Josh Lanyon's Blog

 It's embarrassing to admit I STILL haven't managed to get the book listed on Google. What in the world am I doing all day?! But the book is live everywhere else--in fact, it's even available in print. So, hey, maybe I'm finally getting the hang of this thing called publishing. 

I think I mentioned Kale Williams will do the audio (probably in December). 

Anyway, it's live. my first new release since...November? GULP. 

Next up, The 12.2 Per Cent Solution. And then, with whatever time is left in the year, The Medicine Man Murders. I just don't write as quickly as I used to. It's just the way it is now. It's frustrating to you. It's frustrating to me. It's not that I wouldn't love to be able to crank out 13 books a year like I did back in the old days. It's just not possible. 

Anyway, KILL YOUR DARLINGS

BLURB:

At this mystery conference, murder is more than just anotherplot twist...

 

Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of thejob.

Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spentyears curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscriptis handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collideswith fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pilesubmission—it’s a direct threat.

U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hillall those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly themysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what?

With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on thehorizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detectiveFinn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has alot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussionpanels.

 

EXCERPT:

It was much cooler and breezier down by the water. Sea lionsbarked from the far rocks, and gulls
wheeled overhead, their cries sharp andfleeting.

Finn’s back was to me, and as I grew nearer, I saw that hewas on his phone. Or had been. The call seemed to have ended.

The waves didn’t completely drown out my approach—or, morelikely, Finn possessed more situational awareness than most people—and heglanced around.

His wary expression changed infinitesimally, but then heheld up his phone and smiled ruefully. “The kiddo,” he said, as if our a.m.encounter at the pool had never happened.

The kiddo was Finn’s son, Byron, who was in hisfreshman year at UCLA.

I asked automatically, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. He’s a little homesick, I think.”

My understanding was UCLA was less than an hour from home,but being homesick is not something I know anything about. I left Steeple Hill theday after I turned eighteen, and I never looked back.

I nodded and said, “Finn, I owe you an apology. You haveevery right to work with whomever you choose. Lila’s an excellent editor. Itprobably is time to work with someone who can look at the series withfresh eyes.”

His eyebrows rose. He remarked, “That was interesting, thismorning. Outside of discussing books and having sex, I think that was the firstcompletely unguarded reaction I’ve ever had from you.”

He spoke calmly, but the effect of that almost clinical tonewas as cold and hard as if I’d been knocked down by one of those waves poundingthe shore.

I was still trying to absorb it, when he added, “But, no. I’mthe one who needs to apologize. I blindsided you. I’m sorry, Keir. You didn’tdeserve that. I should have expressed my concerns two weeks ago.”

Expressed my concerns. Jesus. That was formal. Maybehe should have filled them out in triplicate while he was at it.

I didn’t say that, of course. I took another couple of stepsforward, close enough to catch the scent of that herbal aromatic aftershave,close enough to reach out and touch him, though I was pretty sure I’d nevertouch him again. “Yeah. That might have helped. What are your concerns?Because the last time we were together—”

“Why didn’t you tell me your father had died?” heinterrupted.

It was so far out of left field, my jaw dropped.

“I didn’t know you knew him,” I shot back.

“Another gut reaction,” he observed. “You’re offended. Andangry.”

What the hell? I was starting to get angry. “I wasn’tclose to my father. And that, you do know.”

“I do know that. Yes. That’s the extent of what I know aboutyour family.”

I spread my hands in genuine bafflement. What the hell didmy family have to do with anything?

Finn said, “I’m not sure how to put this without hurtingyou. More than I already have. And that’s the last thing I want to do. Ireally…really care for you. It’s not about writing or my career, thoughyes, I’m grateful. I do feel—will always feel—that I owe you. A lot.”

“I don’t want gratitude.”

“I know.” He drew a hard breath. “And that’s not what thisis. This is about…us.”

He stopped again. This time I couldn’t think of anything tosay.

At least I hadn’t imagined that there had been, briefly, us.

Finally, Finn said, “You’re a good friend. You’re intelligentand charming and…insightful. You’re generous. I think you’re genuinely kind.”

Insightful.

I said through stiff lips, “That’s funny. I thought you werekind, too.”

His eyes, green as the waves pounding the sand, flickered. Ithit home, I think, but he hardened his jaw. “I like being with you. And I didwant—for a long time I hoped maybe there would be more.”

My heart was slamming against my ribs in heavy thuds. If I’dbeen hooked to a cardiac monitor, I think alarm bells would have been goingoff. I could almost hear the panicked jangle of my emotions, like windchimescaught in a hurricane. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say. I wantedto walk away. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

“But there’s something…”

Wrong with you.

Those were the words he was looking for.

What he said instead was, “…going on with you. It isn’tanything new. I realized it a long time ago. At first, I thought you were justvery reserved. Then I thought it was hard for you to trust. That you’d beenhurt. I told myself you had a fear of intimacy. But it’s more than that, isn’tit?”

