šI'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.š
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.
šI 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.š
Hurt Me Not by Davidson King
Summary:As a lieutenant at the Foolās Pass Fire Department and a single father, Easton Kooperās life revolves around his children. When he receives an urgent call from his sonās doctor, it upends Eastonās world. Suddenly, barreling into a burning building sounds like a piece of cake. With no idea of what to do or where to turn, heās never felt more lost. And then in walks the answer he didnāt know he needed: a gorgeous fae with an angelic smile, bearing grand promises to turn the Kooper familyās life right side up again.
Finch knows the rules: donāt fall in love with a human. Thatās always been simple enough to followāat least until the Kooper family. Despite his best efforts, Finch grows attached to Easton and his childrenā¦attached enough that heās 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, itāll 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 Eastonās 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 lifeš. 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.
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Rattling Bone by Jordan L Hawk
Summary:Outfoxing the Paranormal #2
Some secrets wonāt 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 Oscarās 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 Oscarās ancestors. A curse lies upon his bloodline, and if the team canāt 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.
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And Nothing But the Truth by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Lindenshaw Mysteries #7
Some truths donāt set you free.
The pandemic may be winding down, but for Chief Inspector Robin Bright, life never really goes back to normal. One second, heās having breakfast with his adorable husbandāand their equally adorable Newfoundland, Hamishāand the next, he gets the dreaded call: a bodyās 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 boardāmuch as he tries not to get involvedābut when Robinās case intersects with a mystery from within their own family, heās embroiled whether he likes it or not. Loquacious genealogists, secret pregnancies, and a potentially dubious inheritance all ensure that Adam wonāt 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 isnāt the only one with something to hide. But Robin wonāt stop until heās 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 stressš.
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:
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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, heāll tell you. Chaos isnāt so much a codename as it is Dexās 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, thereās 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 heād left behind is the least of Sloaneās problems, because the greatest threat heās about to encounterā¦ 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.
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The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane
Summary:Some truths canāt be left buried.
The second world war may be over, but for Leslie Cadmore the scars remain. His beloved dog died, thereās a rift between him and his lover Patrick, and his father inexplicably abandoned the family for life in a monastery. Fateās been cruel.
A chance meeting with Patrickās sister stirs old memories, and Leslie starts to dig into both his fatherās 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.
Leslieās 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 Fergusās murder, but Mr. Cadmoreās abrupt departure. As their investigation deepens, Leslie and Patrickās bond deepens too. But no reconciliation can occur until Leslie knows for sure that his erstwhile lover wasnāt Fergusās 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 Americanš) 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 thoughšš.
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 newš.
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Hurt Me Not by Davidson King
CHAPTER ONE
Easton Kooper
āDad, I know youāre like a million years old, butā āā
āIām thirty-six, Tru, thirty-six. Your estimation is way off. I worry about what theyāre teaching you in school.ā
āWhatever, Dad. As I was saying. Can we listen to music that was created after the turn of the century?ā
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.
āIām sorry, Tru, I canāt hear youā¦speak into my good ear.ā I cupped my right ear, and she snortedā¦Milo giggled.
āLame.ā Truās eye rolls were legendary, and I couldnāt 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 worldās 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 hadnāt 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, weād found our wayāa new way, but not a day went by that I didnāt miss Laura so much it hurt just to breathe.
āOh thank God, school!ā Tru unbuckled her belt, and I chuckled.
āI never thought Iād hear you utter those words. So what youāre 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?ā
āItās not amazing.ā She opened the door, but I grabbed her arm.
āYouāre amazing, Tru-bug.ā
Another eye roll but I wrangled a grin too. āLove you, Dad.ā
āLove you too.ā
Once she was racing off, I looked at Milo. āAlmost win the level?ā
āYeah!ā
āWell, youāre the next drop-off. You have ten minutes.ā
āThe pressure!ā he shouted, and I hit the gas.
At thirty-six I was one of the youngest lieutenants this firehouse had ever had. Iād worked my ass off to get here and loved every part of it. Iād operated both engine and ladder, but I was currently in charge of Ladder Truck 121.
Before Lauraās death, my shifts were twenty-four hours on followed by forty-eight hours off. It had meshed with Lauraās 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.
Foolās 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 weād rescued a fifty-three-year-old woman and her four cats.
āWhy are Trish and I doing the book drive this weekend, East?ā Jim Hastings was my closest friend on the job, but he also worked for me.
āWell, Jim.ā I spun in my chair and smiled at the burly man who was more jolly than scary. āI specifically remember you and Trish saying to me around Christmas, āPlease, if you let me and Trish out of being Santa and Mrs. Claus this year, we will be at your mercy.ā ā
āWell, shit.ā Jim sighed and leaned against the wall in my office.
āIām sure the two of you will have fun.ā I waggled my brows and returned my attention to my report.
āWhatās that supposed to mean?ā
Without looking up, I answered. āIt means Iām 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.ā
āAnd here I thought dating within the same house was wrong.ā
I shrugged. āI have no issue with it as long as it doesnāt interfere with your job, and Captain feels the same way.ā
He was silent for a beat too long, so I peered over my shoulder. He was glaring at me.
āYou think sheāll never go out with me, so you feel safe saying that.ā
I burst out laughing, tossed my pen onto the papers, and faced him again. āProve me wrong, Hastings.ā
He opened his mouth to say something when my cell phone went off. A quick peek showed the pediatricianās office.
āI gotta take this.ā
āLater.ā
āHello?ā I answered.
āMr. Kooper?ā
āSpeaking.ā
āGood afternoon, Mr. Kooper. This is Dr. Perry, Jennifer, calling from Foolās Pass Pediatrics.ā
āHi, Dr. Perry, is everything okay? I didnāt receive a call from the school saying either of my kids were hurt.ā Dr. Jennifer Perry was a friend of Lauraās and while we didnāt talk a lot anymore, she was good to the kids.
āOh, heavens no, Iām sorry. I was calling about some blood test results that came back for Milo.ā
Heād had his yearly physical two days ago and because heād turned ten, theyād wanted to do a complete blood workup on him.
āOkay, whatās going on?ā
āWell, 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?ā
āNo, nothing.ā
āIām hoping this is a lab error but in case itās not, itās best you take Milo to the emergency room. If itās an error he will be sent home; if itās not, heāll be where he needs to be.ā
āJennifer.ā I swallowed as my pulse thundered in my ears and sweat began to bead on my forehead.
