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.

More from S. Thorne Harper is coming soon. Follow Genius Books for future releases.

Ready to dive in? Grab your copy of Out of Cabrini today

Midwest Book Review is a long-respected source for librarians, educators, and book selectors across the U.S., and we’re honored to have Sea of Glass recognized for its originality, emotional depth, and genre-bending storytelling.

“Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish… an impressive level of literary excellence.”
— Library Bookwatch (Midwest Book Review)

Below is the full review, reprinted with permission.

Sea of Glass
Patrick Shattuck
Genius Book Publishing

https://geniusbookpublishing.com

9781958727812, $19.95, PB, 284pp

Amazon
https://www.amazon.com/Sea-Glass-Patrick-Shattuck/dp/1958727814

Barnes & Noble
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sea-of-glass-patrick-shattuck/1148082574

Synopsis: Shannon Delaney always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Sarah. Sarah is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for Berkeley, while Shannon is unsure, overlooked, and heading nowhere fast. The only thing that’s ever been hers is Frankie - - her best friend since fifth grade, the one boy who saw her for who she really was.

But now Frankie is slipping away, drawn into Sarah’s orbit as they compete together in a high-stakes math tournament. Then something strange happens. A mysterious blue light glows from an old glass paperweight by Shannon’s bed, revealing ghostly visions -- of snow, of love, of heartbreak. She tries to convince herself it’s just a dream, but the feeling won’t fade. The glass may be showing her the truth.

As Shannon watches her world shift -- her sister’s secrets, Frankie’s choices, her own unraveling sense of self -- one thing becomes clear: the hardest truths aren’t always the ones others hide. They’re the ones buried inside.

Critique: Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish, “Sea of Glass” by author Patrick Shattuck showcases his extraordinary and narrative driven storytelling skills that raises his novel to an impressive level of literary excellence. Blending ‘coming of age’, psychological suspense, and the supernatural, “Sea of Glass is an especially and unreservedly recommended pick for community library collections. It should be noted for personal reading lists that this paperback edition for “Sea of Glass” from Genius Book Publishing is also readily available in a digital book format (Kindle, $4.99).

Editorial Note: In addition to being a longtime English teacher, Patrick Shattuck is also a dedicated writer who holds a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and an M.A. in English from Simmons College. His short stories and poetry have been published in the Antietam Review, Smashing Icons, Lonesome Traveler, Paradigm Magazine, Fox Cry Magazine, and Evening Street Press. He is also the author of “Dawn’s Web” and “Red Moon Over Manhattan”.

Grab a copy today… Sea of Glass

Blog Article for Donnell Bell

The Book Was Better

Producers, directors, and actors deliver sight and sound in movies and television shows not available in novels no matter how well we write them. They invite us into a world filled with on-screen action and special effects accompanied by emotion-evoked soundtracks. The use lighting, camera angles, and other attention-drawing behavior for dramatic effect.

Many theatrical releases and made-for-television movies and series are based on novels. Yet, we hear comments from readers who opine, “I read the book. I saw the movie. The book was better.”

Why are some novels considered better? Novels (especially crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers) rank higher based on their sense of authenticity and credibility. Think about it. How many cinematic portrayals of inciting incidents, crime scenes, and law enforcement responses and actions included parts believed improbable and unlikely compared to the real-world?

Hooray for writers who research, show, and offer thought-provoking and emotion-evoked effects in their short stories, novellas, and novels. Readers prefer to lose themselves in the worlds created by authors who produce works filled with authenticity and credibility.

I have read books on craft written by successful writers and have taken online classes to improve my works in progress. Those most helpful to me are: Story Trumps Structure, Steven James; On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King; How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean Koontz; Plot and Structure, James Scott Bell; and On Writing Well, William Zinsser.

Craft alone proves not enough. Readers know if and when we fail to include the correct facts in our stories. Along with craft, we strive for authenticity, believability, and credibility to keep readers turning pages. Accuracy in our prose reflects credibility and enhances belief. Facts support our efforts. Facts paint the images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. In crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers, we show readers how to kill. We show them how to collect evidence, how to investigate deaths, and how to put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor must embrace appropriate facts. Facts validate scenes.

Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. Unbelievable instances in life frequently prove to be true, although many come as a surprise. When readers see events as too easy and convenient, skepticism turns focus away from the story. Like Jack Webb’s character Joe Friday in the TV series Dragnet, “All we want are the facts.”

The facts in our stories must relate to reality if we want readers to keep turning pages. Here are a few examples:

• Will a bullet or shotgun blast knock a two-hundred-pound person off of their feet?

• Are gunshot exit wounds always larger than entrance wounds?

• Does the number of stab or slash injuries offer clues to the assailant’s identity?

• Was the brain injury caused by a fall or a blow to the head?

• Will vehicles explode in a crash?

• How might you determine if a body discovered in a burned building was alive or dead at the time the fire started?

The circumstances and facts offer answers. Further investigation becomes necessary to answer and either prove or disprove each scenario. All the above questions and more are answered in Kill Your Characters, Crime Scene Tips for Writers published by Genius Books.

Here is the blurb:

There’s a dead body on the floor, and your detective character has to learn every detail about the crime in order to solve the case and bring the murderer to justice. If you’re not an experienced forensic investigator, how can you describe the manner of death accurately so that the evidence means what you want it to mean?

Kill Your Characters by former detective and forensic investigator Steve Rush gives you the tools you need to pass the inspection of all the armchair detectives (and more than a few real ones) out there. Discover your ultimate empowerment source for writing the page-turning inciting-incident you have always wanted to write. Become a master and save hours of research effort searching elsewhere for accurate information.

Kill Your Characters will help you answer these questions and more with facts to back up your fiction. When plotting the next murder scene for your story, you may run into obstacles such as how the detectives determine time of death, or the forensic evidence left by a gunshot wound. Steve Rush’s extensive experience is accumulated in a series of writing tips that will significantly improve your story. Kill Your Characters is for any author looking to elevate their murder scenes with credible and authentic details.

Order your copy here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1947521780

Writing a novel is a process similar to life and our correspondence with our environment. Learn the craft, write, submit, and never give up.

Bio:

Steve Rush is an award-winning author whose experience includes tenure as homicide detective and chief forensic investigator for a national consulting firm. He was once hailed as “The best forensic investigator in the United States” by the late Joseph L. Burton, M.D, under whom he mastered his skills, investigated many deaths alongside Dr. Jan Garavaglia of Dr. G: Medical Examiner fame, and was part of the development team for Quincy Technologies, an automated case management system designed for coroners and medical examiners. Steve has investigated 900+ death scenes and taught classes related to death investigation. His specialties include injury causation, blood spatter analysis, occupant kinematics, and recovery of human skeletal remains.

Two of Steve’s manuscripts placed first and third in the 2022 Public Safety Writers Association Writing Competition. His book Kill Your Characters; Crime Scene Tips for Writers, published by Genius Books on June 7, 2022, tied for first place in the 2022 PSWA Writing Competition’s unpublished nonfiction category. Steve won joint first prize in the 2020 Chillzee KiMo T-E-N Contest and was a finalist in the 2020 Page Turner Awards.

He lives in Metropolitan Atlanta, Georgia, with his wife Sharon.

http://steverushauthor.com/

https://www.linkedin.com/in/steve-rush-a20302149/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5217876

Grab a copy of Kill Your Characters today.

Subscribe now

25 Nov 2022, 23:54

[Following is an official OnlineBookClub.org review of “Kill Your Characters” by Steve Rush.]

5 out of 5 stars

Are you an amateur writer hoping to write your own crime story but not sure where to begin? Are you already a flourishing crime novelist wanting to sharpen your skills? Kill Your Characters by Steve Rush might just be the kind of book that will help you achieve all of your goals as a crime fiction writer. The book serves as a comprehensive guide on how to make a crime narrative believable by combining literary techniques with principles in forensic science.

What I like most about this book is that it is very thorough and extensive. It does not simply dictate what one must do in terms of writing crime scenes but also provides detailed explanations of elements one must consider while writing. It’s like a guide that will help a writer intelligently plan and execute his piece. There are guide questions to observe and writing prompts to follow, which can be of great assistance to those looking for a way to practice their skills.