I said tightly, “You tell me, Dr. Phil.”

He didn’t bite. “We were together for almost four days andyou never once mentioned your father had died the week before. I know you weren’tclose, but there should have been some reaction.”

“How would you know, a week after the fact, what reaction Ihad?”

“You also didn’t mention you’d been in California for hisfuneral. We’d been talking about seeing more of each other, seeing wherethis…friendship might lead.”

“That trip was before,” I protested. “Before wetalked about any of that.”

In fairness, we hadn’t even really talked about thatin any practical sense. We’d just sort of agreed that we both wanted more andthat Monterey might be the time to explore some of those possibilities.

“I know.” He seemed genuinely apologetic—but also absolutelyadamant. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to put it into words without— WhatI’m trying to say is, I’ve known—felt—for a long time that something isn’tright. Finding out about your father’s death crystallized it for me.”

I made a sound of disbelief.

“My instinct is you’re…hiding something. And I’m too old towake up and find myself in a-a Dateline special.”

I think it was random, a shot in the dark, a little flickerof black humor. Or maybe it really was a cop—former cop’s—instinct?

But it hit home, hit the target dead center. Bullseye.

I couldn’t move a muscle, couldn’t breathe for a moment.

No small part of my horror was the belated understanding ofwhat it would have meant to drag someone else—to have dragged Finn—into themess I found myself in.

I guess I’d gotten away with it for so long, I’d startedbelieving I really had escaped. The risk to someone else hadn’t occurred to meuntil Finn articulated it. But yes. If—and now it was feeling more like when—thetruth about Dom’s death came out, the wrecking ball wouldn’t just hit me. Itwould smash into whoever was sharing my life. I didn’t want that. Would neverhave been okay with that. I would never knowingly have done anything to hurtFinn.

As Finn stared at me, realization slowly dawned on his face.He looked stunned. And then aghast.

He said incredulously, “I was thinking more on the lines of secretwife.”

“No, you weren’t.”

His voice dropped; I couldn’t hear it over the crash ofwaves hitting the shore. But I saw his lips form soundless words, “What thehell, Keiran?”

I had no answer. What could I say? To Finn, of all people.

The idea that we were going to build some kind ofHappily Ever After? I must have been out of my mind.

I could feel a weird smile forming. It wasn’t humor. I don’tknow what it was aside from an inappropriate response to extreme nervoustension. But I could see Finn’s eyes getting darker and bleaker.

“Is this funny to you?” he asked.

I turned and walked away.

 

WHERE TO BUY:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Smashwords

Kobo

Fourthwall 

Every six months or so I like to let you know what's going on. 🤪

Let's see... My last post was at the end of the Advent Calendar. So...

Well, we started a new year. How's that working out for you? 

The last wide release I had was Ghosted. JF Harding is doing the audiobook on that one, which should be finished by the end this month. Fingers crossed. 

I started The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution, but stalled. I'll be honest, I just didn't have the heart for a funny book. No laughs in me. And if you've been following along, you know why. It's been a hellacious couple of years. 

However, I seem to have finally shaken the rain clouds off, so this month I'll be back to work on The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution. No preorders. No promises. But it's next on the list as far as wide releases.

I have been writing, of course, and I do have a new book out. Well, available for preorder: Kill Your Darlings  (The preorder is listed everywhere except Google, but I haven't had a chance to update my website or do a universal link--sorry about that! I'll try to update shortly)

At this mystery conference, murder is more than just another plot twist...

Nobody likes conferences, but they’re part of the job.

Millbrook House senior editor Keiran Chandler has spent years curating the best voices in crime lit, but when an unsolicited manuscript is handed to him at the Noir at the Shore mystery conference, truth collides with fiction. I Know What You Did is more than just another slush pile submission—it’s a direct threat. 

U.N. Owen seems to know what really happened in Steeple Hill all those years ago. Who is Owen? How does he know these things? Clearly the mysterious author is after more than a book deal. But what? 

With a potentially career-ending publishing merger on the horizon, the end of his affair with bestselling author and former homicide detective Finn Scott, and not so subtle threats from someone in his past, Keiran has a lot bigger problems than coming up with something witty to say on discussion panels. 

The book is being released on the 27th of this month. It's already been delivered to Patreon subscribers so, yes, it's coming out on schedule. It will also be available in print. And Kale Williams has been contracted to do the audio (which I'm so excited about -- it's been WAY too long since we've worked together!) 

OH. SALES. 

So there are several sales going on right now that I should mention: At B&N I've got a BOGO (Buy One Get One free) for three of my series: The Adrien English Mysteries, Secrets and Scrabble, and Holmes & Moriarity. If you've wanted to try one of my series--or fill in the blanks of your collection--this is a pretty good opportunity. 

Also the Holmes & Moriarity series has been knocked down to $2.99 each on Amazon. Maybe the AE series as well? And Murder in Pastel is also $2.99 (when you read Kill Your Darlings, you'll understand.) Actually, MIP is also $2.99 on B&N.