āYes, Easton?ā
āWhat were the counts? How bad is it?ā
āI really donāt want toā āā
āIām asking you to tell me.ā
āVery well.ā She sighed, but I didnāt 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.
āMiloās a ten-year-old boy, and for a healthy child of his age weād see a platelet count between three hundred thousand and four hundred and eighty thousand. His count came back at twelve hundred.ā
āOh, my God.ā
āNormal white blood cell counts are between five thousand and ten thousand. Miloās are at six hundred.ā
āShit.ā
āEaston. I know your brain is spiraling, and youāre scared. But like I said, letās not put the cart before the horse. Errors happen. Can you get him to the emergency room?ā
āYeah, Iāll get him there.ā
āI will be there, but Iāll call ahead and let them know that youāre on your way. Breathe, East. Youāre worried; Milo will be confused and terrified.ā
She was right. I knew she was.
āIāll see you in a bit, Doctor.ā
All I could think as I drove to get Milo from the library where he went after school was that I couldnāt lose my son. If the universe took another piece of my soul, I didnāt think Iād survive it.
āPlease, donāt take my boy,ā 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 didnāt get carsick. His stomach was already unsettled enough at the prospect of meeting his boyfriendās parents.
He glanced at Oscar, who sat in the driverās seat, attention thankfully on the narrow road. A big guy, in both height and girth, Oscarās 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 hadnāt brought any of his other boyfriends all the way out to Marrow, West Virginia, to meet the family. Which was amazingātheyād only been together since early October, not even three months. Nigel hadnāt 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 Oscarās parents didnāt 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. āYour folks really live out in the boonies, huh?ā
Theyād been driving for over five hours, up from Durham, North Carolina, across into Virginia. As they headed northwest, the interstate failed them, and theyād spent the last few hours on narrow state roads, climbing over the ancient spine of the Appalachians to get into West Virginia.
āYou can say that again.ā Oscar didnāt glance into the rearview mirror, eyes remaining firmly on the road. āOnce we get over this last ridge, weāll almost be there.ā
āThank God, because I have to pee,ā Tina said. āI thought there would at least be a gas station or somewhere to stop out here.ā
Chris sat back. āToo bad we didnāt pack the camping toilet.ā
The back of the van was stuffed with almost all of their ghost-hunting equipment, but none of the camping things theyād used during the investigation of the Matthews house back in October.
āDo you have any ideas about the ghost in your parentsā house?ā Nigel asked, grateful for something to distract him from his nerves. āWho it might be, that is?ā
That was the reason they were all going to meet Oscarās 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 hadnāt had time to do another investigation since the Matthews house.
The intermittent haunting Oscar had grown up withāand over the years trained himself to ignoreāseemed like the perfect opportunity for him to get his feet wet as a medium. The spirit, whoever it was, wasnāt 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 wasnāt very strong.
Still, from Nigelās 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.
āI donāt have any idea who she was, and it wasnāt like I could ask my parents.ā Oscar grimaced, and Nigel reached out to touch his shoulder,.
āIām sorry.ā
Oscar sighed. āItās okay.ā
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.
āWas that Marrow?ā Tina asked.
āYeah, and my folks live on this side of town, so youāll have somewhere to pee in a few minutes.ā Oscar hesitated. āLookā¦Mom and Dad donāt know about the whole ghost-hunting thing.ā
Nigel dropped his hand and half-turned in his seat. āWhat?ā Chris asked from the back, at the same time Tina said, āYou havenāt told them about OtP?ā
āHow could I? You know how my dad is. Was,ā he corrected hurriedly. āThey know Iām bringing friends, but not that we explore abandoned buildings together looking for ghosts. But once they see some of our videos, theyāll be really proud of what weāve accomplished.ā
āWhat do they think I teach?ā Nigel asked.
Oscar winced. āPsychology. Which is close!ā
āIt really isnāt.ā Nigel pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. āSo youāre introducing your friends the ghost hunters, and your new boyfriend the parapsychologist, to your father who historically hasnāt reacted well to the concept of seeing ghosts.ā
āItāll be fine,ā Oscar insisted.
Chris flopped back in their seat. āOr a complete disaster. One of the two.ā
* * *
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. Heād lay everything out, Nigel would say something smart, Tina something technical, and Dad would realize they were professionals. This was science.
Oscar wasnāt 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, Oscarās 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.
āYou get out first,ā 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 hadnāt, especially Nigel. But heād beenā¦
Scared. That was all. Worried about Dadās 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.
āItās so good to see you!ā Mom said. āWe missed you at Thanksgiving.ā
Theyād spent the holiday with Nigelās mother, a cheerful woman who lived in Myrtle Beach. Before Oscar could apologize, Dad slapped him on the arm. āI guess weāll have to get used to sharing, now that youāve got someone special,ā 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. āTina, the bathroom is through the front door, first door on the left.ā
āIām sorry, I donāt want to be rude,ā she called as she power-walked to the front door.
Mom laughed. āDonāt worry about it, Iāve made that long drive myself plenty of times.ā
āAnd this is my friend Chris Saito,ā Oscar went on. āThey/them.ā
āItās lovely to meet you,ā Mom said warmly, and went straight in for a hug, followed by Dad who did the same.
āThanks for having us, Mrs. Fox, Mr. Fox,ā Chris said.
āOh goodness, call us Lisa and Scott, weāre too young for that nonsense.ā Mom laughed again and turned expectantly to Nigel.
Nigel looked slightly alarmed. āIām, uh, Nigel. He/him.ā
āDoctorNigel Taylor,ā Oscar added, as Mom went in for a hug.
āItās so good to finally meet you,ā Dad said, shaking Nigelās hand, then pulling him in for a hug. āOscar canāt stop talking about you!ā
A light blush spread across Nigelās face. āOh?ā
āI love your name,ā Mom went on. āNigel; itās so old-fashioned!ā
Nigel blinked, nonplussed. āThanks? I picked it myself.ā
āWe should get in out of the cold,ā Oscar put in quickly.
āOf course, of course; Iāll help with the bags.ā Dad took a step toward the van.
The van packed with their equipment. It was now or never.
āUm, so, something I havenāt mentioned.ā He could hear himself speaking too fast but couldnāt seem to slow down. āTina, Chris, and I have a hobbyāwell, it might be more than a hobby, we do get money from the videos and selling Chrisās pictures.ā
Both Mom and Dad looked at him expectantly. Oscar took a deep breath to steel himself. āWeāre ghost hunters.ā
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. FoxāScottāon the other, at the tableās end. Lisa sat beside her husband, and Chris and Tina filled out the rest of the table.
