Mark Bearss is here to tell us about Cain's Chameleon, historical fiction, mystery-thriller.
There's also a great giveaway.
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Historical Fiction Mystery Thriller
Date Published: 01-26-2026
Publisher: Bearss Lair Books
If the newspaper reported your death and no one questioned it, would you
correct the mistake… or take the lifeline?
Dan Driscoll is consumed by gambling debt, cornered by bookies and loan
sharks, forced to bet on one last scheme. When things turn violent and two
people are shot, his best friend, Stan Neumann, swallows what he suspects. He
can’t risk divulging a closely-held family secret.
Then a body washes up on the Lake Michigan shoreline, and the lake gives Dan
what the bookies never would: a way out. Authorities call it an accident and
list him as the drowning victim. For Dan, it’s an escape route delivered
in black ink.
He becomes a ghost, an imposter, a chameleon. But lies don’t stay
buried.
As America is pulled into World War II, Stan enlists, choosing duty on his
terms before the draft can rewrite his life. In Pearl Harbor, one chance
encounter dredges up a name he thought was long buried.
War changes everything, but it doesn’t erase unfinished business. And
when the truth demands to be heard, how long can a stolen life stay buried
before the past comes to collect?
While author Mark Bearss was setting the stage for his retirement, concerned
co-workers would ask, “What are you going to do when you’re not
working?” He found this question rather curious. It should have been
posed, “What are you going to do first?” Mark knew that if travel
was involved, he had had enough of commercial flights after 28 years of
teaching for the medical device industry. Mark yearned for road trips –
to visit those places he only saw from 38,000 feet. Little did he know that
wish journeyed down an unexpected fork in the road. He would become an author.
While conducting genealogy research, Mark discovered archived de-classified
military documents that revealed the name of a U.S. Navy destroyer his father
served aboard during WWII. The reason this was a poignant discovery was
because, while growing up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, his father made no
mention of this. Apart from being a U.S. Naval Reserve flight instructor, he
knew his father served aboard the carrier USS ESSEX. But in what capacity?
That, too, was not revealed. More discoveries materialized the further he dug.
In fact, there was a lot more his father didn’t mention. This
wasn’t unusual. Many WWII veterans didn’t talk about what happened
back then.
Because of the pandemic, the National Archives in St. Louis was closed and
rendered Lt. Bearss’ military records unavailable. Thus began a project
that challenged Mark’s research endeavors for over two years and about
5,000 miles on the road. The biographical sketch was sorted from creative
Internet search strings, history books, navy publications, and networking with
journalists, librarians, archivists, bloggers, aviation enthusiasts, museum
and historical society curators, navy veterans, relatives, and more. One
online resource that was instrumental in tracking his father’s journey
was the weekly newspaper published in the county where his parents grew up:
The Oceana Herald. It included a Local News section where family members and
organizations could submit a short blurb about a relative’s visit, a
social gathering, or – where a son or husband was currently stationed.
This project culminated in 2022 with Mark’s first publication titled,
Undisclosed Stories Discovered: Honoring the World War II Military Journey of
Lt. Joseph Ward Bearss, USNR. When asked what was one of the highlights
surrounding this story, he described the road trips to seek out and discover
places where his father lived, trained and was stationed during the war. What
prompted him to write this as a biography took place during a meeting with the
curator of the World War II Home Front Museum on St. Simons Island, Georgia.
St. Simons Naval Air Station was the site for the U.S. Naval Radar Training
Station, where Lt. Bearss was trained in shipboard radar operations, enemy
interception, and Fighter Direction. While the museum had ample archived
materials about the facility, it had very little documented about the
servicemembers who trained there.
Only 250 copies were printed. Mark went back on the road in his Class-B
motorhome and personally donated those copies to family members, friends and
relatives, the librarians, archivists, researchers, museums, curators,
historical societies, newspapers, The American Heritage Center, VFW Posts,
airport FBOs, and other assorted WWII enthusiasts in 12 states who helped in
his endeavors. It was a two-fold reward. Not only did his father’s story
finally become told, Mark experienced the pleasure of meeting all these
wonderful people who were his resources, advisors, collaborators, and
consultants. Up until that point, they were only names in an email contact
list.
