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Anne K. Edwards loves to read and it was reading that led her into trying to write. It took many years before she achieved publication, but she feels it was worth the wait. She is currently working on several other projects including a new mystery. Her just released book, Shadows Over Paradise, is a suspense with a female protagonist. It may be purchased at Barnes and Noble’s stores, and ordered online from them as well and Amazon, the publisher http://www.twilighttimesbooks.com and several other online bookstores.

Why don’t you start by telling us a bit about your latest book, and what inspired you to write it?

Shadows Over Paradise came into being because I wanted to tell a story about a woman in danger who did not depend entirely on a hero to save her. She could stand on her own two feet and not fall apart when faced with danger. In other words, I wanted to avoid the stereotyped heroine who, when faced with danger, runs screaming through the woods in high heels. Doesn’t she have the sense not to wear heels in the woods or to take them off and not to scream so the villains or monsters will surely catch her?

How would you describe your creative process while writing this book? Was it stream-of-consciousness writing, or did you first write an outline?

My creative process is what I’d call a mish-mash. I write in spurts and back edit as I go. I don’t use outlines of any sort as I love to be surprised as the story unwinds. I never know what might happen next. The characters decide that. After about the second chapter of a book, they come alive for me and then I get to know them. The only thing I know for sure is the book will have a certain ending, but getting there is all the fun. I wouldn’t call it stream of consciousness writing as I write a bit, then go back and look for trouble spots while ideas or actions are percolating for the next part I write. I tend to see the scenes as I write, like a movie in my head.

How long did it take you to write the book?

On the whole it took about 4 years. The problem is the same now as then, not enough hours in the day.

Have you ever suffered from writer’s block?

I wouldn’t call it writin’s block in my case. Sometimes I get distracted and end up doing something else or I simply take a day or week or month off because I run out of steam. (This means my brain gets lazy.)

What seems to work for unleashing your creativity?

Don’t laugh too loudly, but I get my best solutions or new scenes when I’m shoveling out a stall. I have no idea what the connection is.

How was your experience in looking for a publisher? What words of advice would you offer those novice authors who are in search of one?

Looking for a publisher can be very discouraging. I had that happen several times before I went with a publisher that offered me a contract after they’d the manuscript for only afew days. I don’t know whether they know that discouraged writers are a good bet to sign or not, but I did. That error in judgement or plain stupidity on my part taught me a lot. It took seven years before I got the rights back, and the book has been republished with a real publisher. Lesson–don’t jump into that first contract without thinking about it and asking questions. It will save you a lot of time and aggravation. The trick is that publisher sold authors copies of their books for almost the same price they sold to the public. The money they make is from authors buying their books to resell. But, I am not placing the blame on that publisher. I was ignorant of how to find a publisher, I knew none of the rules of the road to getting published online. I wish I had taken the time to ask questions of other authors. That is the key to finding a publisher that will suit you best. Ask questions. Don’t sign without doing so.

What type of book promotion seems to work the best for you? Share with us some writing tips!

I guess the usual reviews and interviews. I’ve tried book signings, but I live in an area where unknown authors just don’t make out well at them, even when they’re well publicized events. Ads, press releases are also good to start with. Building myself a name as a reviewer, having a newsletter that is about other authors and a website that offers visitors more than repetitious news about myself seems to help also.

What authors or type of books do you read for fun?

I read mysteries, biographies, history for fun. Enjoy a good funny tale also.

Do you think a critique group is essential for a writer?

I don’t know if they are essential, but they certainly do help. Those readers find errors an author misses. That alone is a great teaching tool. You also critique their work in turn and that, too, is a way to learn from others who write better than you do.

Do you have a website/blog where readers may learn more about you and your work?

My website http://www.Mysteryfiction.net is more about other authors than myself.

Do you have another novel on the works? Would you like to tell readers about your current or future projects?

I have a new mystery novel underway. It deals with a family conflict and how the people concerned resolve it. Hannah Clare who made her debut in Death on Delivery will work on the case. I have some new kids stories under way also. One is the second in a series of Jeremy and the Dragon. I’ll be working with Author Mayra Calvani on presenting a course a tthe October Muse Online Conference also.

Is there anything else you’d like to tell my readers?

