After much anticipation, I’m finally ready to share my thoughts on the mystery thriller Empty Boxes, penned by Robin Action and brought to life by Blank Slate Press, an indie publisher based right here in Missouri. I owe the publisher a heartfelt apology for my delay in reading and reviewing this book. While I can’t pinpoint the exact date I received it—sometime last year, I believe—I can’t ignore that it was indeed a long wait. I showcased the book in a Friday 56 post last October, and you might be wondering what took so long. Well, it’s been a tumultuous time for me; my mother had several ER visits and underwent surgery last November, which understandably pulled my focus away from blogging. In my suitcase of distractions, I even packed this book, but it ended up left behind while I opted for movies on my Fire Tablet instead. Eventually, I stumbled upon it again just last week, much to my relief.

Empty Boxes ^[*] is the second installment in the Rita Locke series, and fortunately for me, it can stand alone, as I hadn’t yet dipped into the first book. The narrative follows Pittsburgh crime reporter Rita Locke as she investigates the murder of a funeral director, only to discover a chilling truth—he had been burying empty coffins. As she digs deeper into his secrets, she unravels a sinister plot spanning international borders, leading her from the familiar streets of western Pennsylvania to an offshore Caribbean medical school. Here, she finds herself ensnared in a web of deceit that threatens her very life.

You know, it would really save a lot of us a headache if publishers would make it clear on the cover when a book is the third installment in a series. I’ve found myself in this frustrating situation far too many times—like that one time I stumbled upon Wendi Corsi Staub's The Butcher's Daughter at Dollar General, picking it for a mere $3, probably more than a year or two ago. I remembered reading a few of her books ages ago and figured, “Why not?” I’m cursed with this habit of picking up series midway through, whether it’s book two or three. It’s almost a talent, if you consider my knack for blind optimism in picking these up.

Now, while The Butcher's Daughter can somewhat stand alone, there are enough subplots lurking in the shadows from the previous books—trust me, I can feel them crawling at the back of my mind, silently judging my choice to jump in at this point. Nevertheless, I managed to fill in the gaps as best I could and devoured the book in a single sitting, which, for me, is a feat akin to a marathon runner breaking the tape at the finish line—if only that marathon hadn’t felt a bit more like trudging through molasses.

The story revolves around Amelia Crenshaw, an investigative genealogist who has made a career out of piecing together the scattered fragments of her clients' family histories while her own remains a puzzle wrapped in layers of mystery. In a bizarre twist, she suspects the key to unraveling her birth parents' identities might be locked in a connection to a stranger who hires her to locate his long-lost daughter. Just when she thinks she’s in for a straightforward genealogical adventure, she’s blindsided by a deadly threat that ramps up the stakes in ways she couldn’t have anticipated.

Then there’s NYPD Detective Stockton Barnes, a man who walked away from his own child in what he believed to be her best interest. As he and Amelia race against time to uncover the truth, they stumble into dangerous territory where someone else has already made a move, and she’s a femme fatale with a vendetta. Their shared history uncovers a lineage entwined with one of history's most notorious killers—which, let’s face it, is just a little too on the nose, don’t you think? The apple certainly doesn’t fall far from the tree, and in this case, it rolls down a hill into a pit of trouble.

In a world overflowing with detective stories, it often feels like the genre has been dipped in a monotonous gray, devoid of the vibrant flair that once set the greats apart. Let's face it—most modern-day detective novels are little more than factory-produced fluff, relying on formulas as tired as a well-worn trench coat. If you stripped the authors' names from the covers, you’d be hard-pressed to distinguish one from another. Enter Mason Cross’s Presumed Dead, the fifth installment in the Carter Blake series—an intriguing thriller in a genre that could use a little resuscitating. My copy, a well-loved relic from an Arizona library, found its way into my hands at a thrift store in the heart of Missouri, leaving behind traces of the countless readers who came before me.

The narrative unfolds like a slow burn, lit by tragedy: Adeline Connor, once a bright flame of life, meets her gruesome end at the hands of the notorious Devil Mountain Killer. With her murder, a dark chapter seemingly closed—until the brother's desperate belief in her survival ignites a fresh quest. Enter Carter Blake, a man adept at hunting down the living, but now entrusted with the grim task of searching for a ghost. However, this small town harbors secrets, clutching its past like a favorite weapon, and it becomes increasingly evident that the shadows of history are more alive than anyone expected.

