🍾Best Reads of 2024 Part 2🍾

👀I'm later than typical for my Best of postings but with my mom's passing last week everything was thrown upside down but it was always important to her that I had my blog as an outlet for "me time" so though it seems odd to do it right now, I'll continue because that's what she'd want.👀

2024 was a little less trying than 2023 until December. my reading mojo is slowly returning but not quite pre-Covid levels yet and I only read 150 books.  So once again my Best of lists may be shorter but everything I read/listened to were so brilliant it was still a hard choice.  So over the next few weeks I'll be featuring my Best Reads as well as Best ofs for my special day posts which are a combination of best reads and most viewed, I hope my Best of list helps you to find a new read, be it new-new or new-to-you or maybe it will help you to rediscover a forgotten favorite.  Happy Reading and my heartfelt wish for everyone is that 2025 will be a year of recovery, growth, and in the world of reading a year of discovering a new favorite.

👀I try to keep the purchasing links as current as possible but they've been known to change for dozens of reasons, in case any of those links no longer work be sure to check out the author's social media links for updated buying info.👀

Part 1  /  Part 2  /  Part 3  /  Part 4

Hurt Me Not by Davidson King

Summary:

As a lieutenant at the Fool’s Pass Fire Department and a single father, Easton Kooper’s life revolves around his children. When he receives an urgent call from his son’s doctor, it upends Easton’s world. Suddenly, barreling into a burning building sounds like a piece of cake. With no idea of what to do or where to turn, he’s never felt more lost. And then in walks the answer he didn’t know he needed: a gorgeous fae with an angelic smile, bearing grand promises to turn the Kooper family’s life right side up again.

Finch knows the rules: don’t fall in love with a human. That’s always been simple enough to follow—at least until the Kooper family. Despite his best efforts, Finch grows attached to Easton and his children…attached enough that he’s tempted to turn his back on the fae and their laws completely.

Before long, the pair must brace themselves as both their worlds seek to destroy them. When the darkness crashes down, it’ll take every ounce of defiance and magic Finch has to keep the Koopers safe. Faced with immovable magic and unspeakable danger, is there really any way Finch and Easton’s love can prevail?

Fighting it is hopeless, but embracing it could mean ruin for them all.

Hurt Me Not is a standalone MM urban fantasy. Guaranteed HEA. No cliffhanger.

Original Review Book of the Month April 2024:

HOLY HANNAH BATMAN!! Davidson King has done it again!!!  Hurt Me Not is a highly personal journey for the author, perhaps not the paranormal element but all the emotions the characters feel stem from personal experience.  I'm not a parent but I have spent too much time at my mom's bedside, hospital and home, feeling the very same things: fear, worry, need to breakdown but not being able to, wanting to take their pain away but can't.  It can really weigh on a person and seeing the author take those experiences and channel them into an amazing storytelling journey, well it's just very uplifting and gives one hope on a variety of levels.

So let's talk Hurt Me Not.

Easton is facing what no parent wants: a phone call from his son's doctor who has low lab numbers and more tests are needed.  When the team has issues getting an IV placed for young Milo, Finch is called in as he has an unbelievable yet welcoming calming ability about him.  My mom is a hard stick when it comes to IVs and have seen nurses of all kinds try and fail, unintentionally cause pain and be so gentle you didn't even know you got poked, so I understand Milo's fears and the relief Finch provides.  

Speaking of Milo, he and his sibling, Tru(or Tru-Bug as daddy Easton says) are an absolute delight.  Hurt Me Not may be Easton and Finch's journey but seeing the kids navigate the illness and all the emotions that go with it warms the heart.  In fiction I find kids can be hard to balance between sugary sweet and spoiled brat but Davidson King does it beautifully.

You could say Hurt Me Not is a story told in two parts: the contemporary tale of Milo's illness and effects on family and the paranormal tale of Finch, his family, and the Fae.  On the surface it seems like an odd pairing to mix but King balances both with an equal mix of realism and fantasy until they are two sides of the same coin. My heart bleeds and cheers for everyone, well not everyone, Finch has a few family members that are on the dark side of life😉.  Not a single character is filler, they all have a purpose.

It's hard for me write this review without putting loads of personal emotions and experiences in so I'll just stop here and say that Hurt Me Not is brilliant. I can see why it was one of the hardest stories to date for the author to tell but I can also see why it was most likely the most rewarding and therapeutic.  The Fae brings a fantasy element that only heightens the story.  Put together Davidson King's storytelling expertise is chuck full of tears, cheers, and heat that guts you to the core and then heals the soul leaving an entertaining gem in it's wake.

RATING:

Rattling Bone by Jordan L Hawk

Summary:

Outfoxing the Paranormal #2

Some secrets won’t stay buried.

Oscar Fox grew up suppressing his psychic gifts. Now he and his ghost-hunting team, including his boyfriend parapsychologist Nigel Taylor, travel to Oscar’s hometown in hopes of learning more about his legacy.

A trail of family secrets lures them to an abandoned distillery, still haunted by the ghosts of Oscar’s ancestors. A curse lies upon his bloodline, and if the team can’t figure out how to stop it, he might be the next to die.

Original Review Book of the Month May 2024:

Our little band of ghost hunters is once again on the trail but this time the trail leads to Oscar's family.  Okay, so even though the phrase is used in the blurb, "ghost hunters" is a bit lax, a bit neat, a bit simple in explanation.  The group, Oscar, Nigel, Tina, and Chris, are doing so much more than just hunting them, they are attempting to set them free to move along. This time there is a curse, killing a member of the family every 25 years and guess what? Yeppers, it's been 25 years since the last death.

It's been over a year since Rattling Bone was released and 6 months or so since I read book 1, The Forgotten Dead, Rattling was just as deliciously danger-filled mayhem as Forgotten.  I would say Rattling is probably marginally less horror labelling and more paranormal than book 1 but only by the slimmest of slims.  On one hand the victims are less evil than the curser but they too have had generations to relive their ghostly fate and in letting it fester all that time they are definitely creepy and perfect for this horror-ladened paranormal gem.

As for Oscar's dad, well you want to hate him, think badly of him for trying to supress his son's gifts but at the same time you understand it stems from a place of fear after what his mother went through all those years earlier.  Does it make me want to forgive him instantly? No but I do understand where it comes from and for that I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that he'll accept the truth. Whether he does or not, well you have to read that for yourself to discover.

As to the original ghost who has cursed the family line?  She's just pure evil, not saying there wasn't reason for her initial anger but to go after so many lines that had nothing to do with her fate is what makes her the big bad.  There is just so many levels to this story and the characters, good and bad, you can't help but be intrigued, conflicted, but above all else entertained to the nth degree. 

RATING:

And Nothing But the Truth by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Lindenshaw Mysteries #7

Some truths don’t set you free.

The pandemic may be winding down, but for Chief Inspector Robin Bright, life never really goes back to normal. One second, he’s having breakfast with his adorable husband—and their equally adorable Newfoundland, Hamish—and the next, he gets the dreaded call: a body’s been found. What initially appears to be a mugging gone wrong turns out to be murder, and Robin is on the case.

Adam Matthews is happy to act as a sounding board—much as he tries not to get involved—but when Robin’s case intersects with a mystery from within their own family, he’s embroiled whether he likes it or not. Loquacious genealogists, secret pregnancies, and a potentially dubious inheritance all ensure that Adam won’t be doing his hundred-and-one headteacher tasks in peace anytime soon.

Lies pile onto lies, and the more the story changes, the more the killer is revealed. Without proof, however, Robin and his team are powerless, and the murderer isn’t the only one with something to hide. But Robin won’t stop until he’s found the whole truth, and nothing but.

Original Book of the Month Review June 2024:

I'm going to jump out of the gate and say "YAY!!!!!!!!!"

Okay, now that I got that out of my brain let's continue.  

And Nothing But the Truth is not only a great title for a mystery but it clues you in to just how many untruths Robin and his team will have to wade through before the culprit is found.  I've always said how much this series brings thoughts of my favorite British mystery series, Midsomer Murders, and this entry continues on that memory-inducing love.  There are even a few scenes where television cop shows reference a few laughs("If this was a tv cop show . . . ").  Just something about Brits and their love of whodunits that always keep me coming back, I can only watch Columbo so many times but Midsomer, Death in Paradise, Foyle's War? Those I can watch, rewatch, watch again, etc, there will never be a number of watches that will make me turn it off.  It sounds like I'm digressing into a different review here but I mention these shows and my love of them because I can read, re-read, listen, and re-listen to Lindenshaw Mysteries endlessly.  The author kept me guessing up until about a chapter before the reveal and now that I know who did it, well Charlie Cochrane has a knack of storytelling that keeps it fresh and fun even when the adrenaline rush of a first time read and edge-of-my-seat guessing is gone. There seems to always be another new question or line of inquiry turn up and you just know one of the nearly throwaway threads will most likely crack the case wide open.  

Some may not like the unending questions, they may feel it mires down the plot but I don't see it that way, I love playing armchair detective trying to weed my way through all the muck and mire.  It makes me feel like a member of the team.  Speaking of team.  Robin has a great bunch of men and women working for and with him.  Too often the senior cops tend to forget they were once the low man on the totem pole and only delegate chores but not Robin, he doesn't give them leads to check that he himself is unwilling to do, now that doesn't mean he don't avoid a few things by passing them on, he's human afterall but he's not a "you do the grunt work I'll take the credit"  kind of guy and I love that about him.

Robin and Adam never get old, not in age of course they aren't Peter Pan, but in entertainment value.  I'll admit there may have been less Adam in this newest entry, he was more of a sounding board for his husband and a go-between for Robin and someone who is helping with both the case inquiries and a personal matter regarding Robin's family background. Having said that, Adam is never window-dressing nor is he "just" the above statement. He is the supportive and loving husband who has his own career that just so happened not to overlap with his husband's case this time around.  Those "sounding board" moments showcase the obvious and ever-growing chemistry the couple have. I'm sure in the non-case moments between entries, Robin  plays the role of sounding board listener to many a chaotic school-related stress😉.

If I keep babbling like this I'll let something slip that I don't want to, I refuse to do spoilers. Just know that if you love a good mystery with a cozy, humorous, and all around entertaining feel then And Nothing But the Truth is for you.

RATING:

Gone But Not Forgotten by Charlie Cochet

Summary:
TIN #1

Codename: Chaos.

Former THIRDS agent turned TIN operative Dexter J. Daley is a legend. Just ask him, he’ll tell you. Chaos isn’t so much a codename as it is Dex’s state of being. As a spy for the Therian Intelligence Network, Dex has spent the last four years bringing down the bad guys. Hell, his middle name is literally Justice. But a new mission brings him face-to-face with a different kind of monster, one with a weapon that can alter the course of history. Failure is not an option, but as the mission goes from dangerous to deadly, Dex finds himself up against a far more terrifying force, and this time, there’s no escape.

