Chapter One

Dying can bring out the best in people. It can also bring out the worst of secrets. Oh, not only about the dead—sure, that’s when everyone starts whispering about the dearly departed. No, I’m talking about the secrets of the living who are left behind. Sometimes, those people get brazen about their dastardly deeds when someone involved in those deeds dies. They don’t always keep them well hidden. Often, too, a death sheds too much light on too many people. Light others would rather not be in—like Wyle E. Coyote’s oncoming train in the tunnel. It can be too revealing for some. Blinding for others. One secret often leads to another. Another death. And by another death, I mean murder.

So, if you want to know who your friends are, or what they’re truly up to, kill one.

It works every time.

What makes me so sure? Murder is my thing. I’m a homicide cop in the historic Virginia city of Winchester. Winchester has a hell of a murder rate that most don’t know about. I know because I’ve solved more than twenty murders in the last few years alone. Well, seventeen to be precise. Three deaths were accidents and suicides—not something I tell stories about. But the other seventeen—phew, what a rush. As you can see, I’m an expert on the dead.

More about that later.

At the moment, it was a beautiful August afternoon in Winchester, Virginia. As always on these beautiful August days in Winchester, it was hot as, er, … it was hot. Luckily, instead of being in the dog days of summer, I sat in the air conditioning atop a stack of wooden crates in our local library, ogling the beautiful woman working across the room from me. Her auburn hair flowed around her shoulders like a silk veil, and her green eyes sparkled even in the dark. At thirty-eight, she had the hourglass figure a twenty-year-old would die for—and today it was wrapped in jeans and a denim shirt with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. This lady’s charm and intelligence radiated an allure that stole my heart the moment I pulled her over for an undeserved speeding ticket back in the day. Sure, sure, it was unethical. Hey, I didn’t give her the ticket after securing a date.

Fortunately, the statute of limitations on cheesy pickup ploys expired years ago.

This lady was doing her best to ignore me—difficult as it was—though she wanted nothing more than to get lost in my affections. No, really, it’s true.

Full disclosure. This angel was formally Dr. Angela Hill Tucker, Assistant Dean and Chairwoman of History at the Mosby Center for American Studies, University of the Shenandoah Valley. Yep, my wife. Today, she was researching a new historical find in the Lower-Level Research Room at the Handley Library, a local historical landmark. The Lower Level is actually the library’s finished basement. Since it’s a classy place, they call it the Lower Level.

Angel sat at a cluttered wooden desk beside crates of documents discovered in a formerly undiscovered sub-basement at the Winchester Courthouse—another historic building. Yeah, I know, we have a lot of historic buildings in town. That’s because Winchester dates back to George Washington’s day, and we’ve played a big part in American history ever since. Anyway, she had just opened one of the six large, wooden crates to begin work. The first few items she took out were more of the same as many of the other crates—folded files tied with leather straps. There were a few land maps and surveyors’ drawings, and an old silver-plate photograph of a family standing around a horse carriage with grim, pasty faces.

Angel was in heaven—pardon the pun. She spent much of her life in rooms just like this one, doing what she was now doing—researching old stuff. Okay, it’s historically significant old stuff. The other part of her life she spent in pursuit of her real passion—trying to be a crack detective like me. Oh, I’m her real passion, too. But don’t tell her I said that. It’s our secret.

All day, I’d sat with my feet propped up on a crate, bored. I had on the same clothes as usual—blue jeans, running shoes, a blue Oxford button-down shirt, and a blue blazer. Angel once called my ensemble, ‘old guy sexy.’ I don’t know about the old guy—I’m only forty-one—but I’ll take the sexy part.

“Hey, Angel,” I said, stretching. “How about we go grab takeout?”

She ignored me. Not unusual. Not that she was so focused on her work, but because working at a small table across the room was her research assistant, Andy-somebody. She didn’t want to fluster him, so she just made believe I wasn’t around. We have this thing, you see.

“Hey, it’s a beautiful summer day. Maybe steaks on the grill and wine?”

She glanced up and gave me one of those “God, I want you” looks. Okay, maybe it was a “quiet, I’m working” look.

“Angela?” The thin, shaggy-haired assistant, Andrew Pellman, walked to the stack of crates beside her. He lifted one of the crates, grunted a little from the unexpected weight, and set it on the corner of her desk. “I’m done computerizing the inventory from crates one and two. Shall I get a head start on crate four while you finish crate three?”

“No, Andrew. We’ll keep to our process.” She saw his face melt into a pout. Me, I would have let him cry, but she was the kind soul in the family. “Oh, all right. Go ahead and begin. Follow our guidelines closely. One document at a time. Identify, inventory, and scan what you can. Photograph any that won’t stand up to the scanning process. Andrew, be careful—very careful.”

His face lit up. “Sure, Angela, I’ll be careful.”

Pellman was a meek kid in his mid-twenties. He was working on his doctoral thesis at the university, and Angel was his dissertation advisor. I didn’t like him. Not one bit. I have a sixth sense about people. When he was around, my BS meter pings like it does with politicians and faux car warranty stalkers. Andy was a new class of “some people” that I hadn’t labeled yet.

“I think you should call me Professor Tucker,” Angel said with an easy tone. “Let’s keep this professional. Okay?”

