When a cold-case serial killer returns, FBI special agent Fiona Kelly has one last chance to stop him before he claims the prize he’s always wanted—her.
The sight of a goose feather at a murder scene modeled after a children’s poem is enough to make FBI special agent Fiona Kelly’s blood turn to ice. Almost two decades ago, a feather was left with her sister’s body—and with every subsequent victim of the Nursery Rhyme Killer. Now he’s back. Only this time, his latest gruesome murder is a message to the only one who ever got away: Fiona.
Finding “Rhyme” is an obsession that’s fueled Fiona’s career—and destroyed her marriage to fellow FBI agent Asa Kodiak. Now Fiona and Asa have to put their past tensions aside and work together one last time. But Rhyme is watching, and catching this killer may force Fiona to reveal her biggest, darkest secret…the one only he knows.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
I hadn’t read from this author before, but the premise of the story had me hooked from the beginning. Right from the get go the story is intense and constantly driving forward as Asa and Fiona have to work together to try and catch the killer. There weren’t any characters which felt unneeded, everyone was very integral to the story. I was not expecting how dark the story would go, but couldn’t put it down. I obviously don’t want to say too much about the specifics of the story as I don’t want to spoil anything, but if you enjoy shows etc. that focus on serial killers then this would be up your alley. A compelling story/mystery/hunt for a killer along with fully developed characters that drove the story made this one an excellent read. I will definitely be picking up more from this author in the future!
Thank you again to the publisher for sending me a copy of this book in exchange for any honest review.
The small Oregon town of Pear Blossom welcomes the return of its prodigal daughter Ruby McKee. Found abandoned as a baby by the McKee family, Ruby is the unofficial town mascot, but when she and her adoptive sisters start investigating the true circumstances around her discovery, it soon becomes clear that this small town is hiding the biggest, and darkest, of secrets. A raw, powerful exploration of the lengths people go to protect their loved ones, for fans of Lori Wilde and Carolyn Brown.
Ruby McKee is a miracle.
It’s a miracle she survived, abandoned as a newborn baby. A miracle that she was found by the McKee sisters. Her discovery allowed the community of Pear Blossom, Oregon, broken by a devastating crime, to heal. Since then, Ruby has lived a charmed life. But she can’t let go of the need to know why she was abandoned, and she’s tired of not having answers.
Dahlia McKee knows it’s not right to resent Ruby for being special. But uncovering the truth about sister Ruby’s origins could allow Dahlia to carve her own place in Pear Blossom history… if she’s brave enough to follow her heart.
Widowed sister Lydia McKee doesn’t have time for Ruby’s what if’s – when Lydia’s right now is so, so hard. Her husband’s best friend Chase might be offering to share some of the load, but can Lydia ever trust her instincts around him?
Marianne Martin is glad that her youngest sister is back in town, but balancing Ruby’s crusade with the way her own life is imploding is turning into a bigger chore than she imagined. Especially when Ruby starts overturning secrets about the past that Marianne has spent a lifetime trying to pretend don’t exist.
And when the truth about Ruby’s miraculous origins, and the crime from long ago, turn out to be connected in ways no one could have expected, will the McKee sisters band together, or fall apart?
I’ve enjoyed the books I’ve read previously from Maisey Yates, so I was excited to pick this one up. I loved the setting, especially since it’s very similar to my neck of the woods. I did really like the individual personalities and situations of the three sisters, and the look at their past relationships as well as how their current relationships are being shaped through their experiences with each other. I also really enjoyed the mystery element that kept the story going and made it a read that flew by. Maisey Yates’ writing is easy to read and flows wonderfully, which also keeps the story moving at a great pace. All in all this was a read I really enjoyed.
Maisey Yates is a New York Times bestselling author of over one hundred romance novels. Whether she’s writing strong, hard working cowboys, dissolute princes or multigenerational family stories, she loves getting lost in fictional worlds. An avid knitter with a dangerous yarn addiction and an aversion to housework, Maisey lives with her husband and three kids in rural Oregon. Check out her website, maiseyyates.com or find her on Facebook.
Detective Anjelica Henley confronts a series of ritualistic murders in this heart-pounding thriller about race, power and the corrupt institutions that threaten usfor fans of S.A. Crosby and Tami Hoag
When Detective Anjelica Henley is called to investigate the murder of popular preacher in his own church, she discovers a second victim, tortured and tied to a bed in an upstairs room. He is alive, but barely, and his body show signs of a dark religious ritual.
With a revolving list of suspects and the media spotlight firmly on her, Henley is left with more questions than answers as she attempts to untangle both crimes. But when another body appears, the case takes on a new urgency. Unless she can apprehend the killer, the next victim may just be Henley herself.
