the head of table, eating a donut. My mentor, Rebecca Masters smiles and gives me a small thumbs up. Tyler Miller nods to acknowledge I’m there. More than there. After a hundred years, this firm is still a boys’ club but I plan to crack into top echelon and become just the second woman to make partner.

I fly through the door and end up on hands and knees when Hayden Forbes-Cartwright barrels into me. When I look up, Fred’s donut is poised at his open mouth. Rebecca’s hand is over her mouth. And Tyler laughs. “Great entrance, Micki.” The censure I hear pricks my balloon of confidence.

A snigger erupts from Hayden as his big hand reaches down to pull me up. “So sorry, Micki. Couldn’t put the brakes on in time.”

Upright, balanced a little precariously on my toothpick heels, my glare has the heat of the Milky Way. Not that Hayden pays any attention. His bogus concern is yet one more layer of deceit. Still, points to him. I’m the klutz and he’s the chivalric hero.“Have a seat, Micki, Hayden.” Fred gives each of us a once over. Dressing well is one of the unspoken rules. Hayden’s navy blue pinstripe is comparable to my silver gray jacket and matching pencil skirt—points even on wardrobe. My phone is in my lap and I pull up my spreadsheet. I’ve kept score since the first time we met. The advantage has seesawed back and forth, but we’re competing for the pinnacle in the stakes race, so I’ll have to up my game.

Hayden and I were adversaries from the get-go. We started here, on the same day eight years ago. Me half an hour early. Hayden fifteen minutes late strolling in with his uncle. All my muscles clenched when he looked me over with his trademark devil-may-care smile.

“I know you received the memo. With Sonny Philips’ retirement, the firm will promote one associate to partner this year. As the two seniors, you will be the leading candidates.”

Hayden stops fiddling with his Chicago Yacht Club tie. “Does that mean other associates might be considered?”

“Technically, yes, but in reality you two are the only ones qualified right now. The partners will evaluate you on several criteria besides the competencies you’ve shown in your time here.”

He pauses.

Hayden rushes into the short silence. “Does every partner get a vote?”

“You know they do,” Tyler chides his nephew impatiently.

“And are some votes weighted more heavily than others? Like seniority?”

“No.” Rebecca’s response is explosive. “Please go on, Fred.”

When I glance toward Hayden, he shows no embarrassment, not even a slight flush. We all learn to put on a neutral face. I permit myself a very small smile. Minus five to Hayden.

Fred looks at the sheet in front of him, then from Tyler to Rebecca. They nod. “The criteria include enthusiasm, treatment of others, the opinion of your mentor, maintaining personal control, commitment, successful building and protection of your reputation and that of the firm, consistent hard work, always available, constant improvement, and most important— being perceived as trustworthy.”

Hayden’s eyes dart like tiny silverfish, his tell when he’s scheming. on how to get the edge. While I put in the long hours and never turn down a request, Hayden skates by, taking credit for the work of junior associates. Boasting about staying late when he disappears in the middle of the day. When your uncle’s name is on the door, you have an extra pass. Tyler Miller will definitely push for Hayden to be the next partner.

Fred is still talking and I wrench my attention back to his droning monotone. “Besides the formal evaluation, the other piece will be assisting Rebecca with a high-profile insider trading case. It’s more than usually sensitive because our client is a candidate for a Senate seat. He says he’s been set up. Not necessarily a strong or provable defense. You’ll be combing emails, social media, accounts, and documents to see what evidence you find.”

Bucket of nightcrawlers? Come on, Micki, try to show some enthusiasm. Can’t jump up and down.

“What a great opportunity for us to show what we’re made of.” Hayden’s wide smile and crackling delivery is phony as a carney barker’s come on.

Our managing partner nods his head approvingly. Hayden is his favored candidate too. Fred and Tyler have some kind of mutual admiration society and Hayden benefits.

Yeah, he’s a suck up.

My turn. Say something but avoid the gush. “This is a amazing challenge. I really appreciate the chance to work on a case so important to the future and reputation of the firm and, potentially beyond, Fred.”

Rebecca produces a small smile, so I hope I’ve hit the right note.

As we walk out, she stops me. “Micki, I have a lunch appointment, but let’s have a drink after work.” She looks around but doesn’t see anyone in lurking mode. “We haven’t had a good chat for a while.”

“Great, Rebecca. Just come by my office when you’re ready to leave.”

Then I cancel my date for the evening. Work comes first, always.

*****

The Gage is lively at five thirty. After-work drinks have replaced the three-martini lunch, unless you’re Hayden Forbes-Cartwright. He indulges in both.

Rebecca manages to get us a quiet table in a corner near the tile fireplace. We won’t have to shout and have less likelihood of being overheard.

After the drinks are ordered, she pulls out a legal pad. “Thought we could go over some strategies for the work. My thought is that you’ll work on the emails, social media, anything online and whatever documents we can upload. That way, while you’re traveling, you’ll have plenty of material to access.”

“That would be great. I’ve been anxious about being away at such a crucial point in my career.”

The pencil between Rebecca’s fingers moves up and down like a seesaw. “Thanks to technology. Years ago we were tied to the office, the library. I’m glad you can go to the awards ceremony. Kind of like the Oscars for authors.”

“Yeah. Still five working days away…”

“Our new legal research assistant is already busy organizing everything as documentation comes in.”