“Yes, Professor Tucker.”

“It’s not personal, Andrew.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

Angel flipped through a document and stopped. She retrieved another and did a comparison. Finally, she looked over at Pellman. “Have you seen any references to ‘M35W?’ Do you recognize it from anything you’ve done?”

“Why?” He walked to her worktable. “Is it important?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. It seems out of place. Like some kind of acronym or citation. Can you check your new research engine tomorrow?”

“Sure, okay. It’ll give me a good test run on my changes to the algorithm.” His face beamed. “Thank you.”

Andrew’s doctoral studies used computers to perform detailed research traditionally done by historians and doctoral students. One day, that program he wrote would likely replace those researchers with keyboards and mice—the electronic kind, not the crumb snatchers. You know, like self-checkout machines at the grocery store. You do all the work, and they charge you the same price. Then, they’ll fire five clerks who the machines replaced. Great plan, Andy. I wonder how many historians you’ll replace with your gadgets.

“Thank you, Andrew.” Her cell rang, and she took the call. “Professor Tucker.” The caller had Angel’s complete attention. I knew that because she jotted some notes and checked her watch twice—all the while continuing to ignore me. So, it must have been really important, right? “Yes, of course. I’ll be right up.”

“Professor Tucker?” Andrew asked.

She glanced over at Andrew as she tapped off the call. “We’re done for the day, Andrew.”

“Is something wrong?” he asked. “I can help.”

“No, it’s fine. I have to meet someone up in the rotunda. We’ll start again in the morning.” She began straightening her papers and stuffing files into her worn, leather briefcase.

“Who?” he asked.

I said, “Never you mind, sonny-boy. You work for her, not the other way around.” I winked at Angel. “Millennials, right?”

She hefted her briefcase. “Something to do with our Apple Harvest research.”

“Okay.” He glanced at the crates of research. “Want me to gather up your research and get it to your car? There’s an awful lot here.”

“Actually, yes. If you don’t mind.” She gave him the keypad code for her Explorer. “Leave my briefcase and the files beside it here. The rest can go in my vehicle. Please make sure it’s locked when you’re done. Thank you.”

“Sure thing, Professor Tucker.” His face lit up. “See you in the morning.”

I followed Angel through the Stewart Bell Jr. Archive Room, into the Lower Lobby, and up the stairs toward the main library entrance.

“I don’t like him, Angel. He’s shifty.”

“Shifty, Tuck?” Finally, she acknowledged me. I wore her down. “No one says ‘shifty’ anymore.”

“It’s coming back in style.”

She grinned and whispered, “Is that your detective-senses talking or because he stares at me when he thinks I’m not looking?”

“He doesn’t stare. He ogles.”

“Yes, he ogles.”

“I can get Bear to check him—”

“No, Tuck. He’s fine. I don’t like it when you’re jealous.”

Me, jealous? No. It was purely a professional irritation I felt whenever Andy was around. Truly.

We reached the first-floor hall that led into the main library rooms. There, she made her way into the rotunda at the library entrance. She stopped beside a high-back wood bench where Library Lil—the bronze statue of a young girl reading a book—sat.

A tall, thin man about thirty stepped out of one of the meeting rooms along the west hallway. He glanced around before he headed our way. He wore dark slacks and a dark sport jacket over a white, button-down dress shirt that was untucked in that new-millennial style, and penny-loafers. He strode to us and looked around his entire trip.

“That must be Special Agent Kerns with the DOD,” Angel whispered. “He called just now.”

A fed? Interested in her research? I asked her that.

“I don’t know. He said it was about my Apple Harvest research and that it was classified. Go wait somewhere.”

“I am somewhere. I’m here.”

She gave me the evil eye, so I meandered to a bench nearby.

As Kerns approached, fingers began dancing up my spine—hot, pointy fingers. I didn’t like those fingers. Every time they did the mambo up my vertebrae, something bad happened in the next few beats.

Kerns reached Angel, proffered a hand, and said something with a serious, tight expression on his face. Then, he hooked a thumb toward the main entrance doors.

Angel shook his hand and smiled faintly, a sure sign she was unsure of him.

Those fingers reached the base of my brain and squeezed…

“Angel, get down!” I lunged forward and pulled her away from Kerns, down behind Library Lil’s bench.

Kerns stood there, frozen in an eerie mist. His arms shot out sideways, and he seemed to lift onto his toes. His face contorted into a stunned, painful grimace.

“Tuck?” Angel cried. “What’s happening to him?”

Hell if I knew.

Kerns’ entire body vibrated and shuddered. He staggered backward and collapsed onto the floor, writhing. The lights above us flickered wildly and went out. The original iron, brass, and blown-glass chandelier swayed dramatically two floors overhead. Its lights flickered and went dark.

When I glanced back at Kerns lying on the floor, I cringed.

Blood flowed from his ears, nose, and mouth. It seeped from his eye sockets, where his eyeballs looked like soft-boiled eggs stewing in their sockets. His hands and fingers were dark red and bony. His face and neck had oddly sunk, and his skin looked like it had been draped over his bones as though someone had sucked the tissue and muscle from beneath. He looked like he had melted inside.

The only thing left of him was his clothes and a spreading pool of goo.