āI hope we made enough,ā Lisa fretted, though the food on the table could have fed an army. āHow are the potatoes?ā
āDelicious,ā Nigel said truthfully.
Oscar didnāt say anything, and neither did his father. Their tension toward one another radiated through Nigelās space.
āOh good, itās my mamawās recipe,ā Lisa went on, apparently determined to fill the uncomfortable silence. āThe secret is to use buttermilk.ā
āItās all wonderful.ā Chris reached for second helpings of turkey. āTwo Christmas dinners in one yearāscore!ā
āWell, it didnāt make sense to have it just for ourselves, since yāall were coming the next day.ā
The Fox household didnāt 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 Nigelāwas 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 hadnāt really thought about what meeting Oscarās parents the day after Christmas might entail.
āSorry we kept Oscar away for the actual day,ā Tina said, ābut if Iād missed the family dinner, my abuela wouldāve turned me into a ghost.ā
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 Oscarās parents would be like, this wasnāt it. Coming here had clearly been a mistake. Certainly they werenāt going to be able to try and contact any spirit lingering in the house.
Lisa glanced at her husband, then fixed on Nigel. āSo, Nigel, Oscar tells us you teach at Duke University!ā
With the sinking feeling things were about to get worse, Nigel nodded. āThatās right.ā
āYouāre a psychologist, is that right?ā she prompted, when it became clear he wasnāt 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 Nigelās actual job.
āI work in the Institute of Parapsychology,ā Nigel clarified. āWe study phenomena outside of known biological mechanisms. My specialty is the survival of personality beyond death.ā
There was a long moment of silence, before Scott spoke up. āGhosts?ā
He was going to be thrown out of the house and forbidden to ever speak to their son again. āThe technical term is incorporeal personal agencies, but yes. Ghosts.ā
āExcuse me,ā Scott said, and pushed away from the table. He stalked out of the room.
Oscar shoved his chair back, shot an āexcuse meā at his mother, and followed.
The rest of them sat in excruciatingly awkward silence for a moment. Then Lisa picked up a serving spoon. āSoā¦who wants more potatoes?ā
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 theyād first met eight years ago. The odd grey hair had sproutedāgenerally in his stubble rather than on his headābut he was still as handsome. And still as effective at catching villains and putting them behind bars as heād been in the murder case which had introduced them, without ever resorting to any of the dodgy tricks so beloved of TV cops.
āGo with the evidence, wherever it leads. Although a touch of copperās instinct never comes amiss,ā 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, āMorning Camāā and stopped. Funny how heād managed to avoid using the wrong name for so long, but now he wasnāt concentrating, it slipped out. As his mother had told him would no doubt happen.
āLike in the stone age, when we wrote cheques. Iād never get the year wrong on them all through January because Iād be thinking about it, and then Iād find myself writing the incorrect date come February, when my attention had wavered. Itāll be the same with the dog.ā
As so often, she was spot on. āSorry, Hamish. Old habits. Am I forgiven?ā
The Newfoundland bounced up and bestowed a slobbery kiss.
āThank you. I love you, as well.ā Maybe not yet as much as heād loved Campbell, but that would come with time.
āI heard you nearly say the wrong name as I came down the stairs.ā Robinās voice sounded chirpily as he came into the room. āIām so pleased, because I made the same mistake yesterday. I could become paranoid that he thinks his name is actually Cam, whereas heās a handsome Hamish. Arenāt you boy?ā Robin gave the dog a good ruffling round his neck, which was received with obvious pleasure, then let him out into the garden.
āMaybe we both need to write out fifty times, āHis name is Hamish,ā and hang it up in here.ā It might have been easier if theyād 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 ladās memory.
Robin gave Adam a peck on the cheek. āI think we should. Youād have thought a whole weekās holiday away with him would have got us into the habit by now.ā
āItās being home. Weāve slipped into very old habits. We never called him you know what down in Devon.ā
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 schoolchildrenānone that Adam had to be responsible for, anyway. Heād done a couple of months as acting headteacher the previous year, when Jim Rashford, for whom heād been deputy at Culdover, got appendicitis, but that didnāt bring the same kind of pressure. While it had been great preparation for taking on a similar role, the place heād been running was someone elseās 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 heād 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 wasnāt cutting the mustard and whoād need dealing with once the new term was up and running. But Jane could be put out of mind for the moment.
āWakey wakey, daydreamer,ā Robin said. āThe sunās breaking through.ā
āShining on the almost-righteous.ā
āDays like these make me wish we could win the lottery and be on holiday permanently.ā Robin put on the kettle while Adam got Hamishās breakfast ready.
āYouād get bored. We both would. Besides, the experience wouldnāt feel so good if it wasnāt a treat.ā
āIād be willing to risk seeing if I could get used to it. In the interests of science. Do you want toast?ā
āNah, just cereal. I think I over-calorified myself when we were away. Anyway, you canāt win the lottery because you donāt do it. Even my most numerically challenged pupils would realise that if you aināt in it, you canāt win it. I hope they would, anyway.ā 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 didnāt quite have a proper grasp of reality.
Robin snorted. āIf your pupils grow into some of the people I have to deal with, I wouldnāt bank on the fact. Not all villains are sharp. Some are simply lucky, so they get away with things they shouldnāt. Then thereās the ones who rely on the fact nobody reports them orāif they doācomplaints donāt get taken seriously enough.ā
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 heād taken things into his own hands and beaten seven colours of brick dust out of the choirmaster whoād 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 Robinās own schooldays had hardly been a bundle of joy, theyād 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 Robinās favourite cereal bowl. āI wish all parishes were like Wickley. If Katie Morgan had been the safeguarding officer for that choirmasterās parish, thereād have been no nonsense about sweeping things under the carpet.ā Katie was one of the foundation governors at Adamās new school, and her opinion on the churchās lax handling of abuse cases had been a joy to hear.
āSpeaking as a probably-not-very-good Christian, I have to say thereās a hell of a lot of muddled thinking around forgiveness. You wonāt know this yet, boy,ā Robin said to Hamish, whoād returned from the garden and wanted attention. āActions can be forgiven but they still have consequences. Life lesson, free and gratis, from your dad.ā
āIf 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.ā
āMaybe I should train you not to get too closely involved with my cases, as well.ā Robin put the finishing touches to the food heād laid on the breakfast bar, then perched on a stool.
