"Love, Lies and Murder" by Leslie Wolfe

EXCERPT and GIVEAWAY

Love, Lies and Murder

by Leslie Wolfe

Love, Lies and Murder by Leslie Wolfe is currently on tour with Silver Dagger Book Tours. Grab your copy for only $0.99 or free on Kindle Unlimited!

The tour stops here today for an excerpt and a giveaway. Please be sure to visit the other tour stops as well.

For more books by this author, check out my blog post on Casino Girl and my blog post on Las Vegas Crime.

Description

Breathtaking suspense unraveling at train-wreck speed, in an unforgettable collection.

Sometimes the only way to do the right thing is to break the rules.

Love, Lies, and Murder is a collection of 19 short stories that explore the extremes of human emotion and the conflicts that result. Every story will leave you tense and breathless as the characters race to a conclusion that is as unexpected as it is satisfying.

Intense and gripping, each story features a hero that seeks justice and the triumph of good over evil by whatever means necessary - regardless of what society’s rules find acceptable.

The collection is taut, visceral, and addictive. All the emotions we feel every day, when taken to their extremes, offer a roller coaster of passion, conflict, and chills.

Nineteen droplets of suspense in a thrilling anthology that will leave you unsettled, longing for more.

Fans of David Baldacci, Robert Dugoni, and James Patterson will love reading Leslie Wolfe.

Excerpt from “The Banjo”

He ran parallel with the train as fast as he could, reaching for the handlebar and trying to figure out how he could hop inside, when the freight car was that high. It was above his waist level, and he needed to grab onto something with both his hands and pull himself inside the car, if he didn’t want the risk of slipping under the car and losing one or both of his legs in the process.

Freight train hopping was more difficult than he’d expected. He was almost out of breath and the train seemed to move faster, catching speed, while the distance between his extended hand and the handle he was aiming for increased inch by inch. At least that car had its door wide open and seemed empty. If he could only push forward some more, gain up on the damn thing, come close enough to venture a foot up that step, while grabbing onto the handle.

The train squealed and slowed down, as the tracks curved a little, and he pushed himself to run faster. Then he lunged forward with the last drop of energy he had left, and grabbed that handle while his left foot found the wide step underneath the car’s open door. His right arm flailed in the air, desperately looking for something to grab, while his body was pushed backward by inertia. Then he felt a strong hand grip his right wrist and yank him up forcefully. He landed face down on the car’s floor, while the same strong grip dragged him all the way inside.

“A thing like that could get you killed out here,” he heard a man’s voice say calmly.

He looked up at the man who’d pulled him inside. He was young, barely twenty years old, if even. His face was grimy, smudged with dust and sweat and dirt, and his clothes were nothing unexpected for a habitual train hopper. His blue eyes were fixed on his Rolex, and he quickly covered it with the sleeve of his windbreaker.

Still panting hard, he pulled himself up to his feet and shook the young man’s hand.

“Thanks,” he said, “I appreciate it.”

“Huh,” the young man replied with a grin, dazzling white teeth sparkling against the grime on his face. “You should.” Then he laughed, a quick laugh cut short by a few coughs. “You’re no train-hopper material, dude,” he continued when he was able to catch his breath. “What, you got lost, or somethin’?”

“Nah,” he replied, still panting. “Just looking for someone.”

The young man whistled. “So, you got a place to live, and nice clothes, and food, but you hop trains for fun?”

“Not for fun, no. I’m looking for my brother,” he replied. “Someone said he might have been riding freight trains through these parts of the country.”

The young man gave him a good look, head to toe, and he felt he was being evaluated. Maybe the kid was thinking how much money he had on him, or if it was worth killing him. He held his gaze steadily, unafraid, glad to feel the holster of his weapon tight against his ribs.

“Name’s Travis,” the kid said, extending his dirty hand again.

He took it and shook it firmly. “Jack.”

“Got some food on you, Jack?”

He hesitated a split second, then took out two of the chocolate bars he’d stuffed his pockets with before leaving the city.

Travis took one carefully, almost as if he expected him to slap him or punch him or something. Then he whistled again, and slowly unwrapped the bar, savoring the experience. Then he wolfed it down in two good bites, chewed hastily with his mouth open.

“Umm, good stuff.”

Jack watched him eat and felt something tug at his heart. This kid was about the same age as Conrad, his younger brother who had vanished almost two months ago. Conrad was going home from school one day, and it was later than usual. He’d stayed at school longer, working in the lab with three other med-school students, colleagues of his at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine, and those three students were the last people to have seen him.

