So what makes a hero? Bravery, tenacity, strength are all important qualities. But I think our men and women in uniform have another special something, and that’s the desire not only to serve their country but to make the lives of its citizens better. And every one of them accept that at any given moment, they might have to make the ultimate sacrifice. In fact, they do more than accept it. These heroes embrace that possibility. Each one is cut from a special type of cloth, and I am grateful this country has so many men and women willing to serve and protect.
Thank you.

From rookie cops to special cops, this collection celebrates all of those who Protect and Serve:

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J.M. Madden – Her Secret Wish

Rachel Searles, a former Marine Pilot, normally did the rescuing, so she’s a little off balance when Denver PD officer Dean West comes to her aid in a crash. He’s incredibly handsome, seductive and threatens all her natural defenses.

Dean West is intrigued by the warrior woman with pain in her eyes. As she adjusts to her new life, he wants to be a part of it. Will he be able to surmount her fears and convince her to take a chance with her heart?

Sharon Hamilton – True Navy Blue (Novella)

Zak Chambers grows up in the shadow of a home grown hero he’s always being compared to. But even heroes can be unlucky, and when the legendary SEAL sacrifices his life overseas, Zak is moved to follow in his footsteps.

His fast and furious fling in high school, Amy Dobson, is still the wild child daughter of the local Chief of Police, doing her best to excise her demons by partying with half the male population of their town.  She barges back into his life and Zak finds he is powerless to resist her. They explosively reconnect one last time before he ships off to the Navy.

But will it be enough to save her from terrorists and for a happily ever?

Amity Cross – Rebel (A Men of The Underground Novella)

Kane “Rebel” Sturgess is the newest fighter at The Underground, an illegal cage fighting racket that’s bad news…and big money. He’s set to make his fortune with the only thing he’s ever been good at. Fighting dirty.

He’s got no job, no family, no ties and this is his ticket to an easier life. Winning a Championship in this place could mean better and more honest things for a guy like him.

Enter Charlotte “Charlie” Croft, undercover detective with the Victoria Police, tasked with bringing an end to The Underground. She’s got her work cut out for her considering most of her fellow cops are taking bribes on the side from the ringleaders. The only chance she’s got is if she heads in undercover and immerses herself in the life. She needs to get close to her targets, collect evidence and pounce…all without being found out.

What she doesn’t expect is to fall for one of the fighters. A handsome, dangerous, bad boy with a rap sheet longer than War and Peace. A fighter who goes by the name Rebel.

There’s only one thing he’s interested in cracking, and it isn’t The Underground. It puts Charlie in an impossible position and she’s got to make a choice before she winds up in a body bag.

Her heart or her career. She can’t have both…or can she?

Stacy Green – Shots Fired – A Cage Foster/Delta Detectives novella

Cage Foster is finishing up a long shift as a criminal investigator for the Adams County, Mississippi’s Sheriff department. He’s eager to go home to his fiancé and new baby when a report of shots fired at a friend’s historical antebellum home changes everything.

When Cage arrives at Magnolia House, he discovers a victim on the front lawn and realizes his friends are still trapped inside. A domestic dispute between two guests has gone horribly wrong, and the hostage negotiation team won’t arrive before the situation explodes.

With time running out, Cage must sneak into the house through the long forgotten tunnel once used to shuttle slaves back and forth. Once inside, his only hope is a surprise attack, but the old house has tricks of its own.

Will Cage be able to save his friends, or will he become yet another victim of a furious husband hellbent on punishment?

Jamie Lee Scott – Uncertain Blue (an Uncertain Novella)

When he was just a kid, Dane Briggs spent his summers in Uncertain, at his uncle’s house on the lake. Now he’s back in Uncertain, as a rookie cop. During his first week on the force, he’s reunited with his childhood crush, Claire Hamilton. She’s one of the people arrested during a drug bust. Dane feels a sense of responsibility he can’t explain, and wants to save her. Can Dane save someone who isn’t ready to be saved?

Allie K. Adams – Brace for Contact

Leaving is easy…

As an agent in the State Bureau of Investigation’s Narcotics Unit, it’s Norman “Nash” Ashford’s job to track down the drugs destroying his city and get them off the street. He’s one of the best narc agents the SBI has. Even with his talent at tracking, he’s never been able to find the one that got away—the brightest star to have ever blinded him. Nash has been trying to track her down ever since she walked away half a decade ago.

TREX Cadet Michaela “Mike” Starr is pulled from training on a matter of national security. Her ex-boyfriend has intel vital to the success of a find and is refusing to deliver, so TREX sends her in to persuade him to divulge his source. The man she ran away from is now her target.

Coming back is a whole other story.

Nash and Mike must work together to overcome their past, all while trying not to make the same mistakes. Instead, they make all new ones. Will they get it right this time?

Hildie McQueen – Tea, Theft and Scones

Random thefts are rampant in Whisper, Georgia and Abbie Adams, the owner of Sweet Magnolia Tea shop decides to step in and help investigate.  After all with the Whisper Festival about to take place, the town doesn’t need this hanging over their collective heads.

It’s more complicated than she expects, as everyone seems to be hiding something.  From the new hunky veterinarian to the town’s mayor.

Just as Abbie gets closer to solving who the random thief is, she becomes the prime suspect.

Cheryl Bradshaw – Dead of Night

On the outside, the Bancrofts are an ordinary, squeaky-clean family. No frills. No scandals. When matriarch June Bancroft is fatally stabbed after a weekly Sunday dinner, all eyes are on her daughter-in-law Wren who was seen fleeing the house with the bloody knife. Is Wren really the killer, or is a dark, scandalous family secret to blame?

Carra Copeland – Lilah By Midnight 

Lilah Canfield has one last chance to save her career as a country music performer with a performance at Billy Bob’s Texas in Fort Worth. Bad thing is the worst snow storm in a century has hit the Texas Panhandle making passage on the highways dangerous at best and closed at worst. When her motor coach slides off the road into a snow bank outside her hometown of Mistletoe, Texas, will Lilah make her gig and save her career? Or will she give it all up for a second chance at love?

Two years after the death of his wife, Sheriff’s Deputy Jack McCommas is ready to move forward for himself and his eight year old daughter. When he and a friend stop to help the folks in a stranded motor coach, he can’t believe Lilah Canfield’s standing in front of him and is literally shocked to realize the old spark is still there when they touch. He uncovers a plot to sideline Lilah’s career and realizes he has a dilemma. If he solves the mystery and she chooses her music, will he be able to let her go a second time? Or will he try to convince her to stay in Mistletoe?

Jenna Bennett – Overcome

The last thing Carmen Fuentes wants, is another encounter with a rapist.

She couldn’t get away from Key West fast enough after the trial of Stan Laszlo. Attending the Miami Police College gave her time away from her hometown—away from the stares and whispers, from the pity and the people who thought she’d probably done something to bring it on herself. It also gave her a chance to get on her feet again, to find purpose to her life and some meaning in what happened to her.

But when she envisioned a future in which she helped catch other predators before they could hurt other women, she’d seen herself doing it from a safe distance, behind a desk at the Key West Precinct. Not dressing up in the kind of skimpy outfit she hasn’t worn since before the trial, and hitting the Miami nightspots trying to catch the attention of a serial rapist preying on young Hispanic women.

Yet that’s exactly what Detective Will Murphy offers. A chance to help catch a sexual predator, and to prove—to Will and herself—that when she took the oath to serve and protect, she wasn’t just mouthing words.

But can Carmen handle another encounter with a rapist? Can she trust Will to have her back? And can she put the past behind her and move toward the future, a future that might include Will?

