She’s a witness. She may be lying. And he’s falling in love with her.
Detectives Jesse Aaron and Camille Farris have no leads in the murder of Rosa Logan when pretty blonde Sariah Brennan claims to have seen the killer—in a vision. Unfortunately the man she identifies is dead—or is he?
Sariah is an unsophisticated small town girl, but her background and her motives are mysterious Jesse is increasingly convinced that she has guilty knowledge of the crime, even as he finds himself more and more attracted to her. Can he and Camille unravel the web of secrets before the killer strikes again?
Targeted Age Group:: Adult
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
I had been thinking about writing a story about a witness who claims to be psychic, and another subject (which would be a spoiler if I revealed it here) came up that fit with that one. As the characters emerged, I realized it would also be an interracial romance and an opportunity to say something on that subject.
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
The trigger for Sariah was a question that seemed to call for a different answer than the one that was given. That answer became her answer to a different question, and was the basis of her character. I then needed a detective hero and happened to see an attractive African-American actor on TV. Jesse was not based on the actor, but he provided one aspect of the character.
On the ride back to Vista Road silence prevailed. He didn’t know what she was thinking about. He didn’t even know what he was thinking about. Lights were on behind the closed curtains of the house. He parked short of the driveway, where the nearest streetlight filled the front seat with a dim glow.
“Thank you,” she said. “I enjoyed it, and I appreciate you keeping me up to date on the investigation.”
“Is that what I was doing?”
She gave him an enigmatic smile. She had said she found him attractive, but as a kind of conventional compliment. He wondered if she could be as attracted to him as he was to her. He thought yes, but there would be hell to pay if he was wrong—and even if he was right. She was a witness, a lying, maddening witness, and it was unprofessional to think of her in any other way, but something was happening between them. He studied the sensitive curve of her slightly parted lips. She had retouched her lipstick in Quique’s restroom, a bare hint of color.
He kissed her. Her mouth surprised him, soft and sweet and willing, almost hungry, but with something held back. She was scared, but she wanted this. They were not investigator and witness; they were two people trying to find their way to—what? He didn’t know.
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