From the lab, he had to cross the campus and walk a few blocks through Streeterville, to the Brown Line train station. From what Jack was able to deduct, it was already dark when Conrad had left the university about seven, his banjo strapped on his back, and a small backpack in his hand. That’s the way his colleagues described his appearance that day. He was his normal self, maybe a little tired after a long day studying countless blood samples on the electronic microscope, and he’d told everyone he was hungry.

Then he vanished.

[Want more? Click below to read a longer excerpt, including two full stories.]

Praise for the Book

“This was a fascinating and captivating read that had me immersed from the beginning. The stories flowed from scene to scene with ease, and the author shows exceptional ability when it comes to storytelling. There are plenty of attention-grabbing moments in this page turner that will take the reader on a ‘train-wreck speed’ journey.” ~ Piaras

“I really enjoy intense, gritty murder mysteries, and I did like the mysteries in this book. The stories that I loved were the ones that touched my heart. ‘The Banjo’ was such a surprise. ‘A Reason’ - I read it twice and had tears running down my face both times. ‘A Tour of Duty’ ... just wow! ‘Pay It Forward’ is so heartwarming. I am so glad I read this anthology.” ~ GrandmaHeather

“The title literally lets you know what the book is about. The book is divided into three sections and each section is about one of the words in it. So, the first section is about love and each section follows the theme of the introductory word. The book is expertly crafted and each section is full of wonderful stories.” ~ Liberrian

“This is a collection of short stories that will hit you right in your heart. They are all emotionally charged, all different but linked by extreme feelings and conflict. All of them are vivid and captivating, with compelling characters and so well structured that I'd have problems trying to choose just one favourite because there are so many that truly touched me.” ~ Clau

“Enjoyed each story! Each one had a plot that wouldn't let you stop until you finished the story. The stories of the military man and his dog plus ‘Adam’ particularly stood out. Leslie Wolfe continues to write tremendous short stories and novels. Just about all these stories could become great novels.” ~ Amazon Customer

About the Author

Leslie Wolfe is a bestselling author whose novels break the mold of traditional thrillers. She creates unforgettable, brilliant, strong women heroes who deliver fast-paced, satisfying suspense, backed up by extensive background research in technology and psychology.

Leslie released the first novel, Executive, in October 2011. It was very well received, including inquiries from Hollywood. Since then, Leslie published numerous novels and enjoyed growing success and recognition in the marketplace. Among Leslie’s most notable works, The Watson Girl (2017) was recognized for offering a unique insight into the mind of a serial killer and a rarely seen first person account of his actions, in a dramatic and intense procedural thriller.

Leslie enjoys engaging with readers every day and would love to hear from you.

Giveaway

Enter the tour-wide giveaway for a chance to win a $50 Amazon gift card.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Links

Add to Goodreads

Amazon (Kindle Unlimited)

BookBub

Facebook

Goodreads

Instagram @wolfe.leslie

LinkedIn

Pinterest

Twitter @LWNovels

Website

Featured in this post:

"A Perpetual Mimicry" by K. P. Ambroziak

ON SALE for $0.99

A Perpetual Mimicry

by K. P. Ambroziak

A Perpetual Mimicry is currently ON SALE for only $0.99. This is one for the literary connoisseur. Not to be missed! Read my review and some of my favorite lines below.

Description

Almega throws Ani to earth to rot and die in the body of a man. Simon finds him first, and shows him how to exchange his decrepit body for a new one. Ani thinks he is the best guide an exiled angel can have. But Simon is shrewd and wants Ani to help him get back the thing Almega has taken from him: his wings.

When Ani falls in love with Sarah, he does not know she is the key to a banished one's survival and the reason he forfeited his wings in the first place. Ani has to resist Sarah in ways he cannot, and somehow save her from the one creature who wants to use her up: Simon.

Excerpt

Simon was the only being I had heard speak until that moment and I thought I was imagining the voice. But this was no fabrication. As I scanned the horizon, I saw a man coming towards me from across the field.

“Ani!” he called a third time.

He was just a man. There was nothing luminescent about him.

Feeling unprepared for my first meeting with a genuine mortal, I contemplated running away. But as I shuffled my feet, I felt the binding of the ragged leather around them. The two black boots I was wearing gave me the courage to stay, reminding me my true identity was concealed beneath a costume of flesh. I headed in the man’s direction.

