Spotlight: A Botanist's Guide to Tradition and Treachery by Kate Khavari

Brilliant botanist Saffron Everleigh has set sail on her first research expedition, but it’s disrupted by accusations of murder when one of her fellow scientists is murdered in this daring fifth installment.

Saffron Everleigh is newly engaged and full of optimism as she sets off on the adventure of a lifetime for any scientist: a research expedition. She sails to newly formed Turkey with her fiancé, Alexander Ashton, and a bevy of fellow researchers under the watchful and reformed eye of Dr. Henry. With only two other women on board, Saffron soon finds she is right back in the same infuriatingly misogynistic environment that marked the earliest days of her career. Only this time, Saffron is determined to show everyone, including Alexander, that she can handle the trials of an expedition.

And trials she has in spades. Before the expedition team has even arrived, Saffron has managed to find an enemy in historian Joseph Clark, who frequently torments the assistant that Saffron has taken under her wing, Martin Neill. But when Martin unexpectedly dies, Saffron is targeted as the main suspect.

Falling ruins, venomous snakes, and mysteriously blocked passages are the least of Saffron’s worries. With unexpected help from a familiar face, Alexander and Saffron have to work fast to prove not only that Saffron is innocent but that they both have nothing to do with a larger conspiracy at play among the expedition crew.

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About the Author

USA Today bestseller Kate Khavari is the author of fiction ranging from historical mysteries to high fantasy epics. She has her parents to thank for her fascination with historical mysteries, as she spent the majority of her childhood memorizing Sherlock Holmes’s and Poirot’s greatest quips. She lives in the Dallas–Fort Worth area of Texas with her husband and children and a lovely garden that contains absolutely no poisonous plants.

Spotlight: Hott Hotter Hottest by Serena Bell

(Hott Springs Eternal, #5)

Publication date: June 9th 2026

Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Romance

Real bodyguard. Fake boyfriend. Unexpected benefits. Trouble guaranteed.

Tucker: Autumn Sato is a happiness influencer. And I’m…well, let’s just say my brand is more big gray stormcloud. If life were going to plan, the closest I’d get to her would be scrolling past her posts as fast as my thumbs could fly.

But my sister needs help, so I agree to bodyguard Autumn at her sister’s wedding. One thing leads to another, and suddenly I’m pretending to be her new boyfriend in front of all her friends and family.

It’s a hot mess, made worse because I swore I’d never do this again. Never get close to someone I was guarding. Never fall for someone whose safety was in my hands. Never let distraction get in the way of my job.

Unfortunately, this entire week is nothing but distractions: trapped in a car with my smoking hot client, only one bed in our hotel room, only one tent on the wedding camping trip… all before the bachelor–bachelorette prom. Meanwhile, someone seems to have it out for Autumn… or my family… or both.

As things heat up between us, I’m left with one question: Can I keep my heart—and the people I care about—safe?

A spicy, small-town, bodyguard, fake relationship, grumpy-sunshine romantic comedy with a hint of danger and a lot of heart.

Excerpt

“I told her we met at the hotel bar,” she says. “At a conference.”

My brain gets stuck, like someone’s jammed a pole into an old-fashioned steam engine.

There are so many things wrong with this situation, I don’t know where to start.

But the biggest of all is that Autumn Sato is…

Hot.

It hit me like a ton of bricks when I stepped into the room.

Long dark hair, dark eyes, gorgeous smooth skin, and a soft wide mouth painted glossy red in a way that instantly made me think of things I shouldn’t be thinking about. Since I couldn’t look at her mouth, I let my eyes drop, and that was a mistake, too, because I’m a sucker for willowy, for small, secret curves, tits you can cup completely in your hands.

So when she says that she told her sister we met at the hotel bar at a conference, I can see it way too easily.

The two of us side by side in a dark bar, heads tilted toward each other, her lips tilted up in a suggestive smile. The incline of her head as she suggests we go upstairs. The elevator door closing, her crossing the space between us to rise up onto her toes, my hands closing around her slim hips, drawing her abruptly, possessively, against me, the give of her mouth as I take it, hungry.

And then I push it all away—her pretty smile, her slim hips, the feel of her body against mine, the softness of her mouth, my ravenousness.

I hate myself because the last thing, the very, very, very last thing I want is to have any feelings—even the basest, least romantic ones—for another client.

