Tonight, Marley will beg for every forbidden thing she’s too proud
to ask for.
Marley -- I built the model. Denton stole the credit, sabotaged my numbers,
and tried to bury me in front of the client. Then Lucan walks in. Three nights
ago, he was the Dom who bound my wrists, stripped away my control, and made me
scream inside Sanctum Black. Today, he’s the client who can save my
career -- or destroy it. He demands I lead the account. Demands a direct line
to me. And when he orders me back to his private room, kneeling and waiting, I
know exactly what he wants. Worse, I know exactly how badly I want to give it
to him.
Lucan -- Marley thinks she can hide behind sharp suits, sharper words, and
professional boundaries. She’s wrong. I saw what she needed the first
night I had her under my hands. I saw the hunger, the surrender, the beautiful
way she fought herself before giving in. Her boss tried to take what belonged
to her. I handled that. Now I’ll handle Marley. I won’t break her.
I’ll bind her, test her, praise her, punish her, and make her beg.
She’s mine. By the time I’m done, she’ll say it. More?
She’ll believe it.
Read an Excerpt:
Marley
I sat at my desk, staring at my finished project. Three weeks of work stacked
into a clean PowerPoint. The numbers aligned. The previous projections had
been spot on, and I had worked to complete this project and move to the next
phase for over two years. Now waves had started in upper management. The
completed work would not be presented by me.
My boss, Denton, had made that clear in his email yesterday. He would lead. I
would attend as backup for any questions he couldn’t answer. The email
didn’t mention why he’d pulled the rug out from under me, but I
had a good idea.
My phone buzzed. A text from the front: Denton wanting me in the conference
room now. I’d already sent him my presentation for review so I
couldn’t imagine why he’d want me early. Even with him doing the
bulk of the meeting, I still had prep work to finish.
With a sigh, I shut my laptop and slipped it into my briefcase before leaving
my tiny cubicle. The open-plan office stretched around me. No one looked
up… which was the first warning. The conference room sat at the far end
of the floor, all glass walls and polished table. I could see two junior
associates already seated inside, their postures attentive, laptops open.
Denton stood at the head of the table with the room’s projection screen
pulled down. The navy suit he wore looked expensive and tailored, his tie
perfectly straight.
I stepped inside and the door closed behind me with a soft click. Denton did
not look up from his phone. “Marley. Thank you for joining us.” He
set his phone down and reached for the laptop in front of him.
“I’ve made a few adjustments to the presentation.”
He opened the file to the first slide. My name in the bottom corner was now
gone, replaced by his name in a large, bold font.
He glanced up at me. “Optics. I’m sure you understand.” His
curt explanation cut me off before I fully processed he’d actually taken
credit for my work. His voice stayed level. I opened my mouth to object but
heard how petty I’d sound in front of my colleagues. “The client
expects senior leadership on engagements of this size. It’s about
inserting confidence into the relationship between our companies.”
Neither of the other two men in the room spoke up. Instead, they both kept
their eyes on their own screens.
“This is an editorial decision, not a reflection on your work.”
Denton smiled, though there was nothing remotely friendly or pleasant about
the expression on his face. “You’ll be in the room. You’ll
have the opportunity to contribute during Q&A.”
My heart pounded in alarm. He was edging me out. Denton had every intention of
taking credit for the work we’d done on the first phase. He knew enough
about the next steps to make everything work, but I doubted he could explain
the finer points, or keep the project on track to meet the projections for
phase two which would mean a significant delay in phase three. Assuming the
assigned team made it to phase three.
“I understand the optics,” I said. My voice came out clipped,
precise. Anything louder would give him what he wanted. “But the
analysis is mine. The client should know who built it in case there are
adjustments leading into phase two.”
“Of course.” Denton nodded as if I had said something helpful.
Then he pulled up a slide with a page I had never seen. A figure chart with
numbers that did not match any data set I’d worked with.
“I did want to raise one concern.” He turned the slide toward the
juniors. “This figure. The correlation coefficient here is significantly
off from the rest of the model. I caught it during my review.”
The room went very quiet. I stared at the slide. The numbers were wrong. They
weren’t numbers I had generated and they definitely didn’t belong
in my analysis. Nor had I put them there. Suddenly, everything made sense. The
way he’d undercut me in the first meeting when he’d replaced my
topic without notice. The way he’d taken credit for my work. He wanted
point on this project and the prestige that went with it.
