Goodreads giveaway is up and running for my new book, The Accusers, and it is now available on Kobo as well as Kindle (and in paperback through Amazon).
Here's a brief excerpt from the book:
. . . Rebecca Anderson, affectionately known as Becca by family and friends, was a pleasant-faced woman, short and a bit plump, with curly grey hair. She was usually quick to smile, but today her expression was one of sadness. She turned on a reading lamp as she sat in her living room. It was February: the shortest, yet longest month of the year. The last rays of the winter sun had already died, and it was only 5 pm. According to the local news channel, there was heavy snow in the forecast.
Becca didn’t understand the depression she’d been experiencing lately. She’d lived in this house on Berwick Street for forty years and had raised three children here with the help of her beloved husband Jack, dead of cancer for five years now. She’d always tried to see the best in people and circumstances. . . .
She headed for the kitchen to begin preparing her supper. Her constant shadow, Mooch the cat, was nowhere to be seen.
He must be sleeping somewhere.
Becca pulled the cutting board from the cupboard and started assembling ingredients for a salad. She searched for the knife she always used to cut vegetables, but it wasn’t in the butcher’s block or the dishwasher.
Strange. I’m only sixty-five. I hope I’m not starting to get forgetful and misplacing things.
She selected another knife and began to slice the lettuce and tomatoes, trying to pinpoint when exactly this depressed feeling had started. . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud thump outside on the porch. Becca wiped her hands on a dish towel and hurried to the door. When she opened it, she found a note pinned there with her missing knife.Her hands shaking, she removed the knife and read the note.
You have been marked.
She spotted Mooch under the living room couch. The cat was hissing violently in fright, but there was no one to be seen on the street nor were there footprints in the crusted snow. . . .