Danielle Stewart – Running from Shadows 

As hard as he tries, Roark Miller can’t forget the cases he worked as a homicide detective in Detroit. The haunting images are blazed into his mind. When he crosses paths with a victim ten years later, the details of her beating and the murder of her boyfriend come crashing back to him. Now Demi’s life is in danger again and Roark must act fast to save her from a past she’s not willing to admit even exists. She can’t face the truth and he can’t stop hunting for answers, but their love might be the only thing to keep them both alive.

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SHOTS FIRED ( A Cage Foster/Delta Detectives novella)

A domestic dispute turns into a hostage situation. Can criminal investigator Cage Foster save the victim…or will he become a victim himself?

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ONE

Cage Foster glared at the coffee pot that had to be older than he was. The relic was one of the few things Cage wished had stayed at the Adams County Sheriff’s old location. He didn’t miss the historic building, with its bad insulation and pathetically slow Internet connection. The modern brick building provided more space for growing departments, more inmates , and better parking.

He’d love to know who’d made the executive decision to prolong the suffering of this groaning, slow-assed coffee pot.

“Patience is a virtue God forgot to bless you with,” his mother used to tell him. She’d laugh at his blustering and fretting, tell him to sit down and relax. He liked to think that being a cop in a small town had helped to teach him patience, and maybe it had, but he still loathed the coffee wait. The stupid machine rattled like it might explode. Black coffee trickled into the stained carafe.

Cage gnashed his teeth.

“Foster.” Marla Towne, the administrative assistant for the Adams County Sheriff’s Criminal Investigative Division, huffed into the room. Marla had recently started wearing contacts and couldn’t get used to them. Her eyes seemed to be stuck wide open. Combined with her thin face, she looked like a perpetually shocked bird.

Cage usually tried to avoid direct eye contact, but the sharp tone of her voice sent a wave of apprehension through him. His head jerked up, and his body felt cold. She’d gone pale. Fear clouded her eyes like cataracts.

“You said Dani and the baby were at Magnolia House today, right?”

His pulse stuttered, his fingers going slightly numb. “Yeah.”

“I just picked up a disturbance call from Roselea.” Marla’s normally confident voice wavered . “Some guy walking by Magnolia House said he thought shots were fired.”

Cage stilled, his energy draining. The coffee pot hissed again, a few more drops spewing into the glass carafe. He abandoned the coffee and rushed out of the break room. The expanse of the new building suddenly seemed like a gaping chasm as Cage raced back to his desk.

A mistake. It had to be.

He pictured his tiny, sleeping infant in Dani’s arms, as she’d been when he’d said goodbye to them early this morning. Emma had just turned six weeks old. After her premature birth, she’d only been home from the hospital for ten days.

Marla chased after him. “Maybe she and the baby already left.”

“Dani’s still really tired,” Cage said as he rounded the corner to the Criminal Investigative Division’s array of gray cubicles. “Spending months on bed rest slows down your metabolism and sucks away your energy. That’s why she’s actually taking the help Jaymee’s offered.” Thanks to preeclampsia complications, Dani was still adjusting to motherhood after spending much of her pregnancy on bed rest. She handled the transition better than Cage. He hated leaving Dani and Emma alone, no matter how many friends offered their support. He didn’t doubt Dani’s ability to handle everything on her own; he just felt better when she and the baby had company.

He’d finally reached his desk. Feeling his internal temperature skyrocketing, he grabbed his cell and called Dani. Every ring seemed to take forever, even as his mind tried to rationalize things.

Shots fired. That could mean any number of things, including a car backfiring. Nick had been tinkering with a 2001 Mustang he wanted to restore, and civilians often mistook an engine backfiring for gunshots.

Jaymee kept a Colt Defender in her nightstand. If the windows were open, the gun’s discharge could have been heard from the sidewalk that stretched past Magnolia House. But the girl he’d grown up with had been around guns since she could walk. She wouldn’t have fired it without good reason. Much less in the house. The sound couldn’t have been a gunshot.

“Hey,” Dani’s tired voice sent a rush of relief through him. “Are you leaving soon?”

“Not quite yet.” Cage sagged against his desk, relief pulsing through him. He gave Marla a thumbs-up, and she nodded, her hand over her heart.

Now he had to tell Dani why’d he called, and he didn’t want her to worry over nothing. And surely this was nothing. “Hang on.” He covered his speaker. “Marla, keep the channel clear and see if you can find out if the Roselea patrol officer checked in with the residents. I’ll call in when I get there.”

He grabbed his radio and keys to his county-issued car. “I just wondered if you and Emma had left Magnolia House yet.”

“Hours ago.” Disgust darkened Dani’s tone. “I wanted to spend the afternoon catching up with Jaymee, but they’ve got an obnoxious guest. Emma and I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

Fresh worry swept over him. Their closest friends had turned historic Magnolia House into a bed and breakfast. After a successful year, the two of them had planned to take Labor Day weekend off. “I thought everyone was supposed to leave this morning?”

“They were,” Dani said. “But this guy talked Nick into letting them stay another night. I thought Jaymee was going to kill him.”

Cage hurried out of the building, his boots loud on the pavement. He unlocked his car and pulled out of the lot with a squeal of his tires. Probably overreacting. Roselea P.D. would love this one. They didn’t care for the sheriff’s department butting into their cases–even when they needed the help.

But Cage needed to be sure. Then he could get home to his family. If he was really lucky, he’d swipe a piece of Jaymee’s strawberry pie before he left.

“So the guy caused a disturbance?”

“Yes,” Dani said. “ If he wasn’t in his room yelling at his wife, he was coming down demanding something from Jaymee. Fresh towels, toilet paper. Whatever he could think of. Emma couldn’t get her nap, so I finally left.”

“I don’t blame you.” Cage hoped the worry hadn’t leaked into his voice. “I’ve got a quick call to follow up on–I’m sure it’s nothing–and then I’ll be home. Kiss Emma for me.”

“I will,” Dani said. “Did you want me to make dinner?”

Cage barely caught his laughter. Her cooking hadn’t improved much since she moved from Yankee land. “That’s all right. I’ll bring something home. I know how tired you are.”

“Nice save, Foster. I’ll see you soon.”

Cage drove with one hand, punching first Jaymee’s and then Nick’s names on his call log. Neither of them answered their cell phones. He tossed his phone into the passenger seat.

All right, fine. They’re busy.

His attempt at rationalizing didn’t work. Worry spread through his system with the speed of an infected bug bite. His skin felt hot and stretched.

He drove well over the speed limit toward Roselea. His knuckles had gone white from his grip on the wheel. Twice he skidded into the gravel, kicking dust up behind him. He turned the radio up, listening to the chatter of the dispatch.

A 10-47 disturbance call came in; another deputy took it. A traffic accident in southwest Adams County. Neither call concerned Cage. He just wanted to keep dispatch open in case Marla came through. He needed to hear her say the Roselea officer had checked in, and Cage’s friends were fine.

The rock in his stomach and the knot between his shoulders refused to lessen. The familiar drive between the two towns moved at a slug-like pace, the palatial antebellum homes no more than a blip on his frequency. Clouds blocked most of the afternoon sun as it dipped into the western horizon. Against the hazy gray, the bright orange and deep red of the fall foliage seemed freakishly bright. Warning beacons.

Finally, the city limits of historic Roselea crept out from behind the towering live oak trees. A slow-moving rental car forced Cage to hit the brakes. He gritted his teeth and whipped into the passing lane.

His sprint didn’t last long. A dust-covered car with Louisiana plates loitered in the left lane.