Kerns was dead, sure enough. He’d been murdered, too, right in front of Angel and a dozen people. I knew no one had seen anything. No one heard anything. No one knew anything. Me included.

Well, that’s not true. I knew something. Special Agent Kerns didn’t die of a heart attack because of a poor diet. He wasn’t killed by a sniper with a silenced rifle, a knife-throwing ninja assassin, or by an Amazonian’s blow dart. He died of something else.

What killed him, I had no idea. But it scared the life out of me.

***

Excerpt from Dying With A Secret by Tj O’Connor. Copyright 2025 by Tj O’Connor. Reproduced with permission from Tj O’Connor. All rights reserved.

The General knew—like a rotting tooth you can’t stop tonguing—just how hard his old man had worked to hammer him into something resembling a real man, using boot camps, backdoor deals, and enough disappointment to fill a graveyard.

Before the president found Twitter—sorry, X—for him, he mostly just found disappointment. And not the subtle, quiet kind. No, this was loud, public, teeth-grinding failure. The kind that makes a father grip his whiskey glass hard enough to shatter it. The boy was dull. A wet match in a thunderstorm. The people ignored him like a pothole they’d grown used to swerving around.

The president, who fancied himself a blend of warlord and wise grandfather, had done all the right things—by dictator standards. He’d oiled the machinery, laid the bricks. He’d shipped the lad off to Sandhurst, the British womb for future coup-makers and ceremonial dictators. But the academy spat him out like a bad oyster after just one year. Reason? “Intellectual capacity insufficient for command responsibilities.” That’s British for “the boy was dumb as soup.”

Panic set in. The president, no stranger to coups or cover-ups, scrambled for another boot camp that would accept his undercooked progeny. And God bless Africa—it never disappoints. Egypt, under old mummy Hosni Mubarak, opened its arms. The president’s warning was clear as day and sharp as a bayonet: “If you fail here, don’t ever mention my name again.” The boy emerged months later with a piece of paper that said he could command a battalion. No one bothered to ask if it was his own handwriting.

Still not satisfied, Daddy rang his buddies in Langley. Mr. Taylor—CIA spook with a neck like a tree stump—hooked him up with a slot at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. That’s where the U.S. trained its foreign military friends—the ones that smiled for cameras by day and broke skulls by night. The General graduated. Barely. His grades so low they had to be excavated.

Back home, the president, desperate to turn the boy into something—anything—decided to mold him into a public figure. He hired speech coaches, media whisperers, ex-BBC anchors, even a former Miss Uganda who once read the weather on WBS Television. Still, every time the General opened his mouth in public, it was a horror show. His hands trembled like a leaf in a blender. He couldn’t pronounce words. Once, he called “sovereignty” soup-ver-nanny and the room went so silent you could hear careers dying.

But then came the miracle: Twitter. Well, X. Rebranded like a shady funeral home. The president’s advisors—witchdoctors in suits—pitched a bold idea: give the boy a Twitter account. Hire a comedian ghostwriter. Make him sound dangerous. Sexy. Unhinged. Like Idi Amin with a smartphone.

Enter the ghostwriter—a washed-up tabloid journalist who once faked an alien sighting in Karamoja and got sued by a Catholic bishop. The guy was perfect. He knew how to stir the pot with one tweet and have the country boiling by lunch.

The General gave him ideas—half-mumbled thoughts between sips of imported whiskey—and the ghostwriter turned them into gold. Tweets like: Kenya has two weeks left. Consider this your final warning. #WeMarchAtDawn

The country gasped. The president “fired” the General. He even sent an apology to Kenya. A public scandal. Oh no, Daddy can’t control his baby boy! The media gobbled it up like pigs at a buffet.

But behind the curtain, the ghostwriter kept churning out wild, headline-drenched tweets. The General was now lusting after Beyoncé and Ayra Starr like a horny war god in fatigues. He made bizarre threats about airstrikes on Tanzanian Bongo Flava concerts. People were horrified. People were entertained.

***

Excerpt from chapter 24 of The Missing Corpse by Yasin Kakande. Copyright 2025 by Yasin Kakande. Reproduced with permission from Yasin Kakande. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Jessica let the mental exhaustion take hold for a minute, then shook it off. Eighteen months to go. If she survived that, she’d be a lawyer and hopefully move from the reception desk to the courtroom.

She settled into her chair. “I’m back,” she called to her boss. Linda owned the one person firm housed in a quaint old home turned law office in downtown El Paso. Jessica ran her fingers across the antique, inlaid cherry desk. She’d started here less than a year ago, but she already loved this place.

“Hey, how was the test?” Linda strode into the room and plopped down in front of her. A perfect-fitting Armani suit and a blonde blowout softened the toughness shining through Linda’s blue eyes. The creases in her face told the world she’d faced a few battles.

“Tough, but I’m pretty sure I passed,” Jessica said.

Linda smiled, then cocked her head, a question appearing in her eyes. “I bet your father would be proud.”

Jessica bristled, the ache returning to her shoulders and prickles of tension running across her skin. Linda hadn’t brought up Jessica’s dad since the first time they met.

Jessica hated how her father’s conviction for destroying evidence in a drug case shaded her pending law career. He’d been El Paso’s district attorney at the time. That embarrassment held Jessica back for too many years. She’d gotten past it, mostly, especially since her father’s passing.