As someone who only likes reading about crime and detective stories, it is interesting to know how much thought and research goes into writing these pieces. There are plenty of aspects to consider, such as the evidence, the witnesses, the inciting incident, and the offender’s identity. The author also elaborates on different ways a character can die, such as transportation death, asphyxia, or gunshot injury. The author advises on how a writer will be able to effectively deliver a believable story. It is also interesting to learn about some terms used in forensic science, like “rigor mortis,” which is a term used for the process of the stiffening of muscle tissues following a person’s death.

I feel like the book is already perfect as it is. It has everything a writer needs to know in order to improve his or her craft. It has a nice organization, and the visuals are pleasing to look at. The text is free of any errors, so I will then conclude that the narrative has excellent editing.

This book deserves a rating of 5 out of 5 stars. It is a comprehensive guide that every aspiring crime novelist should pick up and learn something from. I could only imagine how much research went into creating this book. I do not have anything negative to say about the narrative. If you are a writer who wants to venture into crime fiction, this is exactly the kind of book you may want to dive into.

******

View here: Kill Your Characters

It’s travel time. And I bring you along.

A Murder Victim’s Near-Death Experience

I knew a person who claimed he could examine the eyes of a murder victim and see the person who killed them. (True story. False claim.)

Imagine if the claim proved true. What did the victim see?

Here’s an example. (Not a true story.)

A near-death-experience has advantages for a murder victim like me. I saw the killer thread through a diverse crowd of three hundred before she blended in the mass of hot flesh and lavish table settings for several seconds and reappeared thirty feet to my right. The next thing I knew, someone in the back corner yelled, “Bomb!”

When someone shouts “bomb” amidst a crowd of people in a restaurant on the fiftieth floor of a luxury hotel, it is not conducive to a favorable outcome. It mattered not how much damage the explosive device might inflict with the volume of silverware lying on tables about to become flesh-penetrating projectiles. Chaos erupted in what looked like a fire drill in a sanitorium dining hall.

This murdered state certainly enlightened me.

A victim of murder goes through three phases—the approach, the process, and the aftermath—neither of which appeals to the person on the wrong end of the ordeal. Like me. If anyone affronts another with the notion that consciousness ceases when a person dies, they’re nuts. I saw it coming. In the realm of anticipatory pain and suffering, the agony and anguish instilled in me by my killer’s approach ranked near the experience of suffering the injuries inflicted on me.

It’s not as if any salvageable parts existed for procurement and transplant into another person, which might allow a semblance of life. I’m a goner. Adios. It’s travel time. I cannot describe the injuries inflicted on me and must rely on a forensic examiner. I hope whoever conducts the procedure will do it with the accuracy necessary to solve my case. Otherwise, justice might as well have met its demise along with me. Thank goodness nothing perforated my body and exited my hind side or I might’ve drawn unnecessary attention when I passed gas in two-part harmony.

The encounter was much like a vehicle crash. Perception and reaction time of one and a half seconds added to 180 milliseconds passed in a flash compared to the mind’s response. When people claim their life flashed before their eyes, should they not have said past life?

My body acted the part of a vehicle destroyed in the crash while my soul and spirit survived, exited, and surveyed the damage. Not looking too good.

Trapped in a near-death-experience like this one has its advantages, don’t you think? If only I could tell someone about it. Oh, wait. Experts will speak for me. These experts include police officers, detectives, crime scene technicians, forensic investigators and medical examiners.

I hope they know what they are doing.

Back to reality. For fiction, this is imagined reality.

Readers identify the experts in the world of true crime and fiction as authors. Authors must become the ultimate authority on their stories. Readers require them to know what they are doing to present a credible story. This includes authentic crime scenes, incidents resulting in death, the fact-finding process, and prosecution.

Enough talk. Let’s get to it.

Come with me and I’ll share my show-and-tell presentation of how authors kill their characters. Here is the link: https://geniusbookpublishing.com/products/kill-your-characters

What is the cliché? For pennies a day (for ebook) or the cost of a cup of specialty coffee? Why not enjoy both? Order your copy today.

Writing Crime Scenes: Authenticity and Credibility

1. Do you write in more than one genre? In addition to my latest release Kill Your Characters: Crime Scene Tips for Writers, I write suspense/thrillers and have three nonfiction books in the Christian market.

2. What brought you to writing? I began writing after reading multiple novels and watching the masters unfold stories page after page. A homeless man’s murder prompted me to write my first novel (Façade, written pseudonym Shane Kinsey) after I identified the deceased by skin removed from his thumb. (In the novel, a killer uses skin from a dead man’s thumb to leave a bloody thumbprint at his murder scenes.) Wings E-press accepted and published it in 2010. I was hooked.

3. Where do you write? What, if any, distractions do you allow? I write at home ninety-nine percent of the time. I shut off my surroundings and become a spectator in my characters’ world. The other percent is in a hotel/condo while on vacation or a weekend getaway. I get involved to the extent I have no clue of anything happening around me.

4. Tell us about your writing process: I am a pantser. I tried to outline and found myself deviating from my notes more and more. I have an idea of story and denouement and write as the story unfolds in my thoughts. I like to ask “What if?” and go from there.

5. What are you currently working on? I am writing about a high-school senior who lost his parents in a fire-bombing.

6. Who’s your favorite author? Dean Koontz

7. How long did it take you to write your first book? Several years writing while working a full-time job which required travel across the U.S.

8. Do you ever kill a popular character? If so, what happens to your story? My latest book is all about killing characters, so, yes, I kill characters when necessary to advance the story and keep the others honest.

9. What authors did you dislike at first but grew to enjoy? Stephen King. The first novel of his I read left me wondering if he is a writer I should continue to read. I read The Green Mile and others and believe King is in the top five of the best-writer lists.

10. Do you base any of your characters on real people? No.

11. Where do you place your settings—real or fictional locations? Both.

12. Do you have any advice for new writers? I will elaborate below.

Add suspense. Increase tension. Write what you know.

Writers and editors differ in opinion when it comes to book-length fiction. They suggest we turn off our self-editor and get words on the page. Edit the work after we have a first draft. While the advice works well in most cases, some authors prefer to edit along the way. One author reviews and edits the writing done in a previous session. Another author edits while writing. (Both are New York Times best-selling authors.)

Some authors are outliners. Others are pantsers. I am a pantser. I find editing along the way works best for me.

Whatever method you choose, the most crucial aspects to remember when writing inciting incidents, especially crime scenes, are authenticity and credibility. This is where more-than-a-few writers see a stop sign. How can we write what we know if we don’t know it?

Facts support our efforts. I learned this from the cases I investigated as a homicide detective and forensic investigator. They prompted me to write, Kill Your Characters—Crime Scene Tips for Writers.

Facts paint images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. We show readers how to kill. We show how to collect evidence, how to investigate deaths, and how to put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor must embrace appropriate facts.

Elements of story direct readers where we want them to go until a twist of facts proves otherwise. This includes misdirection. Some facts inserted in the story alter the outcome. Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. Unbelievable instances in life frequently prove to be true, although many come as a surprise to us. When readers see events as too easy and convenient, skepticism turns focus away from our story.

The next step begins when the protagonist arrives and examines the scene. Choices rest on their training from that time forward. The difference between a protagonist’s competence and incompetence depends on their level of expertise. That expertise, or the lack thereof, comes from the facts we give to them.

As writers, we share ideas visualized in our minds. We invite our audience to see our inciting incidents. We reveal bits and pieces of the story one scene after the other. We perform our job well when we grab their attention and keep them reading.

True-to-life facts support and give credibility to our stories. What better way to intrigue our readers?

About the book: Kill Your Characters—Crime Scene Tips for Writers

There’s a dead body on the floor, and your detective character has to learn every detail about the crime in order to solve the case and bring the murderer to justice. If you’re not an experienced forensic investigator, how can you describe the manner of death accurately so that the evidence means what you want it to mean?

