Word count: 90,000
Homicide detective Jack Easley copes with his sister’s death by working every case possible, to the detriment of his wife’s PTSD. But when his latest assignment brings him back to the neighborhood where she died, Jack becomes obsessed, spending more time at work and pushing his wife further into her illness. With the body count climbing the more he probes, however, all the evidence Jack can gather points to the very members of his family who insist her death was a cut-and-dried suicide.
Q1: In your MC's voice, what costumed character do you most relate to and why?
As a kid, Superman was my automatic choice every year, because that’s who I thought my dad was each time he came home unscathed with his mag still full and his gun untouched. After my sister died, the costume stayed in the closet and I hid under my bed while the trick-or-treaters left our doorstep empty-handed.
Q2: As an author, what makes your manuscript a tasty treat (unique/marketable)?
As the daughter of a veteran police officer, every facet of my life has been touched by my father’s work. This brings unique authenticity to my writing and allows the reader to share the insights of law enforcement families that can be difficult to imagine otherwise.
I leaned against the Plexiglas divider of our lane, watching Abby empty magazines with no fear.
She knew exactly how to turn me on.
The safety glasses kept slipping, the earmuffs dwarfing her head, but the confidence fit like a glove; by the time a spent mag hit the floor, she’d already clicked a new one in, racked and fired.
Here, she couldn’t falter, and I liked that, but being here also did for her what the meds couldn’t, and I liked that more.
My Glock therapy was promising.
All her shots center mass, I gave her a thumbs-up. She rolled her eyes, changing the targets and giving my shoulder a sympathetic pat before I took my place on the line.
I was halfway through the set when my phone vibrated against my hip. Holstering on instinct, I picked up as I shouldered my way through the door, my partner’s number on the screen. The brass bell went off behind me, then again as Abby followed.
“Nick,” I said, crossing the lot to my unmarked, pulling at my earplugs. “What’s up?”
“—one hot off the presses,” I heard. “Where are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, reaching for the door of the Crown Vic. “Where’s it at?”
“It’s twenty-six Hawkins, in the Silver Terrace development.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, Abby watching me over the hood as I put my phone away.
She squinted in the sun. “You’re leaving.”
Watching me fish the duty ammo from my pocket was more than enough confirmation.
Therapy was over.