The verdict is in; a famed athlete is
headed for prison. The jurors have done their job and are free to go
back to their lives. But after being sequestered for four months, life
as some knew it no longer exists.
HAROLD ASHMAN’s house is almost
destroyed by a careless driver. Exotic dancer, CEECEE LAINE, discovers
that her boyfriend is two-timing her, and she no longer has a job. Actor
ALEX MANNING learns his career is down the tubes, and 72-year-old,
HELEN RYDER, discovers her family is plotting to put her in an old folks
home.
Then things take a turn for the worse.
When former jurors start dropping like flies, CeeCee, Helen, Harold and
Alex are convinced there’s a killer on the loose. Now the feuding
foursome must find him before he kills them—or before they save him the
trouble by killing each other.
The ringing telephone woke me up. Without opening my eyes, I felt around
until I touched the nightstand and finally, my phone. “Hello.”
“Wake up.”
I groaned. “Alex, what do you want?”
“I need you to wake up.”
I forced myself to sit up. The clock on the radio said it was after ten. “This better be important.”
“Something is terribly wrong,” Alex said. “It’s the thirtieth and nobody’s dead.”
“Hallelujah.” I hung up and dived back into
my pillow. The phone rang again, and I groaned. Only Alex would think
that no dead bodies meant something was
wrong.
I rolled over and grabbed the phone. “Now what?”
“No one’s dead.”
– Excerpted from Jury Duty is Murder by Kate Damon, Wild Rose Press, 2025. Reprinted with permission.
When Kate Damon is not writing, she
and her husband enjoy RVing, spending time with family and friends,
raising Monarch butterflies, and playing a wicked game of bridge.
Writing as Margaret Brownley, she has
published more than 40 novels and is a New York Times bestselling
author. Known for her memorable characters and humor, she is a two-time
Romance Writers of America Rita finalist.
Not counting the book she wrote in sixth grade, and the puzzle of the missing socks, this is her first mystery.
Available in paperback, Kindle & FREE at Kindle Unlimited
She hears footsteps approaching, then
the clunk of a heavy lock. Her body is numb in the cold but she stands,
determined to fight. A blinding light overpowers her, and the world goes
black…
When Detective Katie Scott finds a
woman dying in the car garage, blood pooling around her, she reaches her
just in time to hear her utter the words: find my daughter.
Katie doesn’t waste a second gathering
her team and pulling the case file for the missing child, Anna Braxton,
a teen with sparkling blue-eyes and an even brighter future. Staring at
the blank investigation board, Katie won’t rest until she fulfills
Anna’s mother’s dying wish.
Searching the Braxton’s impeccable
family home, Katie finds Anna’s journal, filled with teenage secrets.
Buried among the pages, she thinks she finds a lead—a strange man
reached out to Anna, just days before she went missing…
But the case takes a terrifying turn
when Anna’s best friend also vanishes. Hours later, a girl’s body is
found in the embers of a house fire, her yellow satin dress
devastatingly beautiful amongst the ashes. Is it Anna, her best friend,
or another girl?
One thing is certain: a monster has
the closeknit community of Pine Valley in a chokehold, and Katie must
get one step ahead of the killer before any more precious young lives
are taken. But at what cost?
Darkness shrouded the old cellar, causing a
continuous chill to trickle down her spine. The dirt floor felt cold
against her bare feet and her hands were dry as she rubbed them
together. She could smell the musty remnants of what had been stored
there in the past and the earthiness of being underground. The four
walls seemed to be old stone or brick and they crumbled beneath her
fingernails as she tried to claw her way out—but to no avail. Her
exhaustion ultimately took over and she sat still, alone with her
overwhelming fears. She had been left isolated and abandoned—in the
pitch-black.
She hadn’t heard the man in hours, or maybe
it was days—she wasn’t sure. In her bones, she knew this time he wasn’t
coming back. The plastic-bottled water and peanut butter sandwiches
were almost gone; her mouth was constantly dry. Her memory seemed to
play tricks on her. How long had it been since she’d gone to the casting
call for young aspiring models? She hadn’t told anyone where she was
going, not her mom or even her best friend. She’d wanted to wait until
she got the job to tell them the great news. It had been exciting; she
dreamed of being a model and actress.
Her hands touched the dress she had been
given to model—a yellow silk sheath wrap that made her feel beautiful,
grown-up, as if she was finally someone who mattered.
She didn’t know how many times she had
crawled up the wooden stairs to the small opening into the cellar,
checking to see if he had left it open. But it was always the
same—bolted shut. She had memorized each stair, which ones were sturdy,
which were creaky and unstable. There were nine steps in total.
As hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember
how she got there or what the house looked like. Even if she had a cell
phone, she wouldn’t have been able to describe where she was—or even
what town she was in. She felt a million miles away from home.
But she wasn’t giving up. Though weakened
from lack of proper food, she dropped to her knees once again and
crawled slowly toward the stairs. Her knees were bruised and scraped
from the dozens of times she had attempted to escape—hoping that each
time would be successful and she would be free.
As she paused at the first stair, feeling
the familiar outlines in the darkness, she used her hands to steady her
ascent; each time a stair ahead. Her knee pressed against the first
stair, then the second, and the third. The creaks and groans were a
disturbing symphony that reminded her of her situation: she was a
prisoner in an empty basement and no one was coming back for her.
She stopped halfway to the top; her
breathing quickening; feeling lightheaded. Her stomach grumbled. Her
hope dwindled. Each time she’d gathered the strength to go up the
stairs, it had turned out to be disheartening. She was never going to be
free again. How stupid and selfish she had been, thinking she would
become a model. She wondered if any of the other girls ended up like
this. Or was she the only one whose fate was sealed?
Looking up toward the opening, she thought
she heard footsteps. Yes, she had heard something. They were faint, but
steady. He was coming. She froze. Her knees and hands were almost
numb—her fingers hurt. Should she go back down or keep going?
What did she have to lose?
The footsteps were getting closer. They
sounded like a pair of work boots hitting old hardwood floors. There was
a strange echo to the movement, which was now above her. She could hear
the creaks of the uneven planks; a mismatched harmony.
The distinct jingle of keys, then the rattle of a heavy lock.
She was going to stand her ground and push past the man to make her escape. It was all she had.
She could barely breathe.
The heavy creak of hinges.
Her body numb. She tried to stand up, ready to fight.
The doorway opened a crack at first, then wider, and finally pushed all the way open.
The blinding light overpowered her. Trying
to escape it, she fell backward, flailing her arms in an attempt to
catch her balance. She couldn’t focus on anything. She felt every step
hit her back and ribs as she tumbled down to the dirt basement. Her head
struck the floor. She lost her breath and closed her eyes.
– Excerpted from Find My Daughter by Jennifer Chase, Bookouture, 2025. Reprinted with permission.
Jennifer Chase is a multi
award-winning and USA Today Best Selling crime fiction author, as well
as a consulting criminologist. Jennifer holds a bachelor degree in
police forensics and a master’s degree in criminology & criminal
justice. These academic pursuits developed out of her curiosity about
the criminal mind as well as from her own experience with a violent
psychopath, providing Jennifer with deep personal investment in every
story she tells. In addition, she holds certifications in serial
crime and criminal profiling.
