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★★★★★5 Star Free Thriller Excerpt! A psychiatrist’s life is turned upside down when an anonymous blog appears, documenting everything she does and predicting murder… ANONYMOUS By S Alini

On Friday we announced that S Alini’s Anonymous is our Thriller of the Week and the sponsor of thousands of great bargains in the thriller, mystery, and suspense categories: over 200 free titles, over 600 quality 99-centers, and thousands more that you can read for free through the Kindle Lending Library if you have Amazon Prime!

Now we’re back to offer our weekly free Thriller excerpt:

5.0 stars – 12 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

A New York psychiatrist’s life is turned upside down when an anonymous blog appears, documenting everything she does, revealing her most private secrets, and predicting murder.

Linda Garrett has it all: a successful husband, two great kids and a thriving psychiatry practice. It’s a happy life until a blog appears, documenting everything she does, and disclosing her most private secrets. This begins to fray the knitting that holds her family together, opening up things they’d hoped to leave in the past. But when the blog predicts their imminent deaths, Linda realizes what’s at stake and works frantically to find its creator.

And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:

Chapter 1

 

The pair of eyes, closed and quivering, had a dash of green eyeliner Linda noted.

     “You can take as long as you need,” she told Gwen.

Gwen remained silent. Her plump hands were held together in her lap.

“There’s no hurry at all,” Linda told her.

Linda sat back in her own chair, satisfied that she had shown enough empathy. Not that she didn’t care. She cared a lot. But when your job was to care, it was pleasing sometimes to know that you looked like you did.

Her face pleasant and turned directly at the client, hands holding pen and pad, she waited. She didn’t mind waiting. She did so quite often. Waited and waited until whenever the client was ready.

She noticed that Gwen’s mouth, which was set a little to the left of the rest of her face, did not move at all. It seemed to be the focus of her concentration.

Gwen’s eyes were closed and tremulous, but her mouth was resolute.

Linda relaxed and looked around at her office. It was a little too large, she still felt three years on. The location and the rent had just been too good to pass up.

That’s the thing about New York. The rent decided everything for you.

Linda returned her thoughts to Gwen McConnell. She noted how the trembling eyes seemed to always be on the verge of opening. But they wouldn’t.

“If you don’t say it, we can’t really make much headway can we?” Linda asked. “Solving the problem starts with stating what it is, don’t you think?”

Still Gwen remained silent. Linda waited.

Seventeen years of a psychiatric practice had taught her the value of waiting. Arriving at something before the client was ready could sometimes be problematic. One had to wait and let the client lead the way to all the nooks and crannies of his or her life.

Linda Garrett was in her early forties. Her pantsuit and bundled hair, aiming for modesty, failed to downplay her extraordinary beauty.

She was gregarious, and found it easy to speak softly, thoughtfully, earnestly to her clients. She hoped it didn’t come across as too practiced.

Sometimes she pretended to stumble with her words, just so it wouldn’t sound too proficient, too glib.

Gwen was proving to be a challenge. She’d made three sessions and, for each one, had come in and sat and clammed up. For the whole hour. And so Linda waited. And waited.

Perhaps a little more prodding?

“Gwen, you made an appointment to come and sit here and talk to me. I think you did so for a reason.”

Still, Gwen said nothing.

An alarm beeped discreetly.

 

Chapter 2

 

Linda pressed the alarm off, then returned her attention to Gwen. But Gwen rose heavily.

“We don’t have to stop,” Linda offered. “I can stay, and it’s off the clock.”

She wanted to get to the bottom of this. Gwen stood still for a few moments, just staring at the floor.

“Three visits without saying anything… it’s not the way to solve your problems is it?”

Gwen continued appraising the floor.

“Okay. I won’t keep you if you wish to leave,” Linda told her.

Gwen seemed to step to the door with relief.

“Ahm… same time next week?” she asked in her childlike voice.

“Sure. We can meet, same time next week,” Linda told her.

Linda opened the door and walked Gwen out to the front office.

“Thank you,” Gwen said as she left.

“You’re always welcome,” Linda gave her standard goodbye, not certain exactly what she was being thanked for.

She closed the door after Gwen, turned and shrugged at Allison the receptionist. Allison shrugged back with a smile. Diminutive and perky, she was the office assistant and could always be counted on for moral support.

“Last one, yay!” Linda said just to make conversation.

“Yay,” Allison Jeni concurred.

Linda headed back to her office. Returning to her door, she found a post-it-note stuck right over the title PSYCHIATRIST.

“Need to talk,” it said.

Recognizing Kelly’s handwriting Linda walked across the small, cozy hallway to Kelly’s door. She knocked just above the bronze title KELLY GINSBERG, MARRIAGE COUNSELOR.

No answer.

She knocked again.

No answer, but she heard a thump and voices from Saul’s office down the hall.

That door, bearing the title SAUL GINSBERG, PSYCHIATRIST, flung open to reveal Kelly and Saul Ginsberg grappling with a large gray rug.

 

Chapter 3

 

“She’s taking my rug!” Saul cried out.

“It’s a horrid, smelly thing!” Kelly yelled and tugged hard to drag the rug out.

Moderately pretty and full of energy, Kelly was too thin – a result of keeping up with every new diet and exercise – to stand a chance.

Saul pulled and Kelly slipped and got dragged. Linda immediately waded in. She grabbed a piece of the rug right beside Kelly and pulled. Saul dug in but the two women were too much for him. His shoes slipped on the tile and he held onto the door.

Linda knew that he was serious. He wanted his rug.

Saul tended to dress as though he didn’t care about much. And he furnished his office in the same manner. That lack of concern, marked by the worn desk, the old shelves and this dirty, stained rug, meant a lot to him.

So he was quite earnest in his intention to keep the filthy rug. Yet, she couldn’t help noticing, his mouth still held a smile. Unshaven, he had a gruff, worldly charm about him that remained even when he was serious.

Nonetheless, the women managed to drag him and the rug out to the front office. Allison opened the front door as they succeeded in draging the rug through it.

Outside, the cool evening air hit them. But they wouldn’t be deterred. Mack, the elderly janitor, stared on. He’d been asked by Kelly to wait there. She had something for him, she’d said.

“To Goodwill, please!” she called out to him.

He stepped forward and dutifully took hold of the rug. And at that point Saul gave it up. He wouldn’t stop them from taking it any longer. To the trash yes, but to charity, no.

So he stood there and watched Mack drag it off to the alley.

“How dare you have your patients even look at that?” Kelly scolded him.

