Tuesday, April 4, 2017

Book Tour + #Giveaway: Cleaved by Sue Coletta @SueColetta1 @SDSXXTours


Cleaved
Grafton County Series, Book 2
by Sue Coletta
Genre: Thriller, Suspense

Author Sage Quintano writes about crime. Her husband Niko investigates it. Together they make an unstoppable team. But no one counted on a twisted serial killer, who stalks their sleepy community, uproots their happy home, and splits the threads that bonds their family unit.
Darkness swallows the Quintanos whole—ensnared by a ruthless killer out for blood. Why he focused on Sage remains a mystery, but he won’t stop till she dies like the others.
Women impaled by deer antlers, bodies encased in oil drums, nursery rhymes, and the Suicide King. What connects these cryptic clues? For Sage and Niko, the truth may be more terrifying than they ever imagined.






Marred
Grafton County Series, Book 1

When a serial killer breaks into the home of bestselling author, Sage Quintano, she barely escapes with her life. Her husband, Niko, a homicide detective, insists they move to rural New Hampshire, where he accepts a position as Grafton County Sheriff. Sage buries secrets from that night—secrets she swears to take to her deathbed.
Three years of anguish and painful memories pass, and a grisly murder case lands on Niko’s desk. A strange caller begins tormenting Sage—she can’t outrun the past.
When Sage’s twin sister suddenly goes missing, Sage searches Niko’s case files and discovers similarities to the Boston killer. A sadistic psychopath is preying on innocent women, marring their bodies in unspeakable ways. And now, he has her sister.
Cryptic clues. Hidden messages. Is the killer hinting at his identity? Or is he trying to lure Sage into a deadly trap to end his reign of terror with a matching set of corpses?
Goodreads * Amazon






