There’s crime fiction, and then there’s crime fiction written by someone who actually knows what happens after the yellow tape goes up.

Former detective and forensic investigator Steve Rush brings real-world investigative experience to his writing, whether he’s teaching authors how to create believable murders or putting forensic expert Ridge Warner in the middle of one.

If you like your crime fiction grounded in the details or you’re a writer determined to get those details right, Steve Rush has you covered.

Strive for Uniqueness

Life in a place one person claimed got hotter after sunset than in the middle of the sunny afternoon will doubtless never become a best-place-to live city. That city is Atlanta, Georgia. My home. It is surrounded by places to enjoy outdoor activities, but best suited for writing in an air-conditioned room, begging for winters that avoid us most years.

Here are a few important bits I’ve learned about writing: Strive for uniqueness. Write for one reader. Write a character’s story told the way you talk to a friend.

Ideas for my stories stem from a growing up in a minister’s home and tenure investigating homicides and employment in a medical examiner’s office, which led to a forensic consulting job with national travel and investigations and plethora of ideas for novels.

The first literary agent I queried asked to read my work. I thought, “Okay, this is a good start.” He rejected it. Looking back. I understand why. Rejections are a major downer when they begin to fill file folders. I edited the story based on feedback and the recognition of this subjective business. I continued to write and read while I waited on a bright-future moment to shine on me.

I enjoy crime fiction and suspense/thriller novels. I enjoy writing in this genre for the challenge it offers in adding suspense, red herrings, and unexpected twists.

I am an organic writer. I outlined my first novel and changed much of what I had written in the process. I felt it best to let creativity take over. When I reach a sticking point, I ask, What if?

Craft alone is not enough. Readers know when include incorrect facts in our stories. Along with craft, we strive for authenticity, believability, and credibility to keep readers turning pages.

Accuracy reflects credibility and enhances belief. Facts paint images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. This is one reason I wrote Kill Your Characters, a nonfiction book published by Genius Books in 2022.

In crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers, tips offered in Kill Your Characters show readers how to kill, collect evidence, investigate deaths and put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor embraces appropriate facts and validates scenes. Like Jack Webb’s character Joe Friday in the TV series Dragnet, “All we want are the facts.”

I’m all-in for offering readers an impression of reality and adhere to self-imposed standards based on my experience in environmental and forensic pathology and medicine.

Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. The major difference is the writer’s personal perspective. A story’s foundation based on personal perception and response. Personal knowledge provides the foundation for writing what you know. The best part about the advice is, it works.

Life is full of encounters and experiences useful to every writer. A unique opportunity exists to write like no one else. No writer can tell a story from a perspective unique to other writers. The water and nutrients needed to make stories grow and thrive come from each writer’s viewpoint.

These are a writer’s assets. Uniqueness comes from personal aspirations and dreams, life experiences, life lessons, insights, nature and humanity, positive and negative emotional responses involving the five senses, pain and suffering, personal loss, love, sadness, happiness, grief, empathy, passions and interests, inspiration, loneliness, fears, desires, wants, disappointments and discoveries. Sensory details rate as one of the most powerful tools a writer uses for creating emotional depth.

I give life to characters and place them in true-to-life situations and watch their reactions and responses. I create a few based on a person’s unique name. Of course, I always ask permission and portray those characters as good people.

Two unique names, Ridge and Berky, became characters in my Ridge Warner thrillers, Blood Red Deceit and After Her Deceit, also published by Genius Books. I met Ridge in a Western store in Tennessee. Berky worked in a local jewelry store. More than surface characters, Ridge became the main character while Berky became Berky Raines, owner of Eagle Fire Lodge with a secret hidden from all except a select few.

When I write, I shut off my surroundings and become a spectator in my characters’ world. I get involved to the extent I have no clue what is going on around me.

Here are my responsibilities: Hook readers with the first sentence. Lure them with promise in the first paragraph. Embrace them through the first chapter and refuse to let go through every chapter thereafter until I write those important and satisfying words, “The end.”

A finished novel is only the first step toward success and I am honored to be a part of the Genius Books family.

Here are the opening lines from my upcoming novels.

“No room existed in my heart for mercy or forgiveness.” After Her Deceit, release date in September 2026.

“The note drew Detective Mike Canyon into a deviant’s game.” The Shocking Truth, release scheduled for late 2026.

“No one expected Wanda Norkum’s killer to investigate the scene of her murder.” Deadline 4:59, scheduled for release in 2027.

“A haunting specter clung to Nicholas Marek from the moment he heard the threat.” The Threat in His Shadow, scheduled for release in 2027.

“No one proved more adept at levying shame than Kellen’s father, Rodney Koufax.” Where the Pieces Fall, scheduled for release in 2028.

I want readers to experience my characters’ highs and lows the way I did while writing their stories and hope they approve of the way I fulfilled my promises. My objective is to transform readers into fans. I’ll do my best to live up to their expectations.

Steve Rush

Ready to step inside the crime scene?

🔎 Writers: Kill Your Characters: Crime Scene Tips for Writers gives you practical forensic knowledge for creating murders, evidence, investigations, and crime scenes that hold up under scrutiny.

🩸 Thriller readers: Start with Blood Red Deceit, where forensic expert Ridge Warner is pulled into a deadly investigation involving murder, secrets, shifting loyalties, and a truth that may cost him everything.

🎯 Then continue with After Her Deceit, where the danger becomes deeply personal and Ridge faces an adversary who knows exactly how to manipulate evidence, reality—and him.

Explore Steve Rush’s books from Genius Books and discover what happens when real forensic experience meets crime fiction.

For Dave Case, Once Upon a Crime in Minneapolis is one of them. Twenty years after celebrating the publication of his first novel there, Dave returned to the bookstore this August for another signing—this time with his latest crime thriller, Up North.

Here, Dave looks back on both visits, the people who made them memorable, and why sometimes selling books isn’t even the best part of a book signing.

THANK YOU, one and all!

August 22, 2026, was a glorious day in Minneapolis, Minnesota: beautiful, sunny and warm, mildly hot, but nothing like the scalding heat of weeks past. And I had a book signing at my favorite bookstore in Minneapolis, and arguably anywhere! Why do I say that you might ask?

In 2006, when my first novel, Out of Cabrini, was published by Five Star out of Waterville, ME, we sold a lot of books. Pat and Gary, the original owners of the store, were fabulous people. My mom, dad, sister, wife (now ex), and all my kids were there, though I doubt any of my offspring were old enough to remember. Ron Ryan Sr stopped by, which was very special for me. The book was dedicated to his son, Ronnie, my academy mate, who was killed in the line of duty on August 26, 1994. I still wear a commemorative bracelet bearing his name and end of watch.

And John Sandford (Camp) stopped by.

Perhaps the single most significant result of my good fortune of being published was being able to introduce my mom, one of Sandford’s biggest fans, to her favorite author. How many of us can brag about reducing their mother to the demeanor of a giggling teenager? I can! It was awesome.

Now, in 2026, Pat and Gary are no longer the owners, Devin Abraham is, but she was on a vacation this past weekend. Jesse Chandler, a talented writer in her own right, was working at the bookstore and was an incredible host. There were two other amazing authors joining me to sign books, Julie Holmes and Betty Brandt Passick. They were very gracious and the three of us had a lot of fun.

I must shout out a special thanks to Julianne Case and Marshae Harvey; both were very helpful. And Marshae made an extra-special effort to be there. She’s a police officer and she’d worked the street the night before in a south suburban PD of Chicago and then drove all night to Minneapolis to be on hand for my signing. A part-time model, she also lent me a hand by posing for the cover of Up North, my latest book, which was the featured novel of this signing. I’m sure her pretty face helped sell more than a few copies.

From all appearances everyone had as much fun as I did. I also got to see some people I hadn’t seen in a very long time. My Minnesota buddies Rick Peterson, Layne Lodmell, both cops, and Eric Thompson, a friend from high school, stopped by. Thanks, fellas. And Melvin Carter Jr., a fellow officer of the law (retired) and an author himself, stopped by and reminded me how he supervised my SPPD 1993 recruit class’ sparring matches. Thanks, Melvin. I still remember not to drop my left when throwing an overhand right and to keep my guard up.

I was able to sell a good number of books, but more importantly, I made some new friends, and you can never have too many of those.

I can guarantee you, if Devin will have me, I’ll return for another signing when my upcoming book, Take Down, is released in November 2026.

I hope to see you there!

Until then, take care and stay safe!

Dave

Discover More from Dave Case

From the streets of Chicago to the frozen north of Minnesota, and even the aftermath of the Civil War, Dave Case brings firsthand experience, authenticity, and an unflinching eye to stories of crime, justice, violence, and consequence.

Whether you’re discovering Dave’s work for the first time or have been reading him since Out of Cabrini, there’s more waiting for you.

Explore Dave Case’s books and find your next read.

Some writers have always seemed destined for a life behind a keyboard.

And then there’s J. Michael Major.

By day, Michael is a dentist in the suburbs of Chicago, where he has owned his practice for more than 35 years. Away from the office, however, his imagination tends to wander into considerably darker territory.

Michael is a member of the Horror Writers Association and Mystery Writers of America, and his fiction moves easily between crime, suspense, horror, satire, and the strange places where those genres overlap.

