1 Walter Reed Army Medical Center, Washington, D.C. December 27, 1967, 2:00 a.m.   The room was brightly lit. Pale blue walls shone white and the black floor tiles shimmered and rippled like water. Paper chains and tired snowflakes hung from the ceiling and a Christmas tree sat unhappily in the corner, leaning forward but somehow not tipping. In the middle of the room was a flimsy Formica table and, on either side, sat two men, neither of whom wanted to be there. Jack Miller was relaxed but wary, his eyes alert and clear despite the hour. His clothes well cut. He clenched and unclenched his right fist, which was large and heavy and stiffened with arthritis. The weight of it made the table look flimsier still. He rubbed his knuckles to ease the pain then looked from the blank piece of paper in front of him to the man opposite. Private Connor Murphy. His face and hands were covered in bandages and the parts of his scalp that showed through were either pink and raw or black and charred. It made you hurt just to look at him, Jack thought. Poor bastard. The nurses said feeding him was like…

The Time Wine Shot Out My Nose 2 years before   Smack in the middle of an otherwise normal Wine Wednesday, Liddy blurts out, “Jack is having an affair. No, make that affairs.” For a moment, nobody speaks. I swallow a weird knee-jerk desire to giggle. Max recovers first. “What are you talking about?” “I got a phone call yesterday from a woman who says she’s been sleeping with Jack for years. And the only reason she wanted to tell me now was that…” Her voice breaks. She looks at the ground. Nobody moves or breathes. When she raises her head to speak again, she is transformed. Her long, ropy curls quiver with contained energy, her nostrils are flared, her cheeks are pink and bright. She is a freaking warrior. “Was that he’s cheating on her with someone else.” “Jesus, what did you say?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “I said, ‘That must be hard. I hope you can get some professional help.’ Then I hung up and threw Jack’s Rolex in the toilet.” “And what condition was the water in the toilet?” asks Feeney, like she’s talking to a wild caged animal. Liddy takes a big…

Here’s an exclusive excerpt of Maggie Shayne’s FIONA: ORIGINS FMI: https://MaggieShayne.com/fionaorigins     When I came home after a night of partying with my friends that beautiful spring morn, the last thing I expected to see was my parents lying on the floor of our cottage. I ran to my father first, as he was the nearer. But he was cool to the touch, chalk white, eyes closed, still in his nightclothes. Dead. My da was dead. “No!” I fell to my knees beside him, pressed my fingers to his neck in search of his pulse, but instead I felt, and then saw, two small dark wounds. I gasped and drew my hand away, but my gaze stuck fast. The punctures were swollen and red; there was not a drop of blood to be found, not even on his skin. We’d argued the night before. My last words to him had been unkind. “Oh, Da,” I whispered, “I’m sorry. If you want to move away, we’ll move away. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Da. I’m sorry.” “Fiona,” Ma whispered. “Ma?” She was alive! I scuttled to her side. She lay faceup on the floor, still wearing her nightgown and her soft…

I start searching around my feet for my bag. I spin round in my swivel chair a few times, examining the floor. “What are you doing?” Mimi asks. I groan. “I left my bag in the meeting room.” “I’ll come with you. I want a coffee anyway,” Mimi says, standing. “I’m guessing you won’t turn down a coffee, Rakhee?” “You know me so well,” Rakhee says, typing away furiously again. Gabby, our editorial assistant who sits a couple of rows behind, overhears. “I can get your coffees if you like,” she sweetly offers, glancing up from her screen. “That’s okay,” I say. “I need to rescue my bag from the meeting room.” “You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on,” chuckles Dominic from the picture desk as we wander by. “Hey! If you still want early screening tickets to the next Ryan Reynolds movie, I’d be careful about your tone,” I say breezily. “Have I told you lately how amazing you are?” he adds quickly. “That’s more like it.” I grin, winking at him. Mimi is waylaid at the picture desk about one of the hotels she’s featuring in an all-inclusive round-up, so I go ahead, swiftly passing Cosmo’s…

Good morning, friends of Fresh Fiction!   I’m excited to be here today and share an excerpt of the first book in my Say I Do series. YOURS TRULY, THE DUKE, is a marriage of convenience story between the Duke of Wyatthaven and Miss Fredericka Hale. Wyatt is at the top of his game in fencing, cards, and social life and he has no interest in marriage. Fredericka is in need of a husband and fast. They both discover that there are times in life when unimaginable things start to happen. Enjoy! Amelia     Yours Truly, The Duke     Satisfied, Fredericka turned to the duke and smiled quite splendidly. “Now, I believe it’s time you told me why you’re here.” He looked at her as if wondering why she asked him that question. “I’m here concerning the letter I had delivered to you.” Letter? Instantly thinking it might have something to do with her sister’s children, since he had just mentioned them, Fredericka visibly tensed. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I don’t recall receiving correspondence from you.” He lifted his brows in doubt. “My courier didn’t arrive with it earlier today?” “Today?” She glanced at the clock on the…

