Blog Tour! Third to Die by Allison Brennan

New York Times bestselling author and gifted storyteller Allison Brennan's new standalone thriller features a troubled female police detective and an ambitious FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a ticking-clock investigation into a diabolical serial killer.

Brennan's novel will launch a book-a-year series featuring a fabulous cast of recurring characters. It’s the story of a troubled female police detective and an ambitious FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a ticking-clock investigation into a diabolical serial killer; and the bond they forge in this crucible sets the stage for the future books in the series.

Detective Kara Quinn is visiting her hometown of Liberty Lake, Washington, after being placed on administrative leave by the LAPD, when she comes upon the mutilated body of a young nurse during an early morning jog. The manner of death is clearly ritualistic; she calls it in. Meanwhile back in DC, special agent in charge Mattias Costa is meticulously staffing his newly-minted Mobile Response Team. One of his first recruits is the brilliant FBI forensic psychologist Catherine Jones. When word reaches Matt that the Washington state murder appears to be the work of the Triple Killer--it will be the first case for the MRT. Jones has done the only profile on this serial killer, but she is reluctant to join the unit, still shaken by the death of her sister a year ago under circumstances for which she holds herself responsible. But only she holds the key to understanding the killer's obsessive pattern--three murder victims, three deep slashes a piece, each three days apart, each series beginning on a March 3rd--3/3, then a three-year hiatus before he strikes again.

This time they have a chance to stop him before he claims another victim strikes, but only if they can figure out who he is and where is is hiding.

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Ready to hear more about this thrilling and nail-biting book? Read on for an excerpt.

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Wednesday, March 3

Liberty Lake, Washington

12:09 a.m.

Warm blood covered him.

His arms, up to his elbows, were slick with it. His clothing splattered with it. The knife—the blade that had taken his retribution—hung in his gloved hand by his side.

It was good. Very good.

He was almost done.

The killer stared at the blackness in front of him, his mind as silent and dark as the night. The water lapped gently at the banks of the lake. A faint swish swish swish as it rolled up and back, up and back, in the lightest of breezes.

He breathed in cold air; he exhaled steam.

Calm. Focused.

As the sounds and chill penetrated his subconscious, he moved into action. Staying here with the body would be foolish, even in the middle of the night.

He placed the knife carefully on a waist-high boulder, then removed his clothes. Jacket. Sweater. Undershirt. He stuffed them into a plastic bag. Took off his shoes. Socks. Pants. Boxers. Added them to the bag. He stood naked except for his gloves.

He tied the top of the plastic, then picked up the knife again and stabbed the bag multiple times. With strength that belied his lean frame, he threw the knife into the water. He couldn’t see where it fell; he barely heard the plunk.

Then he placed the bag in the lake and pushed it under, holding it beneath the surface to let the frigid water seep in. When the bag was saturated, he pulled it out and spun himself around as if he were throwing a shot put. He let go and the bag flew, hitting the water with a loud splash.

Even if the police found it—which he doubted they would— the water would destroy any evidence. He’d bought the clothes and shoes, even his underwear, at a discount store in another city, at another time. He’d never worn them before tonight.

Though he didn’t want DNA evidence in the system, it didn’t scare him if the police found something. He didn’t have a record. He’d killed before, many times, and not one person had spoken to him. He was smart—smarter than the cops, and certainly smarter than the victims he’d carefully selected.

Still, he must be cautious. Meticulous. Being smart meant that he couldn’t assume anything. What did his old man use to say?

Assume makes an ass out of you and me…

The killer scowled. He wasn’t doing any of this for his old man, though his father would get the retribution he deserved. He was doing this for himself. His own retribution. He was this close to finishing the elaborate plan he’d conceived years ago.

He could scarcely wait until six days from now, March 9, when his revenge would be complete.

He was saving the guiltiest of them for last.

Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased. Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told him these people were fools?

Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased. Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told him these people were fools?

Yet his father just let it happen and did nothing about it! Nothing! Because he was weak. He was weak and pathetic and cruel.

Breathe. Focus. All in good time.

All in good time.

The killer took another, smaller plastic bag from his backpack. He removed his wet gloves, put them inside, added a good-sized rock, tied the bag, then threw it into the lake.

Still naked, he shivered in the cold, still air. He wasn’t done.

Do it quick.

He walked into the lake, the water colder than ice. Still, he took several steps forward, his feet sinking into the rough muck at the bottom. When his knees were submersed, he did a shallow dive. His chest scraped a rock, but he was too numb to feel pain. He broke through the surface with a loud scream. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t think. His heart pounded in his chest, aching from the icy water.

But he was alive. He was fucking alive!