āMight I remind you,ā Adam said, wagging a teaspoon at him, āthat if you insist on interviewing a murderer in my kitchen, in the vicinity of the ladās Bonios, then youāre tempting fate? Iām glad this house is keeping itself a killer-free zone.ā So far, no trouble had followed Robin home there, and long may that prevail. Adam surreptitiously touched wood but clearly not surreptitiously enough.
āI saw that. Was it your āplease no murdersā touching wood?ā
āSomething like that.ā It had been over a year since Robin had dealt with a homicide case, if one didnāt 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 orāworse stillārelocated for weeks on end.
āIf I do get a murder case anytime soon, heāll not know whatās going on with all the long hours. Heāll think Iāve deserted him.ā Robin glanced over to where a supremely unbothered Hamish was concentrating on his breakfast.
āHeāll learn to cope. Another lesson for life in the Matthews-Bright household.ā Adam chomped on his granola. āAny chance we can bring him up to think heās a cat? Or another dog breed that doesnāt do water rescues?ā
āVain hope. Itās inbred. The old lad always liked being in water. Even if we didnāt think he had the urge to rescue in him.ā Robin patted Adamās hand, and they focussed on their food, probably both fighting a lump in the throat.
Late last autumn theyād been out for a walk in a country park, with Campbell off the lead but walking to heel as became his habit as heād grown older. Heād 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 waterās 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 childās parents, it had taken Adam and Robin a while to realise that their dog wasnāt getting himself up off the ground. A minute or so later, it had all been over.
āTalk to me about something funny,ā Adam said. āDaft things your newbie coppers have done.ā
āNothing to offer, sorry. Our latest recruitāDanielleāis proving far too sensible to provide you with cheering-up fodder.ā Robin managed a grin. āI think Pruās taken her under her wing, rather like I did Ben when he joined the team. Then Iāve just this morning heard weāve got Ashok relocating from Kinechester, so heās a known quantity.ā
Adam nodded. Robin had met Ashok when heād 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. āThatās come out of the blue, hasnāt it?ā
āYeah. Part of Superintendent Cowdrey getting everything shipshape, I suspect. Played two blinders, because not only did he secure us Ashok, heās also got rid of Gareth. Heās the new one weād been allocated at the same time as Danielle, but he rubbed Cowdrey up the wrong way, so the boss persuaded him that heād be getting a wider range of experience in the Kinechester team. Which is no word of a lie.ā
āA very useful lie. What did Gareth make of that? What did you?ā
āHeās delighted. Thinks heās got one over on Danielle. Special treatment and all that.ā Robin rolled his eyes. āAs for me, I wouldnāt argue with the boss. Heās too astute and has more experience of young guns than I have. Althoughāand donāt quote me on thisāI wouldnāt be surprised if Gareth ends up in the papers or on the telly one day, and I donāt mean him getting the George Cross.ā
āPotential to be bent?ā Thereād 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.
āI donāt know. Thereās something not right about himāin the short time heās been with us, heās said a few things which raise alarm bells, but he may be capable of being converted away from the dark side. I suspect Cowdrey doesnāt want his patch soiled at this late stage of his working life, so heās palmed Gareth off on Kinechester.ā
āWhat does Denness think?ā He was Cowdreyās equivalent at Kinechester, at a not-dissimilar point in his career, so surely wouldnāt want to deal with somebody elseās issue.
āHeās 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.ā
āLike youāve done in the past.ā Adam patted Robinās hand. Heād had the Augean stables job given to him and performed it with aplomb. Not something heād 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 Robinās lap. āI know, I know, breaking house rules, but heās still a baby.ā
āSo long as you break him of the habit before heās fully grown, or youāll have flat thighs.ā Adam watched the pair affectionately. āHowās the crown holding up?ā
āIād forgotten about it. Must be a good sign.ā Robin had been having issues with his molar. The first temporary crown heād 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. āI had a text from Mum this morning, by the way. Sheās being rather mysterious. Wants to know if weād have time to drop in today.ā
Adam shrugged. āDonāt see why not. We donāt have much planned for today. Although I bet she only wants to see the boy and spoil him.ā
āYeah. No doubt whoās her favourite from us three.ā Robin let Hamish lick his ear. āIāll say weāll pop in for a cuppa this afternoon. She says she wants us to do something for her. Bit of family business, although sheās not telling me exactly what.ā
āYour aunt Clare hasnāt given Jeff the push and has a new fancy man needing investigating?ā
āIāve no idea. Mum will tell us in her own good time. Maybe sheās found a black sheep lurking among the Brights, the kind of family member nobody mentions. Everyoneās found it safer to ignore their existence in case questions get asked.ā
Adam snorted. āYouāve been reading too many books this holiday. Theyāve given you strange ideas. She didnāt give you any clues?ā
āNot really.ā Robin retrieved his phone from the worktop where heād left it, having to reach round Hamish to do so. āShe says: Too complicated to explain by text. Nothing sinister. You could call it a mystery Iād like some advice about clearing up.ā
āWeāll definitely go over for an hour or so this afternoon. Iām very curious.ā
āWe could take this boy for a walk along the old railway line near Mumās, then grab lunch at the pub. The one that used to be the stationmasterās house.ā
āDidnāt it used to be a dive, as well?ā Theyād walked past it before, with Campbell: heād turned his wet nose up at it despite having been a huge fan of hostelries.
āItās been tarted up, apparently. Mum says itās dog-friendly too.ā Robin addressed the last part to Hamish, who looked bemused. āI could see if I can book a table in the garden.ā
āYou do that, while I get washed and dressed. Itāll be a nice end to the holiday.ā
While he headed for the bathroom, Adamās thoughts headed off in several directions. Heād heard about people finding an illegitimate child on the family tree, one whoād manifested in the form of a stranger turning up on the doorstep to say, āHalloo. You donāt know me but Iām your half brother.ā Thereād been a child born out of wedlock in the Matthewsās line, which had only come to light after Adamās great-aunt had warned his cousin Sally not to go investigating family history as she wouldnāt 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 sheād been hoping for a murderer or bigamist at the very least.
Still, they wouldnāt have long to wait to find out what was exercising Mrs. Brightās brain. And no doubt the answer would come with a healthy slice of cake. Theyād have to be on the frugal side at lunch to make room for it.
***
When they got to his mumās house, not only did Mrs. Bright provide refreshments with their mugs of tea, it was Robinās favourite boiled fruit cake. Sweet and moistāas sweet and moist as Adamās lips, heād once said in a moment of high soppinessāthe cake was the perfect crown on a pretty perfect day. The pub garden hadnāt 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 heād not been allowed to chase.