“I thought it was my office!” Saul said with mock outrage. “My office, my practice, my kingdom!”

“No husband of mine will have that in his office,” Kelly declared, but she was smiling. “It reflects poorly on me.”

“Oh. How rude of me to not be mindful of how my office rug reflects on my wife.”

With the same mock outrage Saul stormed past Kelly to get back into the office but was met by Linda, who air slapped him. He playfully snapped his head accordingly, then followed his wife back inside. Linda followed behind them both.

Back in her office she packed up for the day. She made quick notes of the last two sessions and checked her calendar to mentally prepare herself for the clients she would see the following day. Then she grabbed her oyster grey coat.

“Score one for the ladies,” Allison remarked as Linda walked out of the front office.

“I say score one for good taste,” Linda replied. “Did you need anything else?”

“Nope. Have a great evening,” Allison replied, as she also gathered her things.

“Goodnight,” Linda told her and stepped out.

 

Outside, Linda found Saul chatting with the two cab drivers. Linda walked down the building steps and approached Kelly.

“You wanted to talk?” Linda asked, remembering the note.

“Oh. Yeah. Let’s do it tomorrow,” Kelly said, lowering her voice.

Linda furrowed her brow. Something was wrong.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Kelly said.

Saul opened the door to the first cab and Kelly entered. Saul got in with her and shut the door.

“Thanks for the assist,” Kelly said, peeking out. “We’ve saved his patients a lot of mental anguish!”

“Which is bad business!” Saul yelled. “You want your patients anguished so they keep coming! This is why women will never rule the world. Goodbye, Linda!”

Then he looked toward his rug, which lay by the steps.

“Goodbye, dear rug! Wherever life takes you, just stay tough. Lay low; keep your head close to the ground. I’ll miss you dear rug!”

Their cab pulled away and Linda entered the second cab.


Chapter 4

 

Abdul beamed upon Linda’s entrance to the cab. An Egyptian immigrant in his late forties he was cleanly shaven and plump.

“Hey, Abdul,” Linda greeted him and struggled to not cough.   The air in the cab was thick with incense. She wished she hadn’t made the mistake of praising him for it once. It was out of politeness, because he appeared to want her approval of it. Now it seemed discourteous to ask him to stop.

“My Linda, my Linda,” Abdul Muktar said.

He turned and took a good look at her as though anxious to make sure she settled in without any problem. Then he changed gear and proceeded to drive.

“How is your day?” Linda asked him.

“Oh fine, fine.”

He stared in the rearview mirror, seemingly waiting for something. Linda pressed the window down a few inches, for air. She watched the rows of elegant brownstones passing by. The motion of the cab comforted her.

“Yesterday I make dinner for my wife,” Abdul volunteered.

“Oh you did?”

“Like you say,” he continued.

“And did it work?” she asked.

“She say never make dinner again.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes. She not like it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“S’okay. S’okay.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have suggested it,” Linda continued.

“I think she not like anything.”

“Oh wow.”

“No no no,” Abdul said. “S’okay. Not your fault.”

*

     The subway train had its usual early evening crowd of commuters making their way home. Linda was fortunate to find a seat. She decided to catch up on news.

As the train rattled along, she looked up from her e-reader. She found an infant Hispanic boy staring at her. Playfully she stuck her tongue at him. The toddler gaped, not expecting this. Then he stuck his tongue at her. And they went back and forth.

Linda decided finally to let the boy win by having the last go. She turned and saw a very obese man in a low brim hat watching her. He stuck his tongue out too. He wanted in on the game. Linda smiled politely and returned to her e-reader.


Chapter 5

 

The Garretts lived in the Stony Brook hamlet of Brookhaven, on the north shore of Long Island. Their palazzo style colonial, with beige walls and elegantly detailed craftwork, told of a modest opulence. It was big but not too big, and evocative of warmth and comfort and the highly educated.

On this night, however, it had a certain peculiarity: at the highest point on its roof a medieval Knight was doing a handstand. This handstand was held for half a minute before the knight appeared to sway unsteadily. At that point he got down on his feet.

After a moment of preparing himself he slowly positioned his hands on the dark shingles and raised his legs, holding himself on his hands once again. He held the position, twitching only slightly to maintain his balance.

Linda pulled slowly up the stone driveway in her Acura. Her eyes were fixed on the pathway illuminated by her headlights. She was on the lookout for Gracie, their tabby cat, who was fond of outdoor jaunts.

Linda caught the glimmering protuberance on the roof and looked skyward. Peering as she drew closer, she realized what was going on and held her breath.

She parked in front of the garage and stepped out as calmly as she could manage. She looked up at the medieval Knight and spoke in that urgently quiet tone one uses when the intent is to alarm one particular person and not the neighborhood.

“Nicky,” she said.

“Yes, mom,” the Knight doing the handstand uttered. He spoke in a youthful but very labored voice.

“Get down from there right now,” Linda demanded.

“Yes, mother,” the Knight replied.

But then Linda realized what was likely to come next.

“Wait –” she exclaimed.

But Nicholas pushed off his hands and did several flips across the roof, leaping off the edge. He landed in a pile, feet first.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch,” he cried painfully and pulled back the visor on his helmet. “It’s my foot, it’s my foot. If you’re wondering.”

And he held his left foot as his mother looked on.

“My poor foot. My poor, poor foot. I promise to take care of you from here on out, little foot.”

Noting his mother’s silence he looked up. Even in the dark he knew the anger in her eyes.

“This is not appropriate behavior, yes,” he acknowledged. “And I ought to know better.”

He waited but she did not bother to reply.

“You wanna know how the play went?” he asked.

But Linda was too angry to speak. She just marched on into the house.

Nicholas remained in the grass, nursing his ankle. Smallish yet confident, he was a free spirit; a product of a doting upbringing. He had his mother’s long lashes and features that were generally regarded as pretty.

 

Chapter 6

 

Linda stepped into the foyer and took a deep breath, determined to not let Nicholas ruin her day.

She peered out at the living room and saw what she’d expected to find there.

Amidst the opulence – a cultured and tasteful opulence – Oliver was seated in his leather recliner watching TV. Although graying, his build suggested a muscular and athletic past and gave him a posture that exuded strength.

“Hi, hon,” Linda called out to Oliver, as Gracie snuggled up against her shin.

She knelt and grabbed the cat. She hugged and kissed the tabby, caressing the swirling grey and white stripes that coated her. Gracie acted nonchalant, as was her custom. Linda kissed her more.

