While I don’t believe I’ve achieved the heights of unpredictability I’d like to have done with this series so far. I do think I’ve written something new with each book. There are no formulas to see here. I’ve tried to cover different types of psychological suspense and crime. I haven’t always stuck to my safe haven of first person present tense. I’ve used different points of view. And there have been the twists along the way that have surprised readers.

Here are some of the shows that inspire me (no spoilers):

Inside Number 9. If you are a fan of this series from Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith you might have spotted my cheeky indulgence with the name of the Jackson’s house in A Killer Strikes. Here is a short preview of Sardines, the first episode to be aired. It is a delight. And if you watch nothing else from the series. Watch this one.

The epic Game of Thrones. That scene when a popular main character is killed off. Wow. I did not think they’d go there…

There are moments in Line of Duty when the tables turn and as your eyes widen you realise all is not what you thought it to be. Delicious. (And there’s another series on the way – yippee!)

And the glorious Talking Heads monologues from Alan Bennett. Each and everyone one of them a masterpiece. The subtlety of Bennett’s writing is a joy. What is left unsaid as revealing as the words themselves. I have just treated myself to the DVD’s (yes, I still have a DVD player) of the original series which I have seen and listened to on audio many times, and the redone ones which I haven’t seen at all. I can be quite stubborn (noooooo, I hear you cry…) and if I’ve loved a particular programme or film I won’t watch any other version for fear of ruining it. But I will watch the new set of actors take on these monologues at some point and see which version I prefer. I’ll say at the outset though that the originals will be hard to beat. 😉

So, yes, my A Shade Darker series is born out of my love of unpredictability. However, rather predictably, as it’s right on schedule, it’s time for the latest in the series to be released.

Driven by Deceit will be released on the 1st May 2026. The eBook is available to pre-order now HERE. or by clicking on the book cover below. The paperback and hardback formats will be available to buy from the 1st May.

Crack the façade… Expose the truth…

A toxic arrival. The villagers enthralled. What will it take to show the reality of what lives among them?

Laura Brown has already had a tough year. What she doesn’t need is someone making it worse. But when her friend’s cottage is rented out, that’s exactly what happens as her life, and the village she loves, are invaded by someone from her past.

Laura has learned how to react to her abuser. With silence. With indifference. No one else sees the danger in their midst. That is until her friends are affected and the time comes for Laura to remember who she really is.

With the help of a mysterious visitor and Laura’s friend, Harry O’Connor, a plan forms, but when a lack of discretion threatens to derail it, Laura finds help comes from the most unlikely place.

Driven by Deceit is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists, then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

What about you? Do you like unpredictability or do you prefer to know what’s going to happen and have the story pan out in a straightforward manner? And do you have any other series to add alongside these? I can add them to my To-Be-Watched list 🙂

The post Unpredictability in storytelling – I love it. Driven by Deceit (Book 5 in the #AShadeDarker series) is coming soon. #domesticthriller #suspense #newrelease #psychologicalthriller appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

I invited Harry O’Connor onto the blog this week to find out more about a person very close to the centre of my upcoming book, Driven by Deceit.

Welcome, Harry. Make yourself comfortable.

Thank you, Georgia. It’s grand to be here. I thought you would invite Laura back as she’s the main character, so I’m honoured to be here instead.

I thought it would be a great opportunity to meet Laura’s best friend. But if anyone wants to read the interview I did with Laura when A Killer Strikes was launched they can find it HERE. So, Harry, let’s get to it, you obviously enjoy working at The Stables, tell me about your background?

Okay, well, I’m Irish, and many years ago I worked in a racing yard in Ireland. I’d hoped to be a jockey, and I did race a bit, but I grew too tall and it was never going to work. Looking back, I didn’t take it well at the time and probably rather dramatically I left Ireland and all that behind me. By chance, I arrived in this part of England. I had lodgings in a nearby village, and I decided to develop my creative work. To do that, I needed to spend time round horses, which led me to Laura’s yard. I then moved to Melton, and here I still am.

Tell me more about this creative work of yours? What do you create?