His family, he admits, has occasionally described his stories as a little weird.

Michael is perfectly okay with that.

From a Short Story to an Award-Winning Novel

Michael’s debut crime novel, One Man’s Castle, began with a question:

Is a man a serial killer if he only kills the burglars who break into his home?

And what if one of those burglars happens to be the man who murdered his wife?

The idea originally began as a short story, but the characters refused to leave Michael alone. Encouraged by fellow writers, he eventually expanded it into a novel.

The result was One Man’s Castle, a suspense thriller about grief, justice, revenge, and the complicated line between victim and criminal.

The novel went on to win the Lovey Readers’ Choice Award for Best First Novel.

It also earned some impressive praise.

Publishers Weekly called Michael a “genuine talent,” while New York Times bestselling author William Kent Krueger described the book as a “compassionate, complex, thoroughly compelling story of ordinary people trapped in extraordinary circumstances.”

And One Man’s Castle isn’t finished yet.

Genius Book Publishing plans to bring the novel back into print in 2027.

Welcome to the Gallery

Michael’s latest collection with Genius Book Publishing, Specters in the Gallery, gives readers an even broader look at just how far his imagination can travel.

The collection brings together 19 stories spanning horror, crime, satire, suspense, and speculative fiction.

A private investigator follows the trail of a murdered writer.

A struggling artist discovers that ambition can come with an unexpected price.

Ordinary people encounter situations that begin in familiar territory and gradually become something much stranger.

Some stories are unsettling. Some are darkly funny. Some venture into the surreal.

But beneath the horror and twists are very human questions about ambition, justice, regret, faith, revenge, and the choices people make when they are pushed far enough.

Gary K. Wolf, creator of Roger Rabbit, praised Michael’s ability to create compelling scenarios and then send them in directions readers never expect, calling the collection “fast-paced, fiendishly clever, dark, playful, and unsettling.”

That unpredictability is very much part of Michael’s storytelling style.

He has described himself as an outliner—even when writing short stories—but knowing where he is going doesn’t mean he wants the reader to know.

The Man Behind the Macabre

For someone who spends so much time imagining murder and horror, Michael’s life away from fiction is considerably less sinister.

After attending the University of Arizona, he graduated from Northwestern University Dental School, making him, as he puts it, a “double-Wildcat.”

Early in his career, Michael went on a blind date with a pharmacist named Eileen.

That one worked out rather well.

The two are approaching their 35th wedding anniversary and have two grown children, Derek and Colleen.

And although his family has been supportive of Michael’s macabre hobby over the years, they apparently haven’t stopped occasionally wondering exactly where some of these stories come from.

We think that might be a question best left unanswered.

What’s Next for J. Michael Major?

There’s plenty more to come.

Genius Book Publishing will reprint Michael’s award-winning One Man’s Castle in 2027, giving a new generation of readers the chance to discover Walter Buczyno and the question at the center of his story:

When the justice system has failed you, how far is too far?

In the meantime, readers who like their fiction clever, dark, unpredictable, and occasionally just a little weird can step inside Specters in the Gallery.

Just don’t expect everything in the gallery to stay where it belongs.

Discover Specters in the Gallery from J. Michael Major and Genius Book Publishing.

From paratrooper and police chief to award-winning storyteller

Some writers imagine danger. David Dean spent much of his life encountering it firsthand.

Before becoming an accomplished author of crime, suspense, supernatural fiction, and historical thrillers, David served as a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne Division and spent twenty-five years in law enforcement, rising from patrolman to Chief of Police. Those experiences gave him an intimate understanding of human nature, the consequences of split-second decisions, and the unsettling truth that danger often hides in seemingly ordinary places.

Yet David’s love of storytelling began long before he wore either uniform.

Growing up in a blue-collar neighborhood in Columbus, Georgia, he found an escape from the world around him through books. A third-grade teacher introduced his class to stories such as Black Beauty and The Secret Garden, planting the seed for a lifelong love of reading. He later devoured the works of Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Edgar Allan Poe, H.P. Lovecraft, Flannery O’Connor, and Graham Greene.

His path to publication, however, was anything but direct.

David left home at sixteen and spent the next decade pursuing acting in Atlanta, New York City, and Los Angeles. He appeared in regional theater, Off-Off Broadway productions, and a small number of television and film roles before realizing that acting was not where he belonged. Writing would eventually offer him something acting could not: the freedom to practice his craft without waiting for someone else’s permission.

The assignment that changed everything

David did not seriously begin writing until 1989, while attending a night class during his police career.

For his final assignment in an art appreciation course, he was required to create something of artistic merit. Following the familiar advice to “write what you know,” he wrote a short story about a police officer pursuing an increasingly violent burglar.

The story earned an A-minus. More importantly, his professor gave him a simple piece of advice:

Submit it to a publisher.

David did.

In 1990, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine published “The See-Through Man,” beginning a relationship that would continue for decades.

Since then, David’s short fiction has appeared regularly in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and in anthologies including The Best American Mystery Stories. His work has earned a Derringer Award and four Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine Readers Awards, while other stories have been finalists for the Shamus, Barry, and Edgar Awards. His story “The Duelist” was selected for The Best American Mystery Stories 2020.

Stories shaped by a remarkable life

It is easy to see how David’s varied experiences have found their way into his fiction.

His years in law enforcement lend realism and insight to his crime stories. His military service and time in West Germany provide a convincing foundation for Cold War intrigue. His early fascination with Poe, Bradbury, and Lovecraft can be felt in his darker tales of terror and the supernatural.

Across novels and short-story collections, David writes about people confronted by danger, misunderstanding, betrayal, violence, and the consequences of choices they cannot take back. His stories may begin in quiet neighborhoods, family homes, small towns, or familiar workplaces—but beneath those ordinary surfaces, something troubling is often waiting.

His work moves easily between police procedurals, psychological suspense, supernatural horror, historical thrillers, and tales of children who may be endangered, dangerous, or both. Whatever the setting, readers can expect carefully drawn characters, escalating tension, dark humor, and stories that rarely travel in the direction they first appear to be heading.

Finding a home with Genius Books

David’s relationship with Genius Book Publishing began with The Thirteenth Child.

After numerous submissions, he had decided to self-publish the novel and contacted Genius for editing and e-book preparation. Instead, publisher Steven Booth called and asked whether David would consider allowing Genius to publish it.

Fortunately for readers, he said yes.

That novel became the beginning of a growing body of work with Genius Books—one that now includes full-length novels and several themed collections drawn from David’s decades of acclaimed short fiction.

Explore David Dean’s books

David Dean’s titles available through Genius Books include:

• Tomorrow’s Dead and Other Stories of Crime and Suspense

• The Wisdom of Serpents and Other Stories of Tragic Misunderstandings

• Her Terrible Beauty and Other Tales of Terror and the Supernatural

• Shadow Lane and Other Tales of Dangerous Children

• The Thirteenth Child

• The Purple Robe

• The German Informant

Whether you prefer crime and suspense, Cold War espionage, supernatural terror, or short stories with a sharp and unexpected turn, David’s collection offers plenty of dark territory to explore.

Meet David Dean through the unforgettable characters, mysteries, and dangerous worlds he has created. Explore all of his available titles at Genius Books.

Explore David Dean’s Books

One of our talented authors, Dave Case, recently sat down for a podcast conversation about the experiences that inspired his writing—and how decades in law enforcement shaped the stories he tells today.

After spending more than 30 years as a police officer, Dave has a unique perspective on the line between reality and fiction. In this interview, he shares stories from his career, discusses the inspiration behind his novels, and talks about what it’s like to transform real-life experiences into compelling crime fiction. Dave retired from the Chicago Police Department after 31 years and continues to serve in law enforcement while writing acclaimed crime novels.

If you enjoy behind-the-scenes conversations with authors, true crime, police procedurals, or simply love hearing the stories behind the stories, this is well worth a listen.

🎧 Watch the interview here:
https://rumble.com/v7d2ges-dave-case-cop-author-when-real-life-becomes-fiction.html

Have you ever wondered how much of an author’s life finds its way into their fiction? Let us know in the comments!

If Dave's interview sparked your interest, don't stop there. Browse his complete collection and experience the stories inspired by a lifetime in law enforcement: Explore Dave Case's books

Stories of Survival, Second Chances, and Love in the Corridors of Power

Some writers discover storytelling early. Others carry the dream quietly for years, waiting for the right season of life to finally place their words on the page.

For Kimberly Croft, that dream began during her childhood in Geneva, Ohio. Her love of reading was sparked by the Nancy Drew mysteries and Laura Ingalls Wilder’s beloved stories. She began writing poetry at an early age, but somewhere beneath those first creative efforts was a larger ambition: Kimberly wanted to write a novel.

It was not until she left the workforce to raise her daughters that she began pursuing that dream seriously. Her two daughters became her greatest motivation to continue writing.

That support helped Kimberly transform a lifelong love of stories into novels filled with passion, danger, ambition, complicated relationships, and characters fighting to overcome the circumstances that once defined them.