Codename: Atlas

As former team leader for Destructive Delta and now a TIN operative, Sloane Daley knows what it feels like to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But no matter the challenge, Sloane knows that together, he and his husband, Dex, can overcome anything. When their latest mission takes a personal turn, Sloane is forced to confront the very thing that created him. Looking back to a past he thought he’d left behind is the least of Sloane’s problems, because the greatest threat he’s about to encounter… is his own husband.

Original Review August 2024:

How? Oh how did I let this sit on my Kindle for nearly 3 years?!?!?!?!  Okay so 2021 wasn't the best year in our house and that September saw my mother get out of the hospital after 108 days and as her 24/7 caregiver things were busy.  But 3 years?!?!?!?!?! I listen to at least one if not 2 THIRDS books every October so it isn't as if I forgot how brilliant Charlie Cochet's therian/human universe is.  Well, 3 years or not, I finally got to the initial entry in the THIRDS sequel series TIN, Gone But Not Forgotten and boy did it justify the adrenaline rush I knew would come.

Dexter J Daley is just as quirky, loveable, and dare I say dangerous as he always has been, more so perhaps.  Frankly, I couldn't think of a more fitting code name than Chaos because that is literally what follows in his wake. Meaning to or not, Dex always finds a way to turn his danger magnate personality up a notch.  The man is an enigma.  Even after all these years and all the tests no one, including his husband Sloane who knows him best and even Dex himself, fully understands or knows just who or what Dex is or capable of.  I won't spoil anything but boy are you about to find out.

Speaking of Sloane Daley, his code name Atlas is also 100% fitting.  He is carrying so much weight on his shoulders it's hard to imagine just how he stands tall anymore but I guess that goes to show just the kind of man and therian he is.  Course, as Dex for a partner both on and off the job, I don't know how he's still sane.  Dex would have me going every which way that I wouldn't know my left from my right but I guess that's why they are perfectly suited: they balance each other.

As for Gone But Not Forgotten's case the men and their team find themselves facing might just be one of the hardest yet.  They may have had past cases with more mystery, with more who did it questions to solve but I can't think of any that is more physically and emotionally taxing for the pair. There is definitely danger of course but they are trained for that, it's the emotional side that really pulls at both partners.  I'm going to stop there before I spoil too much for anyone who is like me and arrived late to the party.  Just know that you will be put through the emotional wringer but boy is it worth it!

Dex and Sloane may be the stars of this TIN beginning but we see old and new faces, friends and enemies, humor and suspense, drama and action, and of course lots of heart, warmth and ache.  Gone But Not Forgotten is definitely the whole package and I'm not sure when book 2 will be released but I can tell you it won't take 3 years for me to dive in.

RATING:

The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane

Summary:

Some truths can’t be left buried.

The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, there’s a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fate’s been cruel.

A chance meeting with Patrick’s sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his father’s motives and long-unanswered questions around the death of Fergus Jackson. The worst of a group of disreputable pre-war friends, Fergus was a manipulative rake who allegedly fell on his own knife in a training accident. An accident for which Patrick was apparently the only witness.

Leslie’s persuaded to meet Patrick again, and the pair easily fall back into their old dynamic. They uncover connection after surprising connection between their hedonistic old friends and not only Fergus’s murder, but Mr. Cadmore’s abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrick’s bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasn’t Fergus’s killer.

Original Review July 2024:

I'm going to say it: Charlie Cochrane is a Queen of British Mystery.  How she can throw in so many curveballs(sorry I don't know much about Cricket so the sport metaphors, despite being a British mystery will be American😉) and keep everything straight, well no amount of post-it notes cluttering one's laptop can negate the talented storytelling.

I love a well developed amateur sleuthing mystery but I find it rare where both MCs are the amateur which is exactly what Leslie and Patrick are.  Yes, Leslie's reasonably hush hush role on the homefront during the war probably elevates him to semi-amateur but you get the idea.  Trying to decide just what went down when one of their younger years acquaintances died a few years earlier, the old flames hope to repair their friendship while putting their heads together and wrinkle out the truth.  Turns out there appears to be a long list of possibilities with motives considering the dead man's behavior and personality, problem is the list of possibilities with the means to do so is not nearly as long and yet long enough that there is no clear cut without a doubt suspect.  By all accounts Fergus was not the nicest of men but did someone kill him? Was it a training accident? or Was it self-inflicted?  So many questions, will the renewed friends find enough evidence to turn theory into fact and will it be enough to bring the truth out or just enough to satisfy their curiosity?  

These are all questions I won't spoil but boy is it fun riding along on Leslie and Patrick's armchair detecting.

Leslie and Patrick's previous falling out should have been one to easily rectify especially when so many lost so much during the war and made what's truly important first and foremost in one's life.  HOWEVER, stubbornness is a plenty between these two and it takes a phone call or two in subterfuge from Patrick's twin sister, Marianne, to get them face to face.  Sometimes it's that first step that is the hardest and with that out of the way, their chemistry is once again enflamed although both parties(reluctantly yet honestly IMO) decide not to act beyond friendship and detecting until an answer is found or all possibilities have been exhausted.  Certainly doesn't stop Patrick from flirting though😉😉.

Their "friend's"(and I use that termly loosely) death may be the main arc of The Deadliest Fall but Leslie is also dealing with his father having abandoned family life for a monastery with no reason given.  It's the "no reason given" that spurs Leslie into some personal snooping as well.  Will he accept what he finds? Will the answers even be given? And are the two cases connected somehow?  Once again, you have to read yourself to find the answers but I promise you will love every minute of it.

The Deadliest Fall has so much to offer the reader with emotions all over the place.  Some might use the term "convoluted" due to all the questions that keeping popping up but you really can't have an armchair detective story without a certain amount of convulsion, it goes with the territory.  It's how an author manages it that makes it messy or not and trust me Charlie Cochrane, a Queen of British Mystery, presents not a mess in sight.  I was left guessing up until nearly the our-evidence-points-to reveal but even then I had fluttering flags of doubt. As it turns out I was correct in my guessing. Steven Spielberg, while discussing Jaws, said he learned you can only truly shock an audience once but I don't believe that, an author can shock the reader as many times as they like if done properly and Cochrane does it properly.

One last note: I don't often comment on slangs and quotes in a book but I had to in this case.  I've been watching/reading British shows/books most of my life and I gotta say I don't recall ever hearing this one before, "If 'ifs' and 'ans' were pots and pans, there'd be no need for tinkers."  I imagine there are variations of this saying in all parts of the world but here in the US(at least to my knowledge) we say "If 'ifs' and 'buts' were candy and nuts, we'd all have a wonderful Christmas." Just wanted to put that out there and to thank Charlie Cochrane for teaching me something new😉.

RATING:

Hurt Me Not by Davidson King

CHAPTER ONE 

Easton Kooper 

“Dad, I know you’re like a million years old, but⁠—” 

“I’m thirty-six, Tru, thirty-six. Your estimation is way off. I worry about what they’re teaching you in school.” 

“Whatever, Dad. As I was saying. Can we listen to music that was created after the turn of the century?” 

I looked in the rearview mirror, where my ten-year-old son, Milo, was playing one of his games, his eyes fixed on his tablet. The smirk on his face and the little glances he made at me was all I needed to know he was listening. 

“I’m sorry, Tru, I can’t hear you…speak into my good ear.” I cupped my right ear, and she snorted…Milo giggled. 

“Lame.” Tru’s eye rolls were legendary, and I couldn’t hold back my laughter.

At thirteen years old she was the spitting image of her mother, except she had green eyes. Milo and Tru both got those from me. But other than that, she was all her mom. She was tough as nails, stubborn, and brilliant like her too. 

Milo was more like me. Same brown hair, identical smile, and loved more of a hands-on approach to life. Unless it was an update on one of his games. 

Laura Kooper, my wife and the world’s best mother, died three years ago, throwing all our lives into a tailspin. The four of us became the three of us, and in one fell swoop I was drowning. 

Fighting fires was what I knew. I was a good dad, but I hadn’t realized how many pies Laura had put her fingers in until she was gone and I was raising my children alone. 

The first year had been a mess of tears, anger, and chaos. Slowly but surely, we’d found our way—a new way, but not a day went by that I didn’t miss Laura so much it hurt just to breathe. 

“Oh thank God, school!” Tru unbuckled her belt, and I chuckled. 

“I never thought I’d hear you utter those words. So what you’re saying is, all I need to do to get you not to give me a hard time about going to school is to throw on some amazing music?” 

“It’s not amazing.” She opened the door, but I grabbed her arm. 

“You’re amazing, Tru-bug.” 

Another eye roll but I wrangled a grin too. “Love you, Dad.” 

“Love you too.”

Once she was racing off, I looked at Milo. “Almost win the level?” 

“Yeah!” 

“Well, you’re the next drop-off. You have ten minutes.” 

“The pressure!” he shouted, and I hit the gas. 

At thirty-six I was one of the youngest lieutenants this firehouse had ever had. I’d worked my ass off to get here and loved every part of it. I’d operated both engine and ladder, but I was currently in charge of Ladder Truck 121. 

Before Laura’s death, my shifts were twenty-four hours on followed by forty-eight hours off. It had meshed with Laura’s schedule. After she passed, I was able to change to ten-to-twelve-hour shifts for three or sometimes four days. I had my weekends, but holidays were tricky. 

Fool’s Pass Fire Department, where we lived, was the main hub but a little less than half of the house fell into Red Root territory, so we often found ourselves helping in both places. It got busy some days, but that was fine. I had a lot of time with my kids this way. 

A slap on my shoulder pulled me out of writing my report about a house fire on Gretchen Avenue where we’d rescued a fifty-three-year-old woman and her four cats.

“Why are Trish and I doing the book drive this weekend, East?” Jim Hastings was my closest friend on the job, but he also worked for me. 

“Well, Jim.” I spun in my chair and smiled at the burly man who was more jolly than scary. “I specifically remember you and Trish saying to me around Christmas, ‘Please, if you let me and Trish out of being Santa and Mrs. Claus this year, we will be at your mercy.’ ” 

“Well, shit.” Jim sighed and leaned against the wall in my office. 

“I’m sure the two of you will have fun.” I waggled my brows and returned my attention to my report. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Without looking up, I answered. “It means I’m tired of you flirting with her horribly and getting nowhere. This way, you and she will be at that book drive all Saturday afternoon. Maybe you get to know her a little.” 

“And here I thought dating within the same house was wrong.” 

I shrugged. “I have no issue with it as long as it doesn’t interfere with your job, and Captain feels the same way.” 

He was silent for a beat too long, so I peered over my shoulder. He was glaring at me. 

“You think she’ll never go out with me, so you feel safe saying that.” 

I burst out laughing, tossed my pen onto the papers, and faced him again. “Prove me wrong, Hastings.”

He opened his mouth to say something when my cell phone went off. A quick peek showed the pediatrician’s office. 

“I gotta take this.” 

“Later.” 

“Hello?” I answered. 

“Mr. Kooper?” 