Sculptures, mostly. In wood. And around ninety per cent of them are of horses. But I also paint. Again, mostly horses, but other animals too.

You seem to be at the yard at lot. You even cover for Laura so she can have a holiday in Driven by Deceit. How do you get any of your art made?

That’s the thing, isn’t it. I haven’t had the time for it. I’ve been trying to support Laura. We all had a tough start to the year with the murders. She has been under a lot of pressure, which is why I suggested the holiday. And I’m not sure if it’s what happened in January or just because I’ve been busy at the yard, plus I have a few other small jobs to keep the money coming in, but I’ve lost my appetite for creating at the moment.

I’m sorry to hear that. There’s one point in this story where you try to light that spark again, and it involves Laura. Do you want to tell me about that?

Ha ha, yes, that was a bit cheeky of me, I admit. It was quite an evening, though. I don’t think it will come as a surprise to anyone to hear that I have strong feelings for Laura. And I tried to put her in a situation where she might realise she feels the same. Because we have a problem. You called me her best friend at the start of this interview. And that is the problem. We are friends. Have been for years. And let me tell you, it’s practically impossible to change that relationship into a romantic one.

And was that cheeky evening of yours successful in changing the relationship?

A gentleman never tells, Georgia. You know that.

Interesting, Harry. Well, whether it was or not, I understand that there is a new arrival in this book that catches your eye?

Ahh. Yes. There is actually more than one new arrival in this story, but I know who you are referring to, and all I can say is that I’m only human. Red blooded male, and all that. I defy any man not to be attracted to–

Ooh, don’t spoil the surprise, Harry. Let’s keep the readers guessing, shall we? Do you think you might have sent mixed messages to Laura because of this flirtation?

I don’t think there was any flirtation. I met someone whom I found attractive. It happens, but it’s not like I was going to do anything about it because of Laura. Looking back, I think Laura maybe saw something that wasn’t actually there.

If you say so, Harry. Anyway, that’s all just a bit of a distraction in an otherwise rather nasty tale, don’t you think?

Absolutely. That other arrival I mentioned. I realise I was slow on the uptake, and I still feel bad for that, but honestly, talk about seeing someone’s true colours. I was shocked that anyone could be so awful.

Laura’s reputation was certainly at stake. But I understand there was money involved too?

There was. And don’t forget about the horse.

Ah, yes. It all started with the horse.

Did it though? I think it all started many years ago.

Very astute, Harry. Very astute.

Thank you. Given what a fool I was, I’ve given it a lot of thought.

I don’t think you were a fool, Harry. Let’s say you were taken in. And, of course, you weren’t the only one.

No, I wasn’t. Many of us had our eyes opened, rather dramatically. I have to say, Georgia. It is turning out to be quite a year.

It certainly is. I wonder what will happen during the rest of it.

Aren’t you meant to know that?

You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But the future is filled with infinite possibilities, Harry, and nothing is set in stone yet.

Oooh, intriguing.

I like to keep everyone guessing. Even myself. Anyway, let’s hope our lovely readers enjoy finding out all about your adventures in Driven by Deceit, Harry. And enjoy the rest of the weekend. I’m sure there are some horses somewhere you’re meant to be exercising.

I’m sure there are, Georgia, best get back to it. Thanks for having me here. I’ve enjoyed the chat. 😊

If you’d like to find out more about Harry O’Connor and see how he fits into the story you can buy Driven by Deceit from all the places you usually get your books. You can start HERE, or by clicking on the book cover below, or any of the images in this post.

Thank you x

The post An interview with Harry O’Connor, a leading character in the upcoming #NewRelease Driven by Deceit (Book 5 in the #AShadeDarker series) by @GeorgiaRoseBook #psychologicalthriller #suspense #domesticsuspense #series appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

“Art is never finished, only abandoned,” is a quote attributed to Leonardo DaVinci. It highlights the fact that perfection is unattainable and creative work is only completed when the artist chooses to stop and let it go.