Although her books move between small coastal towns, luxurious estates, courtrooms, and the politically charged world of Washington, D.C., the emotional heart of Kimberly’s work remains remarkably consistent. Her characters often begin their journeys carrying difficult histories. They may be surrounded by wealth, glamour, and power, but beneath the surface they are confronting abuse, addiction, family dysfunction, betrayal, or the painful consequences of choices made long ago.

Most importantly, they are searching for the courage to create a different future.

Today, we are introducing three of Kimberly Croft’s novels: Unbroken, Secrets on the Potomac, and Dear Prudence.

Unbroken

Scarlett has spent her life dreaming of escape.

Raised in the small fishing town of Cutler, Maine, she longs to leave behind poverty, a troubled home, and the dead-end job that has come to represent everything she fears her life may become. When Hugh Cruz enters the restaurant where she works, he appears to offer everything she has ever wanted.

He is handsome, sophisticated, enormously wealthy—and interested in her.

Scarlett is swept into a life she could barely have imagined: private planes, designer clothing, lavish homes, household staff, and a romance that seems almost too perfect to be real. For a young woman who has spent much of her life struggling simply to survive, Hugh’s world feels like the fairy tale she has been waiting for.

But fairy tales can conceal terrible truths.

The attention that once felt intoxicating slowly becomes control. The man who promised Scarlett a beautiful new life begins stripping away her freedom, confidence, and sense of self. What looked like rescue becomes another kind of prison—and Scarlett must decide whether she can reclaim the woman she was before it is too late.

Kimberly wrote Unbroken for women who may feel frightened, trapped, or convinced there is no way out. At its heart, this is not only a story about domestic abuse. It is a story about survival, courage, and a woman’s determination to take her life back.

Scarlett’s journey carries a message Kimberly wanted readers to remember: there is always a way out.

Read Unbroken

For readers who appreciate emotionally intense fiction about survival, resilience, and the difficult journey back to oneself, Unbroken offers a story that is painful, powerful, and ultimately rooted in hope.

Discover Scarlett’s story and follow her fight to become truly unbroken.

[Purchase Unbroken here.]

Secrets on the Potomac

Sebastian Reed has been preparing for the presidency for most of his life.

Born into a powerful political family, Sebastian has inherited not only wealth and influence but also the burden of expectation. His mother is a former governor. His late father served in the Senate and once pursued the White House himself. From childhood, Sebastian has been taught that public service—and political power—are his destiny.

Now, with his first presidential fundraiser underway, that destiny finally appears within reach.

Sebastian has the pedigree, confidence, ambition, and carefully managed public image required to become a serious contender. He also has Annalise Martinez, an accomplished attorney who seems like the ideal partner for a man seeking the highest office in the country.

But behind the polished campaign lies a family filled with secrets.

Sebastian’s younger brother, Garrison, has spent years struggling with addiction. Their mother has repeatedly protected him from the consequences of his behavior, while Sebastian has been left trying to contain the damage. And when Daria—a woman connected to both brothers and to Sebastian’s past—returns to Washington, carefully buried feelings begin rising to the surface.

As the campaign gathers momentum, Sebastian finds himself caught between the future he has always wanted and the past he has never fully escaped. Old love, divided loyalties, addiction, family expectations, and political calculation collide as every personal decision threatens to become a public scandal.

Secrets on the Potomac explores the world behind political ambition: the compromises, relationships, rivalries, and private vulnerabilities hidden beneath the speeches and carefully staged appearances. It is a story of power and passion—but also of the secrets people protect when the truth could cost them everything.

Read Secrets on the Potomac

For readers who enjoy political drama mixed with romance, family conflict, forbidden history, and the high stakes of a presidential campaign, Secrets on the Potomac opens the doors to a world where private desire and public ambition are never easily separated.

Step behind the campaign curtain and discover the secrets flowing through Washington.

[Purchase Secrets on the Potomac here.]

Dear Prudence

Prudence Romaine knows what it means to reinvent yourself.

Named after two Beatles songs by a mother whose life was consumed by addiction, Prudence grew up surrounded by instability and poverty. But she refuses to remain defined by her childhood. With the help of her grandmother, she builds a new life through education, determination, and hard work.

By the time readers meet her, Prudence has earned a degree in criminal justice, entered law school, secured a position at a prestigious Washington law firm, and successfully managed the campaign of Alex Conrad, Virginia’s charismatic new senator.

Alex is confident, commanding, and nearly impossible for Prudence to resist.

He is also older, involved with another woman, and no longer merely the man she admires from a distance. Their lives have intersected before, and the connection between them is filled with history, attraction, gratitude, and emotions neither can easily ignore.

On the night of Alex’s election victory, Prudence decides she is finished hiding how she feels. But a late-night accident changes the course of their relationship and pulls her deeper into Alex’s personal and political world.

As Alex’s ambitions grow, so do the pressures surrounding them. Love must compete with public scrutiny, career demands, old relationships, political opponents, family history, and the relentless expectations placed upon a man rising through Washington.

Yet Prudence is more than the woman standing beside an influential politician. She is intelligent, ambitious, funny, outspoken, and determined to build a meaningful career of her own. The frightened girl from the other side of the tracks has become a woman capable of navigating courtrooms, campaigns, and the complicated realities of loving someone whose life belongs partly to the public.

Dear Prudence combines romance and political drama with the story of a woman who has worked hard to leave her past behind—even as that past continues to influence the choices she makes.

Read Dear Prudence

For readers drawn to passionate romance, ambitious women, Washington politics, and characters determined to overcome troubled beginnings, Dear Prudence delivers love, humor, conflict, and plenty of political intrigue.

Meet Prudence Romaine and follow her from a painful childhood into the demanding world of love, law, and national politics.

[Purchase Dear Prudence here.]

Women Who Refuse to Remain Powerless

The settings of Kimberly Croft’s novels may be filled with wealth, prestige, designer clothing, political influence, and larger-than-life romance, but her stories are not simply about glamorous lives.

They are about what happens behind the appearance of perfection.

Scarlett discovers that wealth cannot protect her from cruelty. Daria and Sebastian confront the danger of allowing ambition and appearances to dictate their personal lives. Prudence must learn how to love someone powerful without surrendering the identity and future she fought so hard to build.

Each woman has known instability. Each has been shaped by circumstances she did not choose. And each must decide whether her past will determine who she becomes.

Through these stories, Kimberly writes about women who are vulnerable without being weak, wounded without being defeated, and capable of rebuilding their lives even after those lives have been shaken apart.

Her characters fall in love. They make mistakes. They chase dreams, ignore warnings, revisit old wounds, and sometimes lose themselves inside the lives they believe they are supposed to want.

But they also fight their way back.

Perhaps that is what connects Kimberly Croft’s novels most strongly: the belief that no matter where a person begins—or how far they have fallen—their story is not necessarily over.

Sometimes, the most important chapter begins when a woman finally decides to write the rest of her life for herself.

Discover More From Kimberly Croft

Whether you prefer an emotional story of survival, a romance unfolding amid presidential ambition, or a determined heroine finding her place in the worlds of law and politics, Kimberly Croft offers passionate stories filled with flawed characters, difficult choices, and hard-won second chances.

Explore all three novels and discover which journey speaks to you first.

Read Unbroken
A powerful story of abuse, survival, and reclaiming one’s life.
[Purchase Unbroken.]

Read Secrets on the Potomac
A provocative blend of presidential politics, family secrets, addiction, ambition, and forbidden love.
[Purchase Secrets on the Potomac.]

Read Dear Prudence
A passionate political romance about a woman determined to rise beyond the circumstances of her childhood.
[Purchase Dear Prudence.]

Order Chicago Justice today and dive into Dave Case’s fast-paced Macbeth thriller, a story of revenge, corruption, and one Chicago cop determined to bring a dangerous criminal back to justice.

I’m excited to share Dave Case’s new thriller, Up North.

This one follows DEA Agent Faith Nelson into a brutal Minnesota winter, where a missing girl, a cartel connection, and a dangerous case pull her farther and farther into the cold.

DEA Agent Faith Nelson is supposed to be going home for Christmas.

Her father is facing heart surgery in Oakland. Her mother needs her. And Faith needs distance from Minnesota, from the shooting that made her a reluctant hero, and from the nightmares that followed.

Then a cartel accountant stops cooperating with a federal grand jury when his college-age stepdaughter disappears.

Faith is sent north to Duluth in the teeth of a winter storm, paired with a partner she does not trust and trapped in a case that keeps turning darker. The missing girl may not have been taken at all. Her roommate knows more than she is saying. A Mexican cartel executioner has entered Minnesota. And when the trail leads beyond Duluth toward the frozen north shore of Lake Superior, Faith finds herself alone, injured, and running out of time.

Up North is a crime thriller about violence, survival, and the terrible cost of doing the right thing when the cold is closing in and no one is coming fast enough.

If you love tense crime thrillers, winter settings, strong female leads, cartel investigations, and stories that keep tightening the screws, this one belongs on your list.

Grab your copy of Up North today and follow Faith Nelson into the storm.

At Genius Book Publishing, we spend a lot of time introducing you to the authors behind the books we love. But this time, we’re turning the spotlight inward.

Meet Steven W. Booth: author, artist, publisher, entrepreneur, founder of Genius Book Publishing, and, in my entirely unbiased opinion, the best boss ever.