Drawing on her experiences as a criminal attorney, Nadine Matheson’s new novel deftly explores issues of race, class and justice through an action-packed story that will hold you captive until the last terrifying page.
“We all lost,” said DS Paul Stanford as he held out a Quality Street tin in front of Henley.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Henley asked as she took off her coat and flung it onto a spare desk. “Are there any toffee pennies in there?”
“You might want to keep your coat on. The heating’s on the blink again. Either that or they’ve forgotten all about us and haven’t paid the bill. There’s a hundred and forty pounds in the pot and no toffee pennies.”
“Why is there a hundred and forty quid in there?”
Stanford rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Remember our bet?” he said. “On him. Our illustrious fully fledged Detective Constable Ramouter.”
“What have I done?” Ramouter asked from his position in the kitchen where he’d been eyeing the bottom of a mug with disgust.
“This is ridiculous,” Henley said. Her ears picked up the whirr coming from the electric fan heaters and the ice-fueled wind whistling outside and rattling the glass.
“You lasted, Ramouter; that’s what you did,” said Stanford. “We had a bet on how long you would last in the SCU.”
“And you didn’t think that I would last six months?” asked Ramouter as he picked up another mug.
“Mate, I didn’t think you would last six days. I’ll have a coffee if you’re making.”
“You shouldn’t be so mean to him,” said Henley as she took off her scarf and pushed it against the rotting frame of the window to block the icy draft that was sweeping across her desk.
“How am I being mean? I’m paying him a bloody compliment. After everything that happened, no one would have blamed him if he’d bolted for the door.”
“Well, he didn’t. He’s stuck with it. So, what are you going to do with the money?”
“I could give Ramouter the money. He could spend it on a train ticket to Bradford or something.”
“Now who’s getting soft?” Henley said. The phone on her desk started to ring.
“Or I could book a table at the curry house down the road. It will be teambuilding.”
“Or a normal Friday night out with you falling asleep in your chili chicken.”
“Rude,” Stanford replied as Henley picked up the phone and Ramouter appeared by his side with a mug of steaming coffee for him.
“Right. I see,” said Henley, reaching for the pad of blue Post-it notes on her desk and a ballpoint pen with a chewed cap. “I didn’t realize that we were still on duty. Can you send me the CAD details? No, I can’t get it myself because the system has crashed again. Thank you. Who found the body? Right.”
Henley pulled off the Post-it note and stuck it to the side of Ramouter’s mug. He peeled it off and looked at it quizzically. “Depending on traffic, we should be there in fifteen minutes.”
“You’re not going to have time to finish that,” said Henley, putting the phone down and grabbing her scarf.
“There’s a body in a church?” Ramouter said as he read the note. “Seriously?”
“That’s what it says.”
“Why are we dealing with this?”
“We’re dealing with it because the borough commander decided that the Serial Crime Unit should be helping out Homicide and Serious Crime with their caseload,” Henley replied wearily.
“Anyone would think that we were just sitting here watching Netflix all day,” Ramouter moaned. “Is it even a murder?”
“We won’t know until we get there, will we?”
“Can I say it?” asked Stanford, a grin spreading across his face.
“No, you can’t,” Henley replied. She picked up her bag and headed toward the door, with Ramouter in tow. She knew Stanford well enough to know exactly what he was going to say.
“I bet you a tenner that it was the Reverend Green with a candlestick in the library,” Stanford shouted out as Henley slammed the door shut behind her.
“I’m not telling you again. Step away from the tape.”
“What’s going on?”
“If I knew I was going to spend the afternoon standing out in the freezing cold I would have stayed in bed this morning.”
“I bet that they’ve found a body or something.”
“Look, those CSI lot have turned up.”
“I only popped out for a coffee and now the old bill are saying that I can’t go back into my own office.”
“F this. I’m going home.”
“I’m telling you that they’ve found a body.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t understand these kids. Too busy stabbing each other up. No value for life.”
“You can dress it up as much as you like. It’s Deptford innit.”
The murmurings of the curious and disgruntled crowd met Henley and Ramouter as they walked toward the scene of the crime.
“This is a church?” Ramouter asked as he looked up at the cream-colored facade of the brickwork. “I was expecting something a bit more… I don’t know, church-like. Maybe a steeple. This looks like a bank.”
“It used to be a NatWest when I was seventeen. The space was once cheap to rent. Not so sure now,” Henley replied.
“I did a quick Google search—”
“Of course you did.”
“And there’s another seven churches on the Broadway.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Henley. “Betting shops, churches and chicken shops on literally every London high street.”
Henley and Ramouter held up their warrant cards to the officer behind the police tape. Henley scoped the gathering crowd. Nothing about them raised any alarms, but she knew from experience that some murderers were voyeuristic by nature.