It cannot happen.

Then I fully absorb what she’s said, and: “Wait a second.”

Her eyebrows go up.

“What kind of conference?”

She bites her lip.

“Autumn. What kind of conference.”

“A by-invitation-only Happiness Extravaganza.” She barely whispers it.

“You told your sister I was at a happiness conference.”

She winces. “I didn’t realize you were going to turn out to be—” She traces her hands as if outlining the contours of my body in space. I ignore the way that lights my skin on fire and instead focus on the absolute depths of bullshit she’s taken us to.

“A grumpy asshole who doesn’t talk,” I finish for her.

“I wouldn’t have put it that way⁠—”

“But you think it.”

“I prefer not to use labels.”

I scowl. This woman. At least there’s that. At least there’s the fact that in a million years, I could never fall for someone like her, all sunshine and roses and I prefer not to use labels. All It’s gonna be great!

Spoken like someone who’s dodged all of life’s bullets.

I shake my head, not bothering to hide my exasperation. “Okay. You’re not labeling me. But you decided to tell your sister, before you met me, that I was someone who would show up at a happiness conference.”

Something hardens in her gaze. “Wishful thinking,” she says, words sharp.

Ah. So she’s not all sweetness and light.

But then, like a curtain coming down on the moment of honesty, she smiles, bright and perky again. “I guess we’ll have to work on your…grumpies.”

“My—” I can’t even repeat the word.

“You know, jolly you out of them. You can’t be grunting at everyone. No one will believe you’re my type.”

Ouch. Not that I care.

“What is your type, exactly? Wait, I know the answer to this—Buddy the Elf.”

The smile slips a little. “No one wants Buddy the Elf for a romantic partner.”

 “He gets the girl in the end.”

“It’s a Christmas movie.”

“So Dani Rojas from Ted Lasso.”

Her gaze skids away.

“Nailed it, huh?”

“What about you?” She squints at me. “Cruella de Vil? Cersei Lannister? No, wait. I’ve got it: blond, busty, and looks up at you in adoration.”

“Annie Wilkes in Misery,” I say. “Can’t argue with bondage.”

I might be baiting her. It’s possible that, against my will, I’m amused by this. It’s possible that for the first time in a long time, I’m curious about what’s going to happen next, like this is a movie I’ve found myself in, written by someone else.

It’s possible that for the first time in a long time, I feel alive, something I can’t name surging in my blood.

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About the Author

USA Today bestselling author Serena Bell writes contemporary romance with heat, heart, and humor. A former journalist, Serena has always believed that everyone has an amazing story to tell if you listen carefully, and you can often find her scribbling in her tiny garret office, mainlining chocolate and bringing to life the tales in her head.

Serena’s books have earned many honors, including an RT Reviewers’ Choice Award, Apple Books Best Book of the Month, and Amazon Best Book of the Year for Romance.

When not writing, Serena loves to spend time with her college-sweetheart husband and two hilarious kiddos—all of whom are incredibly tolerant not just of Serena’s imaginary friends but also of how often she changes her hobbies and how passionately she embraces the new ones. These days, it’s stand-up paddle boarding, board-gaming, meditation, and long walks with good friends.

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Spotlight: Lead Me Home by Catherine Bybee

Series: Queen Anne Hill #1

Genre: Contemporary Romance

Tropes: Workplace, He Falls First, Slow Burn, Green Flag Hero

Release Date: June 9, 2026

When spreadsheets are safer than people, falling in love becomes the ultimate risk in this powerful novel of trauma, healing, and unexpected courage from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee.

Luna Canning trusts numbers more than people—and for good reason. As a forensic accountant who specializes in exposing fraud, she knows numbers never deceive, unlike the toxic family she’s spent a lifetime trying to escape. Now living in her grandmother’s Victorian home, Luna has built a carefully ordered life behind walls she thought were unbreakable.

When her car is stolen from an airport parking lot, former FBI agent turned PI Nate Warren steps in to help—and proves more dangerous to her defenses than any thief. Despite Luna’s ironclad rules about mixing business with pleasure, their chemistry ignites, and for the first time, she considers letting someone past her guard. But just as their relationship begins to blossom, Luna’s manipulative mother arrives unannounced, dragging with her a dangerous man and decades of unresolved trauma that threaten everything Luna has built.

