Tag Archives: murder mystery

#SEX AND VIOLENCE

We live in an undeniably violent world–wars, murders, rapes, ad nauseum. Should books graphically reflect that reality? How much is too much?

As the author of murder and mayhem–and even in my literary works to some, though to a lesser, degree–this is a question I face. This issue is compounded by the question of sex. As with violence, sex permeates our culture. Nearly every television show, movie, and advertisement has sex intimately entwined. Let’s face it: sex and violence sells.

Yet, I want my work to mean more than a dollar sign or a cheap thrill. I feel a responsibility to tell stories worthy of a #reader’s time. After all, my commitment is to entertain, enlighten and empower. Where does that leave such a writer?

We become a weaver of plots, a builder of characters, a creator of worlds.

I use a certain amount of graphic sex and graphic violence in some of my work. Note the word “some” and the phrase “a certain amount”. Since I write everything from young adult to vampire to #murder to literary (yes, I realize authors are supposed to brand themselves with one genre, but that robe felt too tight and it itched!) the use of sex and violence must be tailored to the story.

For example, in the young adult novel, Black Wind, (TO BE RELEASED JULY 31) they never get their clothes off, yet in the vampire novel, Artemis’ Warriors(COMING AUGUST 31)….well, let’s just say that sometimes clothes get scattered all over the place. The mystery/cop/thriller novels, such as The Special #Crimes Team series, fall somewhere between these two poles.

Likewise, in Black Wind, violence occurs but to a lesser degree and not as graphic. The vampire fighters in Artemis’ Warriors dash about, lopping off heads and arms and other important parts. The blood flies. In Sketch of a Murder, SCT, Book 1, the reader sees crime scenes through the serial killer’s eyes–and the scenes are gruesome, yet in Old Woman Gone, SCT, Book 3, bloodshed is minimal. (All the books in my series can be read as stand-alone novels.)

So, what creates the different levels of sex and violence? The story. It is my contention that the plot and the characters in a story determine the amount of sex and violence, as well as how graphically those instances are portrayed .

All too often, I have picked up a novel and within a few chapters have read ten pages of graphic sex (more frequently than graphic violence even) for every page of story. Needless to say, I toss the book aside and seldom pick up anything else by that author. If scenes of sex and violence dominates a work with no clear purpose in forwarding the story, then I have to ask how well-developed are the characters and how substantial is the plot?

Readers, what is your opinion? How much sex and violence is too much? Leave a comment!

DON’T FORGET: UNTIL AUGUST 30 FOUR of my e-novels are FREE! Want a #FREEBOOK? Go to: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AyaWalksfar Choose one, or all, of the books listed below. Follow the checkout instructions. When asked for the coupon code, entered the code specific to that book. Continue checkout. Download the format that works best with your device. epub for NOOk; mobi for Kindle; or whatever format your device requires and is listed.

Street Harvest, Special Crimes Team, Book 2 (all of my series can be read out of order, or as a stand-alone novel) Use Coupon Code: JE68B

Run or Die Coupon Code: MX48Y

Good Intentions, a literary novel Coupon Code: HQ72R

Dead Men and Cats, a mystery novella Coupon Code: UH42Z

If you have problems with the download, please contact me at ayawalksfar@gmail.com I will try to answer your questions.

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Genre vs Author

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Genre VS Author

When searching for a new #book to read, do you first look in the genre or do you search by author’s name? How important is it for an author to write in one genre versus writing in several genres–such as an author who writes mystery, literary, paranormal and young adult versus an author who writes only mysteries or only literary or only paranormal books?

As an author I am always seeking ways to improve my visibility to readers and make it easier for them to find my work. I have been given various pieces of advice about writing in only one genre versus writing in several. There is one school of thought that says an author can “get away with” writing literary novels in conjunction with writing another genre since literary is in a class by itself. I write both literary and #mystery on a regular basis.

However, being an avid #reader myself, who consumes books from all genres except religious and erotica, I have had characters wake me up in the middle of the night yelling, “Write about me!” So, off I tromp to the writer’s dungeon, sleep still clouding my mind, and I kick up the computer. Fingers on the keyboard, I begin typing while not fully awake.

The next day when I re-read the beginning of whatever scene or story I worked on in the middle of the night, I gasp! Oh. My. God! I’ve written the opening scene of a vampire story with werepanthers (or a young adult story with a feisty grandmother and a young girl who loves horses).

A dilemma is upon me. Do I erase these poor characters, do I assign them to the Purgatory of the dreaded “Uncompleted Stories”, or do I continue to develop them and the story they have to tell?

If I do proceed to tell their story, do I publish it under the same name as I publish my literary and mystery novels, or do I use a different name–like C. W. Anon (Crazy Writer Anonymous)?

What would you recommend? My characters beg of you, please leave a comment.

Black Wind, a young adult novella, will be released July 24, 2015.

What would force a seventeen-year old girl to steal a horse? Follow my FB fan page and find out! http://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor

Death by #Dog, Book 5, #SpecialCrimesTeam

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Chapter 1

WEDNESDAY

Soda’s wavy, chestnut hair fell to the middle of her back. She pulled it back and tied it with a rubber band, so that it fell under the collar of her hoodie. Her mother had loved brushing and braiding Soda’s hair, even when Soda topped her mother’s five-foot-three height by two inches–before Mom got real sick; before sixteen-year-old Shelly Myers had become a street kid tagged as Soda. Sometimes, her mom would stand with her in front of her bedroom mirror and point out how they both had gray-blue eyes and the same determined, strong chin. She’d laugh and say, “Yeah, but you’re this curvy, sexy woman and I’m a stick that walks and talks.” She’d frown into the mirror. Mom would kiss her forehead and reply, “You are beautiful just the way you are.” Soda had loved those times.

But those times were miles away and months gone and mid-March in Seattle, Washington, breathed an early spring chill on the city. She flipped her hood up then zipped up the sweatshirt and stuffed her hands in the pockets. This part of Seattle–full of warehouses hulking silent in the evening and abandoned buildings with busted windows–held painful memories for her; so painful that it made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach, yet she felt unable to stay away.

Auntie El had been held by her kidnappers in a warehouse not far from where she walked. The elderly bookstore owner had befriended the street kids, Soda among them. Now she was gone, too; just like Soda’s mother. At least, Mom’s death had been beyond Soda’s control; not like Auntie El–dead because of Soda. “If only I had…” began the haunting litany. She shoved it away. Tears burned her eyes. It had been a year, yet the hurt twisted as sharp in her chest as if she’d lost Auntie El yesterday.