“Look likes Dr. Choi is here,” Ramouter said, pointing out the car of Henley’s friend and the Serial Crime Unit’s favorite pathologist, parked between a police motorbike and small white transit van that had ‘Forensic Services Crime Scene Investigation’ marked in black font on the side.
Henley stopped and looked around the small car park. There were no security cameras. She felt a sense of calm as she walked closer to the crime scene. It was a welcome emotion and a respite from the anxiety that was usually coursing through her veins, which she could keep at bay if she bothered to take her prescription to the chemist. She spotted the police officer that she was looking for leaning against the side of a police car, flipping through the pages of his notebook with a pen in his mouth.
“PC Tanaka? DI Henley from the SCU.”
PC Tanaka looked up and then stood to attention a little bit too quickly as Henley walked toward him.
“Ma’am,” said PC Tanaka.
“This is my colleague, DC Ramouter.”
“Shit,” said PC Tanaka when he dropped his notebook. “Sorry.” He brushed off slush from the cover. “It’s bloody freezing.”
“You were first on scene?” Henley asked.
Tanaka nodded. Henley could tell that he wanted to get it right. Giving a senior officer information about a murder scene was a lot different to dealing with burglaries, domestics and breaking up a fight between a couple of crackheads at the bottom of the high street.
“We, that’s the sarge, Sergeant Rivers, and I were driving back to the station. We’re based around the corner at Deptford station. We had just finished our shifts and was coming back from the McDonald’s up the road…”
PC Tanaka paused and took a breath.
Henley felt sorry for him as nerves or possibly shock overtook him. She saw a look of sympathy on Ramouter’s face as they both waited for PC Tanaka to continue.
“Sorry, guv, I mean ma’am,” said PC Tanaka straightening himself again and lowering the volume on his crackling police radio. “As I said, we were heading back to the station and one of the guys who works in the design agency practically threw himself onto the bonnet of the car. He was screaming about a body. We found the cleaner in hysterics in the staffroom of the agency. She refused to leave and take us to the church. I left her with the sarge and I went into the church and yeah, I won’t forget what I saw.”
Nadine Matheson is a criminal defense attorney and winner of the City University Crime Writing competition. She lives in London, UK.
Rachel lands her dream summer job at a luxurious Tuscan villa. She’s quickly drawn into a new group of rich and beautiful sophisticates and their world of partying, toxic relationships, and even more toxic substances. They’ve never faced consequences, are used to getting everything. But then someone goes too far. Someone dies. And nothing will ever be the same.
Lizzy Barber’s debut A Girl Named Anna won the Daily Mail First Novel Competition. In her newest and even more unputdownable work, she weaves a clever and deadly web of manipulation and desire. A summer thriller rife with back-stabbing, bed-hopping, and murder, Out of Her Depth is a perfect escapist read for fans of Euphoria, J.T. Ellison’s Her Dark Lies, or Rachel Hawkins’s Reckless Girls.
Before you judge me, remember this: a girl died, but it wasn’t my fault.
I know that seems like a pathetic confessional. Even more pathetic because the confession itself has, until this point, never been uttered.
I’ve wanted to. Believe me, I’ve wanted to.
The words have formed themselves on the precipice of my tongue, palpitating with their ugly need to be heard, to make me part of the narrative. To declare to the A-level students when I see it coming up on their news feeds, languorously debating it, now, once more, as it has risen into public consciousness twenty-one years after the fact: I was there.
When they stumble in late to my lesson, less eager to talk of the trapassato prossimo than about who fucked whom at last night’s social, and whether crimped hair really is making a comeback.
I was there.
When they blink at me from faces still etched with yesterday’s makeup, reeking of the top-shelf vodka and menthol cigarettes that their house mistresses will studiously ignore.
I was there.
When they declare they “really struggled with this week’s essay” so they only have notes, and they say, “About that C on the mock exam… Did you know my parents funded the library?” and they don’t even bother to wait for the response as they pull out their laptops and glance at their watches, and they think to themselves, Boring bitch has never lived.
I was there.
I imagine each letter incubating in the saliva that pools in the side of my gums. I picture myself standing, drawing the blinds. An illicit eyebrow raise that will make them pause, look up at me anew, place their laptops on the floor as I edge toward them.
Screw Dante. Let me tell you a real story about Florence.
..….
Now
I am just leaving for dinner when I hear.
People talk of remembering exactly where they were when great events happened: Princess Di, the Twin Towers, Trump. I know this isn’t quite on the same scale, but I’ll remember exactly where I was, all the same.
I’ve had back-to-back lessons all day, but now, at last, I have an hour to myself, the only person left in the languages office. I spend it working on my paper “Pirandello and the Search for Truth” for the Modern Language Review, barely coming up for air. This is the part of academia I enjoy the most: the research, the pulling together of an idea, the rearranging of words and thoughts on the page until they start to take on a life of their own, form arguments, cohesion. I’m hoping that this will be the one they’ll finally agree to publish.
