Book Review Tour Featuring *Always Look Twice* by Elizabeth Goddard @revellbooks @bethgoddard #revellreads #AlwaysLookTwice #UncommonJustice

Always Look Twice by Elizabeth Goddard


Sypnosis 

At the advice of her therapist, homicide survivor Harper Reynolds has traded her job as a crime scene photographer for a more peaceful life taking photographs of the natural world. But her hopes for a life surrounded by the serenity of the outdoors are dashed when she inadvertently captures a murder being committed in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. She flees the scene in fear--and loses the camera.

Former Green Beret Heath McKade is a reserve deputy in an understaffed county who has been called in to protect Harper, a childhood friend he is surprised to see back in the area. When Harper learns that the sheriff's department can't find any evidence of the murder she witnessed, she is determined to do what she can to see that justice is done. What neither Harper nor Heath could know is how many explosive secrets from the past will be exposed--or how deeply they will fall for each other.

In this suspenseful page-turner, bestselling author Elizabeth Goddard keeps you on the edge of your seat as you discover that uncommon justice lies just on the other side of fear.

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About The Author

Elizabeth Goddard is the bestselling, award-winning author of forty novels and counting, including the romantic mystery, THE CAMERA NEVER LIES–a 2011 Carol Award winner. Four of her six Mountain Cove books have been contest finalists. Buried, Backfire and Deception are finalists in the Daphne Du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery and Suspense, and Submerged is a Carol Award finalist. A 7th generation Texan, Elizabeth graduated from North Texas State University with a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science and worked in high-level software sales for several years before retiring to fulfill her dreams of writing full-time. Elizabeth currently lives in Michigan.

Connect With Roberta:

Website | Facebook | Twitter | Instagram

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My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Always Look Twice is the second book in the Uncommon Justice series, but read as a standalone. This Christian romantic suspense turns out to be more suspense than romance. I did enjoy the suspense as it kept me turning pages, the only downside I had with this particular book was the repetitiveness. It did get a bit slow in some spots but not enough to stop you from wanting to find out what happens next.

I would like to thank Revell for the ARC of Always Look Twice in exchange for my honest review.

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Book review of ⭐Blind Sympathy⭐by Roberta Bombonato @AuthorBombonato #blindsympathy #paranormalangelromance

Blind Sympathy by Roberta B. Bombonato


Sypnosis 

Vafara is a blind composer who creates new symphonies for the world. Alone in a cabin with only her service dog, she's not concerned in the slightest for zero cell phone reception in a secluded in the woods. This is her special time where she can be free to let her musical compositions speak to her.
Israfel is a demon one assignment short from graduation: possession of an innocent soul. He's always know he was different from others of his kind, and meeting the pure Vafara confirmed it.
Will he be able to possess the passionate musician when all he wants to do is hold her? Or will he throw it all away and risk an Angels and Demons war to save her innocent soul from the dark fate that awaits?

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About The Author

Roberta Bombonato has been hearing characters in her head since she was born, but only began writing down their stories since 2007. They can be a rowdy bunch and only leave her alone when the book is finished. She calls herself a basket-case, weaving stories with twisted pain and unconditional love.

Born in Sao Paulo, Brazil, Roberta moved to the United States at the age of 11 and became a U.S. Citizen. She currently resides in fabulous, sunny Florida with her disabled veteran husband, two loving dogs, Kent and Pup, one eccentric parrot, Apollo, and two Guinea pids to keep him company.

In 2009, she released her first book AN UNCONVENTIONAL FAMILY. It received an honorable mention is the 2009’s Hollywood Book Festival in the Wild Card category.

Aug 28th of 2019, she released her second book BLIND SYMPATHY.

There was a period of 10 years in which she was plagued with writer’s block. The Ketogenic diet has helped her get back in the game, stronger than ever. She even became a certified Keto and Fasting Coach through Dr. Berg. She helps clients lose weight and feel great, like she does. She documents her weight-loss journey on Instagram @nerdyketonian. Click here for more info.

