Blurb:

'Coming home' feels like anything but to Mona Murphy. Learning of the death of her grandfather is the only thing that can bring her back to the house of her tortured girlhood memories. But when the police chief, along with insurance investigator, Preston Hitchcock, alert her that Jerome Kincaid's passing occurred under questionable circumstances, Mona feels morally responsible to discover the truth. Instead, what she finds is that whoever harmed her grandfather seems intent on making her the next target. Who tries to run her down in the town square? Who locks her and Preston in the forgotten basement of the local library? Mona knows her time to find answers is running short. Caught like a fly in a deadly spider's web, she struggles to unravel the threads of danger before the lurking evil can pounce.

Excerpt:

"...His jaw hardening, he stepped nearer. “Should I have respected those thugs’ privacy when they held you against your will? There was a ‘No Trespassing’ sign nailed there, you know.”

“There was?” She gave an awkward shrug. Well, when he put it that way…

“I have reason to believe there’s more thugs in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the wall. “You refuse to help me, though I earlier helped you?”

She hesitated, perplexed at his attitude. What could be inside that he wants so badly? And what thugs? Are they more of David’s poker buddies? Or maybe it’s David himself?  Recalling the beating David’s so-called friends had given him the night before, she knew she couldn’t take the risk of him perhaps being bound to a chair and having to suffer another thrashing. Nodding reluctantly, she said, “Okay. I’ll try.”

She pressed her ear against the warm bricks, closing her eyes. A mixture of different sounds reached her. “I hear machines,” she said to Preston, “but the noises are combined and I can’t make out what they are. And there are voices, men’s voices, but the machines are so loud they drown out the words.” Hesitating, she popped open her eyes. “That’s a car engine. Someone’s leaving.”

Preston grabbed her hand, pulling her with him as he sped past a line of trashcans toward the building’s rear alley. Stumbling in her heels, she panted. “Where are we going? What are you—?”

She broke off her query when she caught sight of his Porsche. Yanking open the passenger door, Preston unceremoniously plopped her in the seat before he ran to the driver’s side and dropped behind the wheel. He jabbed the key in the ignition, saying, “Fasten your seat belt. This may be a hell of a ride.”

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