“Move your ass,” Cage shouted. “Celebrate Labor Day in your own damned state. Stupid freaking tourists.” The last major holiday of the summer meant big money for local businesses. Roselea’s many antique shops relied on the weekend to help counter the seasonal slowdown, and the antebellum home tours enjoyed swollen crowds. The holiday also meant the local police were stretched too thin.

Cage finally zigzagged around the slow car, taking the curve coming into Roselea much too fast. He careened into the gravel, nearly taking out the sign advertising the Labor Day parade and celebratory barbeque in the Roselea City Park.

The sight of life going as usual did nothing to ease his nerves. He barely touched the brake as he turned the corner of Forrest Street. His breath snagged at the site of Magnolia House’s Corinthian columns peeking out from the more than twenty magnolia trees at the front of the property. Their summer blooms were long gone, making the trees look like sad sentinels.

He sped past the trees, hoping to see a parked Roselea patrol car and an officer standing on the front porch. Instead the house stood huge and silent, and the black iron fence that surrounded the main house suddenly seemed more appropriate for a prison yard. Wild rosebushes grew all around the fence, their climbing vines strangling the bars. The gates gaped open.

Had the Roselea police already come and gone? Or were they tied up with something else, assuming the call had been a crank?

Near the garage were both Jaymee’s and Nick’s vehicles, including the dilapidated Mustang and a small four-door car he assumed belonged to the weekend guests.

Cage parked the cruiser and yanked himself out of it. He listened, expecting to hear Mutt’s bark or Jaymee’s shout of hello. He heard only silence. Another jolt of nerves ran up Cage’s spine at the sight of the closed windows. The unseasonably cool weather meant Jaymee would have had the windows open.

The passerby probably wouldn’t have heard the shot from inside the house. It sat too far from the street. Cage wanted to feel relief, but the sudden cloying scent that wafted past him could have been a shot of adrenaline. He tasted the copper on his tongue. Instinct raised the fine hairs on the back of his sweating neck. His gaze shot to Jaymee’s bird feeders. Where were the little gluttons? Most days those feeders were full of songbirds fighting for seed and suet. Not a bird in sight. Not a single song coming from the trees.

The quiet made his stomach coil in anticipation. He strode toward the house but stopped at the sound of a desperate whine. He saw the source of the noise instantly, and everything in the world ground to a halt.

Mutt, Jaymee’s precious dog, lay on his side in a pool of his own wet blood.

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FOUR $0.99 books! Fill your e-reader for less than $4!

We've banded together to bring you four of our thrilling novels (because with the heat wave we've got going on, we all could use some chilling goosebumps to cool us down, right?). Read about each book below, and pick each up at your favorite ebook retailer for $0.99. Happy reading!

All Good Deeds (Lucy Kendall #1) by Stacy Green

Lucy Kendall doesn't believe she's a serial killer. She simply eradicates the worst of society and brings justice to the innocent–the children she failed to protect during her decade in Child Protective Services.

A missing child sets off a chain of events linked to a suspect in a life-changing case in Lucy's past. Her chosen path is terrifying–but the search for the kidnapped child pulls her into web of evil and malice beyond her darkest imagination. 

Get your copy: Amazon | Nook | iBooks | Kobo | Google Play

Blood Stained (Lucy Guardino FBI Thrillers Book 2) by CJ Lyons

Just your average Pittsburgh soccer mom, baking brownies and carrying a loaded forty-caliber Glock…

Until recently Supervisory Special Agent Lucy Guardino was a shining star in the FBI's roster. But after killing a man and disobeying orders, Lucy's been sidelined, chained to her desk. When a mysterious letter arrives hinting that, thanks to Lucy, the wrong man was blamed for a string of serial rapes, kidnappings, and killings four years ago, Lucy jumps at the chance to re-open the case—despite orders to leave well enough alone. What Lucy doesn't know is that what happened four years ago was all a lie, fueled by sacrifice and betrayal, designed to shield the real killer. 

With the lives of her family, a group of innocent children, and the future of one desperate boy at risk, Lucy races to stop an innocent from killing and a killer from butchering more innocents. 

Get your copy: Amazon | Nook | iBooks | Kobo 

Secret Justice: A Judge Willa Carson Mystery Novel
(The Hunt For Justice Series Book 3) by Diane Capri

Tampa’s free-spirited Judge Wilhelmina Carson returns in the third installment of this well-loved series. During Tampa’s annual Gasparilla Pirate Festival, murder chases Judge Willa’s beloved secretary into a world of corruption, bank fraud, and art theft while Willa’s dad, Jim Harper, suffers hell of his own making.

Just as Willa is recovering from the shock of meeting her father’s new trophy wife, her secretary Margaret Wheaton becomes mysteriously involved with a nefarious jeweler. When both Margaret’s husband and the jeweler end up dead, Margaret is the number one suspect. Judge Willa sets out to prove Margaret innocent and takes the reader on a ride through Tampa’s month-long pirate party, with twists and turns that keep you guessing until the very end: whodunnit?

Get your copy: Amazon | Nook | iBooks | Kobo | Google Play

I Have a Secret (Sloane Monroe Book 3) by Cheryl Bradshaw

No one knows the value of keeping a secret more than Doug Ward. But after washing the past twenty years down with a smooth glass of whisky, his steely resolve has started to crack. And he doesn't want to keep quiet. Not anymore.

When dried blood is found on the deck of the cruise ship where Doug was last seen, private investigator Sloane Monroe finesses her way into the surveillance room, sees Doug's bloody body heaved over the railing. 

How many more will die before Sloane uncovers the biggest secret of all?

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Call it dark justice, not murder. Because Lucy Kendall is not a serial killer. She simply takes out the trash and brings justice to the innocent.

2015 Independent Publisher Book Awards Bronze Medalist for Best Mystery/Thriller (Ebook)

Lucy Kendall doesn’t believe she’s a serial killer. She simply eradicates the worst of society and brings justice to the innocent–the children she failed to protect during her decade in Child Protective Services.

A missing child sets off a chain of events linked to a suspect in a life-changing case in Lucy’s past. Her chosen path is terrifying–but the search for the kidnapped child pulls her into web of evil and malice beyond her darkest imagination.

Lucy is jaded and desperate, but will her desperate race for justice prevent her from seeing the truth?

Packed with suspense, All Good Deeds is a dark psychological thriller with a finely crafted mystery that takes readers into the deepest recesses of the human psyche.

Who is Lucy Kendall? A former CPS worker turned private investigator and vigilante killer of pedophiles. She’s got a code and believes her actions are justified–a necessary evil. She’s not a serial killer. Yet.

ALL GOOD DEEDS (Lucy Kendall #1)

1

I’m not a killer. Or a savior. I’m just one person trying to repair the broken scales of justice one jagged crack at a time.

The crack I planned to eliminate tonight sat ten feet away eating nachos. His short, pink tongue darted out to slurp the gooey cheese off the chip before shoving the tortilla into his mouth. He smacked his lips when he ate. Licked his fingers and started over again, like a pig fighting for its mama’s teat. This coward wouldn’t be the dominant piglet. He’s the sort who would be shoved to the end of the hierarchy. The only way for him to feel powerful is to prey on the weak.

I flagged down my favorite waitress. Another drink was essential to the evening’s success. She grinned and started navigating her way between crowded tables.

Famous for its microbrews and restored tin ceiling with golden tiles that cast a warm glow over the entire restaurant, Chetter’s Bar and Grill was a hallmark of the historic Old Kensington area of Philadelphia. If I were in my twenties and still naïve, I’d probably love the place. But it’s too noisy, too full of people who can’t see what’s right in front of them.

