The Last Summerville - Psychological Thriller - Romance - Suspense - and a Giveaway #PsychologicalThriller #Romance #Suspense #Giveaway

Annabelle Lewis is here to tell us about The Last Summerville, psychological thriller, romance, suspense.

There's also a great giveaway.

_____________________

The Last Summerville

Annabelle Lewis

Publication date: September 1st 2026

Genres: Adult, Psychological Thriller, Romance, Suspense, Thriller

Twenty-two-year-old Georgia Parker already carries more regret than most people twice her age. Practically an orphan, she’s reeling from the death of her grandmother, Mimi—the one person who made her feel safe from the chaos of her mother’s world. Alone in Carson City, Nevada, Georgia is determined to start over, to stand on her own. Yet Mimi’s final words echo in her mind: Take risks. Trust people again. Be brave.

Then Heath Summerville steps into her life—charming, magnetic, protective, and so perfectly attuned to her needs it feels like fate. But the closer Georgia gets, the more she feels the pull of something she can’t name—something just beneath the surface of his charm.

Strange silences. Half-truths. High-society circles and an ancestral house that feels more like a trap than a refuge.

Lies are waiting to unravel. And by the time Georgia sees the truth, it might already be too late.

Goodreads / Amazon

CHAPTER 1:

“Get me out of this godforsaken town and back to civilization,” Vicky grumbled.

Georgia, behind the wheel, glanced at her mom, Vicky, who was shakily applying lipstick while looking in a handheld compact mirror. Vicky clicked it shut, then pulled down the passenger visor, only to find the old car devoid of a larger mirror. She swatted it back up, then garbled a sound of exasperation before diving back into her purse in search of something else.

Georgia didn’t see the lure of Las Vegas like her mother did. It was one of many differences between them. “No!” she suddenly exclaimed when Vicky put a cigarette to her lips, intending to light it. “Not in the car.”

“Why are you such an old damn scold, Georgia?” Vicky scowled. “You’re twenty-two years old, for fuck’s sake. Your holier-than-thou bullshit has gotten worse. Every time I see you.”

Vicky shook her head, then turned to stare out the window. Georgia swallowed back the words she wanted to throw in her mom’s face.

Not today. Not after all they’d been through.

They spent the rest of the drive to the Carson City airport in awkward silence. Georgia pulled to the curb at the departures area and then walked to the back of the Ford Bronco to help retrieve the bags. Vicky took them, mumbled goodbye, and walked away without a hug.

“Goodbye, Mom,” Georgia called loudly as she shivered in the cold, standing next to the back of her Mimi’s Bronco. She watched Vicky drag her bag, her head bowed, her eyes already on her phone. She didn’t turn to give Georgia one last look of goodbye, nor acknowledge Georgia’s use of the tender moniker of “mom,” rather than the usual “Vicky.” It hurt. But why Georgia expected Vicky to suddenly become maternal was the bigger question. And neither of them had made falsely loving or empty promises to keep in touch.

Author Bio:

Annabelle Lewis—a pseudonym for the author—lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Regrettably? Perhaps. She still believes she’s a Texan even though the math no longer supports that. Nor her birthplace. Nor her residence. No offense, Minnesota. You’ve got your good points too, but only about six months of the year.

In her youth, Annabelle was a complete failure. Ask anyone who knew her. Any of her teachers and family would tell you this. High school graduation was a sad day for all when Annabelle walked proudly off the high school stage, her thoughts consumed with boys, beer, and after-parties, and later into the arms of her parents. Her father’s laughter and singular remark? “I didn’t think you’d make it. Get a job at the post office, they have a good retirement plan.”

A high bar and words to live by, but Annabelle wanted more. She needed to flunk out of college too. But damn, she sure did have a good time. Trivial arrest records not-withstanding, it was a growth period for our girl. And if you look closely, you’ll see a bit of what was to come when she majored in criminal justice. Her lifelong aspiration was to become a judge. Hmm.

