A book's nightmare coming true all because of a negative review?
The book Emma reviewed was terrible in her opinion, gave it a rating of ONE, and then the author wouldn't let up as he told her take down the review.
Emma refused, but then the author found her and terrorized her just like in the book that was rated a ONE.
As Emma is living the nightmare of the killer one inch away from her, she hears poor Laika, her dog, whining upstairs in pain from the poison the killer fed her.
The tension in THE LAST WORD is so palpable, you will be jumping at any sound in your surroundings as you are reading.
The book is very cleverly written as the real drama unfolds and we read the story the author is playing out - Emma knows what will happen because she is living it.
Read it and find out what happens, but have a lot of time on your hands, and read this book in broad daylight.
It is pretty gruesome, but those who know the work of Mr. Adams don’t need to be forewarned.
Warning top reviewers - you never know who may retaliate from a bad review. :) 4/5
This book was given to me by the publisher for an honest review.
Sunday, April 30, 2023
The Last Word by Taylor Adams
A book's nightmare coming true all because of a negative review?
This Week at Silver's Reviews
Saturday, April 29, 2023
Spotlight of Deep Tide by Laura Griffin
April 25, 2023
PRAISE FOR DEEP TIDE:
"An emotional, exciting page-turner. Griffin deftly balances the mystery and the love story."—The Washington Post
"I love smart, sophisticated, fast-moving romantic thrillers, and Laura Griffin writes them brilliantly. Last Seen Alone is a terrific example of her signature style: intriguing characters; sharp dialogue; and a tight, well-researched plot."—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz
"Top-notch romantic suspense! Fast pace, tight plotting, terrific mystery, sharp dialogue, fabulous characters."—New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
"A gripping white-knuckle read. You won't be able to put it down."—New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak
ABOUT DEEP TIDE:
An undercover FBI agent and an independent coffee shop owner must team up when a local barista is found dead and danger circles their coastal Texas town in this new romantic thriller from New York Times bestselling author Laura Griffin.
With two brothers on the police force, Leyla Breda is well aware of the rising crime in her small beach town, but she never expected it to show up on her doorstep.
When Leyla finds one of her employees murdered in the alley behind her coffee shop, she’s deeply shaken, and as a new law enforcement officer in town begins to circle her place of business, her instincts only sharpen.
Sean Moran is on an undercover mission: The seaside community of Lost Beach may look like a picturesque postcard, but his team suspects it’s a point of intersection for several crime syndicates that the FBI has been investigating for years.
Even so, when the brash and beautiful Leyla Breda starts bossing him around, he's immediately intrigued. He knows her brothers want him to back off, but every time he sees her, he feels more of a spark.
Leyla’s connections in the local community and Sean’s skills allow them to go deeper into the case together than they would be able to go alone.
But when a single crime spirals into something much darker, Sean’s carefully planned mission takes a deadly turn.