Cross’s writing echoes Lee Child’s style—streamlined and straightforward, reading more like an action-packed film than a work of literary artistry. It’s almost like someone took great literature, threw it in a blender, and poured out a cocktail meant to keep you turning pages quicker than you can say “plot twist.” There’s a comforting simplicity to it; it’s designed not to invoke the profound but to keep you engaged, driving you to the final, climactic page.

Have you ever read so many books that your brain starts to resemble a cluttered attic, full of forgotten treasures and dusty memories? That's where I find myself with Mary Kubica; I could've sworn I’d come across her writing before, yet her titles remain elusive, save for the one in my hands today—Local Woman Missing. I’m at a loss as to whether I picked it up from a dollar store or a thrift store, which is mildly alarming. Either I’m starting to lose my grip on reality or my overflowing bookshelf has morphed into a labyrinth, and I’m just the hapless adventurer wandering through it—probably a mix of both.

Now, let’s plunge into the heart of the story: Shelby Tebow is the first to vanish, her absence a dark cloud looming over her once-serene neighborhood. Then, out of nowhere, Meredith Dickey and her young daughter, Delilah, go missing just a stone's throw away from where Shelby was last seen. Panic ripples across the community, spiking a primal fear. Are these disappearances mere coincidences, or is a sinister thread weaving through the fabric of their lives? After a desperate search that produces more questions than answers, the case eventually grows cold, leaving dread to fester. Fast forward eleven years, and Delilah’s sudden return sends shockwaves through a town haunted by ghosts of the past. But what truly happened to her? And what chilling secrets will unravel when the truth finally sees the light of day?

I stumbled upon a ten-cent paperback of The School Trip nestled inside a dusty cardboard box at my local thrift store. The name on the cover, Miranda Smith-I, rang a bell. I’d seen her mentioned in countless Kindle sales, yet I’d never ventured into her world of words. Why, you ask? Well, her covers and titles seemed to blend into the mysterious crowd, nothing beckoning me to pick them up. But on a whim, fueled by curiosity, I decided to give The School Trip a shot.

As the pages turned, I found myself wading into a plot that would chill the marrow of any parent’s bones—though, to be fair, I don’t have kids—none that I know of, anyway (just a little dark humor to lighten the mood). This story is every parent’s worst nightmare, a terrifying tale that feels ripped from the headlines and thrust into reality.

Picture this: it’s a crisp October day, the kind that wraps around you like a cozy blanket. A class of six-year-olds, snug in their coats and gloves, flit about a local farm, their laughter ringing out as they pet the animals and hunt for perfect Halloween pumpkins. Among them is Claire, a bright little spark racing off with her friends, the pink ribbon in her hair dancing like a flag in the breeze. Watching her, a mother exhales a sigh of relief. Life has been a daunting challenge since her husband passed away, and her sweet girl deserves every moment of happiness she can get.

But as dusk descends and the teachers begin gathering the children, Claire is nowhere to be found.

A worn-out used book can tell a million stories, and I stumbled upon one such tale—a well-loved Minotaur paperback edition of A Flicker in the Dark by Stacy Willingham—while rummaging through the dusty shelves of a thrift store. The title popped out like a neon sign in a dimly lit alley, and I recognized it from my many Kindle scrolling sessions. This particular copy, with its creased spine and warped pages, spoke of a life lived; it looked older than its 2022 release date, hints of water damage lending it a certain brooding charm. Normally, I would shy away from anything that looks like it spent a summer in a rainstorm, but at just ten cents, I thought, why not? Perhaps it would lead me to a thrilling read... or at least entertain me for a few hours.

The plot is a web woven from the threads of tragedy and suspense. When Chloe Davis was just twelve, six teenage girls mysteriously vanished from her small Louisiana town, their fates unknown, and by summer’s end, her own father had confessed to the unspeakable—a chilling revelation that left Chloe and her family grappling with a harrowing truth. With the finality of a closing coffin, he was sentenced to life behind bars, and Chloe was left to navigate the wreckage of her childhood.

Fast forward two decades, and Chloe has traded the shadows of her past for a bright future as a psychologist in Baton Rouge, on the verge of tying the knot. Yet, the lurking darkness of her history still haunts her, as if she’s constantly stepping on the cracks of a haunted sidewalk. Just when it seems she’s sculpted her happiness from the ruins of her trauma, the unthinkable happens: another local teenage girl goes missing, and another screams from the abyss of Chloe's memory. Is she merely seeing lurking shadows where there are none, or could she be on the precipice of unmasking a killer once again?