Ever since then these dark streets called to her. Every night she came down here, skittered from one dark spot to another, watching; circled the warehouses and listened. Some days she wondered if she was getting a bit crazy. What did she think being here could accomplish?

She edged along the deeper shadow of a crumbling, brick building; its windows blinded eyes looking out on littered streets. At the sound of male voices across the deserted street, she shrank back. Between black jeans and navy blue hoodie–pulled close around her pale face,white hands stuffed in her pockets–the shadows swallowed her form. Standing perfectly still, she strained to see what the men carried.

A few street lamps–not yet vandalized–spilled watery yellow light on the dirty sidewalk. The men sauntered into the light, the body of a large dog hanging between them as they made their way to the dumpster squatted in the mouth of the alley across from where Soda hid. They swung the body back and forth until enough momentum had built then let go. The animal sailed over the edge of the dumpster and thumped into the trash. They pulled off their gloves and stuffed them in jacket pockets.

The hum of traffic from several streets away sang a muted song, but the men’s voices–harsh and loud–rode over top of it. The short, heavy man lit a cigarette. The ember glowed as he inhaled. Grey smoke drifted up toward the circle of lamp light, but disintegrated when a slight breeze puffed off Puget Sound, smelling of dead fish. “Damn, that was some sick bitch. Shortest damn fight I’ve seen.”

The taller man accepted a cigarette from the other man and lit it. “Short for damn sure. Only thing that bitch,” he nodded toward the dumpster, “good for was a trainin’ fight. Can’t believe that other’n; not even two years old, yet. Man, I want me one of them dawgs.” He chuckled and a shiver ran up Soda’s spine.

The first man shook his head. “In your dreams.” He tossed his cigarette down, not bothering to stomp it out.

A cramp seized Soda’s calf muscle. Afraid any movement would draw their attention, she bit her lip hard to keep from shifting.

“What you think one of them dawg’s worth?” The taller man flicked his cigarette butt out in the middle of the street.

“I heard some of them cost as much as fifty big ones.”

“If I had me a dawg like that…”

The shorter man guffawed. “You wouldn’t know what to do with it. Them things are the devil’s own dogs. One of them would eat you up, bro.”

They moved away, snatches of words fading until only the hum of the traffic from nearby streets filled the air. A minute later, a truck roared in the night. Soda watched as a large pick up screeched away from the curb a half block away. She waited until she could no longer see the red of the taillights before she hustled across the empty street.

Breath sucked in deep, she exhaled then climbed the side of the dumpster. For a moment, she balanced on the inches-wide lip and stared down. Right when she had just about decided to hop off, a faint movement caught her eye.

Without hesitation, she dropped into the garbage and waded to the animal. One dark eye blinked slowly up at her. “You poor baby,” she sat on rustling papers amid half-rotted food and cradled the dog’s head on her lap. Gently, she stroked the dog’s side and face between the gaping wounds. The pink tongue slowly snaked out and licked Soda’s hand.

Even in the poor light from the street lamps, she could tell that the dog’s coat had once been a golden color. She imagined how it would have glowed in the sun. Now the spray of drying and dried blood matted it with dark splotches. One of the muscled forelegs had been gashed and the sharp point of white bone jutted out of the skin. She’d once been a beautiful #animal, the well-built body bigger than a German Shepherd’s.

Another shuddering breath pushed the dog’s ribs up and down. Soda remembered a lullabye that her mom sang to her whenever she woke up from a bad dream. As she petted the dog’s big head and stroked her side, Soda sang in a quavering, soft voice.

Before she’d finished her song, the #dog licked her hand once more, looked into Soda’s eyes and breathed her last.

Tears coasted down her cheeks as she gently laid the dog’s head on a pillow of garbage. With the sleeve of her hoodie, she scrubbed them away. She had always loved dogs. Had one before her mother died; before she’d had to leave to escape her stepfather’s drunken advances. Her jaw clenched as she struggled to her feet. Fists knotted at her sides, she vowed that even though she was only a street kid she’d do something! She didn’t know what, but she would do something to stop those assholes from slaughtering any more dogs.

Death by Dog will be Book 5 in the Special Crimes Team series. All of the books in the series can be read as stand alones without reading prior books in the series. Death by Dog is scheduled for release Winter 2015-2016.

Backlash, Book 4, Special Crimes Team: Success can be deadly…if you’re a woman! AVAILABLE on pre-order as an ebook on Amazon. Go to http://www.amazon.com/Backlash-Special-Crimes-Book-4-ebook/dp/B00W7UJAWA

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The Birth of a Book

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In the unheard screams that rip the fabric of the night, in the silent tears of a victim huddled in upon herself in the corner of her own kitchen, Sketch of a Murder was born.

Domestic violence and rape are patterns of behavior used to establish power and control over another person through fear and intimidation, often including the threat or use of violence.

Once the first seeds of an idea are planted, I begin to research. What I found in the case of Sketch of a Murder was:

One in four women experience domestic violence in their lifetimes.

4 MILION women experience physical assault and rape by their intimate partners http://www.safehorizon.org/page/domestic-violence-statistics–facts-52.html?gclid=CJ6k76f9rcUCFYeEfgodUwYACA

The number of women murdered by current or ex male partners between 2001 and 2012 were 11,766. During that same time period, the number of American troops killed in Afghanistan and Iraq were 6,488.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/10/23/domestic-violence-statistics_n_5959776.html

FBI Statistics for 2013 for Washington State:

Forcible rapes in seven cities: (these are the ones actually brought to trial. Until conviction, they are only considered alleged rapes) 657.

Rape and domestic violence are among the most under-reported crimes. Frequently, women internalize the blame for being beaten and sexually assaulted. Shame and a sense of hopelessness; a fear of the abuser increasing the abuse; a fear that there is no way to escape; fear of reprisal against them or their family, seals their lips against reporting the crimes.

When the crimes are reported, the woman often finds herself grilled as if she is the perpetrator–what did you do to anger him; why were you wearing that slutty dress; isn’t it true that you’ve slept with other men; how many other men; how long did you know X before you invited him to your home; and the interrogations go on and on.