“Speaking.” 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kooper. This is Dr. Perry, Jennifer, calling from Fool’s Pass Pediatrics.” 

“Hi, Dr. Perry, is everything okay? I didn’t receive a call from the school saying either of my kids were hurt.” Dr. Jennifer Perry was a friend of Laura’s and while we didn’t talk a lot anymore, she was good to the kids. 

“Oh, heavens no, I’m sorry. I was calling about some blood test results that came back for Milo.” 

He’d had his yearly physical two days ago and because he’d turned ten, they’d wanted to do a complete blood workup on him. 

“Okay, what’s going on?” 

“Well, Easton, I was a little concerned by some of the counts for his platelets and white blood cells. Have you noticed or has Milo mentioned unexplained bruising, a rash that looks like small reddish pinpricks known as petechiae, or anything else abnormal?” 

“No, nothing.”

“I’m hoping this is a lab error but in case it’s not, it’s best you take Milo to the emergency room. If it’s an error he will be sent home; if it’s not, he’ll be where he needs to be.” 

“Jennifer.” I swallowed as my pulse thundered in my ears and sweat began to bead on my forehead. 

“Yes, Easton?” 

“What were the counts? How bad is it?” 

“I really don’t want to⁠—” 

“I’m asking you to tell me.” 

“Very well.” She sighed, but I didn’t believe it was out of frustration with me. I knew from being a first responder that you never wanted to say anything unless you were sure you were one hundred percent correct. 

“Milo’s a ten-year-old boy, and for a healthy child of his age we’d see a platelet count between three hundred thousand and four hundred and eighty thousand. His count came back at twelve hundred.” 

“Oh, my God.” 

“Normal white blood cell counts are between five thousand and ten thousand. Milo’s are at six hundred.” 

“Shit.” 

“Easton. I know your brain is spiraling, and you’re scared. But like I said, let’s not put the cart before the horse. Errors happen. Can you get him to the emergency room?”

“Yeah, I’ll get him there.” 

“I will be there, but I’ll call ahead and let them know that you’re on your way. Breathe, East. You’re worried; Milo will be confused and terrified.” 

She was right. I knew she was. 

“I’ll see you in a bit, Doctor.” 

All I could think as I drove to get Milo from the library where he went after school was that I couldn’t lose my son. If the universe took another piece of my soul, I didn’t think I’d survive it. 

“Please, don’t take my boy,” I whispered to whoever and whatever was out there, and hit the gas.

Rattling Bone by Jordan L Hawk

CHAPTER ONE

Nigel stared out the van window as they rounded yet another hairpin curve, his knuckles white on the armrest. His ears popped from the altitude change as the road kept climbing toward the ridge above, hidden in a shroud of trees. The branches were winter-bare, the forest floor beneath covered with only a dusting of snow even though it was deep December, the day after Christmas.

Thank heavens he didn’t get carsick. His stomach was already unsettled enough at the prospect of meeting his boyfriend’s parents.

He glanced at Oscar, who sat in the driver’s seat, attention thankfully on the narrow road. A big guy, in both height and girth, Oscar’s hair and dark eyes contrasted against his pale skin. Right now, his cute face was scrunched in a look of concentration as he steered the lumbering van around yet another blind, hairpin curve, the wheels only inches away from a drop down the mountainside.

According to Oscar, he hadn’t brought any of his other boyfriends all the way out to Marrow, West Virginia, to meet the family. Which was amazing—they’d only been together since early October, not even three months. Nigel hadn’t wanted to come off as clingy, had told himself to take things slow, but maybe this was a sign that Oscar also felt their relationship was serious.

It also made him nervous as hell. What if Oscar’s parents didn’t like him? Things were so new between them; parental disapproval might make Oscar think twice about taking it any further.

Chris leaned forward from the backseat, where they sat beside Tina. Their hair was currently dyed a vivid shade of neon blue. “Your folks really live out in the boonies, huh?”

They’d been driving for over five hours, up from Durham, North Carolina, across into Virginia. As they headed northwest, the interstate failed them, and they’d spent the last few hours on narrow state roads, climbing over the ancient spine of the Appalachians to get into West Virginia.

“You can say that again.” Oscar didn’t glance into the rearview mirror, eyes remaining firmly on the road. “Once we get over this last ridge, we’ll almost be there.”

“Thank God, because I have to pee,” Tina said. “I thought there would at least be a gas station or somewhere to stop out here.”

Chris sat back. “Too bad we didn’t pack the camping toilet.”

The back of the van was stuffed with almost all of their ghost-hunting equipment, but none of the camping things they’d used during the investigation of the Matthews house back in October.

“Do you have any ideas about the ghost in your parents’ house?” Nigel asked, grateful for something to distract him from his nerves. “Who it might be, that is?”

That was the reason they were all going to meet Oscar’s parents, instead of just Nigel. Oscar had been working on his mediumship, at least as much as he could, but with the holidays, jobs, and family commitments, OutFoxing the Paranormal hadn’t had time to do another investigation since the Matthews house.

The intermittent haunting Oscar had grown up with—and over the years trained himself to ignore—seemed like the perfect opportunity for him to get his feet wet as a medium. The spirit, whoever it was, wasn’t violent, and had seemed content merely to show itself now and again. Neither of his parents had ever even noticed it was there, so presumably it wasn’t very strong.

Still, from Nigel’s point of view, data was data. And it would be good for the OutFoxing the Paranormal show to put out something new after their Halloween spectacular. According to Oscar, they had some good sponsors lined up already.

“I don’t have any idea who she was, and it wasn’t like I could ask my parents.” Oscar grimaced, and Nigel reached out to touch his shoulder,.

“I’m sorry.”

Oscar sighed. “It’s okay.”

The road finally crested the ridge and began to angle steeply down. A gap in the trees revealed a river valley running roughly north-south below them, a small town nestled in the widest part of the flats, before the view was swallowed up again by the trees.

“Was that Marrow?” Tina asked.

“Yeah, and my folks live on this side of town, so you’ll have somewhere to pee in a few minutes.” Oscar hesitated. “Look…Mom and Dad don’t know about the whole ghost-hunting thing.”

Nigel dropped his hand and half-turned in his seat. “What?” Chris asked from the back, at the same time Tina said, “You haven’t told them about OtP?”

“How could I? You know how my dad is. Was,” he corrected hurriedly. “They know I’m bringing friends, but not that we explore abandoned buildings together looking for ghosts. But once they see some of our videos, they’ll be really proud of what we’ve accomplished.”

“What do they think I teach?” Nigel asked.

Oscar winced. “Psychology. Which is close!”

“It really isn’t.” Nigel pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. “So you’re introducing your friends the ghost hunters, and your new boyfriend the parapsychologist, to your father who historically hasn’t reacted well to the concept of seeing ghosts.”

“It’ll be fine,” Oscar insisted.

Chris flopped back in their seat. “Or a complete disaster. One of the two.”

* * *

As he pulled into the familiar driveway, Oscar told himself yet again that there was no reason to be nervous.

Everything was going to be fine. He’d lay everything out, Nigel would say something smart, Tina something technical, and Dad would realize they were professionals. This was science.

Oscar wasn’t crazy.

This was going to be a new start for them, a chance to work on their relationship without any lies or tension between them. Maybe he could even get Dad to talk about his own mother, Oscar’s mamaw, who might have been a medium too.

The house, built around the turn of the previous century, nestled on the uphill side of the road. A convex mirror, mounted on a tree on the opposite side of the driveway, offered as much view around the curve as possible for anyone pulling out. The driveway itself was fairly short and quite steep, leading up to a two-story house set partly into the hillside. The siding was white wood, set atop a foundation of local rock mortared in place.

The front door swung open before the engine was even off. Mom and Dad both came out, Mom bundled against the cold as if she was going on an expedition to Antarctica, and Dad wearing a Christmas sweater depicting kittens in Santa hats.

“You get out first,” Nigel said with a glance.

Oscar winced. Okay, yes, he probably should have told his parents about the whole ghost-hunting thing before they got here. And he should have warned everyone else that he hadn’t, especially Nigel. But he’d been…

Scared. That was all. Worried about Dad’s reaction if he heard the news over the phone.

It was going to be different now, though. He climbed out of the van and walked to his parents, who immediately engulfed him in a hug. He took after his father in coloring, and his mother, who was the taller of the pair, in build.

“It’s so good to see you!” Mom said. “We missed you at Thanksgiving.”

They’d spent the holiday with Nigel’s mother, a cheerful woman who lived in Myrtle Beach. Before Oscar could apologize, Dad slapped him on the arm. “I guess we’ll have to get used to sharing, now that you’ve got someone special,” he said with a wink.

Oscar grinned and turned to the van. Everyone else had climbed out, Nigel hovering warily and Tina shooting desperate looks at the house. “Tina, the bathroom is through the front door, first door on the left.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to be rude,” she called as she power-walked to the front door.

Mom laughed. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve made that long drive myself plenty of times.”

“And this is my friend Chris Saito,” Oscar went on. “They/them.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Mom said warmly, and went straight in for a hug, followed by Dad who did the same.

“Thanks for having us, Mrs. Fox, Mr. Fox,” Chris said.

“Oh goodness, call us Lisa and Scott, we’re too young for that nonsense.” Mom laughed again and turned expectantly to Nigel.

Nigel looked slightly alarmed. “I’m, uh, Nigel. He/him.”

“DoctorNigel Taylor,” Oscar added, as Mom went in for a hug.

“It’s so good to finally meet you,” Dad said, shaking Nigel’s hand, then pulling him in for a hug. “Oscar can’t stop talking about you!”

A light blush spread across Nigel’s face. “Oh?”

“I love your name,” Mom went on. “Nigel; it’s so old-fashioned!”

Nigel blinked, nonplussed. “Thanks? I picked it myself.”

“We should get in out of the cold,” Oscar put in quickly.

“Of course, of course; I’ll help with the bags.” Dad took a step toward the van.

The van packed with their equipment. It was now or never.

“Um, so, something I haven’t mentioned.” He could hear himself speaking too fast but couldn’t seem to slow down. “Tina, Chris, and I have a hobby—well, it might be more than a hobby, we do get money from the videos and selling Chris’s pictures.”

Both Mom and Dad looked at him expectantly. Oscar took a deep breath to steel himself. “We’re ghost hunters.”

There was a seemingly endless moment of shocked stillness. Then Dad turned and walked back to the house without saying a word.

* * *

An hour or so later, Nigel found himself sitting at the dinner table, Oscar on one side and Mr. Fox—Scott—on the other, at the table’s end. Lisa sat beside her husband, and Chris and Tina filled out the rest of the table.

“I hope we made enough,” Lisa fretted, though the food on the table could have fed an army. “How are the potatoes?”

“Delicious,” Nigel said truthfully.

Oscar didn’t say anything, and neither did his father. Their tension toward one another radiated through Nigel’s space.