This is something I really struggle with when writing. When to let go. In my day job I am a completer of things. I am project driven. I like to see something right through to the end where all the t’s are crossed and i’s dotted. When all the figures balance and I can walk away and know the job is finished. I like to cross the task off in my diary and know there is nothing more I could have done to improve it.

Oh, how very different writing is. I am getting better. With my first book, A Single Step, I dilly dallied over publishing it for months, years. I kept rereading it and endlessly editing. Tweaking, changing, rewriting. Obsessing*.

The quote, “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again,” is famously attributed to Irish playwright and author Oscar Wilde.

I can relate. Often I’d spend an afternoon rewriting a whole paragraph. Turning it round and round only by the end for it to look remarkably similar to how it was when I started work on it. What a waste of time because, in fact, there are diminishing returns on all that extra effort.

But still that manuscript had to be prised from my hands.

As I said above, I am getting better. The schedule I am on to produce one book a year with the A Shade Darker series is helping with that. I still obsess over the fact I might have left something out. Something important. Once written, a line or thought will often pop into my mind while shopping, or when out with the dog, or in the middle of the night, and I’ll think ooh, that sounds better, I’ll use that and I’ll make a note of it and add it to the pile of other such scribbles. Often when I check through the manuscript (again!) to include all these important notes, I find they were the words I’d used in the first place, or, yes, I had already included that. Clearly my brain is just doing its own little double checking thing.

Occasionally, though, these random thoughts that spring to mind have indeed saved me from actually publishing something that makes no sense at all. Like in Before the Dawn, when on a dog walk I suddenly realised that character’s arms couldn’t possibly be hanging where they were as they’d been tied at the wrists! Phew. That was a moment. Major embarrassment averted!

So, the lesson is to always pay attention to the weird thinky thoughts that come to me. To always write them down, because, you know, memory… And to always just do that last check through to make sure your brain isn’t trying to save you, yet again.

And on that note, I have just added all my final (I hope!) scribbles to Driven by Deceit (Book 5 of the A Shade Darker series). I am currently doing a final read through and will then set up the files on Bookfunnel to send it out to my wonderful ARC (Advance Reader Copy) readers. (I should add that by this stage the book has already been through its beta readers, its intrepid editor and its diligent proof reader.)

But my eagle-eyed ARC readers will spot another load of errors. ‘Tis always the way, and I love them for it.

Driven by Deceit will be published on the 1^st May 2026 as its story is told through the month of May. The eBook is available for preorder from your favourite retailer by clicking HERE or on any of the images scattered throughout this post.

Crack the façade… Expose the truth…

A toxic arrival. The villagers enthralled. What will it take to show the reality of what lives among them?

Laura Brown has already had a tough year. What she doesn’t need is someone making it worse. But when her friend’s cottage is rented out, that’s exactly what happens as her life, and the village she loves, are invaded by someone from her past.

Laura has learned how to react to her abuser. With silence. With indifference. No one else sees the danger in their midst. That is until her friends are affected and the time comes for Laura to remember who she really is.

With the help of a mysterious visitor and Laura’s friend, Harry O’Connor, a plan forms, but when a lack of discretion threatens to derail it, Laura finds help comes from the most unlikely place.

Driven by Deceit is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists, then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

Driven by Deceit will also be available as a paperback and hardback but those formats will be launched on the 1st May and can’t be pre-ordered.

Thank you for your continued support. It means a lot.

Georgia x

* And I can tell you now. I don’t reread any of my older books as I’d start editing all over again.

The post “Art is never finished, only abandoned” Leonardo DaVinci – Driven by Deceit Book 5 of the #AShadeDarker series of #domesticsuspense #psychologicalthrillers #newrelease appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

Book Description

Crack the façade… Expose the truth…

A toxic arrival. The villagers enthralled. What will it take to show the reality of what lives among them?

Laura Brown has already had a tough year. What she doesn’t need is someone making it worse. But when her friend’s cottage is rented out, that’s exactly what happens as her life, and the village she loves, are invaded by someone from her past.

Laura has learned how to react to her abuser. With silence. With indifference. No one else sees the danger in their midst. That is until her friends are affected and the time comes for Laura to remember who she really is.

