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!

i’ve decided to try a new theme on the blog. I’m calling it Confessions of a Thriller Author, and every Monday, I’ll be posting about some of the darker things that go through my own twisted mind.

Confessions of a Thriller Author #1

People often ask me about my love of true crime, thrillers, and all things dark. Those who are under the impression that I am a sweet mom from Iowa are amazed at the sinister things I prefer to read and write. In my bio, I mention watching crime shows with my parents growing up, and I know that’s probably what planted the seed. The theme song from Hill Street Blues is one of my earliest memories, after all. Along with Dallas, which is probably where I got my flair for the dramatic.

But it goes much deeper than that. If I had to do it over again (and I actually understood myself when I was in college) I would have majored in criminal psychology. I am always fascinated by the WHY of things, and it is frustrating for me not to get an explanation. On one hand, I cannot fathom killing another human being, much less torturing them. But on the other, I want to crawl inside the mind of the person who would do such a thing. Are they really just a coldblooded psychopath? Are they a combination of nature and nurture? Many times, law enforcement and psychologists don’t get these answers handed to them on a silver platter. There is no reason why. And I still I want to know more.

Consider the psychopath Ted Bundy. What sort of things went on in his mind when he was seeking his next victim? Was he excited for the kill, for the control, or for the depraved acts he would do to them? Or what about coldblooded killer Gary Ridgway, better known as The Green River Killer, who is believed to have killed over 100 women, all of whom were prostitutes. What would a day in his head be like? How could someone look at another human being and so coldly judge them, let alone dispose of them so callously as Ridgway?

For me, it is the unknown about the psychopathic killer that is the most interesting. And their ability to blend into the crowd, to become Average Man, that makes them so frightening.

From a law enforcement perspective, I’d love to be able to understand what the police and other departments go through in the search for these people. Watching the crime shows on Investigation Discovery is no more than a glimpse into the criminal world.  Without being in the moment with the police, FBI, criminal profilers and psychologists, we will never truly understand what’s it’s like to be in their shoes and follow these killer’s paths.

It’s this sort of dark interest that drove me to create Lucy Kendall and to explore the idea of her being a sociopath. If I can’t find my answers in real life, I seek them through fiction. In many ways, writing Lucy has been like interviewing my own serial killer. I find myself digging deeper, wanting to know more about the choices she makes and if she will ever realize who she truly is. The fun part is that I get to provide the answers.

And that is the long version of why I like to read and write about sociopaths and psychopaths (pick your term), serial killers, criminal minds, cops, and all around bad people. It’s the thirst for understanding and the need to unravel their minds. I’m thankful to have the opportunity to do so with my fictional characters.

What about you, crime fiction lovers? Do you enjoy reading and researching about criminals and serial killers because you need to understand? What drives your dark interest?

Come back next Monday for my next confession, and have a wonderful and SAFE holiday!

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?

She tore that sucker to shreds.

If I never hear the words “dialogue tags, woman,” again, it won’t be soon enough. And I know I will, because that is a tic I’m working on. Anyway, plot holes had spotlights pointed on them, and character development became a major issue.

Getting back into the heads of characters I hadn’t spoken to in three years was tough, and the editing grueling, but I am so proud of the finished product. Scenes were slashed and burned, new words were added. The bad guy’s motivation was strengthened, and that one little mistake Emilie makes at the end of the book that made her such a dumb female? Fixed.

More importantly, Emilie and Nathan’s relationship was developed much earlier on. I won’t give too much away, but I will say Nathan is inside the bank with her during the hostage siege.

Roughly 12,000 words were cut and about 10,000 new added. Everything about the book is better, and I’m very proud of the end result.

And while some readers may not want to read the new version (which I do understand) I am a much better writer after the hellish edits of this book. That alone is worth the effort.

If you are interested in checking out INTO THE DEVIL’S UNDERGROUND, you can find the buy links here.

And don’t miss the release party on Facebook on Thursday, May 14. We’re giving away a very cool limited edition prize!

My 10 Best (or Worst?) Search Terms

• How to kill with cyanid
• How does a body decompose in humidity
• How is a badly burned body identified
• Female Killers
• What poisons are traceable at autopsy
• Easiest way to dispose of a body
• Signs of a sociopath
• Modern day grave robbers
• Women who got away with murder
• Daryl Dixon coffee mug

Okay, so number 10 isn’t work related. But the one I got is pretty sweet. I’d prefer Norman Reedus’s face, but there’s the hubby to respect and all.

What about you? Would your computer history land you in the slammer? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever Googled?

Don’t forget, INTO THE DARK is being republished in May as INTO THE DEVIL’S UNDERGROUND. The book has undergone heavy editing, but if you can provide either proof of purchase or link to your review on Goodreads, I’m happy to give you a copy to read and review. Please contact me at stacygreenauthor@gmail.com. Deadline is May 5.

Tin God is still on sale for just .99! Start the Delta Crossroads Trilogy with a sale!

I’ve been given the rights back to my debut novel, INTO THE DARK, and I will be republishing the book in May with some major changes. Happy dancing!

Why the changes?