As he considered the possibility her eyes suddenly flashed open, filled with drowsiness as they connected with his. She blinked, uncertain, confused before those incredible violet eyes lost their laser focus and she was simply staring in his direction. “Tracker?” She sat up slowly, the sheet sliding away from the thin, silky looking white sleep shirt she wore. On strap fell over a delicate shoulder and he swore he could see the shadow of pretty pink nipples beneath the material. “Morning princess,” he murmured, striding to the side of the bed. “Sleep good?” He toed his short boots from his feet. “I…I guess.” She pushed her fingers through her hair. “Why are you here?” “For this.” Before she could do more than gasp, he pushed the sheet quickly from her, noticing the shortie shorts she wore, the slender legs, curvy thighs, just before he came over her and pushed her to her back once again. In the back of his mind, he knew she should be screaming, scared. She’d fight him, struggle, cry out and bring those damned twins running to the rescue. At least, that was how he’d assumed she’d handle his actions. Instead, she stilled, laying beneath him…

Excerpt from AFTER THE SHADOWS by Amanda Cabot     “Emily Vaughn, why, it is you. I didn’t know you were back in town.” Emily turned, recognizing the voice of the woman whose home was now no more than smoldering ruins. Mrs. Carmichael was sitting on her neighbor’s porch, her arm wrapped around Clara Adams’s shoulders, giving comfort though she was the one who needed it. How typical of the gray-haired widow. Though she was close to seventy, Mrs. Carmichael had always impressed Emily as being much younger, perhaps because her light blue eyes normally seemed to sparkle with happiness. She doubted they were sparkling now. “I arrived this afternoon,” Emily said as she approached the older women. “I’m sorry about what happened to your house.” It was a day no one in Sweetwater Crossing would soon forget. “I wish I knew what happened. I didn’t leave anything cooking on the stove, but someone said embers might have started the fire.” “Now, Mary, it doesn’t matter.” Mrs. Adams shook her head, strands of white hair escaping from the knot at the back of her neck, her gray eyes solemn. The widow was the shortest of Mrs. Carmichael’s friends, like Emily…

Prologue, Pages 1–3 STRANGERS IN THE NIGHT, Copyright © 2023 by Heather Webb.   Every important moment of my life could be measured in notes and captured by a song. That was never truer than the first night I saw her across the room, belonging to someone else. As the brass finished and the lights went up, I stepped away from the mic. Cheers and whistles peppered the audience in the smoke-hazed room of the Hollywood Palladium. I mopped my brow and drank deeply from a water glass, parched after the set. “Alright, boys, see you in twenty,” Tommy said, bandleader and boss. He laid his trombone on his chair. The orchestra wiped down their instruments, put them carefully in their cases before seeing about a refreshment or two. I ordered a drink from a cute waitress who batted her eyes at me and asked for my autograph. I obliged. I was never one to turn away a fan, never would be. Whiskey in hand, I skirted the room, saying hello to those I knew and to anyone important, but really wasn’t I the most important person here? They’d all come to hear me sing, after all. I’d taken Tommy…

“It’s the forensic document examiner,” I said, putting the call on speaker. “Hello?” “This is Nisha Singh. About the certificate you sent me…” “Yes?” “I had a quick look when it arrived yesterday and it’s…very unusual,” she said. Which definitely won understatement of the year. “At first, I thought it was a joke.” Lars and I exchanged glances. “I know exactly what you mean.” “I have other jobs ahead of yours, but I couldn’t resist taking a closer look,” she continued. “Whoever created the document appeared to have done a good job of simulating the effects of age on paper. I was curious to know how they did it. So I put it under the microscope then tried looking at it with different light sources, and ran some other tests.” “It is fake, isn’t it?” The woman took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “After a thorough examination, I’ve decided I’m unable to write a report on the document. I won’t be charging you for my time.” “Wait,” I said. “Why?” “While I cannot disprove the document’s authenticity, I also cannot confirm it given the details it contains.” My mouth gaped. “You’re saying it’s real.” “I’m saying I…

Uncomfortable is something I’m familiar with, but the level of unease I get around Moros beats the stares, the touches, and the ability to take over a room of humans if I cough. And it’s not because he’s gross, scum like Firthus, or cruel. He’s…kind, and I’m not sure what to do with that. This morning he remains silent at the kitchen table, seeming to give me space I desperately need to mill over thoughts and sip coffee. When he’s talking to me or trying to get me to work magic I don’t have, there’s an edge to him—a pompous, commanding attitude overflowing with determination, but I’m missing too many pieces to the whole puzzle so I can’t see the full picture of him. He’s patient with me, though he’s not patient. He wants me to be a goddess like it’s his one goal in life, and says it’s because I will be stronger and invincible, but there’s something else I can’t even name to question him. There’s a leer in his eyes when I fail or ask a question he doesn’t want to talk about. He diverts and dodges. Ducks under the truth or the lie. With his help,…