Kill Your Characters by former detective and forensic investigator Steve Rush gives you the tools you need to pass the inspection of all the armchair detectives (and more than a few real ones) out there. Discover your ultimate empowerment source for writing the page-turning inciting-incident you have always wanted to write. Become a master and save hours of research effort searching elsewhere for accurate information.

This book will help you answer: How did your character die? What were the circumstances of the murder? What weapon did the killer use? What evidence was left behind? How can you build a rock-solid case against the suspect?

Kill Your Characters will help you answer these questions and more with facts to back up your fiction. When plotting the next murder scene for your story, you may run into obstacles such as how the detectives determine time of death, or the forensic evidence left by a gunshot wound. Steve Rush’s extensive experience is accumulated in a series of writing tips that will significantly improve your story. Kill Your Characters is for any author looking to elevate their murder scenes with credible and authentic details.

Order your copy here: Kill Your Characters

About the author:

Steve Rush is an award-winning author who won joint first prize in the 2020 Chillzee KiMo T-E-N Contest and was a finalist in the 2020 Page Turner Awards.

His experience includes tenure as homicide detective and chief forensic investigator for a national consulting firm. He was once hailed as “The best forensic investigator in the United States” by the late Joseph L. Burton, M.D, under whom he mastered his skills, and investigated many deaths alongside Dr. Jan Garavaglia of Dr. G: Medical Examiner fame. Steve has investigated 900+ death scenes and taught classes related to death investigation. His specialties include injury causation, blood spatter analysis, occupant kinematics, and recovery of human skeletal remains.

https://www.steverush.org

https://www.linkedin.com/in/steve-rush-a20302149/

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5217876

Reviewed by Liz Konkel for Readers’ Favorite

Kill Your Characters: Crime Scene Tips for Writers by Steve Rush is an ideal resource for mystery and crime fiction writers and contains crime scene tips that will help authors improve their writing. The book breaks down crime scenes and provides useful information and prompts that take advantage of Rush’s first-hand knowledge derived from years as a detective and forensic investigator. The goal is to empower writers by giving them the information to make their books into page-turners. The book will no doubt allow writers to answer important questions by making available the facts surrounding a character’s death including evidence, weapon, investigation, and suspects. The vivid details, advice, and prompts will help create realistic scenarios that will lend reality to mysteries and crime fiction.

The goal of the book is to help seasoned writers to strengthen their writing skills and allow beginners to break into the mystery genres with vivid and accurate details that will help to establish a credible plot. The book is broken down into key aspects such as the crime scene, investigation, and evidence which will provide useful data and visuals. The book is beneficial whether you are writing cozy mysteries or murder mysteries with facts that will permit your PI (private investigator) or AS (amateur sleuth) to put together a case. These facts show how to place the details in a concept-conflict-climax story structure which allows you to set up the inciting incident, the offender’s identity, and the investigation. Further details include wounds, autopsy reports, and various causes of death.

The book contains writing exercises and prompts that take what you learn from the chapters and apply it to the beginning stages of writing, such as whether the facts support the scene’s integrity, red herrings, and prompts that help set the scene. The book also has fill-in-the-blank worksheets that cover suspects, venue, and cause of death. A time of death table is included that details the stages of body decomposition. These features make this book one of a kind and a must-have for a writer’s shelf. An empowering read, Kill Your Characters is the go-to handbook for writers looking to step into the mystery genres with thorough details that will make writing murder mysteries and crime fiction a breeze.

Grab your copy today! Kill Your Characters

For years, my go-to insult for any detective I didn’t respect has been to say they “couldn’t solve a wet dog turd on the living room carpet.”

It’s such a fun insult. You are saying they are regarded so lowly as to be tasked with determining the source of a lump of dog poop, and also that they are so inept they are doomed to fail. Plus “turd” is in it, because the person is not even important enough to warrant a proper cuss word.

If there is a more satisfying way to malign the reputation of a detective, I haven’t heard it.

So you can imagine my shame as I sit on my own personal “who soiled the carpet” caper without a suspect in custody.

Desperate to solve this before my humiliation hits the media, I am opening my case file to the readers.

Please help me!

Incident Report

On Friday, October 17, 2025, at approximately 0455 hours, I, Barney Doyle, was traveling by foot from my bed to a pack of chocolate chip cookies concealed in the back of the kitchen cupboard.

While en route, I felt wetness on my bare foot just outside the threshold of the master bedroom. Disoriented by the darkness and the time of day, I did not immediately recognize the significance of the swampy carpet.

I continued to the kitchen where I consumed a perfectly reasonable number of cookies. On approximately cookie six, I became suspicious about my damp toes.

I returned to the floor outside of the master bedroom and observed an area of wetness approximately eight inches in diameter. The carpet had been dampened with a substance that I recognized from my training and experience as consistent in color, odor, and texture with a fluid commonly known as “pee pee.”

Because of budget constraints, no samples were taken for laboratory analysis.

A neighborhood canvas yielded no suspects, no eye-witnesses, and no surveillance video.

A sketch of the scene was included for reference:

Mrs. Doyle, age undetermined, residing in the master bedroom, provided the following information: Mrs. Doyle lives at the home with her nine-year-old son, Junior, and three wonderful dogs who she loves very much and would do anything to protect. Also residing at the home is Mrs. Doyle’s husband Barney, who is a generally decent man of questionable hygiene. Mrs. Doyle is certain that neither Junior nor the dogs would have urinated on the carpet. Mrs. Doyle was unaware of anybody who had a problem with the carpet or who would have wanted to cause problems in general. Mrs. Doyle claimed to have previously seen evidence in the master bathroom suggesting her husband was not the marksman he professed to be. Mrs. Doyle indicated that perhaps Barney Doyle urinated on the hallway carpet while attempting to hit the toilet. (Investigator note: ballistic analysis of the master bathroom revealed patterns inconsistent with the present crime.)

Junior Doyle, age 9, residing in his own bedroom unless he has a bad dream, provided the following information: Junior Doyle did not urinate on the carpet and did not know who did. Junior only learned about the crime that morning when he was woken by the sound of his father hopping on one foot and cursing. Junior indicated that at least one of the home’s three dogs might not be as wonderful as other witnesses have claimed. Junior offered several mutilated toys as evidence.

Winston, age 8, no fixed address, with a criminal history of escape and disorderly dog farts, provided the following information: Winston was asleep at the foot of the bed in the master bedroom dutifully protecting his family the entire night. Winston did not pee on the carpet and did not see who did. Winston loved the floor, where he frequently found delicious scraps from Junior’s meals, and he would never do anything to harm it. Winston admitted he used to occasionally pee on Mrs. Doyle’s rose bushes, but claimed he stopped after leaning in too closely and discovering thorns for the first time. Winston claimed the “white dog” was distracted by a squirrel when let out the previous night, and may not have emptied her bladder before bed.

Zadie, age 5, residing mostly on top of Barney Doyle, with a criminal history of shedding, drooling, suit-ruining, and bed-hogging, provided the following information: Zadie was asleep in the center of the master bed the entire night and could not have peed on the carpet. Both Barney and Mrs. Doyle could confirm her alibi, as they spent most of the night disrupting Zadie’s sleep with grumblings of “move over dog,” and “get off my blanket.” Zadie did not want to spread rumors, but examined the puddle and believed the size, smell, and taste of the pee matched the “little angry dog.”

Cybil, age 100 (approximate), residing wherever the hell she feels like, with a criminal history of biting old people, biting children, and biting priests, provided the following information: Cybil believed Barney Doyle peed on the carpet himself to frame her and she demanded an attorney. Cybil then tried to bite Barney Doyle’s hand and demanded a treat.

First reader with information leading to the arrest and conviction of a suspect will get a free copy of Reckless Speculation about Murder. And if I can distract Mrs. Doyle, perhaps an angry little terrier dog to sweeten the deal.

For those who didn’t solve the crime and would still like to read the book, grab it here… Reckless Speculation About Murder

In Sea of Glass, Patrick Shattuck unpacks the emotional layers of sibling rivalry, adolescent longing, and buried truths through the eyes of Shannon Delaney—a girl forever in her twin sister’s shadow. With elements of psychological suspense and subtle supernatural mystery, this novel offers both a literary journey and a chilling twist.