“This is exactly the kind of oversight that concerns me,” Denton
continued. His tone had shifted to something gentler, almost paternal.
“Attention to detail matters at this level. The client will have
questions. We need to be prepared with answers.”
My whole body broke out into a sweat, the visceral reaction to the way
I’d just been undercut. My jaw tightened. The furrow between my brows
deepened, a physical response I could not control.
“That slide isn’t mine,” I said. The words came out steady.
Barely.
Denton’s expression did not change. “The file was submitted to me
under your name.”
“I didn’t build that chart. The numbers are wrong.”
“Then we’ll correct it.” He set the slide down. “The
important thing is that we caught it before the client saw it. That’s
what a senior review process is for.” Could he sound more patronizing?
Through the glass walls, I could see heads turning toward the conference room.
Not staring directly. The careful, sidelong attention of people who understood
exactly what was happening without needing to hear the words. The shape of a
public correction. The unmistakable geometry of a superior establishing
dominance.
About the Author:
Welcome to Wanda Violet O.'s world of bedtime fantasy, where you'll find a
variety of sexy creatures ready to drink their fill. Wanda specializes in
extreme kink. Monsters, BDSM role play... she's got it all. Come take a look
for yourself!
A troubled teen struggling with fractured family relationships forms an unexpected bond with a lost, blind horse that transforms her life, teaching her the true meaning of courage, resilience, and healing.
Read an Excerpt:
A week on the ranch had really transformed me. I looked the part, like I’d lived here all my life. Before jetting from Seattle, I had an expectation of riding a fast horse over a wide prairie, the wind whipping my hair. Never had I imagined myself in baggy-butt jeans with pockets that sunk to my knees. They were heavier than any I’d ever owned, and fastened high on my waist, as if pulled up with suspenders. The shirt tail draped my back, and I had to roll the sleeves five times. But the boots! Oh, I loved how they made me taller. They fit like clamps, as if my feet were growing in bark. I clomped to the large picture window, plunked the sombrero Sabion gave me on my head. “Eesh.” I look like a mushroom. If Mom had told me from the beginning that Pap didn’t have horses, maybe I wouldn’t have thought twice about coming. I had the idea of wearing the giddy-up home—I would walk right past her at the airport and she wouldn’t even know me. But then, what would’ve happened to Radar? No. Destiny had brought me here. Pap’s boots stammered on the porch. I couldn't resist a cocky stroll past him—long, lanky strides that thunked my foot heel to toe. He sipped smugly from his coffee mug. Well, of course—nothing unusual to him. Just a set of sensible clothes. Oh, well…as long as he’s happy— * * * Sabion’s smirk held a snicker. “Ah, si. You look…now you look right.” I rolled my eyes. “Glug—” Radar was pungent with horse sweat. Was it his timid nature that made me brave for him? A fearless front to give us both courage, like a parent protecting their child? Well, some parents. He sniffed my pant leg, and blew a snort that spewed junk on my knee. Now they’re broken in… “How much time do I have today?” I asked. Sabion had honored his agreement to let me use Jennie half a day for training, but I’d already wasted a slip of his morning trying to make the blasted blue jeans work. He looked at his watch. “None today. I am here too long already.” “An hour?” I pleaded. Sabion shook a finger. “Yesterday you say to me, ‘This day I will make repairs to the corral.’ You forget this? Now you say, ‘Este día voy a hacer reparaciones.’ Mas importante.” I tried not to laugh. Sabion could never scold. Though he tried to sound tough, it only made him look leathery. It was kinda weird that I was beginning to understand him when I didn’t even speak the lingo. “But you’re here already. I can make the repairs when you leave.” My plan today wasn’t to repair the corral; my plan was to string those blasted bells together while I had the workbench to myself. Then I’d reveal my fun training plan to Sabion when he returned. His shoulders caved, the argument lost. “One hour okay is all.” His words netted altogether.
About the Author:
Katlyn Bates writes contemporary fiction for young adults. Her debut novel, Nightflower of Comanche Mound was named a 2025 Spur Finalist by Western Writers of America (WWA) in the Juvenile-Young Adult Fiction category. The recognition, along with multiple 5-Star book reviews from Readers’ Favorite, encouraged her to dust off old stuff she wrote just for fun, and look at them with fresh eyes.