She shrugged her shoulders in response then willfully changed the subject. “Has it been quiet here?”

“Surprisingly so. But who knows what will walk in the door next?” Linda glanced out the large window as if she expected to see someone trotting up the steps. She turned back to Jessica. “Do you have any new projects on the horizon? You know, human remains under a pecan tree or a missing heiress?”

Jessica’s reputation for finding things, missing people, murderers, had ratcheted up since she started working with Linda. She shook her head. “No more wild cases for me. I need to keep my head down and finish school. I keep getting waylaid by these other projects. It’s too hard to focus on law school and my work here when I’m off solving someone else’s mystery.”

Linda studied Jessica. “Maybe, but I think you like striking out on your own, solving someone’s problem, and coming back a hero. Practicing law is so different than that. It’s tedious and requires an extraordinary amount of patience while the wheels of justice turn.”

Did Linda doubt her aspirations? Not every case would be exciting, but lately, she could use a little less excitement in her life.

“Perhaps,” Jessica said. “But you’re a lot less likely to be confronted by people pointing guns at you or burning down the house you’re trapped in.”

“True. At least most of the time.”

Jessica wondered about her answer. “Is that why you left the police force and became an attorney?” She had heard about Linda’s first career from Jaime Castro, a lieutenant on the El Paso police force and one of her oldest friends. Based on the admiration in his voice, Linda had excelled as a police officer.

“Not really.” Linda’s gaze softened, as if remembering something from long ago. “The problem with police work is that you don’t get to choose your cases. When they don’t seem fair, it becomes hard to put your heart into the job.”

Jessica waited for an explanation. What kind of case would make someone as tough as Linda walk away? For a minute, Jessica thought she would say more. But instead, her boss changed the subject. “Why don’t we go over the upcoming cases?”

When they finished, Linda headed back to her office. Jessica had just turned to her computer when she spied someone coming toward the door. Someone she did not want to see.

Tomás Garcia loped up the steps and opened the door before Jessica could escape. If only her test had taken longer.

“Hi, Jessica. It’s good to see you.” He sat in the chair Linda had just vacated as if he owned the place.

He didn’t. And when he’d tracked her down at a party a few weeks ago, she’d told him she didn’t want to see him again. Yet here he sat. The audacity of rich men never failed to surprise her.

“Why are you here?” She threw all the surliness she could muster into her voice.

“Is that any way to treat a potential client?”

“Tomás, I made it clear that I would never work with you again. You do remember you tried to kill me the last time.” And the time before that, she’d almost died at the hands of someone he’d forgotten to tell her dealt drugs.

“I wouldn’t have killed you. I am not a murderer. I was just angry. I thought you had taken something I considered mine.”

“That something was a human being, and she didn’t want to be with you. You’ve lost your chance with me.”

He steepled his fingers and stared across the desk. “We have a long history, and we’ve worked well together in the past.” Arrogance wafted off him like a bad smell.

Jessica scanned her desk for something to throw at him or stab him with. Life was way too short to tolerate assholes like this.

He held his hands up in surrender, as if he could read her mind. “You’re right. That last time was horrible. I shouldn’t have done so many of the things I did then. I’m sorry. I promise I’m a different man now. And I need your help.”

Fire lit in her veins. She had already taken too many chances with Tomás. Jessica took a deep breath and tried to keep from spitting at him. “You need to leave. There is no way in hell you’ve changed enough in the last few years for me to consider working for you.” She wouldn’t physically attack him, but she tried her best to stare daggers into his soul.

“Please. Let me explain. I’m married to a wonderful woman now. We have a son, and he’s the most important thing in my life. Becoming a father changes a person. I’m a much better man today. Also, I lost my mother a year ago, and I’m worried about losing my father. That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

Of course, curiosity gnawed at her, but it wasn’t enough. She loathed this man.

“You do realize that waltzing in here expecting me to listen to you after I’ve already told you no means you’re still the entitled jerk you’ve always been.”

“I’m not. I swear. Please, just hear me out. I think someone is trying to kill my father.”

“So. Go to the police.”

“I have, but I can’t get anywhere with them. My dad remarried just a few months after my mom died. His new wife has completely denied me access to him.”

“Didn’t you hate your dad? How many times have you told me you wanted to build an empire even bigger than his? Maybe he just doesn’t want to see you.”

“Things are different now. After…after what happened with Doraliz, I had to change. I wasn’t a man I could be proud of, and I certainly wasn’t a son my mother could respect. But she didn’t give up on me. Instead, she helped me see what a terrible person I’d become and gave me a way to recover.”

“Whatever. I don’t care, and I want you to leave.” Jessica refused to buy his rich boy sob story. He should have ended up in jail.

He leaned forward, hands on his knees, blue eyes staring her down, probably his attempt at acting earnest. “I know how selfish and hurtful and conceited I was. I know, and I hate that version of myself. I understand why you don’t want to work with me, but my father’s life is on the line. You have a knack for solving mysteries. I’ve seen you do it. I need your help to save my father.”

“It’s not going to happen. And if you don’t leave, I’ll call the cops.” Jessica picked up her phone and hit the timer, then turned it to face him. “You’ve got sixty seconds to get out of this office.”