Part of me finds myself weary of police procedurals. In a world where each series introduces new characters and spins a fresh plot, they all seem to dance to the same familiar tune: a case arises, a detective steps in, and some nefarious villains lurk in the shadows. It’s a formula that has been played out time and again, often with the predictable simplicity that commercial expectations demand—just look at anything stamped with James Patterson's name as if it were a fast-food franchise. Yet occasionally, a novel surfaces amidst the mediocrity, a work with a touch more substance, like When All Lights Fail by Randall Silvis, an author I had been blissfully unaware of until I stumbled into this, the fifth installment of the Ryan DeMarco series.

The narrative unfurls with an intriguing premise: retired police sergeant Ryan DeMarco is reluctant to return to the murky waters of private investigation, but when a nine-year-old girl from Michigan pleads with tear-streaked cheeks to help her find her biological father, he can’t say no. The journey to the Upper Peninsula promises not just the promise of closure for the girl but also a chance for DeMarco and his partner, Jayme, to mend their frayed edges from their previous case—one that spun dangerously close to death's embrace. However, once they plunge into Michigan's thick woods, what seemed like a straightforward paternity quest transforms into a treacherous game of life and death.

I usually breeze past titles like Trust Me by Hank Phillippi Ryan, what with its mind-numbingly redundant title and a cover so dull it could put a caffeine-fueled squirrel to sleep. But when the price tag dips to a staggering $1.25, I’m willing to gamble on my literary luck, even with a flimsy blurb that might make other readers sprint for the exit as if fleeing a masked killer. Seriously, Forge should hang their head in shame over that description. It goes something like this: “There are three sides to every story. Yours. Mine. And the truth.” An accused killer insists she’s innocent. A journalist, shattered by grief, rises from the ashes. Their uneasy partnership spirals into a hair-raising game of deceit. But the moment you read that, you’re left wondering: who's put together such a mundane lure instead of hooking a reader’s curiosity?

Does anyone recall the infamous Casey Anthony trial? You know, the woman who somehow waltzed away from the accusation of killing her daughter with a smirk that would chill your bones? I can't help but think this real-life drama served as inspiration for Trust Me. There are just too many alignments. A quick Google search could probably verify it, but alas, the fatigue of the day weighs heavily on me. In any case, the plot revolves around the "Baby Boston" murder trial, where Ashlyn Bryant stands accused of dumping her two-year-old daughter, Tasha, into the murky waters of Boston Harbor. Yeah, you can see where the echoes of reality merge with fiction.

I’m pushing the envelope a bit late tonight—ah, the classic tale of my life. This post should’ve been penned hours ago, but life had other plans. I crashed, burned, re-caffeinated, and here I am, crafting what I hope can pass as an excuse for my tardiness. Enough of my procrastination, let’s talk about my 16th pick for my 31 Reads of Terror, Daddy's Girl by Margie Orford.

First published in 2009, with an EPUB edition in June 2014, my version is the Witness Impulse paperback—though honestly, the publisher could’ve bothered to include the publication date. But who am I to complain? I'm too lazy to search for that little nugget of information.

So, here’s the plot: A little girl, blissfully waiting to be picked up after ballet class, suddenly finds herself vanishing into thin air after an unmarked car rolls up. But hold onto your hats—this isn’t just any child. She’s the daughter of Police Captain Riedwaan Faizal, a desperate father anchored by impotence as he finds himself suspended from his squad. His world spirals into chaos, and with no allies in sight, he turns to investigative journalist and criminal profiler Dr. Clare Hart. She has just gained notoriety through her documentary on Cape Town’s vanished young girls, and the clock is ticking. Clare knows that each passing moment gnaws away at the girl's chances of survival. Yet the investigation she embarks on comes with its own hazards, and with everything at stake, she’s willing to risk it all to aid a shattered father.

Daddy's Girl is the kind of book I’d usually brush off because of its bland cover, generic title, and predictable plot. It’s reminiscent of a tepid Lifetime movie: you watch it once, only to turn your gaze elsewhere before the credits roll, leaving little more than a faint trace in the memory. I’m not throwing shade at the authors, truly—I just hope they penned their tales without the help of some AI co-writer, a topic that has been causing quite the stir in the book community. Still, some readers are taking it to extremes, and I won’t tumble down that rabbit hole tonight; I might never find my way back out!