Redemption is a common theme in her extremely different stories. There is something so beautiful about a very LARGE character arch. Triggers evoke such emotion and her characters find a way of concealing the hurt because vulnerability is weakness. The power lies in change.

Roberta vows to keep writing her character’s stories even if they don’t follow the regular formulas of the writing world. She believes that in order to do them justice, they will not be put inside a conventional box. This is where pushing the envelope will result in unpredictability.

Connect With Roberta:
Website | Facebook | Pinterest | Instagram

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My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have not read anything by Roberta Bombonato, so this book for me was a new adventure with an author who has such an awesome imagination and talent for writing a story you can actually get carried away in (if you get my drift). For me, I believe Roberta has the writing style to make her stories unique and believable, which I enjoy immensely. Blind Sympathy was a fascinating story in my opinion as another reviewer mentioned a true “Beauty and the Beast" story. If you enjoy the paranormal genre, you will love this book.

I received this book from the author in exchange for an honest review, thank you, Roberta. In addition, my actual star count is above five stars for the talent and imagination of the author. ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

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Featuring *Dread Pirate Arcanist* by Shami Stovall @GameOverStation @pumpupyourbooks

DREAD PIRATE ARCANIST
Shami Stovall
* YA Fantasy *

Title: DREAD PIRATE ARCANIST
Author: Shami Stovall
Publisher: Capital Station Books
Pages: #437
Genre: YA Fantasy

While protecting the newborn griffins on the Isle of Landin, Volke Savan and his adopted sister, Illia, run afoul of the Dread Pirate Calisto, the same cutthroat who carved out Illia’s right eye. As a master manticore arcanist, Calisto’s strength and brutality are unrivaled. When Illia suggests they bring him to justice, Volke wonders if they’ll have what it takes to fight the corsairs on the high seas.

A fast-paced flintlock fantasy for those who enjoy How to Train Your Dragon by Cressida Cowell, Unsouled (Cradle Series) by Will Wight, and Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan.

Praise for the Frith Chronicles!

“Perfect for those who enjoy the Codex Alera series, the Homas Wildus series, and the Harry Potter series. Stovall is quickly becoming a name I look for.”
 – Seattle Book Review

“An addictive series. Shami Stovall has produced a mesmerizing story of magic, intrigue, and true adventure.”
– ManyBooks

“Absolutely brilliant.”
– Archaeolibrarian

Now continue the Frith Chronicles with the second book, Dread Pirate Arcanist!

★Amazon —-> https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07WK2H37L

 
 

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CHAPTER ONE

THE DAY OF PHOENIXES

            I outlined a fresh grave for the cemetery as bells rang from the isle’s tower, signifying the start of the celebrations. The soil reeked of ammonia and rot, but the crisp morning breeze washed the scent away, dispersing it over the ocean. I removed my shirt, allowing the wind to cool me while I worked.

            Every ten years, the people on the Isle of Ruma gathered to watch the fledgling phoenixes bond with a few chosen mortals. Lamplighters did their duty despite the glorious sunshine, each lamp’s fire representing the flames of phoenixes. Merchants cleared their horses and carts from the main road in anticipation of the crowds.

This was my second Day of Phoenixes. A decade ago, on my fifth birthday, I missed the bonding ceremony to attend my father’s trial. He was convicted of murder, but because he hadn’t been born on the island, he was taken to the mainland for final judgement. That was the last time I saw him.

            Although the last Day of Phoenixes had been inauspicious, I intended to change that. Once I had finished digging a shallow grave, I would make my way into town.

I slammed the shovel’s head into the dirt and scooped deep. The cemetery sat near the edge of the island, far from those gathering to observe the hopeful students trying to win the favor of the phoenixes.