If the crime does go to trial, the woman’s ordeal is increased. She is placed on the stand and forced to testify to humiliating and painful memories in a hostile environment. She is cross-examined as if she is the defendant. Evidence can be difficult to collect or has been contaminated; the woman waited too long to report the crime; the woman’s character is put on trial; the trial becomes a “he said–she said” fiasco. Technicalities and good attorneys allow men to smile as they walk away unscathed after perpetrating horrible crimes that will scar their victims forever.

With research as a foundation, I begin a process of creative “what-ifs”. What if a person decided to take justice into their own hands? What motivates a person to seek violent revenge? What type of personality would such revenge require? What type of training would a person need to be successful? What type of tools would that person have to use?

From this process, the Avenger sprang. In Sketch of a Murder, the Avenger has been triggered by a life event to exact justice. After the first murder, the Avenger goes on a spree of gruesome killings. The Avenger, however, doesn’t simply pick guilty men who have skated on serious charges; the Avenger wreaks havoc among wealthy men who have used position and power and monetary advantage to walk free.

Now that I have the antagonist–or the bad person and that person’s motivation–I must decide who will oppose this person and why; who will be the protagonist.

Some crimes are far reaching enough to warrant the formation of a Task Force. Again the creative “what-ifs” are employed. What if a task force is created by the governor because the Avenger has eluded multiple police forces and the deaths of wealthy men negatively impact her position? What if the task force is not constrained by jurisdictional boundaries within the state? What if the best cops for that force are misfits, cops that have ticked off a superior because they refused to toe the blue line? What special attitudes and abilities would they bring to the story? What conflicts with each other would such renegade team members face?

The Special Crimes Team was born from the governor’s desperation to find and stop the Avenger. Purely a political move, or was it?

All books need a place of occurrence. Whether that physical place plays a large or a small part in the story depends upon the story. The state of Washington is blessed, and cursed, with features that attract the best of people, and the worst of people. Mountains, wilderness, farmlands, big cities, airports, seaports, railway stations, high immigrant and migrant worker populations, a diverse and mobile population, a down turn in the economy that resulted in foreclosed and abandoned homes, proximity to another country’s border and a general attitude of live and let live makes this state a haven for human traffickers, dog fighters, kidnappers, and other criminals who need unlimited places in which to blend and/or to use to escape.

With those elements–the crime, the antagonist, the protagonist, the scene and some of the complications–in place, the work of writing begins.

The first draft is written without concern for grammar, punctuation, or even logic and timelines. It is the story in the rough. After the first draft comes multiple drafts, each one refining the story, further developing the characters, fleshing out the scenes, fine tuning the dialogue, checking and fixing the timeline; and, reassessing the logic and the story arc. When I decide the story is finished, I begin editing. After I edit as much as I can, I send the work to others to edit. When that work is returned, I read the feedback and evaluate what changes must be made.

After editing, Beta Readers are engaged to comment on the story as readers–did it hook them; did the dialogue sound real; were the situations believable, and so forth. With that feedback, I make final corrections then send the book to the publisher.

The publisher obtains a cover, formats the book and puts the package together for presentation to the public. And, a book is born.

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4 Traits Authors MUST HAVE

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Traits of an Author

What traits does a person need to become a successful author? (First, the person needs to define what she considers successful.)

I wish I could claim that it requires complete and total brilliance (because I could happily travel along that logic line. I am an author; therefore, I am completely and totally brilliant. Wah-la!). Seriously? Not.

The very first thing an aspiring author should ask herself is: do I really, really want to do this? Is this so important I am willing to focus my entire being on achieving this goal?

Like most pursuits, becoming an author (I’m talking about writing something better than mindless drivel) takes a huge investment of time. Are you ready and willing to give up those late night television movies; that extra time with your homies?

I don’t find time to write; I make time to write. Not a prob when to write is as necessary to me as the oxygen I breathe. It’s just all the other stuff that I’m not especially thrilled to do: like reading tons of material on the proper use of commas; or the many books on character development that make me want to scratch my eyes out from boredom; however, if I want to be an author, these investments of time are as critical as the hundreds of hours I spend writing a novel.

That brings me to the second trait an aspiring author must have: an open and inquiring mind. Though dry textbooks are a trial, I have been blessed to learn from experts in various fields, such as law enforcement, the law, and recently–two more wonderful connections: a firefighter and one of the people responsible for the Canine CODIS at UC Davis–a database to help law enforcement prosecute people involved in dog fighting. These connections teach me more than dry facts (such as how to preserve a crime scene); they give a face and a heart to cops, firefighters, lawyers, researchers and many others. This perspective allows me to create characters that resonate with readers because those characters feel real. Yet, making connections is not an overnight occurrence, nor is it always easy. I have to step out of my comfort zone. I have to ask millions of questions. I can’t give up, even when I feel overwhelmed and tired and discouraged.

That brings me to the third trait aspiring authors must have: persistence; sometimes called determination or tenacity (sometimes known as pure mule-blooded stubbornness). I cannot allow myself to throw up my hands and walk away from the unfinished book, the necessary connections, the studies, or any of the million things that go into writing and marketing a novel. More than any other trait, the difference between success and failure is the attitude that says: I don’t know the word ‘quit’. It’s going the extra mile when you’re footsore. It’s speaking to the next person, though you’ve experienced ten rejections in as many hours. It’s the fifteenth rewrite of a novel because your beta readers said……..

There you have it– what traits an aspiring author must have.

First and foremost: focus. You are focused on this goal and are willing to do whatever it takes to achieve it.
The commitment to make the time to learn, to write and to get that novel out there in front of readers.
An open and inquiring mind that thirsts for knowledge, for understanding why someone did this instead of doing that.
Persistence/determination/tenacity/plain mule-blooded stubbornness. Going on when stopping makes more sense; trying when throwing up your hands would be more comfortable; doing what needs done, regardless of the pain and the effort that requires.

If you have these traits, and you have a deep desire to be an author; if you are willing to focus on that goal, then welcome to the ranks of Writers in the Night!. And, let me know when you release your first book. (After you’ve had it beta read and edited, please!)

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BACKLASH, BK 4, COMING SOON!

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BACKLASH!

Chapter 1

On the day that Ellen Delaney’s carefully constructed world shattered, she crossed December first off the desktop calendar, signed off her laptop and placed it in its black leather satchel. With the satchel set to one side, she removed the Gucci handbag from the deep drawer on the right side and pulled a small hand mirror and a tube of mauve lipstick out of the makeup tote.