“Oh good, it’s my mamaw’s recipe,” Lisa went on, apparently determined to fill the uncomfortable silence. “The secret is to use buttermilk.”

“It’s all wonderful.” Chris reached for second helpings of turkey. “Two Christmas dinners in one year—score!”

“Well, it didn’t make sense to have it just for ourselves, since y’all were coming the next day.”

The Fox household didn’t go all-out on holiday decorations, but there was a tree in what would have been called the parlor when the house had originally been built, and now was referred to as the den. The sight of the wrapped presents underneath sent a current of panic through Nigel—was he supposed to have brought something?

He and Oscar had already exchanged presents; a book on the history of ghost hunting from him, and an incredibly warm woolen sweater, hat, and socks from Oscar. He hadn’t really thought about what meeting Oscar’s parents the day after Christmas might entail.

“Sorry we kept Oscar away for the actual day,” Tina said, “but if I’d missed the family dinner, my abuela would’ve turned me into a ghost.”

As soon as the last word was out of her mouth, she realized her mistake. She held up one hand, as if to catch it, but of course it was already gone. The tension around the table went up a notch.

Whatever Nigel had thought meeting Oscar’s parents would be like, this wasn’t it. Coming here had clearly been a mistake. Certainly they weren’t going to be able to try and contact any spirit lingering in the house.

Lisa glanced at her husband, then fixed on Nigel. “So, Nigel, Oscar tells us you teach at Duke University!”

With the sinking feeling things were about to get worse, Nigel nodded. “That’s right.”

“You’re a psychologist, is that right?” she prompted, when it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate.

Scott murmured something under his breath. His mother had died in an overcrowded state hospital; probably he had just as bad an opinion of psychology as he would of Nigel’s actual job.

“I work in the Institute of Parapsychology,” Nigel clarified. “We study phenomena outside of known biological mechanisms. My specialty is the survival of personality beyond death.”

There was a long moment of silence, before Scott spoke up. “Ghosts?”

He was going to be thrown out of the house and forbidden to ever speak to their son again. “The technical term is incorporeal personal agencies, but yes. Ghosts.”

“Excuse me,” Scott said, and pushed away from the table. He stalked out of the room.

Oscar shoved his chair back, shot an “excuse me” at his mother, and followed.

The rest of them sat in excruciatingly awkward silence for a moment. Then Lisa picked up a serving spoon. “So…who wants more potatoes?”

And Nothing But the Truth by Charlie Cochrane

Chapter One

Late spring 2022

Adam Matthews slipped out of bed and headed for the window to have a peek at what the weather was doing. As the BBC had predicted the day before, it was a glorious morning, more flaming June than showery April.

He glanced over his shoulder at where his husband Robin Bright lay in bed, gently snoring and appearing very little older than when they’d first met eight years ago. The odd grey hair had sprouted—generally in his stubble rather than on his head—but he was still as handsome. And still as effective at catching villains and putting them behind bars as he’d been in the murder case which had introduced them, without ever resorting to any of the dodgy tricks so beloved of TV cops.

“Go with the evidence, wherever it leads. Although a touch of copper’s instinct never comes amiss,” was what Robin said, and his instinct had been proved correct on many occasions.

Adam yawned, stretched, and headed downstairs, to where a canine bladder was no doubt awaiting a chance at relief. He opened the kitchen door, said, “Morning Cam—” and stopped. Funny how he’d managed to avoid using the wrong name for so long, but now he wasn’t concentrating, it slipped out. As his mother had told him would no doubt happen.

“Like in the stone age, when we wrote cheques. I’d never get the year wrong on them all through January because I’d be thinking about it, and then I’d find myself writing the incorrect date come February, when my attention had wavered. It’ll be the same with the dog.”

As so often, she was spot on. “Sorry, Hamish. Old habits. Am I forgiven?”

The Newfoundland bounced up and bestowed a slobbery kiss.

“Thank you. I love you, as well.” Maybe not yet as much as he’d loved Campbell, but that would come with time.

“I heard you nearly say the wrong name as I came down the stairs.” Robin’s voice sounded chirpily as he came into the room. “I’m so pleased, because I made the same mistake yesterday. I could become paranoid that he thinks his name is actually Cam, whereas he’s a handsome Hamish. Aren’t you boy?” Robin gave the dog a good ruffling round his neck, which was received with obvious pleasure, then let him out into the garden.

“Maybe we both need to write out fifty times, ‘His name is Hamish,’ and hang it up in here.” It might have been easier if they’d chosen a different breed, rather than a dog who resembled a younger and smaller version of his predecessor, but they were used to Newfoundlands. Switching to a Labrador or other kind of pooch would have felt treasonous to the big lad’s memory.

Robin gave Adam a peck on the cheek. “I think we should. You’d have thought a whole week’s holiday away with him would have got us into the habit by now.”

“It’s being home. We’ve slipped into very old habits. We never called him you know what down in Devon.”

A term into his first headship, that break had been needed and a glorious time that had been, with generally bright weather, no murders, and no schoolchildren—none that Adam had to be responsible for, anyway. He’d done a couple of months as acting headteacher the previous year, when Jim Rashford, for whom he’d been deputy at Culdover, got appendicitis, but that didn’t bring the same kind of pressure. While it had been great preparation for taking on a similar role, the place he’d been running was someone else’s school, and he could eventually give the responsibility back. Like babysitting.

Now Adam was leading the primary school in the large village of Wickley. It was proving similar to the one at Lindenshaw where he’d been employed when he met Robin, with the same links to the local church and the same set of values espoused. Values that Adam could buy into straight away. Reconciliation, forgiveness, and loving your neighbour as yourself were right up his street, albeit difficult to do on a regular basis.

The job had its challenges, naturally, including a member of staff who wasn’t cutting the mustard and who’d need dealing with once the new term was up and running. But Jane could be put out of mind for the moment.

“Wakey wakey, daydreamer,” Robin said. “The sun’s breaking through.”

“Shining on the almost-righteous.”

“Days like these make me wish we could win the lottery and be on holiday permanently.” Robin put on the kettle while Adam got Hamish’s breakfast ready.

“You’d get bored. We both would. Besides, the experience wouldn’t feel so good if it wasn’t a treat.”

“I’d be willing to risk seeing if I could get used to it. In the interests of science. Do you want toast?”

“Nah, just cereal. I think I over-calorified myself when we were away. Anyway, you can’t win the lottery because you don’t do it. Even my most numerically challenged pupils would realise that if you ain’t in it, you can’t win it. I hope they would, anyway.” Adam called a few to mind who might struggle with the concept. The villages of England might be leafy, but they still had children with special needs or parents who didn’t quite have a proper grasp of reality.

Robin snorted. “If your pupils grow into some of the people I have to deal with, I wouldn’t bank on the fact. Not all villains are sharp. Some are simply lucky, so they get away with things they shouldn’t. Then there’s the ones who rely on the fact nobody reports them or—if they do—complaints don’t get taken seriously enough.”

Adam nodded in sympathy. Prior to their holiday, Robin had been dealing with the aftermath of an historic child-abuse case, where the victim had waited so long for justice that he’d taken things into his own hands and beaten seven colours of brick dust out of the choirmaster who’d made his life a misery thirty years previously. Robin only had the assault case to deal with, but the details behind it had got to him. While Robin’s own schooldays had hardly been a bundle of joy, they’d been nothing compared to what the man had endured when he was a pupil. At least Adam and Hamish had been there to support and comfort the bloke through the process, with hugs and a wet nose respectively.

Adam fetched Robin’s favourite cereal bowl. “I wish all parishes were like Wickley. If Katie Morgan had been the safeguarding officer for that choirmaster’s parish, there’d have been no nonsense about sweeping things under the carpet.” Katie was one of the foundation governors at Adam’s new school, and her opinion on the church’s lax handling of abuse cases had been a joy to hear.

“Speaking as a probably-not-very-good Christian, I have to say there’s a hell of a lot of muddled thinking around forgiveness. You won’t know this yet, boy,” Robin said to Hamish, who’d returned from the garden and wanted attention. “Actions can be forgiven but they still have consequences. Life lesson, free and gratis, from your dad.”

“If you want to give him life lessons, we should start with training him not to go throwing himself at guns or knives. Like the old boy did.”

“Maybe I should train you not to get too closely involved with my cases, as well.” Robin put the finishing touches to the food he’d laid on the breakfast bar, then perched on a stool.

“Might I remind you,” Adam said, wagging a teaspoon at him, “that if you insist on interviewing a murderer in my kitchen, in the vicinity of the lad’s Bonios, then you’re tempting fate? I’m glad this house is keeping itself a killer-free zone.” So far, no trouble had followed Robin home there, and long may that prevail. Adam surreptitiously touched wood but clearly not surreptitiously enough.

“I saw that. Was it your ‘please no murders’ touching wood?”

“Something like that.” It had been over a year since Robin had dealt with a homicide case, if one didn’t count a manslaughter due to diminished responsibility, and their luck was due to run out. Murders meant long and unpredictable hours and risked Robin getting stressed or—worse still—relocated for weeks on end.

“If I do get a murder case anytime soon, he’ll not know what’s going on with all the long hours. He’ll think I’ve deserted him.” Robin glanced over to where a supremely unbothered Hamish was concentrating on his breakfast.

“He’ll learn to cope. Another lesson for life in the Matthews-Bright household.” Adam chomped on his granola. “Any chance we can bring him up to think he’s a cat? Or another dog breed that doesn’t do water rescues?”

“Vain hope. It’s inbred. The old lad always liked being in water. Even if we didn’t think he had the urge to rescue in him.” Robin patted Adam’s hand, and they focussed on their food, probably both fighting a lump in the throat.

Late last autumn they’d been out for a walk in a country park, with Campbell off the lead but walking to heel as became his habit as he’d grown older. He’d evidently been the first of the three to see a toddler fall into the lake, at which point some deep-rooted instinct must have kicked in. Before Robin had got to the water’s edge, Campbell was already immersed, paddling like mad while taking the child by the back of his jumper and pulling him to the bank.

In the general kerfuffle of administering first aid and calming the child’s parents, it had taken Adam and Robin a while to realise that their dog wasn’t getting himself up off the ground. A minute or so later, it had all been over.

“Talk to me about something funny,” Adam said. “Daft things your newbie coppers have done.”

“Nothing to offer, sorry. Our latest recruit—Danielle—is proving far too sensible to provide you with cheering-up fodder.” Robin managed a grin. “I think Pru’s taken her under her wing, rather like I did Ben when he joined the team. Then I’ve just this morning heard we’ve got Ashok relocating from Kinechester, so he’s a known quantity.”

Adam nodded. Robin had met Ashok when he’d had to take over a murder case from a nearby team which had been struck by Covid. Apparently, the constable had needed the odd rough edge knocked off but was pretty solid underneath. “That’s come out of the blue, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Part of Superintendent Cowdrey getting everything shipshape, I suspect. Played two blinders, because not only did he secure us Ashok, he’s also got rid of Gareth. He’s the new one we’d been allocated at the same time as Danielle, but he rubbed Cowdrey up the wrong way, so the boss persuaded him that he’d be getting a wider range of experience in the Kinechester team. Which is no word of a lie.”