EXCERPT OF DEEP TIDE:
DEEP TIDE by Laura Griffin
Sean Moran slipped away from the party. The bride and groom had left under a shower of rice, but people were still milling around beneath swags of white lights, drinking the couple’s booze and enjoying the breeze off the water. Sean would have liked another drink, but he needed to get back to his condo. As he crossed the wooden bridge spanning the sand dunes, he spied a woman on the beach with a champagne flute in hand. Leyla Breda. Her formfitting dress looked silver in the moonlight, and it shimmered against her body as she strolled toward the surf. Nearing a piece of driftwood, she dropped her shoes to the sand and sat down. She nestled the flute at her feet, then lifted her arms and twisted her dark hair into a knot at the top of her head. Sean stopped at the end of the bridge. He had about a hundred things left to do tonight, including contacting his boss. Instead, he walked over to Leyla. "How's the champagne?" She jumped and turned around. Recognition flickered across her face, and her shoulders relaxed. "It's good." She held up her glass. "You didn't have any?" "Nope. Can I get you a refill?" She smiled. "What, are you a waiter now, too?" He stepped closer. "I'm Sean Moran, by the way." He held out his hand. "We never actually met." "Leyla Breda." Her handshake was brisk and businesslike, but the warm look in her eyes gave him hope. "Joel's little sister," he said. "That's me." He turned toward the water so he wouldn't be tempted to stare down the front of her dress. "I didn't get a chance to thank you earlier," she said. "Things got really hectic." "Looked like you had your hands full." "So, are you here for Joel or Miranda?" He looked at her. "Joel." She tipped her head to the side as she gazed up at him. "And you know him from . . . ?" "Work." She frowned. "Here?" "No. We go way back. We were in the same academy class in Houston, spent some time at HPD together." "Oh. That was a while ago." "Yeah." "So . . . the vice squad, then?" "Yeah. Mind if I sit down?" "Not at all." Sean lowered himself onto the other end of the sandy log. He didn't like the direction the conversation had taken so he steered it back to her. "So, how long have you been a caterer?" he asked. "Hmm . . . let's see. I guess it's been about three weeks now." She turned and smiled at him, and he felt a hot jolt of attraction. "Why? Can you tell?" "Not at all." "Right." "Well, the timing seemed a little bumpy." "Just a little." She rolled her eyes. "We had several staffers no-show. It happens a lot in this business. People are flaky. Despite all my planning, you could say we were a bit rushed." Rushed was right. No woman had ever clapped at him before. He'd discovered it was a turn-on.
Excerpted from Deep Tide by Laura Griffin Copyright © 2023 by Laura Griffin. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Laura Griffin is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five books and novellas.
She is a two-time RITA Award winner as
well as the recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award.
Friday, April 28, 2023
Spotlight of The Hit Man's Wife by Joy Ross Davis
November 22, 2022
PRAISE FOR THE HIT MAN'S WIFE:
A photographer. A hit man. A truly wonderfully woven tale and page turner with many engaging characters and tastefully done romantic scenes. A thrilling read that will not only keep you engaged and on the edge of your seat, but will have you riding the gambit of emotions! A thrilling five star read!
ABOUT THE HIT MAN'S WIFE:
Book Blogger Hop - 4/28 - 5/4
I have...they are fun to do.
Thursday, April 27, 2023
With My Little Eye by Joshilyn Jackson
Meribel had to move across the country because of a stalker.
She thought she had lost him, but he kept sending letters to her old address and then left a basket on the doorstep of her new apartment.
How could he have found her? She was being so careful.
WITH MY LITTLE EYE definitely kept the stalker's identity a secret as I kept reading to try to find out what was going on.
I do have to say I was not anxious to get back to the book or really interested in the confusing story line, but I kept reading because I wanted to know who the stalker was.
The ending was very suspenseful but not enough to raise my rating.
Even the revelation of the stalker wasn't that riveting and came out of nowhere.
I actually was disappointed because I always enjoy Ms. Jackson's books. 2/5
This book was given to me by the publisher via NetGalley for an honest review.