Lipstick carefully applied, she dropped the tube back in the tote. The reflection staring back from the mirror showed dove gray eyes looking back from a heart-shaped face. For a woman staring at forty, she had aged well. A few light laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and a few silver strands threaded among the fall of midnight wavy hair. Her five-foot-five slender body moved with grace and style, whether clad in business suits, workout clothes or designer jeans.

A chill rain tapped lightly at the office window as she put the mirror away. A glance at the diamond-studded wrist watch had her slipping into the suit jacket hanging on the high back of the deep-red leather office chair. A quick look around assured her that everything was tidy.

The obsession with tidiness grew from the untidy things that had happened to her; the same things that had made her choose a career in Women’s Law. Such things happened to women all the time. The law could be used to tidy up a woman’s life; to make it easier; safer.

Purse and laptop satchel shouldered, her heels clicked a staccato beat across the high gloss floor. Keys jangled in one hand though a keycard worked the lock on the office suite. She strode across the carpeted reception area, stepped out of the beveled glass door. An alarm keypad hung unobtrusively on the wall to the left of the door. Code punched in, the green light flashed.

Redundant locks–the office suite, the elevator stop on the sixth floor, the exterior door to the building and the security guard at the gated garage entrance–enhanced a feeling of safety. During this past year, a sense of safety had become critical.

The law had a few drawbacks; some shortcomings. It could only function within a set parameter of evidence and argument. If only she could obtain incontrovertible proof….

The rustle of her suit and the tap of heels on the hall tiles echoed in the silence of the sixth floor at six p.m. This close to the Christmas holidays the occupants of the other offices in the ten-story Bell Town building had left earlier than normal.

The elevator hummed to a halt and its doors swished quietly open. She stepped inside the glass and chrome box and fed the keycard into the slot then hit P1 for the parking area.

Keys in hand, finger on the button of a canister of pepper spray, Ellen left the confines of the elevator and started across the well-lit parking garage. A couple of feet from her Cadillac ESL she thumbed the key fob. Headlights blinked signaling that the doors had unlocked. She swung open the driver’s door, set the laptop satchel and purse on the passenger seat, slid in quickly, clicked the seat belt and drove to the exit.

Since she owned the building, she’d set up the security routine. The high-risk occupants of the offices–wildly successful attorneys who landed on hardcore hate lists, a hard-hitting journalist whose name had made the drug cartels hit list and others whose careers increased their jeopardy–appreciated the extra layer of safety.

Simon Getting, retired Marine sergeant, walked around her car, shining a light in the back seat and peering in the front. Finally, he stepped to the driver’s side rear quarter panel and waited for the trunk lid to be opened. He inspected the trunk, slammed the lid and walked back to the security booth. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Delaney.”

She eased out of the gate and onto the street. Tonight a drive to Olympia and a late dinner at the Governor’s Mansion with Governor Andrea Marleton. A smile crossed her lips. Governor Marleton–she’d been so proud when Andrea took the Governor’s Mansion.

Andrea’s insistence on meeting tonight had impinged on other plans, but it had been for the best. What had she been thinking? It was dangerous enough that he knew about her friendship with the governor; that had been inevitable. At least, a circle of protection surrounded Andrea.

No one else’s life could be put in jeopardy. Dinner with Andrea to discuss the Notable Women in Law Award that she’d won made a good excuse to break the date with Celeste. Tomorrow the next step–dropping her gym membership.

At a time when she should be reveling in her achievements, planning future successes, she knew there would never be any future successes. Not unless she found a way to stop him.

Bittersweet that her greatest achievement had so enraged him. She’d never dreamed of winning such an prestigious award; a white trash girl from the wilds of Montana. No one would ever know that part, though. Those Libby, Montana roots had been deeply beneath stories of a head-on collision that allegedly–and conveniently–killed her parents right after she graduated high school.

They remained deceased to everyone, including herself, except for one day each year. One day that she drove hours to experience. What would happen if she failed to show this year? She forced the troubling thought away.

The mansion would be decorated for the holidays. She enjoyed that sort of thing, but had no desire to do it. For a moment, she wondered why Andrea had never married. Must not have found that special someone.

She’d given up on finding a special someone; accepted that one-night stands would fill the years. A short, bitter laugh burst out. Two years ago, everything she’d ever dreamed of had been within her grasp. Within months the dream had been shattered. She’d had a taste, though; enough to feel the ache of losing it.

Several times she’d come close to confiding in Andrea. Each time some hand of caution had clamped across her lips. Too bad that same caution hadn’t been there with Celeste. Determinedly, she locked away those melancholic thoughts. I will savor these hours with my best friend. I will not think sad thoughts.

Two point three miles from home while she hummed along with the haunting sound of Enya, a dark van shot out of Kelly Road, one lane of hard-packed dirt that served two houses back in the hill. It smashed into the back quarter panel of her car. Airbags deployed as the car spun. The steering wheel whipped in her hands as she fought it and the airbag. The front tires left the asphalt and bit into the soft side of the ditch, wrenching the wheel free from her white-knuckled grip. For a moment, her heart pounded with hope as the car teetered on the edge of the ditch. Then the wall of dirt gave way and the car slid sideways. It came to rest tilted nearly perpendicular to the roadway above. Groggy from being hit by the air bag and jerked this way and that way, she reached up and touched her forehead. She pulled her hand down in front of her eyes and stared blankly at the slick red on her fingertips. Her mind felt as sluggish as molasses on a bitter winter’s morning.

Blindly patting the passenger seat, she searched for her handbag and cell phone. The driver’s side window burst inward, sprayed her with rounded bits of shatterproof glass. An arm reached in and clamped a stinking rag across her face.

Ellen rolled to one side just in time to heave. Yellow bile spilled in a small puddle on the rough plank floor. Eyes cracked open a slit, the dull daylight caused her head to pound. She squinted her eyes and tried to scan her surroundings. None of it made sense.

She inventoried herself: black ski jacket, faded blue flannel shirt, no bra, black ski pants with a rip in the right knee where blue denim showed through. A faded black sleeping bag lay beneath her. She wiggled her toes. Felt like they were encased in wool socks within the heavy leather boots that had cracks across the toes. A little bit itchy, but she felt grateful to have the socks. Her breath clouded in front of her.