“Hey, you pretty girl you. What’ve you been up to?”

As she doted on Gracie she noted the silence from Oliver.

“Hi, honey,” she called out again.

“Hi,” Oliver replied without turning from the TV.

Linda stared, puzzled. She was accustomed to a much more enthusiastic welcome.

“What’s my Marine want for dinner?” she asked.

“Jennifer’s making something already,” Oliver replied.

“Okay. Good,” Linda said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well I had an interesting day,” Linda said. “I had this patient again who doesn’t talk.”

“I know,” Oliver told her.

“I mean, she’s not mute, but she just doesn’t want to tell me anything about what’s going on –”

“I said I know.”

Linda was surprised. His tone was not very friendly.

“You know? How do you know?” Linda asked him.

Oliver smirked but didn’t explain. Like it ought to have been obvious.

“How do you know?” she asked again.


Chapter 7

 

“Look. If you don’t mind, I’m watching something,” Oliver said. “I don’t mean to be… you know; but if I can just watch what I’m watching, whatever the hell it is, without being interrupted. Is that okay?”

Linda furrowed her brow but started up the stairs anyway. This was completely out of left field. They hadn’t fought in at least two years. What could have gotten into him?

Linda walked into their bedroom and took off her coat. She closed the door, undressed completely and went into the bathroom. She got under the shower and tried to let the warm spray massage her.

This was her ritual, to wash away the outside world at the end of each day. This night, however, the water was not quite as soothing.

She thought about Oliver. What could be eating him? She hadn’t done anything that she knew of. She ran through the past week, her interactions with him.

Her mind wondered to Kelly’s note. Must have been pretty important for her to write a note and post it to the door. They talked all the time, why didn’t Kelly feel she could just pop in? And then what made her not want to discuss it when Linda asked?

Linda got out of the shower and toweled herself off. She got into her yellow bathrobe and walked into her closet to find something to wear. She heard the bedroom door open and Oliver appeared.

“Linda,” he began, which immediately distressed her. He only called her that when he was angry. “It’s not for me to tell you how to run your practice. Okay? We already know that. But when you start something like this, don’t you think you should let us know?”

“Start what?” Linda asked him.

“Your online stuff, whatever they call it.”

“My online stuff? What’re you talking about?”

“You didn’t think we’d find out?”

And with that he turned and stormed away.

Authority was not natural to Oliver. But he was a man who believed that it was expected, given the Marine Corps stint, a successful career, and his bulk. He had the outer shell, but not the tough inner mettle. And he was frustrated.

Linda continued the task at hand. She pulled out a green t-shirt and turned to the pants. She grabbed an old pair of jeans and proceeded to step into them.

She was buttoning up when Oliver returned and held up an Ipad.

“What?” Linda asked.

“You tell me,” Oliver told her.

Linda looked at the IPAD screen. On it was what appeared to be a Blog. The title was Lindagarrettblog.com.

Below this title was a wide bit of space, followed by some text. The font was Garamond, the letters wide, making it easy to read.  And so Linda proceeded to read.

 

“My name is Linda. I’m a

successful psychiatrist in

New York. A psychiatrist.

In New York. This is not the

beginning of a great knee

slapper. It’s a statement of

fact for me. What you’re

reading is the start of

an examination of my life.”

 

 

Chapter 8

 

The text was superimposed on a painting of a nude woman covering her privates. And this woman, Linda realized, bore a strong resemblance to her.

Linda furrowed her brow, puzzled. Then she chuckled in disbelief.

“You find this amusing?” Oliver asked her.

“No – well, I don’t know what the heck it is.”

They heard the clank of metal as Nicholas appeared behind them. His helmet was now off, and he held a large sword slung over his shoulder.

“Yes, I do find it quite amusing,” Linda now said to Oliver. “I find it quite hilarious. This is crazy. Whose idea was this?”

She turned and stared into the eyes of her husband and her son.

“You’re trying to say that it’s not yours,” Oliver said.

“Yes. Of course I am,” Linda said. “Because it’s not mine.”

Oliver shook his head, bewildered by her gall.

“Look, just because it has my name doesn’t mean it’s mine. Or that I created it. I’m telling you I have never seen this before. It’s not mine. It’s just not mine.”

“Not hers, she says,” Nicholas declared. “Not hers. Not hers. Not hers. Not hers?”

Raising his sword Nicholas gave his father a theatrically suspicious look, which Oliver ignored. Giving up the attempt at levity, Nicholas stared over his mother’s shoulder, his chin comfortably resting on her.

“It does look like you, mommy,” he told her.

“Yes, but, I mean it has to be some kind of joke.”

“Look, just admit – ” Oliver began.

“Will you stop?!” Linda snapped. “I don’t even know how to set up a blog!”

“Then who the hell – ” Oliver continued.

“Take it easy… father person,” Nicholas said, raising the sword.

Oliver gave him a look intended to show he was not in the mood. Nicholas noted his father’s angry look. But he continued nonetheless.

“Cool it, sperm provider figurehead. It’s not the end of the world. I promise. So, you know, chill out.”


Chapter 9

 

The family was in the kitchen. Oliver, Linda and Nicholas were seated as Jennifer portioned out Shepherd’s pie on their plates.

Jennifer was bookish and slightly plump. Yet she had a self confidence and poise that comes from having had a childhood spent being adored.

“So this is my second stab at this, so,” she declared. “It won’t, you know, taste like mom’s pie.”

“Did she just say mom’s pie? Mom’s pie?!” Nicholas said. “I will not have you talk of my mother like that.”

“Shut up,” Jennifer told him. “FYI, your jokes stopped being funny like when you started saying them.”

“Not funny?” Nicholas asked. “Not funny. Okay, perhaps. Perhaps not funny. Insightful and moderately interesting, definitely. Well, all right occasionally. Occasionally insightful and interesting at a moderate level. So I vote that I continue telling my jokes. A form of self expression, an exercise of my first amendment right, guaranteed under the etcetera etcetera…”

Choosing to ignore him, Jennifer turned to her mom.

“Did they tell you… that we know?” she asked.

“It’s already been discussed,” Oliver declared.

“And I missed it? Was there a fight?” Jennifer asked playfully. “Fight, fight, fight! You never fight anymore – I miss your fights. Now you’re just another boring husband and wife. What gives?”

“Be quiet,” Oliver told her, but he was half-joking.

“Yeah, do be quiet, sibling person,” Nicholas told her.

“So tell us about your blog,” Jennifer continued.