Exasperation crossed Tomás’s features. He sighed and started to say something. Then he shut his mouth, rose, and walked out the door. She hoped she’d never see him again.

Linda emerged the minute he left. From the look on her face, she’d heard the conversation.

“I didn’t know you had such a long, involved relationship with Mr. Garcia.” Linda sat in the probably still warm chair.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.” Jessica said nothing more, hoping Linda would drop it. She preferred to avoid the whole sordid tale.

Linda watched Jessica for a long moment but didn’t press her for more information. “You do know that you’re always welcome to work on outside cases. Soon enough you’ll have your own legal cases.”

“I look forward to that, but not with him.”

“Fine. You should head home early tonight. Go celebrate finishing midterms with that handsome husband of yours.”

“Thanks.” She did want to celebrate, although she’d stayed up so late cramming, she’d require a second wind to do anything other than crawl into bed. Or maybe a shot or two of tequila to help her forget torts. And Tomás’s visit.

***

Excerpt from Sangrita by Kathryn Dodson. Copyright 2025 by Kathryn Dodson. Reproduced with permission from Kathryn Dodson. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

December 25, 1934
Knightsbridge, New York

“I need you to come to Paris.”

“You need what?” he asked.

Detective Steven Blackwell stared at the younger version of his mother standing in the room that had been her studio. Jaw dropped, eyes like saucers. He could barely speak.

“I need you—and your friend Olivia, if you like—to come to Paris. There’s been a murder and the police aren’t doing anything,” said Evangéline. “I thought I heard a voice a minute ago. Was that Olivia? Why don’t you get her? She’s probably wondering what’s going on.”

In a daze, and feeling like he had no control over his actions, Steven turned away from the vision of his mother and stumbled out into the hallway. He saw Olivia still waiting in the doorway at the end of the hall. Her hand flew to her chest, and she heaved a great sigh. “Oh, my God, you’re okay! What’s going on? I thought I heard voices. Is somebody here?” As he came closer, she noticed the look on his face. “What’s wrong? You look funny.”

“It’s my mother. My mother’s here.”

“What?”

“She looks as real as you do, but she’s young, around our age. She said she needs me to go to Paris. And you should come too.”

“What?” For one terrifying moment, Olivia wondered if a year of grieving had unhinged Steven’s mind. How could his mother be here? Evangéline Neuilly Blackwell died last January.

Steven repeated Evangéline’s instructions. “She said I should come get you.” He held out his hand. Olivia took it and stepped over the threshold into 1934.

They moved slowly down the hall then paused at the doorway to look at each other. Steven squeezed her hand. Olivia nodded. They both took a deep breath then entered Evangéline’s studio.

There in the shadowy room stood a beautiful woman, shoulder-length copper hair shining in the lamplight. She was slender, taller than average, and wore a stunning emerald dress, the kind French women wore to perfection. A wool coat with a fur collar had been thrown over the back of a chair. She held out her hand toward Olivia.

“Hello. I’m Evangéline Neuilly. I’m so happy to meet you.”

Olivia had always wanted to meet Steven’s exotic-sounding mother—a famous French artist—but that possibility had died along with Evangéline. Or so she had thought. Olivia told herself to close her mouth, which had fallen open, and shook the woman’s hand. “Olivia Watson.”

Evangéline looked at Steven. “I can tell you’re surprised to see me. I must not have told you about my ability to time travel. Surely, you wondered why you can? And if your father or I also had that ability?”

“Eh, no. Not really.”

Evangéline rolled her eyes and gave Olivia a look that said, Men, huh?

Olivia couldn’t help grinning.

“Well,” Evangéline opened her arms wide, “here’s the answer to your unasked question. You got it from me.”

Olivia recovered first. “So, Evangéline, you traveled here from…when?”

“1895. And I really need your help. Both of you.” She shook her head and waved her hand back and forth. “I know. I know. You have a lot of questions. Let’s go downstairs and have something to drink. I’ll tell you what has happened.”

They trouped down the stairs and into the living room.

“I know I must have lived in this house for some time and I assume I decorated this room….” Evangéline turned to Steven for confirmation.

“Yes, we lived here about twenty years or so before you….” He swallowed hard.

“Before I died,” she whispered, then patted his hand. “Pauvre chouchou. Poor sweetheart. I’m so sorry. But, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know when. Of course, I have an idea. But not the exact date.” She opened a door in the sideboard. “Bon! A bottle of red.” She handed the wine to Steven.

Still dazed, he opened it and poured a glass for each of them. Evangéline curled up in a leather chair. Steven and Olivia sat facing her on the couch.

His mother took a sip and pursed her lips. “Not bad. So, listen, we must act fast. A young girl has been killed but the police do nothing. They say it was an accident. We know it was not. I want you to find out who killed Madeleine Gervaise.”

His cop’s instincts kicked in, and Steven found himself intrigued. Who was Madeleine Gervaise? How did she die? Why do the police think it was an accident? And what was her connection to Evangéline?

Suddenly, Steven remembered something Sherlock Holmes once said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” And with that assurance, he snapped out of his stupor and accepted his mother’s bewildering appearance. He leaned forward.