Deep lines marked his face and the corners of his eyes were drawn downwards. His countenance was unpleasant and his bottom lip puffed out a little as though his mouth were full. He spat off to the side every now and again as he chewed his bottom lip. Luckily his sour eyes and thick brows gave his face another point of reference. I kept my focus on his stern brow.

“Ya fly home now boy,” he said. “Yer father’s almos’ gone.”

He spat a wad of cud to punctuate his speech. I held my breath.

“Well, what’re ya waitin’ fer?” he said. He gave me a mean stare then spat several more times before looking up at the sky. “Ain’t no rain comin’. I’ll keep an eye on ‘em sheep.”

He pointed a thick thumb at his chest as he spoke and then spat again. I coaxed a nod in an attempt to convince him I understood.

“Better hurry,” he said. “Sarah’s waitin’.”

Sarah? The masquerade suddenly got more complicated. I considered making an exit once again, but Simon’s words ran through my mind: let his instincts guide you. I tried tuning myself into my body’s desires, letting the boy’s intuition guide me. My attempt proved successful when something inside me, an emotion really, made me want to abide by the man’s request. I had a desire to go to Sarah.

The man saluted me as he made his way back out into the sea of sheep. I watched him go and then turned to follow the path from where he came. As I walked into the woods on the border of the pasture, a distinct smell blew through the trees. Smoke. But unlike burnt flesh, this aroma was pleasing. There was a fire burning somewhere deep inside the forest and I could smell the crisp wood as though it were right at my feet. This was not the first time I noticed the intensity of my earthly senses. Ever since I nabbed the shepherd’s body, I had known an increased potency of my faculties.

I followed the scent knowing it would lead me to where I needed to go. I walked through the woods a while before arriving at the origin of the smell. When I found a quaint cottage amidst a clearing of trees, I knew I had arrived. It was the only marker I had seen in the forest and sure enough charcoal puffs of smoke were curling their way out of the roof’s chimney. The modest hut appeared to be fashioned from the trees that surrounded it. It was familiar, for I held a picture of it in my mind. I recognized the little red curtains drawn across the two windows on either side of the door, and I couldn’t help but recall the rows of golden-rays growing along the sidewalls. I quickly realized these recollections were the remnants of the boy’s memory.

I stood for a moment listening to a woodpecker puncture its way into a treetop far above me. Two doves made love with their requited coos, while sparrows chirped incessantly beneath the branches. The symphony echoed up through the tops of the trees, evoking my envy as I stood wingless on the ground. I led myself up the pathway to the cottage. As I got closer, the avian orchestra soon faded into the background and all I could hear was the soft hum of a girl inside. The sound was flawless and delicate, no match for the birds.

I listened, as remembrances flooded my memory. I envisioned what lay waiting inside as I stood outside the cottage. A girl’s face materialized in my mind, a memory of aesthetic perfection. I knew I had gazed on this face before. The oval visage was framed with long unruly tendrils, light brown and soft. I recalled their touch as I imagined them into reality. Her big green eyes were like olives floating in almond casings, and her aquiline nose marked the exact center point of her face. Her perfect top lip was slightly thinner than its bottom counterpart, and her mouth drew downward into a delicate pout. The lips made the shape of a heart when her mouth was closed. I knew this perfect face awaited me on the other side of the door, and just as I reached out to push it ajar, it swung open.

“Ani!” her voice peaked. 

My Favorite Lines

"Two doves made love with their requited coos, while sparrows chirped incessantly beneath the branches. The symphony echoed up through the tops of the trees, evoking my envy as I stood wingless on the ground."

"Water rushed over pebbles, as a palette of colorful wild flowers painted the water's edge."

"I longed to wrap myself around this girl and engulf her soul with mine."

"He was furiously splattering his brush across the canvas as though invoking a spell with his color wand."

"It was as though gazing upon her brought relief to anguish I didn't know I suffered."

"I wanted to tattoo the image of her living face upon the skin of my mind."

My Review

By Lynda Dickson

A fire angel is stripped of his wings, banished from his star, and forced to roam the Earth as penance. He plummets to Earth, landing in the desert where he encounters Simon, another banished one. Simon promises to help him regain his star. Wandering through place and time, our angel occupies a number of bodies and experiences a number of human emotions. First, he takes over the body of a shepherd, Ani, and comes to be known by this name. As Ani, he meets Sarah and discovers that there are worse fates than losing your wings and being banished from your home.

