Review
Advance reviewers love Angel Eyes:
"The writing is spooky and atmospheric, and like the first book of the series, told in dual timelines, with one mystery taking place in the past (the 1980's this time around!) and one unfolding in present day. Lots of twists and turns that I didn't see coming!" Kat Kinney, author of Dyrwolf
"The suspense and mystery is mind-blowing....The book was a page turner and made you want to solve the mystery and wonder what had happened at January House." Sandra, Goodreads ★★★★★
"The second book in the series was just as good if not better than the first." Terri, Goodreads ★★★★★
"This is a brilliant read. Wonderful well written plot and story line that had me engaged from the start." Billie, Goodreads ★★★★★
"Angel Eyes will keep you on the edge of your seat in this paranormal psychological thriller!!" Romaine, Goodreads ★★★★★
"A stand alone murder mystery that gave me the feeling of being in the twilight zone. A well done story with murder, ghosts and lots of potential bad guys." Heidi, Goodreads ★★★★★
"A Paranormal psychological thriller murder mystery that keeps you on the edge of your seat! The writing is spooky and atmospheric of secrets, hidden rooms, secret passages and surprises galore!" Margaret, Goodreads ★★★★★
"WOW! I did not see that ending! At first I thought this had too many moving parts, but they all played out well in the end. Lots of good twists and turns." Michealeen, Goodreads ★★★★★
"This was an edge-of-your-seat book that had many twists and turns that held your attention." Rowan, Goodreads ★★★★★
From the Author
Excerpt from Angel Eyes:
On the last night of her life, Dee Stephens did little out of the ordinary. Not at first. She filled Crosby's dish with organic kibble, the bag promising free-range chicken and whole grains. Then she ordered her own dinner from her favorite restaurant, a place down on Ashton's First Avenue. Chicken with roasted cauliflower and wild rice.
"If it's good enough for you, it's good enough for me," she said to the dog.
Across the kitchen, Crosby was a fuzzy blur of white-and-black, her teeth crunching. Dee pushed her glasses higher on her nose. Somewhere in the house, a beam creaked. January House always got more vocal when the seasons changed. All those empty rooms, and yet Dee never quite felt alone here.
While she waited for the food, she checked her email inbox. It had been over seven days since she last heard from "StephensFan82." Had he lost his nerve? So far, he hadn't made good on his threats. Dee had told him to do his worst. I'm not afraid of the truth, she had written.
But of course, that was a lie.
The doorbell chimed. Bryce had arrived with the delivery. He was a charming young man, more than happy to visit with her, though he must've had better things to do. But tonight the weather had turned, and snowflakes drifted down from the sky. And that damned email inbox kept calling. Had he written yet? What about now?
Dee took the container, said a quick thanks to Bryce on the porch, and retreated back inside. She sank onto the couch and put her dinner on the tray. The laptop waited on the cushion beside her, screen emitting its unnatural glow.
No new messages.
She had to get her mind off of "StephensFan82."
She started with Twitter, where she checked the list of trending topics and weighed in with her takes. A grin snuck across her face as she crafted each tweet and its accompanying meme. Angry responses followed instantaneously, filled with misspellings and failings in logic. Lord only knew what they taught in schools these days.
Before she knew it, she was in the zone. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her laptop now balanced mere inches from her face, its light turning her skin a greenish-blue. She finished a reply to a message board thread about the current state of art criticism. You think you can take something apart, dissect it, look for meaning by pawing over its insides. That's an autopsy, nothing more. A click, and her post flew off into the ether.
Then Crosby ruined the flow. The dog started up with her whimpering by the back door.
"I'm busy right now," Dee said. "Didn't I just take you out?" With her thumb, she pushed her glasses back up her nose. Crosby whined again. Dee snapped her fingers, and the dog quieted.
But Dee's concentration was broken. Sighing, she checked the time. Past midnight.