Visit my webiste above and read copies of Voice in the Dark ezine. The interviews and articles offer lots of helpful information. Also, visit Twilight Times Books for some good reading.

Many thanks, Mayra, for the opportunity to talk to your readers.

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Shadows over Paradise
By: Anne K. Edwards
Twilight Times Books
Print/Ebook
Copyright 2010
ISBN-13: 9781606191354
Mystery/Suspense

Author’s website: www.MysteryFiction.net
Purchase from Barnes and Noble: http://search.barnesandnoble.com/booksearch/isbninquiry.asp?isbn=1606191357

After receiving an unexpected wedding invitation from an old college girlfriend, aspiring novelist Julia Graye flies to the exotic Mantuan Islands to attend the celebration. Not having seen nor heard from her friend Samantha for the last six years, Julia finds the request somewhat odd. Yet she’s soon captivated by the idea of visiting this part of the world which she’s heard so much about. Maybe the place will even inspire her and give her an idea for a novel.

However, as soon as she steps foot in Orinda, the capital, an atmosphere of mystery and dread begins to darken her enthusiasm. On the boat ride to Tiboo, the little volcanic island where Samantha actually lives and where Julia will be staying for the next few days, the Captain warns her about bad times and political restlessness and advises her to turn back. Turn back, after such a long trip? She’s just got here. She’ll only be here a few days to attend a friend’s wedding. What possible harm could come to her?

That night she finally meets Samantha again, as well as Samantha’s petulant brother and cold mother. An air of intrigue, lies and secrets seem to veil this old family. Then the next day, to Julia’s utter shock, she discovers a dead body on the beach, a body which turns out to be none other than Samantha’s groom-to-be Ramon. The police declare it a murder. Family members and relatives become suspects; everybody appears to be hiding something. Moreover, Julia can’t shake off the feeling that she’s been followed, that someone’s been tracking her movements. But who and why?

After several suspicious incidents it becomes clear someone wants Julia dead, but what possible threat could a harmless aspiring novelist pose to anyone? As she’s caught in the vortex and forced to fight for her life, her actions will have an impact on the political future of the entire island.

This book impelled me to read late into the night. I simply couldn’t put it down. Anne K. Edwards has created a twister of deception and mystery that kept me guessing for the culprits. The climax gripped me and left me breathless all the way to the fully satisfying ending. The exotic setting, polished narration, tight plot and strong atmosphere of menace make this story a must read for lovers of the genre. Being a fan of this very talented author, I impatiently look forward to reading more of her works.