Many readers know Steven as the publisher behind Genius, the person helping bring bold, unusual, thought-provoking, and sometimes deliciously dark books into the world. But before Genius became what it is today, Steven was already a writer with stories of his own to tell.

And one of those stories helped start it all.

The Hungry Series

Co-authored with Harry Shannon, The Hungry introduces readers to Sheriff Penny Miller, a tough, sharp, and heavily armed law officer facing an outbreak of the undead in the small town of Flat Rock, Nevada.

When a mutated virus unleashes zombies on the town, Penny has to lead a very unlikely group to safety, including her ex-husband, a dangerous biker named Scratch, and a not-exactly-perfect unit of National Guardsmen. With murderous bikers, military threats, and hordes of the hungry closing in, Penny does what she does best:

She aims for the brain.

The series is fast, intense, funny, gruesome, and full of the kind of grit and heart that makes apocalyptic horror so much fun to read. It is zombie fiction with teeth, but also with humor, intelligence, and a surprising amount of hope.

The Orchard

Steven’s The Orchard takes readers in a different direction, but with just as much tension.

Charlotte Wilson is an investigative journalist covering a mysterious global pandemic with no clear cause. When the COO of a multinational biotech company contacts her claiming he knows what is making people sick, Charlotte and her producer Nick realize they may have the story of a lifetime.

But as Charlotte digs deeper, she uncovers a conspiracy twelve years in the making, one that reaches into both her professional and personal life. Millions of lives may depend on her breaking the story, but the truth is so big, the question becomes: will anyone believe her?

And perhaps more importantly, will she live long enough to tell it?

Part mystery, part suspense, and part eerily plausible bio-thriller, The Orchard is the kind of book that pulls you in quickly and leaves you thinking about it long after the final page.

More Than a Publisher

What I love about featuring Steven is that he is not only the person behind Genius Book Publishing, he is also one of the creative minds who helped build the foundation it stands on.

He understands books from both sides of the desk: as a publisher working with authors, and as an author who knows what it means to sit with a story, wrestle with it, shape it, and finally send it out into the world.

That combination matters.

It means he brings not only business experience to publishing, but empathy. He knows the courage it takes to write a book. He knows the strange, wonderful, exhausting process of bringing a story to life. And he knows how much it means when someone believes in your work.

That spirit is a huge part of Genius.

So today, we are celebrating Steven W. Booth not just as the founder and publisher of Genius Book Publishing, but as the author of thrilling, imaginative, page-turning fiction in his own right.

And yes, also as the best boss ever.

Read Steven W. Booth

If you love zombie fiction with grit, humor, and a fierce heroine, start with The Hungry.

If you prefer suspense, mystery, and a chillingly plausible conspiracy, pick up The Orchard.

Either way, you’ll be stepping into the mind of a storyteller who knows how to keep readers turning pages.

Call to Action:
Have you read The Hungry or The Orchard yet? Let us know which Steven W. Booth book you’re adding to your list first.

In Ways to Be Wicked, an ambitious 17-year-old girl is found murdered after slipping away from a high school dance, setting off a fast-paced mystery tangled in street gangs, race relations, deception, and revenge. As school administrator Enrique Tavish digs deeper into the case, his own past and darker impulses begin to surface—and soon, the danger reaches far beyond the investigation.

For readers who enjoy gritty mysteries with moral tension, high stakes, and a reckoning that hits close to home, this one belongs on your list.

Get your copy of Ways to Be Wicked today.

What begins as a neighborly concern over a missing cat slowly unravels into something far darker in Six-Toed Ollie by Michael A. Black. Equal parts suspenseful, gritty, and unexpectedly heartwarming, this story delivers sharp storytelling, memorable characters, and one heroic six-toed feline you won’t soon forget.

I noticed Six-Toed Ollie sleeping on the roof of my rear porch when I came back from my run that spring morning. The roof was easily accessible for a cat, since the banisters of the elevated back steps made it only about a four-foot jump. I stepped onto the porch and called his name softly, holding my hand up by the gutter and rubbing my thumb and index finger together. Six-Toed Ollie raised his flat, triangular head, squinted at me sleepily, and then gave an acknowledging mew.

The cat belonged to my neighbor, an elderly lady named Mrs. McCarthy. I figured that she must have been somewhere in her eighties, with iron-gray hair and large, gold-rimmed glasses. But she was a tough old bird. Every spring I’d see her kneeling in front of her house planting flowers, and she’d put me to shame working on a garden in the backyard. She was always pleasant and said hello to me when I’d come trotting up the block from my morning run. I lived two houses away on the same side of the street. It was on one of those mornings about two years ago that I saw her sitting on her porch holding this big tan and white tomcat. She motioned to me as I went past.

“Mr. Parker, come see my new boyfriend,” she’d said.

I walked up the sidewalk and smiled.

“I’m going to name him Ollie,” Mrs. McCarthy said. The cat looked dreamily at me, then closed his eyes. “And look at this.” She held up one of his paws and pressed it gently between her thumb and index finger. A flange of six claws fanned out momentarily. “He’s got six toes on each foot. That must mean he’s special.”

Hence the nickname I assigned to him: Six-Toed Ollie.

Mrs. McCarthy was always very careful about not letting Ollie run loose in the neighborhood. She was very proud of her bird feeder in the backyard, too, and didn’t want him “marauding.” So the only time I saw him out was when she had him on a leash. That’s why I was surprised to see him on my roof

I called to him again, and this time he got up, stretched by raising his rear end high in the air, and sauntered over to the edge of the roof. He rubbed his face against my upraised fingers then deftly jumped the four feet down to the two-by-four banister. Marveling at his display of agility, I picked him up with two hands and walked over to Mrs. McCarthy’s front door. He must have weighed a good fifteen pounds. A rust-covered blue Chevy Cavalier was parked by the curb. I’d seen the car there before and knew it belonged to her nephew, Paulie, who came over infrequently to cut the grass and do other minor chores. He pulled open the front door after I rang the bell, staring at me through the metallic netting of the screen door.

“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?” I asked, trying to be ingratiating.

“She’s sleeping,” he said. “I’m her nephew. Why?” He was about medium height but grotesquely fat. His little dark eyes seemed to be two dots of obsidian stuck in a slab of pastry dough.

“Her cat was sleeping on my porch,” I said.

“Oh, sorry.” He opened the screen door, grabbed Six-Toed Ollie by the scruff of the neck, and held the cat down by his side like he was snatching a gallon of milk. Ears flattening out, Ollie hissed and took a couple of swipes at fat Paulie’s pants leg as Paulie pulled the screen door closed.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to hold a cat like that,” I said without thinking.

He glared at me momentarily, then let Ollie drop to the floor. The cat scurried off somewhere inside the house, still hissing. “Mrs. McCarthy’s usually very careful about her cat. Is she feeling all right?”

“She’s fine,” he said slowly. Then asked, “You the cop that lives over there?”

He canted his head to the right.

I nodded.

“I’ll tell her you brought it back. Thanks.” He closed the door.

I didn’t dwell on the incident too much as I showered, ate, and got ready for duty. I worked an afternoon shift assignment and got off at midnight every night. I did notice the blue Chevy parked in front of the house again the next morning when I got up to run. I spent more time than usual walking around my yard cooling off, hoping I’d see Mrs. McCarthy out planting her petunias. But I didn’t.

When I was getting ready to go to work I got a call from my lady friend, Cathy.

“Can you do me a favor?” she asked.

“Name it,” I said.

“I got a call from the Animal Welfare League. They have a cockapoo that I’ve been waiting for. I need you to go by and put a hold on it for me.” She’d been waiting for about a year to get a suitable dog for her young son. “This dog sounds like a dream.”

I told her that I’d head right over, since it was on the way to the station anyway. Thirty minutes later I was pulling up in front of the brick building with the mural depicting various types of adoring dogs, cats, and other animals. After explaining why I was there, and putting a cash hold on the dog, the girl behind the desk asked if I’d like to see the pooch.

“Sure,” I said, and she began leading me back toward the rows of dog cages. That was when I heard a familiar plaintive whine. Turning, I saw the big, angular tan and white face staring at me from behind a steel mesh door. Our eyes locked momentarily, and the cat opened his mouth and cried again. I stopped and went over to him.

“Are you interested in a cat, too?” the girl asked.

At that moment twin paws, each containing six awesome-looking claws, curled around the box-like steel bars.

“I think that’s my neighbor’s cat,” I said. “Six-Toed Ollie.” With the mention of his name, he emitted another mournful sound. “He’s got six toes on each foot.”

“Oh, wow, he sure does,” the girl said, walking over. “Give me the information.” She wrote down the cage number.

The record showed that the cat had been brought in as a stray late the previous afternoon. Since it was obviously well cared for, the usual procedure was to hold it in case of inquiries. I didn’t know Mrs. McCarthy’s phone number, but explained that I would let her know of Ollie’s whereabouts the next morning.

“She’s an older lady,” I said. “Why don’t you take my number just in case?” She did.

The next day the blue Chevy was again parked in front. I changed into my sweats and running shoes, but walked over and rang Mrs. McCarthy’s bell before I started the run. I could hear the sound of a hammer pounding inside. I leaned on the doorbell several more times. The pounding stopped and the fat nephew came to the door and opened it just enough to frame his big head in the space.