Drawn to action and adventure that is grounded in real life, Katlyn finds inspiration in the wildness of the world around us. “Nature doesn’t care what we think. It’s wild and ferocious and unpredictable—a good reminder not to take ourselves too seriously. The downright ridiculous seems to call for a twist of humor. What I can’t see, I can imagine.” Juggling family, work, and life, over the years Katlyn grasped whatever time she had available for a writing class when she could—poetry, creative, a bit of journalism. What she discovered was that stories come from deep within us…a moment. A memory. An experience or impression or dream. Only when they surface, can you add texture and color.
A late-bloomer by her own description, Katlyn’s writing kicked off when she joined Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators (SCBWI), a community of like-minded people who selflessly share, uplift, and guide, one meeting at a time. “There’s so much to learn, just for the listening. Other writers energize me, challenge me to ‘say it better’. Everyone has a natural style, and it always amazes me how many ways there are to tell a story. From SCBWI to the Writers’ League of Texas (WLT)—where Nightflower of Comanche Mound was a 2022 Thriller/Action-Adventure Finalist in the Manuscript Contest—on to Western Writers of America and Women Writing the West (WWW), Katlyn has found that it’s networks of writers that encourage her “No matter what stage of writing skill, anyone, at any age, with a yearning to write should seek out others who love what you love. Don’t wait.”
A native Texan, Katlyn Bates lives near Dallas, TX, outside a small town that—like so many inter-connected communities, is quickly becoming absorbed by the sprawl. “As for me, it’s open skies and nature and landscape that frame a plot, and lend power to a story.”
An Unlikely Journey from Lifeguard Tower to Launchpad
Narrative Nonfiction/Inspirational
Date Published: August 4th, 2026
Publisher: Acorn Publishing
No Straight Lines to the Stars is the inspiring true story of a young
lifeguard who dared to believe his life could reach far beyond the horizon.
About the Book:
On the beaches of Southern California, Ken Kisco learned that preparation
saves lives. From rip-current rescues to split-second emergencies, he
discovered that courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to act in
spite of it. Those early lessons in resilience and composure pushed Ken to
believe he could accomplish anything . . . including his lifelong dream of
reaching the stars.
Through relentless perseverance and unwavering faith, Ken rose into the heart
of America’s most advanced space and defense programs, contributing to
human spaceflight initiatives and supporting groundbreaking technologies. His
unusual start as a lifeguard helped advance his career, distinguishing him
from his Air Force and Navy peers. Yet, his toughest challenges were
personal—he faced deep disappointment when a space mission was canceled
and learned lessons about trust and integrity from a romance-turned-ruse.
Ken’s journey reveals that success is rarely linear. Setbacks became
launchpads, adversity became refinement, and purpose became a compass. Part
memoir, part inspiration, and part behind-the-scenes look at America’s
quest for the stars, this is the unforgettable story of a man who proves that
bold dreams, combined with grit and heart, can launch an ordinary life into an
extraordinary one.
About the Author:
At ten years old, Ken Kisco dreamed of becoming a rocket scientist, a
goal that shaped his life. He earned multiple degrees, including master's
degrees from the University of Southern California in systems management and
from San Jose State University in industrial psychology.
As an aerospace systems engineer for NASA, Rockwell International, and Boeing,
he developed new technologies and earned recognition as an American Institute
of Aeronautics and Astronautics (AIAA) Fellow.
Ken now shares his passion by mentoring USC engineering students, inspiring
them to dream boldly. When not traveling, he and his wife enjoy San Diego's
beaches, where they live.
A novel of nine linked parables about globalization, ambition, hope, love, and greed spanning two decades and eight countries.
Fall 2008. The Waldorf Astoria New York. Two armed men storm the hotel’s famed bar and hold the occupants hostage: an American corporate raider, a Chinese tycoon, a British hedge fund manager, a Japanese housewife-turned-celebrity, a Mexican undocumented worker, a Wall Street bond salesman, and a Norwegian environmentalist.
Who are these terrorists? What do they want? And what ties them to their captives?
Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a genre-breaking novel that explores globalization’s “butterfly effect”: how choices made in one corner of the world ignited an unstoppable chain of consequences that upended lives across continents.