A stunning cover can whisper secrets even before the first page is turned. The book that caught my eye was The Liar's Daughter by Claire Allan, a title I stumbled upon while rummaging through a box of worn-out paperbacks at a thrift store, half-buried beneath a mountain of forgotten clothing. The cover boasted the haunting image of a woman in a yellow dress, eerily poised amongst twisted trees, enveloped in shadows that only added to her unsettling charm. The tagline, "Family can hide the darkest secrets," teased my curiosity. What secrets lay hidden in this tale? How dark could they be? The answers were lurking just beyond the page.

Now, let's unearth the plot: When Joe McKee passes away, the tight-knit community of Derry is thrust into mourning, drowning in sorrow for the man whose laughter once echoed through their lives. Friends and family are left grappling with the gaping void left by his battle with cancer. But among the mourners, two stand apart—Joe’s daughter, Ciara, and her stepdaughter, Heidi—because they alone knew the real Joe. He was no protector; he was a man whose sins ran deep, veiled by the façade of a loving father.

The mourners gather for the traditional Irish wake, the air thickens with expectations—and the police arrive,drawn by the smell of something rotten in the state of Joe’s death. It quickly unfolds that this wasn’t a natural parting; the tangled web of lies Joe spun refused to be buried with him. The truth, as it unfurls, not only implicates but casts his daughters in the most chilling of lights, giving them a motive for murder that’s as dark as the secrets still clinging to the family.

I find it fascinating and somewhat perplexing how readers can harbor such a wide range of opinions about books. It’s like music; while one person hears a sonorous symphony, another perceives nothing but noise. Some will hurl accusations of “complete trash” or “unreadable drivel,” while others will stand on rooftops singing the praises of the same work. As someone who's offered both accolades and critiques in my own reading journey, it's unjust to judge anyone’s opinions.

This brings me to The Psychic ^[*] by Nancy Bush, the subject of today’s review. Recently, I stumbled upon a one-star rating that left me scratching my head. The reviewer lamented they couldn’t even finish the book because, in their words, it made their brain hurt and was, quite simply, “stupid.” Yet, they offered no substantial reasoning; no thoughts on the plot, the characters, or even a fleeting compliment about the narrative style, only a curt dismissal without the faintest hint of detail. I won’t judge this reviewer—if a book isn't resonating with you, it’s perfectly fine to walk away.

Now, let’s get into the heart of the matter—the book itself. The Psychic is a richly crafted thriller, or at least the advance reader copy (ARC) I devoured was. I suspect the final version hasn't strayed too far from what I experienced. The structure is tight, the pacing brisk, and the vivid imagery leaps off the page like a ghost in the night. The protagonist, Veronica "Ronnie" Quick, is nothing short of captivating, while the dialogue crackles with life. It checks all the boxes for a gripping read, one that promises to keep even the most distracted reader engaged until the final, breathless page.

I’ve been digging through the recesses of my memory, trying to recall if I’ve ever dipped my toes into the literary waters of Linda Castillo before cracking open today’s selection, Fallen. As the title suggests, it’s not a tale of terror from the dark corners of horror fiction, but rather a gripping mystery thriller. This genre will make sporadic appearances as I continue my journey through the 31 Reads of Terror event. While I’m familiar with Castillo's name and her oeuvre, I can’t say with confidence that I’ve read any of her works. Given my affinity for stories drenched in Amish culture, though usually laced with romantic undertones, perhaps Fallen marks my inaugural foray into her fictional world.

The story kicks off when a young woman is discovered brutally murdered at a motel in the quaint yet eerie town of Painters Mill. Chief of Police Kate Burkholder, our protagonist, is shaken to her core—not only by the violence of the crime but by the shocking realization that she once knew the victim. Rachael Schwartz was a captivating yet troubled soul, an Amish girl who had fled her community for reasons cloaked in shadow. Why had she returned? And who could wield such heinous violence against her?

Kate's memories of Rachael haunt her; they share a bond forged in rebellion, both women struggling against the rigid constraints of their Amish upbringing. Yet, as the layers of Rachael’s life unfurl, Kate grapples with the unsettling truth: Rachael’s reputation as a troublemaker was well-deserved. From a raucous childhood to a tumultuous adulthood, Rachael was a whirlwind of charm and chaos, effortlessly drawing people to her, while simultaneously accruing a roster of enemies—both Amish and English.