Here’s what Midwest Book Review had to say about Sea of Glass:

Synopsis: Shannon Delaney always lived in the shadow of her twin sister, Sarah. Sarah is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for Berkeley, while Shannon is unsure, overlooked, and heading nowhere fast. The only thing that’s ever been hers is Frankie -- her best friend since fifth grade, the one boy who saw her for who she really was.

But now Frankie is slipping away, drawn into Sarah’s orbit as they compete together in a high-stakes math tournament. Then something strange happens. A mysterious blue light glows from an old glass paperweight by Shannon’s bed, revealing ghostly visions -- of snow, of love, of heartbreak. She tries to convince herself it’s just a dream, but the feeling won’t fade. The glass may be showing her the truth.

As Shannon watches her world shift -- her sister’s secrets, Frankie’s choices, her own unraveling sense of self -- one thing becomes clear: the hardest truths aren’t always the ones others hide. They’re the ones buried inside.

Critique: Original, eloquent, deftly crafted, engaging, and an inherently fascinating read from start to finish, “Sea of Glass” by author Patrick Shattuck showcases his extraordinary and narrative driven storytelling skills that raises his novel to an impressive level of literary excellence. Blending ‘coming of age’, psychological suspense, and the supernatural, “Sea of Glass is an especially and unreservedly recommended pick for community library collections. It should be noted for personal reading lists that this paperback edition for “Sea of Glass” from Genius Book Publishing is also readily available in a digital book format (Kindle, $4.99).

Editorial Note: In addition to being a longtime English teacher, Patrick Shattuck is also a dedicated writer who holds a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and an M.A. in English from Simmons College. His short stories and poetry have been published in the Antietam Review, Smashing Icons, Lonesome Traveler, Paradigm Magazine, Fox Cry Magazine, and Evening Street Press. He is also the author of “Dawn’s Web” and “Red Moon Over Manhattan”.

Jim Cox

Midwest Book Review

Get your copy today! Sea of Glass

The Book Was Better

Steve Rush

Producers, directors, and actors deliver sight and sound in movies and television shows not available in novels no matter how well we write them. They invite us into a world filled with on-screen action and special effects accompanied by emotion-evoked soundtracks. The use lighting, camera angles, and other attention-drawing behavior for dramatic effect.

Many theatrical releases and made-for-television movies and series are based on novels. Yet, we hear comments from readers who opine, “I read the book. I saw the movie. The book was better.”

Why are some novels considered better? Novels (especially crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers) rank higher based on their sense of authenticity and credibility. Think about it. How many cinematic portrayals of inciting incidents, crime scenes, and law enforcement responses and actions included parts believed improbable and unlikely compared to the real-world?

Hooray for writers who research, show, and offer thought-provoking and emotion-evoked effects in their short stories, novellas, and novels. Readers prefer to lose themselves in the worlds created by authors who produce works filled with authenticity and credibility.

I have read books on craft written by successful writers and have taken online classes to improve my works in progress. Those most helpful to me are: Story Trumps Structure, Steven James; On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King; How to Write Best Selling Fiction, Dean Koontz; Plot and Structure, James Scott Bell; and On Writing Well, William Zinsser.

Craft alone proves not enough. Readers know if and when we fail to include the correct facts in our stories. Along with craft, we strive for authenticity, believability, and credibility to keep readers turning pages. Accuracy in our prose reflects credibility and enhances belief. Facts support our efforts. Facts paint the images we want readers to see as if everything happens in their presence. In crime fiction, suspense, and thrillers, we show readers how to kill. We show them how to collect evidence, how to investigate deaths, and how to put together a case for prosecution. Each endeavor must embrace appropriate facts. Facts validate scenes.

Details in fiction reflect real-world situations. Unbelievable instances in life frequently prove to be true, although many come as a surprise. When readers see events as too easy and convenient, skepticism turns focus away from the story. Like Jack Webb’s character Joe Friday in the TV series Dragnet, “All we want are the facts.”

The facts in our stories must relate to reality if we want readers to keep turning pages. Here are a few examples:

• Will a bullet or shotgun blast knock a two-hundred-pound person off of their feet?

• Are gunshot exit wounds always larger than entrance wounds?

• Does the number of stab or slash injuries offer clues to the assailant’s identity?

• Was the brain injury caused by a fall or a blow to the head?

• Will vehicles explode in a crash?

• How might you determine if a body discovered in a burned building was alive or dead at the time the fire started?

The circumstances and facts offer answers. Further investigation becomes necessary to answer and either prove or disprove each scenario. All the above questions and more are answered in Kill Your Characters, Crime Scene Tips for Writers published by Genius Books.

Get your copy today How to Kill Your Characters

Get Right There in Black and White today

DEVIL’S WIND

by

Michael A. Black

I’d just finished bagging my samples when I saw the cloud of dust roaring toward me about one hundred yards away. Bolo, my horse, began stomping and pawing at the ground nervously as he, too, eyed the approaching pickup.

“Easy, boy,” I said, patting his dappled-gray neck. This seemed to do little to calm him. Perhaps he sensed my uneasiness, for I had little doubt who was in the truck or that they meant trouble. My apprehension was reaffirmed moments later when, with a shrill squealing, the pickup skidded almost to a halt about twenty feet below me and began climbing the shallow rim of the desert basin. I put my equipment in the saddle bags just as the truck stopped. Joe Threestalks got out holding a pump-shotgun at port-arms.

“You’re trespassing, washichu,” he snarled, his dark brooding eyes barely visible under the brim of his hat. Charlie Onehorse got out the other door. He didn’t have a gun, but he locked open the blade of his buck knife and sauntered forward.

“Look, guys,” I said cautiously, “I’m sympathetic with the tribal lawsuit. I really hope you win it. Honest. I was just out collecting some fossil samples.”

“So you didn’t mean no harm, huh, washichu?” Joe sneered.

He brought the pump back, then snapped it forward chambering a round with an ominous chunking sound.

“Dump out those saddle bags,” Charlie said. “Then empty your pockets.”

Since I’d just spent two hours on the hot sun sweating over a hill of poisonous harvester ants to collect the fossil fragments the ants brought to the surface during their excavations, I wasn’t too happy about complying. But I didn’t want to argue with a man carrying a shotgun. Carefully, I removed the bag and opened it, trying to explain what it was.

“Just drop it, washichu!” Joe yelled. “Charlie, get his wallet.” Charlie was reaching with one hand, the knife held in the other, when an authoritative command stopped him. We all looked around, upward toward the source of the voice. At the top of the basin rim, silhouetted by the midday sun, I could see two legs and the outline of a hat. The rest of the figure was obscured by the brightness. But I could still tell that he was holding a rifle.

“If you touch him, Charlie, I’ll take you in for armed robbery,” Jim Buck said. “Drop that knife.”

“But we caught him trespassing,” Joe yelled.

“I heard,” said Jim, still looking down the rifle barrel. Charlie threw the knife down angrily.

“Joe,” Jim continued in his strong voice. “Put your shotgun on the ground. Now.”

As Joe obeyed, Jim’s boots scuffed through the crusty red earth of the basin rim as he came down to us. He stopped by me and regarded each of us with this deep-set eyes. His face was rather flat-looking, with high chiseled cheekbones and an amber complexion. The barrel of his rifle rested on the shoulder of his khaki uniform. In the bright sunlight the reservation police badge shimmered like sterling silver.

“I shoulda known you’d take his side,” Joe said, gesturing at me.

“Taking a washichu’s side over us,” Charlie muttered in support. “Still a white man’s boy, huh?”

“First of all,” Jim said slowly as he stooped to pick up Joe’s shotgun, “I’m not taking sides. Second, I’m confiscating this gun until you proved you’re cooled down enough to handle it.”

“You got no right,” Joe protested.

Jim’s eyes were piercing. “You’d better get out of here now, before I change my mind and run you both in.”

Reluctantly, Joe and Charlie retreated to their truck, muttering an occasional profanity. The engine kicked over a few times, then caught, expelling an effluvium of dark, oil-laden exhaust. Joe popped the clutch, circled, and sped down the hill.