Also, after consulting with the patrons, I've decided to make a couple of exclusives--the Secrets and Scrabble Jack POV novellas (in ebook and audio)-- available through Fourthwall. The compromise is that you pay more than you would if I were to make these wide (which I don't plan to do) BUT pay less than if you actually subscribed to Patreon. 

The next wide release after The 12.2 Per-Cent Solution will be The Medicine Man Murders (Art of Murder 6). Again, life is just too unpredictable right now to commit to preorders or promises. But that is a book that will absolutely happen. (I mean, unless something untoward happens to me.) 

Let's see. What else? It's swimming weather and we're out in the pool almost every evening. The hummingbirds are buzzing around demanding greater portions of nectar and I've got about 15 plants I need to re-pot STAT. We cleaned out our library and donated 16 boxes of books to our local library. And in about two weeks our dear friends from Finland will be arriving.  

I hope you're well. I hope you're happy and healthy and creative (or just doing what you love).

Talk to you soon--or in six months (whichever comes first) 😄

 

Happy Happy, my friends! 

Hope your holidays thus far have been all you hoped for. For me, well, I knew it would be weird and painful, and it has been. But I'm getting through it. There have certainly been some lovely moments, and plenty of happy memories. Some laughter. Some tears. Pretty much as expected.

Anyway. I'm looking forward to next year! How about you?

In the meantime, we have winners!

From Advent Calendar Day 5 - The winner of the Secrets and Scrabble Captain's Seat wall paper velveteen blanket is... Natasha!

From Advent Calendar Day 10 - The four winners of the 110-piece Secrets and Scrabble jigsaw puzzle "Invitation to Come Aboard" are... Loretta, Pauperjo, Ella, and Elyxyz. 

From Advent Calendar Day Day 17 - Our winners of the A Winter Romance collection are everyone who commented on the post. Your download link is here. 

(There is a catch though. The giveaway expires on January 2nd. So hurry up and claim your copy!

And, finally, Advent Calendar Day 20 - The 5 winners of subscriptions to my Patreon $5.00 tier (Murder, My Sweet) for one full year are...Karan, MistakingDreamsforPromises, Catrin, Vell, and CathyR

I would love to gift a subscription to each and every one of you, of course (but that would sort of defeat the purpose of Patreon). 

Now, to receive your gifts, please remember NOT to put your personal contact info here in the comments! Contact me through the email on my website or even Facebook. Of course, if you're on Patreon, DM me there. I do need physical addresses to ship several of these gifts out, so don't forget. :-) 

This concludes 2024's Advent Calendar. Once again, thank you so much to everyone who took part, from the talented authors and others to the generous and supportive readers. I hope our annual tradition brings a few sweet moments and happy memories during the often stressful holiday season. Thank you so much for reading along!

Wishing you the happiest of New Years!

 

Merry Christmas! Love and Joy come to you, and to you... Well, not sure about the wassail this year. But I do sincerely wish you every happiness this holiday season and all through the New Year!

For the last three (four?) years, I've had high hopes that the New Year will be better than the former, and for the last three (four?) years, the New Year has been worse. Significantly worse. So I'm tempering my hopes for 2025. But I am hopeful. And there's still plenty to be grateful for, not least the fact that, for whatever reason, I'm super  energetic and highly productive right now. I'm feeling creative in a way I haven't for a long time. I have no idea why this would  be, but so it is. 

I want to thank all the wonderful and talented people who helped make up the calendar this year: Ulla, Byron, Natasha, Meg, and Almathea. Your gifts were truly appreciated! The calendar would not be nearly as enjoyable without your contributions.

Thank you, also, to everyone who took the time to read and comment and enjoy our festive offerings! And, of course, thank you for continuing to support my writing whether through buying my books or subscribing to my Patreon. It is all very much appreciated.

I'll be sharing our winners in the next day or so! 

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

 Wellllll, I had something different in mind for today, but I simply ran out of time. I can't believe it's already Christmas Eve. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN? 

But happen it did, so we'll have to make the best of it. So today's offering is a favorite holiday song from that childhood classic Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I hope all your wishes come true tomorrow!

 

So today is my first attempt at creating an online jigsaw puzzle. 

I have no idea if this will actually work. I'm going to share the picture, because it took me 620 seconds and I actually knew what the image was supposed to be 😂

Anyway, the picture was inspired by the Secrets and Scrabble series (as you probably guessed). 

You can find the puzzle here (let's hope). 

 
Kyle and Adam – MURDER IN PASTEL

“New York City!” I echoed right on cue.

Adam said, “Have you ever been?”

“Well, no.” I didn’t add that I’d never had any desire togo. I especially didn’t have any desire to go around the holidays. I asked reluctantly,“I guess you want to go?”

“I think it would be good to get away from Steeple Hill fora bit.” He said seriously, “I think it would do you good.”