“Yeah?” he said. He squinted at me through the screen door.

“Is Mrs. McCarthy home?”

“No. I took her to the doctor,” he said. “Why?”

“I just wanted to let her know that her cat’s at the animal shelter,” I said. “Did he get loose again?”

“Oh, yeah. He did. I been looking for him, too. What place is he at?”

I told him the address and phone number.

“Okay, thanks a lot,” he said, grinning. “I’ll give ‘em a jingle and we’ll get him this afternoon.”

“Give my regards to your aunt.”

He said he would and pushed the door closed.

Later that evening my partner and I were in the middle of a boring shopping-center surveillance when my cell phone rang. I answered it.

“Mr. Parker, this is Jeannie from the Animal Welfare League,” the voice on the other end said. “Were you able to get a hold of your neighbor about the cat with six toes?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I talked to her nephew. He was supposed to contact you.”

“Well, nobody’s called, and my supervisor doesn’t seem to think we can place a full-grown cat his size.”

I glanced at my watch.

“What time do you close?” I asked.

“Seven o’clock, but we have somebody on duty till midnight.”

“How about if I drop by around eleven-thirty?” I said. “I’ll pick the cat up and deliver him back home.”

“That would be super,” Jeannie said.

I picked up small bags of kitty litter and cat food at the shelter, and figured I could find a suitable plastic box to allow Six-Toed Ollie to spend the night at my place. After all, it was after midnight by the time I got home. Then in the morning I would talk to Mrs. McCarthy.

But when I pulled down the alley I noticed that the lights were still on in the back rooms of her house. I’d stopped by my garage and was waiting for the overhead door to finish going up when I saw Paulie’s blue Cavalier swing out from the space adjacent to Mrs. McCarthy’s old decrepit garage. He kept going in the opposite direction from which I’d come. I backed into my garage and hit the button on the remote to close the door. Unfortunately I also opened my car door out of habit, forgetting about my rider, and Six-Toed Ollie shot off my lap like greased lightning. My hand immediately shot up and hit the button again, freezing the descent of the door. Then, swearing, I lumbered out of the car in time to see the big tomcat run into the alley and turn right. Pulling out my small mini-mag flashlight I went after him, thinking what an idiot I was for not holding on to him better. The beam lit up the alley and I saw Ollie stop and pause in the light, his eyes gleaming like two beacons. I strode purposefully, but not too fast, toward the crouching feline. Six-Toed Ollie stayed in the circumference of the light watching my progress with an almost patient expression, until I was a few feet from him. Then he burst forward with alacrity toward Mrs. McCarthy’s backyard.

I quickened my pace, thinking that if he paused on her porch, I could probably grab him there. The flashlight traced the trotting tan and white body, which now leaped up the old wooden steps, stopping and sitting by the back door. He cried once and lifted his front legs up almost to the door catch, letting all twelve claws dance over the jamb. Slowly, I reached down and secured him in two hands, picked him up, and held him to my chest. Since I was there, and the lights were on, I figured that I might as well try to rouse Mrs. McCarthy. I was a little bit disturbed by the events of the past few days, and wanted to be sure she was all right and knew what had gone on with Ollie. After pounding several times, I listened for sounds inside the house. No voices, no movement, no television.

I licked my lips and pulled open the screen door. The back door was locked. Letting the screen door slip closed, I went to the windows at the back of the house and peered inside. It was the kitchen. Stacks of pots and pans littered the floor, and dishes were everywhere. The cabinets stood open, and I could see what appeared to be large holes in the walls. That uneasy feeling continued to grow, and the cop in me took over.

I went around to the back section of the house where a triangular wooden structure covered the entrance leading down to her basement. The storm doors weren’t locked, and I pulled them up and shined the flashlight down inside. Past a maze of cobwebs, an old padlock dangled unlocked from a hasp on a door at the bottom of half a dozen cement steps.

Carrying my squirming burden, I went down the steps, brushing the wispy tendrils away. I removed the lock from the hasp, and pushed on the cellar door. It opened with a creaking sound. I stood debating what to do for a few more minutes, then Six-Toed Ollie made the decision for me. He managed to wriggle out of my grasp and ran into the dark interior. Heaving a sigh, I followed his progress with the flashlight beam, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

What the hell, I thought. Cops are sort of kissing cousins to burglars anyway.

The basement smelled musty and stacks of cardboard boxes were everywhere. I heard the pit-a-pat of the cat’s feet bounding up a slanted wooden staircase ahead of me. Cautiously, I followed, trying my best to be as quiet as a mouse. The stairs went up to an open trap door that led to a pantry. Afraid I would knock something over, I swung the flashlight around and caught sight of the hanging cord of a light bulb. I pulled it and switched off the flashlight. Six-Toed Ollie sat on the table watching me, the ovals of his greenish eyes split by perpendicular slashes of black pupils. I held out my fingers again and clucked softly, hoping this would allow me to grab him again. But no such luck.

Now inside the main part of the house and desperate, I called out, identifying myself. It felt stupid at this point, but since my intentions had been honorable, I figured I would be able to explain my presence.

“Mrs. McCarthy!” I called out again. “It’s Tom Parker, your neighbor. I’ve got your cat.”

No response.

I’d searched enough buildings to know the feel of an empty house. I tried one more verbal announcement, as Ollie darted off the table and into a small room next to the kitchen. In one impressive bound he leaped up and landed with a resounding clunk on top of a large deep freeze. The small room appeared to be another pantry of sorts, and I switched the flashlight back on. Instead of doing another fancy leap, the big tomcat watched my approach and delivered a haltingly uneven howl. Then his big claws extended and retracted in rhythmic fashion on the metallic surface. By this time I’d gotten a whiff of something that I knew from experience wasn’t spoiled meat. I went to the lid of the deep freeze and Ollie nimbly jumped up on top of an adjacent refrigerator.

Slowly I raised the lid, already knowing what I’d find. The two plastic garbage bags had been rather hastily duct-taped together, but a fringe of iron-gray hair protruded from a tear near the seam.

Suddenly I heard Six-Toed Ollie begin with a hiss that transformed into a feral growl. His ears flattened and he shot off the top of the refrigerator like a white and tan cannonball. That’s about when I caught the hint of movement behind me, and whirled in time to see fat Paulie coming at me holding an upraised shovel like a harpoon. The cat passed between us in a flash, and twenty-four sickle-shaped claws dug into the substantial gut bouncing over the dark blue work pants. Paulie screamed, smacking Ollie away while trying to aim the shovel at my head as he swung. The curved metal edge sank into the top of the freezer with a sharp thump. He grunted and tried to lift it for a second swing, but the fingers of my left hand were already curling around the shaft. A second later my right fist collided with his nose. The shovel came away in my grasp, and Paulie seemed to sit down rather hard on his corpulent backside. A stream of red flooded from his nostrils, and the beady black eyes stared up at me in defeat and exasperation.

From a few feet away, big Ollie arched his back and delivered an accompanying hiss, his tail flaring as big as a raccoon’s.

“It was all because of that damn cat,” Paulie said, the sobs wracking his voice. “After all the things I always done for her, she was gonna leave her money to that damn cat.” He swung his hand in an effete gesture toward the feline, but received only a defiant slap from the Six-Toed Ollie.

I pulled out my gun with my right hand, dropped the shovel behind me, and grabbed my cell phone with my left. I thought about saying, “Tell it to the judge.” But sometimes the silence plays better.

#

Paulie kept right on squealing during his interview with the investigating detectives. For my part, all I had to do was twist things a tad by saying that I heard what I took to be screams from inside the house and went to investigate. Could I be faulted if it turned out to be the cat? After all, a cat’s scream can sound awfully human sometimes.

But, like I said, Paulie spilled his guts almost immediately anyway, telling how he had strangled poor old Mrs. McCarthy in a fit of rage after finding out she intended to leave a substantial portion of her estate to provide for the care of her beloved kitty. Believing that the old lady had secreted a stash of money somewhere in the house, Paulie had been systematically dismantling the interior searching for it. When the odor from the deep freeze, which he’d forgotten to plug in, started to become a bit noticeable, he’d decided to bury her in a nearby wooded area. Having been a fan of the old Columbo TV show, Paulie figured that it would be smart to dig the grave first, then go back and reconnoiter, before returning to pick up the body. That’s when he saw me chasing the cat inside the house.

Naturally, after the story broke, all kinds of other family members, who’d never even given poor old Mrs. McCarthy the time of day when she was alive, came out of the woodwork trying to vie for a piece of the pie.

And as for Six-Toed Ollie…

I watched him this cold winter’s day as he adjusted his back to get more of it against the heating vent in my living room. Then, as if sensing that I was looking at him, he raised his big, triangular head and bleated a cry that sounded more like a baby sheep than a sixteen-pound tomcat. But as Cathy pointed out, he turned out to be the perfect pet for a guy who works afternoons like I do. He sleeps most of the day, eats when he feels like it, and tolerates my presence the rest of the time. But then again, how many other guys can say that they have a roommate with nine lives, six toes, and a tail, who just happened to have saved their life?

The End

Love crime fiction, mysteries, and edge-of-your-seat suspense? Explore more from Michael A. Black’s collection and discover your next great read.