With the help of a mysterious visitor and Laura’s friend, Harry O’Connor, a plan forms, but when a lack of discretion threatens to derail it, Laura finds help comes from the most unlikely place.

Driven by Deceit is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists, then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

*****

If this looks like something you might like to read, you can find the eBook at your favourite bookshop HERE. Or click on the book cover.

Of course, as with all series it is always best if you start at the beginning so you can find Book 1, A Killer Strikes, HERE, Book 2, Shape of Revenge, HERE, Book 3, Hard to Forgive, HERE and Book 4, A Stolen Future, HERE.

There will be a paperback and hardback available too. These will follow once I’ve received the map and covers from my cover designer, Simon, and will definitely be in place by the 1 May 2026.

As always many thanks for your support. x

The post #AShadeDarker – The new series from Georgia Rose – Book 5: Driven by Deceit – A Shade Darker – May #preorder #psychologicalsuspense #domesticsuspense #suspense #psychological appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

A Stolen Future is one week old today and I thought I would share with you the first chapter:

1: A Chip off the Old Block?

There had been a moment, once, a long time ago now, when Mr Marchant Senior had casually placed his hand on my bottom. I had only brought the post into his office to be signed and was therefore far too surprised to react. Unexpected. That’s what it was. Badly timed too. What with him being married. Happily, by all accounts, although since that incident I wasn’t so sure. I’d even speculated that maybe, just maybe, something was missing from his world, despite the carefully crafted façade of family man, local philanthropist, head of building empire.

That touch had held such promise, although it lingered but a moment. And it was thrilling. All these years later, I could still recall the sensation, the tingle.

Sadly, it was all I had left of what might have been. Because now, my world was a different place, and I didn’t care for it.

I hear Rex call me, not by name, of course. An abrupt, ‘Come here,’ is barked out instead. I used to ignore it, pretend he was calling someone else. A passing dog, perhaps. But that only made matters worse.

I pick up my pad and pen and hurry to his office, reflecting on the fact Mr Marchant Senior had always had the grace to call my extension if he wanted me to come through. Not that he’d needed to often. In those days, both my and his office walls were glass and he could easily get my attention without the need to shout.

I enter Rex’s inner sanctum.

‘Where’s my dry cleaning? My suit? I need it tonight.’ Hands behind his head, he leans back on his executive chair behind the expansive desk on which there is precious little sign of any work being done.

‘You haven’t asked me to collect any dry cleaning.’ My voice breaks as I speak and I clear my throat, my mouth dry as I stare down at my pad, at recent instructions. No. No mention of dry cleaning. He leans forward. His close-set eyes are eager, like those of a bird of prey, its target in sight.

‘Yes, I did. You said you’d pick it up and bring it in this morning.’

‘Did I?’ The furrow deepens between my eyes as I struggle to remember.

‘Clearly you’ve forgotten, so go get it now.’

‘I’m in the middle of—’

‘Now.’ He slides a single sheet of paper, which he pretends to read, across the polished mahogany and I know I’m dismissed. I stifle my sigh of frustration as I return to my office to retrieve my handbag and keys. It’s a pain when interruptions break the flow of me putting the monthly finance reports together. I like to follow my tried and tested process so nothing gets missed. Plus, it’s also my lunch hour. It isn’t a long journey back to Sharon’s Stores in Melton, a round trip of ten miles, but as I live in Melton, it would have been far easier if I could have run the errand on the way to, or from, work. Also, this interruption means I’m unlikely to get the reports completed this afternoon and Rex does like them done on the first of the month. Why, I haven’t yet fathomed, as I’m sure he never so much as glances at them.

They’ve not made for pretty reading in months, and yet he’s not said a word.

I visit the facilities, thinking it is ironic he wants me to pick up his suit on company time when he never wears one in the office. Jeans and a tee shirt are his usual attire. Although only his. Everyone else wears office clothes, which I prefer anyway. You know where you are with what amounts to a uniform.