A few tables to my left, a pair of middle-aged women tried to corral two hyper boys who were old enough to know that shaking salt on the wood floors was unacceptable. In between telling the boys to quit, the two women competed for shittiest day and sucked down strawberry margaritas. The bigger of the two boys had a red bouncy ball, one of those cheap things bought in any gas station. He took great delight in how the ball sprang back up from the hard floor. I waited for him to toss it at Chetter’s prized ceiling. Instead, he miscalculated his bounce and slammed the ball off his foot. It rolled three booths down and into the foot of the man positioned in the corner.

Nursing his beer, the man picked up the ball and examined it as if it were a rare gem.

One of the women–I could only assume it was the kid’s mother–snapped at the boy and ordered him to fetch the ball. Chin against his chest, he trod down the aisle and muttered something before sticking out a chubby hand.

The man, who looked like any other Joe Schmo off the street, smiled obligingly and gave the ball back. The middle-aged woman waved appreciatively and fluffed her hair. Brat boy shuffled back to his own table. Supposedly kids are more attuned to the things adults don’t want to see. Did the boy sense the evil he’d just encountered? Perhaps not, since the child was the wrong gender. He and his margarita-loving mother would go on about their lives, peacefully oblivious to what might have been.

The waitress finally reached my table. She wore stone washed denim shorts with carefully constructed rips in them–the kind I wore in my youth because we were too poor to buy new ones. She had the Betty Page vibe right down to her jet-black hair and the pin curl in her bangs. The men loved her too. Their eyes glazed over whenever she walked by, and I didn’t blame them. She never messed up a drink order, and her tables constantly smiled, even if the women who watched her strut away did so with wistful jealousy in their eyes. I liked her because she didn’t ask me how I was doing every four minutes. “What can I get you?”

“Martini, dry, please.”

“Your fingers cold?” She squinted at my hands.

“Circulation problems.” I flexed my fingers. Beneath the wool, the latex clung to my sweating hand. “Plus I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Gloves solve both issues.” Not to mention they were an essential part of my toolkit.

Tipping the glass made the liquid swirl beneath the bar lights. It sparkled. Dry. Two olives. Boisterous laughter came from several tables down. Twenty-somethings on a date, chowing down on potato skins chased with one of Chetter’s microbrews. I envied their youthful ignorance as much as I detested them for it. I wondered what they would do if they knew a monster was sitting just a few red booths down from them.

If they were like most people, the young couple wouldn’t believe it. Neither would the middle-aged women with the rowdy boys. A mistake, they would say. Wrong identity. Because surely that sort of person wouldn’t slither among them without their taking notice.

Living in the dark is a lot easier than facing the truth.

My gaze strayed back to the man in the corner–the man I’d come here for. Steve Simon sat alone. Facing the crowd, he casually tipped back his beer. Like me, his clothes were understated. He probably chose them as carefully as I did. For all I knew, he justified his behaviors. Perhaps he felt he was born this way, or that he was entitled. But I doubted he spent hours agonizing over his choices. That’s not how his mind was geared. There is no cure for the sickness he harbors.

A group of laughing young women strode into Chetter’s, and for a moment, I was painfully aware I was becoming invisible. At thirty-three, I’m nowhere near old, but the sight of them reminded me how quickly time races forward. Tan and toned, every one of them still had the glorious firmness of their early twenties instead of the creeping softness of the thirties. The women commanded the attention of all the straight men in the bar. Except for Steve. He never noticed the hot women.

Why would he? He has a fetish for adolescent females. The younger the better. Anything over the age of fourteen is too old for his particular kind of sick.

His file was burned into my brain. Molested his kid sister when he was fifteen, released at eighteen. A bid for possessing child pornography a year later, and then our well-oiled system sent him back to the streets. That’s when he got smart and started trolling online with the other cyber creeps. The Internet is the biggest double-edged sword in our technological history, but it’s not going anywhere. The sickos get sicker and more numerous. The Internet gives them a hidden playground, and privacy laws actually protect them.

Behind the group of beautiful women and waiting to be seated were a mother and her pre-teen daughter. Her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and clutching her daughter’s hand, the women had the slightly frazzled look I associated with motherhood. Working mom or stay-at-home-mom, the results were the same: never enough time in the day accompanied by random bouts of sheer exhaustion.

The little girl was probably around ten, all legs and impatience. Shifting from foot to foot, her gaze never strayed from the pink phone clutched in her hand. She’d already taken off her coat and given it to her mom. The girl’s almost too tight shirt revealed budding breasts and the smallest curve of the hips.

My Betty Page server greeted the mother and daughter and began to escort them to their table. The nerves I’d managed to contain for the past twenty minutes rippled through me. The bottle hidden deep in my bag felt as heavy as a brick. They were going to walk right by Steve.

I knew his trick. I’d seen him do it repeatedly over the past two weeks.

Just as the mother and daughter passed, Steve started to cough. He quickly shoved his head into his right elbow, discreetly twisting so that he could watch the girl pass by. He didn’t blink, didn’t move. Just watched until the girl sat down. Then Slimy Steve returned to his beer.

The first time I saw him do it, I almost attacked him.

But all good things come to those who wait. My computer specialist–who is the main reason my turn as a private investigator paid the bills–spent the last few weeks trolling online to make sure Steve was still molesting girls. That’s my number one rule. I won’t touch them unless they’re active. That probably made me a hypocrite since I believed sex offenders couldn’t be cured, but I figured I should have some sort of code in this operation. My girl found him in an online chat room recently soliciting a meeting with a twelve-year-old. Normally I took more time to act, but Steve’s living with a girlfriend who’s got a ten-year-old daughter, so he was escalated to Enemy Number One. His sentence came when I had a former colleague check the system at Child Protective Services and found out someone at the daughter’s school had reported her sudden behavioral change. The revolting drawings from art class depicting an older man and young girl in positions they should never be in is what did the trick. While my CPS friend started her investigation, I began my own.

Family members of a pedophile pray for change. The truth is, it won’t happen. The experts argue whether it’s brought on by nature or nurture. I really don’t care what they think. I know what I’ve seen in a decade of working at Child Protective Services, and as far as I was concerned, the only thing that mattered is this indisputable fact: pedophiles can’t be cured.

So I’ve come for Steve.

Steve finished his drink. I needed to get ready. I liked a good routine, so I quickly ran through my mental checklist. Fifteen years ago when I was a nervous yet hopeful college freshman, I attended a seminar about success. The professor resembled the Gandalf of my imagination, and much of what he said was lost on me because I’d been busy dreaming about my freshman formal and of hopefully losing my virginity. But three sentences caught my attention.

“See yourself creating goals. Think of what you need to do to achieve those goals. And then, imagine the reward of hitting those goals.”

I still lived by those words.

Time ticked by. I needed to act now, or I’d have to wait another night, and I was ready to be done with this filthy business. Every night like this drained a part of my spirit, and the recovery time got longer. But I believed in my decision. At this point in my life, nights like these were the only way I could make any kind of a difference in this world. I tipped my glass, making sure to drain it to the last drop. I stood and swayed just enough to look tipsy, like my night was just getting started. Making my way to the restroom, I made sure to keep my eyes hooded and my smile inviting. Several men smiled back. Steve ignored me.

The ladies’ room had two stalls and both were empty, but a woman wearing too much makeup stood at the counter freshening up her lipstick.

I slipped into the first stall and waited. If the woman even noticed me, she probably thought I was either sick or doing what every woman does in a public restroom: waiting until the place was empty so I could relieve my bowels in peace.