Now Luna must confront the ghosts of her past—both metaphorical and possibly literal, as strange occurrences in her historic home suggest she’s not alone. With a violent threat looming and her heart on the line, Luna discovers that sometimes the hardest person to trust is yourself.

Excerpt

Five minutes past nine, Luna walked into the law offices of Allen and Associates. She paused at the reception desk and started to unbutton her coat. 

“Hi Melinda.”

“Hi.”

“Marcus is expecting me. Is he in his office or the conference room?”

“They’re in the conference room,” she said.

They? Great . . . nothing like being late for more than one person.

Luna shrugged out of her coat.

Melinda stepped around the desk to take it. “No need to stress.”

“I hate being late. This jerk bumped into me, my coffee ended up on the street . . .” Luna pulled in a deep breath, stood tall, and pasted on a small she didn’t feel.

Melinda laughed. “I’ll bring coffee to the room.”

Luna sighed. “I could kiss you.”

“Not in the office,” Melinda teased.

Swiping a strand of soaked hair back, Luna made her way to the conference room.

Just outside the open door she heard voices.

“She elbowed me, her coffee took flight, and she had the audacity to act like it was my fault.”

Luna froze in the doorway.

Dark roast venti guy had his back to her.

Marcus stood to his left, shaking his head. “It feels like most people are walking around in a daze. Heads in their phones, earbuds blasting music. No one pays attention anymore.”

“Tell me about it.”

The fake smile she’d painted on only moments ago slid from her face. Seriously? This guy blamed her?

The nerve.

“There she is. My secret weapon for numbers,” Marcus boasted once he caught sight of Luna standing there.

Slowly, Mr. Venti turned.

A sinister feeling of joy bloomed in Luna’s chest as recognition hit his eyes.

Unaware of the silent communication between her and Venti, Marcus made the introductions. “Nate Warren, this is Luna Canning.”

She placed her purse on the conference table and reached out to shake his hand. “Hello, Mr. Warren. You look familiar. Have we met before?”

His hand was warm, despite the fact that they’d both just come in from the cold.

“If we did, I, ah . . . certainly didn’t catch your name.” Nate gave her hand a little extra squeeze before letting her go. “Marcus has told me a lot about you.”

“All good I hope.”

To Nate’s credit, he didn’t break eye contact, even when her smirk of a smile said ten times more than her words did.

“Singing your praise, Luna. If I could sing,” Marcus said as he patted her shoulder in a warmer welcome than a handshake.

“You’re too kind.”

That made him laugh. “Since when are you humble?”

It was then that Luna purposely looked away from Nate. “I have to try once in a while.”

“Sit, sit.”

Luna moved to a seat opposite Nate.

Marcus sat at the head of the table.

“I’m sorry for being late. It’s a little . . .” She glanced at Nate. “Hectic out there.”

Amusement swam in Nate’s hazel eyes without the least bit of shame.

“So I’ve heard,” Marcus said.

Melinda walked into the room, a cup of coffee in her hand. She sat it in front of Luna with a small caddy filled with cream and various types of sugar.

“Thank you.”

“Can I get anything for you, Mr. Warren?”

Nate cleared his throat. “Ah, no. I’m good.”

Luna glanced at Nate’s Starbucks cup before doctoring her coffee to her liking.

Melinda closed the door behind her when she left.

“I’ve already told Nate about your prowess with numbers. You won’t find a better forensic accountant in the state.”

This time, Luna accepted the praise without humility.

“Nate is our new consultant. He worked as a criminal fraud investigator for the federal government. Now he works independently as a private investigator using those same skills.”

Luna lifted the coffee to her lips and talked over the rim of the cup. “You’re a little young to be retired from the Feds.”

“I was more interested in the private sector with more room to do my job than bureaucratic red tape allowed.”

Luna sipped her coffee, then put the cup down.

“And more lucrative,” she said.

He raised an eyebrow. “No one likes to wait for Congress to approve their paycheck.”

“Their loss, our gain,” Marcus said. “And I have a feeling that with the two of you, we’ll be an unbeatable team.”

Luna placed her fingers on the charm she had hanging from her neck and slowly slid it along the chain.

Marcus handed them each a folder. “Our client is Joel Mercier . . .”