Although I will never forget the rather pointed comments he once made, embarrassingly in front of the other staff, joking (and I use that word loosely) about which decade my suits had come from, thus shaming me into replacing my entire workwear wardrobe. An expense I could have done without. Much as I hate to admit it when I’d evaluated my appearance after Rex’s rather cruel observations, I had seen how old-fashioned I’d become. How frumpy.

Of course, Mr Marchant Senior had never worn anything less formal than a suit to the office, sometimes a three-piece. I liked those particularly, as I found a well-fitted waistcoat becoming on a man.

I don’t even like calling him Rex. His father had been Mr Marchant to me, despite our close working relationship, and I remember clearly the exchange with Rex on his first day. He’d scoffed at me calling him Mr Marchant, which I did out of respect.

‘I’m not my father,’ he’d spat out through gritted teeth.

No, you’re not. But in those early days of the new reign, I’d still had hope the business of Marchant & Son would carry on as before, as would my job. Disillusion followed shortly thereafter.

Before I leave my office, I carefully check through all the recent notes on my pad again. I’ve taken to writing everything down because clearly my memory is not what it once was and Rex often pulls me up on things I’ve forgotten. I’ve also made two serious mistakes in recent months, which had shaken my confidence.

No, there is no mention of any dry cleaning. Not recently anyway. Obviously, I’ve picked it up before, though why I have no idea as it isn’t part of my job description. But then many things I do for Rex I was never called upon to do for his father. I thought it was because of Mr Marchant Senior coming from a different generation. He was more aware of, and sensitive to, most of the boundaries of the employer/employee relationship.

I walk out to my beloved car, an original Mini Cooper, surprised it passed the MOT again last month and is therefore good for another year on the road. I’d been concerned it would fail and had lain awake at night fretting over the possibility of having to spend my savings on replacing it. At least that worry is deferred for another year. In dire need of a wash, it is the shabbiest vehicle in the car park. Which is probably the reason Rex withdrew my entitlement to the reserved spot next to his BMW I had with Mr Marchant Senior for so many years. I appreciate from his point of view it isn’t the image of success the company wants to project.

I wait as two company vans turn in. One of the site managers, Eddie Lumbers, is in the first, and he raises his hand to me in greeting as they pass by and follow the road round to the rear of the building I work in. There is a huge yard out back which houses the construction machines, vehicles and materials. Running along the far side and forming an L shape with the office block is a large building, called The Lodge, for use by the builders themselves and all the support staff and professionals brought in on projects such as architects and surveyors.

This is the area Mr Marchant Senior loved to spend his time in most and whenever he had the chance, he was at his happiest when he got to change from his office into his work clothes and discuss projects with his men. He took every opportunity he could to visit and spend time on each site for the same reason. Under the new regime, I worry this crucial part of the business lacks guidance and direction.

Despite the excellent project and site managers we have on the payroll, it still needs an experienced someone with a guiding hand in overall control, and that’s where there is a problem with Rex. He lacks any credibility, as he hasn’t a clue what he is talking about.

I can’t help worry, but why I do, I’m not sure. After all, it isn’t my company. Why should it bother me if Rex is already damaging its reputation? The reality is I’ve been part of the business for so long it’s difficult not to care and I can’t turn my back on something Mr Marchant Senior put so much work into building.

As I leave Buntingley and drive towards Melton, I put Rex out of my mind, as my thoughts wander back to that bottom touch from what I realise is now some eight years ago. I know I shouldn’t dwell on it. It’s pathetic to do so, particularly after so long, but I have never been able to help myself. What if I’d responded? Favourably, of course. Where might I be now? Not where I am, living in a small cottage and scratching out a living with little besides a state pension to see me through my twilight years, of that I’m certain.

I’d given myself a good talking-to at the time, of course. Told myself George wouldn’t have minded. My husband had died far too young, and well before there had been any planning for our old age. Now, although only about to turn fifty, I feel I’m racing towards retirement, and with no one else to rely on for support I’ve only ever managed to get by and not been in a position to put much away over the years.