Wednesday, April 26, 2023
Spotlight of Ashes to Ashes, Crust to Crust by Mindy Quigley
*************April 25, 2023
PRAISE FOR ASHES TO ASHES, CRUST TO CRUST:
and engaging, [with] plenty of thrills...and toppings.”—Parade
“Every now and again a cozy comes along in which the author not only checks off all of the boxes but does such an excellent job in the process that the book totally stands out from the crowd. This is the case with Six Feet Deep Dish....Droll and witty, sophisticated and credible, this is a series to watch out for.”—First Clue (starred review)
“Funny, exciting, suspenseful... Delilah is a breath of fresh air.”—Open Book Society (five stars)
“Your mouth will water from the first page of this delightful new cozy. You’ll also love the characters, and the perfectly plotted murder had me guessing the whole way through. Delilah is my new favorite amateur detective.”—Paige Shelton, New York Times bestselling author
“Delilah O’Leary is as appealing as the pizzas she serves at her new restaurant. Fiercely loyal to her friends and employees, the strong willed, hugely competent Delilah is a cozy heroine for our times. I loved everything about her and her refreshing can-do attitude to cooking pizza, running her restaurant, and solving murders, along with the occasional healthy dose of insecurity! Six Feet Deep Dish is a wonderful start to a promising series, and I can’t wait to visit Geneva Bay and enjoy more of whatever’s being served at Delilah & Son.”—Vicki Delany, National bestselling author
“Quigley pens a deliciously twisty mystery layered with salty suspects and packed with local flavor. Six Feet Deep Dish is sure to leave cozy readers drooling for more.”—Julie Anne Lindsay, bestselling author
“A delight. A delicious adventure, full of wit and charm....Quigley’s excellent writing will amuse and entertain as readers immerse themselves in her twisty plotting.”—Tracee de Hahn, author of the Agnes Lüthi Mysteries
“Delicious....Six Feet Deep Dish will only stoke your appetite for the next in this must-read new foodie cozy series.”—Maddie Day, author of the Country Store Mysteries
ABOUT ASHES TO ASHES, CRUST TO CRUST:
Ashes to Ashes, Crust to Crust is the second book in Mindy Quigley's delectable Deep Dish Mystery series, set in a Wisconsin pizzeria.
Newly single pizzeria owner Delilah O’Leary is determined to keep her restaurant afloat in the picturesque resort town of Geneva Bay, Wisconsin.
To boost her bottom line, she sets her sights on winning the hefty cash prize in the town’s annual “Taste of Wisconsin” culinary contest. In her corner, she’s got her strong-willed, “big-boned” cat Butterball, her wisecracking BFF, her cantankerous great-aunt, and a nearly-flawless recipe for Pretzel Crust Deep-Dish Bratwurst Pizza.
But while Delilah and her team have been
focused on pumping out perfect pizza pies, her ex-fiancé has cozied up
to a new squeeze, juice bar owner Jordan Watts—Delilah’s contest rival.
When one of Jordan’s juice bar customers is poisoned by a tainted smoothie, Delilah lands deep in the sauce.
Accusations fly, suspects abound, and a menacing stranger turns up with a beef over some missing dough.
Between kale-juicing hipsters and grudge-bearing celebrity chefs, Delilah must act quickly before another one bites the crust.
Spotlight and Giveaway of The Vanishing At Castle Moreau by Jaime Jo Wright
A haunting legend. An ominous curse. A search for a secret buried deep within the castle walls.
In 1870, orphaned Daisy François takes a position as housemaid at a Wisconsin castle to escape the horrors of her past life. There she finds a reclusive and eccentric Gothic authoress, who hides tales more harrowing than the ones in her novels. With women disappearing from the area and a legend that seems to parallel these eerie circumstances, Daisy is thrust into a web that threatens to steal her sanity, if not her life.
In the present day, Cleo Clemmons is hired by the grandson of an American aristocratic family to help his grandmother face her hoarding in the dilapidated Castle Moreau. But when Cleo uncovers more than just the woman's stash of collectibles, a century-old mystery of disappearance, insanity, and the dust of the old castle's curse threaten to rise again. This time to leave no one alive to tell the sordid tale.
Award-winning author Jaime Jo Wright seamlessly weaves a dual-time tale of two women who must do all they can to seek the light amidst the darkness shrouding Castle Moreau.
PRAISE FOR THE VANISHING AT CASTLE MOREAU:
"An imaginative and mysterious tale."
New York Times bestselling author RACHEL HAUCK
"With real, flawed characters, who grapple with real-life struggles, readers will be drawn into this gripping suspense from the very first page. Good luck putting it down. I couldn't."
LYNETTE EASON, bestselling, award-winning author of the Extreme Measures series
"Wright pens another delightfully creepy tale where nothing is quite as it seems and characters seek freedom from nightmares both real and imagined."