            Tradition stated that anyone who handled sewage, waste, and dead bodies wasn’t allowed to attend the bonding ceremony, which was just my luck. After my father was sent away, I could’ve been given to any profession for apprenticeship. I could’ve gone to the carpenter and learned the craft of woodworking, or I could’ve gone to the silversmith and learned the art of fine metal work, but misfortune hounded me like a shadow. I was given to the gravekeeper, slated to dig corpse-holes until the end of time, forever exiled from the festivities.

            I still intended to go. Even if it meant ignoring the traditions of the isle—something unheard of on our tiny spit of land—no one could stop me from proving myself to a phoenix. No one.

I scooped another mound of dirt and tossed it to the side.

            “You look deep in thought, Volke,” my fellow corpse-hole apprentice, Illia, said. “What’re you planning?”

            “I’m waiting for the trials to begin.”

            “And then what?”

            “You’ll see.”

            Illia sat in the shade of a cypress tree, her legs crossed and her chin in both hands. Most people hated the thought of sitting on graves, since it was supposed to bring bad luck, but Illia wasn’t like most people. She leaned back on a headstone and exhaled as the ocean wind rushed by, catching her wavy brown hair and revealing the scars on the side of her face.

            She held a hand over the marks, like she always did. The moment the wind died down, she pulled some of her hair around to cover her scars, hiding the old knife wounds that had taken her right eye.

            I finished one half of the grave and huffed.

            Illia and I lived in a tiny cottage on the edge of the cemetery, apprenticed to Ruma’s sole gravekeeper. We both held the glorious title of gravedigger. Like me, she had no family. Well, we had each other, and Gravekeeper William, but he hardly counted.

            For ten years, Illia and I had considered ourselves brother and sister, and siblings always know each other’s mood. Illia displayed all the telltale signs of irritation—narrowed eye, rarely blinking, her mouth turned down in a slight frown. She hated the fact I was keeping secrets from her. If I didn’t explain myself quick, she’d exact her revenge.

            “I don’t want to become the next gravekeeper,” I said as I threw a mound of dirt off to the side.

            With an eyebrow sarcastically raised, Illia asked, “So you’re going to impress a phoenix and leave this place, is that it?”

            “That’s right.”

            “Only two phoenixes were born this year,” she said, wagging her finger. “And the schoolmaster has already picked his two favored disciples to win the right to bond. No one wants you to take a phoenix from either of those try-hards.”

            “I don’t care.” I scooped out another clump of dirt, my grip on the shovel so tight it hurt. “Bonding with a phoenix is too important. Besides, no one on this isle likes me anyway. Why should I start caring about their opinions now?”

            “Hmph. I should’ve known you’d say that.”

            Of course. Anyone who bonded with a mystical creature, like a phoenix, became an arcanist—a powerful wielder of sorcery, capable of great magic based on the creature they bonded to.

            Arcanists were the pinnacle of society, the most influential people, and revered by everyone. Some arcanists could control the weather, or devastate armies, or make the land fertile. Even the weakest and laziest of arcanists were well-thought-of and important members of powerful guilds, shepherding humanity to greatness with a mere flick of their wrists.

            What I wouldn’t give to become an arcanist. They were things of legend.

            More significant than a gravedigger, anyway.

            “You’re not the only one with plans today,” Illia said. She waited a minute before adding, “Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ll be doing during the bonding ceremony?”

            I shoveled another chunk of dirt, taking some weeds with it. “All right. Tell me. What will you be doing?”

            “It’s a secret.”

            She stood and brushed herself off with a few gentle pats to her dress. Then she crossed her arms and stared at me, no doubt waiting for me to pester her about the secret just so she could say, see how annoying it is when you do it?

            “I’m sure you’ll have fun doing whatever it is you have planned,” I said with a shrug.

            “You’re not the only one who wants to become an arcanist, Volke,” she replied, saying my name as though it were venom. “But there might be easier ways than embarrassing yourself in front of everyone.”

            I finished carving the outline of the grave, determined not to be sucked into asking her what she meant. I had too many things on my mind to get into an argument. Besides, I knew she was right. It was irksome being excluded from secrets, especially by family. But I didn’t want to run the risk of her trying to dissuade me.