“It’s just some stupid joke,” Linda said. “And… I think I have an idea who’s behind it. I’ll see them tomorrow and have them stop. It actually gave me a scare when I saw it.”

They ate in silence for a minute.

“Love the shepherd’s pie, by the way, dear,” Oliver told Jennifer.

“Yeah,” Nicholas said. “And of course he’s not just saying that because he fathered you… and thus naively holds himself responsible for your self esteem. It’s not that at all.”

They ignored him and continued to eat.

Continued….

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Callie spends countless hours staring at appliances to make sure they are really unplugged. She wastes obscene amounts of time checking for murderers in various corners of her house and entire sleepless nights performing pointless checking rituals. Then every spare minute is filled with inspecting doorknobs, chairs, floors, etc. for minuscule traces of germs. Oh, and she does all of this as she counts to three over and over again in her head. She does this every day. Without fail.

Dr. Blake just doesn’t fit into her schedule. Until he does. Until Callie begins to trust him. Until she starts to need him. And want him. And . . .

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an excerpt from

Checked

by Jennifer Jamelli

 

Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Jamelli and published here with her permission

1

THE APPOINTMENT

            {In my head radio, the Pretenders start the second verse of “I’ll Stand by You.”}

Have a seat, please, Miss Royce, says the red-headed receptionist as she extends a manicured hand to indicate the seating area. Red. Bright red nails. And a small scratch on the pad of her pointer finger. A scratch or perhaps some wayward nail polish? Please let it be nail polish. Please don’t let it be blo—

            She stares at me, waiting. I flush.

            Like I said, I’m fine here, really, if I’m not in your way or anything. I don’t mind standing. Really. Stop talking, freakshow. She gets it—you don’t want to sit. I move slightly away from her desk so I am standing in the seating area. We are both quickly distracted by the jingle of bells at the door. A short, plump man with a trench coat and a briefcase comes flying in the room. {Frank Sinatra takes over, crooning “Fly Me to the Moon.”}

            I step back further into the waiting room just in time to prevent the side of his briefcase from touching my black pea coat. Clutching my silky black and white purse, I watch him fling the briefcase on the counter as he talks at the receptionist.

            Cancel my appointments for today, tomorrow, and Friday. I have to get to the airport by three to be in New York by evening visiting hours. He pauses to breathe and quietly adds, He’s in critical condition.

            To avoid imposing further upon this conversation, I take another step into the seating area, careful not to touch any of the clustered blue chairs. I look down at my purse and fiddle with the silver hardware on the handles. {Sinatra moves right on to the second verse.}

            Mr. Briefcase finally gives the receptionist a chance to speak.

            “Yes, sir, Dr. Spencer. I’ll cancel your appointments right away. Oh but, um…” I can feel her gazing toward me. I keep my hands and eyes on the silver rings on my purse.

            She quietly says, “Your two fifteen is here a little early. A referral from Lennox Counseling.” I look up at this man who is apparently going to be my psychiatrist. I remember the card from Dr. Lennox hanging on my fridge. Dr. Keith Spencer. Pierce Mental Health. 2:15 p.m.

            See if Dr. Blake can handle it, he says, picking up his briefcase with one hand while fumbling for his keys with the other. If he starts the initial consultation, he can just leave the paperwork on my desk. He glances over at me, and I move my eyes abruptly back to my purse. He then continues his conversation with the receptionist. I’m sure I’ll be back here by two fifteen next Wednesday.

            When I eventually look back up, Miss Receptionist and Dr. Spencer peer intently at her computer screen. Perhaps Dr. Blake can’t handle me either.

The receptionist taps a red nail on the computer screen as she whispers, But he won’t treat—

            It’s just an initial consultation, Dr. Spencer interrupts before turning and flying back through the door without another glance in my direction.

            Wont treat what? Women? Graduate students? Catholics?

            I’ll be right with you, Miss Royce.” The receptionist cuts into my thoughts as she stands up from her chair to go toward the back part of the office.

             Back to my purse buckle. {Time for the refrain again. Ready for a big key change.}

            Ma’am. She is at her desk again. Dr. Blake, a psychologist in this practice, will be seeing you today. Please just step through this door, and I’ll show you to his office.

            I look at the brown door to her left, the one those red fingernails point out to me. It isn’t one of those swing doors I can just push in with my foot or leg or back. It has a horizontal silver bar handle. Shit. SHIT. SHIII-TT.

            Since the receptionist appears to be gathering a file (mine?) from the desk, I quickly thrust my coat-covered elbow onto the end of the silver handle and push down and forward at the same time. The door opens. I catch it with my right black pump and try to move my elbow back to a normal spot. But instead, I drop my purse. Smooth, Callie. So graceful.

            Now holding my file, the receptionist is looking at me. Awesome. I grab the top part of my purse, carefully avoiding any contact with the sections that touched the carpet or door.

            Right this way, please.

            Sure, Red. As you wish.

            I follow her for what seems like forever. Her slow, calm pace doesn’t help matters. We go to the end of one brightly lit hallway only to turn left into another. Uniformly framed pictures line the walls, pictures of meadows and birds.

            We make a second left turn and there is yet another large bird staring at me. A robin, I think. I hate birds. They randomly crap on things that would otherwise be clean. Cars. Park benches. Picnic tables. Mmmm…nothing says yummy picnic better than a big white and black pile of—

            We are turning again. {Frankie fades out, and The Beatles slide in with “The Long and Winding Road.”}

            We’re here. The receptionist twists the silver doorknob to open the door and then presses her back against it so I can enter.

            Miss Calista Royce, Dr. Blake.

            A quiet, so quiet voice says, Thank you, Annie.

            Annie. Of course your name is Annie.

            Annie steps in the room a moment, and soon that quiet, deep voice speaks again.

 Come in, Miss Royce.

            The door stays open even after Annie leaves. Excellent. Not an automatically closing door. I walk in, and my eyes meet, um, no one. No one sits behind the massive cherry desk that faces me.

            Dr. Lennox referred you to this office? That hushed voice pulls my gaze around, over to the right corner of the room. Blue dress shirt over muscular arms. Black pin-striped pants. Dark brown hair.

All facing away from me.

            Um…yes.  As you clearly just read in my file. Why bother asking?

            He wants you to seek further treatment. Medication from Dr. Spencer. This comes as a murmur as he appears to look up and directly out the window in front of him. Very tense. Obsessions occupying approximately eighty-five percent of the day. Compulsive behaviors linked to the majority of these…difficulty sleeping, working, socializing. Excessive checking habits…

            He turns and gradually begins walking, all the while flipping through my file. Face down…reading…walking. Toward me? To shake my hand? To take my coat?