‘Needs must, old girl,’ is what George would have said had I encouraged Mr Marchant Senior. Which is weird now because I was barely twenty when George died. Still, it’s what he called me, had done since we’d met in our early teens way back in the 1980s. At the time I’d imagined us growing old together, his endearment becoming more appropriate as the years passed. But that life was all so long ago, and so different from the one I live now. Some days it is as if it hadn’t happened at all.

I think they’d have got on, my George and Mr Marchant Senior. They were of the same cut, had the same altruistic nature. I believe it’s why I was so drawn to Mr Marchant Senior. He reminded me of my lost love.

I’ve also recently pondered that one short-lived husband and a bottom touch doesn’t amount to much by way of romance in a lifetime. For years after losing George, I hadn’t been able to even contemplate getting involved with anyone else. Then I sunk all my energy into working with Mr Marchant Senior to build Marchant and Son into the company it is today. Also, it isn’t as if anyone has shown any interest in me in years either so I’m not exactly inspired to give romance another go. No, when it comes down to it, given the passion, excitement and unpredictability of my early years with George, I’ve been perfectly happy with my steady job and quiet home life.

I pass the end of Marchant Road, renamed years ago and the clearest indication, if any is needed, of the high esteem Mr Marchant Senior was held in around here. Pulling up in front of the village shop, Sharon’s Stores, I get out, wishing I’d had the foresight to put on my coat. Despite it being April, if only the first, there is a chill wind, and I pull my jacket around me as I scuttle across to the entrance. Rain is in the air and spring feels far away.

Sharon sits behind the counter, as usual. She is far too pale, her face drawn and sickly beneath the peroxide hair. I’ve heard rumours she is ill and undergoing tests but as far as anyone knows there has been no diagnosis as yet. I go straight to the counter and, as I find her prickly to get into conversation with, restrict myself to asking for Rex’s suit. Not that it prevents her from prying.

‘Do you have the receipt? Oh, and have you heard about poor Dora Smith?’ Sharon’s hair is like straw, dry and fragile, the ends splitting. I’m relieved I never embarked along the hair-dyeing route. There are some greys on my head, but I have every intention of letting them develop at a pace to lead me elegantly into old age. I smooth my shoulder-length hair with my free hand, to reassure myself it is well-conditioned, then tuck one side behind my ear as I reply.

‘No, sorry. Rex has misplaced it.’ It’s always the same if I’m collecting something for him. I never have the ticket, and I’ve given up asking him for paperwork. It’s as though he doesn’t think he need concern himself with such trifling details. He’s the same with any receipt or invoice. “Only plebs keep those”, he’d once told me when I’d tried to explain their need for my bookkeeping. I ignore Sharon’s eye roll as I deflect her second question. ‘Dora’s a good friend, as well as a neighbour.’ And no, Sharon, I’m not going to gossip about her.

‘There’s something funny been going on with her. You mark my words. Mind, you’ll know all about it, of course, seeing as how you’re such good friends.’ Sharon makes this nasty dig, I know her too well to take any notice, then tuts as she slides herself off the stool. Rex’s name will be on the bag anyway, but I get the impression Sharon likes her customers to be fully aware of just how much they are putting her out. As it is, she goes through to the back and returns mere seconds later with the suit bag. Astonishingly, it hasn’t entailed a long hunt after all, as I suspected. Weirdly she strokes her hand down the cover and smiles. ‘I bet he looks super in this. He’s such a charming young man and so handsome.’ My responding smile is stiff but I keep my mouth shut, take out the company credit card, pay, and leave the shop before she can expand on her thoughts about Rex or mention the subject of Dora Smith again.

The rain is insistent now and coming in on a slant, which causes me to duck and tilt my head away from its icy sting as I hustle across the road. Having only two doors on the car, I battle to get the suit bag into the back and hung on the hook. Once I’m in the driving seat, I sweep my wet hair off my face, then remove my speckled glasses and wipe them on the edge of my skirt before turning on the fan as I start the engine to de-mist the windows. It isn’t efficient, so as usual I clear the windscreen with a tissue from my bag. Reluctantly, I ignore the call of home and head back to the office, consoling myself by eating the sandwich I’d made for lunch on the way.