            Another round of bells sounded in the distance. I threw my shovel to the side and turned toward the cemetery cottage. “I have to go. Whatever you do, don’t get into trouble.”

            Illia replied with a smile. “Never.”

            Something about her sarcastic tone told me she had trouble planned, but there wasn’t any time to go into it. I jogged into the cottage, ran up the rickety stairs, and then dashed straight into my room. It was technically a storage closet that Gravekeeper William had converted into a sleeping space so that Illia and I wouldn’t have to share the second bedroom.

            The cramped room fit my cot, a chair, and a trunk for my clothes. That was it.

            I squeezed myself in, ripped off my dirty trousers, and then dressed in a clean white shirt and black pants. Although I owned nothing fancy—everything in my trunk had been Gravekeeper William’s at some point—I still wanted to make an effort. The phoenixes bonded with individuals they liked the most after the Trials of Worth were over. I needed to impress them, and I couldn’t do that with grave dirt on my clothes.

            Once dressed, I combed my disheveled hair, even though it never cooperated. For some reason, it always puffed out and tangled at the ends, defying gravity just to make me look foolish. And the blackness of it—an inky hue taken straight from the midnight hour—wasn’t common on the isles. Everyone else had red or blond hair, so other kids made fun of me.

            Coal head. Ink brush. They weren’t clever kids—any dumber and you’d have to water them twice a week—they were just mean. No one harassed me after I grew tall, however. Six feet meant I stood out in the group, and not in a wimpy way.

            When I finished the last of my brushing, my hair puffed back out.

            Satisfied I had made myself halfway presentable, I laced up my boots and headed downstairs to the kitchen. I grabbed a small canteen of water and the cleanest rag we owned before rushing out the front door.

            The vast ocean sparkled in the distance, so blue it put the sky to shame. The winds brought waves, but nothing strong enough to reach far inland—just the melody of water lapping across the white sand beaches.

            With the breeze in my face, I ran down the dirt road until I came to the cobblestone streets of the city. I pushed my way through the crowds of people swarming toward the town square.

            Our small island didn’t have much flatland, so the one city—creatively named Ruma, like the island—was the only place to live. The two-story houses were smooshed together, most with stores downstairs and homes above. Despite the congested living arrangements, people went out of their way to keep the place lively. Potted flowers, colored cobblestone for the roads, wrought-iron fences in the shape of fish for the balconies—Ruma had a special beauty waiting in every nook and cranny.

            The crowds made their way to the Pillar to watch the bonding trials begin.

            The Pillar—nothing more than a sheer column of pointed rock jutting straight up into the sky—was well over one hundred and twenty feet tall. It could be seen from anywhere on the island, the reddish stone shimmering in the sunlight. A single tree grew at the top, its branches forever swaying in the ocean winds, its roots laced over the rock, its fruit rare and delicious.

            That sole charberry tree was what had attracted the first phoenixes to our island centuries ago. The spicy fruit tasted like a chili pepper, but sweeter and juicier. Phoenixes loved them.

            The base of the Pillar was the starting location for the Trials of Worth—the tasks given to the wide-eyed hopefuls wanting to prove their value to the phoenixes. I continued through the crowd, my head tilted back, my gaze locked on the Pillar. A staircase wrapped around the column of rock, all the way to the top.

            “Hey,” someone yelled as I shoved my way deeper into the excited masses. “Isn’t that one of the gravedigger kids?”

            I ignored the remark, sidestepped the slow-moving families, and nimbly maneuvered through a group of schoolchildren. If I bonded with a phoenix, I wouldn’t have to stay here anymore and listen to their whispers. All new arcanists traveled to the mainland to join a guild for training.

            A third round of bells chimed, and my pulse quickened with each step. I didn’t want to be late for the trials.