In short, the book needs a big tune up. It was the first novel I wrote, and while it was well received and had several five star reviews, I didn’t have the skills I do now. I understand the craft of writing and plotting so much better than I did three years ago, and I know I can make this book outstanding.

Even more important, however, is my new developmental editor, Annetta Ribken. With her help, we are gutting scenes, tuning up the plot, and adding new content. I’m in the middle of the first round of edits, and I will tell you that while the major plot points are likely to be the same, there are going to be significant character advancements and new scenes.

We’ve also got a new title, because we’re starting fresh and because Amazon loves new titles. So…drumroll…

INTO THE DEVIL’S UNDERGROUND.

The title harkens to the Las Vegas tunnels, which will play even more prominently in the new version.

Now, because my readers are my priority, and I don’t want anyone to feel like I’m doing the old bait and switch, I’ve got two different options for those who’ve read the original book.

1) A copy of proof of purchase at any vendor, including the previous publisher, earns a copy of Into the Devil’s Underground for review. Proof of purchase is the verification email sent by the vendor, or, if you prefer, a screencap of the book on your device.

2) Proof of a review at Goodreads. Into the Dark will be down at all vendors in the next couple of days, but I will leave the book up on Goodreads until the end of April. If you’ve left a review there, please email me the link (stacygreenauthor@gmail.com) and I will give you a copy of Into the Devil’s Underground for Review.

I only ask that reviews be placed on all vendors and Goodreads when the new book is out.

I am SO PROUD of the changes I’m making to this book. It’s going to be darker, more developed, and more exciting. The characters are going to be a lot deeper, and the plot is going to be more tension filled.

One major change? Nathan will be INSIDE the bank with Emilie during the siege. I’ve just written those scenes, and I can’t wait to share them!

I’ll be revealing the new cover in a few weeks along with a very fun launch, so stay tuned!

Thank you to all the readers, bloggers, and friends who helped TIN GOD become an Amazon and Barnes and Noble bestseller this past week. You guys are awesome! I am so lucky to have such supportive group of readers and friends.

The Last Child by John Hart.

I started this book several weeks ago when we were at a swim meet. It’s very good, but I got away from it and haven’t gone back. DON’T TAKE THAT AS A SIGN OF QUALITY. This is what I do. I am a mood reader, which is bad because I need to be reading all the time. The book has a great premise and excellent, fast paced writing with good character development. I just have to get back to it.

Fear Nothing by Lisa Gardner

Lisa Gardner is the suspense queen as far as I am concerned. I’ve learned so much from her writing, and once I start reading one of her books, I usually can’t stop until I’m finished. D.D. Warren is a great character, and this looks like an excellent story.

In The Blood by Lisa Unger

I heard of this one via the Mystery, Crime and Thriller Group on Goodreads. It looks like something that is right up my dark ally, and I hope to get to it soon.

The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris

Of course I’ve read this book, but it’s been a long time, and the newest Kindle version has a forward by Harris about creating Hannibal Lector. Likely a must read for any thriller writer!

Faithful Place by Tana French

I love French’s writing, and her Dublin detectives series, set in Ireland, is a fascinating study in characters. Her plots are twisty and suck you in from the start.

So what’s on your TBR list? How many books do you read a week?

Catie Rhodes suggested I try a Keurig. I didn’t think they had espresso K-Cups, but they do! I don’t know if they are as potent as a regular shot, but it’s definitely more caffeine than plain coffee. So the hubby and I did our research, and naturally he wanted the more expensive one.

So last night I came home with guy, and Rob and I both love it. It’s great for a coffee drinker like me who needs the boost in the morning and maybe a little later. And they have tons of different K-cups: apple cider, tea to the extreme, hot chocolate, and a bazillon kinds of coffee.

It’s so stinking easy! You fill up the water reservoir, let it heat, stick the k-cup in, and it quickly brews. And the coffee and tea we’ve tried so far is delicious! I’m currently drinking Cameron’s Velvet Espresso. Yum.

And I know I’m probably way late to the party and a lot of you are snickering at me, but for anyone who is debating if the cost is worth it, I’m here to tell you YES, it is. And Kohl’s has a sale right now. Just saying.

I’m counting on this baby to help me meet my writing goals this summer when I’ve got to work around the kiddo being home.

What about you guys? What kind of coffee do you drink? Or are you tea people?

Don’t forget about the 100 Review Giveaway!

Now, on to business. In the next week, I’ll be releasing a box set of the Delta Crossroads Trilogy. It’s an awesome collector’s item, and today I’m offering you the chance to win one before you can buy!

And YES, if you’ve already reviewed, you can enter. Just comment below with the Amazon permalink of your review so I’ll be sure to include you. Thanks to all of my awesome readers for reviewing and spreading the word about my books. XO!

If you’ve read Tin God or currently reading, I need your reviews! I’m just SIX reviews away from 100, which is a big milestone. So here’s the contest.

Read/Review Tin God on Amazon and comment back here with the permalink to your review! When the reviews reach 100, I’ll select a name from the comments and gift the box set.

Good luck, and happy reviewing!