I shrugged. It had been six months since, well, everything Ithought I’d known had been turned upside down. Painful revelations. Hardtruths. Followed by probably the happiest six months of my entire life. I trulyloved Adam. He truly loved me. And that was as much of a happily ever after asanyone could hope for.

I didn’t see the relevance of a change of scenery.

Adam said slowly, “You don’t like the idea?”

“You know me. I like home and hearth.” I listened to myselfand added hastily, “But if I was to go to New York, I’d want to go withyou.”

Adam’s eyes tilted up when he smiled. He said ruefully, “That’sa very tactful non-answer.”

I did a little belated soul searching. For the past sixmonths our lives had revolved around me. What was good for me. What I wanted.Adam was so generous, so kind, it was too easy to take all that unselfishnessfor granted. To take advantage.

I said with a firmness I did not feel, “My answer is, Ithink you’re right. I think it would be good for us to get away. I think itwould do both of us good.”

He looked surprised, which confirmed my suspicion that I wasturning into a selfish asshole. “Is that the official answer or your realanswer?”

I shook my head. “O ye of little faith. Are you booking thistrip, or am I?”

 

 

Wisely, Adam booked our trip. Otherwise, we’d have spentfive days in a nice hotel room enjoying room service, streaming movies, andfucking like minks.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Adam’s idea of Christmas in New York was a little moreambitious and a lot more romantic, given that it also entailed thefucking like minks part, but included exploring Greenwich Village and the HighLine, trips to The Met and MoMA where I got to see others responding to myfather’s paintings in person.

“What do you think?” Adam asked after the crowd thinned and westood in front of a moody study of the beach below Drake Trent’s cottage. The dockwas still intact in the seascape. I stared at it as if waiting for the cracksto appear.

“I don’t remember this one.” It was one of this older works,probably painted during the time I’d been hospitalized.

Adam was still looking at me, still waiting for somethingmore.

I said, “It’s…quiet. It feels sad, like he was…”

I had never thought of my father as anything but strong andself-sufficient. Most of his work felt restless and fierce. But there wassomething lonely and melancholy in this moody swirl of clouds and waves andshifting sand.

“He was afraid he was going to lose you that summer.”

I smiled faintly. “I don’t think all that stormy weatherwould be over me. Unless he was worried about having to stick close to home.”

Adam raised his brows, but didn’t argue.

He really did try to think of everything. We paid a visit tothe New York Public Library, as well as fitting in a shopping trip at theStrand Bookstore with its legendary “18 miles of books”—a mile of which I’dhave been willing to bring home if I could have fit it into our luggage.

“Tell me if any of this gets to be too much for you,” Adam hadsaid seriously. That was the night we arrived, when we were having dinner atour hotel. “I don’t want you to push yourself because you think I’ll bedisappointed if we don’t do everything this trip.”

“Yeah, of course,” I promised.

Thanks to the new medication regimen and the drastic reductionof attempts on my life, I was feeling better than I had in months. Maybe years.

I did want the trip to be everything Adam wanted. But I alsoknew the main thing Adam wanted was for me to be glad we’d made the trip.

Imagine my surprise when it turned out I was glad.

I don’t know how I’d feel about New York at any other timeof year, but in winter, at least during Christmas, it was kind of magical. Andthat was even before it snowed. Every street, from Fifth Avenue to smallneighborhood blocks, was lit up like, well, you know. Stars twinkled overhead,glittered in windows, flashed and sparkled in trees and bushes, all of itreflecting and glowing on the snow. Nothing like Steeple Hill. Not the lights.Not the snow. Not the feeling of excitement crackling in the hazy air.

Yes, the air felt different. Smelled different too. Theordinary city smells masked by the more pleasant scents of roasted chestnutsand candied nuts, the piny smell of the fresh Christmas trees for sale lining sidewalks,the mouthwatering aromas of cinnamon rolls and gingerbread cookies drifting fromcafes and bakeries.

Every day there was some new little adventure. We wanderedthe market stalls at Bryant Park Winter Village, we drank cocoa and watched iceskaters, we gawked at the holiday window displays at Macy’s and Saks FifthAvenue with all the other tourists, we listened to the street musicians andcarolers, and we even did that most cliché of cliché things and went for ahorse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park.

Which, it pains me to admit was pretty fun.

“Like Elf,” Adam said, grinning.

“Or The Lady from Shanghai,” I said.

“Your other favorite Christmas movie!”

So, yes, we did all the things.

I loved it. And I loved it more because Adam loved it. SometimesI couldn’t help remembering that Adam had met Brett in New York. And that hehad perhaps, probably, done all these things with Brett too.

But did that make it any less special?

 

 

At night we returned to our lovely suite in our lovelyhotel, and curled up in our nest of blankets and pillows and talked.

Talked and kissed and made love and talked some more.

We talked about the usual things: Vince and Jenny’s divorce,about Jenny’s new boyfriend, about Joel’s new boyfriend, about Micky’s decisionto buy a retired circus donkey, which had turned into two circus donkeys—both ofwhich apparently moonlighted as escape artists. We talked about Adam selling his house in San Francisco and moving to Steeple Hill. Living in Steeple Hill year-round. Permanently. We talked about the upcomingtrials.