Then she saw the shackle. A dull steel chain anchored to the floor snaked across the sleeping bag and latched onto the dull steel cuff snapped around one leg just above the top of the boot. Where the hell am I?

Heart pounding, she forced herself to scan the space around her, though spears of pain shot through her head. A room. Not a very large room. Some kind of opaque white material over the only window. Light seeped through, but no way to see through it. No furniture. What the hell happened?

The last memory was… a truck of some kind roaring out of Kelly’s Road. Then… bile rose up the back of her throat. She swallowed hard. Black, someone all in black. Couldn’t see anything, except his light colored eyes. Oh, God! What kind of maniac has me?

Chamberlain, it had to be Chamberlain. Nothing else made sense. Why didn’t I see this coming? Should’ve known he’d pull something like this. There had been plenty of warnings. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Why didn’t I do something! For Christ’s sake, why didn’t I simply leave? I had the money to leave, to start over, but no, my stupid pride refused to let him chase me away from my home, my practice. Now look where I am.

Her stomach heaved again and she barely cleared the sleeping bag before the bitter bile spewed out. Flopped back on the sleeping bag, arm over her eyes, tears leaked down the sides of her face, leaving icy tracks.

None of it had mattered. None of her work had made any difference at all. She’d gone full circle. Back to what she had fled.

See all of the Special Crimes Team books at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

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JUST FOR YOU!

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I love to read. Of course I would love to read…after all, I am a writer. What I love even more than reading is to share stories.

Give you a little background:

Both my mother and grandmother were oral storytellers. I spent hours at their feet listening as they transported all of us to another time and place.

At age fourteen, I had my first brush with being published. A well-respected newspaper in my area accepted my heavily researched, five part series on racism in America. At age eighteen, a different well-respected newspaper published my researched, six part series on the child welfare system.

Since then I have written articles, short stories, poems, non-fiction self-help manuals, an award-winning literary novel (Good Intentions), and two internationally-selling crime fiction books (Sketch of a Murder and Street Harvest).

What does this have to do with you?

December 1 I will launch a brand new enterprise: a monthly newsletter. In this newsletter I will share special offers, announcements of upcoming events and books, inspirational images; and stories, poetry, character back stories, the motivation behind writing some of my novels, and glimpses into my personal journey as a writer.

I invite you to share in this new enterprise. Simply go to the book image beneath the heading JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER and click. Enter your email address and follow the steps to opt-in to my newsletter. Once you’ve signed up, you will receive a PDF of Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team series. This offer is only good from NOW through the month of December! Sign up now and get your FREE PDF of Sketch of a Murder!

Opt-in and enjoy the benefits of JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER. Remember, you have to enter your email address for the newsletter. Entering your email address to follow my blog will not put you on the newsletter mailing list.

If you already follow my blog, be sure to get on the mailing list for JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER! I don’t want you to miss out on some good deals and wonderful content.

If you haven’t already joined my blog, NOW would be a great time to do so! Just CLICK and FOLLOW!

To see all my books, go to http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

To learn more about my characters, check out Pinterest. http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

4 IMPORTANT LESSONS

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Three days ago, last Saturday, I participated in Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue’s Holiday Bazaar. I planned to dash off a quick blog post about the experience as soon as I could access my computer at home. After some thought, I decided I wanted to take time to think about the bazaar and to write something real about the experience. Today I sat down at my computer and wrote.

As a local author, I had rented vendor space and a table from Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue for their Holiday Bazaar on Saturday, October 25th. Since my wife, Deva, and I didn’t want to make the long trip from Darrington, Washington to Tenino, Washington on the day of the bazaar, we stayed overnight at the Motel 6 in Tumwater that allowed pets. Nothing fancy, but the young lady at the front desk was friendly and the room clean.

Our older German Shepherd dog, Katrina, has been afflicted with Sundowner’s–a symptom of dementia–for some months now which is why she couldn’t be boarded like our other three GSDs. The change in routine and being so near the freeway, kept her awake and anxious most of the night; Deva graciously took care of the dog while I slept. Pixie and Mindy slept well, except when Katrina’s panting woke them.

Saturday dawned with scattered clouds. After feeding the dogs, Deva and I loaded Mindy, Pixie and Katrina into the backseat of the truck and headed to Tenino for the CCR Holiday Bazaar. On the way, we looked for a restaurant for breakfast. Nothing turned up until we hit Tenino and found Scotty’s ‘50’s style diner. The coffee was hot and plentiful, the water glasses stayed full and the food tasted great. Replete we made the last couple of miles to Cross Creek.

Weeks earlier, we had been involved in an alpaca rescue operation initiated by my 76-year-old sister, Lois. Deva had found CCR and Shari Bond and Jackie Glover had trailered to the rescue of 48 alpacas whose 84-year-old owner had died. Now, as we drove in we spied one of the alpacas, Leonardo, in the front paddock. The older male had been so starved down and loaded with parasites by the time Lois became involved in their care, that there had been talk of having to put him down. Shari and Jackie had worked a miracle. The poor old guy was walking without stiffness or pain; had put on a few pounds and seemed quite content. The four elderly female alpacas, Lady Jane among them, had settled into their forever home with CCR. They looked so content standing in the field with the other “girls”.

We parked and unloaded books and flyers. I set up my table–situated between Detricks’ Farm and Chicken Coop display of delicious and unique jams, jellies and pickles, and a table of beautiful handmade jewelry–while Deva made sure our dogs were comfortable.

A little later on, four spinners arrived, set up and began a spinning demonstration turning alpaca fiber into yarn. The wonderful smell of citrus and apples and cinnamon drifted through the building from the cider set to warming on the back table.

Throughout the day, people wandered in and meandered from table to table. I met and chatted with many readers. We talked about different authors, the different styles of writing and books we loved.

Dorothy Royce, a 90-year-old from California, visited with me for quite a while. What an interesting woman! When I learned she’d had a recent birthday, I autographed and gave her a copy of Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, of my Special Crimes Team series. Since she’d never had a Kindle, I fired mine up and showed her how to make the text bigger and some of the other features. The device was so lightweight that she had no problem holding it–she sometimes had trouble holding larger books while she read–and the built-in stand of my Kindle cover delighted her.

All day long, folks came by and talked for a while, tossed their name and addresses in the Giveaway jar for a chance to win my latest mystery, Run or Die, and purchased books. (Tracy Redmon and Aya)

(Christine Rose and Aya)

About halfway through the day, Deva brought out our Papillons, Mindy and Pixie, who immediately became people-magnets, charming everyone who glanced their way.