The writer has a fabulous vocabulary; the dictionary feature of the Kindle app certainly came in handy. I even learned a few new words, including: pinions, virescence, pulchritude, Lethean, sidereal, plumule, empyrean, and egregious. We may wonder what all the disparate story lines have to do with each other, but it all becomes clear in the end. A Perpetual Mimicry can be described as an angelic Groundhog Day.

This is one of the best-written and well-edited works I have read. A Perpetual Mimicry is the definition of beautiful writing; it is poetic and lyrical, profoundly moving, and will haunt you for a long time to come. I look forward to reading more by this author.

From the Author

I live in Brooklyn with my favorite person and just received a doctorate in Comparative Literature from the City University of New York. I'm happy (if not lucky) to spend most of my time writing while also teaching part-time. I want you to know that I appreciate the hours you spend reading my words and believe there's no greater gift than your time. Last but not least, I like basset hounds because they're funny looking, I'm bad at twitter, and I binge watch my favorite TV series - I'm talking about you, Sherlock, Vikings, et al.

Links

Add to Goodreads
Amazon US

Amazon UK

Amazon US author page

Amazon UK author page

Facebook

Goodreads

Google+
Twitter @KPAmbroziak
Website

"All My Sins Remembered" by Adam Stanley

REVIEW

All My Sins Remembered

by Adam Stanley

All My Sins Remembered is the first novel by poet Adam Stanley.

Description

The years is 2009, and Andrew White has just had his last argument with his first love, Leigh Mallory, whom he has not seen in almost ten years. In the sultry heat of a July, Atlanta night, he sweats out his sins and his regrets in a cheap motel, somewhere just off I-75. He has been in love with her for twenty years, and there have been many casualties along the way, including his own body, mind and soul. His only salvation lies in his enduring love of art, and the realization that maybe there is more to life than Leigh Mallory.

Excerpt

It was true, I had been searching for peace, or at least what I thought was peace. Starting that night after Graduation, when I drove away from Aventine for the first time, alone, and headed south to Key Largo in a car that that seemed empty without Leigh, my life has been one endless search. I have never stopped. And whatever it was I was looking for, I was always moving too fast to notice whether or I had found it or not.

I made up excuses to keep moving. For as long as I can remember, I have been looking for an abstraction that I have always called happiness. In summer I long for the snow. In winter I cry for the sun to return; in the autumn I watch the same leaves die that I watched come to life in the spring, and each season they are equally beautiful. For as long as I can remember, I have been looking for happiness, which is really nothing more than an abstraction; a kind of dream to keep you going year after year; an antidote against the sadness of reality; a lie that keeps you alive. I wait and wait, but there are too many tomorrows, and not enough todays.

Every six months I packed my car and made another impulsive move to an adjacent state. Following a lover or a dream, it always seemed just a few more miles down some Southern interstate, where the only difference was the vegetation, and a slight rise in humidity with every inch I drove further south on the map. Too often I found myself alone on some endless road, all the bridges I had spent so much time building, burned and left behind. Like that morning I had when I woke up in Nashville, alone, and hung-over, not sure what I had done wrong but it must have been bad because when I got up and looked in the mirror, both of my eyes were black and my face was caked in blood. Just like all the other times, I got in my car and drove south as fast as I could. This time it was a cousin in Mobile. Later, while I sped down interstate 65, I remembered bits of the night before. I had gotten very drunk and hit on this guy’s wife and he pulled a gun.

That’s all I remembered as I drove on, the lights from Montgomery fading in the rear-view. South Alabama was nothing but darkness and with the windows down I could smell the invisible cotton fields and rolling pastures strong with the acrid scent of manure in the warm, early spring air. As I drove on, radio stations passed away; old Country dissipated into static, then fluctuated for an hour or so between a screaming Pentecostal preacher, and a wavering Bach string quartet, before the Classic Rock station in Mobile took over for good.

This was not the first time I had taken this escape root [sic]. No matter where I was going, the desolation of these flat, lonely highways was unavoidable. Every time I ran from something, I was always driving in Alabama, and just like every other time, I always ran out of road.

It was water that stopped me every time. The ocean was the inevitable end to all my journeys. Whether it be the wild, reptile infested outcroppings of bayou and wetland that lie hidden like an Eden just south of New Orleans, beyond the iron bridge, where the Big River pours out its soul into the Gulf; or Biloxi, sitting entranced by a black jack dealer whose hand’s fluttered gracefully as a bird, watching the water in quick glances through the windows as he shuffled the cards like a magician. Pensacola, the beaches white as frozen tundra, sandbars rising in the green waves like humpback whales.