We talked about things we rarely talked of. Brett. MyFather. The past. The future.

On Christmas we had dinner at One if by Land, Two if by Sea,an historic 18th-century carriage house in the West Village. The building hadonce been owned by Aaron Burr, and according to legend, Burr and his daughterTheodosia haunted the place. There was no sign of them that night, though. Noghosts of any kind. By then, I think we had talked our own ghosts out. Anyway,the restaurant was charming and intimate with exposed brick walls, fireplaces,and grand chandeliers, and meal—and the wine list—were superb.

Adam and I toasted Cosmo and we toasted the future and wetoasted to Adam’s upcoming exhibition in the spring.

No question about it. It was the best Christmas ever.

That night, as we lay in each other’s arms, watching thehuge moon meandering past our window, drifting through the night like an untethered balloon, I whispered, “Are you happy, Adam?”

He opened his eyes, and I could see their colorless shine ashe studied me. “Yes.”

There was a childish, insecure part of me that wanted to askthat stupidest of questions: happier than you were with him?

I didn’t ask it. But Adam said quietly, reflectively, “Ididn’t know it was possible to be happy like this. To be so happy, you actuallyknow that you’re happy.”

I made a thoughtful sound. I saw the brief gleam of histeeth as he smiled. “Are you happy, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wish we’d stayed home for Christmas?”

I smiled, pressed my smile softly to his smile, andwhispered, “I’m happy that we’re spending Christmas together in New York.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I’m even happier because we share the word hometonight--and all the rest of the year.”

“All the rest of our lives,” Adam said.

 

 

 

More fiction! I'm honestly so happy and grateful for all these generous contributions for our writer-reader friends! It's made this calendar such a special one.

So this morning we have another fiction offering. This giftie comes from Almathea.

Disclaimer and warning  : 

Though it is a Christmas story -kind of- it is a darker onethat way trigger some people. There are heavy mentions of suicide and a lot of grief.So if this is a trigger for you, please do not read further.
This is also a coda I’ve been wanting to write for a long time, because itdirectly follows the ending of one of my very favorite books by Josh. But one Iwas not prepared to write before because of its mix of dark themes and verypersonal use of Dickens. It is a weird headspace to be stuck in.
Please, keep in mind that English is not my native language so any mistake orheavy sentence is due to lacuna of the language on my part.
Still I hope you will like it as I promise you hope and mystery at theend. ^^

 

THE HAUNTED HEART : A DARKERCHRISTMAS CAROL

When I finally climbed into bed I could hear Kirk playing his guitardownstairs.

I turned out the lamp ans stared at thepattern of moonlight on the ceiling. The bed was warm and more comfortable thanI remembered. I thought I would sleep well that night.

After a time, I closed my eyes and listenedto Kirk strumming. Not random chords, not a haphazard scattering of notes,juste a slow, tentative introduction to an unfamiliar melody.

Something new that accompanied me while Idrifted into sleep.

**********

The dream started.

Not a usual one.

Not an unfamiliar one.

Even in my sleep I knew I had already had itand I didn’t want to have it again. Please not that dream.

 

The dream started exactly the same way asit did before. I was strapped on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, mywrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, my heart pumping more angerthan blood. More grief. More pain. No place left for the blood sent in mysystem from a plastic pouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My onlythought Let me out ! 
I wanted to die.

Someone grabbed my hand. It was weirdbecause I hadn’t heard the door open, nor the sound of the key in the lock. Butthe weirdest part was that suddenly the ache in my body vanished and I felt solight. Floating like a snowflake in a winter gust. Am I dead ? Am Iasleep ? It didn’t really matter. I was feeling almost good. The handholding mine pulled and my body followed the gentle command, drifting upwards.I opened my eyes and startled. I was facing myself. A distorted version ofmyself, like a face seen through a frosted window. But it was me.  Maybe a slightly older version of myself asthe other me with the sad eyes and the wry smile wore a beard. Before I couldreact or blink, the bearded clone turned around and led us towards the door ofmy hospital room. But it was not the same door anymore. Gone was the blandlight brown of the ward door and its window. In its place was the warmchocolate of an apartment door with the number 13 on a plaque. I knew this doortoo well. It was our apartment door. Alan’s and mine. I couldn’t go inthere ! I couldn’t face his absence ! I tried to free myself from thehand holding me, this hand so gentle and so cruel, but it dragged me though thedoor like it was just mist.