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My name’s Joe Davis. I run a small detective agency that handles the usual type of case found in a small town like Meadeville. Runaway mates and divorce cases our specialty. Occasionally, we get a case with more hair on it, but never anything like the one that just wandered in off the street one day.
It was a typical July afternoon when even the sidewalks were sweating. I sat in front of an open window with a small fan blowing on my face as I leaned my back against the desk with my feet on the sill. The copy of Playboy I’d been lusting at slid off my lap when the door to my inner office opened.
I jumped up and got into my desk chair and tried to look busy. The hair on my neck and arms rose as if an electrostatic charge had passed over me as I sat. I glanced up. I never should’ve done that.
A character dressed in a black robe was blocking the doorway. His face was lost in the folds of an overlapping hood.
“Come in,” I said. Never should’ve done that either.
The guy–well, he wasn’t a guy… Couldn’t tell what it was. He just stood there.
“You are Joseph Daniel Davis?” His voice was deep with gravel in it.
“Yeh. What do you want?” I didn’t like the get up. “It ain’t Halloween,” I said. Made me hotter just looking at him and besides, he give me the creeps.
“You find people?”
I didn’t like twenty questions with the door open. “Close the door and we’ll discuss it,” I said.
You can imagine my shock when he turned to close the door. A huge, long-handled scythe with the blade pointing back rested on his shoulder.
Death!
I blinked and shook my head. Couldn’t be. Some stupid prank.
I pulled my pistol from the side desk drawer where I keep it and pointed it at him just in case.
He set the scythe against the wall with a large crack in the plaster and approached my desk. Then he pushed his hood back so I could see his face. I wished he hadn’t done that. He didn’t have a face!
I froze in my chair. My pistol fell onto the desk. I had trouble breathing. Death heads do that to me.
He loomed over my old wooden desk so I had to look up at him. A skull doesn’t have any expression but I swear those empty eye sockets could see me.
I couldn’t even shudder.
“What do you want?” I did manage to croak.
He pointed across the desk at me with a fingerbone that poked out of his sleeve.
“You can stop being afraid,” he said. His jaw moved, but I didn’t see how he could form any words. His voice sounded like rocks rolling around in a tin can.
How was it I could understand him?
I tried to breathe again. I stammered, repeating, “What–what do you want?” I still couldn’t move.
“I’m not here for you,” he rattled. “I want to hire you.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” I forced the question out. “Did my ex-wife send you?” I didn’t really believe this was happening. He wasn’t real. Somehow I was being had. And I thought my vicious ex was the most likely to set me up.
“I’m not a joke,” he rattled again. “I want you to find someone.”
“How do I know you’re real?” I asked. “I don’t think death has a physical form.”
“You require proof. Very well.” He touched the pot of the only other live thing in the office, an african violet my last secretary gave me. Its meaty leaves shriveled as the lavender blossoms turned brown.
Then he turned back to me. “Do you believe now?”
I was forced to, wasn’t I? “Yes.”
“Fine. Shall we continue?” he asked.
I closed my eyes. Ah…I could move my eyelids.
As if he knew what I was thinking, my visitor said, “You can move if you want. Fear paralyzed you. Not me.”
I tried to move. I could. A little. My brain began to function, too. Well, sort of. I realized if he was Death and had come for me, I’d be gone. So maybe he was telling the truth about not coming for me. And maybe I was going to buy the Brooklyn Bridge. A guy in his line of work probably said anything he had to, to get the job done. I mean, he was one of those Four Horsemen.
“Okay, who is it you want found? And I gotta know why. For the records.” I tried not to let him see I thought I found a way to get rid of him. “And I don’t do nothing illegal.” Meanwhile, I’d try to think of how to send him on his way–without me.
He straightened and moved back from the desk a few inches. “I want you to find Calvin Desmond James. It’s his time.”
That threw me for a loop. His time? “You want me to find some guy so you can take him?”
The skull nodded.
I started to shake my head when the weirdness of the situation hit me. I laughed.
He never moved.
I started to feel uneasy. “I can’t do that. I can’t be no party to no killing.”
“You wouldn’t kill him.” Death said. “I will. He’s going to be thrown from his motorcycle and I have to be there.”
“Why do you need me?” I tried to figure this out.
“We don’t know where he is.”
Well, there went any theory I might have had. Death couldn’t find somebody? I didn’t believe that.
He read my thoughts again. “We need him.”
“Who is he that he’s so important? Why don’t you just go on to your next vic–er the next person on your list?” My body suddenly went limp. I was free. I could move so I did. I slid my chair back against the wall as far from him as I could get.
“Several years ago they hired him to program our computers–we didn’t know how–and when he was done, he said his work was guaranteed and if we had any problems to come get him. We found a problem and now we need him.”
“What’s the problem? I know several geeks who could probably fix it.”
Death shook his head. “Mr. James left his name off our list.”
“Just one guy. Why not forget him and go on to the next one?”
“He’s not allowed to live forever. He’s eighty-three now and it’s his time.”
