Category: Action/Thriller Publisher: A Different Drummer Publishing
ISBN-10: 0979922259
Type: Fiction
Pages: 201
Copyright: 2018
ISBN-13: 9780979922251
Danger threatenss PI Cameron Locke in small town Wexler Bend when she becomes involved in finding the killer of two young women.
One woman was found dead at the base of the reservoir dam in Clare Creek Park. The other was killed in her own home. They had only two connections to each other, their workplace; but they apparently didn't know each other, and each had received two yellow roses just prior to her murder. PI Cameron Locke knew neither young women but she, too, has found a single yellow rose on her porch two days in a row. When Detective Sergeant Shac Lane, Cam's maybe boyfriend, demands to know who wants to kill her, she can only think of one person, her ex-husbnd.
Cam's search leads to a past she'd like to forget and another police detective in Georgia who was kind to her. The case takes many unexpected turns and before all secret motives are uncovered, involves a lethal, lovely female TBI agent as well as a state sena
tor and his wife.
Excerpt
On the tv screen a perfectly coiffed female was saying "...no one has been identified and charged in the case of a prominent local resident’s ordeal in the Park on Clare Creek Mountain two nights ago."
One of my favorite place names had pinged off my dozing gray cells and I jerked fully awake.
The anchor now recapped the facts as pictures of an older woman flashed on the screen. I banged the foot rest down and sat straight up in my chair. Strands of auburn hair partly covered her face and her clothing was a mess. Disheveled as she was I knew her.
I’d met her nearly three years earlier. We'd both been clients at a battered women’s shelter. At the time her hair partly covered the bruise on her neck and the skin around one eye as well. The whole right side of her face was dark purple, shading into green and yellow and she winced when she turned her head too quickly.
Make-up hardly disguised the black bruise on my own face just below my dishwater blonde hairline. I'd set a cup of coffee in front of my ex and a little slopped out on the table, one of many things that infuriated him. He leapt to his feet, fist at the ready. I jumped back, but not fast enough to evade the blow. It didn't land where he'd aimed, the side of my head where my hair would cover the bruise. That hadn't been the first time, but it definitely was the last. For me, anyway. He left me lying on the floor and went out.
I lay there a few minutes, trying to stop my in case he came back. He hated crying, too. Then a thread of anger rose from somewhere and I knew I had to end this abuse or one day I'd be dead by my husband's hand. A month before my friend Tabi had scribbled the number for the local women's shelter on a scrap of paper and slipped it into my hand at work. I found it and picked up the phone.