"Well, I'll be." Dee had assumed that only an hour or so had passed. Her almost-untouched takeout container sat on the tray, probably ice cold. She'd forgotten it. And miraculously, the dog hadn't eaten it. But that's what the zone was like—time and space ceased to exist. There, her past didn't matter. She was free.
She used to get into flows like that while painting. Since her vision had deteriorated, though, the brushes didn't do quite what she wanted anymore. She still slapped together the occasional landscape for her gallery in town; just tourist stuff. But the joy was gone. Her Dell laptop had become her outlet, with its MAGic magnification software and the instant gratification of social media. She had anonymous accounts on any number of sites, which she attended daily for maximum engagement. Sometimes, she had points she wanted to make. But just as often she liked to simply cause a stir. What artist didn't?
She just had to be sure not to think too much about her own art—the pieces she imagined while daydreaming that she could no longer create. That was simply depressing, and Dee had no patience for wallowing.
She clicked over to her email inbox again. No new messages.
Crosby's whines increased in pitch. She scratched at the back door. Dee groaned aloud. "All right, I'm coming." Shuffling toward the kitchen, a muscle in her lower back clenched. She dug her knuckles into the knot. At the back door, her stiff fingers battled with the deadbolt, then flipped the smaller lock on the door handle. Cold air whooshed into the kitchen.
"Go ahead then, do your business."
But now Crosby didn't want to go outside. She still whimpered, hanging back near Dee's legs.
"Get on with it." She nudged the dog along with her sock-clad foot.
Dee walked outside, and the Australian Shepherd reluctantly trotted across the concrete and out into the grass. The patio light was on, and fat snowflakes drifted silently down from the dark sky. Maybe that explained Crosby's hesitation. This was the season's first real snow, the air so dry that Dee's nasal passages itched.
While Crosby sniffed around, looking for a suitable place to pee, Dee searched her pockets for her Pall Malls and her Bic lighter. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, letting the smoke warm her chest and her fingers. She looked out into the dark.
Dee had lived alone at January House for almost forty years now. Well, mostly alone. She valued her independence more than nearly anything, which made it a bit ironic that she stayed in this place, with all its inescapable history.
That damned "StephensFan82." Thought he was so clever with that name.
He'd seemed perfectly eager to speak to her at first. He'd used a subject line guaranteed to demand her attention: Angel Eyes. She didn't know his identity, or even if he really was a "he." But her uncle's obsessive fans tended to be male. It certainly wasn't one of her fans, as if any of those still existed.
Her uncle used to say, There's no art without an audience. But that had just been his ego talking. Dee had experienced how quickly adulation could turn to scorn. Or outright rage.
The tip of Dee's cigarette glowed red. Just a few feet away from the halo of the patio light, the darkness blurred and became absolute. Some people didn't like the dark. Dee wasn't one of them. In the dark, you could slip away and go unnoticed. It was comforting. Safe. In the light, she felt exposed. As if someone might be out there, watching.
Crosby was done peeing, but now she was staring into the woods, head cocked. "Enough already, let's go in." Dee opened the back door. Crosby bounded inside. The lock made a satisfying click when she slid it into place.
Dee stayed on her laptop until almost three in the morning. Finally, she yawned, ready to get some sleep. But when she turned around, Crosby wasn't in her downstairs bed. Cursing under her breath, Dee glanced around. As usual, the doors of the hallway were closed. Her office, the laundry room, the half bath. The entrance to the basement.
"You come out here. What're you up to?"
Crosby wasn't upstairs in Dee's bedroom, either. But her Smith & Wesson was under the mattress, right where she'd left it. Always fully loaded.
Maybe she was overreacting. But what if Crosby had smelled somebody sneaking around outside the house? Trying to peer into the windows? That was the other side of being so isolated. There was nobody to call for help. She'd learned long ago not to trust police types with their leading questions and innuendos.
Her heart was beating faster now, which she didn't like. The rhythm felt off. Dee stepped out of her bedroom and onto the landing.
"Crosby?"
She heard a whimper.
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