He went under once more, rubbed his hands briskly over his arms and face in case any blood remained. He would take a hot shower when he returned home, use soap and a towel to remove anything the lake left behind. But for now, this would do.

Twenty seconds in the water was almost too long. He bolted out, coughed, his body shaking so hard he could scarcely think. But he had planned everything well and operated on autopilot.

He pulled a towel from his backpack and dried off as best he could. Stepped into new sweatpants, sweatshirt, and shoes. Pulled on a new pair of gloves. There might be blood on the ATV, but it wasn’t his blood, so he wasn’t concerned.

He took a moment to stare back at the dark, still lake. Then he took one final look at the body splayed faceup. He felt nothing, because she was nothing. Unimportant. Simply a small pawn in a much bigger game. A pawn easily sacrificed.

He hoped his old man would be proud of his work, but he would probably just criticize his son’s process. He’d complain about how he did the job, then open another bottle of booze.

He hoped his father was burning in hell.

He jumped on the ATV and rode into the night.

Excerpted from The Third to Die by Allison Brennan, Copyright © 2020 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books.

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The Third to Die : A Novel Allison Brennan

On Sale Date: February 4, 2020

9780778309444, 0778309444

Hardcover $26.99 USD, $33.50 CAD

Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense 464 pages

About the Author: Allison Brennan is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of three dozen thrillers and numerous short stories. She was nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International Thriller Writers, has had multiple nominations and two Daphne du Maurier Awards, and is a five-time RITA finalist for Best Romantic Suspense. Allison believes life is too short to be bored, so she had five kids. Allison and her family live in Arizona. Visit her at allisonbrennan.com

Social Links:

Author website: https://www.allisonbrennan.com/

Facebook: @AllisonBrennan

Twitter: @Allison_Brennan

Instagram: @abwrites

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/52527.Allison_Brennan

Thank you to Netgalley and Harlequin Trade Publishing for the opportunity to read and review this title. All opinions and mistakes are my own.

Followers by Megan Angelo

What starts as a humorous, slightly catty look at social media turns into a chilling and dark commentary on our obsession with likes and followers. I fully expected this to be a light, fluffy read that would keep me entertained for a few hours and instead found myself dropped into a dark and twisted future that seems all to real and likely to happen. 

Told through two timelines, we are introduced to a future where entire towns are filled with reality tv stars and are on camera non-stop.  Marlow, a young starlet who has spent almost her entire life in front of the camera having her everyday life written and directed by the Network, has few memories of her life before.  The face of Hysteryl, a mood stabilizing drug she has been using since puberty, Marlow spends her day in medicated contented bliss.  When the Network decided it's time for her and her husband to have a child, the drug must be stopped during the pregnancy and is slowly weaned off as she prepares for her sowing party, her emotions slowly return and the mental clarity creates her first feelings of dread and uncertainty of spending the rest of her life having her every move dictated by others.  When a lab technician discovers there is a discrepancy in Marlow's DNA, Marlow sets out to discover the truth about her parents and her past. 

As Marlow searches for clues to her past, we learn through flashbacks about the social media rise of the couple that Marlow believes to be her parents.  Floss Natuzzi and Aston Clipp rose to Internet super stardom with the help of blogger Orla Cadden and a series of outrageous stunts.  When their Instagram stardom leads to a reality tv show, the three spend their days pretending to live their real life on camera while a small crew of writers create the scandalous and shocking scripts for them to follow.  After an Instagram message inadvertently causes a horrific event, the three social media stars are cast out as social pariahs.  The fallout of the event helped to spur on the Spill, a tragic and worldwide phenomenon that changed the world forever. 

This book was fascinating! Not only does Megan Angelo give us a world ruled by social media and reality tv, but everyone also has an implanted device that allows them to see their standings and comments from followers.  The devices provide a way for producers to directly influence their stars and direct their behavior.  Living with a complete lack of privacy is second nature to the residents of Constellation, a town completely set up to provide 24 hour access to the followers of the show.  With only one hour a day allowed to themselves off camera, found in the very wee hours of the morning, Marlow and her fellow residents have their every word and movement scrutinized and commented on by their millions of followers. 

How absolutely terrifying!  Even more so when you know someone in our present day has definitely had that idea and there are those out there who would love to watch a group of people live out every moment of their life with no editing or commercial breaks. 

Angelo created a story that deftly combined the two timelines with enough twists and turns that you are always kept guessing as to how the two are truly intertwined.  The Spill, not going to spoil that little nugget, is frightening in it's believability.  To have one event completely change the future of the entire world-terrifying. 

Followers is thought-provoking, chilling, and fascinating. 