“A very useful lie. What did Gareth make of that? What did you?”

“He’s delighted. Thinks he’s got one over on Danielle. Special treatment and all that.” Robin rolled his eyes. “As for me, I wouldn’t argue with the boss. He’s too astute and has more experience of young guns than I have. Although—and don’t quote me on this—I wouldn’t be surprised if Gareth ends up in the papers or on the telly one day, and I don’t mean him getting the George Cross.”

“Potential to be bent?” There’d been plenty of similar stories in the news recently and not confined to the Metropolitan Police. The lad must have been particularly bad for Robin to have formed such an opinion so quickly.

“I don’t know. There’s something not right about him—in the short time he’s been with us, he’s said a few things which raise alarm bells, but he may be capable of being converted away from the dark side. I suspect Cowdrey doesn’t want his patch soiled at this late stage of his working life, so he’s palmed Gareth off on Kinechester.”

“What does Denness think?” He was Cowdrey’s equivalent at Kinechester, at a not-dissimilar point in his career, so surely wouldn’t want to deal with somebody else’s issue.

“He’s happy, actually, despite the rather frank conversation Cowdrey had with him about his concerns. Denness is regarding Gareth as a challenge. A potential feather in his cap if he works the miracle.”

“Like you’ve done in the past.” Adam patted Robin’s hand. He’d had the Augean stables job given to him and performed it with aplomb. Not something he’d want to do again, though.

Robin pushed his empty plate away, a sign Hamish clearly took to mean his dad was available for making a fuss of him. The Newfoundland bounded over, to be hauled onto Robin’s lap. “I know, I know, breaking house rules, but he’s still a baby.”

“So long as you break him of the habit before he’s fully grown, or you’ll have flat thighs.” Adam watched the pair affectionately. “How’s the crown holding up?”

“I’d forgotten about it. Must be a good sign.” Robin had been having issues with his molar. The first temporary crown he’d been fitted for had barely lasted forty-eight hours, but this replacement seemed like it would last until the permanent one could be installed, first thing on Thursday. “I had a text from Mum this morning, by the way. She’s being rather mysterious. Wants to know if we’d have time to drop in today.”

Adam shrugged. “Don’t see why not. We don’t have much planned for today. Although I bet she only wants to see the boy and spoil him.”

“Yeah. No doubt who’s her favourite from us three.” Robin let Hamish lick his ear. “I’ll say we’ll pop in for a cuppa this afternoon. She says she wants us to do something for her. Bit of family business, although she’s not telling me exactly what.”

“Your aunt Clare hasn’t given Jeff the push and has a new fancy man needing investigating?”

“I’ve no idea. Mum will tell us in her own good time. Maybe she’s found a black sheep lurking among the Brights, the kind of family member nobody mentions. Everyone’s found it safer to ignore their existence in case questions get asked.”

Adam snorted. “You’ve been reading too many books this holiday. They’ve given you strange ideas. She didn’t give you any clues?”

“Not really.” Robin retrieved his phone from the worktop where he’d left it, having to reach round Hamish to do so. “She says: Too complicated to explain by text. Nothing sinister. You could call it a mystery I’d like some advice about clearing up.”

“We’ll definitely go over for an hour or so this afternoon. I’m very curious.”

“We could take this boy for a walk along the old railway line near Mum’s, then grab lunch at the pub. The one that used to be the stationmaster’s house.”

“Didn’t it used to be a dive, as well?” They’d walked past it before, with Campbell: he’d turned his wet nose up at it despite having been a huge fan of hostelries.

“It’s been tarted up, apparently. Mum says it’s dog-friendly too.” Robin addressed the last part to Hamish, who looked bemused. “I could see if I can book a table in the garden.”

“You do that, while I get washed and dressed. It’ll be a nice end to the holiday.”

While he headed for the bathroom, Adam’s thoughts headed off in several directions. He’d heard about people finding an illegitimate child on the family tree, one who’d manifested in the form of a stranger turning up on the doorstep to say, “Halloo. You don’t know me but I’m your half brother.” There’d been a child born out of wedlock in the Matthews’s line, which had only come to light after Adam’s great-aunt had warned his cousin Sally not to go investigating family history as she wouldn’t like what she found. That had, naturally, made her keener than ever to go delving. It had proved a general letdown that the only blot on the family escutcheon had been something that nobody would bat an eyelid at in modern days. Sally had confessed she’d been hoping for a murderer or bigamist at the very least.

Still, they wouldn’t have long to wait to find out what was exercising Mrs. Bright’s brain. And no doubt the answer would come with a healthy slice of cake. They’d have to be on the frugal side at lunch to make room for it.

***

When they got to his mum’s house, not only did Mrs. Bright provide refreshments with their mugs of tea, it was Robin’s favourite boiled fruit cake. Sweet and moist—as sweet and moist as Adam’s lips, he’d once said in a moment of high soppiness—the cake was the perfect crown on a pretty perfect day. The pub garden hadn’t been too busy, their lunch sandwiches had been delicious, and the walk had exhausted Hamish, who was sprawled on the rug, probably dreaming about the squirrels he’d not been allowed to chase.

Once they were settled and the food had been given its due attention, Robin said, “You’ve got us really puzzled with this family business stuff. You’re not about to spring a stepfather or half sister on me, are you?” He was only half-joking, having been going through various scenarios in his mind all day.

Mrs. Bright chuckled. “I’m too old for getting wed again, and if you do have a half sister, I’d be as surprised as you would be. But I have got something strange that’s cropped up, and I need two extra brains and a bit of specialist help to make sense of it. My solicitor’s drawn a blank. I think it’s to do with your dad being adopted.”

Robin cast his husband a puzzled glance. Despite not having known his father-in-law, Adam knew all about the adoption, which had never been kept secret, nor had it seemed a big deal. Robin hadn’t speculated that much about his paternal grandparents, not having felt the need of anyone but the elder Brights in his life. “You’ve lost me already, Mum. Can we start right at the beginning, please?”

“Sorry. I wouldn’t make a very good impression in a witness box. You know your father never made a fuss about his background, not like these folk on the telly who want to know exactly where they came from. Your gran and gramps were his parents, full stop, the end. He just accepted that was how it was.”

Robin nodded, feeling rather choked. His sexuality was one of the things Mr. Bright senior had readily accepted, and he would have made good friends with Adam, no doubt dragging him down the pub to discuss the test match or Robin’s foibles. But his sudden death, from a heart condition he hadn’t known he suffered from, meant that could never happen. “Is this to do with his biological parents?”

“It may be. That’s the only explanation I can think of. Somebody wants to give us some money. You and me. No, Adam, I’m not falling for a scam.” Mrs. Bright broke into a giggly smile, one which took years off her. “It isn’t somebody pretending to be a Christian lady whose pastor husband has left a fortune and who needs my bank account’s help to access it. My solicitor, Mr. Caswell, has done lots of checks and thinks it’s legitimate.”

“Who’s the benefactor, Alison, and how did they get in touch?” The worried note in Adam’s voice and the rare use he’d made of her Christian name showed he was still doubtful, official reassurance notwithstanding.

“Not by email. They wrote air mail, to Mr. Caswell’s firm. Another solicitor—somewhere in the Commonwealth, Mr. C says he’s not allowed to be any more specific about where and his name is Brown, so that’s not too helpful—has been looking for a Mr. David Bright, born on the day your father was. I think they managed to track him down through the obituary we put on the local paper’s website.” She took a sip of tea, or pretended to, as the drink must have been tepid at best. Probably a stalling tactic to allow her to get over memories of Robin’s dad’s sudden death. “Whoever is behind this has clearly done their research, because they followed the trail from the memorial notice to Mr. C. He’s heard on the grapevine they contacted various local firms to try to get a trace on your dad’s family. Mr. C didn’t get in touch with me until he’d done enough of what he calls ‘proper diligence’ to be convinced this was real.”

“But you’re not allowed to know where the money comes from?” Robin asked.

“No, or who sent it. Anonymous bequest. Very Midsomer Murders.” His mum grinned again.

“Don’t you end up as the victim, then.” That was only half a joke, as well. “What do you want us to do?”

“Two things. The first is a big favour.” Mrs. Bright’s fingers twisted round each other. “I hate asking you to do anything that’s work connected, Robin, but do you have—I’m not sure what they call them—forensic lawyers, like the forensic accountants you’ve mentioned?”

“We have people who specialise in fraud and the like. One of them, Henry, probably owes me a good turn, so I’ll get him on the case. Check it’s all kosher.”

“It’s not simply a favour for a family member,” Adam pointed out. “Proactive policing, to prevent a crime. If it’s actually a clever scam, it’s unlikely you’d be the only victim.”

“Absolutely.” Robin’s brow crinkled. “Can you also make sure your solicitor has checked this isn’t linked to money laundering? That’s big business now, and the rules changed not that long ago, so I hope Caswell will be up to speed about what to keep an eye out for. Also get an understanding on your position regarding inheritance tax. You don’t want to be landed with a bill down the line because of Double Taxation treaties.”

“What the hell are they?” Adam asked.

“No idea, but Henry once mentioned them because they helped him to narrow down which country some dodgy money came from.”

“I’ll ask about both of those. Thank you.” Mrs. Bright patted Robin’s hand. “The other thing I need to ask you about is a bit silly. I’ve always wanted to find out about David’s family, but I wouldn’t have done it when he was alive because he was quite determined not to know. This seems an ideal time, because I can’t help feeling that if this inheritance is real, it has to be linked to his birth mother or father. Trouble is, I don’t know where to start and when I browse the internet, it’s bewildering. I’ve asked Clare but she’s been no help. I know you two are rushed off your feet, though.”

“We are but I’m sure we can find time. Maybe if you bribed us by coming over and cooking dinner one night, we could repay you by putting you on the right track. Friday, say?” Robin suggested.

Adam nodded, no doubt keen for another opportunity to sample his mother-in-law’s cooking. “Works for me, especially as that’ll give us time to think. We must know someone who’s into genealogy.”

“It’s not that I’m struggling with.” Mrs. Bright waved her hand so vigorously it dislodged a cushion and woke the pup, who shot her a mortally offended look before going back to sleep. “I know all about places like Ancestry or the other sites where folk put their family trees, but if David was taken off his mother when he was barely a few days old—and he was in the right generation for that to have happened—he may not be listed under the name David, if he’s listed at all.”

“That’s why you need an expert,” Robin said. “I used to work with someone who got bitten by the family history bug but was too fond of shortcuts to do things properly. If he saw a Fred Bloggs, he was sure it had to be his Fred Bloggs. It usually wasn’t.”

“Barking up the wrong family tree, was he?” Mrs. Bright giggled, Robin groaned and Hamish woke again, wearing such a disdainful expression that they all ended up laughing.