Heels clicked across the floor. The bathroom door swung shut. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands. I didn’t enjoy any of this process, but the next few minutes were the most dangerous. Since I’m not a livin’ on the edge kind of girl, sometimes it was all I could do not to pee my pants when I started.

I checked to make sure the latex gloves hidden beneath the thin cloth ones were still in place and then put on the sweater I’d wrapped around my waist. Making sure my wrists were covered and all the buttons on the sweater fastened except for the top one–I didn’t want to look like an uptight drunk–I pulled the clean martini glass and the black vial from my purse.

I carefully poured the contents of the vial into the glass and then put the empty container in a Ziploc bag and into my purse. My pulse beat at my temples, and the sweater felt hot. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline. I took a moment to collect my spinning thoughts. Steve sat two tables to the right of the restroom, against the wall. He’d been sitting hunched over his beer just like he does every other night. Almost recoiled, as if he were ready to run from a beating. Probably a habit picked up in prison.

Now was the time for the inevitable doubts. What if I miss my mark? What if the reaction starts before I’m out of here? What if I get caught this time? I simply couldn’t allow them to creep in. Too many children hurt, too many kids lost, my own sister, gone. Because of men like Steve.

I left the stall, took a deep breath, and sauntered out of the restroom. My gait was again tipsy, head down far enough not to make eye contact while still allowing me to see the room.

Steve’s table was empty.

Experience was the only thing that kept me from stopping in my tracks. Getting bumped into wouldn’t be good for my health.

Damnit. He always finished his beers, and he’d just ordered another. Why had he left?

I couldn’t stand there looking confused. A cough, a slight stumble to the left, and I quickly hurried to the bathroom. The place remained blessedly empty. I slowly poured the glass’s contents down the toilet, making sure the liquid only trickled and left no splash on the seat. Just in case, I wiped it off with a cleansing wipe. I ran the martini glass under the hot water and then stuck it back into the plastic zipper bag in my purse.

So much for wrapping up this case tonight.

The crowd seemed to have doubled in the last few minutes. Steve’s table was already taken. I chalked up my bitter defeat and headed for the door. The waitress would probably remember me after tonight, which meant I needed a new approach to Steve.

“Excuse me, miss.” The man now sitting at Steve’s table spoke to me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I sized him up. Nice clothes, the casually preppy type, with strong cheekbones matching his full lips. An attractive man looking for a bar hookup. “No, thanks. I’ve got to call it a night.”

He grinned, his smile listing somewhere between charming and arrogant. He stood to his full height–at least six feet, with broad shoulders and lean muscles beneath his long-sleeved shirt. Certainly easy on the eyes, and apparently not willing to take no for an answer. I was in no mood for a hookup, but my skin warmed with egocentric pride. It felt good to be noticed.

I moved toward the crowd, but he was faster, closing the small distance between us. Standing less than an inch away from him, I smelled the pleasant scent of his cologne and caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes.

“Please.” He stood close enough he didn’t have to shout. “I’d really love to talk to you about something.”

Anxiety licked at my veins. I plastered a sweet smile on my face and twisted to meet his eyes. They were really blue. And calculating. “About what?”

He leaned down until I thought he might try to kiss me. “About that cyanide you just got rid of.”

2

My mouth tasted like someone had stuffed cotton balls into my cheeks. I didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact with the man. My pulse slammed in my temples. He might be bluffing. Oh bullshit. He wouldn’t have randomly guessed something as obscure as cyanide. He knew.

He’d called me out in a way I couldn’t ignore. What else did he know? How much of a threat was he? I’d never killed an innocent person, never even considered it to be an option. But I wasn’t exactly ready to start thinking of decorating ideas for my cell on death row. Not yet.

“All right,” I said. “I’m pretty sure you’re delusional, but since you’re cute, I’ll have a drink with you.”

He pulled out a chair. I sat. I honestly never imagined this moment happening. Not under these circumstances. Arrested, hauled in for questioning, accidentally spilling the cyanide on myself–those thoughts crossed my mind every day. But never a random, good-looking stranger in a bar who may or may not be a cop flat out calling me on the act.

I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of greasy bar food and warm bodies. Anxiety rippled in my chest, but I buried it. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not a cop.” His face was still friendly, but his gaze keen. I’ve never seen eyes so blue–or so perceptive. I instantly disliked them. He gauged my every move, no doubt measuring my body language just as I was his. He was probably counting my pulse considering the vein in my neck throbbed big enough half the bar could see.

“Good for you. So what should I call you?”

“My name’s Chris, and you can call me an interested party.” The response bordered on arrogance. My temper flared. I didn’t like being backed into a corner. The absurd idea of flinging the poison on him and running like hell flashed through my mind until I remembered I’d just flushed the cyanide. I nearly laughed, but his raised eyebrow sucked any mirth right out of my spirit. I tried to play it cool. He already had enough of an upper hand. But how did he know? Had Conner, the chemist who provided the cyanide, said something? Had Kelly charmed the wrong online predator?

“What are you interested in?” Thankfully the drone of the bar noise hid the shakiness in my voice.

“You. It’s not often I find someone who’s like me.”

“Like you?”

“In the same line of work.”

I said nothing.

“I don’t like to use the popular name for it.” He leaned over the table, into my space. His eyes burned even brighter up close. In another scenario, I would have matched his body language, flirted a little. A woman should always seize the opportunity to get up close and personal with a face like his. Unless he’s a stalker with the power to send her to the lethal injection chamber. “You know, serial killer. The term is so … trendy. I like to call myself the garbage man. Just taking out the trash.”

Of all the presumptuous, stupid things to say. I wasn’t a serial killer, and I had no interest in aiding this man’s sick fantasies. “I don’t know who you are–”

“Name’s Chris Hale. I’m a paramedic and an Aries. I love Indian food. Italian, too. And Mexican. Pretty much all food. I’ve got a major sweet tooth. Never done drugs, I’m an only child. I’ll spare you the sob story. Anything else?” He smiled again, the lines around his eyes crinkling in a ruggedly attractive way that probably made plenty of women act foolish.

“Good for you. But you’re way off about me. I’d guess it’s delusion talking. And if you’re thinking this game will get me into bed, I’m sorry, but I don’t go home with guys I meet at the bar.”

He laughed, throaty and packed with self-assurance. “Please, life’s too short to dance around the truth. Let’s be real. You were going to play drunk, dump that demon on the guy, and walk out of the bar. He’s gone thirty minutes later. Not original, but very good methodology.”

The walls closed in like a trash compactor. I felt trapped like a rat. I gritted my teeth and volleyed back. “You might want to seek a psych evaluation. There’s a good free clinic not too far from here.”

“The Iceman.” Chris ignored the bait. “That’s your inspiration, right? The mob hit man who lost count at 200 murders. His method was easy and anonymous. He spilled the bad stuff, his mark got angry about it but didn’t do anything about the wet shirt or pants. The goods seeped through the mark’s skin and twenty to thirty minutes later, into the bloodstream, and the Iceman was long gone. It’s brilliant, really. Great choice, for cold weather anyway, considering the health hazards. I just hope you’re more than a hit man. Woman, excuse me.”

My chest tightened into an iron cast, and my jaw ached from the hard set. If this guy knew the routine, he no doubt had proof. “Seriously, have you ever thought about seeking professional help?”

He ignored me and kept rambling. “Like I said, I’m a paramedic. And I’m observant. I saw you at a scene a few months back. You were standing to the side, in the middle of the onlookers. But something on your face gave you away–to me, at least. Guess I’m good at spotting my own kind.” He rested his chin on his hand and gazed at me with obvious admiration. To anyone else, we probably looked like we were on a first date and still stuck in the awkward getting-to-know-you stage.