More from Megan Angelo:

I have read so many great debut authors this last year, I don’t know how they do it!

More like Followers:

I’m going with the “creepy future I hope never happens” vibe for these.

As always, purchasing books through the links helps support the site.  As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

Thank you to Netgalley and the Publisher for the opportunity to read and review this title.  All opinions, and mistakes, are my own.  

Hollow Kingdom By Kira Jane Buxton

Available now from Grand Central Publishing

This book is one of the most original and bonkers books I've ever come across.  Told through the eyes of the crow Shit Turd, or S.T. as he's more commonly known, the human race has devolved into nothing more than bloodthirsty zombies and the only unaffected survivors are animals. 

Yep, it's told through the point of view of a highly intelligent pet crow. 

And it's one of the funniest and most wildly entertaining reads I had this year. 

S.T. and his canine brother Dennis set out to find help for their human Big Jim after his behavior turns creepily repetitive and dangerous.  As the two journey through the city seeking information, they encounter other domestic animals trapped in their homes and try to save as many as they can.  When their actions attract the attention of a murder of crows, S.T. must put aside his prejudices and find a way to work with the other animals, and the sketchy birds, to save the domestics and find out what happened to the humans.

It sounds bonkers but this book is truly hilarious.  S.T. uses his unique skills learned from living with Big Jim to both help the trapped domestics and teach the other animals how to help.  Who knew Tinder was so educational?  Turns out, Big Jim taking S.T. around the city with him as he worked or on field trips to the zoo was highly educational for our sharp minded crow.  S.T.'s ability to think like a human, or MoFo as he calls them, is key to his and his friends' survival.  We are also giving short chapters told from the point of view of various animals from around the world- Winnie the Poodle was my favorite. 

This story is truly imaginative and original and it was an absolute delight to read. 

You can get your copy, and help support the site, here:

More from Kira Jane Buxton:

Surprise! It’s her debut! What an amazing first book, I can’t wait to see what she comes out with next.

More like Hollow Kingdom:

I’m going with the plucky/sarcastic/hero for these.

As always, purchasing books through the links helps support the site.  As an Amazon Associate I earn from qualifying purchases.

Into Bones Like Oil by Kaaron Warren

Reader Friends I am very excited to share with you a wonderfully strange ghost story about a mysterious rooming house. The Angelsea is a large and mysterious rooming house where people come to sleep deeply. So deeply, it’s like the sleep of the dead. Keep scrolling! There’s also a giveaway!

I loved this strange little story! I couldn’t wait to unravel the mystery of why everyone was so obsessed with sleep in this book and how everything tied together. Why was Dora really there? How does anyone really find out about Angelsea? I read this in one sitting because I couldn’t stop until I knew the ending. With an eclectic cast of characters, Into Bones Like Oil kept me captivated from start to finish.

IndieBound | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

In this gothic-styled ghost story that simmers with strange, Warren shows once again her flair for exploring the mundane—themes of love, loss, grief, and guilt manifest in a way that is both hauntingly familiar and eerily askew.

 People come to The Angelsea, a rooming house near the beach, for many reasons. Some come to get some sleep, because here, you sleep like the dead. Dora arrives seeking solitude and escape from reality. Instead, she finds a place haunted by the drowned and desperate, who speak through the sleeping inhabitants. She fears sleep herself, terrified that the ghosts of her daughters will tell her “it’s all your fault we’re dead.” At the same time, she’d give anything to hear them one more time.

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Sounds interesting, doesn’t it? Want to read more? Here’s an excerpt:

Into Bones Like Oil

There was no sign of Roy as she approached The Angelsea on her return. It was a hard walk up the hill and she had to pause a few times. But she liked the feel of her muscles, liked the sense of actually working at something, if only for a little while. She hadn’t been able to see the building well the night before, but now she saw it was four storeys tall, made of dark red brick, marked with decades of pollution. There were many small windows. The walls were covered with ivy and there was moss in the mortar. A veranda graced the front, the floorboards damaged by the sun, almost burned in places. The railings were recently replaced; someone wanting to keep it safe, so that no one could fall or tip over the edge.

The front door was quite small. It used to be the servants’ entrance, decades ago. But so many rooms had been added and other houses built around The Angelsea, the original front door and foyer—Dora’s room—were blocked off. Rickety stairs clung to the side of the house, in dark shadows.

Taller buildings surrounded the house now, blocking most of the light.

The sun was beautifully warm and she sat on the front step, closing her eyes and letting it wash over her.

Luke appeared behind her, like a ghost.

He said, “Bloody lovely isn’t it? That sun. Makes you forget for a minute, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t ask him forget what? He really was almost handsome.