            As he approaches me, I clutch the top part of my purse even tighter in my right hand and bring my left hand down to play with a button on the front of my coat. He stops in front of me but doesn’t look up. I hold my breath as he reaches behind me to close the door. Still looking down at the file, he heads back to the window.

            I don’t resume my breathing until he is again facing away from me.

            Silence. {“The Long and Winding Road” ends and then starts right back up againtwice.} My purse is getting heavy. I let go of my coat button and grasp the top of my purse with both hands.

            He clears his throat and speaks. So you’re looking for some quick fix, some medicine from Dr. Spencer.

            Quick fix?

            I try to explain. Dr. Lennox suggested that, um, taking some medicine might alleviate some of my issues.

            Quiet. Nothing. Just the back of a man—a statue in front of me. His hand moves through his artfully-tousled hair. Silence. I clear my throat.

            He did want me to see Dr. Spencer specifically so I can just wait until next week when—

            Dr. Spencer wants me to conduct this opening consultation with you. He turns from the window to walk to his desk.

            Just a few standard questions—if you are ready.

            I nod my head in agreement. But he can’t see me because he is now sitting at his desk and looking down at a clipboard.

            Mmhmm… I say quietly, pointlessly nodding again. He takes a shiny silver pen out of his left shirt pocket.

            Pen poised to write, he speaks again, First question. He pauses.

            He still doesn’t look at me. I move my own gaze to the bookshelves behind his desk. Lots of thick books with fancy, complicated titles. A framed degree. Dr. Aiden Blake.

            One picture. A young woman holding a maybe two-year-old boy. Both with the same dark hair. It looks like a professional picture gone wrong. The woman has a warm smile directed at the camera. The little boy is sitting on the woman’s (his mother’s?) lap and his body is facing the camera. His head, though, is turned up toward the woman’s face, and his little right hand rests on her cheek. As if the little boy whipped his head around during the photographer’s count of three to check to make sure his mother was still there. Sweet. Perhaps Mrs. Quiet and son.

            My eyes involuntarily move to his left hand. No ring.

            Why do you spend most of your day seeing problems that do not exist?

What? That is your “standard” question?

            I abruptly move my gaze back to him, but he, of course, is not looking at me. I don’t think he is going to speak again until I offer an answer.

            Umm…I don’t really…I’m not entirely…I don’t know.

            You don’t know. I just figured you did know since you’re ready to put a medicinal bandage on this whole problem.

            Medicinal bandage? Who says that?

            Um…no. I’m not really…you know, I can just wait until next week. Really. I have to, uh, work at the writing center in just a couple—

            You’re a writer? he interrupts.

            Well, I want to write, yes. I am taking graduate courses in creative composition at, um, Pierce University, and well, I have to write for, uh, my courses.

            Eloquent, Callie. No wonder he thinks you’re a writer.

            Well then, Miss— (He looks back at my chart.) Royce. These questions can easily be answered in writing.

            Great. Just tell me what you want me to write about, and I can give my answers to Dr. Spencer next week then. I’ll stop ruining your day.

            I start to dig in my coat pocket to find my keys.

            I’d like you to start by writing about some early memories of your issues. Perhaps you can email these to me by, let’s say, Friday afternoon.

            What? Is this like a homework assignment? As though I don’t have enough to—

            Is there a problem, Miss Royce? Oh—did he see my irritation? I look up.

            Of course not. He has now spun his chair around to face the sole picture on his bookshelf.

            Um, well, when I write I prefer to use an old-fashioned pen or pencil. Pause. By the way, it’s Calista.

            That’s fine. Try to get it in the mail by Friday then. I see we have your email address on file, so I’ll just send you some other topics to think about later in the week.

            Oh. Okay. Thank you. Again, sorry for disrupting your existence.

 I turn toward the doorknob on his door.

Calista. That quiet voice pulls me around yet again.

I freeze. He’s looking at me. Sorrowful eyes…heavy…inconsolable. A tragedy in blue.

I can’t look away. I begin to feel a dull ache in my left side. {Damien Rice fills my head with “The Blower’s Daughter.”}

            His eyes hold mine. They are relentless. The sharpening pain in my side weighs me down, cementing my shoes to their place on the floor. My lips part slightly as my body tries to remember to breathe.

            In slow motion almost, he releases me, closing his eyes and clenching them shut. The blue eyes that open back up to me are hard, stony.

            He swiftly spins his chair to grab the box of tissues on his bookshelf. Without meeting my eyes, he turns back around and holds the box out to me.

            To help you out of here, he says in an almost inaudible voice. What?

            Th-thank you, I stammer. I clutch my purse and take six slow steps toward his desk. Three steps at a time. One two three. One two three.

            He stares past me, blankly looking at the door. I pull three white tissues from the box he’s holding and turn back to his point of focus. When I get to the silver doorknob, I quickly cover it with the three tissues spread out in my left hand.

            And I’m out.

            The creepy birds on the walls watch me as I walk back through that twisting path in a daze. I use my three tissues to open the next silver-handled door, and I’m back in the waiting room.

            The receptionist is on the phone, arguing heatedly with someone about which bar to go to on Friday night. She’s mad. She doesn’t even look up as I pass.

            Later, Annie. Hope your sun shines again tomorrow.

            I use Dr. Blake’s tissues one last time to push out the main door (no silver handle) to the building, and I hastily throw them into the large trash can right outside the office. Carefully, I hold up my purse with my right hand. I unzip it with my left and remove my wallet, a pen, my phone, deodorant, a package of tissues, a calculator, my checkbook, lip gloss, and three Band-Aids. I shove the items in my coat pockets and drop the purse directly into the trash can.

            Too bad. It really was a nice Christmas gift.

            I quickly retrieve my keys from my right coat pocket and find my car. After I climb into the driver’s seat, I just sit for a moment.

            What the hell was that? The longest stare ever, no doubt. Preceded by the most elongated period of time avoiding eye contact. Some kind of game, perhaps?  I smile to myself. Maybe this is simply part of the standard treatment.

            I look at the clock on the dashboard. 2:38 p.m. Better get moving. I have to be at the writing center by 4:00 p.m. I count to three, start my car, count to three again, and turn on the radio.

My little rented house is in front of me eight minutes later. Mandy’s car is not in her spot. It’s nice to have my sister for a roommate, but she really isn’t around much. Busy with all of those stimulating undergraduate courses, maybe. More like all of those parties and sorority events.