This was really getting strange. “So because he’s old now, you gotta take him? How did you know about him at all if he’s not on your list?”
“We share data. The birth records have to match the death records. If we let him go, it becomes a bookkeeping nightmare. Always short one in the accounts closed column.” He leaned over the desk again. “That would never do.”
Death works for a bunch of bookkeepers?
“How do you know when he’s supposed to go, if he’s not in your records?” I asked. I couldn’t figure out how they could know the time a guy was supposed to go and not know where he was. Didn’t make any sense.
“The time of passing is included at birth. Each person has an allotted time. No more. Each one is different.”
“Don’t you keep track of him while he’s here?”
Death shook his head. “That’s the Life Department and they have trouble keeping their data up to date since the invention of the automobile.”
I kept quiet for a minute. Let him think I was considering taking the job. Okay. One thing sure to drive him away.
“You’ll have to sign a contract,” I told him. “It’s a standard form. I don’t take any job without a contract. I have to protect my license and, in case you don’t pay,” I figured I had him here. Death wouldn’t be carrying cash or have a credit card, “I have proof you hired me if we gotta go to court.”
No response. Nothing. Several seconds passed and then he nodded. The hood fell over his skull again.
“I’ll sign the contract,” Death said in that rolling-rock voice of his.
How could he? For a few moments I didn’t know what to do. He’d called my bluff. So I took it one step farther. “I require five hundred bucks up front for two days and expenses. I refund anything not spent and you get a copy of the expense sheet. A bill, if it takes longer than two days.”
He nodded again. The skeleton of a complete hand came out of the sleeve this time with five one-hundreds in it. He lay them on the desk.
I opened the center desk drawer and took out a contract and pen. While I had it open, I put the pistol back, then pushed the form over to him. He appeared to stare at the form for a bit and then one word appeared on the line where the client signs.
Death.
I sagged in my chair. I had Death as a client. I was stuck. I figured if I tried to weasel out now, he’d take me for spite. Besides, I needed the money.
So, okay. I had a new client. He wanted a man found. I took a deep breath and found my backbone. Yeh, I know. Bad pun.
“Do you want to know what Mr. James looks like?” Death asked.
I shook my head. “Nope. Just tell me how you got in touch with him the first time.”
He appeared to ruminate over the facts. “We ran an advertisement in the help-wanted section of the local newspaper.”
Huh?
“And he answered it?” I asked.
Death nodded, his hood fluttering in a breeze the came in my window.
I looked at the sky. A storm was coming in. There’d be lots of noise in those clouds. They were black as sin, black as Death’s robe. I’d have to close the window and then I’d roast. The landlord hadn ‘t installed the new air conditioner yet.
“How long will it take you to find him?” Death asked, interrupting my train of self-pity.
I looked at him. Well, best get it over with. “Not long,” I told him.
I pulled the cover off the computer and turned it on. I seldom used it, not being a techno-geek. It sat on a little stand in a shadowy corner out of the way. It always took a while to warm up. After a prolonged period of coffee-grinder sounds and grunts like a contented pig, the screen lit up. I clicked on the logo for my server and waited for the connection.
No, I didn’t have the speedy service. Cost too much. I only used the machine to play games and visit a few adult sites. Yeh, I know. I had too much free time. My ex-wife says the same thing. I need to get a better job…
Finally, the server answered and I was on. I brought up the search engine I favored and clicked on the name find logo. When the screen came up, I typed in Calvin Desmond James, clicked and waited.
Death seemed taller now. His hood faced the monitor. I swear his bones rattled with excitement.
A screen came up, notifying me of sixty-six Calvin Desmond James in the country.
“I’ll need Mr. James’ last known address,” I told Death as I started looking for an eighty-three year old man. The name find service I subscribed to included age, occupation, address, criminal record, date of birth, phone number, and other information.
“He never gave it to us.”
I raised my head to look at him. “How did you pay him? Didn’t he send you a bill?”
The hood moved in a negative fashion. “He was paid just as you have been.”
Great. So now I had to check all the names.
I scrolled down slowly, discounting the first fifteen. On the sixteenth, I sensed that static electrical charge again.
Death pointed at the screen. “That’s him. He’s eighty-three.”
“There might be more than one. Let me finish checking before you go rushing off and maybe get the wrong guy,” I objected. Much as I wanted him gone, I had to be sure.
He seemed to be fidgeting with his robe, but he waited. I noticed though that he moved closer to the door and his scythe.
I rolled through the rest of the list and found no more of a matching age. I scrolled back up to the sixteenth name. “That’s him,” I said. And felt sad for the guy who thought he’d fixed it so he’d live forever. But bookkeepers are a persistent bunch. They’ll spend hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars to find a missing penny so I guess Death is one of them.
Death opened the door and turned to me. “If we ever need to find anyone else, I’ll be back.” He vanished.
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
Fini??

