Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Book Spotlight & Giveaway
Welcome. Today I have with me author Kathryn Meyer Griffith, giving away a FREE copy of her book, WINTER'S JOURNEY, to one commenter.
The truck’s interior light spread across the darkness and for the first time she got a clear look at her Good Samaritan. Under the cowboy hat he was clean-shaven, except for a mustache, and had intelligent eyes that reminded her in the weak light of a wolf’s eyes. She’d met men with those same eyes before and they’d been dangerous in one way or another. His hair was shaggy and unkempt and curled at the collar of his shirt.
But he was smiling now, his smile as wolfish as his eyes, and he’d done her a favor and had been nothing but a gentleman with her.
“Anything I can do to help?” he asked.
“What I need,” she said, waving a hand at the raised hood and the engine after she’d picked up the flashlight she’d dropped from the ground, “is a doctor for my truck. It’s sick.”
The man took the flashlight from her, walked over and peered into the engine. His fingers traced along the metal parts, jiggling something here, something there. He seemed to know what he was doing. “Yep, looks like you need a fuel filter.”
“You’re pretty knowledgeable for a hitchhiker.” She forced herself to stop looking at him and his long legs and shifted her gaze to the buildings at the end of the lot. She’d been having strange thoughts about the man. When he’d come back from dragging off her drunken admirer she’d had the urge to throw her arms around him and kiss him. Which was crazy.
Even now she kept sneaking peeks at him because she wanted to see his smile again. The feelings were so unexpected they took her off guard. She never reacted to a man this way.
Want more? Here's another EXCERPT:
“Yeah, yeah. I wish you were on this case instead of me, Hayden. It’s getting too weird. That trucker at the I¬-55 and now this. No apparent motives. Nothing stolen. No evidence left behind whatsoever. This is the work of a serial sicko if you ask me. I’ll talk to you later.”
Loretta gripped the edge of the table, trying to catch her breath.
Two more murders! A serial killer. Oh, no.
The rest stop on eighty-six was the same one Sam and she had been at earlier. Loretta remembered the red Volvo Semi with the open door. She frantically tried to make excuses, but she knew the odds of being at the scene of two related crimes in two days had to be infinitesimally small. What did it mean?
That Sam could he a killer.
You should run away now, Loretta. Get up, go out the door and drive off before Sam gets back. Leave him behind along with your fears that he’s the murderer.
Yet doubts filled her. They’d only been apart as long as she’d been in the bathroom and that hadn’t been more than fifteen minutes. Was that enough time to kill two people? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to know.
But why would Sam kill anyone? It made no sense. Only a deranged maniac would kill complete strangers like that. Only a deranged maniac.
The state trooper left and, stealing a peek, Loretta saw him push through the crowd toward the front of the diner.
She looked at the door. Sam would return any second. What was she going to do? She desperately wanted to talk to the trooper about the murders and try to get some information that would help her to decide. The officer would know more about the crimes than she did.
She was frozen like a bug in an ice cube. Her head warred with her heart. Was it worth it to be so wrong about Sam when being wrong could risk her life? What if Sam were a killer? Then why hadn’t he killed her, too? Unless he needed her and her truck to get away. What would happen when he no longer needed her? She didn’t dwell on that possibility.
Her eyes followed the state trooper as he halted at the cash register and spoke to a man in a stained apron who probably ran or owned the diner. The man’s face clouded up and his friendly grin faded as the trooper grabbed a wet rain slicker off a wall of other coats and fled. The diner’s owner knew about the new murders now, too.
The man in the apron hurried over to a waitress serving coffee to a bearded guy in a plaid shirt. The three of them huddled together, whispering.
At a nearby table, a thin woman with dull brown hair and too much make-up asked for more coffee and the waitress with the coffeepot bustled over. The two gossiped as the coffee poured, and after the waitress had gone on to another customer, the thin woman leaned over and yakked excitedly to another woman. There was murder in her eyes.
The bad news was spreading.
Loretta was poised to jump up and run to the other cop’s table when she caught sight of Sam working his way to her through the crowd. It was too late. There was no way she could get to the officer and ask for help before Sam got to her. She could run for it, but Sam was only a few feet away. She could see the fake empathy on his face, see his lying eyes above a killer’s smile that she’d been so foolish to mistake as being sexy. She knew that if she tried to run he’d come after her. Maybe he’d even kill her to keep his secrets.