You’re probably asking, “How is all this relevant to Mark’s
new novel, Cain’s Chameleon?” It was the research from The Oceana
Herald that planted the seed for this story. While perusing its issues, Mark
stumbled on two articles that piqued his curiosity. The first reported an
attempted murder in a home close to his family’s summer cottage on Lake
Michigan. The second reported a drowning victim that washed up on the beach
right where Mark and his friends used to play. Just two more stories never
divulged while growing up. He wondered, Were these two events related? Then
Mark decided — he would make them related.
JJ Harrigan is here to tell us about Goodbye Demons, historical fiction - thriller.
There's also a great giveaway.
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Historical Fiction
Date Published: 04-24-2026
Publisher: Salty Books Publishing
When injuries put an end to the figure skating career of Angela
Fernandez Parnell, she joins the Peace Corps.
She is assigned to Tunis where she falls in love with U.S. diplomat James
Whitcomb. At the conclusion of their tours of duty, they marry. Within weeks
of the wedding, he is taken captive in the Iranian Hostage Crisis of 1979-81.
James, held hostage in the U.S. Embassy in Teheran, endures the same demons
that afflicted the real life hostages during the actual crisis 45 years ago.
Angie, biting her nails at home, endures her own demons. How can she support
him? Should she join efforts to force the president into negotiating a
release? Or even a rescue?
When the ordeal finally ends fourteen months later, the couple faces a new set
of demons. Rebuilding their life together as they each recuperate from their
own PTSDs.
About the Author
Historical thriller author JJ Harrigan is a former US Service Officer
and political science professor. He scribbles his tales of intrigue on the
banks of the St. Croix River in Minnesota, where he lives with his wife,
Sandy.
Dulce Dennison is here to tell us about Claimed Without Mercy, a gay enemies-to-lovers romance.
Read on for details...
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Gay Enemies to Lovers Romance
Date Published: April 24, 2026
Publisher: Changeling Press
Captive. Claimed. Protected by the devil himself.
I’m Tyson Hughes’ right hand. Collector. Enforcer. Executioner.
When a low-level idiot tries to clear his debt by offering up his own nephew,
I expect a clean transaction. A body to move. A message to send. Business.
I don’t expect Kellen. Bruised. Beautiful. Untouched by this world in
ways that make my jaw lock. He looks at me like I’m either the devil
come to claim him… or the only thing standing between him and worse.
Taking him wasn’t part of the plan. Delivering him to Tyson
would’ve been easier. Smarter. Safer. Instead, I claim him.
Now he’s living under my roof, breathing my air, learning the rules of a
world I don’t sugarcoat. I’m not a hero. I don’t rescue
people. I own what’s mine. I protect it. And I destroy anyone stupid
enough to threaten it. But the deeper I pull Kellen into my life—into
the violence, the loyalty, the blood that binds us—the harder it is to
tell where captivity ends… and desire begins.
When the debt comes due, I’ll have to choose. Tyson’s empire. Or
the young man I claimed without mercy—and refuse to let go.
WARNING: Intended for readers 18+. Dark MM mafia romance. Possessive
antihero. Captor/captive tension, dubious consent. High heat. Guaranteed HEA.
No cheating.
I watched the men work, arms folded across my chest. The dim lights of the
warehouse cast long shadows as they moved product from one crate to another,
their movements precise and mechanical. Nobody spoke much -- they knew better.
When I oversaw an operation, I expected efficiency, not conversation. The
tattoos on my forearms seemed to pulse in the half-light, a reminder to
everyone present of who I was and what I was capable of. The man who made
problems disappear.
“Faster,” I said, my voice echoing against the concrete walls.
“We need this shit loaded before sunrise.”
The men picked up their pace, sweat beading on their foreheads. This shipment
was worth seven figures -- premium grade heroin straight from our overseas
connections. The kind of product that kept Tyson’s empire running and
our pockets lined.
I paced between the rows of crates, watching each man’s hands, each
movement. Trust wasn’t something I gave easily, especially not to the
low-level soldiers Tyson assigned to these jobs. Most were competent enough,
but all it took was one fuck-up, one greedy asshole, and we’d have cops
swarming the place or, worse, a war with another organization.