A Paris Rose is put in front of Rebecca, who pushes her legal pad to the side, but not before a few drops splash onto the paper, leaving a light pink trail. My Jabberwock is in a coupe. She takes a sip just as the cheese board is deposited in the middle of the table along with a basket of fried pickles. Cheese is a magnet for me. My grabby fingers snatch some almost before the server gets the platter on the table.

“Simon Greenberg is an attorney with Talcott, Maier, and current Republican candidate for Senate from Illinois. The SEC received a tip claiming he made use of private information to trade stocks from several companies he represents. After an investigation, the Commission decided on civil charges. Unfortunately, because his candidacy has made him a public figure, criminal charges are pending as well. Maybe some questions about election finance too.”

“Wait. Shouldn’t Hayden be here?” Not that I want him, but if we’re a team, he deserves the same explanations.

“Hayden has already been briefed.”

Be professional. In control. Pretend it doesn’t matter.

“Oh. I see.” But I don’t. Not at all.

Rebecca takes a huge swallow of the pink liquid. “Not by me. After our meeting, Tyler and Fred took Hayden to lunch and briefed him there.”

How does she know? Or is this an assumption? My heated protest escapes before I can rein it in. “But it’s your case.”

She waves the comment away. “He was so full of himself when he got back. Swanned into my office. ‘Simon Greenberg, huh. I wondered after the rumors flying around. Good for us.’ Then he laughed and walked out.” Her scowl could freeze the Chicago River. “I was sure Tyler at least would make sure he’s up to speed and I wanted to get you in the loop right away. I wouldn’t be surprised if Fred and Tyler didn’t give Hayden some instruction on how to handle things and he will take advantage of the time you are away in April.”

My cocktail beckons and I chug it down, sputtering slightly. “Should I cancel the trip?”

She ignores that. “You’ll meet the client tomorrow, so make a strong impression. You’ll have plenty of work to do while you’re out of the office. Get your laptop set up with VPN. It will be your lifeline to the firm. Video meetings will help too. Make sure you can report on progress every day. A strong impression while you’re in Paris will give you a leg up.”

We see the waiter in the distance and Rebecca catches his attention. Once we have refills, she takes a sip, then leans forward. “Show you’re dedicated to the firm and the case and that you can work without supervision. I’ll try to schedule the meetings first thing in the morning to mitigate the seven-hour time difference.”

“And the other complications?”

“Hayden is one, as I’m sure you’ve guessed. More in terms of your selection as partner. That will be decided long before the case is finished. But he’ll push for every plum he can pluck. The other is that because of the election cycle, Greenberg is pushing to get this cleared up or buried quickly. News of the pending charges will hit the papers tomorrow.”

Why haven’t they leaked already?

Rebecca must be a mind reader. “The papers are planning front-page splashes with stories, commentary, and reactions on at least two inside pages.”

I can picture the Tribune. Huge headline and photos on their broadsheet front page. Stories about the investigation, the campaign, lots of background on the candidate, a piece where the rest of the field comments. Then an editorial on the op-ed pages. Maybe a political cartoon. The Sun-Times tabloid format will be just as comprehensive in a more compact form. “Collusion?”

“Cooperation.” Her forehead wrinkles, brows touching. The corners of her mouth turn down.

“Keeping him from making incendiary comments is going to be a job in itself. We want as little coverage as possible while we work on clearing him—if we can. The damage to his reputation is a gift to the other contenders. He’s been the front runner, the poster boy for the party.”

In two swallows, the Jabberwock has disappeared. I order another, then cram more cheese into my mouth.

“Hey, guys. Didn’t get the memo.” Hayden pushes into the tufted leather booth and reaches for a pickle, almost knocking me to the floor. “Uncle Tyler thought you might be here, Rebecca. Said it’s your usual watering hole.”

“A casual afterwork drink.” Rebecca’s voice is flat.

Hayden reaches over and taps her legal pad. “Sure you aren’t strategizing?” The twinkle in his eye shows malice, not amusement. “By the way, I met Laney this afternoon. She’s a cutie.”

“Laney?” The name is unfamiliar.

With a leer, he says, “Our legal researcher. Fresh out of her paralegal program.”

The server comes by with my third drink.

“Are you running a tab?”

Rebecca nods.

“Two Satan’s Whiskers. Need to play catch up with these two.” His smirk makes my skin crawl.

“How appropriate.”

He snickers. My snarky comment bounces off his crocodile hide.

Before the drinks guy can take off, I hold up a hand. “I’d like to order something to go.”

Pad out, he looks a bit like a bird, head to the side.

“Shrimp cocktail with no sauce, and the Apple Salad. Just put the shrimp on top of the salad with the dressing on the side.”

“You got it.”

Hayden puffs out his chest like a pouter pigeon. “Me, I have a date as soon as I finish these truly spectacular drinks.”

“Drinks named just for you.”

He grins. “You know it. Scary but seductive. And I have some seducing on tap.”

Probably with our new researcher. I push the sour feelings back. “Have fun.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Rebecca’s warning look doesn’t make any impression either. She grabs her coat off the empty seat. “Off to have dinner with my hubby. He’s cooking tonight.”

I trudge to the office, takeout container in hand, ready for a little research of my own.

***

Excerpt from At the Ready by Sharon Michalove. Copyright 2023 by Sharon Michalove. Reproduced with permission from Sharon Michalove. All rights reserved.