            The whole population of Ruma packed the streets, shoulder to shoulder. No one missed the Day of Phoenixes unless they were specifically excluded, like the garbage men. Everyone wore their best attire, children tossed red flower petals, and the theater troupe wore costumes made of bird feathers while they pranced around pretending to be phoenixes. It took all of my willpower not to crane my head to get a better look as I ran by.

            “—and today is a day of glory,” the schoolmaster’s voice boomed across the town square.

            Schoolmaster Tyms was a naturally loud individual—Gravekeeper William described him as a regular blowhard in love with his own voice.

            I slipped between two elderly men and stayed off to the side, making sure to remain in the shadows cast by the morning sun. Hundreds of people crowded the center of town, but their gazes never turned in my direction. They all kept their attention on a wooden stage near the Pillar—a platform only a few feet off the ground—where Schoolmaster Tyms stood squarely in the middle, his arms raised.

            Whenever he glanced in my direction, I ducked. Schoolmaster Tyms didn’t care for anyone except those who attended his lectures, and he especially hated those with “unsavory” professions.

            “I’ve mentored two extraordinary people,” Tyms said. “Both are talented beyond their years and worthy of a phoenix.”

He walked to the edge of the stage, lifting his arms even higher, his wrinkled face pulled back in an unnatural smile. I had seen corpses do a better job at conveying emotion.

But I didn’t stare at him for long because on either side of him, perched on ornate bird stands, were two phoenixes.

            I stood transfixed, taking in their lustrous scarlet feathers and golden eyes. They had the build of herons, delicate and sleek, but every time they moved, soot fell from them and drifted to the ground. Fire flashed underneath their wings as though their whole bodies were made of flame. Their tails hung down two feet and twisted a bit at the end, like a peacock.

            They were young, not even a year old, but that was old enough for them to leave the island. Mystical creatures didn’t reach maturity unless they were bonded to a person—I was certain they were giddy for the ceremony as well.

            “We’re honored to be here today,” one phoenix said, her voice sing-song and brilliant.

            The other added, “We can’t wait to see our potential partners.” He lifted his head as he spoke, his voice soft but distinct.

            I wanted to hold one in my arms and feel the warmth of their magic coursing through my body, but touching a phoenix was forbidden. Only once they bonded with a person were they allowed to be handled.

            The phoenixes tilted their heads as two individuals walked forward. The two were around my age, fifteen, the age of adulthood. They wore robes of glistening white, tied at the waist with silver ropes made of silk. Fancy outfits made on the mainland, betraying their wealth.

            Tyms motioned to the rich newcomers. “On this Day of the Phoenixes I’ve selected Zaxis Ren and Atty Trixibelle to take part in the trials.”

            Of course they would be picked. Ever since we were kids, they were always favored by the schoolmaster.

            I cursed under my breath as Zaxis walked to the base of the Pillar.

            He stopped under the metal archway, a century-old artifact which had been shaped into a phoenix and gilded. The arch signified the start of the trial. Anyone who passed beneath it would become a participant.

            Zaxis smiled at the crowd with the smuggest expression a human could muster. His red hair shimmered in the sunlight and fluttered about with the wind. It wasn’t long enough to tie back, and I took a small amount of pleasure in watching him clumsily pat it down every few seconds, only for a stray hair to poke him in the eye again.

            Zaxis’s family, the Ren House, stood at the front of the crowd, their personal soldiers keeping the “riffraff” a couple feet back. They cheered for Zaxis and threw flower petals. I had never been cheered for anything, yet all he did was show up. Life wasn’t fair sometimes.

            “Thank you,” Zaxis said as he flashed a toothy smile. “Thank you. Once I’m bonded with a phoenix, I’ll make all of Ruma proud with my many accomplishments. I’ll become the world’s most renowned arcanist, loved by all.”

            I balled my hands into fists and gritted my teeth. He already assumed a phoenix would choose him and that he would make one of the world’s greatest arcanists? Of course he did—he wasn’t expecting any competition.