It was nearly closing time for the bazaar when Diane Vasarkovy stopped to chat. We talked murder mysteries for a while then we segued into talking about her own writing project: the story of Wolf Haven International. Here is part of the introduction to the work-in-progress: “We think it’s important to show how ordinary people, with a passion, even without knowledge or resources, can make a tremendous difference in the world. Magic can happen to people who follow their inner knowing…..Canis Lupus (the wolf) and other wild canines are in crisis in North American wild lands. In competition for habitat with human encroachment, they are unfortunately still seen as vermin by resource hungry people who can’t see the larger picture of our total eco-system. We now have proof that wolves change eco-systems for the better….”

Diane left with the first two books of the Special Crimes Team series, and I was left with a deep respect for her project.

At the end of the day, we packed up the remaining books and flyers and put the dogs back in the truck. A light rain fell as we left CCR. For the next few days, I thought about what I had learned during the bazaar.

I learned that readers are delighted to share ideas about the books they read and love; and it gave me new perspectives on books that I’d read.
I learned that connecting with readers recharged my “creative batteries” and renewed my determination to write the very best books possible; to honor the unwritten contract between reader and author: to write an entertaining story.
I learned how very interesting these readers are; how many are involved in important projects such as alpaca rescue and writing the history of Wolf Haven, International.
I learned, once again, how honored I am that readers invite me into their homes, into their lives. When readers open my novels and enter the fictional worlds that I create, they give me the most precious thing they have: their time.

I have designated November as my Attitude of Gratitude Month to My Readers. Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team, EBOOK is FREE on AMAZON from NOVEMBER 1 through NOVEMBER 5.

Grab your free ebook copy of Sketch of a Murder. Go to: http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ

Or use the Short link: amzn.to/1tBgqhx

For my listeners, the first ten fans who agree to write reviews on Amazon and Audible will receive a FREE download of the audiobook Sketch of a Murder DURING the month of NOVEMBER. Get your coupon code now! Email Aya at ayawalksfar@gmail.com In the subject line write “Will review audiobook for free download”

ALL of my books are available as print books. http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

Want special offers, announcements, and freebies? Sign up for my monthly newsletter. Go to https://ayawalksfar.com I will not sell, share, rent, give, or bargain your email address. I respect your privacy and I deeply appreciate the trust you are giving to me. You can unsubscribe at any time.

Don’t miss the latest posts. CLICK and FOLLOW Aya’s blog. https://ayawalksfar.com

5 GREAT THINGS HAPPENING!

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Each day I try to find things to celebrate in my life. On some days that is easier to do than on other days. Recently, I have been blessed with a serendipitous turn of events. 5 GREAT things are happening in my life. I wanted to share them with you.

August 27, 6-7:30 P.M., at Tony’s Books and Coffee in Darrington, Washington, I am the featured author for this month for Darrington Library’s Summer of Authors. I am very honored to be part of this wonderful program to showcase local authors. A drawing will be held at the end of the evening for a signed print copy of Run or Die, my newest mystery. Participants will also receive a print copy of an original short story as a thank-you for coming. http://www.amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A
Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team, is available as an audiobook! It can be purchased on Audible or Amazon. I was fortunate to have a wonderful narrator, Kathi Miles, for the production of this murder mystery. Watch this blog for a chance to win a FREE copy of the audiobook Sketch of a Murder. More information on that in an upcoming blog! http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ
Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team, is going into audiobook production! Will keep you up-to-date via this blog! Meanwhile, the ebook is available on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Street-Harvest-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KVREDIC
Old Woman Gone, Book 3, Special Crimes Team, is due out this Fall!
Met with Beth Jusino, Marketing Consultant. This knowledgeable woman set up a feasible marketing strategy for me. It is always a pleasure to work with Beth. She recently published The Author’s Guide to Marketing. GREAT book! Check out Beth’s blog: http://bethjusino.com

What wonderful things are happening in your life? Would love to hear!

Don’t miss future posts! CLICK and FOLLOW!

Visit Aya at http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

STORYTIME FRIDAY: CHANGE THE THINGS WE CAN

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CHANGE THE THINGS WE CAN

On a drizzly September mornin’, James McMurphy, alcohol and drug rehab counselor, was found face down on his desk, dead. The tip of his finger-pointin’ finger was glued precisely at the end of the last sentence of the last entry of Irma Nelson’s file. Like a period.

Two weeks before, Irma had brought homemade oatmeal cookies to our therapy group. McMurphy went right off the Richter Scale. Ranted that Irma took care of other folks so she wouldn’t have to deal with her own problems. My opinion–McMurphy didn’t have no call to be lookin’ at none of us, ‘specially Irma. Not when he brushed at imaginary dust and refused to shake our hands, pullin’ back like we might contaminate him. ‘Course, who’s gonna listen to Sally–call me Sal–Whitewater, half-breed Indian?

A week later, Irma OD’d on booze and pills.

That evening our group bunched together for smoke break exactly the required twenty-five feet from the back door. Georges had measured the distance for us the last time McMurphy pitched a hissy fit ‘bout us bein’ too close to the door. Carol Johnson said, “Somebody should use McMurphy for target practice!”

Ray Perazon, the only other felon in the group besides me and Georges, chuckled. “You bring that gun you have, I’ll bring the red paint to draw the bull’s eye.”

Rita Anders piped up, “Her gun makes too much noise. Besides, it’s registered.” She batted her eyes at Ray. “Bet your gun’s quieter.”

Ray’s eyes shifted away as he forced a chuckle. When he looked back, his lips curled into a suggestive grin. “My gun’s quiet, but fully loaded, babe. If you want quiet, someone could take a pillow and stuff it over Mr.-Don’t-Touch-Me’s face. That’s quiet. You could even embroider a cute lil’ saying on it.”

Rita tapped a cherry red lip with a hot red painted fingernail. “Well, darlin’, what would I embroider?”

Ray chuckled again, this time sounding natural. “I’m sure you’d think of something.”

“Courage to change the things we can,” Jeff Georges’ muttered from beside me.

I shot him a glance, but he had on his ‘inscrutable Indian’ face.

“This is no joking matter.” Richard Semafore sniffed. “Irma was a good woman and McMurphy kept at her until he pushed her over the edge. He killed her as surely as if he’d poured the booze and pills in her.”