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About the Author

New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee has written nearly 50 books that have collectively sold more than 11 million copies. Her titles have been translated into more than 20 languages. Raised in Washington State, Bybee moved to Southern California in the hope of becoming a movie star. After growing bored with waiting tables, she returned to school and became a registered nurse, spending most of her career in urban emergency rooms. She now writes full time and has penned the popular Not Quite, Weekday Brides, Most Likely To, First Wives, D'Angelos, Heirs, and Queen Anne Hill series. 

Connect:

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Spotlight: What Remains After by Pauline J Grabia

Literary Psychological Suspense Fiction

SOME STORIES DO NOT END WHEN THE DANGER PASSES.

Beth Clark has not returned to her hometown in decades, since the childhood she survived there nearly destroyed her.

When her estranged mother dies, Beth comes back to rural Alberta for a funeral that feels carefully rewritten. The eulogies are tidy. The past is sanitized. But inside the abandoned bungalow where she and her brother once lived, Beth finds objects that shatter the illusion—and awaken memories of abuse, neglect, and the systems that failed to protect her.

When Beth's younger brother is critically injured in a sudden accident, the present collides with the past. Keeping vigil at his hospital bedside, Beth is drawn back into the summer that changed everything: the violence in their home, the silence of those who should have intervened, and the foster family whose quiet faith offered the first real safety either child had known.

Told across dual timelines, What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel about trauma and memory, belief and betrayal, and the long, unfinished work of survival. It asks what it truly means to forgive—and what remains when the truth is finally spoken.

Excerpt

Coverville Baptist Church smelled musty and old, like the memories trying to escape the recesses of Beth’s mind. That’s all that remained now of her mother. Like her life, nothing at the church had changed in over forty years. It had simply aged, with splintered oak pews and grubby carpets that had been there when she was growing up. 

It was unnaturally quiet in the church, which she remembered used to almost roar after a service with the lively voices of congregants discussing the sermon or what was coming up in their week. Children used to run around, shrieking and squealing in both joy and frustration. Now, it was still. Eerily so. 

Beth ignored the stares from the other mourners who had arrived early for the service. When she tried to meet their gazes to say hello, they looked briefly, with pity, before looking away. She stopped looking at people. She had only arrived when she had to so she could find Otto and talk to him before it started. He wasn’t in the lobby. Maybe he was in the sanctuary. 

She waited in line at the guest registry, attended to by one of the funeral directors. When it was Beth’s turn, her hand trembled as she picked up the ridiculous feathered pen and hesitated before writing down her name. Should she use her married name or her maiden name? Her ex would have a conniption if she wrote down his, and she was changing her name back anyway, so she entered “Elizabeth Clark.” 

When Beth had seen her mother’s obituary on Facebook, she’d realized that, despite her hesitation, she would go to the funeral. The only other attendees were townsfolk—mostly members of Virgie’s church—and family. She suspected that most came out of curiosity rather than grief. Beth’s reasons were less clear. Her hatred for her mother had lessened over the years, but had never completely gone; still, she felt an odd urge, almost a duty, to attend. She told herself it was just an excuse to see her brother, Otto, not the urn.

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About the Author

Pauline J. Grabia is a Canadian novelist whose work explores trauma, memory, faith, and the moral consequences of silence. Writing under the Stories of Consequence banner, she is drawn to stories that face difficult truths without spectacle and seek light without sentimentality. What Remains After is a literary psychological suspense novel rooted in rural Alberta and shaped by questions of survival, forgiveness, and what endures.

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/paulinejgrabia/

Website: https://paulinejgrabia.com/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/70032333.Pauline_J_Grabia

Spotlight: The Good Sister by Bonnie Traymore

When her mirror twin goes missing, Casey is led to a deadly paradise where no one escapes…

Casey and Nora are mirror twins, identical—sort of. Casey is right-handed, Nora is left-handed. Their moles sit on opposite cheeks. In terms of personality, they are also diametrically opposed.

So, when her high-strung sister disappears after a fight with her husband, Casey shouldn’t be as concerned as she is. Nora’s done it before.

But this time, things feel different. It’s a twin thing; Casey knows it in her bones. Something is terribly wrong.

Casey hires private investigator who discovers that Nora’s been on the dark web—lured by an entity that calls itself Switzerland, promising to take away your pain and leave you in a state of eternal bliss, for a hefty fee.

The trail leads to a luxury wellness retreat hidden in the Mexican jungle. Determined to find her sister before it’s too late, Casey poses as a resort guest and heads to Mexico to rescue her sister.