 Saturday, September 20, 2003
Even the weather betrayed me. Aqua-blue sky, not a cloud in sight. Niko and I sat
in silence during the two-and-a-half hour trip north. Next week offered a new
beginning, a chance to leave Boston and never look back.
I lowered the back passenger window. A light breeze ruffled farmland acres, and a
full, round sun shined, burned, blazed as though this was an ordinary day. The
limousine tires hit cracked asphalt, the road worn from a brutal New Hampshire
winter.
Birds whistled serenades. Preteens played basketball within the confines of
school grounds. Young, adolescent voices carried in the crisp morning air,
rustling hues of burnt orange, scarlet, and burgundy through autumn leaves.
Mountains stood proudly as if they could protect us. Here, perhaps, but not in
Boston, where my nightmare began eight days and six hours ago.
We drove by the Minot Sleeper Library, and my gaze narrowed on the patrons. A
middle-aged woman clutched my latest novel close to her heart like a coveted
treasure. Scorching heat jagged up my chest. Soon she’d enjoy my words while I
endured the harshest committal.
Didn’t she know? Couldn’t she feel my pain, my anguish? Pure evil enveloped my
life, then spit me out like bitterness on a delicate palate, leaving me reeling in
torment.
The hearse carrying our dreams, our endless devotion, veered right through tall,
iron gates and followed a winding road to the back of the cemetery. My fingers
curled around the armrest, and I shifted my sight to Niko.
Splayed hands on his knees, he turned only his head and offered a weak, faint
smile. “You okay?” His voice was barely above a whisper.
To demonstrate what I thought of his stupid question, I shot him a cutting glare.
Palms up, he opened his arms. “What? I only asked if you were okay.”
“Seriously?” I said. “How could anyone be okay with this?”
Two funeral employees in dark suits dragged a tiny coffin from the back of the
hearse. Stark white, the casket rode in their hands as the men marched over
burnt, dead grass. Lowering the coffin onto two bands, they stepped away. My
baby lingered above the mouth of an awaiting grave—displaying my shame,
announcing my cowardice.
“We’ve gotta go.” Niko’s words churned the sickening feeling deep in my gut.
I peered through the side window, the cemetery dark and gloomy through tinted
glass. The world now appeared as it should, mourning along with me.
Niko said, “Babe?”
The limo driver opened my door and startled me. He reminded me of a prison
guard, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused straight ahead. Behind him,
rows and rows of ghosts, shattered lives buried deep with nothing left but a
headstone to mark their existence. In the distance, an emerging sea of blue
soldiered toward the grave—Niko’s fellow detectives, the ones who did nothing.
I twisted toward my husband, and a stabbing pain stole my breath. I bit my upper
lip, waiting for the pang to subside. “Why are they here?”
“To pay their respects, Sage. Look, if you wanna blame someone—”
“Don’t,” I warned.
My crutches in hand, he dashed around the back of the limo to my door. Jaw
clenched, I sneered at my new mode of transportation and steadied my balance
with the toe of my splinted leg. I dropped my chin to my chest. Dammit. Why
didn’t I fight? Why didn’t I do something, anything?
With a supportive arm around my waist, Niko coaxed me toward the gravesite. I
passed him one of the crutches and rested my head against his strong chest. If
only he could sweep me away so I didn’t have to face this devastation.
I squeezed my eyes closed. I couldn’t look, couldn’t witness the finality. It wasn’t
fair. I had no memories to savor. No first touch, no tiny fist gripping my finger.
No first steps, first word. I never had the chance to admire a newborn’s searching
eyes, gazing at the world as a wondrous place. Instead, I had the harsh reality that
wicked men roamed free, leaving destruction in their wake.
I had nothing, except the faint recall of precious feet kicking my insides, yearning
to break free and experience life. My baby’s lungs never had the chance to expand
with oxygen-infused air. He would never know the magic of Christmas, or admire
glorious lights dancing on tree limbs. My boy would not have the honor of placing
a brilliant star on the top branch as his daddy lifted him so his delicate hands
could reach.
For God sake, he didn’t even have a name. The headstone marked only with,
“Baby Quintano.” This was so cruel. Why did we have to endure such torture?
There wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for my unborn son. But this? Dear God, not
this.
Bob Jordan, the funeral director, recited the opening remarks. I cocked an ear,
my grip tightening around the crutch. I slid my gaze toward Niko. Did he notice
slight nuances in Bob’s pitch, the unspoken truth I insisted he conceal?
Beneath gauze bandages, sweat seeped through the multitude of stitches
zigzagging across my forearms. Pain throbbed from a dislocated knee, and
broken ribs labored my breath—my injuries refusing to allow a moment of
repose. Thanks to a mass murderer who slipped through Niko’s grasp, tranquility
no longer existed.
Tears brimmed in my husband’s red-rimmed eyes and he offered me a reassuring
squeeze. “It’s almost over, babe.”
I swallowed, averted my gaze. I didn’t deserve his kindness, his love.
We huddled together opposite six Boston detectives in department dress blues.
Cold stares in my direction, foreheads rippled in accusation. Bob Jordan asked if
we wanted to speak. Niko swept my hair out of my face, but I kept my head down,
staring at the ground.
“I think we’re all set,” he said, tears hitching his voice.
Bob gave a slight nod and cranked a handle that lowered our child into the maw
of nevermore. Hot tears slipped down the sides of my face, salt biting jagged
wounds on my cheek, upper lip, and neck. The cemetery became eerily quiet. Soft
gasps and muffled cries from my heart fracturing beyond repair pierced a cool
September wind.
Inside I screamed, “No! Don’t take our baby! Please, stop! I can’t survive this!”
Verbally, as usual, I remained silent.






Member of Mystery Writers of America, Sisters in Crime, and International Thriller Writers, Sue Coletta is an award-winning, multi-published author in numerous anthologies and her forensics articles have appeared in InSinC Quarterly. In addition to her popular crime resource blog, Sue co-hosts the radio show "Partners In Crime" on Writestream Radio Network every third Tuesday of the month from 1 - 3 p.m. EDT/EST (see details at www.suecoletta.com). She's also the communications manager for the Serial Killer Project and Forensic Science, and founder of #ACrimeChat on Twitter.
She runs a popular crime website and blog, where she shares crime tips, police jargon, the mind of serial killers, and anything and everything in between. If you search her achieves, you'll find posts from guests that work in law enforcement, forensics, coroner, undercover operatives, firearm experts...crime, crime, and more crime.
For readers, she has the Crime Lover's Lounge, where subscribers will be the first to know about free giveaways, contests, and have inside access to deleted scenes. As an added bonus, members get to play in the lounge. Your secret code will unlock the virtual door. Inside, like-minded folks discuss their favorite crime novels, solve mindbender and mystery puzzles, and/or relax and chat. Most importantly, everyone has a lot of fun.
Sue lives in northern New Hampshire with her husband, where her house is surrounded by wildlife...bear, moose, deer, even mountain lions have been spotted. Course, Sue would love to snuggle with them, but her husband frowns on the idea.











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