There were even bolder attempts to lose myself in the illusion of distance. I spent a few months in Europe, living on trains and in hostels. But no matter how far I traveled, the past was always close enough to feel its warmth on my face, its chill in my bones, its beauty and sadness brighter and clearer than it had ever been. Once, while waiting for a ferry to cross the English Chanel, I stood on the edge of a giant white cliff looking into the ancient turbulence filled with rusting Spitfires and cannon-blasted Spanish Galleons; I thought of Leer, and how we take the plunge into maturity and finally senescence, like a proud, blind King who is no better than his fool as he wades into the deep waters of death.

On the flight back to Atlanta, from France, I woke up and the clouds below looked like sand dunes or snow, and buried under them was the Atlantic. Everyone else was sleeping. The sky was very blue. The blue got darker and darker until it looked like night, like a sketch of the stratosphere I had seen in a science book in third grade.

Closest to outer space I will ever get; nearest to heaven I’ll ever be.

Some of My Favorite Lines

There are so many great lines in this book, including those in the images featured in this blog post. You can also check out the author's Facebook page and Tumblr blog for more images and quotes.

"The past is a dangerous place. Lately, I have been going there way too often - but there is nowhere else to go."

" ... she was his reason for living, and had been since he was fifteen."

"Like sound, not all silence is the same."

"Dying can be a very slow process."

"Even if someone would have told me that all those smiles would turn into wrinkles, I would have smiled anyway. A smile is worth it. You are going to grow old anyway, why not do it while smiling."

"She had loved heroin more than her own child."

"It is sad how someone can mean so much to you, and be such an important part of your life, and then, because of time, or other uncontrollable circumstances, you never see them again."

"Not all flowers are snipped as cleanly and perfectly by the careful hands of a florist as the fairytale ends of long-stem roses. The rarest, and most hauntingly beautiful wildflowers are ripped from the earth in a frenzied moment of passion, pulled up by their roots, with no thought of consequences or the possible aftermath."

My Review

By Lynda Dickson

The title, a quote from Shakespeare's Hamlet, is extremely apt and sets the mood for this poignant story. Andrew is a man haunted by many things, but mainly by his obsession for Leigh Mallory, his first love. Abandoned by his drug-addict mother at the age of four, his life has been marked by one disappointment after another. Now approaching forty, he sits drinking in a seedy motel and recalls his loves, his losses, his regrets, and the sins of his youth. He also contemplates suicide.

I have been following the author on Tumblr for a few years and was excited when I found out his book had finally been published. Unfortunately, I was in for a big disappointment. There is no doubt that the author knows how to write. The language is rich and beautiful and compels one to keep reading, even though the plot is barely existent and the book consists mainly of the stream-of-consciousness musings of a middle-aged drunkard. But that's not my complaint. Those of you who follow my reviews will know that nothing annoys me more than poor editing. Unfortunately, this is one of the worst-edited books I have come across. I would go so far as to suggest that no one other than the author read the manuscript before it was published; it doesn't even appear as if the author himself re-read it. It puts me in mind of Chuck Wendig's quote referenced in one of my recent blog posts: "Just yarf it up". The author did just that, but then he didn't clean up after himself.

Formatting and proofreading problems include: no paragraph indentations, overuse of commas, lack of apostrophes, incorrect punctuation in speech, incorrect word usage, spelling mistakes, lack of capitalization, inconsistencies with names (Corey/Cory, Rachael/Rachel), repetition. Other problems: the narrative jumps around with not enough indication of time and place, making it extremely difficult to follow; there are too many characters, making it hard to keep track of who is actually important to the story; I couldn't follow the action in the New Orleans incident, a pivotal event in Andrew's life; there isn't enough character development to explain Andrew's obsession with Leigh Mallory. It's a great shame there are so many problems with this book because the writing is beautiful, the narrative is compelling, and the story is heart-felt. My note to the author: get your book edited and republished.

Warnings: coarse language, drug use, alcohol abuse.

About the Author

Adam Stanley has been publishing poems and short stories for the last twenty years. Some of his credits include, "The Old Red Kimono", "The Prairie Schooner", and "Chum". He is an amateur musician and music lover, and his works are often imbued with a musicality that he still retains from his days as a rock musician and a student of Classical piano. He lives in rural Georgia. All My Sins Remembered is his first novel.

Links

Add to Goodreads

Amazon US

Amazon UK

Barnes & Noble

Amazon US author page

Amazon UK author page

Facebook

Goodreads

Pinterest

Tumblr

Twitter @iamadamstanley

Website