Robin could only hope they didn’t fall into the same trap. Family histories could be labyrinthine at the best of times.

***

As they drove home, Adam sat in the back with Hamish to keep the Newfoundland happy. Maybe he’d get forty winks, although Robin would probably want to chat.

“I wonder why it’s taken Mum so long to get round to this if she’s so keen to know the truth,” Robin said, when they were barely fifty yards into the journey.

“Probably she felt it was being disloyal to your dad. This inheritance gives her a legitimate excuse. I’m glad you gave her some jobs to get on with for the next few days.”

“Few weeks, I’d have said.” Robin had suggested his mother start by going up into the loft and going through the papers that had come from his paternal grandparents’ house when they’d gone into sheltered accommodation. They’d had no room to take all their old things but had been reluctant to chuck them away. Unfortunately, she couldn’t draw on their knowledge, as Mr. Bright senior’s memory was no longer reliable and Mrs. Bright senior had gone to her long home. “I wish she’d asked Gran and Gramps about this when they were able to give an answer.”

“I’ve heard that so often. People kick themselves because they didn’t ask Aunty Win about Uncle Fred’s war record, or why nobody mentions Cousin Danny, when they had the chance. You can fish out marriage certificates and the like, but the stories get lost. Oh, behave. Sorry, not you, the boy with the raspy tongue.”

“Dog lick. Delightful.” Robin snorted.

“Have you ever wanted to do what she’s doing? Trace your biological grandparents?”

“Not really.” When they’d started dating seriously, Adam had joked about nicking a sample of hair out of Robin’s comb to do a DNA comparison, in case they were actually cousins and were in a relationship that some folk would find too consanguineous. From then on, the adoption had been merely a fact, like a date of birth, to be aware of but not make a fuss over. “Occasionally I’ve run across a bloke or woman of the right age who bears a familial resemblance to me and wondered if they’re the ones, but I’d never ask them. Anyway, I’d be a bit scared of what I’d find out, and Dad was the same. What if he’d been the offspring of an equivalent of Fred and Rosemary West, which meant he’d been removed at birth primarily to protect him? He’d decided he’d rather not know.”

“We’ll have to hope your mother doesn’t turn up anything like that.” Adam’s voice was light, although he’d no doubt be thinking of the media headlines if it was discovered that Robin was the grandson of a notorious criminal. “However, whatever facts emerge, it’s not your fault or your dad’s. You can’t be held responsible for the sins of your forefathers, irrespective of what they turn out to be.”

“Why are you so sensible?” Robin glanced into the rear-view mirror, caught Adam’s eye, and smiled. “We’ll just have to deal with what comes up, because once Mum’s got an idea, she’ll pursue it to the bitter end. She won’t settle for not knowing.”

“Worse than Hamish when he’s lost a biscuit. Do you remember my great-aunt showing us the Matthews family bible?” Adam asked. “The family tree that seemed like it went back to Noah?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I thought you were taking a surprising interest in all the names. I supposed you were either being polite or so enthralled with me that you hung on my every chromosome. Was it anything to do with the unknown family?”

Robin squinted into the mirror again, shaking his head. “Sorry, no. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I was searching for surnames I might recognise in a work connection. Checking you weren’t first cousin to an Abbotston drug baron.”

“You sneaky bugger.” Adam chuckled. “You’d better watch him, Hamish. He’ll be doing all sorts of background checks on you.”

“There’s no pit bull blood in him, I’m sure of that.” Robin pulled up at some lights, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at his family. “I wish we had another week of holiday.”

“So do I. Hey, the light’s gone green.”

“Oh, heck.” Robin got his attention on the road again, before he got a blast from someone’s horn. “Back to the grindstone tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah. This is usually the point where one of us inadvertently tempts fate and then has to deliberately untempt it. I’m afraid, Hamish, that often leads to some poor sod being found murdered and your other dad spending all the hours God sends at work. And that’s all I’m telling you because you’re not to get involved like your predecessor liked to do.”

“Too right. While you’re at it, can you show Hamish how to keep his paws crossed that nobody decides to commit a serious crime over the next few days?”

“He’ll think that’s a great game.”

Robin left them to it, concentrating on driving. He’d have to ignore the fact that, by the law of averages, his team was probably due another murder.

Gone But Not Forgotten by Charlie Cochet

[Location: Redacted, Spain] 

Warrior. Weapon. Hunter. 

The names were many, but none changed who he was or what he was inside. Trained in the art of invisibility, master of the hunt, a terrifying force to be reckoned with. His expertise in various forms of lethal combat made him an agent of destruction. By the time his prey discovered his presence, it would be too late. 

Silence engulfed him as he lay in wait beneath the water’s surface, his mind and body a study in absolute control, his heartbeat a steady rhythm as he counted the seconds. 

It was time. 

Slowly he emerged, water sluicing over his bare chest, his muscled body toned and sculpted from years of intense training. Knife between his teeth, he waded through infested waters, aware of the beast floating nearby, eyeing him, hoping to make him its next meal. Gingerly he approached the water’s edge and took his knife in hand, his breath controlled as he crouched low, eyes locked on his quarry. 

You’re mine now. 

One step closer. Two. Three. 

His prey lay motionless, completely unaware. 

Four. Five. 

“What are you doing?” 

He stilled. 

“I know you can hear me.” 

At the low grumble, Dex straightened, his voice a hoarse whisper. “You’re ruining the moment.” 

“Which is?” his quarry murmured, not so much as glancing in Dex’s direction from where he lay, long legs crossed at the ankles and fingers laced on his flat, muscular abdomen. The giant beach umbrella provided shade from the intense heat and glaring sun, his eyes undoubtedly closed behind the dark sunglasses. 

“Hunting.” 

Blue-green waves crashed gently against the shore, the sand beneath Dex’s feet hot as he crossed the short distance to the sexy Therian stretched out on the blue beach towel.

“Is that what that was? Because from here, it looked like you were swimming around with a cocktail umbrella between your teeth.” 

Dex sniffed and lifted his chin. “It’s a knife.” 

“And the giant donut float?” 

“An alligator ready to attack.” 

“You’re adorable.” 

Dex chuckled as he dropped to his knees beside Sloane, then straddled his lap. He leaned in for a kiss. “Must be why you married me.” 

Sloane slid his hands up Dex’s thighs to rest on his hips. “Someone had to keep you out of trouble.” 

“And how’s that working out for you?” Dex teased, smiling against Sloane’s lips. 

A laugh rumbled up from Sloane’s expansive chest as he wrapped his strong arms around Dex and brought him in for a deeper kiss. The scent of saltwater, coconut sunscreen, and Sloane made Dex moan. At times he still couldn’t believe he was married to this amazing man. How had it been almost four years already? And how was it possible his husband seemed to get even more handsome with age? Sloane’s pitch-black hair had white strands interspersed, the same white that connected to a neatly trimmed beard on his chiseled jaw. Dex had a few silver strands of his own, but they were harder to see in his dirty-blond hair. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d first met.

Dex savored Sloane’s kiss, melting against his sinfully gorgeous body. He was everything to Dex—his partner in crime, his mate, a sleek black jaguar Therian with amber eyes that could reach into the depths of Dex’s soul. They shared a bond most couldn’t fathom, one only those closest to them knew of. 

“No, really, what were you doing?” Sloane asked with a hum as Dex trailed kisses down his jawline, ignoring the feel of eyes on them. The beach might be Therian-friendly, but that didn’t mean everyone occupying it was. 

“Remember last night when you were galivanting about the city?” 

Sloane’s lips lifted at the corners in a smirk. “You mean when I was out working and you stayed in our hotel suite binge-watching old eighties TV shows and eating your weight in desserts?” 

“I think what you meant to say was while I was fueling this weapon of mass destruction”—Dex motioned to himself—“and researching undercover techniques.” 

“From an old eighties spy show.” 

“Hey, that show was based on real spy craft.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” 

“But it could have been.” 

“It could have,” Sloane said, then popped a kiss on Dex’s lips. “But it wasn’t.” He smiled at Dex’s pout and tapped his flank. “As much as I love debating the factual validity of your eighties movies and TV shows, I’m thirsty. How about you get me a frosty drink?”

“Already on it, amor de mi vida.” 

Sloane hummed. 

“Te amo, cariño.” “Te amo, mi conejito.” 

“Little bunny? Really?” 

Dex booped the tip of Sloane’s nose. “Because you’re so cute and fluffy.” 

“Ah, yes. That must be why that guy jumped out of the moving bus we were on last week. Clearly, my fluffy cuteness overwhelmed him.” 

Dex laughed as he sat up. “Sit tight, Daddy, while I get you that drink.” 

“I’ll just stay here and look pretty, then,” Sloane drawled. “And don’t call me Daddy.” 

With a chuckle, Dex stood. He tugged his slip-ons onto his feet and grabbed the button-down flamingo-patterned shirt off his towel, the fabric heavier than it should have been, thanks to the lightweight holster sewn into it and the Sig P365 with suppressor discreetly tucked inside. Shirt on and unbuttoned, he removed his sunglasses from the front breast pocket and slipped those on, then pressed the metal center bridge as he pushed them up his nose. He headed for the plaza and the giant metal sculpture of—he wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Modern art was not his thing. Something to do with swimming. 

A cougar Therian pushed a drink cart over to the base of one of the sculpture’s legs. Joining the small line that formed, Dex pulled a couple of Euros out of his pocket, aware of the small tourist group of Therian college kids who stopped to ogle him. They murmured and giggled among themselves. One of the young Therians, a wolf, playfully waved at Dex, who smiled and waved back. The wolf Therian licked his full bottom lip and motioned Dex over. 

Dex put his left hand to his heart in apology while showing his wedding ring. The young wolf Therian pouted before the group moved on, laughing and teasing their friend. With a chuckle, Dex stepped forward in line. He finally reached the vendor and smiled. 

“Tienes refresco de cereza?” 

The cougar Therian shook his head. “No cherry, solo limón.” 

“Esta bien. Dos refrescos de limón, por favor.” 

The guy reached into a separate compartment on his cart and pulled out two frosty cans of fizzy lemon soda. 

“Thanks.” Dex paid and took the cans. He popped open the can that was slightly lighter in color and took a long gulp of the lemon drink as he headed back toward the beach. A quick scan of the ingredients revealed the intel he’d been waiting for. He tossed the can into the trash as the chemicals started melting the aluminum. 

A shrill scream pierced the air, and on instinct, Dex ducked and turned while tourists and locals scrambled in panic, several removing their phones—whether to call the authorities or take video was anyone’s guess. The vendor lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. 

Dex’s earpiece came to life, Sloane’s growl on the other end. “What the hell’s going on?”

The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane

Chapter One

Hampshire, 1947

“Come back, you menace!” Leslie Cadmore broke into a run, but his dog was fleeter of foot than him and absolutely determined, it appeared, to stay at a distance from him. He shouldn’t have let the hound off the lead, although wasn’t it easy to be wise after the event? “Max! To heel.”