My thoughts drift back to Dora. I’m still reeling from her complete breakdown at the weekend. At everything it revealed. I know it will have shocked everyone who witnessed it, but it had left me with the feeling I’d let her down badly. I believed I knew her and yet I knew nothing.

I check in with Trish Taylor, our receptionist, as I walk back into the office, then I have a quick word or two with the other staff who are at their desks, working my way across the open-plan section until I reach my and Rex’s offices at the end. Everything is running smoothly. I deliver the suit to Rex’s office and, in his absence, hang it on the back of the door. Then I carry on with the reports, struggling with the new accounting system.

Rex walks in through the main door at nearly four o’clock, after what has clearly been a lengthy lunch. I try to ignore it when he lingers in reception, flirting with Trish and distracting her and me from our work, but it is hard to do given the glass walls and open-plan arrangement.

The way Rex chases after the young women in the company is problematic. Recruitment to replace those who leave fills considerably more hours of my day than it has ever done before. It is only a matter of time before someone sues us.

It’s another half an hour before he passes my office and I call out to tell him I’d put the suit on the back of his door, a fact he barely acknowledges. His rudeness, although I should be used to it by now, rankles, so even though I know I shouldn’t, I blurt out, ‘Also, could you not distract Trish? She has a lot to get through today.’ He pauses, retraces his steps, and stands fully in my doorway, his rugby player build intimidating.

‘As I’m the one who pays her, I’ll decide how she spends her fucking time.’ He then walks away to his office. Despite being used to the way he speaks to me, and his language, my heart flutters like a startled moth, and a flush creeps up my neck as I glance over at the cubicles. A couple of curious faces quickly turn back to their screens. I can’t condemn their interest because he never lowers his voice, especially if I am the one at the end of some rebuke.

I’ve spent many years building my position in the company, but now Rex is in charge, any control I had is slipping away from beneath me like scree down a mountainside with me left scrabbling for purchase as he undermines me whenever he has the chance. It isn’t on, but no approach to address the matter of the friction between us working together has been successful to date. He cannot take feedback, and as I hate confrontation, I’ve learned to back away from giving it. Today is no different and rather than challenge him, which a stronger person would have done. I quietly seethe at my desk instead as I continue to work on my reports.

With my trip out earlier, there is no way I’m going to complete them today, so as five-thirty approaches, I decide I’ll finish them the next morning. As I pack away, Rex comes out of his office and into mine with his hand held out.

‘Where are the reports?’

‘Because I had to get your suit. I wasn’t able to complete them, so I’ll finish them tomorrow.’

‘That’s unacceptable. I want them on the first of the month. You know that and I don’t want to hear your excuses. You shouldn’t have wasted your time going out when you did, should you?’

‘But you told me to do it straight away.’

‘No, I didn’t. Don’t twist your failings back onto me. What do I tell you to do?’ Then clearly not expecting an answer, he continues, ‘Prioritise. I want those reports on my desk first thing, so I suggest you stay and complete them tonight, or maybe you’d prefer to come in early?’ He raises his hand, points his finger towards me. ‘First thing. No excuses.’

His orders having to take precedence over anything else I might have to do is one thing. But I dislike the fact it then gives him the excuse to complain when I am behind with my own tasks. Consequently I have become resentful, which isn’t an emotion I’ve experienced at any other time in my working life.

I sit back at my desk unable to answer or even look at him any further, so humiliated do I feel. The shame of being spoken to like that by someone young enough to be my son is mortifying and it is all I can do not to cry as I carry on. It isn’t like I’m not used to working late but I hadn’t planned on doing so today. In reality, it takes me a little over an hour, and once done, I print off the hard copies he asks for. When I go to put them on his desk, the suit is still hanging on the back of the door. I stop and stare at it, then curse under my breath.

The chill wind whips round the corner as I step out of the building later, hitting me with a refreshing blast that’s welcome after so many hours staring at a screen. I spot Eddie Lumbers wiping my car down with a chamois, which is a surprise. It looks as sparkly as an old car can manage.

‘Thank you, that’s kind of you,’ I say as I get nearer, delighted as it saves me a job I rarely get round to.