I am the only French and Italian teacher at Graybridge Hall,
have been for the last ten years. When they decided to introduce Italian for the younger years, as well as the older students, I did suggest that perhaps now it would be time to look at hiring someone else. But Ms. Graybridge, the eponymous head—and third of that name to have held the position—reminded me that the school’s ethos was “personal and continuous care for every girl.” Which didn’t really make sense as a rebuttal, but which I knew was shorthand for no, and which she knew—because of certain circumstances under which I assumed my position in the first place—I wouldn’t argue with.
Not that I don’t enjoy teaching. Sometimes. “shaping young minds” and all that seems like it should be a worthy cause. When I was younger, much younger, I imagined maybe I would do a PhD, become a professor. I also thought about diplomatic service, traveling the world as a translator, journalism, maybe, why not? Instead I sit through mock orals on topics as ground-breaking as Food and Eating Out, Cinema and TV, and My Family.
My rumbling stomach is the first signal I have that evening is approaching, and when I tear myself away from my laptop screen to look at the darkening sky, I decide to ditch my planned root around in the fridge, and be sociable instead. Wednesday is quiz night at the pub near school. A group of teachers go every week, the little thrill they get as their cerebral cortexes light up with a correct answer just about making up for a day spent asking the girls to kindly not look at their Apple Watches until break, and maybe not take their makeup out of their Marc Jacobs backpacks until class is over just this once.
I close down my laptop and do a brisk tidy of the room before slipping on my coat and scarf, and am just about to slide my phone into my rucksack when an alert catches my eye—specifically, a name, bouncing out of the BBC News push notification, one I have avoided all thought of for a long while, as much out of circumstance as necessity.
Sebastian Hale.
I freeze in the doorway—phone clutched in my hand as preciously as though it were the Rosetta stone—and look again, not quite believing I saw it right, presuming perhaps it was just wishful thinking, a long hour of screen-staring playing tricks on my eyes, that could have conjured his name before me.
But there it is. That name. Those five syllables. The six vowels and seven consonants that have held more significance for me than any word or sentence written in my entire attempted academic career.
And next to them, three words that throw my whole world off kilter, that see me reaching for the door handle and wrenching it shut, all thoughts of dinner gone from my mind:
Sebastian Hale Appeal Proceeds Tonight.
I sit at my desk, lights off, face illuminated by the white glow of my phone screen, and read someone else’s report of the story I know so well. The story I have lived. I place the phone facedown on the desk, snuffing out its light, and press my palms into the woodwork. The feel of my flesh rubbing against the desk’s smooth surface grounds me, helps me process the report—think.
I knew there had been requests for appeals over the years, all denied by the Corte d’Assise d’Appello. A change of lawyer, probably hoping that new eyes on the case could find something that was missed. But they’ve all come to nothing. How did I miss this?
If he is retried, if there is any possibility that he might be released…everything would change.
After the initial trial, after my part was done and I could finally go home and resume the life I had worked so hard to live. I tried—I really, truly tried—to put it behind me.
That was what she did, after all, and I wanted to follow her lead. I have always wanted to follow her lead. But that time has never truly left me. Sometimes, it will take the smallest thing—the light filtering through a window just so, a particular kind of humid heat, walking past a patisserie and being hit with a waft of baked vanilla sweetness—and it all comes back to me with cut-glass clarity. The sound of our laughter ricocheting off ocher-colored walls. The clink of glasses and the taste of hot weather, raw red wine. The touch of sweat-dewed skin. The scent of pine. The giddy, delightful feeling of being young and happy and having the rest of our lives spooling out in front of us.
These are the good things—the things I want to remember.
The bad things…those I have no choice but to remember.
And now, at the sight of his name alone, I am instantly transported: flying on the wings of a deep déjà vu, away from the cold late-autumn day and the dusty corners of my tired office and back, back, back to that time—that summer.
To those gold-tinged days and months that crescendoed so spectacularly into those final, onyx hours.
To the start.
Lizzy Barber studied English at Cambridge University. Having previously dabbled in acting and film development, she has spent the last ten years as head of marketing for a restaurant group. Her first novel, A Girl Named Anna, won the Daily Mail and Random House First Novel Prize. She lives in London with her family.
Kate, Eddie, and Angus are dazzled by pictures of Viking warriors’ deadly axes and blingy swords in their library books. But when they’re transported back in time to Scandinavia in 991 CE, they must figure out if they have what it takes to become Vikings themselves.