            2:47 p.m. I open the front door and leave my shoes on the black towel just inside. The kitchen sink is eighteen steps away from the front door. Six counts of three. After rinsing all of the soap off of my hands and lower arms, I dry myself off and hit the PLAY button on the answering machine.

            Hey, Callie. Guess you’re not back yet. I’m just checking to see how things went. Call me when you can!

            Melanie. I pick up the phone and dial her number. On the first ring, I hear Abby, my six-year-old niece.

            Hey, Abby. Is your mommy home?

            Silence. And then, Hi, Aunt Callie. I just got a new—

            Abigail—I’ll take the phone now. Hey, Callie. My older sister’s authoritative voice interrupts our conversation. I hear some small whines from Abby in the background.

            Hey, Melanie. Couldn’t wait for me to call, huh?

            She laughs. I was just hoping they’d be able to fix you in under fifteen minutes and have you all bouncy and sunshiny before work.

            Not quite. I think it’s gonna take at least twenty minutes. Thirty, tops.

            Melanie laughs. Okay. How did it really go?

            Well, I think I managed to get in and out of the office without contracting any new diseases. Barely, though. I decide not to tell her about my purse. If I try to keep it light, we can talk things out comfortably, normally. Otherwise she worries too much. Besides, she was the one who gave me the purse last Christmas.

            I take a new dishrag out of a drawer, drench it with dish soap and water, and begin wiping off the counter.

            She’s waiting to hear more.

            My doctor couldn’t actually see me. Some emergency or something. They passed me off to some other guy. Guy? Super busy man? Terrified, sad boy?

            “Oh. What was he like?

            What do you want to know? I can give you a pretty detailed description of the back of his head, his tense shoulders…

            He was pretty busy, really. Busy staring out his window…and at my file…and at his bookcase. He didn’t have a lot to say. I’m just going to fill out some basic information and send it back to the office. My real doctor should be back next week.

            That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe it’ll be easier to get yourself into the office the second time.

            Maybe. Although I can’t imagine it will be much easier to get out next time. Unless, perhaps, I take six tissues instead of three.

            Okay, I have to make Abby some dinner before I go to yet another meeting. This case is killing my evenings.

            A phone meeting? Or do you have to drive the whole way back to the office?

            Back to the office. The firm likes us to be all professional and lawyery for the big cases. At all times. We’ll probably be in Board Room I, the one with the enormous chairs. She pauses.  It is a forty minute drive, though, and that does mean I’ll have a total of eighty minutes in the car without hearing any crying or whining. I could use a little peace.

            All right. Please—

            Be careful. I know. I will be, Calista. Give Mandy a hug for me.

            I will. Thanks for checking on me, Mel. Bye.

            2:59 p.m. Not much time before I have to leave again. As I take the dishrag to the hall laundry closet and put it in the washer, I think about this week’s to-do list. Work tonight. Groceries tomorrow morning. I pull out the knob to start the washer and grab the Lysol spray on the laundry shelf. Hmm…class tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. Professional Writing Lab I. Our second night of my professor’s Publishing Series. Some published writer will be speaking for the entire three hours. Trying to be inspirational. Really just feeding his or her ego.

            Going back down the hallway, I disinfect my black pumps. Six seconds of spray per shoe.

            Lysol can back on shelf. Hands washed in kitchen sink.

            Let’s see. TA class on Friday afternoon. College Writing 101. I still haven’t done much more than sit and observe. I can hardly be called a teaching assistant. The freshmen yawning through class probably think I’m just a twenty-something-year-old creeper drooling over their teacher. Little do they know it’s the other way around.

            After Dr. Gabriel officially introduces me to the class in late October, perhaps I’ll feel more comfortable about being there. Comfortable, yeah—for about two weeks before I have to teach a couple of the classes in November. With him watching me. Ugh!

            Quick trip up to my bathroom. Last one until I get back home tonight around 8:00 p.m. As I dry my hands, I look in the mirror to make sure I look together. Makeup—faded, but not running. Hair—a little frizz, but nothing disastrous.

            I go back downstairs to the kitchen table to grab my notebook for Monday’s Literary Analysis II class. Maybe I’ll get some writing done tonight at work.

 “You’re a writer?” The memory of a deep, quiet voice questions me. Oh. That’s right. I have yet another writing assignment to complete this week. In the mail by Friday, he said. Before he sends me more standard questions. Fantastic.

            Maybe I’ll just write my response for him this evening and get it out of the way. I can put it in the mail tomorrow, and we can get this process moving. I’ll have all the paperwork done before I see Dr. Spencer next Wednesday.

            I smile, thinking of my conversation with Melanie. According to her, I’ll need just one short visit in Dr. Spencer’s office and my transformation to normal should be complete.

            3:05 p.m. Preparations to leave the house.

            3:48 p.m. Time to go. I grab my coat and notebook before taking my black leather purse from the closet. I transfer the items from my coat pockets to my new purse, step into my slightly damp heels, and I’m out. Door shut and locked. Handle twist. Handle twist. Handle twist. Locked.

            On to work.

 

2

THE ASSIGNMENT

            The writing center is pretty empty. The usual. No one really comes until after dinner on weeknights. Most of them don’t even want help. They just want a quiet place to type.

            For now, I’ll take advantage of this quiet place to write myself. Earliest memories…I begin to brainstorm as I get situated at my corner desk.

            Hmm…my parents always tell me that I was a horrible baby. Always screaming. Not sleeping unless I was on my mother’s chest. But maybe that is how babies are for the most part. Maybe Melanie and Mandy were just exceptionally good. Perhaps Jared was only different because he was a boy. Or maybe he seemed really easy because he came right after me. Could this really have started that early though?

            Excuse me. A stick-thin girl with a campus sweatshirt interrupts me. Can you help me with my paper? She looks to the left, most likely toward the computer where she is working.

            She thinks I am going to go over there? Clearly a freshman. I smile at her as patiently as I can and explain the process of emailing me the paper, attaching questions, and getting a response within a half hour.

            Oh. I just thought… She drifts off. Thought what? That I would actually take a job where I had to sit and talk with college freshmen? That I would sit close to them and hear them chomp their gum as I worry that they’ll accidentally spit while they are talking to me? So close that I can smell their not always clean clothes and the scented sprays they’ve used to disguise their poor laundry habits? No, thanks. Sorry, freshman. {Cue Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”}

            She is still standing in front of me. I manage to give her a smile before she turns to go back to her computer. It’s not entirely her fault that I find her disgusting.