Jim watched them leave, then turned to me. I smiled. Sure glad you came along, Jim.”

“They meant you no serious harm,” he said. “But they might have roughed you up some. You’d best not come on reservation land anymore.”

“I think I got all the fossilized samples I needed today,” I said. “But this area’s still not officially reservation territory. At least not until the lawsuit’s settled.”

“And if McKitrick has his way, that’ll be never” His voice was bitter. “Just the same, you’d best stay away.” He pulled the slide on the shotgun back and a double-aught-buck round snapped out.

“Thanks again,” I said, as I watched him ascend the hill, his rifle in one hand, Joe’s shotgun in the other.

“How’s Carol?” he asked as he got to the top.

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll tell her you said hello.”

He nodded and disappeared over the rim. I scanned the mesa for the dust trail of Joe’s pickup. It seemed to be heading back toward the reservation. Or the official border anyway. If I rode Bolo along the canyon rim, I could get to Carol’s without risking another confrontation. I swung up into the saddle, and after making some minor adjustments for comfort, steered Bolo up the crown of the hill to the top of the basin. Jim Buck’s brown four-wheel-drive Bronco was about a hundred yards off, its light-bar and reservation police insignia reflecting the sunlight like mirrors. He was running a parallel course with me. Good old Jim, keeping a watchful eye on me, even though I stole the girl he loved.

Jim and Carol had been an item in college a few years ago until her father, Paul McKitrick, found out she was dating an Indian and put a stop to it. Mr. McKitrick didn’t seem happy unless he was controlling every aspect of Carol’s life. He’d used his wealth and political connections to get Jim’s athletic scholarship at the university revoked. Jim, whose grades weren’t the best, had to drop out. He enlisted in the army and spent three years in the military police. When he came back, Carol and I were engaged. Weld met in grad school. She’d been studying English, and I’d had one of my poems published in a school magazine, even though my major was geology. At first McKitrick sort of approved of me.

After all, I was white and pursuing a Ph.D. in a respectable field. But we’d had a minor falling out when I’d rejected a job with his company in the planning and research department in favor of a teaching position at the university so I could finish up my degree.

But when she turned twenty-five, Carol would inherit control of the trust fund that had been set up by her mother’s will. That wasn’t very far off now, and I think it stuck in McKitrick’s craw that we’d be able to do whatever we wanted then, and there was nothing he could do to stop us. This, and the on-going lawsuit with the Indians, seemed to have made McKitrick very moody of late. Even his newest wife, Christene, who was only a few years older than Carol, didn’t seem to make him content. Carol’s mother had drowned over twenty years ago on a fishing trip in Cancun with Mr. McKitrick. He’d gone through two previous wives, each younger than the last, before settling on Christene.

As Bolo trotted along at a slow pace I looked over the basin again and appreciated its beauty. Rows of cactus punctuated the dry, brown landscape. Distant mountains with layers of shale separated by varying hues of red loomed majestically on the horizon. More than a hundred years ago, back when the plains Indians had signed a treaty with the U.S. Government, the buffalo had roamed here alongside the nomadic Indian tribes. Back before the concept of land ownership became a pertinent issue. And long before anybody suspected that vast quantities of uranium lay beneath the shale. The farther I got from the basin, the more the oppressive heat seemed to recede. Except for the hot dry wind, which the Yaqui Indians say always precedes doom. They call it El Viento del Diablo―The Devil’s Wind.

As I came to the border of the McKitrick ranch, another rider approached me from the opposite direction. The horse, a huge white stallion, was as unmistakable as the broad powerful shoulders of the rider. I eased Bolo to a stop as Paul McKitrick abruptly reined in his horse next to me.

“Rick,” he said with a forced grin. “I figured you were around when I saw that wreck-of-a-jeep-and-trailer parked in my drive.”

I’d brought Bolo out from town in the trailer and parked it at his ranch. Mr. McKitrick always took any opportunity to remind everyone that he always went first class.

“Why don’t you sell that old nag to the dog food company and let me give you a real horse?” he said, glancing at Bolo. His own stallion stirred uneasily.

“He’s like a member of my family,” I said, trying to muster a smile. “Besides, he gets me where I’m going.”

McKitrick snorted, removed his brown cowboy hat, and wiped a sleeve over his artfully graying pompadour.

“Sentimentality doesn’t win the ball-game,” he said. “You’d better learn that if you expect to make something of yourself.”

“I had some trouble with Charlie Onehorse and Joe Threestalks out by the basin earlier,” I said, trying to change the subject.

“Jim Buck ran them off, but they still might be in the area.”

“I hope those bastards are,” he said, patting his belt. A pancake holster was strapped to his side, the black checkered grip of an automatic pistol sticking out from it. He pulled out the gun and held it up for me to see. “Have I shown you this beauty? It’s a German-made nine millimeter. A Sig Sauer.” The gun was flat black, with a box-like slide.

“This’ll take care of those freeloading troublemakers,” he said, re-holstering the weapon. “They mess with me and they won’t be around to get their free pickup truck from the government next year.”

He gave me a fractional nod and kicked the stallion’s sides, taking off at a fast gallop. As I watched him go, I thought that a hundred years ago he would have ridden with the Seventh Cavalry to fight the Indians. Now he carried a German-made automatic and used a high-priced lawyer to maintain a holding pattern in a courtroom, where the legality of a disputed 1876 treaty was endlessly debated.

Bolo trotted the rest of the way in, as if he’d understood McKitrick’s disparaging remarks. When I dismounted, I patted him reassuringly. As I walked him into the trailer, Carol strolled out of the big white house. She was wearing a tan blouse, tight jeans, and a handsomely sculpted pair of boots.

“Hi, cowboy,” she said as she got close. I put out my arms to embrace her, but she took a quick step backwards. “Not till you shower.”

“Is that any way to talk to your betrothed?”

“Obviously you haven’t smelled yourself lately,” she said, wrinkling her nose. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. “Want to shower upstairs?” she asked coyly.

“I can’t,” I said. “Got to get back to the lab. And Uncle Dede needs me to help out at the shop tonight.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “Maybe I’ll come by the shop later and let you satisfy my craving for ice cream.”

“Craving? You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Giggling, she shook her head. “No, not yet, anyway. But I’ll let you know if it happens.”

“In that case, I think it’s totally appropriate that the beautiful heiress buy the starving assistant professor the ice cream.”

“We’ll see,” she said alluringly, as she turned and walked away with an exaggerated wiggle. “If you’re good.”

“I thought I was always good,” I called after her as I got into the Jeep.

Pulling out on to the main highway, I made the trip back to Pueblo in a fast ten minutes. I put Bolo in his stall at the barn at my uncle’s house and took a quick shower. With the desert dust washed out of my hair, I felt a bit more presentable. When I pulled into the parking lot of Uncle Dede’s gun shop, I noticed a dilapidated old pickup in the spot next to the door. There was a vague familiarity about it. I pushed open the door and stepped into the air conditioned comfort. Uncle Dede was sitting with his feet up on the counter and a cup of coffee in his hand. He showed me his lopsided grin as he straightened up.

“About damn time you got here,” he chided.

“I had to wash the desert dirt off me,” I said. “Whose pickup is that outside?”

“Oh, that’s Sonny’s,” Uncle Dede said. “He’s drifted back into town and stopped in. Wants to stay for a while this time and asked me for a job.”

I raised my eyebrows. Uncle Dede and Sonny Lord had been friends for over thirty years. Sonny had been a local legend around these parts, having won the gold buckle on the rodeo circuit twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, he’d spent the rest of the time trying to crawl out of a bottle.

“What’d you tell him?” I asked.

Uncle Dede took a sip of his coffee. “I told him to put in applications over at the stables and the stores first,” he said. “But I guess I’ll carry him till he finds something better, or moves on again.”

“The latter’s probably more likely,” I said, withholding further comment on my uncle’s friend. Sonny’d been drifting back to Pueblo like a migrating falcon, for as long as I could remember. He’d come back for a while and straighten up, then fall back off the wagon and vanish for a few more years. Usually he would work the rodeo circuit. But not as a champion anymore. Now he was only the clown or clean-up man.