A big, burly Viking called Bjorn initiates the kids in the ways of wielding a battle ax, plundering and looting, and soon they learn all sorts of other tricks as well, including how to get shipshape and navigate the seven seas with just a stone, how to recite rude poems, and how to scare enemies into submission before a battle even begins. Hervor, the haunted shield-maiden, is also on hand to share her tips on how to take off with a handsome ransom and how to make it into Valhalla in the afterlife.
So You Want to Be a Viking? features the field’s latest scholarship and is illustrated throughout with zany illustrations by Japanese cartoonist Takayo Akiyama. Any kid who’s ever daydreamed about being a fierce Norse warrior will love this interactive guide.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
I got this book in an Owlcrate box and have wanted to at least give it a read through since it looked like a fun book for a middle grade audience. The art style is quirky and fun as you go through the book, learning little tidbits about Viking life and beliefs. It’s got a lot of good information that is written in a way that is easily digestible and was a fun read overall. I would definitely recommend it for its intended age group and then they would find the illustrations engaging and the text intriguing.
Hey everyone! I know I haven’t posted a TBR or a card challenge update in a while, so figured now was a good time. I’ve been in quite a bad slump the last few months but I’m trying to get myself out of it, especially since I’m behind on my goal for the year. That means a lot of mood reading, but I’m also trying to get back on my more structured picks such as through the cards.
I’m still working on some card challenges from previous months, but I do have audiobooks available for a number of them, so I’m hopeful I can knock those out pretty easily.
For this month I picked the following:
Nine of Clubs: Anthologies – Love Beyond Body, Space and Time
Ten of Hearts: Rich Pick – So You Want to be A Viking (he wanted to be kind and pick a short book)
Jack: Under 300 Pages – Wolf’s Rain Volume 1
Seven of Spades: Spin a Wheel – Nightbooks
Three of Hearts: Random Color – The Ex Hex
Four of Diamond: NetGalley – This one I’m leaving to just pick one on my list when I get to it.
Other than those I’m going to concentrate on ARCs that I have commitments to and mood read where I can. What’s everyone else reading this month?
In this whimsical book, you will find a treasure chest of twenty-six poems—one for each letter of the alphabet—that illustrate everything about growing up, from the buoyancy of balloons to the nobility of knights.
Much of Come Fly With Me was written and shared by Shayna Bresnick at the age of ten. As a teen, she decided to write about more of life’s adventures and release the entire collection for readers of all ages to enjoy. Come fly through these pages and join her as she explores our world, one special piece at a time.
A portion of the proceeds from the sale of this book will be donated to cancer research and children’s mental health programs.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
This collection of poetry was absolutely adorable and whimsical. I enjoyed the concept of a poem for each letter of the alphabet and found each poem to be varied and fun, but what really made the collection special was the artwork that accompanied each poem. Each image correlated to the poems themselves and give the collection it’s wonderful whimsy. While the poems were simple and to the point, they were a joy to read and very fun in nature.
In the second installment of the award-winning, critically acclaimed Lightfall series, Bea and Cad continue their quest to stop Kest, the mythic bird who stole the sun. Perfect for middle grade fans of Amulet and Avatar the Last Airbender, Lightfall: Shadow of the Bird is another breathtaking journey into the magical world of Irpa, where epic battles and powerful creatures abound.
After a battle that nearly cost them their lives, Bea and Cad awaken in the hidden settlement of the Arsai, mysterious creatures who can glimpse into the future. The Arsai’s vision paints a dire picture for their planet, as the bird Kest Ke Belenus–now awoken from a restless slumber–threatens to destroy all the Lights of Irpa. Desperate for a solution, Bea and Cad seek out the help of a water spirit known as Lorgon, whose ancient wisdom may help them find a way to take down Kest and save Irpa from utter destruction.
But when their time with Lorgon presents more questions than answers, Bea and Cad must decide what’s more important . . . stopping Kest or uncovering the truth.
⭐⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 4 out of 5.
I was excited to see that the next volume in this series was out and had to grab it as quickly as I could. It was nice to return to the world I enjoyed in the last volume and to continue the story. I will say that in this one I didn’t love Cad as a character as much, he seemed so singularly focused that in most cases he was blinded by his one goal. I did enjoy the route of the story itself and the further information we are given about the world and what has happened in the past. I’m excited to see what happens going forward!
Celtic folklore and modern moxie collide as an ancient pact between worlds is broken. The sinister forces of Faerie have slipped their shackles, and the Black Dog walks abroad this night…
On the rural Isle of Man, aspiring singer-songwriter Kay Farragher dreams of escaping her humdrum life. But she’s about to get more than she bargained for – and some bargains are not to be trusted…
Cold Iron is supernatural thriller from Andy Diggle (Green Arrow: Year One, The Losers, Hellblazer) and Nick Brokenshire (Star Wars, Amelia Cole, The Once And Future Queen).
⭐⭐⭐
Rating: 3 out of 5.