But his eyes were ringed with shadow and his face gaunt. Those eyes were green, and his hairline was good. He was tidy and clean, with a neatly-ironed, well-fitted shirt. His haircut was military. She could see his scalp. He wore tight black jeans.

“Home from work already?”

“Yeah, I’m on a disability so I work short days. Blinding headaches. Nothing like coming home to The Angelsea to make a headache disappear.” He winked at her; she’d have to get used to that.

“Shouldn’t it be ‘Anglesea’? I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Yeah, poor bastard can’t spell. Apparently there was a famous shipwreck at Anglesea so he named the place after that.” Dora noticed the name was painted on a piece of driftwood she imagined must have come from the wreck. “Got it wrong. He shoulda just named it after our own shipwreck. Most of the town call it Shipwreck House, anyway.”

They both turned to look down the hill. Dora could see some piles of metal on the rocks and on the sand down there. The beach was almost inaccessible, even by water.

The Barlington had struck ground there, all lives lost. At the time there were no communities in the area, so the shipwreck went unnoticed for weeks. Some may have survived the accident but couldn’t find a way off the beach. It was the smell, they said, that led to the eventual discovery. Plus the clothing rolling into the beaches along the coast.

“Half the house is decorated with stuff he’s pinched from down there. Pays the local kids to risk their lives getting it. Like those.” He pointed at four large broken lights, anchored to the wall near the door.

Dora realized she needed to respond to him, so said, “Are these old ship danger lights or something?” She hated herself for the “or something.” Her therapist had told her she needed to regain herself by standing by her own statements, but she couldn’t help it.

“Yes! Fat lot of good they did. He pinched them from the crash site. He calls it beachcombing. Other people might call it looting. He used to have them set up to flash until one poor bloke killed himself over them.”

“Like a fit or something?”

“Nah, he was a train driver, caused an accident, killed a heap of passengers. Apparently he reckoned the lights flashed wrong, but no one believed him. Gets the sack, wife leaves him, he comes to live here. Takes a room on the fourth floor, with a window looking down onto the water. It’s my room, now. Of course Roy has to set those ship lights going so that every night the poor bastard up there watched them flashing on and off, on and off like train lights. Hung hisself. Up in my room. I dunno if you believe in ghosts or not, but sometimes I reckon he’s there. Only he knows if it really was his fault. Who knows. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe he just wanted to see what would happen. We’re all a bit that way, aren’t we? We’re all so bored we’ll try anything.”

“Speak for yourself!” she said.

“You can come have a look if you want.” He looked at her expectantly.

“I guess I could take a look,” she said. She shuddered. The air was growing colder. She stood up and they went inside. The ticking of the clock seemed louder.

“Maybe someone’s having an afternoon nap,” Luke said, and she wished she was confident enough to ask him what he meant by that. A nap sounded good, though. Sometimes a nap worked.

Four flights of stairs to his room. The stairwell was dark and smelly, as if someone had used the ground floor for a toilet and the smell rose all the way up. The lino was old and slippery, so she clung on the handrail, when it was there. She grabbed Luke’s shirt, and he took her hand. His was warm and dry.

“This is me,” he said, pushing the stairwell door open. The sign said fort floor. “Nice and quiet up here. Just the woman next door.”

She didn’t know who he was talking about but had no more questions.

His door was solid, old, scratched with names and dates. He pushed it open.

Inside it was bright. He had a lot of windows, none of them with coverings. “Nice during the day, a pain at night,” he said. “And you can’t open any of the windows. Roy thinks it’ll stop suicides, but it doesn’t.”

She could see now, as the sun fell, that artificial light poured in, even though they were four storeys up. Strong street lights and the security lights of the garment factory two doors down.

“Wow,” she said. The room was obsessively neat, with all the books color-coded, glasses lined up on a small table, nothing left on the floor that shouldn’t be there. It was four times the size of her room, but still small. No bathroom, no kitchen. Navy memorabilia filled the walls and made up most of the furniture; trunks, khaki rugs, anchors, plaques, knives, and what looked with a tiny replica landmine.

“If the ghost isn’t here, he might be marching up and down the coast hill. You can see the track they’ve worn. See?”

Looking down, there was a path in the long grass.

“They?”

“Roy. And tourists sometimes.” She could see other debris too: wood, metal, piles of each. He stood closer to her. “Near midnight, other times too, you can see ghosts walking up from the wreck. Over and over, trekking up and down. Roy reckons they need to speak their last words, but no one can hear them. I think they’re just . . . lost.” He was very close to her now. She stepped away to really look at him. His knuckles were unmarked, no scars, which was a good sign.