"Wright captivates. A thrilling tale. . . . Readers won’t want to put this down."
THE VANISHING AT CASTLE MOREAU TRAILER:
Genre: Dual time Suspense/Thriller
Published by: Bethany House Publishers
Publication Date: April 2023
Number of Pages: 384
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Baker Book House
READ AN EXCERPT:
The one who rescues,
and who stands in the gap.
God knew I needed you.
MAY 8, 1801
When I was a little girl, my father would often come to my bedside after my screams wakened him in the night. He would smooth back my damp ringlets, the mere feel of his callused and strong hand inspiring an instantaneous calm.
“What is it, little one?” he would ask me.
Every night, the same question. Every night, I would give the same answer.
“It is her again, Papa.”
“Her?” He would tilt his head, giving credence to my words and refraining from scolding or mockery.
“Yes.” I would nod, my head brushing the clean cotton of my pillowcase. “The woman with the crooked hand.”
“Crooked hand, hmm?” His query only increased my adamant insistence.
“Yes. She has a nub with two fingers.” A tear would often trail down my six-year-old cheek.
My father would smile with a soothing calm. “You are dreaming again, mon chéri.”
“No. She was here.” He must believe me!
“Shhh.” Another gentle stroke of his hand across my forehead. “She is the voice of the mistress of your dreams. We all have one, you know. Only yours needs extra-special care because she isn’t beautiful like the rest. She is the one who brings the nightmares, but she doesn’t mean to harm you. She is only doing her best with what she has been given, and what she has been given are her own horrors.”
“Her hand?” I would reply, even though we repeated this explanation many nights in a row.
“Yes,” my father would nod. “Her hand is a reflection of the ugliness in her stories. Stories she tells to you at night when all is quiet and your eyes are closed.”
“But they were open,” I would insist.
“No. You only think they were open.”
“I am afraid of the ghost, Papa,” I urge.
His eyes smile. “Oui. And yet there are no spirits to haunt you. Only the dream mistress. Shoo her away and she will flee. She is a mist. She is not real. See?” And he would wave his hand in the air. “Shoo, mistress. Away and be gone!”
We would survey the dark bedroom then, and, seeing nothing, my father would lean over and press his lips to my cheek. “Now sleep. I will send your mother’s dream mistress to you. Her imaginings are pleasant ones.”
“Thank you,” I would whisper.
Another kiss. The bed would rise a bit as he lifted his weight from the mattress. His nightshirt would hang around his shins, and he would pause at the doorway of my room where I slept. An only child, in a home filled with the fineries of a Frenchman’s success of trade. “Sleep, mon chéri.”
The door would close.
My eyes would stay open.
I would stare at the woman with the crooked hand, who hovered in the shadows where the door had just closed. I would stare at her and know what my father never would.
She was not a dream.
The castle cast its hypnotic pull over any passerby who happened along to find it, tucked deep in the woods in a place where no one would build a castle, let alone live in one. It served no purpose there. No strategy of war, no boast of wealth, no respite for a tired soul. Instead, it simply existed. Tugging. Coercing. Entrapping. Its two turrets mimicked bookends, and if removed, one would fear the entire castle would collapse like a row of standing volumes. Windows covered the façade above a stone archway, which drew her eyes to the heavy wooden door with its iron hinges, the bushes along the foundation, and the stone steps leading to the mouth of the edifice. Beyond it was a small orchard of apple trees, their tiny pink blossoms serving as a delicate backdrop for the magnificent property.
Home to an orphan. Or it would be.
Daisy clutched the handles of her carpetbag until her knuckles were sure to be white beneath her threadbare gloves. She stood in the castle’s shadow, staring at its immense size. Who had built such an imposing thing? Here, in the northern territory, where America boasted its own mansions but still rejected any mimicking of the old country. Castles were supposed to stare over their fiefdoms, house lords and ladies, gentry, noblemen, and summon the days of yore when knights rescued fair maidens. Castles were not supposed to center themselves inside a forest, on the shore of a lake, a mile from the nearest town.