I was interested in checking out this series as soon as I saw it featured Celtic mythology. While it’s only a single issue right now, the introduction to the story did lay some foundation and definitely let to some intrigue and anticipation for the continuation of the story. It’s hard when it’s a single issue to really get enough of the story to hold interest, but I felt this one gave enough to at least get me wanting to continue and see what happens.
“My Big Fat Greek Wedding” but make it Latinx when a Puerto Rican chef and an Irish American whiskey distiller are blackmailed into a fake relationship by their scheming octogenarian grandfathers.
Ain’t nobody got time for octogenarian blackmail, especially Kamilah Vega. Convincing her parents to update the family’s Puerto Rican restaurant and enter it into The Fall Foodie Tour is quite enough on her plate, muchas gracias. And with the gentrification of their Chicago neighborhood, the tour looks like the only way to save the place. Too bad her abuelo made himself very clear; if she wants to change anything in his restaurant, she must marry the one man she can’t stand: his best friend’s grandson.
Liam Kane spent a decade working his ass off to turn his family’s distillery into a contender. Now he and his grandfather are on the verge of winning a national competition. Then Granda hits him with a one-two punch: he has cancer and has his heart set on seeing Liam married before it’s too late. And his Granda knows just the girl… yup, you guessed it, Kamilah Vega.
If they refuse, their grandfathers will sell the building that houses their businesses, ruining all their well-laid plans. With their legacies and futures on the line, Kamilah and Liam plan to outfox the devious duo, faking an engagement until they both get what they want. But the more time they spend together, the more they realize how much there is to love. Soon, they find themselves tangled up in more than either of them bargained for.
Kamilah Vega stomped up the short entryway and yanked the heavy glass door open with more force than necessary. A strong wind, the type only ever experienced in Chicago, grabbed a hold of the door and pushed it back so roughly that it made a loud bang. The front-desk secretary jumped and gave her a dirty look, but Kamilah barely noticed. Her attention went immediately to the two bodies slumped in the love seat outside the director’s office.
She tried her best to keep the anger out of her voice because she already knew how the two troublemakers in front of her would react to it. “What did you do now?”
That garnered an immediate and very predictable response of “Nothing” from both occupants. It was a lie, of course. It always was whenever these two started claiming innocence in unison.
Kamilah rubbed both hands over her face and let out the type of deep and weary sigh that someone should let out at midnight after a hard and long day—not at eight thirty in the morning. She dropped her hands. “Don’t you think it’s time to stop with the shenanigans? You’re eighty years old, Abuelo.”
Her grandfather gasped in outrage at the mention of his age and scowled at her. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking up all over the place like a fuzzy baby monkey, making him look adorable despite the baleful glare.
Looking decidedly more put together, even in his tattered denim overalls and faded flannel, Abuelo’s roommate and best friend gave her his own version of the stink eye. “You’re only as old as you feel,” Killian replied in his deep Irish brogue.
“And that means what? That you two feel twelve?”
Before they could answer, the door to the office opened, and there stood Maria Lopez-Hermann, the director of Casa del Sol Senior Living. “Hello, Kamilah. I’m glad you were able to come on such short notice. I know you were probably in the middle of morning prep at the restaurant.”
Kamilah didn’t bother telling Maria that after closing the night before, she’d slept through her many alarms and was late to work. Now, thanks to the two hooligans next to her, she was going to be very, very late. Her employers wouldn’t care about her excuses. It didn’t matter that they were her parents. Kamilah was a Vega and an employee, so her main responsibility was to the family restaurant. Always.
Maria motioned for them to enter her office, and they filed in. Kamilah purposely let Abuelo and Killian sit in the two chairs in front of Maria’s desk, while she stood behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders. It was the same stance her mami had taken the time she and her cousin Lucy had got in trouble for skipping gym class for two weeks.
Abuelo crossed one leg over the other and tucked his hands under his armpits, while Killian leaned back, spread his legs wide, and let his arms hang over the short back of the barrel chair. Kamilah once again marveled at their ability to look summarily unconcerned while she was sweating bullets, and she hadn’t even done anything.
Maria took a seat behind her desk and interlocked her fingers, resting them on top of her desktop calendar. “I thought I had made myself clear after the bird incident that being banned from pet therapy would be the least of your worries if there were any more pranks pulled.”
Kamilah closed her eyes and shook her head. It was a variation on what she’d said right before giving the Devious Duo a monthlong suspension from bingo for starting an illicit gambling ring; before that, there was a security-enforced curfew after the strip-poker fiasco. “What did they do now?” she asked, well aware that it was the third or fourth time she’d asked the question that morning and had yet to get a response.