Copyright 2009. This story may not be copied or reprinted without permission from the author. Previosuly published in New Mystery Reader.

About the author:

Anne K. Edwards enjoys writing mysteries, but dabbles in children’s stories and other genre. She reviews for some publicists and web zines and is co-editor of Voice in the Dark ezine. She is a member of Pennwriters and Books We Love. She does an occasional editing job and loves to read. Her website is http://www.Mysteryfiction.net.

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Anne K. Edwards gets interviewed on Advice Radio on the slippery subject of book reviewing. Listen slippery_smallto the live interview here.

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lasttofall_med.jpg

The Book:

Have you ever thought what the world might be like if the present-day vices of society are allowed to continue to run rampant? That is the subject of The Last To Fall, a look at the legacy we leave our children. Civilization as we know it has fallen and the United States has been broken into a series of dictatorships, each with its own army. Death and disease, poverty and starvation, walk hand in hand with greed and madness. Three teenagers seeking a safe haven are caught up in a commune’s battle for survival against the armed might of a power mad resident and his henchmen.

The Author:

Anne K. Edwards enjoys writing in various genres and experimenting with new ideas for stories. She likes writing mystery novels, children’s stories about the misadventures of a dragon named Elvis and the little boy named Jeremy who outwits him. Anne also writes short stories about Death and the Detective that are published occasionally in an online mystery ezine. She’s editor of The Voice in the Dark ezine. Visit her website.

The Excerpt:

Jeanne Foster brushed a weary hand over her stinging eyes. It was impossible to see anything through the hanging mist that mixed with the smoke of burning buildings. What streetlights there were cast shapeless, bluish blobs of light. Buildings appeared as shapeless blackened ruins in the yellowed haze.

Worried, she studied Lester as he sagged against a grungy brick wall for support. It seemed hours since they’d started for the hospital, and their goal was no closer. He sank to the sidewalk coughing, a nerve-shattering sound in the predawn silence.

His thin body shuddered as he tried to draw the polluted air into his damaged lungs. “Jeanne, get help,” he gasped.

She felt a rising hopelessness. “But nothin’s open.”

“Get someone,” he begged as a new spasm seized him. His bloodshot hazel eyes pleaded with her. “Please.”

“I’ll try.” Unhappily, she moved away. The swirling yellow murk immediately engulfed his skinny body as he sprawled on the walk.

Turning her head in an effort to keep him in sight, she collided painfully with a public phone stand that loomed out of the mist. Rubbing her bruised shoulder, she shoved the lowered plastic privacy shield up into its groove and fumbled in the change slot seeking a stray coin. Nothing! The box was greasy and smelled of souring humanity. The line was dead. Just like all the others.

“Damn–” She set her jaw and fought against the pressing tears of frustration.

The choking stink of fire thickened. Her eyes watered as she blinked rapidly, squinting to see what lay ahead. She’d never traveled alone through northwest Washington, D.C. and had no idea where she was. Through an unexpected break in the fog, she spotted the blurry shape of a blue and white police vehicle moving slowly along the street. Running toward it, she shouted for help.

* * *
Officer Delon Stimm heard a girl yelling and swung his vehicle to the curb. He and his massive partner, John Kersey, got out. They kept their hands on their weapons, poised for trouble.

“What’s wrong?” Delon asked the slim, brown-haired girl who came out of the fog like a ghost.

“I need help. My friend’s sick,” she spoke in a voice shrill with urgency.

“Jojo?” He bent to look into her frightened brown eyes. It was the latest illegal drug to take over the younger generation.

“No! He can’t breathe.” She covered her face with her hands and began to cry.

“Where is he?” he asked with a sigh. The morning was to be a continuance of the night before–nothing was going right.

“About a block from here. That way.” Impatiently, she pointed, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “Please hurry.”

The fog closed in again.

“Get in.” He held the door for her. These kids… He shook his head. They get garbaged up and then cry for help.

Was that what the crumbling society he served did to its children? So many walked the streets looking for something solid to believe in and found nothing. So they turned to jojo and each other. It did not bode well for the future of the country. What future there was, he thought.

He exchanged knowing glances with John. Kids had to learn the hard way. In the rear view mirror, he saw the girl huddle into herself, shivering as she searched the street for her friend.

They found him where she’d left him, a convulsed heap of long blond hair and old blue denims. One of his sandals had fallen off.

“Lester, they’ll take you to the hospital,” she told the boy, bending to touch his shoulder.

Delon could tell by the way Lester tried to push himself up, the police were the last people he wanted.

In spite of his protests, John and Delon carried him to the car. Skinny kid. Not any bigger than the girl. Wonder when he ate last. They placed him on the back seat, his head on the girl’s lap. “Looks like bad stuff to me,” Delon muttered.