In Ways to Be Wicked, Enrique Tavish is a man who’s spent his whole life navigating the fault lines of identity and survival on Tucson’s south side. When a gifted student is murdered on his watch, he doesn’t turn into a superhero; he becomes exactly what a real person becomes under pressure—compelled, conflicted, stubborn, and sometimes wrong. Even the people around him—Jim Burgoyne, the Levantes, the families caught in the neighborhood’s undertow—move with the weight of lived experience.

She’s a Lot Like You pushes that even further. Rosa Martinez isn’t written as a symbol or a victim; she’s a fifteen year old girl whose intelligence and resilience keep surprising the adults who think they understand her. Tavish returns here, still wrestling with the same moral knots that make him human, not tidy. Their stories collide in ways that feel unpredictable because real people are unpredictable.

The thread that ties these books together is this: the characters don’t behave because the plot needs them to. They behave because that’s who they are. And that’s the kind of storytelling I believe in.

The best characters don’t feel written. They feel lived in.

If you enjoy character-driven fiction filled with flawed people, moral complexity, family tension, and choices that don’t come easy, I think you’ll really connect with Right There in Black and White.

In Blood Red Deceit by Steve Rush, forensic pathology student Ridge Warner’s life spirals into danger after a shocking lab report uncovers a hidden truth tied to his past. What begins as an act of love—donating blood to save his fiancée, Olympic gold medalist Angel Meade—quickly transforms into a chilling web of betrayal, deception, and deadly intrigue. As secrets surface and trust unravels, Ridge finds himself fighting not only for answers, but for his life.

Nothing Shocks Like an Exposed Secret

Steve Rush

A pint of blood hurled my life into chaos. I, Ridge Warner, wasn’t the blood’s recipient. The outcome proved much worse than any disease I might’ve received through tainted blood.

Here is what happened. A competitor in the winter Olympics shot my fiancée, Angel Meade. I gave blood to save her. The Beijing hospital’s lab tested a sample. The analysis exposed a secret related to an event before my birth.

A lab tech showed the report to Angel while I retrieved her carry-on. The disclosure transformed her countenance from someone excited about going home to deep-freeze silence.

The information she harbored wormed through her like a parasite in heat.

Steve Rush, the author who wrote my story, described it this way. “The revelation injected poison into her opaque heart. Its acid burned her soul. In that moment, Angel Meade donned animosity as if it were her favorite pair of sneakers.”

I agree. Nothing I did or said penetrated the wall between Angel and me.

That perilous day arrived after a previous disaster altered my future. Losing my mother on my eighteenth birthday influenced my decision to go to medical school and focus on forensic pathology.

Fiction characters like me want more than a status quo. My journey led to an unforeseen career detour, and what I believed was the fortuitous meeting of Olympic Gold Medalist Angel Meade.

Our future faded to darkness when the lab’s report jolted Angel as though the Greek god of the underworld prodded her with his double-tined pitchfork.

Angel showed proficiency in areas beyond winning gold medals, including the ability to hide an IED in a deceased murder victim.

From that moment it exploded, I knew someone wanted me dead.

This scene depicts a bit of aftermath and my first encounter with Berky Raines, a woman I later dubbed Lodge Tsar.

“Welcome to Eagle Fire. From the look of it, you must be Ridge Warner.”

I stilled. Familiarity rang in her voice.

“I am.” I signed the form she presented and crossed to the window overlooking the street.

“Are you expecting someone?” she asked after my repeated gaze through the window.

“Just looking.”

“I insist you don’t touch anything, trash those clothes, and bathe. I want no blood and tissue adherent to you in my lodge.”

Berky motioned for me to wait. She stepped into the adjoining room. I admired the elk’s head mounted above the fireplace. A close inspection revealed camera lens for eyes. Curious, I examined further and discovered a listening device in the left ear canal.

“Nice elk,” I said when Berky returned holding two contractor-grade garbage bags.

“Thanks. These are for your soiled clothing. If they’re not evidence, I want you to double-bag and dispose of them in the bin located around the back corner of the main building. Otherwise, I’ll notify the police to come collect them.”

“No evidentiary value.”

In my suite, I peered out from behind the drapes despite Berky’s warning for me not to touch anything until I discarded my soiled clothing and took a shower. Sometimes caution takes precedence over fulfillment of a mandate.”

Survival often comes with a price. Mine is no exception. How much I’m willing to pay depends of what happens in the future.

My story continues in Blood Red Deceit. I’d appreciate it if you would allow me to share it with you.

Many thanks,

Ridge Warner

Ready to uncover the truth?

Continue the journey and discover the secrets within Blood Red Deceit.

Dr. Ashley Baker, PsyD, is a clinical psychologist turned fiction writer who brings a rare depth of insight to her work. Blending her professional understanding of the human mind with emotionally driven storytelling, she creates fiction that is both unsettling and deeply human.

She joins the ranks of authors like Jonathan Kellerman and Lucinda Berry—professionals who have stepped beyond their clinical work to explore the darker corners of human experience through fiction.

Ashley lives in North Georgia with her family, where she balances writing, reading, and continuing her work with clients.

Her Work

The Ashes of Us
A gripping and emotionally complex novel that asks a haunting question:
What would you do for your child?

When a young woman turns to her father after a brutal assault, she asks for something unthinkable—and he must decide how far love can go before it crosses a line that can’t be undone. The novel explores moral boundaries, generational trauma, and the devastating weight of justice and revenge.

The Furious Others
A powerful and unconventional psychological horror novel that flips the script.

Instead of focusing on the killer, this story centers the victims—their lives, their voices, and their humanity. Through deeply personal portrayals, the novel challenges the way we consume true crime and horror, reminding us that the real story is often the one left untold.

Fiction with Teeth

Ashley Baker writes what she calls “fiction with teeth”—stories that linger, challenge, and stay with you long after the final page.

She continues to write and dream up new work, pushing the boundaries of psychological and emotional storytelling.

Which story would you pick up first—The Ashes of Us or The Furious Others?

Coming soon: She’s A Lot Like You by Jim Christ

In the meantime, readers can explore Jim Christ’s powerful storytelling in his currently available book:

👉 Right There in Black and White

A gripping story that examines the complexities of truth, justice, and the choices that shape our lives.

Jack is the author of the popular Dek Elstrom mystery series, along with the stand-alone novels Silence the Dead and The Black Cage. His body of work spans mystery, true crime, and short fiction, with stories appearing in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine and in anthologies edited by literary heavyweights including Michael Connelly and Charlaine Harris.

Over the course of his career, Jack has been nominated for multiple Shamus Awards — for Best First Novel, Best Novel, and Best Short Story — a testament to the lasting impact of his storytelling within the crime writing community.

In addition to his fiction, Jack has written two business books (which he jokingly notes are “best marketed as sleep aids”) and contributed columns to the Chicago Tribune Sunday Magazine and other regional publications. His writing reflects both a sharp investigative instinct and a wry, self-aware humor that readers have come to love.

His forthcoming projects continue to expand his range, including a short story anthology and a true-crime work titled The Murder of Mary Jane Reed.

The Big Touch marks Jack’s first collaboration with Genius Publishing — a partnership we’re proud to celebrate.

Please join us in welcoming Jack Fredrickson to the Genius community, and stay tuned in the coming weeks as we share more about The Big Touch ahead of its March 20 release.

We can’t wait for you to step into his world of intrigue, suspense, and unforgettable characters.

Grab Right There in Black and White here.

Some authors write to inform.
Others write to connect — to open doors where there once were walls.

Dave Case is the kind of writer whose work invites both.

Across memoir, essays, and creative nonfiction, Dave explores the places where vulnerability and resilience meet. His voice doesn’t ask readers to be perfect, quiet, or polished — but to notice the seams of experience where meaning often hides.

Whether he’s writing about the grit of daily life, the quiet weight of memory, or the unexpected openings that change us, Dave’s work feels like a conversation: honest, reflective, and deeply humane.

If you’re curious to explore his books, learn more about his approach, or discover the places his stories go — you can find his author page here:

👉 https://geniusbookpublishing.com/pages/dave-case

As with every author we share, the goal isn’t to convince you of a particular viewpoint — it’s simply to introduce you to a voice that might feel like company on the page.

In Momma Girl, S. Thorne Harper delivers a raw, haunting short story about what survives violence — in bodies, in memory, and in the unlikely bonds that form between the wounded. When a solitary veteran living in rural isolation encounters a brutalized pit bull on his porch, the meeting sets off a chain of reckonings: with war, with guilt, with loyalty, and with the quiet ways love shows up when it isn’t invited.

Unflinching yet deeply human, Momma Girl moves between the scars of combat and the slow, stubborn healing that can come through care, connection, and responsibility. This is a story about protection — who gives it, who needs it, and what it costs.

There was a scratching at the back door. James listened, and heard it again. His landlord told him the old farmhouse had been burglarized twice before he moved in. James thought about that. He was alone in the country.

He walked quietly to the bedroom and picked up his Mag-Lite, the only weapon he possessed. Gripped by the neck and supported on the shoulder, it served as both light and club. James approached the storm window and looked out. Clouds glowed a faint orange and violet; the sun gone behind the pines.