“All right, let’s say, for the sake of argument, that I can and will go to Paris. Answer these questions.” He ticked them off his fingers. “Why do the police think it was an accident? How do you know it wasn’t? When did this happen?”

Evangéline placed her feet on the floor and mirrored him, ticking her answers off her fingers. Olivia almost laughed at the two of them. Talk about a chip off the old block, as her grandfather used to say. “She fell on one of the tall staircases in Montmartre. The police say she slipped on the ice. My friend Henri knows the human body and how it works. He says the…how do you say ‘marks of black and blue’?”

“Bruises,” Olivia chimed in. “We also say black-and-blue marks.”

“Ah! Bon. Henri says the bruises prove someone pushed her. It happened late Sunday night, early Monday morning. Today is already Wednesday. That is why we must move fast.”

Steven groaned, thinking of the days lost. “Is Henri a doctor?”

“No, an artist. But, believe me, Steven, he knows the body. If Henri says she was pushed, she was pushed.”

“So, again, if we were to do this, how would it work?”

“We must go with all speed. That means we must travel in Olivia’s time in one of those fast aeroplanes. That’s how I got here so quickly.”

“Wait, how do you know about Olivia?”

“Oh, mon Dieu, the questions! It is a long story but if it will help speed this up…last summer, I traveled to 1934, to America, with someone on business that had nothing to do with you or my future. When I was in New York City, I saw a photograph in a newspaper of the painting I’m working on right now. The article said a museum in Chicago had bought it and gave information about me, you, and your father. While my friend was completing his business, I had a couple of days to myself, so I took a train here and came to this house. Naturally, I was curious, so I came in and looked around. You really shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked, you know. Anyway, I saw the photograph of Olivia on your dresser. You have her name and the year 2014 written on the back. I realized you had inherited my ability to time travel and that Olivia also had the gift.” Evangéline blew out her cheeks. “Can we not return to the problem at hand now?”

Steven grinned. “Yeah, okay. You know, I always thought you learned English when you moved here with Dad. You speak really well.”

She rolled her eyes. “As you must know, my father is a professor of English at the Sorbonne. He taught me when I was a child.” She took a drink of her wine. “Now, to our problème…I went through the portal in Paris, from 1895 to Olivia’s time.”

“Why did you go into Olivia’s time?”

“If you keep interrupting me, we will never get anywhere. Just listen.” Evangéline took another drink of wine and went on. “Time is of the essence, as it’s already been almost three days. We must travel into 2014 and go to New York City as quickly as possible. Someone there will help us with what we need. Tomorrow night, we’ll fly to Paris. Once we’re there, we’ll travel back to 1895.”

“You make it sound easy. But I have so many questions,” Steven persisted. “How are we going to pay for all this? How do I get a passport fast enough to fly tomorrow? What about other things we might need?”

His mother tilted her head toward the ceiling and sighed. “You think I have come all this way without a plan? Before I left, Henri gave me a sketch. There’s a man in New York City—you will soon learn we have travel agents in cities all over the world who help us. This man in New York City, a place called Brooklyn, is selling the sketch for me, so we’ll have plenty of money. He’ll make a passport and other documents for you, Steven, just as someone in Paris made mine so I could come here.” Evangéline turned to Olivia. “Do you have a passport? Do you drive an automobile?”

“Yes. And I have a car.”

“Can you take us to New York City tomorrow morning so we can get Steven’s documents and the money to buy our tickets for the aeroplane? We must leave for Paris tomorrow night.”

“Sure. Listen, Evangéline, I’m sorry to hear about your friend Madeleine.”

“Thank you. She was lovely—a dancer and one of Henri’s favorite models. Such a waste.”

“Who is Henri? And why would anybody buy one of his sketches?”

“Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. I think he is well known in your time, Olivia.”

“Toulouse-Lautrec?” Olivia gasped. “He’s a friend of yours?”

“Yes, and he’s now your employer.”

Olivia’s jaw dropped.

Evangéline reached out toward Steven with her empty wineglass then settled back in the chair after he’d refilled it. “Now, let us talk about tomorrow. You must both pack a small bag. Steven, bring any tools or objects you will need to investigate. I don’t know what they might be, but that is most important. When we travel to my Paris in 1895, you can borrow clothes belonging to my friend Théo. He’s away on business right now. His wardrobe is filled with additional items—suits, shirts, collars, and so forth. There’s a cloak and hat as well. Olivia, we’re about the same size. I’m happy to share my clothes with you. I have plenty of skirts and dresses. I have an extra cloak, too. Just bring your personal things.”

Suddenly, Steven realized he had been given a gift. After a long, difficult year of grieving, he had the chance to spend time with the woman who would become his mother. How could he possibly say no?

“I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt again,” Steven said, grinning at Evangéline. “Before it gets too late, I need to call the chief to tell him a family emergency has come up and I need a few days off.” He stood and headed for the phone, then stopped. He turned around and walked back to Evangéline. “I know this is going to be weird for you. You don’t even know me yet. But I have missed you so much!” And he bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek.

***

Excerpt from Murder at the Moulin Rouge by Carol Pouliot . Copyright 2025 by Carol Pouliot . Reproduced with permission from Carol Pouliot . All rights reserved.