As Casey digs deeper, she finds something far more sinister than she could have imagined, and it’s possible that neither of them will get out alive.

Excerpt

PROLOGUE

Move, my brain screams—my arms and legs lag behind.

Blood pools behind her head, oozing out over the tile floor. Her eyes roll back into a blank stare. If I want to get out of here, this is my only chance. I don’t have much time before someone misses her.

I grab the key card out of her coat pocket and gingerly pull off her lab coat, being careful not to stain it with the growing river of blood.

As I slip on her white coat, my head darts around for something I can use as a weapon–but this isn’t a surgical center. No scalpels. No razors. Nothing sharp.

Syringes.

Scads of them.

Yes, this can work.

I fumble through the medicine cabinet, and it’s like a candy store for drug addicts.

Ketamine.

Midazolam.

Haldol.

Potassium chloride, instantly deadly.

But only if I can hit a vein.

Nope. Too risky.

I rip a syringe open with my teeth, push in the plunger, tear open the vial tabs, and stab the needle into the first vial, then the second. I fill the syringe with a lethal dose of ketamine and midazolam, hoping that it will work fast enough, if it comes to that.

Two or three minutes or so for onset, injected into a muscle.

I’ve never envisioned myself as a murderer. But what choice do I have?

Footsteps outside the door stop me in my tracks.

Someone’s hovering, and I can only hope they don’t call out her name.

She moans.

She’s alive?

What if she cries out for help?

Sweat moistens my palms as I wait. I wipe away the dampness, willing myself to calm down. I can’t afford to have slippery fingers with what I’m attempting.

Now it’s quiet. Too quiet. I didn’t hear footsteps or anyone leaving.

Are they just standing there?

Maybe they heard our scuffle?

If she makes a sound, I’m as good as dead.

I rip open another syringe, grab a vial of potassium chloride out of the cabinet, and fill it. On reflex, I tap it to get out the air bubbles, and a nervous chuckle slips out.

What’s the point of that?

I find a vein on the top of her hand, which is creepily warm. She seems to have passed out again, or else she’s dead. But I’m pretty sure she’s still alive, although I can always tell myself she wasn’t. But I’m not positive.

Can I actually do this?

For a split second, I hesitate.

Before this moment, it was self-defense.

It’s her or me, though, so I prepare to jab the needle into her vein.

Instead, I check again for a pulse.

She’s dead … I’m pretty sure.

The door handle turns.

I rush behind the door and ready my other syringe. My heart’s pounding so hard, I’m afraid someone will hear it. My pulse thrums in my ears as I await what’s next.

Then the handle catches, the lock saving me–or whoever’s on the other side.

I wait in stillness as the sound of a woman’s heels click, click, clicking on the tile floor fades to silence, willing my racing pulse to slow.

At least it’s not Cameron.

Then I make my move.

PART ONE

One month earlier

ONE

Nora

The pain is unbearable, deep in the pit of my stomach, the scars of a lifetime suddenly ripped open. I haven’t slept for days. I don’t even know my own mind.

Dipping in and out of consciousness, I’m kept barely functional by little microsleeps. My head aches behind my eyes. I’d give anything to fall into the black abyss, where all my problems dissolve into the quiet darkness.

Soft meditation music plays in the background.

“It’s not your fault,” a voice calls out to me. “Life is hard,” it continues, the ding … ding … ding of the bells hypnotic, comforting. “We can take away your pain. Come to Switzerland. Find your inner peace.”

Tears pool in my eyes.

“It’s all going to be okay,” I tell myself.

I click on the link.

It looks so peaceful there.

For the first time in months, I have hope.

Tears stream down my face as I absorb it all.

Taking away my pain.

It sounds so tempting.

I want to believe.

I need to believe.

So, I do.

And that is my first mistake.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Audible | Paperback

About the Author

Bonnie Traymore is the Amazon bestselling author of fourteen domestic/psychological thrillers. Her thrillers feature strong but relatable female protagonists who peel back the layers of suburban American life and give readers a peek inside. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time.  

Bonnie loves Hitchcock movies, psychological thriller novels, coffee, and dark chocolate, not necessarily in that order and sometimes simultaneously. She has a doctorate in United States history and resides in Honolulu with her family. She's an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.