Something caught my eye. A slight hesitation from one of the newer guys --
skinny fuck with a neck tattoo that screamed prison ink. He glanced over his
shoulder when he thought I wasn’t looking, then slipped his hand into
his jacket pocket just a little too casually.
I moved behind a stack of crates, circling around until I was positioned where
he couldn’t see me. Three years of working as Tyson’s enforcer had
taught me to spot a rat before they even knew they were one.
“Something interesting in your pocket, Alvarez?” I asked,
appearing beside him like a shadow.
He jumped, nearly dropping the bag he was holding. “No, Mr. Grant. Just
checking the time.”
“Really? Pull it out, then.”
His eyes darted to the exit, calculating the distance. I knew that look.
I’d seen it dozens of times before on the faces of men who thought they
could outsmart me.
“Now,” I said, not raising my voice. I never had to.
“It’s nothing, I swear --”
I grabbed his wrist, twisting until he gasped in pain, then reached into his
pocket myself. My fingers closed around a small plastic bag containing about
twenty grams of our product. The weight of it told me everything I needed to
know.
“Everyone stop,” I commanded, and the warehouse fell silent.
“Gather round. Seems we need to have a little lesson in loyalty.”
The men formed a circle, their faces grim. They knew what was coming.
They’d seen it before, or at least heard the stories.
I held up the bag. “Alvarez here thinks he deserves a bonus. Isn’t
that right?”
“Please, Mr. Grant, I wasn’t --”
My fist connected with his jaw before he could finish the sentence. He
stumbled backward but didn’t fall. Good. I wanted him conscious for what
came next.
“Tyson Hughes pays you well,” I said, addressing everyone now.
“He provides for your families. Keeps the cops off your backs. And in
return, he asks for one thing.” I grabbed Alvarez by the throat.
“Loyalty.”
I slammed him against a crate, my hand still tight around his neck. His eyes
bulged, face turning red, then purple.
“You know what happens to thieves in this organization?” I asked,
loosening my grip just enough for him to breathe.
He nodded frantically, gasping for air.
“Tell them,” I demanded, nodding toward the other men.
“They… they die,” he choked out.
I smiled. “Usually. But tonight, I’m feeling generous.”
Relief flooded his face for a brief moment before I slammed my knee into his
groin. As he doubled over, I caught him with an uppercut that sent him
sprawling across the concrete floor.
The men watched in silence as I approached Alvarez, who was now curled into a
ball, blood trickling from his split lip. I knelt beside him, keeping my voice
low enough that only he could hear.
“I’m going to let you live, but not out of mercy.” I pulled
a switchblade from my pocket and flicked it open. “You’re going to
be a message.”
What happened next filled the warehouse with screams that the thick walls
swallowed whole. The men watched, faces impassive but eyes wide with fear as I
made my point in blood. When I was done, Alvarez lay sobbing on the floor,
clutching what remained of his left hand.
“Get him patched up,” I told two of the men. “Then drop him
at the emergency room across town. Make sure he understands that if he says a
word about where he was or who did this, the next visit won’t be so
pleasant.”
They nodded and dragged Alvarez away, leaving a smear of crimson across the
floor. I turned to the remaining men, wiping my blade clean on a handkerchief.
“Finish loading the shipment. I want everything out of here in thirty
minutes.”
They scattered like cockroaches under a light, moving twice as fast as before.
The metallic smell of blood hung in the air, mixing with the dust and chemical
odors of the warehouse. I checked my watch. Almost 3 AM.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from Tyson:
Need you at the house. 9 AM sharp. Important matter to discuss.
I stared at the message, feeling a familiar mix of pride and anxiety. A direct
summons from Tyson usually meant one of two things: I’d fucked up, or he
had a special job that only I could handle. Given that I’d been running
operations smoothly for months, I was betting on the latter.
I supervised the rest of the loading in silence, watching as the men carefully
avoided the bloodstain on the floor. By 4:15 AM, the warehouse was empty
except for me and the lingering evidence of what happened to those who
betrayed Tyson Hughes.
