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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