Praise for Merry-Go-Round Broke Down:
"What a fantastic tapestry of wordsmithing and storytelling! It left me with a much better understanding of how the world was woven so tightly by globalization, all through the dramatic stories of fascinating cultures and characters that are relevant to this day." ~ Paul Tudor Jones, Chief Investment Officer of Tudor Investment Corporation
"You might think that it would be impossible to write a novel that helps the reader put her arms around the complex issues raised by globalization. Yet, David Woo and Margalit Shinar have done precisely this. The result is most engaging and insightful. It is also one that even globalization experts such as myself can profit from." ~ Jagdish Bhagwati, University Professor of economics and law at Columbia University, author of In Defense of Globalization
"Merry-Go-Round Broke Down depicts the key socio-economic developments of the last quarter-century. It brings to life the people who put them into effect, as well as those who were affected by them. Few were untouched." ~ Howard Marks, the co-founder and co-CEO of Oaktree Capital and international best-selling author of The Most Important Thing
"A timely portrait of a world bound together by the pursuit of profit." ~ Kirkus Reviews
"An ambitious thriller with rich characterizations and a heart-pounding pace, Merry-Go-Round Broke Down also offers a stark, on-the-ground vision of globalization’s devastation." ~ Booklife by Publishers Weekly
"David Woo and Margalit Shinar have perfectly illustrated how even a tenuous connection between individuals can have a profound, far-reaching effect across the world that could never have been predicted." ~ Reader’s Favorite
"Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a contemporary fiction novel with the propulsion of a financial thriller. It’s fiction, but it wants to explain the world while it entertains you… If you want a story that makes you look up from the page and think, “Wait, is this how it really works?,” then it delivers." ~ Literary Titan
THE HOUSE IN KASHIWA, CHIBA Prefecture, southeast of Tokyo, was a two-storied box with aluminum windows and clad in white mosaics. It had a grey-tiled roof and a tiny front garden. The wind was howling outside as Tomoko struggled to get up from her bed. It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark, and everybody in the house was asleep. She was loath to abandon the warmth of the heavy duvet, but today was her husband Akihiro Watanabe’s birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a special breakfast.
Tomoko shivered as her feet, encased in thick white socks, trod silently on the tatami mat covering the floor. It was cold, even for January, and this was one time she wished there was heating in the bedroom upstairs. She put on her slippers, pulled on a heavy cardigan over her fleece pajamas, and went down to the kitchen.
The kitchen, Tomoko’s kingdom, was small, but she ran it like a tight ship, every utensil and small appliance kept in its assigned place.
She began to prepare her husband’s favorite menu: clam miso soup and omelet rolls. There was smoked fish left over from the previous night, as well as cooked rice.
After turning on the small heater and quickly swallowing a cup of hot tea, she put on her old blue-checked apron and set to work.
Poor Aki, she was thinking, as she removed from the fridge the asari clams she had bought the previous afternoon; he really deserved some cheering up. Only eight months ago he had lost his lifelong employment, the first serious crisis in their marriage of twenty-two years. The electronics company he had given his all to for over thirty years had gone bankrupt after its main customer decided to outsource to China.
She rinsed the clams in cold water, rubbed them clean with a dishcloth, and set them aside to soak in salt water. She then filled a pot with water from the sink and blanched a leaf of kelp. When it had softened, she removed it with chopsticks and then put it back in the pot to boil for a minute or two before taking it out again.
Though Aki had found a new job quickly enough, Tomoko was worried. It not only paid a third less than his previous salary, it was a temporary job, with a contract that had to be renewed every six months. While Tomoko was, by nature, someone who took life’s setbacks with a pragmatic optimism, she felt helpless in the face of the loss of their financial security. As she added dried bonito flakes to the boiling water, she shook her head and pursed her lips at the injustice of it.
When the fish was cooked, she passed the broth through a fine sieve lined with a cloth. Discarding the scum, she sieved it again. And again. Inspecting the liquid for any telltale specks, she repeated the process until she was satisfied the broth was perfectly clear. She now reached out for the clams, soaking in their bath of brine.
Usually, Tomoko loved the ritual fuss of birthdays, especially her husband’s—the shopping for presents, the paper decorations and cards, the candles on the cake—but this year there wasn’t much cause for celebration.
She rinsed the clams and tipped them into the broth. Bringing the liquid to a boil, she skimmed it patiently. Once the clams had opened, she mixed in the miso paste, squeezing it through a small sieve with a spoon. The soup was ready.