Thompson Training and Rehabilitation Facility
Near Fayetteville, West Virginia
USA

FADE MANAGED to achieve a state between sleep and consciousness that he could more or less maintain. His eyes were open but didn’t register the hospital-like room he’d occupied for the last three months. And the dreams didn’t come. They were out there, though. Hiding under his bed. Peeking through the crack in the bathroom door.

A sound slipped through his barriers, but it was hard to say if it was real or just one of those monsters on the move. In the end, it turned out to be both.

“Hajjiiiiiiiiiii!”

The shout was followed by ham-sized fists hammering Fade’s locked door. The handle rattled uselessly, followed by more pounding, this time hard enough for dust to rise off the jamb and hang pale in the air.

“Come out and play, Haji! You’re going to die soon anyway! Haven’t you heard? All you old bastards!”

Fade frowned. He was only a few years Thor Erickson’s senior, and it was almost three in the morning. Apparently, the NFL lineman he was sharing the facility with found a way into the pharmaceutical cabinet.

Fortunately, the door was original to the old building, lovingly created from solid oak. Back before robots, assembly lines, and particleboard. When craftsmen learned at their fathers’ sides and took pride in what they did.

“Thor!” A woman shouted. “What’s wrong with you? Go back to bed!”

Fade groaned and muttered to the empty room. “What are you doing, Lisa? Lock yourself in your room.” The pounding went silent.

“Are you high? Have you been taking drugs?”

Heavy footsteps, still slightly off rhythm from his knee injury.

“Stop it! Go back to bed! Now!”

His response was muted but intelligible. “Oh, come on. You said you’d do whatever it took to put me back together . . .”

Then running. Light footsteps with a quick, even beat. But then the chase was on. It shook the entire building.

Fade swung his feet off the bed and stood, stretching his back and registering once again that it felt good. Probably not good enough to save him, though.

When he arrived at the open door to Lisa’s office, she and Erickson were on opposite sides of the desk, staring at each other like the lecherous boss and pious secretary from an old sitcom. When he feinted left, she moved right. When he feinted right, she moved left.

Of course, he could go over or through that piece of IKEA plywood any time he wanted. The question was whether that was really what he had in mind. So far, his violence had been limited to the psychological kind. Would it stay that way?

Best to hang back and wait for an answer. Fade knew his involvement would only escalate the situation. If this was nothing more than a little harmless fun, better to let the god of thunder get bored and end it on his own.

Erickson’s knee brace was conspicuously absent, exacerbating some residual instability to the outside. It caused him to move right more confidently than left. The power, size, and incongruous grace that had made him famous on the field were all there, though. As was the laser-like focus on destruction.

“Okay, this isn’t funny anymore,” Lisa said with impressive calm. “It’s time for you to go back to bed. If you don’t, you could do damage that I can’t fix. It could end your career, Thor. Do you understand?”

The discipline necessary to conjure such a serene tone was noteworthy but also a complete misreading of this piece of shit’s psyche. He fed off the fear he instilled in others. Denying him that would just cause the fire to burn hotter.

Erickson threw himself forward and managed to get hold of her upper arm. She tried to break free but, despite being a hell of an athlete in her own right, had no chance. Instead, she was dragged over the desk and spun around. With his hand now clamped around the back of her neck, she ended up bent at the waist with her cheek shoved into the blotter.

And so it began.

Fade tore himself from the wall he was leaning against and walked to the doorway.

“Hey, big guy.”

Erickson spun, knocking Lisa to the floor. Instead of using her newfound freedom to bolt, she waved Fade off. “Go back to your room! It’s okay.”

He wondered if she actually believed that she could control this douche-bag or if she was just willing to take the bullet to keep her first— and unquestionably most charming—client safe. Not that it mattered. Either she had an unwavering faith in humanity or bigger balls than anyone he’d ever met. That made her worth something. If Lisa Thompson existed, maybe humanity was actually worth saving.

“Looks like you got a hold of a little too much, Thor. Why don’t you and I go outside and walk it off. Let Lisa hit the—” It was impossible not to marvel at the man’s charge. It was like getting shot at by a hippopotamus cannon.

Options were limited, and Fade had already considered all of them. Showing up to this fight in nothing but boxer shorts was intentional. Not just because it was becoming a bit of a tradition, but because football players tended to make good use of their opponent’s clothing to gain control.

The second decision had been even harder than condemning himself to being beaten to death in his underwear. He’d committed to not retreating into the hallway. While bigger than the office, it was certain death. Outrunning this prick over a quarter mile would be a piece of cake, but not so much over the length of that passageway. Further, there was nothing out there that could be used as a weapon. Going up against this bulldozer empty-handed wasn’t going to end well. Anything short of an RPG was going to feel light.

Fade slipped into the office, staying on Erickson’s weak side and ramming a shoulder into him as they came even. The hope was to nudge him in line with the door and let his momentum carry him through. Then they could barricade themselves inside and wait for whatever he’d taken to wear off.

It turned out to not be that easy. Hitting the guy was like colliding with a sack of wet cement. And the idea that his momentum could be counted on to carry him anywhere turned out to be a complete fantasy. The son of a bitch could stop on a dime.