There was nothing on the porch so James opened the door. It creaked. Something scurried just out of his periphery. His light scanned the grove of budding azaleas, stopping on a set of dark eyes in an oversized black head.

“God damn pit bull,” James said under his breath. He held his ground, showing no fear. The dog made no move, so he turned the light off and walked back to the steps. He squatted and lit a cigarette. “Hell.”

He took a few moments to think. The moon was full, its light diffused by clouds. James allowed his eyes to adjust to its ambience before walking back to the azalea grove. The dog moved deeper in the bushes as he did. “Come on out. Let me have a look at you,” he said, squatting a few feet away. The night clicked, buzzed and croaked with mystery. The pit bull emerged in a slow belly-crawl.

James extended his left hand but kept his right on the Mag-Lite. The odor arrived first, something like airplane glue and burnt, wet scrambled eggs. “Damn,” James said, not quite a whisper. The dog neared and sniffed his hand. There was a ragged band of white around the neck. The paws and tail were also dipped in white. The rest of the dog was black and looked as though it could have been wearing a mangled tuxedo. It nuzzled the back of James’ hand. He caressed the blocky head. His fingertips found a patchwork of scabs. He resisted the impulse to pull away.

“It’s OK.” James clicked the light on, put it on his shoulder, and moved the beam slowly over the dog. Ribs and spine defined by starvation. Freshly opened gashes, some exposing bone, mingling with old gray scars and skin-tight fur. The white ring of the neck was worn and stained with the pink of old blood. Drained teats drooped in dark folds around her.

“Well, hello Momma Girl.” She stopped panting and cut an eye up at him. James smiled. There was a peculiar scratch, still raw, just beneath her ear. It bothered him more than the rest. He didn’t want a dog. “Why the hell did you show up on my back porch?” She cut an eye at him again.

James walked in the house and returned with a week-old pan of grilled fish he had planned to throw out but never got around to it. He scraped it on the ground and backed up to give the dog space. Cautiously, she made her way to the fish. She sniffed it, devoured it, and then looked up at James. “That’s all I got.” He stroked her again, went inside, and closed the door.

Long spikes of rain came that night in a roar, hammering the farmhouse’s corrugated roof. James half-hoped the storm would drive the dog away, but she was on the back porch the next morning. She cringed when he opened the door and tucked her tail tightly between her legs. He stroked her and she rolled on her back.

He got an old pan and filled it with water. He thought about her at work and what to do with her if she were still there when he got home. He had a hard time concentrating on the band saw and nearly slipped a finger through the blade. But he came up with an idea. He figured he’d keep her as a security dog. He would give her food, water and a place to stay and, hopefully, she’d keep the burglars away. He’d keep a working relationship only. And he resolved to put her down if that peculiar scratch turned out to be carrying rabies. He bought a bag of dog food on the way home. She was on the front porch when he pulled up.

The dog’s cowering vanished after several days. She ate pans and pans of food and gorged herself on water. James treated her wounds; she didn’t flinch when he pushed the pasty ointment deep into the bone-bared gashes. When he was done, the dog looked him in the eye for the first time. They were big, brown and almond-shaped. James saw longing. He didn’t want to be needed.

The dog made a remarkable recovery. Other than the odd scratch beneath her ear, the cuts and gashes were healing fast.

James met Billy Ray Newsome about this time. Billy Ray showed up at the lumberyard during a fierce afternoon thunderstorm that had knocked out a transformer and James’ saw. He was taking a break to smoke a cigarette when he spotted Billy Ray struggling to load wire fencing and two-by-fours in the downpour. James snuffed out his cigarette and charged through the rain.

“Need some help?” James said.

“Wouldn’t turn it down,” Billy Ray said, looking at him beneath the dripping brim of a baseball cap. “It’s rainin’ like a cow pissin’ on a rock,” he said, the cigarette in his lips the only dry thing about him. James smiled. They talked as they loaded the pickup truck. Billy Ray liked

fishing and baseball. James liked baseball, but fishing never did much for him. Billy Ray also liked dogs. He had four of them and was going to use the wood and wire fencing to build a pen for them.

“What kind are they?”

“All shapes and sizes, no particular breed,” replied Billy Ray. “They’re just old country dogs. But I have to keep ‘em in now when strangers come. They think everyone’s a meth head these days. They chased some off a few weeks ago tryin’ to break in.”

Billy Ray seemed to know a lot about dogs, including fighting dogs. James told him about the pit bull and the odd scratch. “She’s prob’bly been rolled a few times. They either turned her out or she escaped. They don’t feed ‘em if they ain’t fightin’.”

“You think she’s dangerous?”

Billy Ray stopped loading, thought for a moment, and then looked at James.

“Dogs don’t ever want to bother anybody, unless someone makes ‘em do it. They’re not born that way. People got to take care of ‘em. If you don’t, they can be dangerous.” Billy Ray resumed loading the last bit of lumber. “There’s a little bit of dog in everybody. Includin’ you, Jimmy.” Nobody ever called James Jimmy, but it had a playful country sound coming from the smoking lips of Billy Ray Newsome.

They learned much more about each other by the time the truck was loaded. They had taken remarkably similar paths: both were in their early 30s; both had joined – and gotten out of – the Army about the same time (and for similar reasons); both had left as sergeants, and both had been part of the invasion of Iraq.

“Fuckin’ kismet, man,” Billy Ray said. “Who were you with?” James asked.

“A Hundred-and-First Airborne Assault. Screamin’ Eagles, baby. How ‘bout you?” “The Third Infantry Division. Rock of the Marne,” James said, adding: “And the

Sledgehammer of Baghdad.”

They laughed. Billy Ray said James should bring the dog over to his house because he wouldn’t mind taking a look at her. James agreed. Billy Ray dug out an old receipt from the clutter in his truck and scribbled a map to his house on the back. He had a mischievous spark in his eye and only the hint of a smile when he handed the paper to James. He said he would pen up the dogs and expect him that Saturday before noon.

“And I’ll tell ya something’ right now. I don’t like pit bulls. No sir. They got the eyes of a bear and the balls of a man. But I’ll look at ‘er.”

Billy Ray raised his face to the sky and was assaulted by 9-millimeter drops. “Well, a god damn small craft advisory has been issued: ‘All large craft are on their own.’ Better be gettin’ on down the road.” They shook hands.

“See you Saturday morning, Sergeant Sledgehammer.” “See you then.”

It was a perfect April morning when James and the dog turned down the dirt road to Billy Ray’s place, a modest old house, set back off the paved road in a shady thicket of newly blooming trees. Billy Ray was in the back, in a sun-lit vegetable patch, bent over with a cigarette in his lips, pulling grass beneath a row of what James recognized as string beans. He was shirtless, indistinguishable tattoos on his biceps and shoulders, thickened within sun-baked skin. Like James, he was wiry and fit, though a bit hairier. Billy Ray stood as the truck stopped, exposing a small beer paunch. His dogs barked from a pen beyond the garden.

“Ah, Shut up!” Billy Ray said, silencing them, and then turned toward James. “How ya’ doin’ pard’ner?”

“Fine. Just fine,” James said, admiring the rows of beans and tomatoes and okra and other produce in the patch.

The dog followed James out his door. She ran a few steps and spotted Billy Ray. She stopped, abruptly, on guard. Billy Ray stood still. The two of them studied each other through similar spheres of black ice. It occurred to James that both had the eyes of a bear, but only Billy Ray had the balls of a man.

“Yeah, you got them killer eyes, too,” Billy Ray said squinting through a sunbeam of cigarette smoke. “But you’re a hell of a lot prettier ‘n I am, and nothin’s meaner than ugly.” He broke the stare and grinned at James. “Come have a seat in my office, Jimmy.” He sauntered toward a bench in the barn. James joined him and lit a cigarette.

The dog found shade a few feet away. She lay down and watched the two men as they talked the talk of getting acquainted. They learned that they both liked George Jones, James Brown and Radiohead.

“The fuckin’ kismet continues, man,” Billy Ray said, producing rolling papers and a bag of crop grown in an exclusive part of his garden. James began to feel at ease. His senses grew acute. Birds sang above a troubled world. The aroma of the new season wandered into his head.

Billy Ray noticed the dog inching toward them. “Come on over here you ugly, big- headed bitch. Let me have a look at you.” She walked slowly to him. Billy Ray caressed her head and neck. Her eyes warmed and she rolled on her back. He rubbed her stomach. “She was prob’bly a schoolin’ dog by the looks of her. Those sons of bitches prob’bly bred her for pups

and then rolled her with the males when she wasn’t breedin’, but it looks like she fought back. All her wounds are on the front, ya see? I’ll bet she’s a gamer.”

Billy Ray began examining the wounds. “Looks like they put a heavy collar and a chain on her. They have ‘em haul around logs or somethin’ else heavy. It builds strength and stamina.” He didn’t like the scratch marks beneath her ear either. “Dogs don’t make scratches like that. I had a dog get into a fight with a raccoon. It looked a little like that. The damn thing had rabies and I had to put the dog down. You might want to keep a close eye on ‘er. Make sure she keeps takin’ water. If she’s got the fever, you’ll know. But if she’s got it, she might run off too. They do that sometimes.”