What awaited on the other side was like a rustyblade stuck and twisted into my heart. The dim lights. The illuminated tree.The colorful wrappings like a rainbow sea on the floor. And the laughs. Ohthese laughs ! So full of joy, so full of hope, so full of LOVE. Icouldn’t help bursting into tears. Alan and I lying naked in each other’s armsafter making love, the most radiant raft of this multicolor sea. Kissing,snuggling and giggling as we were exchanging the most ridiculous endearments wecould think of. « Cuddlebug. » « Snugglebunny. »« Love muffin. »

I was watching one of the highlights oflast year’s Christmas Eve like the most heartbreaking movie ever made. All thatdelight was unbearable. I wanted to scream « Stop laughing ! Life isa bitch and this is your last Christmas together !!! » But I couldn’tbreathe, let alone shout. All I could do was watch through a curtain of tears,intruding on my own passed happiness, on that day that would never come backagain.

I tried to step forward to get closer tothe warmth of Alan’s smile, to carress his cheek or maybe to revel in his smellone more time, but the other me, this witsful ghost, stepped in front of me andsadly shook his head. As painful as it was, I got it. « Yeah… This isgone. It’s only a memory of my… Of our past. But please… » The spirit orwhatever didn’t let me finish. With his hands gently put on my shoulders, hesuddenly pushed and I stumbled back through the door that was not there andfound myself lying strapped on the bed, with all my pain and all my loss. Unwanted.  

 

I didn’t want to live in a world where Alan was not.

A thin and delicate hand grabbed mine under the thin cover. No, no, notagain. Like the previous visitation, the new hand grabbed mine and yankedme up floating. But this was not a gentle touch. It was a hard and cold oneforcing me to face a gorgeous woman whose face seemed to be hiding under a veilof backwater. Black hair twisting and hateful gaze, the only features I couldcomprehend. So much rage. Even more than I felt. All my pains were gone again,except for the hand the stranger woman held, crushed and numb with cold.Without a word, she turned around and dragged me like a disobedient puppytowards the door. A door that had changed again. Not a bland light brown nor awarm chocolate. Now the door was a stylish white with trimmings and a bronzelock and handle. A door I had known every day of my childhood. I didn’t want togot there ! Even less than the previous place I was taken to. I didn’twant to witness more bygone memories. But when she towed me through the door,my parents living room was not like any remembrance I had of it.

A fir tree was up but out of place, bare asit was of any kind of ornament. A skeleton of Christmas exumed from a closet.Facing the naked tree, my parents were on the leather couch, where the entitybrought me. My dad, always the stoic man, suddenly appeared… small. Shouldershunched, blank stare, tan turned to ash, he seemed as lost as a bankrupt mogul.Isolated in his own bubble of grief while his wife was curled up on the otherside of the couch, wailing like a banshee. Gone was the collected and sophisticatedwoman I called mom. Her ever perfect hair were now in a mess, her eyes red andpuffy while snot was running out of her nose to end its course with the tearson her once pristine shirt. The cold mantel clock on top of the unlit fireplacewas tick-tocking as ever, a language of time claiming it would always be thewinner. The only answer, a denial from the heart, was in my mom’s brokenmumbles. « My baby. My poor little baby. »

After an eternity of a minute, my dad’shoarse voice finally echoed back. « We will visit him as soon as thedoctor allows it. You know he wants to run a preliminary diagnosis on Flynn’smental state before. To think he cut his wri… if we hadn’t found him in thenick of time… » Dad stopped there with a gulp and resumed his staring intothe green nothingness of the bare branches.

This was no memory. This was now. Myparents devastated by my own choice waiting here to see their son strapped to ahospital bed. The son they had almost lost but hadn’t. Yet. The son who stillwanted to take his leave and who would. Who would force them to live this hellagain. My decision almost wavered while I was floating there, facing theconsequences of my actions on the people I loved, sick with guilt. « Buteverything is in the almost, isn’t it ? » I whispered. Maybe tomyself. Maybe to the unknown scary woman. She seemed to take it for her as shegrabbed my shoulders, pure fury in her eyes -the kind of fury where lightningwas born- and shoved me back trough the door. Alone.

 

Alone and crying on the hospital bed onthat Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so much under the thick bandages, myheart pumping more culpability than blood. More grief. More pain. No place leftfor the blood sent in my system from a plastic pouch. Too much emotionschurning in my dry body. My only thought Let me out ! 
I didn’t want to wreck my parents’ life.

Another hand grabbed mine. Pleasestop ! Not again ! I beg you, I can’t take it anymore. This handwas big, warm and firm. A calloused and nice male hand. Again I was taken outof my body and facing another entity. A tall and muscular man wearing a greycamo uniform and a tan beret that eerily succeeded to put all his face inshadows, despite its lack of brim. Still this creature was more comforting thanthe other entities. I knew he would lead me to another door. But to mysurprise, this time there were two doors. No. A double set of heavy doors inopposite condition, one dilapidate and lank, the other renovated and glossy. Impressivelycarved, richly ornate wood beautifully screaming Victorian era doors. The ghostguided me through the dilapidate one…