            This is probably her first college paper, and she really does look worried. I turn on the laptop sitting on my desk so I’m ready for the arrival of her email.

            Back to early memories. So why did the baby version of me scream so much? Not bathed enough? Not changed enough? Maybe I was scarred from my experience with swimming in filthy amniotic fluid for months. Maybe a questionable looking doctor gave me my first shots.

            Or was the baby me just afraid that if I stopped crying I’d be left alone with my own scary thoughts? Were they already there?

            Perhaps my mega-intense doctor man can tell me if this is even possible. Surely this couldn’t have been what he meant by earliest experiences though. I really think he meant early as in I could hold my head up and eat solid food but not old enough that I had my driver’s license yet.

            I don’t have the chance to finish this enchanting conversation with myself because my computer dings. That means I have a paper to check.

            My freshman. Brittany at Computer 7, so says her help ticket email. No paper is attached to the email. Just a question about making a cover page. She’s only on the cover page? Looks like I will be spending my whole shift with Brittany.

            I type her a quick response, attaching some standard cover page examples.

            Back to my standard question. I begin to write my response, and other than four dings from Brittany, I am pretty much left alone…

The Evil Forks and the Dangerous Mouse Droppings

            Some of my earliest fears were based on some simple fatherly advice. I don’t even know exactly why the advice was given; I’m sure my brother, Jared, and I were doing something questionable to bring it on though.

            At dinner, Dad told me that a person could get something called “Lockjaw” from having a fork stabbed into his or her skin. Lockjaw sounded pretty scary.

            For the next few years, every fork I saw became a nemesis. Luckily, I found that I could eat many foods without having to use utensils. (Knives and spoons were probably okay, but how could I know for sure? Dad hadn’t said one way or another on other eating devices so I thought it was safest to avoid them all.) But I couldn’t avoid them all of the time. Every week (usually during the weekend), there would be four index cards sitting on the kitchen counter, four lists of chores. One for my brother, one for each of my sisters, and one for me. Ahthe dreaded list. Mine always said “EMPTY DISHWASHER” in the small capital letters my dad used for list making. DAMN IT.

            Carefully, oh so carefully, I’d pull out each spoon, each knife, and each terrifying fork. If my skin even brushed against one of the menacing prongs, I’d quickly open and shut my mouth a few times to make sure it wasn’t glued shut.

            Eventually, the scandalous task would be over and, phew, I’d made it through yet another weekend listalmost. After my dad’s capital-lettered chores, my mom would often add some of her own in her more feminine, lower-cased writing. And many times it was there, the next worst task: dusting. AHH—people should be forced to read the warnings on some of those cleaning supply bottles before they use them. They are freaking scary. I could go blind. I could have to have my stomach pumped. Hell, I could even die. No way. Not me. If I wasn’t going to let the forks get me, there was no way a bottle of toilet bowl cleaner was taking me out. So at the age of seven, I proceeded (very carefully—with gloves) to find out which bottles had the least troublesome warnings. Window cleaner and dish soap won (but this was many years ago—I’ve found other acceptable products over the years.) From then on, all dusting was done with window cleaner or just water. And when one of those lists said “Clean bathroom sink and tub,” my parents could always count on the hall bathroom smelling like dish soap. Who knows how many times I saved my eyes, my stomach, my life

            Okay, so cleaning products and forks were nightmares, but they couldn’t even compete with the treacherous mouse droppings.

            More words of wisdom from my father. “Wash your hands after you play in the garage. There is probably mouse crap out there.”  Hmmsounded pretty bad if this actually merited a warning from my father. (He never really gave random warnings or advice.) What could these mouse droppings do?

            It wasn’t like there was a bottle I could use to check out warnings for this feces product. This was also obviously before the Internet was really in swing so I had no help there. Instead, I had to leave the potential dangers to my imagination. Smart move, I know—just brilliant.

            That mouse crap was almost paranormal—it could paralyze or even blind a person quite easily. All someone would have to do was walk out to the laundry room (in the garage) in bare feet, come inside, and walk on the living room carpet—and the house was suddenly infested.

            If I accidentally picked something up from the carpet after an infestation, I would immediately wash my hands, my feet, the thing that I had picked up—all contaminated objects. It was an endless cycle. We are lucky we had no fatalities.

            I did my part. I wore shoes if I had to go out to the laundry room, and I refused to use anything that had ever resided in the garage. My other family members didn’t do their part though. They still don’t. I’ve seen them countless times doing laundry in bare feet, using tools they’ve found in the garage, and coming inside without washing their hands. I constantly fear a call from the hospital. One of them is bound to end up there.

          I finish my shift pretty pleased with my completed assignment so I grab an envelope and fold it so it fits inside. If I just drop this in the mailbox on the way home, I don’t even have to think about it for the next couple of days. I do just that.

#

I begin my night preparations shortly after returning home. Thermostat: 70 degrees. Stove: off. Doors: locked. Blinds: closed. Alarm: set. Teeth: brushed. Pictures: straightened. Clothes for tomorrow: out. Mandy’s room: cleaned. Nails: painted. Email inbox: empty. Laundry: away. Entire house: dusted. Kitchen: scrubbed. My bathroom: sanitized. Evening shower: taken. Body lotion: applied. Pajamas: on. Hair: dried. Prayers: said. TV: on.

            Eventually, I fall asleep while a skinny woman on the television goes through the steps for making ravioli.

… Continued…

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Brian Haynes, the third-generation owner of a successful realty company, who married the owner of an even more successful lumber company, remembers back to one pivotal summer during his childhood that changed his perspective on life forever.

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K. Martin Beckner is an Army veteran and a graduate of Western Kentucky University. He is a registered nurse who also has a degree in psychology with a minor in writing. He lives in Southern Kentucky, not far from Nashville, Tennessee. His family has lived in Kentucky longer than Kentucky has been a state. As a child he loved to listen to stories his grandparents told, and he now incorporates those stories into his writing. He is currently working on his next novel.