Me and Georges shifted to look at the mousy, little tax man. Everything about Semafore drooped, like a newspaper left out in the rain. He pinched a piece of lint from the lapel of his suit jacket. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he rolled it into a tiny ball which he pocketed.

Carol laced an arm through Semafore’s. “Maybe someone’ll give McMurphy what he deserves.” Rita agreed with a vigorous nod as we headed back into therapy group.

Three days later, Detective Simons pounded on my door. He looked down his long thin nose at me like I was some kinda bug he was thinkin’ of squishin’.

“Yeah?” I’d never liked Simons. It hadn’t made things any better between us when he copped a feel during an interrogation a coupla years ago and I’d decked him. I got an extra thirty days in lockup; he still got razzed by the boys in blue. I figgered I won that round.

“I’d like to come in a moment and ask you a few questions.”

“You can like anything you want, but the hallway’s good enough.” I folded my arms across my chest and leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb.

He glared at me. I didn’t shift a foot. Finally, he growled, “Why’d you drop out of your group?”

My lip curled. “What’s it to you?”

His pasty-white face turned red. “You can answer my questions or I can get you a ride to the station.”

“And, I can sit down there, yelling for an attorney.” I waited a long moment then shrugged with one shoulder. “But hey, I ain’t fond of cop shops, so I’ll tell you. Judge only sentenced me to four months.”

Flipping open his notebook, he pretended to read. He shoulda known better than to try that routine. I’d grown up with silence.

He slapped his notebook closed and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “A week after you entered McMurphy’s group you threatened him. Said if he didn’t back off, he ‘might become one of the ghosts of the past’. What did you mean?”

The lids of my eyes dropped to half-mast to hide the anger in their dark depths. “Maybe I meant I was gonna drop his group.”

“Yeah, right.” He scowled like that was gonna make me give up the truth or somethin’.

“What’re you hasslin’ me for? You ain’t my probation officer.”

“James McMurphy was found dead this morning.”

“Ain’t like I’m gonna cry for the bastard.”

His pudgy face squinched up until he resembled a pissed off pig. “Where were you from nine last night to five this morning?”

“In bed. Asleep. By myself.”

He stared at me as he said, “We found the weapon.”

“Wasn’t mine.”

I almost grinned. He’d honed in on that like flies on shit. His piggy eyes narrowed. “You’re a felon. What’re you doing with a weapon?”

I did let my grin out then. “Who said I had one?” I let visions of my twenty-two and my .45, safely stashed where cops would never find them, dance in my head.

“We found a throw pillow with McMurphy’s blood on it.” His mean little eyes latched onto my face. “In a dumpster two streets from here.”

“Maybe you’d better find out who’s missin’ a throw pillow and a gun.” I pushed off the wall and stood up straight. “Go talk to people who like throw pillows and little guns.”

“I never said anything about the caliber of the gun.” He pounced on my words.

“No, you didn’t. So arrest me or get off my doorstep.”

“I’ve been lookin’ at your rap sheet.” He stared hard at me. “Yours and your friend, Georges.” He shoved his face toward me. “I don’t like felons.”

I waved a hand between us as I wrinkled my nose. “Eww, man, you gotta get some Listerine, or Scope or maybe bleach water.” I cocked my head. “You forgot to mention Ray Perazon. Is that cause he’s white?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” He puffed up like a ticked off cat.

“That an’ a coupla bucks might get you a cheap cup of coffee.” I studied him. “You been hasslin’ Georges?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“Why you messin’ with me?” I tried a different tact.

“A woman took McMurphy down.”

“Seriously? Where’dja get your crystal ball? Might wanna think ‘bout returnin’ it.”

The vein in his forehead popped up and throbbed. Like it had that day I’d decked him and he’d come after me. I’d been lucky we’d been at the cop shop. “I don’t think Perazon and Georges fingers would fit in the trigger guard.” He snorted. “Besides, everything at the scene was very tidy. Even the way the killer laid the tube of superglue right above the file folder. Let’s face it, men aren’t that neat.”

Thinkin’ about my apartment, I swallowed hard to keep from laughin’. I’ve been accused of lots of stuff in my life, but neat ain’t one of them. “You’re fishin’.”

He opened his mouth just as his radio crackled. Most folks don’t understand that garbled junk, but I’ve listened often enough to get it as good as the cops do.

He mumbled into the radio then turned back to me. “That’s all for now, but I’ll be back. When I return, I’ll have a set of handcuffs with your name on them.”

“Seriously? Hallucinate much?”

His jaw tightened so hard I thought he was gonna bust a tooth then he spun and hurried down the stairs.

Georges and me had dinner at his house that night. I told him about Simon’s visit.

“Hmmph!” Georges grunted at me. “He was over here earlier. Told me he heard I’d threatened McMurphy.” Georges wiped the clean stove top for the fifth time. “I told him threats go with the territory.” Neatly foldin’ the dish towel into three perfect sections, he hung it over the towel rack next to the cupboards.

***

It’d been a year since Irma’s dyin’. Word on the street had it that the police stuck McMurphy’s murder in the unsolved files along with a jillion others.

The day I heard that, me and Georges went over to Italio Ristorante. It’s got good food and decent prices. Irma’d brought me and Georges here when me and him hit thirty days sober. I could still see Irma’s big smile.

Now, we toasted Irma’s life with a couple of pots of coffee, the way most sober drunks celebrate. In the candlelight, I looked across at the man who’d took me in off the cold streets of Seattle back when I was a skinny twelve-year old kid. “Georges?”

“Hmm?” He replied as he refolded the linen napkin, placing it precisely next to his empty plate.

“You figgered out McMurphy’s murder?”

He shrugged. “Can’t resist a puzzle.”

“Can’t be a private dick, but it don’t stop you from pokin’ and pryin’.” I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Okay. Who did it?”

A slow smile spread across Georges’ lips. “Who do you think?”

I pursed my lips. “We all hated the bastard. Wasn’t me. Don’t think you would’ve done it either. Might’ve wanted to, but since it wouldn’t bring Irma back, you wouldn’t.

“Carol was pretty friendly with Irma, and if she used a pillow to muffled the report of the gun…” I snuck a look from beneath my lidded eyes. Not too many folks could read Georges, but I knew from the smug look on his face that I hadn’t hit it even close. Tossing my napkin on the table beside my cup, I crossed my arms and stared over at Georges. “Don’t tell me Ray did somethin’ for someone besides himself.”