            Then Atty stepped forward, and the crowds hushed.

            Unlike Zaxis, whose insufferable attitude knew no bounds, Atty held herself with regal sophistication. Her long blonde hair, tied in a neat braid, didn’t twirl in the winds. She held her head high, her slender neck adorned with a silver necklace depicting a charberry tree. I had always admired her poise and grace, like a pauper admires a member of royalty, even when I was young.

            If things had been different—if I wasn’t a gravedigger—maybe I could’ve courted Atty. No doubt she would be disgusted to have someone like me approach her now. But once I bonded with a phoenix, perhaps I’d have the courage.

            “Thank you, Schoolmaster Tyms,” Atty said, her voice a sweet relief after a long day’s work. “It’s a privilege to prove myself worthy of a phoenix. If I become an arcanist, I swear to dedicate myself to becoming a helpful ruler, one all of Ruma can be proud of.”

            Atty’s family, the Trixibelle House, owned most of the buildings on the island. They sat on nearby balconies, each of them poised on chairs and cushions, cheering for Atty, along with everyone else on the island.

            Although I wanted a phoenix for myself, I almost joined in on the clapping. Her answer was perfect, and when the phoenixes exchanged glances, I knew they thought the same.

            No one else stepped forward.

            While other people could offer themselves to the phoenixes, it was frowned upon. The schoolmaster knew best, or so they said—for centuries the keepers of knowledge were deemed the wisest and most capable of determining who would become the best arcanists. It was tradition. And for the last few decades, the schoolmaster hadn’t even made it a competition. He simply chose the exact number of students equal to phoenixes, ensuring his recommendation carried more weight than gold.

            And the Isle of Ruma knew the importance of picking the right people to become arcanists. If the competition was open to everyone, someone with ill intents could gain vast magical power. The schoolmaster was supposed to weed them out and put forward only the best, most deserving people. That was why no one else entered the competitions. Following traditions is the way of the isles! Our island’s motto.

            But even if I was noble of spirit, Atty and Zaxis studied and trained eight hours a day under the care of Schoolmaster Tyms. Everyone else, myself included, had work and chores. Atty and Zaxis were lucky. I wasn’t. How could I ever hope to match their knowledge and skills?

            That didn’t matter, though. I wouldn’t make excuses. The phoenixes could, in theory, bond with anyone they found worthy. And I would show them just how worthy I was by passing each of the three trials.

            “Once our hopefuls walk through the archway,” Tyms said, gesturing to the gold phoenix arch, “they will officially become participants in the trials. For the first task, each hopeful must walk up all one hundred and twelve steps of the Pillar to the charberry tree. Then they will pick a fruit to present to the phoenixes and return down the stairs.”

            Every Day of Phoenixes had the same three trials. The charberry tree was the first. Only one stairway led to the tree—the spiral stairway made of stone steps that wrapped around the Pillar. The steps were hundreds of years old and worn smooth from use. Oh, and no railing, which was why I never felt safe standing on them, as falling from anything past the tenth step meant serious injury, possibly death.

            “And with that, you may begin,” Tyms shouted.

            Both Atty and Zaxis bowed to the crowd before turning and walking through the archway.

            This was it.

            My moment.

            I ran through the crowd, pushing people out of the way when I needed to, even knocking over a few men of the Ren Family as I dashed toward the arch. My heart beat so hard I almost didn’t hear people screaming for me to stop.

            “Hey!” a woman barked.

            “What’s he doing?” someone else shouted.

            “Stop him!”

            But before anyone could grab me, I raced through the archway, dashing past Atty and Zaxis.

            “What do you think you’re doing, Volke?” Zaxis growled. “Good-for-nothing gravediggers can’t enter the trials!”

            I had my foot on the first step of the Pillar when I glanced over my shoulder. “I already passed under the archway. That makes me a participant.”

            “What? That’s not allowed!” Zaxis glanced over his shoulder. “Right, Master Tyms?”