On the other side was a clutter of an apartment,full of sturdy mismatched furnitures and a mess of books, magazines and knickknacks, and a garage calendar on a wall showing this was taking place one yearlater . The place was colder than a grave. No fir tree of any kind in sight. Onlythe back of a broad man sitting on the floor and playing with something, hislong-ish black hair a shrew’s nest. I wanted to get closer, but my guide keptme where we were floating, staring at the man on the ground. So I stared too.The shabby man was hunched, shivering and his frame was racked by silent sobs.He was also on a mumbling rampage. « I’m sorry Flynn. I tried. I swear Ireally tried. I wanted to save you. I needed to save you ! But in the endI failed. I couldn’t convince you to give up your fucking Agreement ! Butwho was I kidding ? I’m such a failure ! I couldn’t save save Gordyback there. I couldn’t save Maria, Chess or anyone else from my squadron. Noteven this Afghan kid ! I’m no use, I can’t save anyone. Oh Flynn… Flynn,I’m so sorry I couldn’t be better. I couldn’t be more. I couldn’t be enough toground you here. But I wouldn’t want myself either. Such a fucked up uselesspoor excuse of a man ! And still I tried to save you. I swear Flynn !» And it went on. My heart ached for this bereft  stranger who was hurting so deeply. Mostlybecause of me. Again. Suddenly the man straightened up as he shouted « ButI won’t let anyone else down ! Nobody else will die on mywatch ! » and he raised up his left arm. The thing he was playingwith was no toy. It was a gun ! It’s steely grey as devoided of hope as aNovember sky. I sreamed « Don’t do that ! » I tried to reachhim, to stop him. But my guide still kept me at his side and the sound of my voicedidn’t reach the grieving stranger. The gun went to his temple and I closed myeyes at the exact moment it spat its deadly charge. I didn’t want to watchanymore, but I could still hear the heavy thump of a massive body hitting theflooring. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to curl up there on the ground.Another life destroyed because of me. But my guide firmly guided me back to myhospital room and immediatly through the other door, the renovated one.

We found ourselves in the exact same place.But everything was different. It felt warm. The rooms have been renovated too.Every wall, door, window frame, trimming was in perfect condition. Gone was theclutter and most of the sturdy furnitures. In their place was still a mix afurnitures, some I’ve seen in the scene before, some from my place and a fewantique ones that seem to have been chosen with love and taste. The trinketsand books were all well arranged on shelves in the company of other books, baublesand framed pictures. Pictures of a well groomed older man, tall and muscular,handsome with his black neatly trimmed beard and fashionable haircut framingdark smiling eyes looking at me. Because I was with him in these pictures,always with his arm around my shoulders or mine snaking around his waist. Therewere only two different pictures : one of a younger version of the manthat he shared with a stranger, a lovely red haired guy, both wearing greycamos. And another one of Alan and me taken the day we moved in together. Theywere all couple pictures !

Between a set of window panes stood a largeChristmas tree towering over the living room, all bursts of lights, colorfulornaments, garlands and bows. A kind guardian for the cheerfully wrapped giftsand the couple seated at its foot on a thick rug, the true focal point of thishappy scene. Me and the man from the pictures. Me, smiling serenely in the armsof that handsome man, nursing a mug of mulled wine while the stranger with adeep voice was reading me some kind of… Play ? Sometimes I was laughing,sometimes suggesting some change in the text, sometimes he laughed, sometimeshe kissed my head or my temple or asked for a sip of my wine. My laughs werenot the same  ones I had shared withAlan. The youthfulness, the levity, the innocence were lost. But it was stillsuch a joyous sound. Deeper. More trusting. More placid. A laugh coming from a placeof grief and acceptance. An adult laugh... I wanted to see more of me snuggledwith so much content against this man’s torso, my head lying in the curve ofhis neck. I wanted to learn more of this obvious love. But my guide started totake me back towards the misty door.

I resisted as much as I could until myguide turned towards me, head tilted on the side like a question mark.« It is you. The man who killed himself and this man reading to me. Theyhave the same voice. They’re both you » I said. My guide didn’t speak, but theshadows vanished from his face and he was exactly like the man in the picturewith the red haired, smiling like a proud teacher. But I was not done.« Why are you doing this ? Why put the weight of your fate on myshoulders ??? I can’t be responsible of you. I don’t want you to be sadand take your own life but I don’t want to live and love without Alan. » Stillmute and smiling, the stranger put his left hand on my heart. It was clearenough. Alan would always remain there. His right hand let go of mine tocarress my cheek. A snowflake kiss laid there. And his hand still on my torsopushed me back through the fog. Pondering.

Pondering on the hospital bed on that Christmas Eve, my wrists hurting so muchunder the thick bandages, my heart pumping more questions than blood. Moregrief. More hope. No place left for the blood sent in my system from a plasticpouch. Too much emotions churning in my dry body. My only thought Let meout ! 
I didn’t know what to do anymore.

