Lover of all things psychological
My sister and I could not be more different–in looks, in beliefs, in paths we travelled–Everything. Even as a child, I wondered why this was. What made two children think in such different ways? What made us react to the world as we did? Perhaps our childhood led me to today, to questioning our psychies, to being so intrigued by the way people interact with the world. Whatever the reason, my work mirrors my intrigue. I write psychological thrillers and suspense, in both short story and novel form. This page highlights that work.
Spencer Price is living her best life in Denver Colorado. But when Jordan Rohan kisses her, and her best friend writes it in their shared book of promises, she suddenly finds herself in a struggle between duty and independence, allegiance and betrayal. Soon, two things become clear: There is far more to the kiss than Spencer first believed, and the person to whom she is most connected is hiding secrets far deeper and more dangerous than Spencer ever suspected. To uncover the secrets, Spencer must question the promises of the past. But doing so could bring death, not only to herself but to those who are her future.
Katia Billings, EMT with the Emergency Medical Services of Buxton Beach, NC, is one of the first to respond after a hurricane rips through the small island community. As she helps search for survivors, she and her fellow responders discover a secret that will haunt Katia the rest of her life.
Lurking beneath the sand dunes is an evil that no one suspected.
A sandy grave not connected to the storm leads investigators to uncover the tomb of a serial killer, literally beneath their feet, hidden for years from the residents of the tight community.
For Katia, it’s personal because she knows one of the killer’s victims. She enlists help from K-9 search expert Paige, and Katia’s on-and-off lover, Zahra, in her determination to find the killer, dubbed Sandman, and stop him from killing again.
What small-town secrets will they unearth in their pursuit of the truth? Will the three women survive the physical, emotional, and psychological attack being waged against their small slice of sand? Or will they become the next victims of Sandman?
You would think being raised on a hog farm we would be used to the high-pitched squeals of death. Some of us are, sure enough. But I’m not, and neither is Gordy. Gordy’s my little brother. Granddaddy says he acts more like a girl than a boy. I don’t think that’s fair. For one thing, not all boys wanna cut things up. For another, girls ain’t always afraid. I’m not. I don’t like the sounds, but I ain’t scared. I pretend to be for Gordy. He’s only ten. He needs somebody on his side.
Read more about Bess and Gordy, HERE.
“My sis’s coming.”
Four words; well, three in her southern speak. It took me almost my first year to get used to the way people in the south run words together. We don’t do that in Colorado.
Toni was younger than my neighbor by two years and separated in thought and actions by an entire continuum. I met her once, the year before.
I picked up my sweet tea glass and laid the rim against my lip. The cool liquid felt good against my tongue. I swallowed. “When?”
I wanted to say more, but it suddenly felt very crowded in my mouth, and very hot inside my belly. I hoped she couldn’t tell. I tried to breathe deep, to send the cool air of the early summer day down to my gut where colors and textures were running together until they could never be pulled apart into what they had been.
Read more about the complicated relationship of these neighbors, HERE.
Ana was two steps off of the escalator when a short round woman, clad in cargo shorts and a navy blue shirt that proclaimed, “I can’t keep a straight face,” greeted her, hand outstretched. “My, don’t you look like a pretty little virgin.”
Ana watched the woman move her eyes from the top of Ana’s five foot two frame to the bottom.
“Thank you, I think.” Ana tried to focus on the woman’s eyes, but the big rainbow smiley face under the words on the woman’s shirt pulled Ana’s eyes away from the woman’s face, framed by wiry short red hair, and closer to her belly, which moved as she spoke. The wide-openness of this woman, the exact opposite of most of the women in Ana’s life, including herself, was just what she needed to remind her of why she was here.
Why is Ana here? Is she a “Pretty little virgin?” Find out HERE.
Thirty-one-year-old Jasmine sat on the balcony of her third floor apartment and looked out at the common area where early morning risers were milling about. It was a chilly March morning, her favorite. She sat in her black iron rocker curled in a blanket with a dog-eared dictionary and a leather-bound journal in her lap, contemplating her life. Her mom had taught her a game years ago that she still played today. “Close your eyes, Jasmine. Open to a random page. Three times. Those are your words for the day. Get that brain moving, mami. Work them into your entry.” She looked down at the blank page and reached for the dictionary. Okay, mom. Let’s see what we get. She flipped open the dictionary, eyes closed, and pointed. Final. Hmmmmm. Okay. Final. She repeated the ritual twice more. Precipice. Struggle. She looked back toward the brightening sky contemplating how she was going to use this trio of words in today’s entry. She let the memory of her past mix with sounds drifting quietly through the cracked opening in the patio door behind her.
Mom,Life is strange. Nothing, I have learned, is final. For years I stood on the edge of a precipice that offered the beauty of darkness and peace. I wanted desperately to free-fall, to stop feeling. Today I stand on the edge of a different abyss –
Read more about Esperanza and her struggles, HERE.