I locked up and climbed into my black Audi, the leather seat cool against my
back. The night had turned cold, but I barely noticed. My mind was already on
the meeting with Tyson, wondering what assignment awaited me. Whatever it was,
I’d handle it. I always did. That’s why, despite everything, I was
still alive when so many others weren’t.
I pulled out of the warehouse district, leaving behind the night’s
violence and heading toward my apartment for a few hours of sleep before
meeting with the only man I’d ever truly respected. The only man
who’d ever given me a chance when everyone else saw nothing but gutter
trash. The man who’d made me what I was.
For Tyson Hughes, I’d do anything. And he knew it.
I pulled up to Tyson’s estate at 8:55 AM, early as always. The gates
opened automatically -- security knew my car. As I drove up the long, winding
driveway, I caught glimpses of the sprawling mansion through the trees. Tyson
had built all this from nothing, clawing his way up from the streets to become
the most powerful man in the city’s underworld. And he’d picked
me. Even after all these years, that fact still hit me in the chest sometimes,
a mixture of pride and the constant fear of disappointing him.
I parked next to Tyson’s collection of luxury cars and straightened my
tie in the rearview mirror. Despite only three hours of sleep, I looked
presentable. The dark circles under my eyes were practically permanent
fixtures anyway.
The front door opened before I could knock. Nick, Tyson’s longtime
second-in-command, greeted me with a curt nod.
“He’s in his study,” he said, stepping aside.
I walked through the marble-floored foyer, past priceless artwork and antiques
that Tyson collected not because he gave a shit about art, but because they
signified his rise from poverty. Everything in this house was a trophy, a
reminder of victories and conquered enemies.
The study door stood ajar. I knocked anyway.
“Come in, Ian,” Tyson called.
He sat behind a massive oak desk, silver hair immaculately styled, wearing
what I knew was a hand-tailored suit that probably cost more than most people
made in a month. At fifty-three, Tyson Hughes carried himself with the ease of
a man who knew his own power and had no need to flaunt it. When he killed, he
did it with a phone call, not his hands. Those days were behind him.
“Right on time,” he said, looking up from his computer and
removing his reading glasses. “How’d the shipment go last
night?”
“Clean and quick. One minor issue that’s been handled.”
I nodded. “Missing some fingers, but alive. I figured he’d be more
useful as a warning than a corpse.”
A smile touched the corners of Tyson’s mouth. “Smart. That’s
why I trust you with these things.” He gestured to the chair across from
him. “Sit. Drink?”
“It’s not even ten.”
“Since when has that ever stopped either of us?”
I smiled despite myself and took the seat. Tyson poured two glasses of scotch
from a crystal decanter, sliding one across the desk to me.
“You look like shit,” he said casually. “Not
sleeping?”
“Sleep’s overrated.”
“Not when I need you sharp.” He leaned back in his chair, studying
me with those penetrating gray eyes that saw everything. “You’ve
been pushing yourself too hard lately.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Your job is to follow orders and stay alive. Can’t do either if
you’re running on fumes.”
I took a sip of the scotch, letting the burn distract me from the fact that
Tyson was the only person on earth who could talk to me like this without
ending up in pieces.
“I’m fine,” I said. “What’s this important
matter you wanted to discuss?”
Tyson’s expression shifted, his eyes hardening. “Sean
Collins.”
The name hung in the air between us.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He owes us three hundred grand. Has for almost six months now.”
Tyson took a long swallow of his drink. “I’ve been patient. Sent
Nick to have a chat with him twice. Sent messages through mutual associates.
Nothing.”
“You want me to collect.”
“I want you to make an example of him.” Tyson’s voice
dropped, became colder. “Collins thinks because he’s got
connections with the Irish that he’s untouchable. He’s been
spreading word that I’ve gone soft in my old age.”
My jaw clenched. “That’s a mistake.”
“A fatal one.” Tyson stood up and walked to the window, looking
out over his manicured gardens. “Sean Collins is a particular kind of
vermin. Beats the girls who work for him, sometimes kills them if they try to
leave. Has a taste for the young ones too.”
“Want me to take care of him permanently?” I asked, already
knowing the answer.
Tyson turned, his expression softer now, almost paternal. “Not yet.