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Spotlight: A Jewel of a Crime by Valerie Taylor

(Venus Bixby Mystery, #3)

Publication date: June 2nd 2026

Genres: Adult, Cozy Mystery

Venus Bixby is ready for a fresh start. With green streaks in her hair and “Rock the Shamrock” polish on her nails, she’s sold her dance studio and set her sights on a glamorous second act: traveling the world to recover stolen art. But before she can book her first flight, she stumbles over the new studio owner’s dead body behind a drawn curtain.

In a town like Chatham Crossing, secrets don’t stay buried and gossip travels faster than the morning coffee line. Suddenly Venus is a suspect in a very public investigation. As she scrambles to clear her name, she uncovers a troubling secret from her late husband’s past: he purchased an emerald ring she’s never seen—and now it’s missing.

When a string of burglaries rattles the town, Venus begins to suspect the murder and the stolen emerald are connected. With rumors swirling, neighbors whispering, and her passport dreams slipping, she’ll need sharp instincts—and a dash of Irish luck—to catch the real culprit.

A Jewel of a Crime is a sparkling cozy mystery filled with small-town charm, amateur sleuthing, loyal cats, and twists that keep the pages turning. Includes cookie recipes and a nostalgic oldies playlist.

Excerpt

“Where do you think Margo is?”

Rather than barge uninvited into the classroom looking for her, Gabby and I bided our time and hung out in the lobby. I shifted from one foot to the other while Gabby perused the business cards pinned to a brand-new combination whiteboard and corkboard.

“When I come back with that vase, I’ll bring a few business cards to tack up here.”

“Great idea!” I rifled through my purse until I found a couple of cards promoting Oldies & Goodies and Cats & Their Cradle. I affixed them to the cork and smiled. Part of me wondered whether Sam would take them down before anyone ever saw them.

Still no Margo. Did she not hear the bell when we entered a few minutes ago? Maybe not over Ol’ Blue Eyes. I considered writing a message on the whiteboard. I picked through the pens in the Tremont Regency Hotel mug on the desk, but there didn’t appear to be any of those dry-erase markers.

“Where could she be?” Gabby asked.

“Probably in the back. Should we check?”

I gently opened the glass door to the main classroom. A rush of crisp air reminded me how we’d kept the temperature in the low sixties so the students wouldn’t get overheated. The smell of fresh-cut grass suddenly wafted over me. My nose recognized dance floor wax, forcing me to stifle a sneeze. 

The same song we heard when we walked into the lobby still played. Must be on a continuous loop. I listened closely. Ah, Frank was singing “Witchcraft.” An appropriate theme for the day.

The walls were painted a creamy shade of white. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall and a row of barres ran parallel to the floor. The mirrors reflected framed images on the opposite wall. I turned to examine them up close. I walked along the wall, studying and touching each gently. Definitely Sam and Margo in their younger years. 

This egotistical display was so unlike the studio Paul, and then I, owned. Our walls were proudly adorned with photographs of the young dancers who graced our ballroom.

Where are those pictures? Why didn’t they ask if I wanted them? What else did they keep from me?

“Margo?” I called.

Silence.

At the far end of the room, there was a royal purple floor-to-ceiling drape pulled closed across the width of the ballroom. As I walked toward it, I waved toward Gabby. “I’m gonna check back here.”

I noticed a universal restroom to my right. I motioned to Gabby. “You check in there.”

Then I drew back the curtain. “Never mind. Found her!” I cried out.

Buy on Amazon Kindle | Paperback | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Valerie Taylor lives in Connecticut and considers herself a typical "average Jane." She might remind you of the reclusive neighbor who fancies herself a novelist. Unlike many of her peers whom she admires, she does NOT have a degree in literature. But she is the award-winning author of the romantic comedy trilogy: WHAT'S NOT SAID, WHAT'S NOT TRUE, and WHAT'S NOT LOST. The roots of those three novels, as well as the books in the Venus Bixby Mystery series—A WHALE OF A MURDER and SWITCHED AT DEATH and A JEWEL OF A CRIME—most likely took hold during her early years watching Carol Burnett, Jack Benny, Red Skelton, and The Twilight Zone. Her love of oldies music stems from hours listening and dancing to Elvis Presley and The Beatles, and being in the Bobby Darin fan club.

Connect:

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/20248997.Valerie_Taylor

https://valerietaylorauthor.com/

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