            Tyms blubbered and flailed his arms. “How dare you, Volke! You walk back through that archway this instant. You’re disgracing all of Ruma with your disrespect!”

            I ran up the steps, taking them two at a time despite the lack of railing.

            Today I would prove myself to a phoenix. I would prove myself to all of Ruma.

            I was more than just a gravedigger.

I wouldn’t stop. Not now, not ever.

 

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Shami Stovall grew up in California’s central valley with a single mother and little brother. Despite no one in her family earning a degree higher than a GED, she put herself through college (earning a BA in History), and then continued on to law school where she obtained her Juris Doctorate.

As a child, Stovall’s favorite novel was Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O’Dell. The adventure on a deserted island opened her mind to ideas and realities she had never given thought before—and it was at that moment Stovall realized storytelling (specifically fiction) became her passion. Anything that told a story, be it a movie, book, video game or comic, she had to experience. Now, as a professor and author, Stovall wants to add her voice to the myriad of stories in the world and she hopes you enjoy.

WEBSITE & SOCIAL LINKS:

★Website: https://sastovallauthor.com/
★Blog: https://sastovallauthor.com/blog/
★Twitter: https://twitter.com/GameOverStation
★Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/SAStovall/

 

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Blitz Tour for *Betsy Blossom Brown* by Kathleen M. Jacobs @kathleenm.jacobs @RABTBookTours

Young Adult

Date Published: June 5, 2019

Publisher: Jan-Carol Publishing, Inc.

Betsy Blossom Brown is a coming-of-age story about a young girl who journeys from being an observer of life to a participant. Her seemingly idyllic life with her privileged South Carolina family is turned upside down, revealing truths and disarming pretensions. She's independent, opinionated, and brave. Uncertainty enters her life when she and her mother move to the Appalachian region until, through a series of unsettling events; she sheds her uncertainty and learns to embrace life. The graphite illustrations help to understand the depth of Betsy Blossom Brown, as she sketches her way through life recognizing her mild Asperger syndrome, without letting it curb her appetite for life.

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Charleston, SC:  2007

Fourteen-year-old Betsy Blossom Brown sat on the saffron-colored, vinyl kitchen chair across from her mother, Lily. Lily’s opened palms buried her face, and Betsy’s elbows rested on the vintage, enameled, red and white kitchen table, the palms of her hands holding up each side of her chin. Betsy and her mother loved this vintage kitchen set. They loved anything vintage. But they loved this set in particular because it was found on top of a heap of discarded furniture outside a dilapidated beach house on Sullivan’s Island. Betsy’s chestnut curls concealed her olive-green eyes so that her mother would not be able to see every tear that fell from them. Betsy watched in a near hypnotic state as each teardrop seemed to disperse on the shiny, enameled tabletop. She secretly longed to go wherever they were headed—to a place where what she had just been told hadn’t yet arrived.

“But I don’t understand,” Betsy winced.

“I know, Sugar, it’s difficult. I don’t even understand it, but it is the truth. And ever since the day you entered my life, I made a promise to always tell you the truth, no matter what. Your father thought different. He believed a lie was okay if it meant that you avoided hurting someone. And while that may have a bit of merit, especially with the truth I just shared with you, it’s just not the way I see it. And in this moment, I would certainly love to be able to keep this truth under lock and key forever, but sooner or later, you would find out. And then you’d wonder why I hadn’t been the one to tell you what happened to your father.”

“But why? Why did he do it? I need to know why. I need to know the reason. It’s a quirk I’ve had ever since I was born, Mom. You know that. I always need to know why.” Betsy continued to snap at the placket of her front, periwinkle-colored, linen shirt. She loved this shirt most because it had been her mother’s when she was in college. It was a bit oversized, so Betsy sometimes belted it with her wide, brown, leather belt. Finding plackets and seams on pockets and collars was something Betsy had done since she was a small child. She seemed to look for them without even thinking, and yet, she was thinking of nothing else.