“Can you see them?”

“Not down there. But they come visit, up here at the house. Roy’s pinched so much of their stuff they think this is where they belong.”

His room smelled of Febreze. It was chemical, fake, but a nice change from mold, smoke, frying onions, sewage.

“It’s moments like these I don’t hate Shitwreck House,” he said. She laughed.

“Would you like a drink?” he said. He lifted two nice glasses from a tiny covered table. Each had an anchor etched in gold. “I’ve got some vodka left over from something. Pinched it from my parents. They’re pissheads who always forget what they’ve got.”

“I’d love to meet them,” she said. “You can tell them I’m your fiancée, and they’ll pull out the champagne.” Being with him, with anyone, was almost painful. But there were moments of pleasure in company. When the other person momentarily made her forget. So she smiled and put on the face that said, “I am an ordinary person capable of talking to you.”

“We don’t even know if we like each other yet,” he said, handing her a glass full of vodka, no mixer. The glass had the word Oceania etched above the anchor. “Roy collected them,” he said. “He reckons from the wreck, but I reckon from the op shop.”

 “What’s a man like you doing in a place like this?” she said, instantly regretting it. No past, no future, just the present. In her real self, her real life, she wouldn’t even contemplate sleeping with him. But here, time was contracted. Relationships would form and fall apart quickly.

Here, she was who he thought she was. Not who she really was.

And she knew she’d sleep with one of them. A couple of them, probably. Sex gave her a momentary feeling of being appreciated. Regardless of what happened before and after, you were loved in that moment. Even by someone who despised you.

She drank that glass and another, and then felt so good she stepped up to him and kissed him gently on the lips. He put his hands on her shoulder.

“Are you sure? I always like them to be sure.” It wasn’t until later she wondered who “they” were and how many there had been.

She nodded. He kissed her, holding her enclosed in his arms, then his hands moved down and cupped her arse. He had big hands. They felt so different from her ex-husband’s. He had small hands, long fingers, he didn’t have a gentle touch.

This man had a gentle touch.

From below, someone thumped. She could hear a muffled “shut the fuck up” and she blushed at the idea whoever it was could hear what they were doing.

“Don’t mind her. Fucking lunatic. Fucking monster. If she’s gonna whine, I reckon I’ll wear my army boots. In fact, I might as well wear them.”

He pulled a pair of boots on and stood, naked, before her.

Dora laughed till she wept as he danced for her.

Then they made love again.

He fell asleep straight after. She watched him, almost angry with envy at his peaceful face. She wondered what it would be like to sleep like that. She didn’t want to mistrust a man again so soon.

She pulled her clothes on and went to the toilet. It was nicer than the one on her floor. Smaller, but then there were only three rooms to service. It felt warmer, too, maybe because the heat rose through the house. There was spare toilet paper on a stick by the bath.

His door had snicked shut. She knocked quietly but didn’t want to waken him, so headed downstairs. Once near her bedroom she realized there was no way she’d sleep. She felt wired, wide awake, excited. She went down to look at the site of the wreck, following the path worn by looters, tourists, and, according to Luke, ghosts. The streetlights provided more than enough illumination for her to find her way.

It took longer than she thought and once she reached the edge of the cliff, she lost the energy to walk all the way down. She could see that the metal was very rusty, the wood mossy and cracked. Dora wondered that what was left of the vessel was still there. It was pulled up high on the beach where the tide couldn’t reach it. Perhaps this—along with the containers, jars, and remnants of many other things she could see—was the real rubbish, all the good stuff long since taken.

She heard someone coming and hid behind one of the large bushes that lined the path. She didn’t want to talk to anyone. She felt dirty and tired and not up to speech.

It was Roy. He held a large hook and seemed to be dragging something, but she couldn’t see what. Behind him she thought she saw a line of bedraggled people. As they passed her she felt overwhelming sadness. Helplessness. Once they were gone she headed back to the rooming house, but the smell of fried food drew her to an all-night taxi drivers café, thankfully almost empty. She bought herself half-a-dozen dim sims to take back to her room.

Once there, she heard the clock ticking loudly and found herself chewing in time.

She checked her phone, but no one had called. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but the upstairs neighbor sounded like he was dancing in army boots.

The thought of it made her smile.

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Kaaron Warren has been publishing ground-breaking fiction for over twenty years. Her novels and short stories have won over 20 awards, from local literary to international genre. She writes horror steeped in awful reality, with ghosts, hauntings, guilt, loss, love, crime, punishment and a lack of hope.

Thank you to Netgalley and the Publisher for the opportunity to read and review this title. All opinions, and mistakes, are my own.