“I’m not your kind.” He was nothing like me. I was just sick and tired of seeing a broken justice system routinely fail children who’ve already been treated like disposable playthings. So I did everything I could to balance the creaking scales of justice–the same scales many people want to believe are designed to protect the vulnerable in society. But those scales don’t shield anyone, even our most innocent victims. Their function is to balance the lines of bureaucracy.

Sometimes I have to fill the void.

He probably picked his victims at random and took them somewhere to torture them before finally killing them. If he was actually a serial killer.

“Your marks aren’t good people,” he continued as though I hadn’t denied him. “I know because I’ve been tailing you for a while. And I watch the news, managed to put two and two together. Kiddie diddlers, which is another nice choice, by the way. Scum of the earth for sure. Me, I’m not that selective. Long as they’ve maimed or killed, I’m willing to get rid of the trash.” He smiled again, and I was alarmed at how genuine he seemed. And his good looks were becoming an annoyance. “I gotta ask, though. The cyanide, that’s tricky stuff. Not the easiest way to kill someone. Untraceable unless a medical examiner is looking for it, yeah. But aren’t you afraid of spilling it on yourself? Or is sudden death not an issue for you?”

My throat constricted, my scalp felt clammy and hot. I was terrified of death, and the irony that I’ve given myself the right to administer it without question hasn’t escaped me. Death was a finality I could only fully comprehend in the dark of my bedroom, when I was on the cusp of sleep. Like an electric shock, it hit me with the force of a thousand wits. It’s the end. There’s no blackness, no tunnel, no sinking into oblivion. It’s literally nothing. And it’s the nothingness, the utter finality of ceasing to exist that scared me to the point of sitting up in my bed, gasping for air and covering my ears as if somehow that would stop my brain from dredging up the horrific reality.

I couldn’t think about that right now. I focused on Chris’s smirking face.

“Why are you bothering me?” How did I miss this man following me? He was the kind who drew attention everywhere he went.

“I admire your work. Thought maybe we could talk shop.”

“There’s no shop to discuss.” And we don’t do the same kind of work. I did it because it needed to be done. I wasn’t a killer. Not in the real sense of the word. I filled a much needed void in the most efficient way possible. I had to believe that, especially now. Even if he did claim to understand the need to get rid of pedophiles, his brazenness was repulsive.

He shrugged. “I’m a sociopath.”

“Well, good for you, Chris Hale.” Apparently this was the sort of man I attracted now. I reached for my purse. “I truly hope we don’t meet again. Good looks don’t cover your brand of crazy.”

“Come on.” His grin was part hypnotic, part dangerous. “I’m not the only one who knows your secret. You’ve got help.”

Fresh panic set in. Did he know about Kelly and Conner? No way could he have found their identities just by following me. I had to draw a line in the bar dust right now. He wasn’t going to bring them down too. “Excuse me? Are there more people out there suffering from your delusion?”

His twisted smirk made it clear he enjoyed my seeping panic. “There’s no way you’re doing this on your own. Maybe you’re computer savvy, but I’d bet you have help getting the information. Not to mention the poison. You can’t just buy that stuff at the pharmacy. So you don’t work alone, and I do. But I’m willing to make an exception for you.” He finally took a sip of the club soda he’d been fondling. Dingy bar lights reflected off the sliding ice as he drank, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes always on me.

“I’m leaving now.”

He set the glass down. “Suit yourself. I think we could learn a lot from each other.”

“No offense, but I really don’t want to know any more about you,” I said. “I just want to pretend this never happened.”

Chris dug his wallet out of his pocket and tossed it across the table. “There. Look through it. Take my driver’s license information. Look me up.”

Now I was certain he needed the psychiatric evaluation. “Are you crazy? Besides, this could be fake.”

“Except it’s not. And you can easily confirm that.”

I stood up and slipped on my coat. My insides burned with panic, and my brain felt sluggish. I needed to get away from Chris, into the fresh air. Figure out what to do next.

Chris scribbled something down on his napkin and then slid it over to me. A phone number. I put it in my purse. I’d throw it out later.

He stood and stretched. His shirt hiked up enough for me to see the muscles of his abdomen. I looked away only to see the women at the next table trying to check him out without being noticeable. “It was nice meeting you, Lucy.”

“You know my name.”

“I’m observant. I’ll be looking forward to your phone call.” He flashed me one last annoyingly captivating smile and then disappeared into the crowd.

My phone call? I wasn’t about to get into any sort of partnership with some guy who crawled out of Chetter’s woodwork, even if he turned out to be exactly what he said he was. Especially if he turned out that way. With him out of sight, some of the tension in my muscles evaporated. I leaned against the wall trying not to throw up. Life has tossed me curveballs for as long as I could remember, and I was good at lobbing them out of the way with ease. Cops I could deal with. Angry family members, parents who feel they’ve failed their child because they didn’t realize the kid was being molested–those situations I could handle. I knew when to fight and when to walk away and save the battle for next time. When I finally accepted our justice system wasn’t black and white and decided to strike out on my own, I prepared myself for the inevitable day I was caught for my decisions.

But Chris Hale was an entirely different monster, and I had no idea what to do with him.

Read More of ALL GOOD DEEDS!

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Cold nights, Hot Heroes, and Eight Deadly Secrets…
Snuggle up to 8 riveting Romantic Suspense stories involving 8 Hot Heroes from all walks of life who will do anything to protect those they love.

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IMMINENT DANGER (Adrenaline Highs Series Book 5) – Bad Timing Can Cost Your Life.
“…Between the sweet and steamy romance and the heart-pounding (literally) suspense… It was such a thrill…”
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COUNTERMEASURE (Countermeasure Series Book 1) – They’ll Have To Trust Each Other In Order To Survive.
“Amidst the heartwarming and beautifully written love story was a very cleverly and intelligently constructed suspense and mystery.”
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OFF THE EDGE (Undercover Associates Series Book 2) – He’s A Spy Who Uses Language To Hunt Criminals. She’s A Poet With Deadly Enemies.
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OPERATION SHEBA (Super Agent Series Book 1) – He’ll Go Under The Deepest Cover Possible to Save Her Life.
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THE EVASION (Justifiable Cause Series Book 2) – The World Of Knock-Offs Isn’t As Frivolous As It Appears.
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TIN GOD (Delta Crossroads Series Book 1) – The Truth Can Be As Deadly As Any Weapon.
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MIAMI, MISTLETOE, and MURDER (Red Stone Security Series Book 4) – She’ll Fight To Protect Those She Cares About. He’ll Fight To Protect Her.
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FIRST TEMPTATION (Covert Affairs Series Book 2) – He’ll Have To Go Deep Undercover To Expose Her Darkest, Sexiest Desires.
“I love Joan Swan’s writing as even in a novella she manages to capture the heart of her characters.”

You asked for it, and now it’s here…or coming soon! After getting inspired from my experience at the Writer’s Police Academy in September, I realized Cage Foster had a lot more story to tell.

Delta Crossroads readers remember Cage Foster as the one who tamed the Damned Yankee and helped to solve one of the grisliest crimes in Adams County history. Now a newly minted Criminal Investigator for the Adams County Police, Cage’s life is once again turned upside down. His fiancé is expecting, Cage is terrified of being a bad father, and he’s determined to prove himself worthy of his new position.

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Living Victim (Delta Detectives #1) January 2015

When a hoarder is found dead in his bathtub, Cage Foster believes he’s dealing with a natural death. A perimeter search reveals a hidden horror, and clues point to the kidnapping of a local girl once presumed dead. Cage must find the living victim before it’s too late. Will he lose himself in the process? 