Leslie might as well have tried to catch the wind in his cap. The black Labrador was evidently under the impression that this was an incredibly enjoyable game, given the way he repeatedly looked back to encourage him to come closer, before setting off again. Thank God the common was wide, provided good visibility and was always kept clear of livestock at this time of year.

“Max! If you don’t come here, so help me, I’ll—” He never managed to finish the threat, a pair of young women having come into sight. They’d rounded a stand of trees and would soon be within earshot. Damn it.

The dog, still capering about, spotted the newcomers and made for them, slowing to a respectable trot and no doubt putting on his most friendly expression, the devious little sod. The swing of his tail gave every indication of a happy, amenable hound.

“You swine,” Leslie muttered, annoyed that the women had clearly worked the kind of magic he couldn’t, although grateful that Max’s interest in making new friends might allow him to be put back on the lead.

By the time Leslie reached them, Max had transformed into the most well-behaved pet a man could wish to own, sitting compliantly at the women’s feet and letting himself be stroked.

“I’m so sorry.” Leslie raised his cap. “He’s such a pest. Oh.” He paused, breaking into a grin and holding out his hand towards the taller of the women. “I didn’t recognise you, Marianne. How lovely to see you again.”

Marianne warmly clasped his hand in both of hers. “I thought it was you, Leslie, although this fellow made me think I had to be mistaken. Where’s Towser?”

“Gone to his long home, I’m afraid. Four years ago.” He turned to the other woman, who was owed an explanation. “He was my retriever, Miss . . .?”

“Geraldine Simpson.” Marianne’s friend extended her hand. “So pleased to meet you. I’ve heard about Towser already and the fun you all used to have walking him on the common, although Marianne told me less about his owner.”

“She would.” Marianne Sibley had always given the outward impression she was fonder of Towser than she’d been of him, although for a while Leslie had suspected that had borne an element of subterfuge. “I’m far less interesting than my dogs. Leslie Cadmore, late of this parish and a very old friend of the family Sibley.”

“Your mother still lives here, I believe?” Geraldine made such a contrast to Marianne. Compact where her friend was willowy; cheery faced where Marianne always seemed so cool and aloof; brightly dressed in contrast to the autumnal shades the other young woman had always favoured. Leslie had valued his friend’s calmness in those younger days and how different she was to many of the local young women.

“Mother does live here,” he replied. “In Larkspur House, where I was born and grew up. Marianne knows the place well. Do you remember the tennis parties?”

“I do. Towser always had to be tied up, poor lamb, because he wanted to join in. I hope this chap is better behaved.” Marianne bent to pat Max, who was wearing a saintly expression.

“He’s an absolute scoundrel, although I couldn’t guess how he’d conduct himself at a tennis match, as he’s never had the opportunity to experience one. He’s a town dog, Miss Simpson, so doesn’t know country manners.” Strange, though, that Marianne wasn’t aware of what had happened to Max’s predecessor, because Leslie would have expected her and his mother to pass the time of day on occasions. Had the Sibleys also moved away—his mother hadn’t mentioned it, if so—or was there something else that had prevented the doings of Leslie Cadmore being passed on to her? And Geraldine knowing that Mrs. Cadmore was still a local proved she must have been discussed. Marianne’s expression was no help, her face, as it had been from a child, proving unreadable.

“Did I hear you calling him Max?” Geraldine asked.

“Yes. After a distant cousin who once came to visit Larkspur with his family. It’s proved an apt name.”

Marianne burst out laughing. “I remember him. He was what my mother would call a spoiled brat. If he was my child, he’d have spent more time confined to his room than out of it. Any idea what he’s doing now, Leslie?”

“Working his way through the ranks at Scotland Yard, believe it or not. Perhaps he’s seen the light, or it’s a case of poacher turned gamekeeper.”

“He could be paying off the sins of his childhood. All I have to do is think of him pulling my pigtails and my scalp hurts. Worse than your brother was, Geraldine.”

“Oh, George isn’t that bad. Settling down with Victoria and finding himself articled has bridled any wild tendencies.” Geraldine cast her friend a sidelong glance that could only be described as sly. “Like Patrick.”

“How is your brother, Marianne?” Leslie had anticipated Patrick would be mentioned sooner or later and was pleased he hadn’t had to raise the topic. Despite being twins, Patrick and Marianne were as different in personalities as any siblings could be. Chalk and cheese didn’t come near it.

“Working too hard. Throws all of his time into his practice.” She patted the dog’s head. “He’d like you, boy. Prefers his patients with a bit of character.”

Leslie nodded. Patrick had always liked dogs to be dogs and not pampered lap pets. He’d also appeared to prefer animals to the majority of humans. “You can trust them,” he’d say, “unlike much of the human species.” Even as a child, Patrick had seemed to be a veterinarian in the making. He’d no doubt have a successful practice and that wouldn’t simply be a testament to his skills or training. Patrick had the same lean, dark, handsome looks his sister was blessed with. Looks that would see a stream of female clients bringing their pampered pooches to his door.

“You’re right about the hard work. He never seems to be available, that’s certain.” Geraldine’s voice bore a distinct hint of annoyance. “My mother has invited him to a number of events, but he pleads pressure of time. She’s rather given him up as a lost cause.”

“Many people have.” Marianne tossed her head.

“He’ll settle down one day,” Leslie said, not sure that he believed that any more than Patrick’s sister would do. They both knew him too well. Had known him, in Leslie’s case, given how long it was since they’d last spoken. Suddenly, Leslie was filled with a fleeting memory of the three of them as children, the last time they played hide and seek: him, Marianne, Patrick, all of them around twelve years of age. She’d said afterwards they were getting too old for such childish things, possibly because she’d taken umbrage at Patrick being so slow at finding her. Best not to mention that, since it probably still rankled, and the day itself had ended sadly, with a tramp being found dead of exposure in the church porch. Mr. Cadmore had been called on to handle the affair, being churchwarden and with the vicar away on holiday. Still, such rare instances apart, those had generally been very happy days.

“Give my very best to your mother. I do feel guilty for not having kept in touch with her as I should.” Marianne fixed her eyes on Max. “Like you, Leslie, I don’t get down here as often as I would like.”

That provided a partial answer to some of his questions, although moving away from an area didn’t mean she couldn’t send a letter if she really wanted to. Perhaps, like Patrick, Marianne was simply busy. Leslie’s mother had told him that she worked as a legal secretary in Winchester, and he’d assumed—evidently mistakenly—that she travelled there from the Sibley home.

“I will pass on your regards, with pleasure. Are you here for long?” Leslie added. His mother might be pleased to have Marianne over for tea in order to talk over old times.

“Until Monday morning, when my nose goes firmly back to the grindstone. Albeit returning to work will make a pleasant escape from Father’s hunting stories. His enthusiasm hasn’t dimmed over the years.” Marianne gave the dog a final stroke, then took her friend’s arm. “We must get back. Terrible trouble if we come in late for luncheon.”

“Blame me and my wretched hound.” Leslie tipped his cap again. “Nice to have met you, Geraldine. Fond regards to your parents, Marianne, and to your scapegrace of a brother.”

“I’ll tell them all that I spoke to you. Although I’d always assumed you’d have kept in touch with Patrick.” Marianne waved her hand airily. “It shows how mistaken we can be.” She set off slowly, pausing after a few steps to turn and say, “It really is lovely to see you again. We shouldn’t have let it be so long. All of us.”

“Indeed.” Leslie watched the women go, momentarily unable to move himself and not only because he was thinking about the assumption Marianne had made about him and Patrick keeping in touch. Her gait bore the same easy grace as her brother’s, bringing to mind the last time Leslie had seen him. At Waterloo station. Walking away and out of Leslie’s life.

 

“We’re back,” Leslie called, entering the hall of Larkspur House and letting Max off the lead from which he was clearly anxious to be freed.

“In the drawing room, dear.” His mother’s voice sounded as sweetly as a woman’s half her age.

Alexandra Cadmore was still a handsome woman, despite the events of the past few years. Not for her, however, the lot of so many of her friends during wartime, a telegram bringing the news no wife or mother would wish to receive. Leslie had been based at home, doing something he could never divulge the details of, apart from hinting that it had been vitally important. “Logistical and extremely boring if crucial to the war effort” was how he’d described his work, and that was what his mother had told her friends. He wasn’t convinced she believed the “boring” part, although she’d always kept up the pretence. So, he’d remained physically safe, returning to civilian life tired but intact, if a touch emotionally battered.

It was his father, Jerome Cadmore, who’d been torn from her and not by death. Unless finding a vocation and entering a Benedictine monastery could be defined as crossing into—or having one foot on the doorstep of—one’s eternal rest. It was marginally better, she’d confessed to Leslie when the news had broken, than his having run away with a WAAF, which had happened to one of her old school friends. Worse in some ways, though, because anybody could understand the attractions of a woman in uniform; the attractions of God weren’t so obvious. It had been the third year of the war, so Leslie hadn’t been on hand much to give her support, but she’d coped, as she always did.

“Did you have a nice walk?” His mother glanced up from her knitting.

“Very, apart from Max exhibiting wanderlust. I ran across Marianne, out taking the air with one of her pals. I didn’t realise she no longer lived here with her parents.” Leslie flopped down into his favourite chair.

“I’m sure I told you. I daresay you weren’t listening at the time.” She grinned. “How is she?”

“Not a jot different from how she was at nineteen. Or indeed nine. I was surprised that you haven’t kept in touch with her.”

“I see her parents at church. They keep me abreast of all things Sibley. Marianne’s doing splendidly at work and has a little flat of her own, now.” She paused to count her stitches. “They worry about her living alone, but that’s a cross all parents bear. Which friend was with her?”

“A girl called Geraldine something-or-other. Simpkins. Simpson. Max was most taken with them both.” The dog, who’d sprawled himself on the fireside rug, glanced up at the mention of his name. “Thank goodness they came along or I’d still have been out on the common, trying to get this wretch back on his lead.”

“Marianne always had a knack with animals. Her father’s daughter, every bit, although she’s a better hand with a rod and fly than he is.”

Leslie chuckled. Mr. Sibley had been continually vexed at the fact. “She’s better at taking a trout than most of us. Some zoologist chap once told me that women have a natural unfair advantage when fishing. A natural aroma they produce that attracts their prey.”

“Does it work with men, dear? Is that why some women appear to be irresistible?” She held her handiwork up to the light, nodding approvingly at it before resuming knitting. “Although in Marianne’s instance, I’d say it’s likely a case of her not rising to the male fly. Not yet, anyway.”

Leslie wasn’t sure she ever would. Not every mare had a hankering for the stallion.

“Should we invite her and her friend to tea today?” She continued, with an air that was a little too nonchalant to be entirely convincing. Was this a repeat of the getting-my-son-in-a-room-with-eligible-women ruse? “I’m sure that young Edwin would take an invitation across, on his bicycle. Would sixpence be over-generous as payment?”