“He says he’s taken the oath,” Uncle Dede said solemnly.

“Haven’t we both heard that one before?” I said skeptically. “Heard what?” Sonny said, slipping up behind me. I turned somewhat startled. He was tall and angular, and looked better than the last time I’d seen him. The grip of his rawhide hand felt strong and sure. He strolled over to the counter as Uncle Dede handed him a fresh cup of coffee. Despite all his problems with the bottle, Sonny still had a picturesque look about him. Sort of like Gary Cooper. And like Coop, he had a way with the ladies. The tales about his romantic prowess were virtually legendary.

He nodded thanks to Uncle Dede for the coffee and struck a wooden kitchen match to light up a cigarette. Removing his hat, he sat down on a stack of boxes and swallowed some of the dark brew.

“Ah... Just the way I like it,” he said. “Nice and hot, just like a good woman.”

Uncle Dede handed a second cup to me, and I sat across from them and listened to their stories. It was hard not to like Sonny when you sat listening to him spinning a yarn. After about twenty minutes there was a lull in the conversation.

“Like I was telling Dede, Rick,” Sonny said. “I done took the oath. And this time I intend on keeping it.”

I nodded, swallowing the last bit of my coffee.

“I don’t blame you for being doubtful,” he said. “But there’s just one way for me to prove it. Say, you still going out with that pretty little gal Carol?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re engaged.”

“Well, congratulations,” he said, extending his hand. “You set the date yet?”

“No, that’s still a ways off,” I told him. “I gotta finish school first.”

“She’s gonna inherit a lota money in a trust fund, I hear,” Sonny said slowly.

“Yeah,” I said, wondering how he knew so much.

“You got any pictures of her?” he asked.

I pulled out my wallet and showed him a snapshot of Carol and me. He grabbed the wallet and paged through the plastic folders finding one of her graduation pictures.

“She sure is pretty,” he said, staring at the picture and shaking his head. Then, handing the wallet back to me said, “You sure are a lucky man.”

“Thanks.”

“How you get along with old man McKitrick?” he asked.

“How does anyone get along with him?” I joked. “I just saw him a little while ago.” I related the brief encounter in the desert, and told them about his comment regarding the Indians.

“Damn,” Uncle Dede said. “I sold him that Sig Sauer. I hope he don’t go shooting nobody with it.”

“If he does, it better be in self-defense,” I said.

We chatted for about five minutes more. Long enough for Sonny to gulp down the rest of his coffee. He seemed suddenly agitated and said he had to take off. After he’d left I asked Uncle Dede if he really thought that Sonny had straightened himself out.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “He’s looking better than I’ve seen him in a long time, But it’s sorta like putting a cougar in a pen. He might be dying on the inside.”

I told Uncle Dede that I’d be back and went over to the university geology lab and sorted out the samples that I’d bagged along the basin. After fixing the slides I needed, and writing up about ten pages of crude notes, I glanced at my watch and realized it was close to five. I’d promised Uncle Dede that I’d help him with the store inventory that night, so I put everything away and stored the samples in my lab locker. Then, after grabbing a quick burger and fries to eat on the way, I drove back to the gun shop. Uncle Dede had a cup of coffee all ready for me and we settled in to work. It took us a couple of hours, and afterwards I watched the counter while my uncle worked on some guns that people had brought in for repairs. Because he owned the gun shop and was the best smith in the territory, Sheriff Pete Gunther had made Uncle Dede a special deputy. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when the sheriff telephoned about twenty minutes before closing.

“You want to talk to Uncle Dede, Sheriff?” I asked.

“No, Rick,” he said. “I was trying to get ahold of you. I’m out at the McKitrick place. You’d better get out here pronto.” “Is Carol okay?” I asked, panic edging into my voice.

“She’s not injured,” he said slowly. “But the doc’s on the way to give her a sedative. Her father’s been killed.”

“Killed?” I said. Uncle Dede’s head popped up from the trigger mechanism held been working on.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Apparently Mr. McKitrick went horseback riding earlier today out on the north forty. His horse came back in riderless about four hours ago, so they figured he’d been thrown, or something. They went out lookin’ and found him out by the canyon. Dead.”

“Did he fall?” I asked.

“No,” the Sheriff said. “He’d been shot.”

**********

By the time we got out to Carol’s the drive was a maze of revolving red-and-blue lights. Sheriff Gunther, visible because of his extreme height and white Stetson, was barking out orders. Uncle Dede strode up to him and asked if he needed any help.

“Not right now, Dede,” he said. “But, Rick, you might want to look in on Carol. Doc Gleason’s with her now.”

I hurried into the house and ran upstairs to Carol’s room. The doctor and Christene were with her. He’d already given her something, and I held her for a few minutes before she drifted off to sleep.

Christene put a hand on my arm and thanked me for coming.

She was normally a very attractive woman, but tonight she looked totally spent, her face swollen from crying.

“You all right, Christene?” I asked.

“It’s just such a shock,” she said, breaking down again. “There’s so many people I have to call.”

“Why don’t you you let me call Mason Gilbert?” I said. “He can handle things while you get some rest.”

Mason Gilbert was McKitrick’s lawyer. He lived in Deming, which was about twenty miles away.

Christene nodded and went down the hall toward the master bedroom. As I was paging through the Rolodex by the phone, Sheriff Gunther and Uncle Dede came in.

“How’s Carol?” Uncle Dede asked.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. “Sedative.”

He nodded, then said, “Rick, I was telling the Sheriff about that little run-in you had with Threestalks and Onehorse this morning. Would you mind going over it with him?”

I was still holding the phone in mid-air, staring at the Sheriff, who gave me a reassuring little nod.

**********

Things began to heat-up pretty fast after they arrested Joe Threestalks and Charlie Onehorse. After hearing the story of my confrontation, the Sheriff put out a broadcast to bring them in for questioning. One of the county units spotted Joe’s pickup at the Wigwam, a local Pueblo bar, and they grabbed them as soon as they got back in the truck. Mr. McKitrick’s nine millimeter

Sig Sauer was found wrapped in a rag under the front seat. Joe and Charlie swore up and down that they didn’t know how it got there, but they were both charged anyway.

The next day, when he heard about their arrest, Jim Buck drove into town and demanded custody of them because the crime had occurred on the disputed tribal land. Sheriff Gunther practically threw Jim out of the jail, and Indian-white problems began to escalate all over Pueblo, the reservation, and at the university. Uncle Dede and I closed up the gun shop, which we normally did in tense times, and put the “Gone Fishin’” sign in the window. I went out to Carol’s and helped her and Christene with the funeral arrangements and notifications. Mason Gilbert handled everything else. Carol’s trust fund was safe. Christene, who’d signed a prenuptial agreement, would receive a substantial one-time cash settlement. She seemed to be taking it better than Carol, who seemed listless and depressed. “It’s so sudden,” Carol said, the tears brimming in her eyes again. “So abrupt. Just like when mom died.”

I held her close and let her cry, searching for the right words, but unable to find them.

Christene came in and asked Carol to help her pick out some of her father’s clothes for the undertaker. Figuring that it’d be better if she was occupied, I urged her to do it. I told them I had to go feed Bolo, after which, I’d come back. I got into the jeep and sped down the long asphalt roadway that intersected with the highway. As I slowed to a stop at the end of the road, Fred Perks, the mailman, pulled up beside me in his mail car.

“Sorry to hear about Mr. McKitrick,” he said, handing me a stack of mail through the open window.

“Yeah,” I said, slipping the mail into the inside pocket of my jacket. Fred, being the mailman, knew everything about everybody, and could talk the legs off a chair. I had no desire to engage him in a long conversation. “I’ll give them the mail when I get back, Fred.”

“Sure thing, Rick,” he said. “And tell ‘em that I hope they fry those dirty red bastards.”

“We’ll have to see, Fred,” I said, pushing in the clutch and putting the jeep in first gear. “They haven’t been convicted yet.”

“They will be,” he said. “They did it, didn’t they?”

As I drove back to town I couldn’t help wondering if Fred was right. The case did seem pretty open and shut.

