She's buried her parents, settled their estate, but the residents of Jessup will never let Isabelle Connelly live down her past.  Now she's a suspect in a murder and mysterious house fire, and Sheriff Rick Hutchings, the man who still haunts her dreams, is on the case.

Will Isabelle be framed for the crimes? Or will she be the next victim?

Length:1 hour, 32 minutes

Author: Alicia Dean

Narrator: Paige Holt

$7.99

Excerpt:

Although the two women thought they knew a great deal about my family, they had some of their facts wrong. My father did not write my mother’s name, or her lover’s, in blood. He simply shot her, wrote a note, and shot himself. My sister, Carmen, was not in a mental hospital. She was living in sunny California, and frequently visited a luxury spa in Palm Springs.

I had also been living in California until the murder/suicide, at which time I’d returned to Jessup. I intended to stay only long enough to settle my parents’ estate and tie up loose ends, but here it was nearly a year later, and I was still here. I’d given up a successful design business to stay in Jessup and take abuse from the townspeople.

Maybe what they said about my family being insane was true, because only a crazy person would have stayed here this long.

Eyes down, anxious to flee from Deanna’s not-so-subtle hostility, I grabbed the plastic bags from the counter and headed out of the store. I walked briskly toward my Jeep Cherokee, but before I made it, I collided with something large and solid, almost dropping the pie Brandon had given me.

“Oh, God, Isabelle, I’m sorry.” Sheriff Rick ‘Hutch’ Hutchings grabbed my upper arms to steady me, and I looked up and found myself staring into his eyes. Concern had darkened their silver hue to gunmetal grey. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

He studied me a moment then dropped his hands. He indicated his cruiser, which was parked near my jeep. “Damn thing won’t start. You’d think a county vehicle could get better maintenance than this, but I’ve had it in the shop twice this month.”

I nodded, not sure what kind of response that required. Hutch was wearing his uniform, including the hat that concealed most of his dark hair. He had a smudge of grease on one sleeve, and a bit on his cheek.

He took a rag from his back pocket and wiped at the grease on his hands, not very successfully. “Did I get any on you?” he asked, studying my torso for the effects of our collision.

“No, don’t think so. No big deal.”

“Good.” He smiled. “I haven’t seen you around much lately. How have you been?”

I shifted uneasily, adjusting the grocery bags in my arms. Every time I saw him, which fortunately wasn’t often, I thought about our past, about how things had been between us when we were both much too young to know anything about life, or love.

I looked away, afraid he could read the emotion in my eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Here, let me get those bags for you.”

I stepped back and shook my head. “No, I’ve got them. Thanks, though. See you around.”

I carried my bags to the jeep, threw them inside, and drove out of the parking lot, tempted to take the highway that led out of Jessup to freedom. Freedom from the gossip, freedom from the lingering attraction I felt for Hutch, and freedom from the strange hold this town had on me.

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Medical Examiner Dexter Hawkins is a Harley riding, smooth-talking bad boy. Samantha knows his type, and she's not jeapardizing her career or her heart by getting too close to him.

Too bad keeping her distance might prove as difficult as catching the killer.

Length: 3 hours, 6 minutes

Author: Alicia Dean

Narrator: Paige Holt

"Poetic Injustice was a great “who done it” romance with more than one possible killer.  I was drawn in by the mystery and suspense of the killing and detective work being done.  Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed the story..."  Tanya at Joyfully Reviewed

$7.99

Excerpt:

The crimson-black stain spread from the woman’s head wound and ended unevenly in the center of her blonde hair. It would almost look as if she'd been interrupted in the midst of a bad dye job, except she was lying face down, leaching more of the dark blood into the supple leather of the cream-colored sofa.

Detective Samantha Colby bent closer, trying to see the victim’s face without touching the body. She couldn’t. Nor could she see signs of any other injuries. Not that any were needed. The bloody gavel lying on the floor next to the corpse had been more than sufficient.

Sam rose and blew out a breath, resisting the urge to remove her jacket. The heat was oppressive, unusual for Cincinnati, even in July. The sweltering temperatures magnified the smell of decay, not something one would expect to encounter in a five million-dollar mansion. CSI techs wandered in and out of the room, cameras flashing, baggies opening and closing as evidence was neatly secured.

Sam’s olive shell, minus the navy blazer, would be much cooler attire, but it would probably show her armpit stains. It wasn’t the image a ‘together’ homicide detective should present.

She turned to the uniform, Walburn, and said, “Got an ID on the vic?”

His eyes glittered with excitement. “It’s not confirmed, but the house belongs to Mona Morrison.” He watched Sam expectantly.

“Mona Morrison?” Sam lifted a brow.

“You know, Judge Mona.”

She’d heard of Judge Mona, although she’d never watched her program. Judge Mona was a television judge who tried ‘real’ cases in front of millions of people.

Great. If the dead woman turned out to be Judge Mona Morrison, this was going to be one of those high profile cases with the captain demanding it be solved yesterday.

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