Now for the omelets. What was more worrying, she thought, breaking eggs into a bowl with a deft flick of her wrist, was that his pension was gone. And the new job offered no pension at all. The bleakness of their future agitated her as she whisked the eggs with more vigor than necessary and poured them into the frying pan.
The omelets were done. When they had cooled a bit, she rolled them up into narrow, finger-shaped wraps and put them aside. Then she arranged the fillets of cold smoked fish in the middle of a long rectangular plate, which she decorated in one corner with a dollop of daikon radish infused with ponzu sauce. Finally, she heated up the rice and took out some nattō, fermented soybeans, everyone’s favorite.
She looked out the window above the sink. The heavy night darkness was lifting, and she could make out the falling snowflakes and the leafless branches of the cherry tree in their garden bending in the wind. A cold grey light was beginning to infiltrate the kitchen. She switched off the overhead lamp, figuring she could do without it now.
A brown Formica-top table with six chairs stood in a nook just off the kitchen. Poor Aki, she repeated to herself as she began to set it. At the age of fifty-three, there was little chance of his finding steady employment again. Although they never talked about it, she knew that, ashamed and frustrated, her husband was unraveling. His drinking binges had become more frequent, and he had taken to coming home at all hours. He was also becoming moody and short-tempered.
Only last week he had flown off the handle when she told him she was thinking about looking for a part-time job. He wouldn’t hear of it, he had responded angrily. Their son was still at school and needed her. Besides, what would their neighbors think? It was out of the question.
Though Tomoko knew his objections had more to do with his pride, she didn’t bring up the subject again. She vowed to herself she would find another way to help. But how?
Tomoko put down a small flower arrangement, teacups, bowls, and chopstick supports on the table. She had to find a way to help Aki. Whereas she could still take comfort in little things, he had just lost his entire world. She took a moment to align the chopsticks just so. Taking a step back from the table, she viewed the result with satisfaction.
Tomoko glanced at the kitchen clock squeezed between the toaster oven and a shelf. It was seven-thirty and all was ready. Plenty of time left for a leisurely meal before Aki left for the office and their son, Nishio, left for school. What a pity her daughter, Keiko, wasn’t there.
Tomoko brushed that regret away, together with a lock of her permed black hair that had strayed onto her forehead, and stood meekly at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting. She could hear her family coming down the narrow wooden stairs.
She bowed to her husband and her mother-in-law as they appeared, her face faintly flushed from her efforts, her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. “Ohayō gozaimasu,” she said, with the politest of greetings.
But Aki only grunted a barely discernible thank-you as he viewed the mini-feast she had prepared and sat down, noisily pushing back his chair.
Then he buried his face in the morning newspaper that Tomoko had laid, neatly folded, to the right of his chopsticks.
He was followed by Nishio. At fifteen, he was a tall and gawky youth, with a few wisps of dark downy hair on his upper lip and chin. He advanced towards the table and sat down in silence. He sat there sullenly, looking down under lowered eyelids, not once making eye contact with his mother. He consumed his soup in a few rapid gulps and hurriedly shoved some rice into his mouth. Then with a curt, barely mumbled good-bye, he got up and was gone.
“Don’t forget your bento box,” Tomoko’s voice rang out after him, “you must eat lunch!”
The third person at the table was Mishimo, Tomoko’s mother-in-law. It was she who owned the house, and after the death of Akihiro’s father some ten years before had given over most of the space to her son’s family, keeping only one room for herself. It was a situation not without friction. She had never liked Tomoko and was of the opinion that her handsome son could have found a better match than the daughter of a taxi driver. Or, at the very least, a prettier one. Though their exchanges were invariably on the right side of civil, Mishimo inevitably found fault with everything Tomoko did. But this morning was different. She spooned down the soup slowly, savoring every sip. “Excellent, Tomoko,” she remarked loudly. “Well done.” A compliment! Tomoko was touched to the bottom of her heart.
She then turned to her husband.
“Anata,” he said, using a Japanese term of endearment. “I hope you’ll be home on time for dinner. I bought a cake for tonight. And there will be eel as a main course.”
Aki didn’t shift his eyes from the newspaper. “No. I’m eating out.
Client dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late.”
If Tomoko was disappointed, she showed no sign of it.
“Akihiro-san. I also bought you a small gift,” she announced timidly. She had bought it out of her personal savings and had hoped to give it to him at the evening meal. She would have to give it to him now instead.