**********

When I got to the shop, I went in the back way. Uncle Dede was leaning over the table with the works of a shotgun spread out in front of him. Sonny sat across, elbows on his knees, with a cup of coffee. He grinned and nodded.

“Figured with the way things are heatin’ up I’d better get the Sheriff’s gun fixed,” Uncle Dede said. “How’s Carol?” Sonny asked.

“As good as can be expected,” I said. “She lost her mother a number of years ago.”

“Yeah,” Sonny said. “I remember.” Then he shook his head with a wistful smile. “Her mama, she was something.”

“You knew her?” I asked. To me, Carol’s mother was only an exceptionally beautiful woman in some old photographs. Carol’s recollection wasn’t much more complete.

“Everybody did,” Uncle Dede said. “Pueblo wasn’t as big back in them days. Didn’t have the university. She was the town beauty. Everybody dreamed about her.”

“And McKitrick got her,” I said.

“Yeah,” Uncle Dede replied. “Always said she married for love, and he married for money. They produced a good girl, thought. Carol’s a winner.”

“She took after her ma,” Sonny said caustically. “Not McKitrick.” Uncle Dede looked up with a sly smile.

“Why, Sonny,” he said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that you ain’t gonna miss him.”

“Oh, I’ll miss him all right,” Sonny said slowly, leaving the implication of his sentence drop. He stared at me over the rim of the coffee cup as he drank the rest of the liquid.

**********

Things remained tense in the town and Sheriff Gunther moved Charlie and Joe to the County Jail, which was about thirty miles away. The judge had ordered them held without bond until the preliminary hearing. The wake for Paul McKitrick was held the next day. I got out my one descent sport jacket and stayed at the funeral home with Carol and Christene. To make things more tragically ironic, Christene confided to us that she was two months pregnant.

“I don’t know what to do now,” she said.

“I’ve always wanted a baby sister,” Carol told her reassuringly. Practically the whole town showed up for the wake, and it was early evening when we got back to Carol’s. As I pulled into the driveway, everything looked normal. But when we got to the door, I saw that the jam was splintered. “What’s that?” Carol asked.

“Stay here,” I said. “Somebody must have broken in.”

I cautiously pushed the door open and looked inside. The drapes had been drawn and it was pretty dark. I reached for the light switch and flipped it on. Nothing seemed out of place. The only damage I found was in the main study, which McKitrtick had used as his office. Everything was turned upside-down. Papers were strewn everywhere, and the locked desk drawer of McKitrick’s big oak desk had been pried open.

When the Sheriff got there, he chastised me for going through the house before calling him.

“I’ve got enough problems without somebody surprising a burglar and maybe getting shot,” he snapped. “Now go stay in the kitchen, all of you, till we can process the scene.”

Christene suddenly began to feel ill, and Carol helped her upstairs to her room. As I sat at the kitchen table, the phone began ringing. After about five rings I figured that the women were still busy, so I answered it.

“McKitrick residence,” I said.

“This is Dr. Frank Hardy,” a masculine voice said. “To whom am I speaking?”

I identified myself, and asked if I could help him.

“I was out of town for a few days,” the caller said, “and I just heard about Mr. McKitrick.”

“I see, doctor. Did you know him well?”

“Not really,” Hardy said. “My practice is located in Buffrington. Mr. McKitrrick sought out my services about a month ago.”

Buffrington was the next large city to the north of Pueblo. It was a good fifty miles away.

“I see,” I said, somewhat perplexed.

“In fact, I just sent Mr. McKitrick a letter he requested a few days ago. You can imagine my surprise when I found out he’d passed away.” He exhaled loudly, then continued. “I do have a slight problem, of a somewhat sensitive nature. You see, the bill for the tests I did for Mr. McKitrick still has not been paid.”

I rubbed my hand over my forehead and asked him for his address and phone number. “I’ll have the family attorney get in touch with you,” I said.

“The invoice was enclosed in the letter,” he said genially. “I’ll look for it,” I said. As I hung up, something was stirring in the back of my memory.

**********

Hours later, I found Dr. Hardy’s letter in the pocket of my jacket, which I’d absent-mindedly hung over the back of a chair in my room. I remembered pocketing the McKitrick mail the day after the murder. The call from Hardy had seemed annoying at the time, but my curiosity as to the nature of the tests kept gnawing at me. Why would McKitrick have gone all the way up to Buffrington when he had a family doctor right here in Pueblo? Was the nature of the letter something that was going to cause more grief for Carol and Christene?

The steam from the tea kettle rose upward, accompanied by a sharp whistle, which seemed like an alarm signal for my guilty conscience. But by the time I had the flap worked open, I had rationalized that I was doing it for the greater good: trying to shield the girl I loved from any needless pain.

The letter, with Dr. Hardy’s invoice inside, documented the results of some DNA tests that McKitrick had requested on him and Carol. I remembered that she’d told me casually that Christene, her father, and she had blood drawn about a month ago after a trip to Mexico, but Mr. McKitrick had said that it was to check for hepatitis.

I read the letter over twice before I accepted what it said: The results of the tests on both Paul and Carol McKitrick showed conclusively negative patterns. That meant that Carol was not his natural daughter.

**********

After the funeral, the house was full of relatives and I finally told Carol that I had to get out for a while. She angrily looked at me and said, “Do you think it’s any easier for me?”

I left the house, wanting to explain, but how could I tell her what I knew? The letter was safely tucked away in my lab locker at the university. I’d driven there almost immediately after I’d opened it, and stowed it there for safekeeping. After tossing sleeplessly all night, then sitting through the funeral and an equally mirthless lunch, I was still no closer to a decision as to what I should do. Carol came running out to the driveway as I was starting the jeep. Her eyes were flowing with tears and she was apologizing for being so emotional. Holding her close made me feel even more confused. Didn’t she have a right to know? But would finding out the truth so soon after her father’s death be the best thing?

After I left her, I drove back to the gun shop. The front door still had the “Gone Fishin’” sign on it, so I let myself in the back. I wanted to ask Uncle Dede’s advice about what to do with the letter, but couldn’t bring myself to talk about it. Instead, I asked him what kind of a man Paul McKitrick had been. Even thought Carol and I were engaged, Mr. McKitrick had always seemed distant to me. Maybe, I thought, if I knew more about the man I’d be able to figure out what to do.

“He was what you might call... a collector,” Uncle Dede said, leaning back from the tabletop. “He always had to be in total control, or seem like he was if he wasn’t. And it really bothered him if he wasn’t. Not that he didn’t lose occasionally, but he hated to. And would always try to cover it, if he could.”

“Just like the treaty war with the Indians,” I said. Uncle Dede nodded and smiled.

“Now, you want to tell me what’s bothering you, Rick?”

“You can see right through me, can’t you?” I said. I told him about the letter and what I’d done. Uncle Dede bit his lip when I mentioned the contents.

“Only one thing you can do at this point,” he said. “Go get that letter and turn it over to McKitrick’s lawyer.

“Mason Gilbert? Do you think that’s wise? What’ll that do to Carol?”

“McKitrick might have already confided in him about not being Carol’s natural father,” Uncle Dede said. “Whatever his reasons were, and I suspect knowing him, they weren’t good, you can’t afford to put yourself in the middle of something like this.”

I sat silently pondering what he said.

“If you love Carol, Rick,” Uncle Dede said, “I think you’ll see it’s the right thing to do.”

Our conversation was interrupted by the phone. It was Sheriff Gunther. He told Uncle Dede that a group of Indians had driven through the north end of town and taken a couple of shots at one of the squad cars. The Sheriff wanted Uncle Dede to get in uniform and ride shotgun patrolling the main highway between the town and the reservation. Uncle Dede told him he’d be right there. He hung up the phone and looked at me.

“So what you gonna do?” he asked.

“Drive up to Deming and talk to Mason Gilbert.” I said.

He smiled fractionally, then put both hands on my shoulders.

“I’m proud of you, Rick. But do me a favor. Let me call Sonny to ride up there with you. With all these Indian problems, the sight of a lone driver on the highway is asking for trouble.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll shoot over to the lab and pickup the letter and meet him back here.”