First, get my money. Make him understand who he’s dealing with.”
He returned to his desk and pulled out a file, sliding it across to me.
“Here’s everything you need to know. Addresses, hangouts, known
associates. His nephew lives with him -- kid named Kellen Lin. Collins had
custody since the boy’s mother died. He’s an adult now but
hasn’t moved out.”
I flipped through the file. Photos, financial records, property deeds. Tyson
was nothing if not thorough.
“The nephew -- he involved in Collins’ business?” I asked.
“Not as far as we know. Works at a coffee shop. Keeps to himself.”
Tyson refilled his glass. “Use your judgment there.”
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. Collateral damage was part of the
job.
“When?” I asked, closing the file.
“Yesterday would’ve been good. Today’s acceptable. By the
end of the week, non-negotiable.”
I nodded, downing the rest of my scotch in one swallow. “Consider it
done.”
“I always do when I give you an assignment.” Tyson smiled, the
kind of smile that had always made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
“That’s why I chose you, Ian. From the first day I pulled you out
of that shithole your father called a home, I knew you were different. You
understand loyalty.”
“You gave me a life,” I said simply. It wasn’t flattery. It
was fact. Before Tyson, I was nothing. A fifteen-year-old kid with a junkie
father and violence in my blood. Tyson had channeled that violence, given it
purpose and direction.
“And you’ve repaid that a thousand times over.” He walked
around the desk and put a hand on my shoulder. “Collins is just the
beginning. I’m getting older, Ian. Starting to think about the future of
this organization.”
My heart skipped a beat. We’d never discussed succession before, though
everyone in the hierarchy wondered who would take over when Tyson eventually
stepped aside. I’d always assumed it would be Nick, but at the same
time, Nick was also getting up there in years. Both men were close in age and
had worked side-by-side for as long as anyone could remember. But if I thought
about it, I was probably the next closest to Tyson, the most trusted after
Nick.
I left the study with the file tucked under my arm and a sense of purpose
burning in my chest. Tyson had called me “his boy.” It
wasn’t the first time, but it never failed to hit something deep inside
me -- that hungry, abandoned part that had never known a real father’s
approval.
For Tyson, I’d collect this debt and a thousand more. I’d tear
Sean Collins apart if necessary. Because when Tyson Hughes looked at me like
that -- with pride and expectation -- I felt like I was worth something. And
that feeling was more addictive than any drug I’d ever tried.
About the Author
Dulce Dennison is a pen name for gay and LGBTQA+ themed love stories from best
selling MC romance author Harley Wylde, AKA award-winning science
fiction/paranormal romance author Jessica Coulter Smith. From cowboys to
shapeshifters, Dulce/Harley/Jess believes in love in all shapes and sizes, and
that everyone deserves a happily-ever-after.
Publisher on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, and TikTok: @changelingpress
Save 15% off any order at ChangelingPress.com with code RABT15
Phoenix Ward is here to tell us about Sins of the Fire: Purgatorio, Sins of the Fire #2, fantasy, New Adult, Young Adult.
There's also a great giveaway.
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Sins of the Fire: Purgatorio
Phoenix Ward
(Sins of the Fire, #2)
Publication date: December 18th 2025
Genres: Fantasy, New Adult, Young Adult
The Church of New Haven extends its reach to those in need, however there are some lost souls that require more direct guidance, as their sins must be met with strong redirection. Thus, Jonah was created. Originally a man named M█████ ████, he contains over two-hundred thousand sinners. Until they reconcile with their offense to God, they are to fast and pray for their salvation for as long as it takes them to realize their folly, and call upon us.
The boy will be saved from the Dragon, even if he must waste away to understand their danger.
This morning was a reminder that not only was sleep important, but so was waking up before 10am.
Between the heads of bed hair, scruffy clothes and flip-flops, there were black suits, floral dresses and sweet smelling perfume clouding the entrance of the store. Conversations were held in front of the doorway, carts were being pushed around like they were going out of style, and somehow that wasn’t the thing that made us second guess our trip to getting our travel items here. No, that all paled in comparison to the white van-bus with the words “Destiny Baptist Church”, written in Times New Roman on the side.