“I don’t know why, Betsy. He didn’t have a reason. All he said when I saw him was, ‘Lily, dear Lily, I’m sorry. Please tell Betsy that I’m sorry.’”

I turned each side of my hair behind my ears, wiped at my eyes, and looked to Mr. Peabody and Steve as they raced furiously around their cage, stopping briefly to hop on the plastic, multi-colored toy ferris wheel, and tumbled to the tiny pieces of torn comic strips from the newspaper and fleece bedding that lined the floor of their cage. I had begged my mother for pet rats for months before she surprised me with a trip to MacGruder’s Pets on Sullivan’s Island. My father was out of town at a business meeting (or so, at the time, we thought), and that always presented a prime opportunity for us to charge ahead with plans that he might not have approved. He pretty well knew that whenever he went out of town, my mother and I would retaliate by doing or buying something that hadn’t been mutually agreed upon. We thought it was funny; he didn’t.

Betsy Blossom Brown walked over to her mother, wrapped both arms around her neck, and picked up the morning paper that her mother had brought for her to read. The front page made her dizzy, like the time she rode the “Round-Up” at the carnival. She took the newspaper with her to her room and chose the rigidity of her desk chair to read what she already knew.

LOCAL BUSINESSMAN WILLIAM BROWN

CHARGED WITH EMBEZZLEMENT OF

CLIENT FUNDS

William D. Brown of Charleston was charged on Friday with embezzlement of client funds from his management firm, Brown & Associates. According to a report released from the FBI and in conjunction with an SEC investigation, which had been conducting their own investigation into mismanagement of funds at the firm and client allegations of fraud from a number of Brown’s clients, evidence shows that Brown had been embezzling vast amounts of money from his individual client accounts since he joined the firm in 1994. Brown allegedly skimmed in excess of three million dollars over the past five years. The majority of Brown’s clients are retired, live out of state, and have trusted him since he joined his father, the late Joseph Brown, at the firm in 1994, the same year the elder Brown died from a fall while vacationing in the Caribbean after tripping on a sidewalk as he returned to the vacation home he and his wife owned, hitting his head on the concrete pavement and suffering massive bleeding before going into a coma. The senior Brown opened the respected firm in 1969. At the time of his death, the managed assets of Brown & Associates were listed by the SEC at over one billion dollars.

The South Carolina State Police worked with FBI agents and SEC officials in locating Brown on Friday morning after his wife, Lily Park Brown, the only daughter of the late Senator Tommy Park, reported her husband missing. After numerous reports of Brown’s physical location, the authorities were led to the lighthouse on Sullivan’s Island, where Brown was sitting in a gray flannel suit, starched white shirt, and a perfectly-knotted silk tie, surrounded by an incoming tide that saturated the pillowcases filled with bundled money that encircled him. One FBI official noticed a revolver in Brown’s hand, and as he raised it and pointed it to his temple, the trained police German shepherd leaped through the air and seized the weapon, and Brown fell forward.

Attempts to contact Brown’s wife or any of the officials involved with the incident and apprehension have been futile.

Betsy reached inside her desk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. She cut out the newspaper article about her father, opened the finches’ birdcage, and slid the newspaper at the bottom, and then she waited until “Scout” and “Jem” and “Boo” and “Atticus” crapped all over the newsprint. The birds broke into their sweet singsong, and Betsy was overcome with anger. She wasn’t sure, though, whether she was angry with her father, with herself for carpeting the finches’ birdcage with the morning news, or with the finches for sounding so happy, when she felt anything but, as they flew with seeming madness from perch to perch.

About the Author

Kathleen M. Jacobs is the author of books for young readers. Her first YA-novel, Honeysuckle Holiday, has received critical acclaim. And her children’s book, Please Close It! has won numerous awards. She divides her time between New York City and the Appalachian region. She lives with her husband, John, and far too many books. Visit her website at www.kathleenmjacobs.com and on Instagram @kathleenm.jacobs.

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