"Growing up, I loved to listen to stories my grandparents and great grandparents told. Though some of these stories seemed supernatural in nature, they were always told with the conviction of truth. Through their reflections of yesteryear, I learned that there is a lot more to life than what we can see and touch. There is an element of the unexplained, where the past is intertwined with the present and cannot be separated. In today K. Martin Beckner is an Army veteran and a graduate of Western Kentucky University. He is a registered nurse who also has a degree in psychology with a minor in writing. He lives in Southern Kentucky, not far from Nashville, Tennessee. His family has lived in Kentucky longer than Kentucky has been a state. As a child he loved to listen to stories his grandparents told, and he now incorporates those stories into his writing. He is currently working on his next novel. "Growing up, I loved to listen to stories my grandparents and great grandparents told. Though some of these stories seemed supernatural in nature, they were always told with the conviction of truth. Through their reflections of yesteryear, I learned that there is a lot more to life than what we can see and touch. There is an element of the unexplained, where the past is intertwined with the present and cannot be separated. In today's world, with so many technological distractions, the mysteries of life often go unnoticed. Through my writing, I seek to preserve a vanishing way of life, a time when people sat under the stars at night, shared their life experiences, and really got to know one another."
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John Bonner is tall, dark, handsome and incredibly rich, so why does he buy himself a bride, sight unseen? Eleanor Fiske is the uncomfortably shy daughter of one of the most socially prominent families in Newport, Rhode Island and New York. Her domineering mother plans to marry her off to a British peer before the summer is over. But her father, despite his wealth, found himself in need of a great deal of cash, quickly, and promised his daughter to John Bonner.

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If only Grandpa was around now to help Tyson Garnier out of this mess. The famous pro football player is suddenly saddled with a very public scandal—and an illegitimate child. Tyson needs a good nanny now if he’s going to salvage his career. And plain, no-nonsense Dakota Brown is the ideal candidate.

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Stephen R. Stober’s Edge-of-Your Seat Thriller That Will Have You Hooked Until The Very Last Page… JUMP – Now 40% Off Original Price For a Limited Time

JUMP

by Stephen R. Stober

4.5 stars – 45 Reviews
(reduced from $4.99 for limited time only)
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Jeremy Roberts is suddenly a stranger in his own body with no memory of his life. When he discovers he’s entangled in an unsolved tragedy, he must mount a high-stakes investigation to rescue someone he can’t remember.

Jeremy Roberts’ life is reset one morning in Boston’s Quincy Market when an inexplicable event leaves him a stranger in his own body. He quickly relearns his name and his place in the world, but can’t explain the heavy feeling of grief that pervades every moment of his day.

Hiding his complete lack of memory about his life, he sets to work finding the source of his emotional anguish. Uncovering files from his own computer, he learns that a terrible tragedy has befallen his family and its mystery remains unsolved.

Calling on a crack private investigator and a computer security expert, Jeremy delves deep into the case. After piecing together a startling theory, he plunges into a daring plan to rescue a woman he can’t remember… before it is too late.

Praise for JUMP:

Terrific story & original concept
“I loved the original premise of this book and the very exciting plot….Great first novel!…”

…pleasantly surprised by this book
“…I am not usually a fan of things science-fictiony-ish, but it didn’t take long before I was completely captured by this story…”

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KND eBook of The Day: Ernest Dempsey’s Sci-Fi/Fantasy The Dream Rider 2: Retribution – 100% Rave Reviews & Now 99 Cents!

The Dream Rider 2: Retribution

by Ernest Dempsey

5.0 stars – 4 Reviews
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Belief Can Change Everything

Something is very wrong. Just weeks after returning from his heroic triumph on the alien world of Sideros, Finn McClaren senses something is amiss. His proxy, Sam has disappeared, and communication with the alien queen, Nela, has been cut off. When he finds one of his professors murdered, he is thrown into a battle of life and death with a mysterious assassin.

Finn wakes up, and finds himself on the other side of the galaxy once more. This time, his friend Nate has accidentally come with him. The two find Sideros in a state of marshall law. The dead emperor’s right hand, Jari, escaped the rebellion and built an army of robots and men that overran the Siderians to reclaim the planet as his own.

The Siderians established a base of operations deep within a mountain, but time is running out. Jari’s forces have laid siege to the little resistance and soon, all hope will be lost, unless a hero comes to save them.

Finn’s journey leads him to the discovery of a powerful weapon known as the black orb. If he can fight his way through an ancient evil, and learn a deep truth about himself, the orb may just be the thing they need to win the war.

The Dream Rider 2 proves that sometimes, a sequel can be even better than a great original.

Reviews

“One of the most exciting science fiction/fantasy books I have ever read.” –Award Winning Writer/Editor Jason Whited

“…this book grabbed me from the start and I couldn’t put it down. There are several scenes where I was holding my breath to see what would happen next. And the main character showed kindness toward a land dragon that almost brought tears to my eyes. Likable characters and a great storyteller in Mr. Dempsey make this book one I would highly recommend.” –5 Star Amazon Review

Click Here to Visit Ernest Dempsey’s Amazon Author Page

And here, in the comfort of your own browser, is your free sample of The Dream Rider 2: Retribution by Ernest Dempsey:

Missy Marciassa’s Coming-of-Age Romance is Now on Sale! For a Limited Time, Buy Covert Assignment For Just 99 Cents! *Plus* Don’t Miss Today’s Kindle Daily Deals

But first, a word from … Today’s Sponsor

Covert Assignment

by Missy Marciassa

4.0 stars – 25 Reviews
On Sale! Kindle Countdown Deal
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
Here’s the set-up:

Covert Assignment is a New Adult, coming of age novel with a strong romantic element.

Elle is ready for graduation and full-fledged adulthood: no more living like the leftover of her parent’s divorce. She’s about to graduate with her degree in Information Science (the 21st century term for Library Science) and has a ten-year plan as well-designed as any model for analyzing metadata: earn her JD/MBA, enjoy a couple of years as a single professional, then marry her college sweetheart, Adam, and start her own family.

Yet Elle feels like she returned to an alternate universe her final semester. There are pictures of Adam with a classmate who must be surgically enhanced, but he insists he wants Elle. CIA recruiters show up on campus, and they aren’t just interested in recruiting Elle for future employment: turns out she’s already working for them since they’re funding her thesis. Hot operative Preston Raddick is tasked to work with her. Preston isn’t just hot: he’s hot for Elle, but is he offering happy ever after or happy for right now? A fling with Preston could be the beginning of a new life plan, which is exciting and scary, especially with espionage thrown in. Elle needs a predictive model to tell her which decisions have the greater likelihood for happiness…

Covert Assignment is about the unexpected turns life can take when making “adult” decisions.

5-Star Amazon Reviews

“This book was great! It had elements of romance, heartbreak, espionage and a woman who is learning to find herself. I thought it was an excellent blend of each of those things and flowed really well…”

“…I really enjoyed this! This was well written and had a nice pace. I tore through it in one sitting. I can’t wait to read the second book in the series. Well Done Missy!”

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