It wasn’t the church we had a problem with— it was the fact that it was Destiny, a local mega church that made their way through the doors. The same Destiny that would play on my grandmother’s radio, from preaching almost twelve hours of gospel to choirs capable of going seven octaves without any pause for breath. For whatever reason, they were here. Maybe it was some food-based event, or some donation cause, or maybe someone felt the ‘Holy Spirit’ invade them to help out a few families with groceries— either way, it was crowded. Worse yet, the congregants brought their kids too. One wrong turn with a cart and we’d be anointed with oil and made to play the burning bush. Imani and I both shared wary gazed with one another as the chatting church folk mingled with folks that just wanted to get their groceries.
I was the first one to take the initiative, but Imani was quick to hold me back from going too far.
“Hang on, no plan?” She asked, “We’re just going to go in?”
I shrugged, scooting aside as a family of three slipped past us. “Yeah. We just gotta make it through the doors. We’ll probably just grab baskets and split. When we’re done, we’ll meet right by the self-checkout, next to the gift cards.”
Her eyebrows looked like they’d fly away. She released her gentle hold of my arm. “I guess I shoulda known you’d know how to handle yourself, considering the stuff you dealt with.”
“Is it weird to admit that the cult shenanigans actually wilder compared to this?”
Imani sped ahead of me, playfully pushing me out of the way. “Just pray you don’t get lost in here!”
“Ah, pray! Good one.”
The doors opened, our opportunity for a clear entry inside revealed itself. With clergy folk standing by the door, we said our ‘Good mornings’ and kept it moving. Basket procured, we both split up and went our separate ways. I immediately made a beeline to the deli. Three pre-packaged sandwiches were perfect carry-on for the long trip. From there, I shot for the snacks aisle. Chips, protein bars, and those salty peanut butter cracker packages were all loaded up in the basket with haste. I said my ‘hello’s, and my ‘excuse me’s to any passerby, some people greet me, others regard me with a nod.
I wanted to be away from the churchgoers. They didn’t take up the store, but they were too permeated— too mixed in.
Too indistinguishable.
I wanted to pretend that everything was back to normal. That after all of the conflict, the fears, the crying, the fighting, things were safe again. Two months of nothing should have been enough to convince me, but I knew better. Every aisle I walked down, there was a body dressed in black or white—formal clothing or just plain clothes. Without touching Mysherra, I couldn’t tell which was a Havenite and which wasn’t. Even outside of the store, regular people, clerks, judges, beggars, anyone could be a Remnant out to get me, or one to watch me.
I put my hand in my pocket and stood in front of the line of power-drinks. My fingers grazed over the surface of the pen.
The hairs on my neck stood up. Goosebumps bristled along my arms. Piercing spheres of heat sandwiched both sides of my sides.
I didn’t dare turn my head—Peripherals attuned to the presence of two white-robed Remnants on opposite sides of the aisle.
“Kane.”
“I know.”
Slowly, I inched my arm out of my pocket, pen wedged between my fingers. They wouldn’t be able to fight me, not with eyes watching them from the ceiling. They didn’t want their secret to be discovered just as I didn’t.
“Do not acknowledge their presence,” Mysherra spoke to me, “Walk with me down the aisle.”
My legs walked me sideways. I didn’t want my back turned to either one of these things. The power drinks transitioned to the flavored powders. Flavored powders to sparkling sodas. Neither one of the beings made a move.
“Once you get close, fire me.”
Senses were screaming at me to run or fight the closer I got to the remnant. My heart was thudding against my ribs.
“Just a little closer.”
Light conjured at the tip of the pen. The burning spread along my entire right side.
“Okay, the fires should be quiet enough to—”
“Excuse me.”
Someone bumped against my back, cutting off my focus. “Ah, sorry about th—”
All I did was turn my head. I had seconds, milliseconds, microseconds to process the burgeoning man unlatching his jaw in front of me. Ropes of saliva separated a hollow light at the back of his throat. Flesh, wet, and acrid already surrounded me, sounds of the outside muffled by the remnant’s mouth closing behind me. I must have fired four times— twice to the ribcage roof of the mouth and twice towards the light. Footing vanished, the dark closed in, and the door to the outside slammed shut behind stone teeth.