“This morning we had two residents with high blood pressure show alarmingly high readings after breakfast. We did some investigating and found that Mr. Kane and Mr. Vega had snuck into the cafeteria last night and replaced the decaffeinated coffee grounds with fully caffeinated espresso.”
“Abuelo!” Kamilah exclaimed.
“They don’t have any proof it was us,” Killian interjected. “They just want to blame us for everything that happens in this godforsaken prison.”
“Prison,” Kamilah scoffed. “You two have more freedom than anyone else in here.” It was true. Because of their relatively good physical health and stable mental health, Abuelo and Killian didn’t require as much care as many of the other residents. It was more as if Casa del Sol were their college dorm rather than their senior-care facility. It didn’t help that the two tended to view the senior-living center’s strict rules as friendly suggestions.
“Your feelings aside,” Maria continued, “we do have proof. The cameras that we installed in the cafeteria and kitchen caught very clear images of you both.”
Abuelo softly damned the cameras. “Condenados cámaras.”
But Killian had other concerns. “You hear that, Papo? Freedom,” he harrumphed.
“They won’t even let me drink café con leche,” Abuelo added. “They give me light brown poop water and call it coffee.”
“It’s decaf with a splash of coconut milk, and your doctor says it’s better for your heart,” Kamilah pointed out. Abuelo’s doctor also said his congestive heart failure was very treatable as long as he took his meds, stuck to a heart-healthy diet, and remained relatively active. Of course, Abuelo paid him no attention.
As if on cue, Abuelo made a noise of disdain. “Ese doctor no sabe na’. Cuando me duele el pecho, me pongo un poco de Vaporú y ya.”
Kamilah sucked her teeth more at the claim that his doctor knew nothing than at the miraculous healing quality of Vicks VapoRub. All Latinx people knew Vaporú was the cure for everything from a common cold to heartbreak.
Abuelo looked at the director of the complex with petulance. “And when are you going to start serving carne frita con mofongo?” Abuelo continued, because apparently he was on a roll. “I’m sick of eating all these steamed vegetables like a damn rabbit.”
Maria leaned forward. “Mr. Vega, if you are so unhappy with Casa del Sol, you are welcome to find another living facility to reside in.”
Kamilah jumped in before her hardheaded grandfather could ruin the best thing he had going for him. “Maria, could I talk to these two alone for a few minutes before you lower the hammer?”
Used to their antics, Maria nodded her head and left the office.
Kamilah sank to her haunches between their chairs and waited until both men looked at her. “You guys have to stop this,” she said in her voice of reason tone. She placed a hand on each of theirs. “I don’t have time for you to be staging weekly high jinks like you’re the Little Rascals. I can’t be here all the time making sure that you don’t get kicked out.”
Abuelo turned his face away. “Nobody told you to come act like our mother.”
Killian nodded. “We are grown men.”
“Bullshite,” a deep voice sneered from too damn close, startling Kamilah right as she felt a presence looming over her.
A girl who grew up on the West Side of Chicago and with four tormenting older brothers knew to strike first and ask questions later.
“Not today,” Kamilah declared in her You-Messed-Withthe-Wrong-Bitch voice, spinning around in her crouched position, morphing into famous Chicago heavyweight champion Ernie Terrell, and swinging her fist at her would-be attacker’s crotch.
The moment her fist connected with the very sensitive part of the man’s anatomy and she heard his pained “Son of a bitch,” she knew she’d made a grave mistake.
Oh dear God, no. Not him. Please don’t let him be here.
Meanwhile, Tweedledum and Tweedledee laughed their asses off like a pair of demented hyenas.
When he fell to his knees, Kamilah suddenly found herself face-to-face with the exact man she’d just prayed wasn’t there.
Big, broad, and brooding, Killian’s grandson didn’t resemble him in the least. Where Killian had a round face and wide nose with a bit of a hook at the end, Liam looked like something conjured out of the tie me up and spank me books her sister-in-law was always reading. His face was all sharp angles, set off by dark stubble, a stern mouth, and cool eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” He wheezed. “You can’t just go around dick-punching people.”
The hyenas laughed harder.
Kamilah’s jaw dropped. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked, incredulous. “What’s wrong with you, coming up on me like that? You don’t sneak up on a woman and expect not to get junk-punched. Especially not a woman born and raised in Humboldt Park.”
His French-blue eyes narrowed under dark brows. His nostrils flared while he inhaled deeply. That was Liam speak for I’d really like to tell you off right now, but not going to engage.
Kamilah saw that look often. Whatever. He pissed her off too.
“She has a point, lad,” Killian said, the amusement still thick in his voice. “You deserved that whack to the wanker.” He stood and pulled his grandson to his feet.
Kamilah found herself once again eye level with Liam’s crotch. She quickly stood and turned away from him, her face flushing with embarrassment. She met Abuelo’s gaze.