James pushed that out of his mind. Something else had begun working on him. It had been a day much like this when he entered Baghdad with the vanguard of U.S. troops, and James was inexplicably overcome with the urge to tell Billy Ray about it. He didn’t know what he was going to say until the words left his lips.

“Fuckin’ dogs and flowers.”

Billy Ray stopped stroking the dog. “What’re you talkin’ about?” “Dogs and flowers in Iraq, man. I just can’t get that out of my head.”

Billy Ray’s eyes grew more serious. “Go on then. Get it out of your head,” he said. It put James more at ease. Billy Ray pulled a leg over his knee and sat back. “Go on, brother.”

He didn’t know where it was going, but James began to talk.

“We rolled in on a blue spring morning, like this one. Air support had wiped out most of the tanks and artillery. But it was strange, there were flowers everywhere along the road – bright red and yellow and purple, all colors, blooming everywhere – right in the middle of war. The

Iraqis love flowers. I didn’t know that before I got there.” James lit a cigarette without looking at Billy Ray.

“We practically waltzed right into the city. Then the Fedayeen started coming at us, driving those damn little pickups right into Bradleys and even the god damn Abrams tanks. Some of ‘em ran right at us with bombs strapped to ‘em. We called ‘em the Nissan Division. We thought it was funny, but thinking about it now, they were pretty badass.

“I killed I don’t know how many of them. I’m pretty sure I killed some civilians too.

They were people like you and me, just trying to get out of town. But we had no way of knowing who was who. You know what happens when you shoot someone with a high explosive shell from a 25-millimeter Bushmaster chain-fired gun?” James took a pull on his cigarette and exhaled. “He explodes into red dust…Crazy ass Fedayeen, man. They didn’t care who got killed.” James looked at Billy Ray. His gaze was cool, revealing nothing. James continued.

“There were dogs everywhere. They ran in packs. They fed right on the dead, man. I guess I was sort of oblivious to it at the time. It didn’t really bother me then. I was in warrior mode, you know. Everything was clicking. I could see, hear and smell everything so clear. I could even taste the air. It tasted like smoke and metal. I was a fuckin’ killing machine. I didn’t even think about what I was doing. But things keep coming back to me now.”

The words were just coming out. James still didn’t know where they were taking him. “By the afternoon, the sky wasn’t blue anymore. It was gray with smoke and damned if it

wasn’t snowing ashes. Bodies, man. Everywhere. The roads were lined with ‘em. There was a woman and a baby on the roadside. They were dead but she was still holding on to her baby. There were flowers scattered all around ‘em. She still had some of ‘em in her hand. For some reason she’d been carrying ‘em before she died. What the hell was she carrying flowers for? God

damn. Then the dogs came, and damned if they didn’t start ripping into that woman and her baby.” James sighed. “Shit, man.”

And then he was quiet. He suddenly understood where he was going. He became aware that he was on uncertain ground. He’d been around soldiers who refused to negotiate with their conscience, preferring to leave the guilt of killing locked up and segregated far away. He had been one of them before this very moment. He risked rejection if he broached it with Billy Ray, but he couldn’t help it.

“It was all some random fuckin’ shit, man. We killed all those people. For what?”

Billy Ray exhaled and leaned forward, looking down. “Who knows, Jimmy boy? The big dogs ‘re gonna have their reckoning for that someday. It’s on their heads, not ours. We were the property of Uncle Sam. We did what we had to do. And it’s as simple and final as that.” He paused and looked James in the eye. “It’s good to get that shit out of you. It’s good to talk about it, man. You got too. I’ve known some brothers who’ve gone crazy. I’m here if you need me.”

“And I’m here if you need me, brother,” James said. They popped hands together in a spontaneous wrist-shake. It was brief. The sudden warmth was uncomfortable. Billy Ray cooled it.

“So what did you do about those god damn man-eating Iraqi dogs?” he said, stamping out a cigarette.

“I turned the mother fuckers into red dust,” James said.

Billy Ray’s brown eyes glowed playfully serpentine. He lit another Winston. “God damn Sledgehammer of Baghdad.”

James laughed. Billy Ray grinned. The dog walked slowly to Billy Ray. He squatted and stroked her. James heard him talking to her but couldn’t make it out. Billy Ray’s voice had taken

on a soothing, muffled tone. He released the dog after a short spell. “Now get on outta here you anvil-headed bitch.” The dog got in the truck.

They agreed to meet again. “Yeah, maybe I’ll tell you a few things about the siege of Samawah,” Billy Ray said. “Screamin’ Eagles, baby.”

“See you soon,” James said, putting the truck into gear. “God damn right,” Billy Ray said as he pulled off.

The dog limited her patrols to the front porch. She was always lying there when James got home. He’d never even heard her bark. “You’re one hell of a security dog,” James told her. She wagged her tail.

But she wasn’t there the next day. Thunder and lightning blasted the sky as James went looking for her. He heard something rattle by the barn and found her huddled beneath a deep heavy bench in the lean-to. She shivered with each boom of thunder. She saw James and wagged her tail but wouldn’t come out. James tried to coax her, but she lowered her eyes.

James was going leave her there, but she bolted toward him when he took the first step toward the house. She stopped when he opened the back door, looking up at him through the soaking rain.

“Come on. You can come in.”

She didn’t want to. It occurred to James that she might never have been in a house. James propped the door open and walked into the kitchen. She inched her way in, stopping at his feet.

He walked back to the door and closed it. She remained at his feet, fixing her burnt almond eyes on him as he cooked eggs and sausage.

“You hungry?” She looked up at him. He had a package of grilled deer patties in the refrigerator. He crumbled them up in the dry dog food, put it in a Tupperware bowl and placed it on the floor by his seat at the kitchen table. She ate it up and then watched him as he ate.

James retired to the recliner when he was done to read the newspaper. The dog followed and sat next to him. He looked at her. Her eyes burned into him. This shook James. It occurred to him that, without him, she was alone. She lived for him.

This was sudden, and unwelcome. He wasn’t interested in loving anything. He had done that. But something was nagging at him. He couldn’t turn this dog out. That was it. He decided to name her. “Momma Girl” was the only thing he could think of.

“But I’ll tell you what. I still expect you to work around here.” Momma Girl was lying down, but she wagged her tail.

James built her a doghouse from scraps he collected from the lumberyard. He set it off the ground to keep the floor from getting wet and put an old couch cushion and a fading blanket inside. The rain, wind and thunder came in the middle of the night. James

got up and looked out the window. A flash of lightning comforted him, revealing Momma Girl dry and sleeping in the doghouse.

Days grew warmer and bluer as May approached. James took the dog on walks through the woods. Squirrels and turkeys crossed their path, but she ignored them. He tried to get her to chase a tennis ball, and then a Frisbee, but she wouldn’t chase anything. “Damn, girl. You’re not really good for whole helluva lot, are you?” They spent evenings together on the porch. James heard the call of the whippoorwill on those nights. Chip-off-the-white-oak, someone had once told him it said, and he could make that out in a stretch. He hadn’t thought of that since he was

very young. The nights were like that, hopeful and new. Sweet honeysuckle rode the soft breeze; stars upon stars dusted the black sky.

James awoke one morning to white flashes, roof-rattling thunder and the wind whipping the sky into frothy charcoal hues. Sheets of rain pelted the bedroom window. James got up to check on the dog. She wasn’t in her house. She wasn’t in the lean-to either. She wasn’t there when he got home from work. He put food and water out. A day, then two, then three passed. It went untouched. He remembered what Billy Ray said – she might run off if she was rabid. He ate dinner by himself. He missed Momma Girl.

A week later, James awoke in the middle of the night to a commotion outside. A man was shouting, screaming in agony. “Get it the fuck off me. Oh God! Shit! God” There was violent, sputtering growling and fighting. “Shoot the mother fucker. YAHHHH!” James grabbed the

Mag-Lite and raced out the front door on to the porch. Three loud blasts sent him instinctively to the ground. He looked up as a car started. A man said, “Get in! God damn it! Let’s get the fuck out of here!” James smelled gunpowder as the headlights came on. Another man whipped up coils of gun smoke as he staggered through the lights, supporting a mangled arm. The car door slammed and the engine revved. Headlights panned over a dark heap in the grass as it sped off.

James’ scalp tingled and his bowels felt like emptying. He tried to swallow, but there was no saliva. He got up slowly, turned on the flashlight and walked into the grass. The light found the dark, lifeless heap. James went cold.

His mind reeled. He still had to check the house. He walked around back and found the storm door on the back porch jimmied. They got caught just before they got in. “I guess I was wrong about you, girl.” James retrieved the worn blanket from the doghouse and wrapped her in it. He placed her by the azalea grove. He began to dig, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He

hadn’t cried in years. He was making up for it. He lowered the dog in. In the gray of the emerging dawn, he filled the hole.

A peace came over him as he finished. He felt rested and clean. He walked to the azalea grove and opened his pocketknife. By the pale light of the new day, he cut vines of flowers from the grove, some pink and some white. “Thank you, Momma Girl,” he said, placing them on the mound. He put his hand on the moist soil, as if checking the pulse of the earth. Birds sang the first songs of the spring morning, the last of the stars vanishing in its light. James watched the sunrise. A soft honeysuckle breeze caressed his face just as the sun peeked over the trees.

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