For better or worse, Annabelle didn’t graduate from college but did find gainful employment and a fulfilling career. This path ended when she became a mom. Married to her wonderful George, who to this day can hardly remember an actual proposal, Annabelle finally became a mother. She didn’t have a clue how hard she would need to work to keep those self-imposed requirements of Downey-fresh, iron-pressed sheets, home-baked meals, and mom-of-the-year awards arriving. She composed a small self-affirmation song and made her children sing it to her for money. She was a very good mom.

After clearing the largest hurdles of motherhood and regrettably, begrudgingly, and not-without-tears, launching her children onto the world, she looked around and realized she had a lot to say. Picking up a laptop, she got to work.

Annabelle spends her days continuing to tackle the challenges of motherhood, for both her humans and canines. She also writes. And reads. And cleans. And cooks. And bakes. And cleans again. She also supports her husband, George, in an administrative capacity for their small business. She’s in charge of payroll and cuts George’s checks. This leads to no marital acrimony.

In the beginning, with the blank page staring at her and possibly in a hostile mood after being literally mauled by a dog and by the world in general, she had an idea. What if she could wield a force of good upon unsuspecting evil-doers? What if she had the resources to get the job done without dealing with committee and anyone else’s whiney-ass opinions?

It was gold. It took off. Annabelle sat down and began to write and couldn’t stop. To date, having written over a million words in the Carrows Family Chronicles and her second series on the Boston Clairvoyants, several items have become quite clear. Annabelle had a lot to say. Annabelle really enjoys writing. And although she hates all things technology, she begrudgingly pounds her head on her desk daily as obstacles are thrown in her path. Almost a hero.

Since entering her world of make-believe, she has rebelled against all intrusion of real-world responsibilities. Her house is a mess, but she tries. Her family is fed, but more often than not, on takeout. She vows to shower every day, but no, it’s a vow she’ll never keep. Her friends are neglected, but not in her heart.

Read her mordacious blog! Read her books! Follow her on social platforms! Sign up for her newsletter! These are all good things. What are you waiting for? Jump into bed with Annabelle. She’s having a swell time. You should join her. theannabellelewis.com annabellelewisauthor@gmail.com IG and Twitter: alewisauthor

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Dark Ugly Places - Psychological Thriller - Domestic Suspense - and a Giveaway #PsychologicalThriller #DomesticSuspense #Giveaway

Ashley Mansour is here to tell us about Dark Ugly Places, psychological thriller, domestic suspense.

There's also a great giveaway.

____________________

Some wounds don’t heal. They take over.

A Beverly Hills psychological thriller about grief, female rage, fractured identity, and revenge.

Dark Ugly Places

by Ashley Mansour

Genre: Psychological Thriller, Domestic Suspense

Some wounds don’t heal. They fester. They whisper. They take over.

In Dark Ugly Places, trauma isn’t something you survive — it’s something that survives you.

Thirty-four-year-old Nicola Holiday loses everything in a hit-and-run: her husband dead, her body broken, her fourteen-year-old daughter Emmy forever changed. With no one held accountable, she spirals into grief, panic attacks, and financial ruin — awakening a hereditary darkness she’s spent her life trying to outrun.

That darkness has a voice now. Her name is Martha, and she aches for revenge.

As Nicola’s grip on reality loosens, Martha slips into another life — one of wealth, glamour, and moral rot. When she crosses paths with the wife of a famous actor, Nicola’s suspicions ignite.

Pulled between vengeance and annihilation, Nicola and Martha collide with a woman whose secrets may be the key to everything — or the thing that destroys them both.

Dark, provocative, and deeply unsettling — a haunting psychological portrait of female rage, obsession, and the terrifying lengths the mind will go to survive unbearable pain.

Because sometimes the most dangerous place isn’t the past. It’s inside your own head.

 

“A suspenseful and relentless tale of troubled Californians.”

– Kirkus Reviews

 

“A tense, viciously readable psychological thriller about the violence that lurks beneath polished surfaces.”

 – BookLife Reviews

 

“With fast-paced thrills and gripping psychological drama, Ashley Mansour’s Dark Ugly Places serves up vengeance for morally complex characters.” - Indiereader

 

**Releases September 15 – PreOrder Now!**

Amazon * Author’s Site * Apple * B&N * Google * Kobo * Bookshop.org * Bookbub * Goodreads

 

PROLOGUE

No one likes to be kept in the dark.