Once they were settled and the food had been given its due attention, Robin said, āYouāve got us really puzzled with this family business stuff. Youāre not about to spring a stepfather or half sister on me, are you?ā He was only half-joking, having been going through various scenarios in his mind all day.
Mrs. Bright chuckled. āIām too old for getting wed again, and if you do have a half sister, Iād be as surprised as you would be. But I have got something strange thatās cropped up, and I need two extra brains and a bit of specialist help to make sense of it. My solicitorās drawn a blank. I think itās to do with your dad being adopted.ā
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 hadnāt speculated that much about his paternal grandparents, not having felt the need of anyone but the elder Brights in his life. āYouāve lost me already, Mum. Can we start right at the beginning, please?ā
āSorry. I wouldnāt 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.ā
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 Robinās foibles. But his sudden death, from a heart condition he hadnāt known he suffered from, meant that could never happen. āIs this to do with his biological parents?ā
āIt may be. Thatās the only explanation I can think of. Somebody wants to give us some money. You and me. No, Adam, Iām not falling for a scam.ā Mrs. Bright broke into a giggly smile, one which took years off her. āIt isnāt somebody pretending to be a Christian lady whose pastor husband has left a fortune and who needs my bank accountās help to access it. My solicitor, Mr. Caswell, has done lots of checks and thinks itās legitimate.ā
āWhoās the benefactor, Alison, and how did they get in touch?ā The worried note in Adamās voice and the rare use heād made of her Christian name showed he was still doubtful, official reassurance notwithstanding.
āNot by email. They wrote air mail, to Mr. Caswellās firm. Another solicitorāsomewhere in the Commonwealth, Mr. C says heās not allowed to be any more specific about where and his name is Brown, so thatās not too helpfulāhas 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 paperās website.ā 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 Robinās dadās sudden death. āWhoever is behind this has clearly done their research, because they followed the trail from the memorial notice to Mr. C. Heās heard on the grapevine they contacted various local firms to try to get a trace on your dadās family. Mr. C didnāt get in touch with me until heād done enough of what he calls āproper diligenceā to be convinced this was real.ā
āBut youāre not allowed to know where the money comes from?ā Robin asked.
āNo, or who sent it. Anonymous bequest. Very Midsomer Murders.ā His mum grinned again.
āDonāt you end up as the victim, then.ā That was only half a joke, as well. āWhat do you want us to do?ā
āTwo things. The first is a big favour.ā Mrs. Brightās fingers twisted round each other. āI hate asking you to do anything thatās work connected, Robin, but do you haveāIām not sure what they call themāforensic lawyers, like the forensic accountants youāve mentioned?ā
āWe have people who specialise in fraud and the like. One of them, Henry, probably owes me a good turn, so Iāll get him on the case. Check itās all kosher.ā
āItās not simply a favour for a family member,ā Adam pointed out. āProactive policing, to prevent a crime. If itās actually a clever scam, itās unlikely youād be the only victim.ā
āAbsolutely.ā Robinās brow crinkled. āCan you also make sure your solicitor has checked this isnāt linked to money laundering? Thatās 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 donāt want to be landed with a bill down the line because of Double Taxation treaties.ā
āWhat the hell are they?ā Adam asked.
āNo idea, but Henry once mentioned them because they helped him to narrow down which country some dodgy money came from.ā
āIāll ask about both of those. Thank you.ā Mrs. Bright patted Robinās hand. āThe other thing I need to ask you about is a bit silly. Iāve always wanted to find out about Davidās family, but I wouldnāt have done it when he was alive because he was quite determined not to know. This seems an ideal time, because I canāt help feeling that if this inheritance is real, it has to be linked to his birth mother or father. Trouble is, I donāt know where to start and when I browse the internet, itās bewildering. Iāve asked Clare but sheās been no help. I know you two are rushed off your feet, though.ā
āWe are but Iām 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?ā Robin suggested.
Adam nodded, no doubt keen for another opportunity to sample his mother-in-lawās cooking. āWorks for me, especially as thatāll give us time to think. We must know someone whoās into genealogy.ā
āItās not that Iām struggling with.ā 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. āI 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 oldāand he was in the right generation for that to have happenedāhe may not be listed under the name David, if heās listed at all.ā
āThatās why you need an expert,ā Robin said. āI 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 wasnāt.ā
āBarking up the wrong family tree, was he?ā 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 didnāt 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 heād get forty winks, although Robin would probably want to chat.
āI wonder why itās taken Mum so long to get round to this if sheās so keen to know the truth,ā Robin said, when they were barely fifty yards into the journey.
āProbably she felt it was being disloyal to your dad. This inheritance gives her a legitimate excuse. Iām glad you gave her some jobs to get on with for the next few days.ā
āFew weeks, Iād have said.ā Robin had suggested his mother start by going up into the loft and going through the papers that had come from his paternal grandparentsā house when theyād gone into sheltered accommodation. Theyād had no room to take all their old things but had been reluctant to chuck them away. Unfortunately, she couldnāt draw on their knowledge, as Mr. Bright seniorās memory was no longer reliable and Mrs. Bright senior had gone to her long home. āI wish sheād asked Gran and Gramps about this when they were able to give an answer.ā
āIāve heard that so often. People kick themselves because they didnāt ask Aunty Win about Uncle Fredās 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.ā
āDog lick. Delightful.ā Robin snorted.