**********

If Sonny was worried about the Indians, he didn’t show it as we drove north toward Deming, past the Reservation. He nonchalantly flicked a coarse thumbnail over the end of one of those wooden kitchen matches and lit his cigarette. The big twelve-gauge shotgun on his lap seemed reassuring.

A squad car passed us as we drove by the Reservation. In a few more minutes we’d be nearing the turn-off for Carol’s.

“Hold on a second,” Sonny said, his eyes narrowing on the roadway ahead. “Slow it down.”

I stared ahead, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Why?” I asked. “You see something?”

“You see this?” he retorted harshly as he slammed the slide of the shotgun back, then forward, chambering a round. The hollow tube-like end of the barrel rested on my shoulder, pointing at my head. “Turn off the road here,” he said. “Do it now!”

I braked and eased the jeep onto the hard ground. We headed west toward the canyon. The layered red shale loomed ominously before me.

“Sonny, what’s going on?”

“Shut up! he said. “Just keep driving.”

The jeep bounced and rocked slightly as it rolled over the desert floor. We neared the canyon rim. He looked at me.

“I’ll take the letter,” he said. “The letter?”

He bumped the end of the shotgun barrel against my temple.

“Don’t get smart. Pull up over there and give it to me.”

I coasted to a stop near the edge of the canyon. He prodded me again with the barrel, and I took the letter out of my inside pocket and gave it to him.

“Get out,” he said, reaching over to shut off the ignition and pull out the key.

I slipped out the door, and he directed me backwards about ten feet, then told me to stop. He scrambled out himself and came around the jeep, still pointing the shotgun at me. There was a hot wind blowing from the southwest. A devil’s wind.

“Who else knows about this?” he asked, indicating the letter.

“Uncle Dede,” I said. “Others, too. Now, what’s going on?” “You can’t lie for shit,” he said, removing the contents of the envelope and glancing over them. He reinserted everything.

The corner had Dr. Hardy’s return address printed on it, and Sonny tore it off.

“Have to pay him a little visit,” he grinned. Then he took out another kitchen match and squatted on his haunches, the shotgun tucked under his arm. With quick glances from me to the letter, he snapped the match with his thumbnail and lit the envelope.

I watched as the yellow flame trailed the black semicircle of expanding ash over the white paper. He dropped it to the desert floor and the flame consumed the last part, leaving only a smoldering wisp of smoke and crumpled carbon.

Sonny stood up.

“What you got planned for me, Sonny?” I said. “An accident?” I knew if I tried to run he’d get me in the back before I’d gone ten steps.

“I ain’t got no choice now, Rick,” he said, licking his lips. “Can’t afford to let that letter get out. Too bad I couldn’t have found it while you all were at the wake.”

“The burglary? It was you?”

He nodded.

“But why?” I said desperately trying to keep him talking, trying to prolong whatever time I had. “What does it all mean?”

He exhaled slowly and raised the shotgun to his shoulder, then he hesitated.

“McKitrick was gonna disinherit Carol,” he said. “Told me so right out here that day we met. He knew all the time she wasn’t really his blood. Been buying my silence all these years. But now, with that young filly of his pregnant, he’d decided that it didn’t matter no more. He was gonna get rid of her. Cut her off without a cent, and I couldn’t let that happen.”

“You couldn’t?”

He scratched his cheek. “Move over toward the edge of the rim,” he said, gesturing with the barrel.

My feet felt leaded as they scuffed over the dusty surface.

“Why, Sonny?” I yelled. “Why couldn’t you let that happen?”

“Ain’t you guessed by now, boy?” he said. “I’m her real daddy.” Sonny grinned ruefully at me as he raised the shotgun again and pointed it at me.

I was stunned, my knees feeling too weak to run. Paralyzed with fear, I closed my eyes. The shot came and my knees gave out, and I rolled in the dirt, anticipating the terrible pain. Suddenly I heard a gurgling sound and realized I wasn’t hit.

Sonny was. He staggered convulsively in front of me. The shotgun discharged explosively, scattering a cloud of dirt off to the right.

Another shot, and sonny’s body jerked violently for a few seconds as he curled over and fell in a twisted heap. I ran forward and pulled the shotgun from under him. Jim Buck came running up carrying his 30-30 Winchester. I cradled the dying man in my arms.

“Rick, you all right?” Jim asked. “I was out when I saw you two.”

Sonny’s body shook again, and he brought a darkly stained hand up and looked at it.

“Dark blood. Hit my liver,” he said haltingly.

“I’ll call for an ambulance,” Jim said, turning to run up to his squad car.

“No,” called Sonny. “Got to hear... this...” A couple more labored breaths and Sonny told us that he’d killed McKitrick and planted the Sig Sauer in Joe’s truck.

“Saw it outside the bar.” His mouth twisted in a pitiful attempt at a smile. “Seemed a neat way to tie things up.”

“Why’d you do it, Sonny?” Jim Buck asked.

Sonny’s eyes darted from Jim to me. Then he shook his head. “Tell Carol I’m...” He started to whisper to me, then his mouth dropped open and a blood bubble spread over his lips, not bursting until I moved his head. His hands fell limply to his sides.

“What’d he say?” Jim asked.

I shook my head.

“Wonder why he killed McKitrick?” Jim said.

The scrap of the envelope with Hardy’s return address stirred in the hot wind, then fluttered out over the edge of the canyon and disappeared.

“I guess that’ll be his secret,” I said.

The End

Ready to read more by this author? Get Where Legends Lie today

Author Jim Christ shares how a salacious rumor turned into a gripping mystery. In this behind-the-scenes essay, he reveals the spark that lit the fuse for his upcoming novel, Ways To Be Wicked—and why he refuses to outline, letting the story unfold through the characters themselves.

“I wasn’t sure who the killer was until after nearly a year of writing.”

Meet the people, the secrets, and the questions that drove this story to the page.

📝 Read the full essay below—and stay tuned for the novel’s release.

My novel, Ways To Be Wicked, was inspired by a rumor about a teacher colleague of mine. I discounted the rumor’s credibility, but its salacious nature led me to wonder “What if…” and the story was launched in my imagination, if not inside the hallways of the high school where I taught.

What if a popular uber-masculine teacher, Russell Rusic, actually was the seducer of attractive high school girls? What if he was a long-time coach at the school with a string of state championships? With a reputation so big that his supervisors were afraid of him.

What if one of those girls, Usaré García, was Polk High School’s best in every way, with a high grade-point average, an outstanding record of community service and activism, and a huge following on campus and social media?

And what if that girl was found dead on campus one night during a school dance, the obvious victim of homicide?

What if there were several suspects with strong motives?

Andre Carver, the young Black man that she’d recently dumped? Memo Martinez, the leader of a street gang who was trying to recruit Usaré as a prostitute?

And what if Rusic wasn’t the only staff member with a physical attraction to Usaré? Perhaps the killer was one of Rusic’s jealous rivals. Maybe even one of the school’s administrators, Enrique Tavish, a married man with a sexual addiction that he hides from everyone, a man who’s himself been the subject of rumors…

As the author, I was not the only one watching this narrative unfold. Within the story was also a cop, Jim Burgoyne, a veteran who’s been assigned as school resource officer because he’s too unpredictable for the street; he’s got his own methods for investigation and his own concept of justice.

This drama cooked for years inside my head, its characters taking shape and plotting what they were going to do once I unleashed them on the page. I finally put my butt into a chair and began to pass on the story.

I say “pass on” not because I intended to breathe life into an old rumor but because the story had acquired a life of its own… because I wasn’t sure who the killer was until after nearly a year of writing.

These are the reasons I don’t try to create a plot outline or to predetermine “character arcs”— these things seem unnatural. I don’t know exactly how my stories will end, and I don’t know how my characters will become “people on the page” until they develop as I draft the novel. Nowadays, if I knew these things, I could feed the information into a machine, and it would create the outline and the character arcs for me. It could even write the book, I suppose. But I’m damn sure a machine can’t create organic people, not even on the page.

And “people on the page” is how a novel comes alive.

So, please enjoy Ways To Be Wicked.

Author Jim Christ