“I couldn’t say, not having a housekeeper’s son to run errands for me and so being oblivious to the going rate.” It wasn’t spoken unkindly: Mrs. Edwards was an absolute treasure, a war widow without whom the running of Larkspur House would no doubt grind to a halt. Leslie’s mother was lucky to have her and to be able to keep her. At least his father had only dedicated himself to God and not included his considerable worldly wealth, so his wife had been left with enough to live comfortably.

“But should I invite her? I noticed that expression of disdain at the suggestion, dear.” How his mother could have seen any expression on Leslie’s face, given the way her eyes were fixed on her knitting needles, was a mystery of the arcane maternal arts.

“I wasn’t aware of feeling disdain. Perhaps it was indigestion. Invite her by all means. It’s not like she’ll have that rogue of a brother with her, to drop a teacup or trip over the rug.” Leslie wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to mention Patrick. Maybe it was simply to divert his mother from any further discussion of Marianne and her matrimonial prospects. It was a topic she’d aired on many an occasion over the years, and one that had subtly featured Leslie as a possible candidate for the woman’s affections, although not so often recently. Could this be her idea of reviving a notion that was always doomed to fail?

“Patrick was certainly the clumsiest child I ever met. He must have grown out of it, or else he’d not have anyone bringing their animals to him. With the exception of women of my age who should know better.” There was very little that escaped the notice of Leslie’s mother, despite the fact that she didn’t do much socially anymore, outside of the church or the local causes she supported. “Is he staying with his parents too?”

“Not that I’m aware of, although to be honest I didn’t ask Marianne the question.” Nor had she offered the information. “I don’t think he works locally.”

“He’s based in Surrey, I believe. Near Epsom, so he can work with horses as well as his beloved dogs. I’d have thought you’d have known that.” That remark was evidently worthy of a direct glance, over the top of her spectacles.

“I haven’t spoken to Patrick in years. Same as I’ve not spoken to Marianne.” Leslie shrugged. “You know what it’s like. People knock around together and are great pals, then they go off in different directions and suddenly find they’ve not spoken in ages. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to get out one’s pen and paper to jot down a line. It takes an errant hound and some good fortune, like this morning on the common, to re-establish communication.”

It wasn’t just a matter of the length of time. Somehow, the closer you had been to somebody, the trickier it was to make that first move and the more awkward that reconnection might prove. The conversation with Marianne had felt stilted, to say the least.

“Then perhaps a chat over a pot of tea and a scone is exactly what’s called for. I’ll compose a note to Marianne. Was the friend called Geraldine? I shall invite her too.”

Leslie confirmed the name, accepting his fate. He excused himself, saying that a short turn around the garden would be pleasant, before luncheon, although he insisted Max should stay inside, as punishment. The dog snored happily, oblivious of what was being said about him.

 

Leslie lit a cigarette, hands cupped to protect the match’s flame from the wind. No sooner had he taken the first draw than he heard Edwin leaving the house, heading for the garage where he kept his bicycle. Once Leslie’s mother got an idea in her head, she lost no time on it. Marianne would no doubt accept the invitation, unless she had another engagement that couldn’t be broken. Leslie should use the next few hours preparing himself to be a welcoming host, which was longer than he’d had to gather his wits on the common.

He strolled along the path, glancing with pleasure over the rolling Hampshire countryside. Whoever had laid out the gardens at Larkspur House had known their business, making the most of the south-facing aspect. People were said to have lived in this area for thousands of years, probably enjoying the same view from their villa or roundhouse. When Leslie was a boy, he’d turned up pieces of pottery in the local mole hills, pieces that his father had assured him were Roman. He’d believed it at the time and it might have been true, although Mr. Cadmore did have a plausible way about him.

It was a skill that he’d developed further in the running of his business, gently planting ideas in other people’s heads when it would prove useful, such as the time he’d employed a young man only to find him unsuited to his role. Via a couple of seemingly innocuous conversations, focussed on the young man’s ambitions and happiness, they’d soon reached the point where he’d decided he’d made the wrong choice and would be joining a local brewing company. Leslie grinned in remembrance of the tale.

He’d reached the Larkspur orchard—if half a dozen apple trees and a similar number of both plums and pears could be given that title—which was the place where he’d always been happiest. Sitting in a deckchair in the dappled light or swinging in a hammock, when reading, dozing, studying for exams, or simply enjoying the thrill of being alive in a world untouched by the fingers of war. As a small child, carefully scribing his name and address in his little notebook. Leslie Simon Cadmore, Larkspur House, Kinebridge, Hampshire, England, The World. That world had changed, as so many had warned it would, although some people had still retained the over-optimistic view in 1939 that this time it really might all be over by the first Christmas. Would people ever learn from the past?

The hammock had long since been taken down, and as Leslie wanted to rest his limbs, he had to make his way to the rose garden, where a sturdy wooden bench had been well placed to benefit from any sunshine. Today’s light was watery but bore a hint of warmth to come, and though it would be too early in the year for buds or blossoms on the roses, it wouldn’t be unpleasant to finish his cigarette there, coat wrapped around him.

The bench seemed to fit his shape. When younger, he’d found it too hard, smacking of self-punishment, but now the solidity of it was better suited to his tastes, after years of getting used to discomfort. Bletchley chairs in Bletchley huts. Strange to think how he’d assumed back then that he could easily put the war years and all they’d brought behind him, to return as quickly as possible to his previous life, only to find that the time he’d spent in that place couldn’t be unspent. It would always be part of him.

Be grateful you made it through in one piece—thousands of men and women would have given their right arm to be home for another spring. Some of them did.

It could have been Patrick’s voice in his ear, saying those words, rather than the voice of conscience, but he hadn’t spoken to Patrick in ages and couldn’t even say with certainty when the man had last visited Larkspur House. Yet his presence somehow still seemed to fill the garden, this place where they’d played so often as young children and later as boys on the cusp of manhood. The mentions of Patrick that morning rang accusatorially in Leslie’s ears. How the hell could they have let so much time pass without making contact?

Because you’re a coward. One who didn’t have the guts to ask Patrick either of the two questions you wanted to, afraid that the answers would be too hard to bear.

How easy it should have been to frame the first. “Do you really love me, Patrick, as I really love you, despite everything?” Seeing Marianne had brought that more clearly into focus, had reawakened the need to have Patrick at his side again, whether it was out on the common walking a dog or sitting in the orchard or lying in a bed between cool linen sheets.

The other question would have been trickier, as impossible to ask Patrick as it would have been for Leslie to tackle his father about why he had gone into Combe Abbey. Either question would have risked receiving an answer full of peril, in terms of how it might have irrevocably changed a relationship. Leslie often wondered if he’d somehow driven his father into leaving, perhaps unconsciously forcing the man to consider what it would be like to live a family life in the knowledge that his son was different, and all the disgrace that might bring were it made public. It might have been a safer choice to cut himself off from continually dealing with that. It was easy to love your neighbour—or your family—if you didn’t have to live with them.

But if that hadn’t been his motivation, what had? He must either have been running towards a life of contemplation or running away from something in his secular life that could no longer be borne. Leslie couldn’t shake from his mind the great scandal of 1938, when there’d been an attempted strangling in one of the nearby hamlets. A farmer had given himself in at the local police station, confessing that after fourteen years of constant nagging, he’d snapped and nearly killed his wife. Surely that sudden outburst of violence could never have happened with Leslie’s parents?

There had only been one instance when Mr. Cadmore had shown real aggression, and that had been when on a holiday. He’d killed what had appeared to be an otter with a heavy blow to the skull, much to young Leslie’s horror. It had turned out to be an escapee from a local—illegal—mink farm, about which Mr. Cadmore had been warned.

“Evil creatures, Leslie. Best to get rid of them quickly, before they can cause any harm.” Most anglers would have agreed with him.

More comically, there was a family story about him having boxed the ears of a rival for the love of Leslie’s mother. Yet Mr. Cadmore could be so soft he’d wept at a sermon about the massacre of the innocents.

On the way home he’d explained his distress. “If it’s true—and you take all these Bible stories with a pinch of salt because men wrote them down—then it’s beyond wicked.”

He’d always shown a similar desire to protect his family from harm. Until, of course, he’d broken their hearts by his act of retreat into the life of the cloister. That decision had been so out of character—assuming they had really understood what the man was like and what he wanted. Maybe some part of his father was, and always would remain, hidden and unknowable. Leslie had spent many hours brooding on the subject, having nobody he could discuss such personal things with. Had his father harboured a self-denied yet lifelong devotion to God, one that he was always going to manifest at some point or else be driven mad? He’d left no clue behind when he’d made his abrupt departure, his final note to them, I’ve left you well provided for money-wise. I can’t let you suffer, ringing hollow. Emotional anguish was as hard to bear as financial.

If Leslie was unclear about his father’s motives, he had still less clarity in his thinking about Patrick. The other question Leslie had left unasked was more serious by far. It was almost unthinkable to air, no matter how close the two men had been. Leslie whispered it now, the calm of the garden—as well as the knowledge that nobody could hear—bringing him courage.

Did you murder Fergus Jackson? And how the hell did you pull it off?

Davidson King

Davidson King, always had a hope that someday her daydreams would become real-life stories. As a child, you would often find her in her own world, thinking up the most insane situations. It may have taken her awhile, but she made her dream come true with her first published work, Snow Falling.

She managed to wrangle herself a husband who matched her crazy and they hatched three wonderful children.

If you were to ask her what gave her the courage to finally publish, she’d tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when you’re afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.

Jordan L Hawk

Jordan L. Hawk is a trans author from North Carolina. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave him a life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When he isn’t writing, he brews his own beer and tries to keep the cats from destroying the house. His best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with Widdershins) can be found in print, ebook, and audiobook.

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Charlie Cochrane

As Charlie Cochrane couldn't be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice - like managing a rugby team - she writes. Her favourite genre is gay fiction, predominantly historical romances/mysteries, but she's making an increasing number of forays into the modern day. She's even been known to write about gay werewolves - albeit highly respectable ones.

Her Cambridge Fellows series of Edwardian romantic mysteries were instrumental in seeing her named Speak Its Name Author of the Year 2009. She’s a member of both the Romantic Novelists’ Association and International Thriller Writers Inc.

Happily married, with a house full of daughters, Charlie tries to juggle writing with the rest of a busy life. She loves reading, theatre, good food and watching sport. Her ideal day would be a morning walking along a beach, an afternoon spent watching rugby and a church service in the evening.

Charlie Cochet
Charlie Cochet is the international bestselling author of the THIRDS series. Born in Cuba and raised in the US, Charlie enjoys the best of both worlds, from her daily Cuban latte to her passion for classic rock.

Currently residing in Central Florida, Charlie is at the beck and call of a rascally Doxiepoo bent on world domination. When she isn’t writing, she can usually be found devouring a book, releasing her creativity through art, or binge watching a new TV series. She runs on coffee, thrives on music, and loves to hear from readers.

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