“No. Ray Perazon loves Ray Perazon too much to risk a prison sentence for an old woman, even if she did treat him like a normal person instead of like the slime he is.”

“That just leaves Rita Anders and that little tax man…what was his name, again?”

“Richard Semafore.”

“Rita’s too tiny and there’s no way mouse man would take on a rat, especially not one who could ruin him like McMurphy could. Hell, he hardly spoke a word during group.”

Georges tilted his big head, his long single braid swaying to one side. “Funny how love can give a mouse great courage.”

“Seriously? No way. He hardly looked at Irma during group. I’d think a man who was in love with a woman would at least steal a glance or two.”

“He wasn’t in love with Irma.”

Brows wrinkled, I took a long drink of coffee. “If he wasn’t in love with Irma, where does love come into this?”

“There are a lot of different kinds of love, Sal,” he reminded me quietly.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I hated talkin’ ‘bout love. The closest I’d ever come to talkin’ ‘bout it was when I got drunk one night and tried to jump Georges’ bones. He’d gently pushed me away and made me suffer through a talk ‘bout how he didn’t love me like that, but like a brother. Like a brother….

I raised my eyes to Georges’ black ones as Irma’s smiling face rushed into my mind and the mouse man’s slowly came into focus next to Irma’s. “No way. They would never have put a brother and sister in the same group.” I shook my head. “Even if they did, no way mouse man had a gun, much less knew what to do with one. He was white collar DUI.”

“He didn’t own a gun, but Perazon owned an untraceable belly gun.”

A belly gun, or better known as a .22 two-shot derringer. “You just said Perazon didn’t kill McMurphy. He sure as hell wouldn’t have loaned the mouse his pistol.”

“Not knowingly.”

“Then how did mouse man get it?” I leaned forward, forearms propped on the white linen tablecloth, voice lowered.

“Carol lifted it.”

“Uh-uh. Ain’t buyin’ that. Perazon didn’t like Carol well enough to have her over at his house and she ain’t the B & E type.”

“But she is the party type.” A hint of a grin twitched the corners of Georges’ mouth.

“Why would Perazon be partyin’ with Carol? For god’s sake, she’s lesbian.”

“Rita is straight.”

I drummed my fingers on the table as I stared at him. “Are you sayin’ Rita got Carol the invite to a party at Perazon’s place?”

“Bingo.” He pointed a finger my way.

“So in the middle of a party, Carol walks out with the gun? How’d she know where it was? And where’d she get the tits to be that bold?”

“Rita and Perazon had a thing going.”

“You sayin’ Rita told her and then distracted Perazon so Carol could get it?”

When Georges didn’t say nothin’ I knew I was close, but no gold ring yet. “What am I missin’?”

“Just because Carol stole the gun, doesn’t necessarily make her culpable of murder.”

I huffed a breath and threw my hands up. “First you make me think Carol shot the bastard and now you’re sayin’ she didn’t. You’re insistin’ mouse man did it.”

“I’m saying that Richard Semafore pulled the trigger, but was he solely responsible for the murder?”

I frowned. “If he pulled the trigger, sure.”

“What about the pillow?”

I shrugged Georges question away. “He needed to keep the noise down, so he grabbed a throw pillow and….” There hadn’t been no throw pillows in McMurphy’s office.

“I talked to a friend in the Department.”

“Only you would have a cop for a friend,” I snorted. “What did your friend tell you?”

“She said that the throw pillow was embroidered with part of the Serenity Prayer.”

“So? That prayer’s smeared across everything from coffee cups to bed sheets.”

“Want to hear what part of it was embroidered on that pillow?”

Something in Georges’ voice perked my ears right up. “Yeah.”

“Courage to change the things we can.”

My jaw dropped a bit before I recovered my cool. “That’s what you said that day….the day right after Irma died.”

Georges’ deep chuckle rippled across the table. “No, I didn’t off McMurphy.”

I let the impossible thoughts roiling in my mind like a pot on full boil simmer down. “Perazon’s gun. Rita’s pillow?”

“Good.”

“How does mouse man fit in this picture?”

He picked up the fragile china cup in his big hand and took a dainty sip then carefully replaced it on the saucer. “I wondered about that, too.”

“And?” I nearly shouted with impatience, but at the last minute shifted in my chair instead.

“Some skills learned as a young man come in quite handy, especially for solving puzzles.”

“You didn’t!” I felt a bit sick to my stomach. “You made me promise not to B & E!”

“Your path is different than mine, Sal.” He gave me a tiny grin. “Besides, I only use my special skills for special cases. Even working as an investigator for a private dick now there aren’t too many special cases, but Irma was our friend.”

Georges didn’t never let his friends down. I swallowed my fear for him. Person couldn’t live worryin’ ‘bout what might happen. “What did you find?”

“Old school papers. Pictures of a boy and a girl. Neither of them changed very much over the years. The girl was a few years older than the boy.” He dropped his eyes, carefully centered his cup on its saucer though it was already perfectly centered.

Brows wrinkled, I tried to make sense of what he was sayin’. Finally, I shook my head. “Sorry, but I seem to be kinda dense.”

“I found Irma’s diary as well as her photo album. Semafore was Irma’s half-brother. When their parents died, she was nine and he was seven. They were sent to different foster homes. After a while, Irma lost track of Semafore. They only rediscovered each other in treatment.”

“Why didn’t the cops find Irma’s diary?”

“You know how cops are–always a day late.” Georges gave me a long look.

The End

Did you enjoy this story? Would love to hear. Don’t miss future stories and other interesting posts. CLICK and FOLLOW. Be sure to drop by facebook and say hello, browse through the many interesting posts there. https://www.facebook.com/aya.walksfar Aya’s fan page has the latest updates on current and future novels: https://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor Drop a LIKE and become a FAN. Look forward to seeing you there!

Aya Walksfar, Author

Hard hitting, in-the-news murder mysteries

Tag Archives: murder mystery

#SEX AND VIOLENCE

Genre vs Author

Death by #Dog, Book 5, #SpecialCrimesTeam

The Birth of a Book

4 Traits Authors MUST HAVE

BACKLASH, BK 4, COMING SOON!

4 IMPORTANT LESSONS

5 GREAT THINGS HAPPENING!

STORYTIME FRIDAY: CHANGE THE THINGS WE CAN