There are now 21 books in J.A. Jance's Joanna Brady Mysteries series, and I find myself pondering the age-old question: "Have I actually read any of them?" With a lifetime of reading behind me, it’s all too easy for titles and authors to meld into one big literary blur. I know for certain that I have one or two of J.A. Jance's titles nestled on a bookshelf somewhere; I just can’t conjure up the specifics. It’s a strange sensation, like recognizing a face but being completely stumped on the name.

Jance's latest endeavor, The Girl from Devil’s Lake, is the 21st entry in this gripping series—dubbed “A Brady Novel of Suspense,” as boldly proclaimed on the cover. Speaking of that cover, I must say, it’s stunning. In fact, the aesthetics played a significant role in luring me into this book’s embrace, alongside a gripping blurb that hinted at all kinds of intrigue.

The plot kicks off with Sheriff Joanna Brady impatiently anticipating a joyful holiday season surrounded by her bustling family, all while preparing to celebrate her daughter Jenny’s graduation from the police academy. But just as the festivities are about to begin, a body is unearthed beneath a flooded bridge in the desolate Arizona desert, summoning Joanna to the scene. The victim? A young boy, whose grisly murder immediately tells Joanna two chilling things: this killer has likely taken life before, and the clock is ticking before he strikes again.

Has anyone taken the time to count the number of detective book series that have emerged in recent years? It's like a tidal wave of them, isn't it? Some are gems that keep you up at night, some are just passable, and then some make you wonder why you wasted your time—at least that pretty much summarizes my reading escapades. I've been hesitant to read new series lately, largely because I’ve experienced a fair share of disappointments. A lot of the titles and covers seem to be misses rather than hits, lacking that spark to draw me in. But then, along came Serves You Right by Orion Gregory. The cover caught my eye immediately—there's something ethereal about the see-through silhouette of a woman. I found myself contemplating her identity. Is she the intrepid detective in pursuit of a killer, or is she the hapless victim? The intrigue sucked me in.

The plot centers around rookie detective Sydney Livingstone, who believed she was trading the high-octane world of professional tennis for a more serene existence in Walsh County, Ohio. Freshly engaged to the charming Enzo, she imagined herself sipping morning coffee and solving small-town mysteries. What she got instead was nothing short of a waking nightmare. A faceless vigilante, who ominously calls himself The Enforcer, emerges from the twisted echoes of the dark web, launching a war not just on criminals but also on a justice system that has failed them time and again. With icy precision, this self-proclaimed executioner starts eliminating targets across the region, leaving behind a digital trail of blood and chilling manifestos. And suddenly, Sydney finds herself not just in the line of fire of a killer, but entangled in something far more sinister.

As her department struggles under escalating threats, the plot becomes even murkier when an unnerving stalker begins tailing a veteran officer. The line between predator and protector blurs, forcing Sydney to question everything: Are these attacks part of a meticulously calculated crusade, or is something darker unraveling before her eyes? When damning evidence implicates someone from within the force, Sydney is thrust into a whirlwind of doubt—about her colleagues, her own instincts, and the strange coincidences surrounding her arrival in Walsh County.

Today, I'm tackling The Sequel by Jerry Jamison, an author whose name rings a bell, though it's the first title of his I've picked up. Perhaps his books have crossed my path before, but for whatever reason, this one is my introduction to his work.

I must admit, I have a certain admiration for an author who takes the time to address readers directly, revealing how Stephen King's Misery influenced him, among other inspirations for The Sequel. It’s always intriguing to peek behind the curtain of an author's mind. However, I’m feeling a bit foggy today, and I have a nagging suspicion that my review might be more of a winding road than a straight path. Let’s just hope nobody’s left wondering, “What the hell is Billy rambling about?” So, with that slight trepidation in mind, let’s discuss The Sequel.

The plot unfolds through the eyes of Judd Whitfield, a beleaguered book editor working for a second-rate crime novel publisher. Judd, a writer in his own right, feels his job is beneath his talents—a sentiment that many a creative soul can relate to. Then things take a darker turn when he suspects that his stunning wife is having a dalliance with her boss. As he grapples with jealousy and betrayal, his mental state starts to unravel.