āHave you ever wanted to do what sheās doing? Trace your biological grandparents?ā
āNot really.ā When theyād started dating seriously, Adam had joked about nicking a sample of hair out of Robinās 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. āOccasionally Iāve run across a bloke or woman of the right age who bears a familial resemblance to me and wondered if theyāre the ones, but Iād never ask them. Anyway, Iād be a bit scared of what Iād find out, and Dad was the same. What if heād been the offspring of an equivalent of Fred and Rosemary West, which meant heād been removed at birth primarily to protect him? Heād decided heād rather not know.ā
āWeāll have to hope your mother doesnāt turn up anything like that.ā Adamās voice was light, although heād no doubt be thinking of the media headlines if it was discovered that Robin was the grandson of a notorious criminal. āHowever, whatever facts emerge, itās not your fault or your dadās. You canāt be held responsible for the sins of your forefathers, irrespective of what they turn out to be.ā
āWhy are you so sensible?ā Robin glanced into the rear-view mirror, caught Adamās eye, and smiled. āWeāll just have to deal with what comes up, because once Mumās got an idea, sheāll pursue it to the bitter end. She wonāt settle for not knowing.ā
āWorse than Hamish when heās lost a biscuit. Do you remember my great-aunt showing us the Matthews family bible?ā Adam asked. āThe family tree that seemed like it went back to Noah?ā
āYes. Why?ā
āI 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?ā
Robin squinted into the mirror again, shaking his head. āSorry, no. Iām ashamed to confess it, but I was searching for surnames I might recognise in a work connection. Checking you werenāt first cousin to an Abbotston drug baron.ā
āYou sneaky bugger.ā Adam chuckled. āYouād better watch him, Hamish. Heāll be doing all sorts of background checks on you.ā
āThereās no pit bull blood in him, Iām sure of that.ā Robin pulled up at some lights, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder at his family. āI wish we had another week of holiday.ā
āSo do I. Hey, the lightās gone green.ā
āOh, heck.ā Robin got his attention on the road again, before he got a blast from someoneās horn. āBack to the grindstone tomorrow, then.ā
āYeah. This is usually the point where one of us inadvertently tempts fate and then has to deliberately untempt it. Iām 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 thatās all Iām telling you because youāre not to get involved like your predecessor liked to do.ā
āToo right. While youāre 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?ā
āHeāll think thatās a great game.ā
Robin left them to it, concentrating on driving. Heād 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 waterās 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 waterās edge and took his knife in hand, his breath controlled as he crouched low, eyes locked on his quarry.
Youāre mine now.
One step closer. Two. Three.
His prey lay motionless, completely unaware.
Four. Five.
āWhat are you doing?ā
He stilled.
āI know you can hear me.ā
At the low grumble, Dex straightened, his voice a hoarse whisper. āYouāre ruining the moment.ā
āWhich is?ā his quarry murmured, not so much as glancing in Dexās 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.
āHunting.ā
Blue-green waves crashed gently against the shore, the sand beneath Dexās feet hot as he crossed the short distance to the sexy Therian stretched out on the blue beach towel.
āIs that what that was? Because from here, it looked like you were swimming around with a cocktail umbrella between your teeth.ā
Dex sniffed and lifted his chin. āItās a knife.ā
āAnd the giant donut float?ā
āAn alligator ready to attack.ā
āYouāre adorable.ā
Dex chuckled as he dropped to his knees beside Sloane, then straddled his lap. He leaned in for a kiss. āMust be why you married me.ā
Sloane slid his hands up Dexās thighs to rest on his hips. āSomeone had to keep you out of trouble.ā
āAnd howās that working out for you?ā Dex teased, smiling against Sloaneās lips.
A laugh rumbled up from Sloaneās 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 couldnāt 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? Sloaneās 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 theyād first met.
Dex savored Sloaneās kiss, melting against his sinfully gorgeous body. He was everything to Dexāhis partner in crime, his mate, a sleek black jaguar Therian with amber eyes that could reach into the depths of Dexās soul. They shared a bond most couldnāt fathom, one only those closest to them knew of.
āNo, really, what were you doing?ā 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 didnāt mean everyone occupying it was.
āRemember last night when you were galivanting about the city?ā
Sloaneās lips lifted at the corners in a smirk. āYou 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?ā
āI think what you meant to say was while I was fueling this weapon of mass destructionāāDex motioned to himselfāāand researching undercover techniques.ā
āFrom an old eighties spy show.ā
āHey, that show was based on real spy craft.ā
āNo, it wasnāt.ā
āBut it could have been.ā
āIt could have,ā Sloane said, then popped a kiss on Dexās lips. āBut it wasnāt.ā He smiled at Dexās pout and tapped his flank. āAs much as I love debating the factual validity of your eighties movies and TV shows, Iām thirsty. How about you get me a frosty drink?ā
āAlready on it, amor de mi vida.ā
Sloane hummed.
āTe amo, cariƱo.ā āTe amo, mi conejito.ā
āLittle bunny? Really?ā
Dex booped the tip of Sloaneās nose. āBecause youāre so cute and fluffy.ā
āAh, yes. That must be why that guy jumped out of the moving bus we were on last week. Clearly, my fluffy cuteness overwhelmed him.ā
Dex laughed as he sat up. āSit tight, Daddy, while I get you that drink.ā
āIāll just stay here and look pretty, then,ā Sloane drawled. āAnd donāt call me Daddy.ā
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 ofāhe wasnāt 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 sculptureās 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.
āTienes refresco de cereza?ā
The cougar Therian shook his head. āNo cherry, solo limĆ³n.ā
āEsta bien. Dos refrescos de limĆ³n, por favor.ā
The guy reached into a separate compartment on his cart and pulled out two frosty cans of fizzy lemon soda.
āThanks.ā 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 heād 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 phonesāwhether to call the authorities or take video was anyoneās guess. The vendor lay on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head.
Dexās earpiece came to life, Sloaneās growl on the other end. āWhat the hellās going on?ā
The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane
Chapter One
Hampshire, 1947
āCome back, you menace!ā 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 shouldnāt have let the hound off the lead, although wasnāt it easy to be wise after the event? āMax! To heel.ā
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.
āMax! If you donāt come here, so help me, Iāllāā He never managed to finish the threat, a pair of young women having come into sight. Theyād 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.
āYou swine,ā Leslie muttered, annoyed that the women had clearly worked the kind of magic he couldnāt, although grateful that Maxās 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 womenās feet and letting himself be stroked.
āIām so sorry.ā Leslie raised his cap. āHeās such a pest. Oh.ā He paused, breaking into a grin and holding out his hand towards the taller of the women. āI didnāt recognise you, Marianne. How lovely to see you again.ā
Marianne warmly clasped his hand in both of hers. āI thought it was you, Leslie, although this fellow made me think I had to be mistaken. Whereās Towser?ā
āGone to his long home, Iām afraid. Four years ago.ā He turned to the other woman, who was owed an explanation. āHe was my retriever, Miss . . .?ā
āGeraldine Simpson.ā Marianneās friend extended her hand. āSo pleased to meet you. Iāve 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.ā
āShe would.ā Marianne Sibley had always given the outward impression she was fonder of Towser than sheād been of him, although for a while Leslie had suspected that had borne an element of subterfuge. āIām far less interesting than my dogs. Leslie Cadmore, late of this parish and a very old friend of the family Sibley.ā
āYour mother still lives here, I believe?ā 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 friendās calmness in those younger days and how different she was to many of the local young women.