This made Castle Moreau a mystery. No one knew why Tobias Moreau had built it decades before. Today the castle held but one occupant: Tobias’s daughter, Ora Moreau, who was eighty-six years old. She was rarely ever seen, and even more rarely, ever heard from. Still, Ora’s words had graced most households in the region, printed between the covers of books with embossed golden titles. Her horror stories had thrilled many readers, and over the years, the books helped in making an enigma of the reclusive old woman.
When the newspaper had advertised a need for a housemaid—preferably one without a home or ties to distract her from her duties—it was sheer coincidence that Daisy had seen it, even more of a coincidence that she fit the requirements. And so it was a surprise she was hired after only a brief letter inquiring after the position.
Now she stood before the castle, her pulse thrumming with the question why? Why had she accepted the position? Why would she allow herself to be swallowed up by this castle? The stories were bold, active. Women disappeared here. It was said that Castle Moreau was a place that consumed the vulnerable. Welcoming them in but never giving them back.
Daisy stiffened her shoulders. Swallowed. Tilted her chin upward in determination. She had marched into hell before—many times, in fact. Castle Moreau couldn’t possibly be much worse than that.
TWO YEARS BEFORE PRESENT DAY
They had buried most souvenirs of the dead with the traditions of old, and yet what a person didn’t understand before death, they would certainly comprehend after. The need for that ribbon-tied lock of hair, the memento mori photograph of the deceased, a bone fragment, a capsule of the loved one’s ashes—morbid to those who had not lost, but understandable to those who had.
Needing to touch the tangible was a fatal flaw in humanity. Faith comforted only so far until the gasping panic overcame the grieving like a tsunami, stealing oxygen, with the only cure being something tangible. Something to touch. To hold. To be held. It was in these times the symbolism attached to an item became pivotal to the grieving. A lifeline of sorts.
For Cleo, it was a thumbprint. Her grandfather’s thumbprint. Inked after death, digitized into a .png file, uploaded to a jewelry maker, and etched into sterling silver. It hung around her neck, settling between her breasts, just left of her heart. No one would know it was there, and if they did, they wouldn’t ask. A person didn’t ask about what was held closest to another’s heart. That was information that must be offered, and Cleo had no intention of doing so. To anyone. Her grandfather was her memory alone—the good and the bad. What he’d left behind in the form of Cleo’s broken insides were Cleo’s to disguise. Faith held her hand, or rather, she clenched hands with faith, but in the darkness, when no one was watching, Cleo fit her thumb to her grandfather’s print and attempted to feel the actual warmth of his hand, to infuse all the cracks and offer momentary refuge from the ache.
Funny how this was what she thought of. Now. With what was left of her world crashing down around her like shrapnel pieces, blazing lava-orange and deadly.
“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Cleo muttered into her phone, pressing it harder against her ear than she needed to. She huddled in the driver’s seat of her small car, all of her worldly possessions packed into the trunk and the back seat. She could hear the ringing on the other end. She owed it to Riley. One call. One last goodbye.
“Riley!” Cleo stiffened in anticipation.
“. . . you’ve reached Riley . . .” the voice message continued, and Cleo laid her head back against the seat. The recording finished, and Cleo squeezed her eyes shut against the world outside of her car, against the darkness, the fear, the grief. This was goodbye. It had to be.
The voicemail beep was Cleo’s cue. She swallowed, then spoke, her words shivering with compressed emotion. What did a person say in a last farewell?
“Riley, it’s me. Cleo. I—” she bit her lip, tasting blood—“I-I won’t be calling again. This is it. You know. It’s what I hoped would never happen. I am so, so sorry this happened to you! Just know I tried to protect you. But now—” her breath caught as tears clogged her throat—“this is the only way I can. Whatever happens now, just know I love you. I will always love you.” Desperation warred with practicality.