He arched his brows. “Nena, aren’t you going to apologize to him?”
“Me? Apologize to him?” Kamilah let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “He should apologize for sneaking in here and scaring me.”
“He didn’t sneak. The door was open.”
Kamilah didn’t answer. She should own up to her part and apologize, but her pride wouldn’t let her. Pride was the only thing protecting her from Liam. She couldn’t let it go now.
Liam stared, expressionless. Then he ignored her comment completely. “Granda, what did you do now?”
Kamilah hated when he ignored her.
Killian opened his mouth, but Liam cut him off. “And don’t say nothing, because I know you better than that.”
Before Killian could come up with a story, Maria walked back into the office. “They threw away all of the decaf coffee and replaced it with Café Bustelo espresso.”
“What the hell, Granda? You are willing to get kicked out of this place over coffee? Seriously?”
“It’s not the coffee. It’s the principle,” Killian replied, his nose in the air.
Liam threw up his hands and let out a sound of exasperation. “What principle? That the people you pay to take care of you actually take care of you?”
Killian crossed his arms. “You don’t get it because you’re young.”
“I don’t get it because it’s nonsense. Granda, where do you plan to go if you get kicked out? You sold your house to move in here with Papo.”
At the mention of the house he once shared with the love of his life, Killian’s face fell. That had been his wife’s dream house, and Kamilah had always suspected that he hadn’t really been ready to sell it.
“If you get thrown out, you can’t live with me, Granda.”
That was too much. Kamilah certainly wasn’t in agreement with their troublemaking, but Liam didn’t have the right to speak to his grandfather that way. Not after all Killian had done for him. “Because God forbid Super Loner Liam has to allow someone into his hermit cave.”
He turned on her. “Excuse me?”
“I’m saying that if they did get asked to leave, which we don’t know is going to happen, it wouldn’t kill you to let your grandpa move in with you. That’s what family does.”
“I was referring to the fact that he can’t walk that many stairs anymore, but I guess, as the almost thirty-year-old woman living with her parents, I should take your word on that other stuff.”
Kamilah scowled. He didn’t have to bring up her living situation like that. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? It’s like it’s not a big deal for us, because I’m not a miserable person who is extremely difficult to be around.”
Liam scowled at her. “Don’t you have somewhere to be? Like, off making someone else’s day shitty?”
Rude. Her pulse sped up. “I usually would, but since I already started with you, I can check it off my to-do list and it’s not even ten o’clock. Thanks a bunch.” She added a sweet smile.
“Glad to be of service.”
“Would you two just get a room already?” Killian said. Liam turned his dark look on his grandfather, and she made a disgusted noise.
“What?” Killian shrugged. “All I’m saying is you two fight like a couple.”
“Yeah.” Abuelo added his two cents. “You should just get married already.”
There was a beat of silence, and then both octogenarians’ eyes lit with the same mischievousness. The kind that had no doubt led to all of them being in their current situation.
You know what? Let’s get back to the reason we are here.” She faced Maria. “They may not look it, but I know Abuelo and Killian are sorry for the danger they put their fellow residents in, and next time they will think more about the consequences before they do something so incredibly stupid.”
Maria let loose a world-weary sigh, much like the one Kamilah had released earlier. She gave a small eye roll while shaking her head because they both knew Kamilah was full of shit. “Their cafeteria privileges have been revoked for the next two weeks. Prepackaged paper-bag meals will be sent to their apartment, or their families will have to provide their meals for them.”
“Is that supposed to be a punishment?” Abuelo asked.
“With the stuff they serve here, it feels more like a rew—”
Kamilah covered his mouth with her hand. “That seems totally fair.” In her head she was freaking out because she just knew she was going to be the one providing said meals, and she did not have the time for all that. “I’ll make sure they get fed.” She felt Abuelo’s mouth curve behind her hand, and she saw Killian’s pleased smile. “Don’t get too happy,” she warned. “You think they denied you? Just wait to see what I have in store. When I’m done with you, you are going to wish you could eat rabbit food.”
They were completely unfazed by her threats. Probably because they knew Kamilah was a crème brûlée—right below a crackly hard surface, she was really just pudding.
Echoing her thoughts, Liam scoffed. “As if you aren’t going to end up making them three-course meals complete with dessert.”
Kamilah fought the urge to stick her tongue out at him like a six-year-old. Instead, she ignored him. “I have to go to work, but for the love of God, please behave yourselves today,” she begged the duo of deviants.
She was almost positive she heard Killian mumble, “We make no promises.”
Natalie Caña writes contemporary romances that allow her to incorporate her witty sense of humor and her love for her culture (Puertominican whoop whoop!) for heroines and heroes like her. A PROPOSAL THEY CAN’T REFUSE is her debut novel.
The Wandering Wordsmith 