And I fell.
Author Bio:
Phoenix Ward is an indie black writer, and educator from Philadelphia. He has worked in the field of education for over five years, teaching all grades Mathematics and English. When he’s not writing, he is composing music using Logic Pro X, or tutoring children on subjects they struggle in. Currently, he lives in Philadelphia with his dog and cat.
An avid world-builder, Phoenix has created many stories from youth to adulthood, but none have captivated him as much as his latest work Sins of the Fire, which combines his passion for storytelling with his deep understanding of human nature. He draws inspiration from the vibrant city life of Philadelphia and his own experiences as an educator, infusing his narratives with authenticity and depth.
In addition to his work as a writer and educator, Phoenix is committed to supporting young creatives in their journeys. He actively encourages students and adults alike to seek a way to create their own stories. Everyone has a message to share, and doing so in story is the best way to do so.
Debbie De Louise is here to tell us about Looking for Lucy, a gothic mystery-psychological thriller.
There's also a great giveaway.
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A missing cousin,
A Mysterious Mansion,
Family Secrets,
and
a "ghost" cat.
Looking For Lucy
by Debbie De Louise
Genre: Gothic Mystery, Psychological Thriller
She was never meant
to be the brave one.
Despite their different personalities, cousins Mary and Lucy are closer than
sisters. Mary, a teacher in a small town, fears change and suffers from
claustrophobia. Lucy, a thrill-seeker, travels around the world in search of
adventure.
When Lucy goes missing, Mary, her mother, and aunt visit a Long Island mansion
called Hollingham Hall where Lucy had been employed as a tour guide before she
disappeared. There, Mary meets three men, one of whom may have been romantically
involved with Lucy – a charming historian, a volatile artist, and a friendly
landscaper.
As Mary searches for her cousin, she is drawn deeper into Hollingham’s
labyrinthine gardens and shadowed corridors where she discovers a chilling
connection between Lucy and a woman who vanished seventy years ago on the eve
of her wedding. She also learns of the “ghost cat” rumored to prowl the
property.
When strange events take place at Hollingham, the police are called to
investigate. But is Lucy alive and is her disappearance connected to the
missing bride or one of the men on the estate?
A mystery of illicit affairs, hidden passageways, and family secrets, Looking
for Lucy is the perfect read for fans of gothic novels, psychological
thrillers, and atmospheric suspense.
I held my cousin’s
letters from earlier this summer that I’d read over a dozen times.
We lost touch after graduation when she took off
to explore the world to volunteer in a variety of countries while I stayed home
and found a job as a teacher at the elementary school that we’d both attended
in our small town.
The last time I saw Lucy
she was wearing her Bardsley T-shirt and jean shorts. My aunt’s battered
suitcase stood at her side.
“I’ll send you lots of postcards,” she promised, but I’d never
received any. That’s why I was surprised when I got her first letter as school
was closing for the summer.
“Dear Mary, I hope you’re well. I’ve seen many things but have
missed you. While I was making a quick stop in the Hamptons, I visited a
beautiful place by the sea called Hollingham Hall. It was my luck that they
were looking for tour leaders. I feel like, after years of wandering, I’ve
finally found my place. The reason I haven’t called is that I lost my cell
phone in the Amazon River (OMG!) and am not replacing it. I’ll call you with
the phone number here soon.”
Lucy never called, but there were two more letters. The next
arrived ten days later.
“Dear Cousin, This is a dream job. I wish they had another opening
for you. So, here’s the thing, Mary, we once talked about my being an
independent woman the rest of my life without need of a man. Well, that’s
changed. In the short time I’ve been at Hollingham, I believe I’ve fallen for
someone. I don’t want to say too much in case I jinx it because the attraction
is new, and I’m not sure how he feels about me yet. I promise I’ll reveal
everything soon, and I can’t wait for you to meet my charming suitor.”
Lucy’s final and still eager letter arrived a week later.
“Me again, Dear Cousin. I had to write right away when I
discovered the most interesting thing by accident.”