She went to the living room where she had hidden it. Coming back, she bowed respectfully and held out the package in her two open palms like an offering, saying “Happy birthday” in English.
Aki finally deigned to lower the newspaper and stared at the box wrapped in delicately folded bright blue paper, tied with a slender red-and-gold string. He reached out to take it. But instead of opening it, he put it in the pocket of his suit jacket.
“Have to rush now,” he said dismissively.
“It’s the lighter you always wanted,” said Tomoko. But Aki responded with a dead gaze of bitterness at the wall behind her. Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair with such violence that it crashed to the floor.
“Baka! You stupid woman! Kono ama, you bitch!” He exploded in an inexplicable fit of rage.
Tomoko shrank back.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to waste money?” he yelled. “Don’t you see the situation we’re in?”
Without warning, he grabbed the cast-iron teapot from the table. He seemed ready to hurl it straight at her. Tomoko raised her arm to defend herself. He had hit her before, and she thought she knew what to expect.
At the last moment, however, perhaps in response to a whispered word from Mishimo that never reached Tomoko’s ears, he changed the direction of his aim and the heavy pot went flying toward the kitchen. Spurting tea, it smashed loudly into one of the kitchen cabinets.
In the silence that followed, Tomoko couldn’t move. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. But she didn’t say a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she was just in time to catch the expression of icy disapproval on Mishimo’s face.
***
Excerpt from MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Copyright 2026 by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Reproduced with permission from David Woo & Margalit Shinar. All rights reserved.
David Woo:
David Woo is a renowned global macro strategist, widely recognized for his bold and prescient calls on some of the biggest economic, political, and geopolitical stories over the past quarter century. Bloomberg called him “one of the most outspoken voices on Wall Street,” while Business Insider named him among “the twelve smartest people on Wall Street.” His views have shaped debates across markets, policy circles, and the global media. David began his career at the International Monetary Fund before going on to hold senior positions at Bank of America, Barclays Capital, and Citigroup. He earned a PhD in economics from Columbia University and a bachelor of arts in mathematics from Tufts University. A true product of globalization, David was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Taiwan, and educated in the United States. His career has taken him from Washington DC to London and New York. He is fluent in English, Chinese, and French.
Margalit Shinar is an architect. Margalit was born in New York, the daughter of French émigrés. She has a master’s degree in art history from Tufts University and a bachelor of arts in architecture from the Technion, Israel Institute of Technology. She has edited a history book on ancient Israel. She is fluent in English, French, Hebrew, and Italian.
This giveaway is hosted by Partners in Crime Tours for David Woo & Margalit Shinar. See the widget for entry terms and conditions. Void where prohibited.
Things are looking up for Maylin Cole and her 4-year-old daughter,
Margo. Fleeing an abusive relationship, the private clinic Heaven’s Hope
offers shelter and the promise of a new life. Led by the charismatic and
beguiling Seraph Nakir, they learn a surprising truth: they’re actually
angels who have lost their way.
Everyone has an angel name and is being prepared to ‘ascend’ when
the time is right. Their angelic identities will play a significant role in
aiding humanity when the world ends.
As the weeks pass, Maylin becomes accustomed to the peculiar confrontational
therapy. The black curtains and bars on the windows no longer trouble her. The
lack of privacy, mystifying theology, and strange rules become commonplace.
She sees Margo less frequently since the children are kept in the basement.
The death of another patient awakens Maylin to dark secrets within the walls,
and soon the horrifying truth about Nakir and Heaven’s Hope is revealed.
Maylin must confront her insecurities, rediscover her individuality, and use
her wits and resources if she hopes to save Margo and the other children.
Inspired by a true crime case, this slow-burn thriller roars to a
pulse-pounding climax, reminding the reader to think independently, ask
questions, and be careful who you trust.
About the Author:
J. Todd Kingrea is the author of "With A Blighted Touch" and The Deiparian
Saga ("The Witchfinder," "The Crimson Fathers," and "Bane of the Witch"). He
has also authored two non-fiction books, two short stories, and role-playing
game scenarios. When not writing, he enjoys collecting and watching movies,
reading, and prowling through dusty old bookstores. He and his wife live in
Galax, Virginia.
You can find him online at www.jtoddkingrea.com, on Facebook, X, and
Instagram. Stay in touch at jtoddkingrea@yahoo.com.