“I told you, he’s not on anything,” she said fiercely through renewed tears. “It’s his lungs. He’s got emphysema or asthma.”

“Could be.” John Kersey started the car. “Could be. The air’s rotten. All that smoke… Don’t know why anyone would start fires now. My nose burns all the time from this polluted rot we call air.” He grunted as he turned the car around.

Delon nodded in agreement. As soon as the sun rose above the haze enveloping the city, the smoke would mix with heated humidity, making the air almost too thick to breathe. His sweat-soaked, light blue uniform shirt was already clinging to his spine against the plastic seat covers. Everything smelled of smoke. He shuddered involuntarily.

This wasn’t the first trip they’d made before daybreak to The Old University Hospital, nor would it be the last.

“The hospital isn’t going to like this,” he mumbled over the boy’s wheezing gasps. He hoped they didn’t run into any of the roving military groups searching for looters or streeters. He’d have to turn these children over to them.

John caught his meaning. “We’re becoming an ambulance service,” he said as he steered the car into the emergency entrance, passing the remains of the sign that bore the once-proud name of Georgetown University. Peering through the rounded swaths the wipers made on the windshield, he said, “Going to be an ugly day. Sun isn’t going to break through this muck.”

* * *
White-coated attendants wheeled out a squealing gurney to meet the cruiser. Jeanne waited impatiently as the dark-skinned officer opened the rear door so she could stretch her legs to get rid of the cramps caused by holding Lester’s head in the confined space.

Sniffing at the stale odor of heavy pine-scented cleanser used to cover hospital odors, she reluctantly followed them into a dim, green-walled corridor.

Officer Stimm drew her to a battered counter set to the left of the scratched glass doors.

Twisting a lock of her long brown hair, she watched sadly as the guerney carrying Lester’s twitching body disappeared through double steel doors on the right.

A round-faced clerk with green-tinted hair and discontented mouth handed Jeanne a sheaf of forms and a pen. “Are you a member of his family?” she queried, eying Jeanne suspiciously.

Jeanne shook her head.

“Where have you been living?” the officer asked, his teeth flashing white against his dark skin.

“Two thousand two Connecticut Avenue in Northwest,” she mumbled, twisting the hair over her left eye. The old hotel, once an uptown address, had long ago been condemned. It was home to dozens of young streeter couples like herself and Lester. She’d miss it, but without Lester, she didn’t belong.

“I see,” he said flatly. “One of those old places beyond DuPont Circle. Not a safe neighborhood for a girl.”

She didn’t answer.

“Do you know his family or where he’s from?” he prodded.

She shook her head, avoiding his kind brown eyes. His unspoken sympathy would only increase her need to cry. She had no idea who his people were so she focused on the forms, placing them on the counter. “I can’t fill these out.”

“They have to be filled in,” the clerk tapped her chewed pencil on the counter.

“I can’t. I don’t know if he’s allergic to things. I don’t know if he’s been sick before.” Jeanne’s temper edged into her tone.

“Does he have hospitalization?” The girl flashed Jeanne a quick look.

“He never told me,” Jeanne snapped. Most people didn’t have it.

“Does he have a bank account?” The clerk reddened, scrawling angry notations on a pink form.

“No. He’s unemployed.” Jeanne turned away.

The girl chewed her fleshy lower lip in silence. “I see,” she said after a pause and picked up the telephone. She toyed with a pulled thread in her blue knit top. Something red stained the shoulder.

“Will they take care of him?” Jeanne asked, pulling on her own clothes to straighten them. It had been so long since she’d fussed over her looks, she rarely thought about it. All she had was what she wore, jeans and a faded blue blouse.

“Yes. Now, can you answer a few questions about yourself?” the policeman asked in a kind voice. “Do you have a family?”

She shook her head again. No sense in getting her mom involved. She’d only say she didn’t know where she failed, her excuse for everything that happened in her life. Jeanne didn’t want any more of those horrible crying scenes with the well-remembered recriminations. The recollection of the hurt they caused each other nudged her conscience.

“Do you have anyone at all?” he persisted. He guided her to some chairs with patched red-cloth seats along the wall.

“No, nobody.” She took the one nearest the exit sign. The fabric was unraveling and it wobbled when she shifted her weight.