āMother does live here,ā he replied. āIn Larkspur House, where I was born and grew up. Marianne knows the place well. Do you remember the tennis parties?ā
āI do. Towser always had to be tied up, poor lamb, because he wanted to join in. I hope this chap is better behaved.ā Marianne bent to pat Max, who was wearing a saintly expression.
āHeās an absolute scoundrel, although I couldnāt guess how heād conduct himself at a tennis match, as heās never had the opportunity to experience one. Heās a town dog, Miss Simpson, so doesnāt know country manners.ā Strange, though, that Marianne wasnāt aware of what had happened to Maxās predecessor, because Leslie would have expected her and his mother to pass the time of day on occasions. Had the Sibleys also moved awayāhis mother hadnāt mentioned it, if soāor 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. Marianneās expression was no help, her face, as it had been from a child, proving unreadable.
āDid I hear you calling him Max?ā Geraldine asked.
āYes. After a distant cousin who once came to visit Larkspur with his family. Itās proved an apt name.ā
Marianne burst out laughing. āI remember him. He was what my mother would call a spoiled brat. If he was my child, heād have spent more time confined to his room than out of it. Any idea what heās doing now, Leslie?ā
āWorking his way through the ranks at Scotland Yard, believe it or not. Perhaps heās seen the light, or itās a case of poacher turned gamekeeper.ā
āHe 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.ā
āOh, George isnāt that bad. Settling down with Victoria and finding himself articled has bridled any wild tendencies.ā Geraldine cast her friend a sidelong glance that could only be described as sly. āLike Patrick.ā
āHow is your brother, Marianne?ā Leslie had anticipated Patrick would be mentioned sooner or later and was pleased he hadnāt had to raise the topic. Despite being twins, Patrick and Marianne were as different in personalities as any siblings could be. Chalk and cheese didnāt come near it.
āWorking too hard. Throws all of his time into his practice.ā She patted the dogās head. āHeād like you, boy. Prefers his patients with a bit of character.ā
Leslie nodded. Patrick had always liked dogs to be dogs and not pampered lap pets. Heād also appeared to prefer animals to the majority of humans. āYou can trust them,ā heād say, āunlike much of the human species.ā Even as a child, Patrick had seemed to be a veterinarian in the making. Heād no doubt have a successful practice and that wouldnāt 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.
āYouāre right about the hard work. He never seems to be available, thatās certain.ā Geraldineās voice bore a distinct hint of annoyance. āMy mother has invited him to a number of events, but he pleads pressure of time. Sheās rather given him up as a lost cause.ā
āMany people have.ā Marianne tossed her head.
āHeāll settle down one day,ā Leslie said, not sure that he believed that any more than Patrickās sister would do. They both knew him too well. Had known him, in Leslieās case, given how long it was since theyād 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. Sheād said afterwards they were getting too old for such childish things, possibly because sheād 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.
āGive my very best to your mother. I do feel guilty for not having kept in touch with her as I should.ā Marianne fixed her eyes on Max. āLike you, Leslie, I donāt get down here as often as I would like.ā
That provided a partial answer to some of his questions, although moving away from an area didnāt mean she couldnāt send a letter if she really wanted to. Perhaps, like Patrick, Marianne was simply busy. Leslieās mother had told him that she worked as a legal secretary in Winchester, and heād assumedāevidently mistakenlyāthat she travelled there from the Sibley home.
āI will pass on your regards, with pleasure. Are you here for long?ā Leslie added. His mother might be pleased to have Marianne over for tea in order to talk over old times.
āUntil Monday morning, when my nose goes firmly back to the grindstone. Albeit returning to work will make a pleasant escape from Fatherās hunting stories. His enthusiasm hasnāt dimmed over the years.ā Marianne gave the dog a final stroke, then took her friendās arm. āWe must get back. Terrible trouble if we come in late for luncheon.ā
āBlame me and my wretched hound.ā Leslie tipped his cap again. āNice to have met you, Geraldine. Fond regards to your parents, Marianne, and to your scapegrace of a brother.ā
āIāll tell them all that I spoke to you. Although Iād always assumed youād have kept in touch with Patrick.ā Marianne waved her hand airily. āIt shows how mistaken we can be.ā She set off slowly, pausing after a few steps to turn and say, āIt really is lovely to see you again. We shouldnāt have let it be so long. All of us.ā
āIndeed.ā 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 brotherās, bringing to mind the last time Leslie had seen him. At Waterloo station. Walking away and out of Leslieās life.
āWeāre back,ā Leslie called, entering the hall of Larkspur House and letting Max off the lead from which he was clearly anxious to be freed.
āIn the drawing room, dear.ā His motherās voice sounded as sweetly as a womanās 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. āLogistical and extremely boring if crucial to the war effortā was how heād described his work, and that was what his mother had told her friends. He wasnāt convinced she believed the āboringā part, although sheād always kept up the pretence. So, heād remained physically safe, returning to civilian life tired but intact, if a touch emotionally battered.
It was his father, Jerome Cadmore, whoād been torn from her and not by death. Unless finding a vocation and entering a Benedictine monastery could be defined as crossing intoāor having one foot on the doorstep ofāoneās eternal rest. It was marginally better, sheād 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 werenāt so obvious. It had been the third year of the war, so Leslie hadnāt been on hand much to give her support, but sheād coped, as she always did.
āDid you have a nice walk?ā His mother glanced up from her knitting.
āVery, apart from Max exhibiting wanderlust. I ran across Marianne, out taking the air with one of her pals. I didnāt realise she no longer lived here with her parents.ā Leslie flopped down into his favourite chair.
āIām sure I told you. I daresay you werenāt listening at the time.ā She grinned. āHow is she?ā
āNot a jot different from how she was at nineteen. Or indeed nine. I was surprised that you havenāt kept in touch with her.ā
āI see her parents at church. They keep me abreast of all things Sibley. Marianneās doing splendidly at work and has a little flat of her own, now.ā She paused to count her stitches. āThey worry about her living alone, but thatās a cross all parents bear. Which friend was with her?ā
āA girl called Geraldine something-or-other. Simpkins. Simpson. Max was most taken with them both.ā The dog, whoād sprawled himself on the fireside rug, glanced up at the mention of his name. āThank goodness they came along or Iād still have been out on the common, trying to get this wretch back on his lead.ā
āMarianne always had a knack with animals. Her fatherās daughter, every bit, although sheās a better hand with a rod and fly than he is.ā
Leslie chuckled. Mr. Sibley had been continually vexed at the fact. āSheās 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.ā
āDoes it work with men, dear? Is that why some women appear to be irresistible?ā She held her handiwork up to the light, nodding approvingly at it before resuming knitting. āAlthough in Marianneās instance, Iād say itās likely a case of her not rising to the male fly. Not yet, anyway.ā
Leslie wasnāt sure she ever would. Not every mare had a hankering for the stallion.