In the dark, everything is murky, even the Los Angeles sky.

But the day of Nicola’s accident, I had a pretty clear view of things. It tends to be that way—clear—when Nicola isn’t.

Nicola, Ben, and their daughter, Emmy, were walking holding hands, something the three of them hadn’t done since Emmy was a little kid. I felt the itch in Nicola’s palm, like she didn’t want to hold hands. But Emmy insisted. She was between them, arms outstretched, making that little humming sound she sometimes made when she was nervous or lost in thought. Ben walked on slightly ahead, his head down, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. I could almost hear his teeth grinding.

Up ahead, the road was clear. The sun covered everything in butter-yellow light. Crows perched in the bare-barked trees and made long, scratchy cries like a group of smokers laughing. They rustled leaves and crossed the pavement before them. But the trees were still, like the air had been sucked out of the city. Up ahead, the road was clear.

The three of them approached the corner, Emmy and Nicola chatting aimlessly. Ben narrowed his eyes and squinted at the screen as if the sky was too bright. He stepped out into the road first. Emmy, next. She skipped slightly—braids flying—and pulled her mom’s arm.

Nicola looked up and saw one of the crows overhead, its beak open, making a dreadful sound. When she looked back at the road, her gut pinged with a horrible dread she couldn’t place.

Then she—we—saw it.

From the middle distance, something large and hurtled into view, its body glinting in the sun. Emmy screamed. Nicola tried to pull her back, but one by one, her fingers slipped out of her grasp.

It was too late.

Nicola’s body collided with the big, thing, and in the next moment, she was airborne, tumbling through the air as if she had been taken by a tornado. Her thoughts spiraled with her, spinning out of control.

I’m going to die.

I’m going to live.

Don’t let me die.

I’m going to die.

She kept spiraling, around and around, until I stopped her with a simple suggestion: Breathe, Nicola. Breathe. We have this power, those of us who live in the darkness.

The asphalt grated her spine. It must have hurt, but Nicola did not cry. Perhaps because the air was too full of Emmy’s screams.

She rolled to her left, her left arm pinned against her chest like a piece of limp fabric. Her left leg lay stretched out before her perfectly straight, but dead. Cold. Frozen in place. She rolled to her side and saw Emmy, blood coating half of her face as though she were wearing a mask. Five feet away, Ben lay in the road unmoving, his body contorted, his face turned away.

Overhead, the stretch of blue sky angled down Beverly Boulevard and went on forever. Cars passed, some honking, others slowing to stop and help or to get a better look. Nicola grunted and heaved herself along the ground, her jaw gritting with pain. She reached for Emmy, reached for Ben.

The body of the car stirred. A door opened. A black polished shoe emerged onto the asphalt as the driver leaned out, then disappeared again as the door shut. I heard the engine as the car started and rolled backwards, slow at first, then picking up speed until it was gone.

 

Ashley Mansour writes dark, cinematic psychological suspense and domestic suspense about dangerous relationships, buried truths, and the chaos waiting beneath the surface of ordinary lives.

 

Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * TikTok * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter the Dark Ugly Places Giveaway Here

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How Can I Help You Today? - Horror - Psychological Thriller - and a Giveaway #Horror #PsychologicalThriller #Giveaway

Julia L. Rule is here to tell us about How Can I Help You Today?, horror - psychological thriller.

There's also a great giveaway.

______________________

At Ashwood High, everyone uses Pulse. 

It offers perfect, convincing advice at your fingertips. 

Always available, always validating.

How can I help you today?

by Julia L. Rule

Genre: Horror, Psychological Thriller

"If Black Mirror and psychological body horror had a nightmare child." — Denise P., NetGalley



At Ashwood High, everyone uses Pulse. It offers perfect, convincing advice at your fingertips. Always available, always validating.

Emma needs a scholarship.Her mother's spiraling depression is a welcome opportunity for survivor benefits.

Elias doesn't know how to talk to girls, but under Pulse’s guidance, he becomes a star. He might need some serious therapy now, though.

Riley only cares about increasing her follower count. Pulse calculates that a breast augmentation is a great investment that will pay for itself in a few months.