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1

I’m not a killer. Or a savior. I’m just one person trying to repair the broken scales of justice one jagged crack at a time.

The crack I planned to eliminate tonight sat ten feet away eating nachos. His short, pink tongue darted out to slurp the gooey cheese off the chip before shoving the tortilla into his mouth. He smacked his lips when he ate. Licked his fingers and started over again, like a pig fighting for its mama’s teat. This coward wouldn’t be the dominant piglet. He’s the sort who would be shoved to the end of the hierarchy. The only way for him to feel powerful is to prey on the weak.

I flagged down my favorite waitress. Another drink was essential to the evening’s success. She grinned and started navigating her way between crowded tables.

Famous for its microbrews and restored tin ceiling with golden tiles that cast a warm glow over the entire restaurant, Chetter’s Bar and Grill was a hallmark of the historic Old Kensington area of Philadelphia. If I were in my twenties and still naïve, I’d probably love the place. But it’s too noisy, too full of people who can’t see what’s right in front of them.

A few tables to my left, a pair of middle-aged women tried to corral two hyper boys who were old enough to know that shaking salt on the wood floors was unacceptable. In between telling the boys to quit, the two women competed for shittiest day and sucked down strawberry margaritas. The bigger of the two boys had a red bouncy ball, one of those cheap things bought in any gas station. He took great delight in how the ball sprang back up from the hard floor. I waited for him to toss it at Chetter’s prized ceiling. Instead, he miscalculated his bounce and slammed the ball off his foot. It rolled three booths down and into the foot of the man positioned in the corner.

Nursing his beer, the man picked up the ball and examined it as if it were a rare gem.

One of the women–I could only assume it was the kid’s mother–snapped at the boy and ordered him to fetch the ball. Chin against his chest, he trod down the aisle and muttered something before sticking out a chubby hand.

The man, who looked like any other Joe Schmo off the street, smiled obligingly and gave the ball back. The middle-aged woman waved appreciatively and fluffed her hair. Brat boy shuffled back to his own table. Supposedly kids are more attuned to the things adults don’t want to see. Did the boy sense the evil he’d just encountered? Perhaps not, since the child was the wrong gender. He and his margarita-loving mother would go on about their lives, peacefully oblivious to what might have been.

The waitress finally reached my table. She wore stone washed denim shorts with carefully constructed rips in them–the kind I wore in my youth because we were too poor to buy new ones. She had the Betty Page vibe right down to her jet-black hair and the pin curl in her bangs. The men loved her too. Their eyes glazed over whenever she walked by, and I didn’t blame them. She never messed up a drink order, and her tables constantly smiled, even if the women who watched her strut away did so with wistful jealousy in their eyes. I liked her because she didn’t ask me how I was doing every four minutes. “What can I get you?”

“Martini, dry, please.”

“Your fingers cold?” She squinted at my hands.

“Circulation problems.” I flexed my fingers. Beneath the wool, the latex clung to my sweating hand. “Plus I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Gloves solve both issues.” Not to mention they were an essential part of my toolkit.

Tipping the glass made the liquid swirl beneath the bar lights. It sparkled. Dry. Two olives. Boisterous laughter came from several tables down. Twenty-somethings on a date, chowing down on potato skins chased with one of Chetter’s microbrews. I envied their youthful ignorance as much as I detested them for it. I wondered what they would do if they knew a monster was sitting just a few red booths down from them.

If they were like most people, the young couple wouldn’t believe it. Neither would the middle-aged women with the rowdy boys. A mistake, they would say. Wrong identity. Because surely that sort of person wouldn’t slither among them without their taking notice.

Living in the dark is a lot easier than facing the truth.

My gaze strayed back to the man in the corner–the man I’d come here for. Steve Simon sat alone. Facing the crowd, he casually tipped back his beer. Like me, his clothes were understated. He probably chose them as carefully as I did. For all I knew, he justified his behaviors. Perhaps he felt he was born this way, or that he was entitled. But I doubted he spent hours agonizing over his choices. That’s not how his mind was geared. There is no cure for the sickness he harbors.

A group of laughing young women strode into Chetter’s, and for a moment, I was painfully aware I was becoming invisible. At thirty-three, I’m nowhere near old, but the sight of them reminded me how quickly time races forward. Tan and toned, every one of them still had the glorious firmness of their early twenties instead of the creeping softness of the thirties. The women commanded the attention of all the straight men in the bar. Except for Steve. He never noticed the hot women.

Why would he? He has a fetish for adolescent females. The younger the better. Anything over the age of fourteen is too old for his particular kind of sick.

His file was burned into my brain. Molested his kid sister when he was fifteen, released at eighteen. A bid for possessing child pornography a year later, and then our well-oiled system sent him back to the streets. That’s when he got smart and started trolling online with the other cyber creeps. The Internet is the biggest double-edged sword in our technological history, but it’s not going anywhere. The sickos get sicker and more numerous. The Internet gives them a hidden playground, and privacy laws actually protect them.

Behind the group of beautiful women and waiting to be seated were a mother and her pre-teen daughter. Her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and clutching her daughter’s hand, the women had the slightly frazzled look I associated with motherhood. Working mom or stay-at-home-mom, the results were the same: never enough time in the day accompanied by random bouts of sheer exhaustion.

The little girl was probably around ten, all legs and impatience. Shifting from foot to foot, her gaze never strayed from the pink phone clutched in her hand. She’d already taken off her coat and given it to her mom. The girl’s almost too tight shirt revealed budding breasts and the smallest curve of the hips.

My Betty Page server greeted the mother and daughter and began to escort them to their table. The nerves I’d managed to contain for the past twenty minutes rippled through me. The bottle hidden deep in my bag felt as heavy as a brick. They were going to walk right by Steve.

I knew his trick. I’d seen him do it repeatedly over the past two weeks.

Just as the mother and daughter passed, Steve started to cough. He quickly shoved his head into his right elbow, discreetly twisting so that he could watch the girl pass by. He didn’t blink, didn’t move. Just watched until the girl sat down. Then Slimy Steve returned to his beer.

The first time I saw him do it, I almost attacked him.

But all good things come to those who wait. My computer specialist–who is the main reason my turn as a private investigator paid the bills–spent the last few weeks trolling online to make sure Steve was still molesting girls. That’s my number one rule. I won’t touch them unless they’re active. That probably made me a hypocrite since I believed sex offenders couldn’t be cured, but I figured I should have some sort of code in this operation. My girl found him in an online chat room recently soliciting a meeting with a twelve-year-old. Normally I took more time to act, but Steve’s living with a girlfriend who’s got a ten-year-old daughter, so he was escalated to Enemy Number One. His sentence came when I had a former colleague check the system at Child Protective Services and found out someone at the daughter’s school had reported her sudden behavioral change. The revolting drawings from art class depicting an older man and young girl in positions they should never be in is what did the trick. While my CPS friend started her investigation, I began my own.

Family members of a pedophile pray for change. The truth is, it won’t happen. The experts argue whether it’s brought on by nature or nurture. I really don’t care what they think. I know what I’ve seen in a decade of working at Child Protective Services, and as far as I was concerned, the only thing that mattered is this indisputable fact: pedophiles can’t be cured.

So I’ve come for Steve.

Steve finished his drink. I needed to get ready. I liked a good routine, so I quickly ran through my mental checklist. Fifteen years ago when I was a nervous yet hopeful college freshman, I attended a seminar about success. The professor resembled the Gandalf of my imagination, and much of what he said was lost on me because I’d been busy dreaming about my freshman formal and of hopefully losing my virginity. But three sentences caught my attention.