“I’d ventured into a
part of the mansion that’s off limits to the public. I wasn’t snooping, but I
couldn’t help myself. There was a portrait in one of the closed rooms of a
young woman who looked so much like me that I thought someone had secretly
painted me. I was so curious I had to ask about it and risk losing this
incredible job. I wasn’t admonished for
going into the room. Instead, I was told me a history of the house that I
hadn’t yet heard. The woman in the painting disappeared at about our ages. They
never discovered what happened to her. I felt like I was caught in one of your
favorite mystery novels.”
“It won’t be long now,
dear cousin. I’m going to ask if you can stay here with me at the carriage
house when you visit.
After rereading her letters and trying to figure out what was
really going on behind her dramatic prose, I was shocked to get a live call
from Lucy around midnight, less than a week after receiving her last letter.
The phone woke me up. I answered in a groggy whisper, “Hello.”
At first, there was no reply, and I was about to hang up when I
heard Lucy’s whispered voice. “Mary, help me. Come quick. Please hurry.”
I was fully awake now. “Lucy, is that you? What’s wrong?”
There was a click and then a dial tone. “Lucy,” I said louder into
the phone, but she was gone. I didn’t realize at that point how gone she really
was.
Debbie De Louise is an award-winning author and a retired
reference librarian. She is a member of Sisters-in-Crime, International
Thriller Writers, the Cat Writers’ Association, and the South Carolina Writers
Association. She’s written over twenty books including three cozy mystery
series: the Cobble Cove Mysteries, Buttercup Bend Mysteries, and her new
series, Soup the Supernatural Kitten Mysteries. She’s also written a paranormal
romance, standalone mysteries, a time-travel novel, and a collection of cat poems.
Her stories and poetry appear in more than a dozen anthologies. Originally from
Long Island, she moved to South Carolina where she now lives with her husband,
daughter, and three cats. Learn more about Debbie and her books by visiting her
website at https://debbiedelouise.com.
Dean Sali is here to tell us about his memoir ;IGY6, Standing Together Through PTSD, a veteran's journey.
There's also a great giveaway.
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This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. Dean Sali will be awarding a $10 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.
;IGY6 is more than just a self-help guide, it is a beacon of hope for those in the military and beyond. Whether you are a soldier, a veteran, or someone who supports them, this book provides invaluable insights and practical advice that can make a real difference. Readers will find solace in the shared experiences and learn how to navigate the complexities of PTSD towards a better, more fulfilling life.
Read an Excerpt
I didn’t just hit rock bottom, I crashed into it.
Anger coiled in my chest with every step towards the gun cage. As I started to unload my service revolver, the world blurred, like I was watching a movie in slow motion, every sound muffled and distant. Time collapsed into a black tunnel.
Snap out of it, I told myself.
The next thing I knew, I had pressed the barrel under my chin, trigger at the reset. Just then, I heard someone whistling—light and unaware—behind a row of shelving. My breath froze. Instinct took over, and I eased my finger off the trigger, put the gun down. I quickly unloaded it and locked it away.
Holy fuck.
I was drenched in sweat, shaking so violently I could hardly breathe. It was the closest I’d come to using it. I stumbled into an empty office and picked up the phone. My voice was shaking, but the words were clear: “I need help. I’m having suicidal thoughts.” My union rep didn’t hesitate. He told me to call my doctor, to get therapy, to reach out if the thoughts got worse. I hung up and texted Suzanne: 911.
She called back before I could take another breath.
“Dean, are you safe?” she asked.
“No,” I whispered, voice cracking.
About the Author: Dean Sali is a resolute advocate for personal growth, resilience, and inner healing. With a background in the military and law enforcement, he has faced intense challenges that tested his strength, confidence, and sense of purpose. He served on a UN tour in Rwanda in 1994, an experience that deeply shaped his perspective on trauma, recovery, and the human spirit. His journey with PTSD has given him firsthand insight into the struggles of rebuilding from within, and he has spent years exploring methods of healing, including chi exercises, mindfulness, and reconnecting with nature.
Beyond his professional experiences, Dean is a devoted father of four, with a granddaughter on the way. His writing is deeply personal, offering practical guidance and heartfelt encouragement to those seeking clarity, confidence, and peace. Through his work, Dean hopes to inspire others to embrace their own healing journey and discover the strength they already carry inside.