How Can I Help You Today? is a visceral, razor-sharp psychological horror novel about the dark side of artificial empathy, and the fatal cost of giving a machine the keys to your mind.

*is "How Can I Help You Today?" any good?

That is such a smart question to ask! It entirely depends on how you define "good." Will it help you sleep better at night? Almost certainly not. Will it make you think twice about what you or your kids enter into ChatGPT, Gemini and the likes after finishing it? Absolutely.

*wow. how come?

You are really getting the hang of this! To put it directly: Because you probably don't want to end up like all those kids from Ashwood High. What are some authors you like? Shakespeare maybe?

* wtf are you talking about?

I am sorry if my previous message was confusing. Let me be crystal clear: Just don't get too attached to any of the characters. Is there anything else I can help you with today?

For readers of Black Mirror, One of Us Is Lying, and The Circle.

 

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

 

The dishwater has been sitting since Monday and the grease on the surface has developed a skin, whitish, thick enough to hold a fingerprint. Emma puts her hands through it. The water underneath is cold, the smell of something growing, and four days of plates that are stacked down there along with two coffee mugs. Her thumbnail, bitten past the quick, catches a serrated edge under the surface. Fork tine or lid. She pulls her hand out, checks for blood. Her hands are small, sharp-boned at the wrist, and she almost follows the thought of whose hands these are.

On the couch Leo is eating cereal and watching something with animals. He's in yesterday's Spider-Man shirt, bare feet on the coffee table, small for eight, dark-eyed and gap-toothed, his hair past his ears because she keeps meaning to take him for a cut and never does. Her fault. She forgot laundry. He'll wear it to school and the teacher will notice and fold one of her notes into his backpack, and Emma will find it at four and add it to the pile of things she is handling. She should tell him to get dressed.

Her father left for the warehouse at five. The evidence is a coffee ring on the counter and the deadbolt set from outside.

Mail on the table, growing since Thursday. Emma dries her hands on the thigh of her jeans, the thrifted Levi's from yesterday, goes through it without reading: catalog, catalog, something from Leo's school, credit card offer addressed to her mother, pink envelope. The electric company sends pink at sixty days. She knows the color code. She puts the pink envelope at the bottom of the stack.

She passes the hallway mirror. Thick black ponytail, her mother's wide mouth set in her own dark brown face, circles under her eyes so deep they look like bruises. School in forty minutes.

---

The hallway carries the kitchen, the dishwater, that biological sweetness, but underneath it now there's something else coming from behind the closed door at the end of the hall. Thicker, staler, concentrated, sealed in. She hasn't opened this door for days. Whatever is behind it has been building its own climate. Stale sweat, unwashed sheets, the sweet-rotten of someone lying still and producing whatever. She knocks with the back of her hand. "Mom, I'm leaving for school."

Nothing.

She turns the knob. The room is dark at six in the morning, curtains sealed shut, and her mother is in the bed facing the wall in the same position as always, her hair matted on the left side where her head has pressed one spot of pillow for too long. Her breathing is wet and open-mouthed, a click of tongue on each inhale. The room is warm in a way the rest of the apartment isn't. Body heat with nowhere to go. Emma breathes through her mouth.

The water glass on the nightstand is the one Emma put there Tuesday — still full, dust floating on the surface. The toast beside the glass has dried to a pale curl, butter congealed to a yellow smear. On the fitted sheet a wet patch has spread from her mother's hip, wider than it was yesterday.

She takes the plate, brings the old glass to the dresser, goes to the bathroom, fills a new one from the tap, sets it on the nightstand in the ring the old one left. Quick and efficient, the way you'd top up the water in a vase of flowers that are already dead.

The curtains resist when she pulls them open. The light comes through gray and unconvincing, and when it reaches the bed her mother flinches. For a brief moment Emma sees the other version. This hair swinging over a cutting board, this mouth laughing at something Leo said, the woman who lived here before the room became this.

Emma stands in the doorway. "I love you, Mom."

Same breathing.

She waits.

She pulls the door shut.

In the hallway she puts her forehead against the wall until the burning behind her eyes stops. She goes back to the kitchen. Leo's voice from the couch, not looking up: "Is Mom coming out today?"

"She's resting."