I've lost count of how many times I’ve spotted Allison Brennan’s name on book covers in both cozy bookstores and the sprawling expanse of the Kindle store. There have been moments when I’ve almost caved and bought one of her titles out of sheer curiosity. I know she’s quite popular, but I can't help but wonder: Why? So when I had the chance to get an eGalley of her latest release, Don't Say a Word, I jumped at it. Sure, it’s not the most original title—there are plenty of books out there sharing the same name, including that old Michael Douglas film. But hey, it’s catchy enough to grab your attention.

Dont Say a Word ^[*] pitches us straight into the world of murder detective fiction—a classic police procedural, to be exact. I know what you’re thinking: “Not another procedural!” Trust me, I'm right there with you when it comes to TV shows or streaming dramas that seem stuck in the same ol’ rut. But with books, I tend to keep an open mind. The beauty of reading is that I can conjure vivid images of the story in my mind, shaping it as it unfolds. Sure, I can’t tweak the author’s narrative style, so if there are some clichés sprinkled throughout, I just have to roll with it. Still, I like to believe there’s a little magic in using my imagination.

Continuing a book series after the original author has passed away is a well-trodden path in the publishing world. While it’s nothing new, the topic ignites passionate debates among readers. Some devoted fans of the original author might bristle at the idea of a new voice stepping in, while others are curious enough to give the later stories a shot. Then there are the casual readers who may not even notice the shift in authorship. This brings us to "The Girl with Ice in Her Veins," the eighth installment in the Millennium saga, now available on Amazon ^[*] or at your favorite indie bookstore—if you’re lucky enough to have one nearby.

Here’s the rub: this book isn’t penned by the late Stieg Larsson, the brilliant Swedish author who crafted the original trilogy before his untimely death in 2004 at just 50. A second trilogy was later written by David Lagercrantz. Now, in 2022, we’ve got a third trilogy, led by the skilled Karin Smirnoff. "The Girl with Ice in Her Veins" is the second installment, translated from Swedish by the talented Sarah Death.

Michael Connelly has long been hailed as “the undisputed master of the modern crime novel” (Real Book Spy), and his recent offering, Nightshade, proves he’s not about to relinquish that title anytime soon. You can find it on Amazon ^[*] or your favorite indie bookstore.

Although Connelly didn’t really vanish, it feels like his return is something to celebrate. The bestselling author behind iconic characters like Harry Bosch and the Lincoln Lawyer introduced Nightshade, the inaugural installment of the Catalina series, back in May, published by Little, Brown and Company. Unfortunately, the advance reader copy (ARC) I received took its sweet time arriving, buried in a pile of other books, but here I am, finally ready to share my thoughts.

Set against the sun-soaked backdrop of Los Angeles, Nightshade follows County Sheriff’s Detective Stilwell, who’s been banished—almost like a Shakespearean hero—to the laid-back precinct of Catalina Island. It’s a fate worse than death for a detective accustomed to the mainland's gritty chaos, but Stilwell’s new assignment is anything but tranquil. While he grapples with the usual shenanigans of tourists and locals alike—think sunburned vacationers and the occasional petty thief—an unsettling discovery shifts the narrative into darker waters. A body, a Jane Doe, has been found, her identity as murky as the ocean depths, save for one striking detail: a streak of purple hair dye.

From a young age, I’ve been captivated by the old Gothic romance paperbacks, where a woman in a flowing dress or nightgown is fleeing from a foreboding mansion or castle in the background. These Gothic romances enjoyed their heyday in the 1960s and 1970s but faded into obscurity by the 1980s. Now this brings me to my latest read, The Unraveling of Julia. While it’s not exactly a classic Gothic romance, it does carry some elements of that genre. This novel, written by bestselling author Lisa Scottoline, marks my first reading encounter with her work. I can already hear someone saying, “You’ve never heard of Lisa Scottoline?” To clarify, I’ve indeed seen her books in stores but didn’t feel drawn to the covers, titles, or blurbs—until now.

The Unraveling of Julia is a psychological thriller infused with Gothic vibes, though it’s not a traditional romance. However, there are two love stories woven into the plot—kind of. The cover art invokes that nostalgic Gothic romance feeling, minus the image of a gown-clad woman running from a creepy estate. That title, The Unraveling of Julia, gives off those eerie '70s horror vibes. Honestly, I was hooked even before reading the blurb. Grab your copy now on Amazon ^[*] or your favorite indie bookstore.