Shut off the phone.
There was no explaining this.
There never would be.
“Goodbye, Ladybug.” Cleo thumbed the end button, then threw the phone against the car’s dashboard. A guttural scream curled up her throat and split her ears as the inside of the vehicle absorbed the sound.
Then it was silent.
That dreadful, agonizing silence that came with the burgeoning, unknown abyss of a new start. Cleo stared at her phone lying on the passenger-side floor. She lunged for it, fumbling with a tiny tool until she popped open the slot on its side. Pulling out the SIM card, Cleo bent it back and forth until it snapped. Determined, she pushed open the car door and stepped out.
The road was heavily wooded on both sides. Nature was her only observer.
She flung the broken SIM card into the ditch, marched to the front of the car, and wedged the phone under the front tire. She’d roll over it when she left, crush it, and leave nothing to be traced.
Cleo took a moment to look around her. Oak forest, heavy undergrowth of brush, wild rosebushes whose thorns would take your skin off, and a heap of dead trees and branches from the tornado that had ravaged these woods decades prior. The rotting wood was all that remained to tell the tale now, but it was so like her life. Rotting pieces that never went away. Ever.
She climbed back into the car and twisted the key, revving the engine to life. Cleo felt her grandfather’s thumbprint until it turned her skin hot with the memories. Memories of what had set into motion a series of frightful events. Events that were her responsibility to protect her sister from.
There was no explaining in a voicemail to a twelve-year-old girl that her older sister was abandoning her in order to save her. Cleo knew from this moment on, Riley would play that message, and slowly resentment would seep in as she grew older. Resentment that Cleo had left and would never come back.
But she couldn’t go back. Not if she loved Riley. Sometimes love required the ultimate sacrifice. Sometimes love required death. Death to all they knew, all they had known. If Cleo disappeared, then Riley would be left alone. Riley would be safe. She could grow up as innocent as possible.
So long as Cleo Clemmons no longer existed.
Excerpt from The Vanishing at Castle Moreau by JAIME JO WRIGHT. Copyright 2023 by Jaime Sundsmo. Reproduced with permission from Bethany House Publishers. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Jaime Jo Wright is the author of six novels, including Christy Award winner The House on Foster Hill and Carol Award winner The Reckoning at Gossamer Pond. She's also the Publishers Weekly and ECPA bestselling author of two novellas. Jaime lives in Wisconsin with her cat named Foo; her husband, Cap'n Hook; and their littles, Peter Pan and CoCo.
To learn more, visit Jamie at:
www.jaimewrightbooks.com (& check out her Podcast - MadLit Musings!)
BookBub - @JaimeJoWright
Instagram - @JaimeJoWright
Twitter - @JaimeJoWright
Facebook - @JaimeJoWright
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Tuesday, April 25, 2023
Fifth Avenue Glamour Girl by Renee Rosen
Estee Lauder and Gloria Downing both came from money, but both families had lost their fortunes.
Gloria's family lost their money when her father was arrested for a Ponzi scheme.
That is when Gloria changed her name because of the stigma her name held.
Both women had to work now, but the only difference was that Estee was ambitious, and Gloria had no skills and wasn't a go getter.
Actually Gloria didn't know how to do anything - she had never worked a day in her life.
The women met while Gloria was a shampoo girl in the shop where Estee had her side shop of creams.
They worked together for a while, but Estee went her way and Gloria finally got a position as a shopgirl in Saks Fifth Avenue where she used to shop and spend her father's money.
We follow both women as they make their way on their own even though Estee was married and had a child.
It was fun joining both women and spending their days with them and learning about their lives during this era.
FIFTH AVENUE GLAMOUR GIRL is another entertaining, well-researched read by Ms. Rosen.
Fans of Ms. Rosen, cosmetic lines, this era, women succeeding, and name dropping will enjoy this book. 5/5
This book was given to me by the publisher via NetGalley for an honest review.