“How old are you?” He sat next to her, putting his hat on his lap.

“Twenty. I left home last spring after papa died.” Tears pressed in her throat. In some ways Lester had reminded her of her dad. Now he was gone again.

She straightened her shoulders and looked at the policeman. Knowing he would want proof of her age, she handed him a driver’s license she’d found on the street. The plastic coating had cracked and water had distorted the features in the picture, but it looked a little like her.

“This is expired.” He handed it back, his expression reflecting his belief the photo wasn’t her.

Jeanne shrugged. “Don’t have a car anyhow.” She shoved her hair back from her face with shaking fingers. She clamped her lips shut. The license said she was twenty, but she felt more like a hundred.

He studied her intently. “We’re just trying to help. You kids come here looking for God only knows what. I see it every day. You get hooked on jojo or sick like your friend.”

She remained silent. The police always knew all the answers.

The officer stood. “If you have a family, go home and make up. This way doesn’t work.” He peered down at her, adding, “Wait here. I have other questions for you, but I want to check on your friend.” He put on his black hat, pushing it back, and walked away.

Jeanne eavesdropped as he spoke to the nurse who chewed the end of a pencil. She wanted Lester to be all right, but doubted he would be. He’d been spitting up blood this time. Fear formed a knot in her chest.

“How is he? Good news might help me get the truth out of her.” He nodded toward Jeanne who read concern in his gaze.

The nurse took her pencil out of her mouth. “You know University takes no public cases now that our federal funding has been cut off. The new owners are very specific about accepting only paying patients. The boy was been sent directly to Cartersea in Northeast with a few others. He was on oxygen when they left.”

“Thanks.” Officer Stimm turned to John Kersey, who stood near the unplugged coffee machine. “I guess that’s better than nothing. We’d better get the signatures on these new service cards to show how we spent the last hour. I miss the old days when all we did was patrol through our shift. This new paperwork is a pain.” He sounded tired.

The waiting gave Jeanne the jitters. If I stick around, I’ll get sent to the juvenile center. And they’ll get word to Mom. She felt the tears pressing again. I don’t wanna go home. It’s always the same thing.

She’d lost count of the times she’d been returned only to run away again. The burden of guilt her mother shifted onto her for her troubles was too much to face any more. The thought of it impelled Jeanne to her feet as the two officers were distracted by the nurse inquiring about the identity of another patient they’d brought in earlier. Catlike, she moved to the door to make her escape. Lester didn’t need her now.

He’d probably never leave the hospital or, if he did live, they’d send him to one of those detainment camps where people without permanent addresses were held. She shuddered. Much as she didn’t want to go home, she didn’t want to wind up in one of the horrible camps she’d heard about. Even if the rumors or torture and death weren’t true, the people were still prisoners.

Sadly, Jeanne accepted that she’d never see Lester again. The best thing to do was get away from D.C.

She headed into the thickening mist where she felt secure from curious eyes, but as dawn broke, the smoky tendrils began to lift and thin. Another ugly day in an ugly city.

Purchase the ebook from Twilight Times Books.

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Are you passionate about books? Do you have the desire to share your thoughts about a book with readers, yet are unsure about what makes a good review? Are you curious about the influence reviews have on readers, booksellers, and librarians?

If you’re a beginner, The Slippery Art of Book Reviewing will show you how to write a well-written, honest, objective and professional book review. But that’s not all. This book will also teach you:

How to read critically
How to differentiate the various types of reviews
How to rate books
How to prevent amateurish mistakes
How to deal with the ethics and legalities of reviews
How to tell the difference between a review, a book report, and a critique
How to start your own review site
How to publish your reviews on dozens of sites and even make money while you’re at it, and much more

If you’re an author, publisher, publicist, bookseller, librarian, or reader, this book will also bring to light the importance and influence of book reviews within a wider spectrum. If you’re an experienced reviewer, you’ll enjoy the insights by experts in the field and the extensive resource section.

The Slippery Art of Book Reviewing
by Mayra Calvani & Anne K. Edwards
Twilight Times Books
Trade Paperback/Ebook
188 pages
RELEASE DATE: June 15th, 2008
ARCs available for review, please contact the publisher, Lida Quillen, at publisher@twilighttimesbooks.com

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