āShould we invite her and her friend to tea today?ā 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? āIām sure that young Edwin would take an invitation across, on his bicycle. Would sixpence be over-generous as payment?ā
āI couldnāt say, not having a housekeeperās son to run errands for me and so being oblivious to the going rate.ā It wasnāt 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. Leslieās 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.
āBut should I invite her? I noticed that expression of disdain at the suggestion, dear.ā How his mother could have seen any expression on Leslieās face, given the way her eyes were fixed on her knitting needles, was a mystery of the arcane maternal arts.
āI wasnāt aware of feeling disdain. Perhaps it was indigestion. Invite her by all means. Itās not like sheāll have that rogue of a brother with her, to drop a teacup or trip over the rug.ā Leslie wasnāt sure why heād 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 sheād aired on many an occasion over the years, and one that had subtly featured Leslie as a possible candidate for the womanās affections, although not so often recently. Could this be her idea of reviving a notion that was always doomed to fail?
āPatrick was certainly the clumsiest child I ever met. He must have grown out of it, or else heād not have anyone bringing their animals to him. With the exception of women of my age who should know better.ā There was very little that escaped the notice of Leslieās mother, despite the fact that she didnāt do much socially anymore, outside of the church or the local causes she supported. āIs he staying with his parents too?ā
āNot that Iām aware of, although to be honest I didnāt ask Marianne the question.ā Nor had she offered the information. āI donāt think he works locally.ā
āHeās based in Surrey, I believe. Near Epsom, so he can work with horses as well as his beloved dogs. Iād have thought youād have known that.ā That remark was evidently worthy of a direct glance, over the top of her spectacles.
āI havenāt spoken to Patrick in years. Same as Iāve not spoken to Marianne.ā Leslie shrugged. āYou know what itās like. People knock around together and are great pals, then they go off in different directions and suddenly find theyāve not spoken in ages. And the longer it goes on, the harder it is to get out oneās 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.ā
It wasnāt 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.
āThen perhaps a chat over a pot of tea and a scone is exactly whatās called for. Iāll compose a note to Marianne. Was the friend called Geraldine? I shall invite her too.ā
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 matchās 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 Leslieās 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 couldnāt be broken. Leslie should use the next few hours preparing himself to be a welcoming host, which was longer than heād 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, heād turned up pieces of pottery in the local mole hills, pieces that his father had assured him were Roman. Heād 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 heād developed further in the running of his business, gently planting ideas in other peopleās heads when it would prove useful, such as the time heād employed a young man only to find him unsuited to his role. Via a couple of seemingly innocuous conversations, focussed on the young manās ambitions and happiness, theyād soon reached the point where heād decided heād made the wrong choice and would be joining a local brewing company. Leslie grinned in remembrance of the tale.
Heād reached the Larkspur orchardāif half a dozen apple trees and a similar number of both plums and pears could be given that titleāwhich was the place where heād 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. Todayās 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 wouldnāt be unpleasant to finish his cigarette there, coat wrapped around him.
The bench seemed to fit his shape. When younger, heād 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 heād assumed back then that he could easily put the war years and all theyād brought behind him, to return as quickly as possible to his previous life, only to find that the time heād spent in that place couldnāt be unspent. It would always be part of him.
Be grateful you made it through in one pieceāthousands of men and women would have given their right arm to be home for another spring. Some of them did.
It could have been Patrickās voice in his ear, saying those words, rather than the voice of conscience, but he hadnāt spoken to Patrick in ages and couldnāt 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 theyād played so often as young children and later as boys on the cusp of manhood. The mentions of Patrick that morning rang accusatorially in Leslieās ears. How the hell could they have let so much time pass without making contact?
Because youāre a coward. One who didnāt 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. āDo you really love me, Patrick, as I really love you, despite everything?ā 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 heād 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 neighbourāor your familyāif you didnāt have to live with them.
But if that hadnāt 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 couldnāt shake from his mind the great scandal of 1938, when thereād 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, heād snapped and nearly killed his wife. Surely that sudden outburst of violence could never have happened with Leslieās parents?
There had only been one instance when Mr. Cadmore had shown real aggression, and that had been when on a holiday. Heād killed what had appeared to be an otter with a heavy blow to the skull, much to young Leslieās horror. It had turned out to be an escapee from a localāillegalāmink farm, about which Mr. Cadmore had been warned.
āEvil creatures, Leslie. Best to get rid of them quickly, before they can cause any harm.ā 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 Leslieās mother. Yet Mr. Cadmore could be so soft heād wept at a sermon about the massacre of the innocents.
On the way home heād explained his distress. āIf itās trueāand you take all these Bible stories with a pinch of salt because men wrote them downāthen itās beyond wicked.ā
Heād always shown a similar desire to protect his family from harm. Until, of course, heād broken their hearts by his act of retreat into the life of the cloister. That decision had been so out of characterāassuming 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? Heād left no clue behind when heād made his abrupt departure, his final note to them, Iāve left you well provided for money-wise. I canāt let you suffer, ringing hollow. Emotional anguish was as hard to bear as financial.
If Leslie was unclear about his fatherās 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 gardenāas well as the knowledge that nobody could hearābringing him courage.
Did you murder Fergus Jackson? And how the hell did you pull it off?
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, sheād tell you it was her amazing family and friends. Support is vital in all things and when youāre afraid of your dreams, it will be your cheering section that will lift you up.
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 isnāt 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.
If you want to contact Jordan, just click on the links below or send an email.
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. Sheās a member of both the Romantic Novelistsā 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 isnāt 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.
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 isnāt 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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Davidson King
EMAIL: davidsonkingauthor@yahoo.com
Jordan L Hawk
Charlie Cochrane
Charlie Cochet
EMAIL: charlie@charliecochet.com
Rattling Bone by Jordan L Hawk
And Nothing But the Truth by Charlie Cochrane
Gone But Not Forgotten by Charlie Cochet
The Deadliest Fall by Charlie Cochrane