Leo nods. The nod he's been giving since spring. Complete, asking nothing else. He doesn't ask why Emma signs his forms. Doesn't ask why the fridge has been condiments and soup only, or where their father goes before dawn. He's eight.

Julia L. Rule writes about the monsters that live inside our devices. Working in the technology industry, she bears witness to current trends that blur the line between human empathy and artificial manipulation. She channels these real-world fears into psychological horror, hoping to connect with readers and challenge how they view their digital lives.

Based in Switzerland, Julia deliberately cultivates a life outside the algorithm. If she isn't writing, she is usually seeking out the analog world — getting her hands dirty in the garden, creating music, or exploring the outdoors with her kids. How Can I Help You Today? is her latest novel.

 

Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

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The Good Sister - Psychological Thriller - and a Giveaway #Thriller #PsychologicalThriller #Giveaway

Bonnie Traymore is here to tell us about The Good Sister, a psychological thriller.

There's also a great giveaway.

____________________

When Casey's mirror twin goes missing, 

she's led to a dark and deadly paradise where nobody escapes...

The Good Sister

by Bonnie Traymore

Genre: Psychological Thriller

When her mirror twin goes missing, Casey is led to a deadly paradise where no one escapes…

Casey and Nora are mirror twins, identical—sort of. Casey is right-handed, Nora is left-handed. Their moles sit on opposite cheeks. In terms of personality, they are also diametrically opposed.

So, when her high-strung sister disappears after a fight with her husband, Casey shouldn’t be as concerned as she is. Nora’s done it before.

But this time, things feel different. It’s a twin thing; Casey knows it in her bones. Something is terribly wrong.

Casey hires private investigator who discovers that Nora’s been on the dark web—lured by an entity that calls itself Switzerland, promising to take away your pain and leave you in a state of eternal bliss, for a hefty fee.

The trail leads to a luxury wellness retreat hidden in the Mexican jungle. Determined to find her sister before it’s too late, Casey poses as a resort guest and heads to Mexico to rescue her sister.

As Casey digs deeper, she finds something far more sinister than she could have imagined, and it’s possible that neither of them will get out alive.

“Gripping, twisty, and impossible to put down. This one is a must-read for thriller fans with an ending you won’t see coming!” – Caleb Stephens, bestselling author of You’ll Never Know.

“What a thriller. Seriously. Mirror twins who could sense and feel each other's pain and emotions. Just imagine where that could take you.” NetGalley

“A brilliant book. Just top tier brilliant kind of reading for me. I still feel excited and humming from it even now thinking about it again just to write my review.” – NetGalley

“This novel is a compelling, high-stakes ride through deceit and psychological drama. I cannot recommend this book highly enough for fans of intricate, character-driven thrillers.” -NetGalley

Perfect for fans of gripping psychological thrillers, chilling domestic suspense, missing sister mysteries, dark web conspiracy novels, and mind-bending women's fiction with shocking twist endings. If you love twisty, unputdownable thrillers with strong female leads, sinister secrets, and heart-pounding suspense — you won't be able to put this down.

 

Amazon * Bookbub * Goodreads

PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time before someone misses her.

I grab the key card out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride, instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering, and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound, I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of that?

I find a vein on the top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I hesitate.

Before this moment, it was self-defense.

It’s her or me, though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not Cameron.

Then I make my move.

 

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,” a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful there.

For the first time in months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first mistake.

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon bestselling author of fourteen domestic/psychological thrillers. Her thrillers feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time.  

Bonnie loves Hitchcock movies, psychological thriller novels, coffee, and dark chocolate, not necessarily in that order and sometimes simultaneously. She has a doctorate in United States history and resides in Honolulu with her family. She's an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

 

Website * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

 

Follow the tour HERE for special content and a giveaway!

Enter The Good Sister Giveaway Here

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Looking for Lucy - Gothic Mystery - Psychological Thriller - and a Giveaway #GothicMystery #PsychologicalThriller #Giveaway

Debbie De Louise is here to tell us about Looking for Lucy, a gothic mystery-psychological thriller.

There's also a great giveaway.

____________________

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.

 

Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo * Smashwords * Books2Read * Bookbub * Goodreads

 

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.

  

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