The sound of keys in the lock. The bland light brown door opening. And a man aslean as his thin fake smile entered the room, getting close but never touchingmy hand. A man in a white doctor coat I would soon learn to know and loathe asDr. Kirsch. The dream I just had was forgotten the moment he said« Welcome back Flynn. Well, what are we going to do with you ? »

**********

I woke up in uncle Winston’s bed. The sun was shining through the window,melting the last puddles of snow. I felt rested for the first time since… Inmonths. My mind was clear. And I remembered every second of the dream.

Not the usual dream.

Not the unfamiliar dream.

The exact same dream, down to the tiniestdetail, I had only once when I was recovering from my suicide attempt and hadforgotten. Until now.
The impossible dream. Impossible, because I couldn’t have known anything fromit at that time. I couldn’t have known about my mysterious clone from a bygoneera I had seen on a picture for the very first time just before bed the nightbefore and that I had mistaken in the dream for an older version on myself. Icouldn’t have known about the still to come Agreement. I couldn’t have knownabout the second entity though now I knew the ghost of Ines too well. And Icouldn’t have known about the house on Pitch Pine Lane nor about Kirk Murdochand his rooms. It was all impossible. Despite the strong Dickens vibes, I wasno Scrooge and things like that did not happen in reality.
 
First I became a magnet for an angry ghost, then an unknown copy of a man froma different era and now I had glimpses of the future in my dreams ? AndKirk’s fate in my hands ? Yes I was starting to have doubts about theAgreement. Even more now. But this was a new source of concern. Too manyimpossible things were happening to me. Last night’s question came back to mewith urgency.

Who was I ?

 

                                                                                                                                                      Theend (for now…)

Almathea

 

 

 

 

 WELL, THIS IS EMBARRASSING. TWO POSTS WENT UP YESTERDAY. That was obviously a mistake. So I'm reposting this today because otherwise I'm going to be short a post. ARGHHHHH. Sorry about that! 

Good morning! I have something different in the way of giveaways today. I think it's a very cool gift, but who knows? 

Anyway. I've decided to gift 5 subscriptions to my Patreon at the Murder, My Sweet (that's the $5.00) tier for one full year.

What do you get to access at that tier? Well, it's changed over time (and will continue to change) but as of right now:

Access to one chapter a week of a story written specifically for Patreon - starting in February 2025 (project to be determined).

A minimum of one rough draft chapter a month of What Lies Beneath (Mystery at the Masquerade from Jack's POV)

Bonus materials such as story snippets, character interviews, artwork (not including Monday Man Art), deleted scenes, holiday codas/epilogues, character notes, etc.

Sea Change - Murder at Pirate's Cove (first book in The Secrets and Scrabble series retold from Jack's POV). The final version will be collected in an edited epub exclusive to Patreon members who subscribe at this tier following your 1st month anniversary   

The edited and formatted digital editions of each Secrets and Scrabble cozy mystery published during your subscription period (I don't know that I'm writing any S&S next year, to TBH).

How do you get your name into the running for a gift subscription? Obviously, I'd like these to go to genuine fans. So comment down below about any one of my books that really means something to you.  Tell me why you love that particular book. I'll give it a week and then randomly select from the responses I like best. Because the membership will begin on January 1st, there's a shorter window to respond. I plan to send out the winners their gift links on December 30th.
Now, I should also mention that I'm currently running a 50% discount on a one year subscription to Patreon. Those discounts apply to four tiers, beginning  at the $20.00 tier. You cannot have previously subscribed to Patreon, I believe, though if you're there as a free member, I think you can use the discount code. That code is 38CE0. It expires December 31st. 
It's actually a really nice deal though, because you can participate at the $20.00 tier with all its rewards, for the price of the $10.00 tier! For a full year! 
(This is the first year Patreon has offered creators these kinds of tools for promotion, so we'll see how it goes. Which is my vague way of warning that there's no guarantee I ever do any of this again.)
Anyway, if a gift membership sounds like fun to you, comment about which of my books means the most to you below! 

 Meg Perry's post got me thinking about chicken wings. This recipe for "Heroin Wings" is the SO's, and it's my absolute favorite. He makes them for me on special occasions (like I manage to finish a book)  or something equally amazing.

Try them. I think you'll really like them. 

HEROIN WINGS

 

Ingredients

 

4 pounds chickenwings

1 cup gratedparmesan (or, even better, Cotija)

2 tablespoonsdried parsley

1 tablespoondried oregano

2 teaspoonspaprika

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoonpepper

1/2 cup butter

Cayenne to taste

 

How to makeit

 

Preheat oven to350°F.

 

Cut the wings into drumsticks.

 

Combine the Parmesan cheese and the parsley, oregano, paprika,salt & pepper in a bowl.

 

Line a shallow baking pan with foil. (Do not omit this step, oryou'll still be scrubbing the pan a week later.)

 

Melt the butter in a shallow bowl or pan.

 

Dip each drumstick in butter, roll in the cheese and seasoningmixture, and arrange in the foil-lined pan. Don’t forget the foil. Or invest ina jackhammer.

 

Bake for 1 hour, and be generous with the ingredients.