“See yourself creating goals. Think of what you need to do to achieve those goals. And then, imagine the reward of hitting those goals.”

I still lived by those words.

Time ticked by. I needed to act now, or I’d have to wait another night, and I was ready to be done with this filthy business. Every night like this drained a part of my spirit, and the recovery time got longer. But I believed in my decision. At this point in my life, nights like these were the only way I could make any kind of a difference in this world. I tipped my glass, making sure to drain it to the last drop. I stood and swayed just enough to look tipsy, like my night was just getting started. Making my way to the restroom, I made sure to keep my eyes hooded and my smile inviting. Several men smiled back. Steve ignored me.

The ladies’ room had two stalls and both were empty, but a woman wearing too much makeup stood at the counter freshening up her lipstick.

I slipped into the first stall and waited. If the woman even noticed me, she probably thought I was either sick or doing what every woman does in a public restroom: waiting until the place was empty so I could relieve my bowels in peace.

Heels clicked across the floor. The bathroom door swung shut. I took a deep breath and steadied my hands. I didn’t enjoy any of this process, but the next few minutes were the most dangerous. Since I’m not a livin’ on the edge kind of girl, sometimes it was all I could do not to pee my pants when I started.

I checked to make sure the latex gloves hidden beneath the thin cloth ones were still in place and then put on the sweater I’d wrapped around my waist. Making sure my wrists were covered and all the buttons on the sweater fastened except for the top one–I didn’t want to look like an uptight drunk–I pulled the clean martini glass and the black vial from my purse.

I carefully poured the contents of the vial into the glass and then put the empty container in a Ziploc bag and into my purse. My pulse beat at my temples, and the sweater felt hot. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline. I took a moment to collect my spinning thoughts. Steve sat two tables to the right of the restroom, against the wall. He’d been sitting hunched over his beer just like he does every other night. Almost recoiled, as if he were ready to run from a beating. Probably a habit picked up in prison.

Now was the time for the inevitable doubts. What if I miss my mark? What if the reaction starts before I’m out of here? What if I get caught this time? I simply couldn’t allow them to creep in. Too many children hurt, too many kids lost, my own sister, gone. Because of men like Steve.

I left the stall, took a deep breath, and sauntered out of the restroom. My gait was again tipsy, head down far enough not to make eye contact while still allowing me to see the room.

Steve’s table was empty.

Experience was the only thing that kept me from stopping in my tracks. Getting bumped into wouldn’t be good for my health.

Damnit. He always finished his beers, and he’d just ordered another. Why had he left?

I couldn’t stand there looking confused. A cough, a slight stumble to the left, and I quickly hurried to the bathroom. The place remained blessedly empty. I slowly poured the glass’s contents down the toilet, making sure the liquid only trickled and left no splash on the seat. Just in case, I wiped it off with a cleansing wipe. I ran the martini glass under the hot water and then stuck it back into the plastic zipper bag in my purse.

So much for wrapping up this case tonight.

The crowd seemed to have doubled in the last few minutes. Steve’s table was already taken. I chalked up my bitter defeat and headed for the door. The waitress would probably remember me after tonight, which meant I needed a new approach to Steve.

“Excuse me, miss.” The man now sitting at Steve’s table spoke to me. “Can I buy you a drink?”

I sized him up. Nice clothes, the casually preppy type, with strong cheekbones matching his full lips. An attractive man looking for a bar hookup. “No, thanks. I’ve got to call it a night.”

He grinned, his smile listing somewhere between charming and arrogant. He stood to his full height–at least six feet, with broad shoulders and lean muscles beneath his long-sleeved shirt. Certainly easy on the eyes, and apparently not willing to take no for an answer. I was in no mood for a hookup, but my skin warmed with egocentric pride. It felt good to be noticed.

I moved toward the crowd, but he was faster, closing the small distance between us. Standing less than an inch away from him, I smelled the pleasant scent of his cologne and caught a glimpse of bright blue eyes.

“Please.” He stood close enough he didn’t have to shout. “I’d really love to talk to you about something.”

Anxiety licked at my veins. I plastered a sweet smile on my face and twisted to meet his eyes. They were really blue. And calculating. “About what?”

He leaned down until I thought he might try to kiss me. “About that cyanide you just got rid of.”

CLICK HERE for your copy!

And now on to the WINNER! Earlier this month I launched a contest to name the serial killer who will make his presence known to Lucy Kendall. I received many awesome suggestions, and the choice was very difficult, but I’ve chosen a winner.

It’s The Silver Stalker, suggested by Michelle Willms. She also presented some great background ideas for the killer, and I’m excited to talk with her about them.

The Silver Stalker will make his presence known later in the series, but it will be in a BIG WAY, so stay tuned. Congrats to Michelle, and thanks to everyone who submitted ideas!

PRAISE FOR ALL GOOD DEEDS

Unique Protagonist and a story that’s incredibly tense…

A must read book for intrigue, danger, suspense and mystery lovers…

WOW – this has quite a punch!

The class had a mix of new and experienced authors, published and unpublished.

DISCLAIMER #1: when I say published, I’m including indie published.

As I listened to the great presentations, I kept hearing the phrases “attracting an agent,” or “staying out of the slush pile.” Many of the talks referenced all the tiny little things that can make an agent or editor toss a manuscript aside. I could see the unpublished authors squirming and turning green.

As the day went on, I had one unrelenting thought: I’m so glad to be indie!

DISCLAIMER #2: Your publishing path is yours alone. Neither is an easy choice or a get rich quick opportunity, and both mean HARD WORK and rejection.

Let me clarify, being grateful to be Indie has nothing to do with confidence in my writing. In the last couple of months I have learned to believe in myself more than ever. I’m very proud of all my books, and I’m exceptionally happy with the latest thriller, ALL GOOD DEEDS, and the Lucy Kendall character.

I’m grateful I chose Indie because I don’t have to worry about an agent rejecting me because of personal preference, or because the marketing department doesn’t know if they could sell my book, or because I used two spaces at the end of a sentence instead of one (true story.) I get to bypass all that and focus on the story and the writing.

And while there are writing rules we all must follow (Grammar, anyone?! And the three-act structure), I don’t have to worry about pleasing the status quo or taking risks. I don’t know if an agent or editor or marketing department would have believed in Lucy Kendall. But that doesn’t matter, because I do.

DISCLAIMER #3: Indie Publishing isn’t for the faint of heart. I believe in investing in your business, and that means paying for good, EXPERIENCED editors and cover artists.

Now, a word on editing. It’s everything. I pay for developmental, copyediting, and proofing. And I will continue to do so because I learn so much about writing every time my editor tears apart my manuscript. To me, Indie publishing means subcontracting the editing, formatting, and cover art. That means I’m a business, and to be successful, you have to invest in the highest quality available.

But the best part of this journey is that I don’t have to worry about pleasing anyone but myself and the readers. I get to put them first, and that’s extremely liberating!

Writing isn’t about the royalty (although that’s a beautiful bonus), but about being able to stay true to the story in my head and my heart. I’m blessed to have editors who understand my vision but won’t hesitate to tell me when I’m derailing.

Just to be clear, this post isn’t about traditional vs. Indie. I hate that argument. Only you can decide what’s best for your career, and what will make you happy in the long run. The beauty is that we have so many more choices than we did five years ago. Despite all the extra headaches that come with being Indie published, I’m so grateful to have made that choice.

What about you? Do you love your chosen publishing path? Or are you still trying to decide which is right for you?