Erickson spun, swinging an arm that caught Fade in the shoulder he’d used so ineffectively a moment before. The force nearly lifted him off his feet, sending him crashing into— and then over— Lisa’s desk. He landed face-first in her chair, which immediately rolled away and sent him to the floor. The illusion of having a bit of cover disappeared when Erickson swept the desk away like it was made of papier-mâché.

Admittedly a bad start, but finally, part of Fade’s master plan worked. Sweaty, bare skin was hard to hold on to. It wasn’t a lengthy reprieve, but it provided an opportunity to throw a magnificent punch directly into the man’s groin. Perfect leverage, great technique, propelled by Mystery Machine–enhanced muscles.

The motherfucker didn’t even notice.

A moment later, Fade felt himself being lifted. His head penetrated the acoustic tile ceiling, providing him with a brief view of the AC ductwork before he was yanked down again. The bear hug he ended up trapped in was centered on his lower back, and he expected his spine to fail. It didn’t, though. Whoever performed his surgery was due a gold star. No numbness or paralysis from the waist down. Just a complete inability to breathe.

A quick review of his situation uncovered a number of problems, the worst of which was that he was being slowly crushed to death. On the brighter side, he was facing his opponent, and his arms were free. Also, Lisa was releasing a steady stream of obscenities that would have made even his old master chief blush.

Hilarious.

He leaned forward and bit down on Erickson’s nose while simultaneously trying to drive a thumb into his eye. Accustomed to having his face protected by a helmet, he was taken by surprise, and Fade once again found himself sailing through the air. This time he landed on the sofa, which wasn’t too bad until he went over the side and landed on Lisa’s guitar. It shattered beneath his weight, driving a sizable shard into his left triceps. By the time he yanked it out, Erickson was coming at him, adding his own screamed epithets to Lisa’s.

The sofa took the brunt of the collision, but the lineman was still able to get a handful of Fade’s hair. Putting up a fight would just waste energy, so Fade allowed himself to be dragged, focusing on keeping hold of what was left of the guitar. Erickson’s knee finally started to show signs of weakness, reducing the force with which he was able to slam Fade onto the desk. Still hard enough to loosen a few fillings, but not sufficient to prevent Fade from winding a couple of the guitar’s strings around the man’s nearly nonexistent neck.

A massive fist connected with his ribs, but Fade ignored it as he tried to fight his way into a position where he could exert some force. Then Erickson made the fatal error of jerking back.

The strings tightened, opening a deep gash that caused his incredible strength to falter. Fade held onto the broken neck of the guitar with one hand and the detached bridge with the other, allowing himself to be pulled to the floor. Erickson kept swinging, connecting repeatedly, confused as to why he was inflicting so little damage.

Lisa appeared from the right, pressing a cloth to his neck in an effort to stop the fountain of arterial blood. A swipe of the man’s hand was still enough to send her spinning across the floor.

Fade got a hold of wrists too thick to wrap his fingers all the way around, gaining a certain amount of control. “You’re dying, man! Pay attention!”

Erickson’s eyes widened, revealing pupils dilated into manhole covers. Imminent death was a hard thing to process. Fade knew that better than anyone. But it was something to be stared in the face. No one should be cheated out of life’s last and most profound experience. Not even this tool.

Erickson finally went still, and Fade tried to stand, using the edge of the desk for balance. He righted Lisa’s chair and sat, not sure for a moment whether it was spinning or if it was just his head. He looked down at a desk drawer hanging broken to his right, trying to bring the image into focus.

When his vision finally cleared, one of his many suspicions was confirmed. It was refrigerated.

He retrieved an icy Coke and then forced the drawer above, revealing an elaborate junk-food stash. Ho Hos. Twinkies. Chips of various crunch profiles and flavors. The mother lode.

His first sip of Coke in years tasted like blood, so he spit it out. The second was heaven.

“Help me!” Lisa was on her hands and knees, once again pressing a cloth to Erickson’s neck.

“You’re wasting your time.”

“Then do something!” He opened a packet of Pop-Tarts and took a bite. Cinnamon. What kind of sick taco bought cinnamon? “He’s not going to make it, Lisa. Take my word for it.”

“Call an ambulance!”

He made a show of searching his nonexistent pockets. “No phone.”

She retrieved hers from her sweatpants and threw it at him. He scrolled through her contacts until he found one that said Matt. No last name. It took six rings, but a familiar voice finally answered. “Lisa? Is everything okay?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

A full second passed before Egan responded. “How big?”

“About three hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

The next pause was longer, accompanied by what sounded like fingers on a keyboard. “It’s going to be a few hours before I can get anyone there. Can you not screw anything else up until then?”

“Sure. No worries.” Fade disconnected the call.

Despite not being a particularly long conversation, sometime during it, Erickson had expired. Lisa fell back into the blood pooling behind her, blond hair glued to the tears and sweat on her cheeks. Fade grabbed a bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo and rolled the chair alongside her.

“Here. Drink this. It’ll make you feel better.” She grabbed it and removed the lid with a practiced twist, draining almost half before coming up for air. “Better?”

No response.

“Are you hurt?” When she shook her head, he put a hand under her arm and lifted her to her feet. “Good. Now let’s get you cleaned up before the cavalry arrives.”

***

Excerpt from Fade In by Kyle Mills. Copyright 2025 by Kyle Mills. Reproduced with permission from Kyle Mills. All rights reserved.