Description

You need to write, I told the newbie writers at the conference. Unused gifts turn to poison.

What I didn't tell them was that I was currently drinking that poison myself.

Liz Hicks is a mystery writer. She knows poisons, sniper rifles, locked rooms, and a hundred other ways to kill someone and get away with it. It's her job to think like a murderer.

Her husband Jack died a year ago on a rainy mountain road. Motorcycle accident. Nothing suspicious.

To Liz, grief is suspicion with nowhere to go. Grief is expertise with no outlet. Grief is knowing too much about death and not enough about her own life.

Six months past her deadline, Liz can't write. Can't think. Can't stop wondering.

Then one stormy night, someone breaks into her house. They trash everything but steal only one thing: Jack's favorite possession.

Hours later, her elderly neighbor Maddy calls about a card party. Everyone on their mountain road will be there tonight. All the neighbors.

All the suspects.

Liz knows how murderers think.

Tonight, in the rain and the dark, with cribbage cards and old friends and mountain roads winding down into nothing—tonight she'll find out if she's right.

A dark and cozy mystery for stormy nights.