‘You’re welcome. After being on site I had to wash my truck anyway,’ and he gesticulates to his pickup nearby, ‘so it was as easy to do yours at the same time.’ I smile at him, his face creasing in response, eyes shining. He has a pencil behind his ear as usual. It’s replaced “his next cigarette” that he always had lined up there until he quit a few years ago. Even this early in the year, he has a healthy glow about him. I suppose it’s from being outside. The silver of his hair, the change that causes the colour to drain from so many people’s faces, has no such success in his case. ‘You’re late finishing.’

‘Yes, I had to complete some reports Rex wanted, so it was easier to stay late than to come in early.’

‘How conscientious of you.’ He grins as I roll my eyes. Eddie and I have never exchanged a word about our lives working under Rex. We don’t need to. We both understand the score. Although I’ve noticed Rex behaves better with those at The Lodge than with those in the office. Eddie hesitates, as though not sure if or how to continue. ‘Erm… Do you know how Dora is? I’ve been worried.’ Eddie had been part of the cast for the Murder Mystery evening, so had been witness to the events of last Saturday night.

‘It’s kind of you to ask after her. I’ve seen her, and she’s feeling better. I think she’ll be home early next week.’

‘That’s good to hear. When you see her next, give her my best, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will.’ We say our goodbyes as I get into my car, relieved to be on my way home at last.

I’d visited Dora at the hospital the day after the Murder Mystery with some trepidation. She’d always appeared to me to be one of the strongest women I knew, and I’d worried myself through a restless night as to the damage the ordeal might have caused her. Despite preparing myself, she’d still appeared small in the bed, and fragile, like an injured bird, broken and lost. Beyond the bandages and bruises she’d been calm, although distant, and struggled to concentrate on anything for any period. She’d lapsed into silence mid-sentence and gazed out of the window distractedly. She hadn’t wanted to talk for long, had said she was tired and had said nothing about the incident, which I’d understood. Afterwards, as I’d returned to my car, I’d been glad I’d gone, so she’d know I was there for her. I’d also gleaned she was likely to be in hospital until after the coming weekend so, as one practical thing I can do, I am going to carry out a thorough clean of her cottage so it is all ready for her return.

It is harder for me to switch off from work these days. My latest mistake or admonishment from Rex spins through my brain like clothes in a washing machine, often into the early hours. Later that evening, I sit in the quiet with a glass of wine and, as I’ve done many times before, focus on my work situation. This is the first day in April. Another month having passed by in which nothing has changed. Just like nothing has changed over the last eight years. I’ve given it enough time to improve, yet it hasn’t and now something has to give, because I can’t continue to work in that environment.

Despite examining the problem from every direction over the past weeks and months, I can only see one way to resolve the situation and I can’t keep procrastinating.

Either I have to go, or Rex does.

A Stolen Future is now available to buy.

Book Description

A rival to overcome… A truth to reveal…

A family firm. A long-held promise. What will it take to protect all she loves?

Alice Fraser has everything she needs. A comfortable home. A few good friends. A satisfying career. But when the promise made doesn’t materialise and everything changes at work she finds herself losing control of all she once held dear.

She could have left. She should have left. Instead she decides to dig in, and make life uncomfortable for her tormentor.

Petty revenge, she calls it. And that’s how it starts. But one day she is pushed too far, and once she takes the next step there is no going back.

A Stolen Future is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

If this looks like something you might like to read, you can find it at your favourite bookshop HERE. Or by clicking on the book cover.

Thank you x

The post #NewRelease The 1st Chapter of A Stolen Future: Book 4 of the #AShadeDarker series #domesticsuspense #psychologicalsuspense #suspense appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

One of my favourite reviews is for A Single Step where the reviewer said “I stopped reading at 18% when the “F” bomb showed up. I don’t do profanity… I don’t care if it IS how the characters would talk “in real life”!” It is also the review that the most people have found helpful. Although back in the days when people could comment on reviews someone had responded, “Thanks for letting me know. Makes me want to buy it now.” I’m not sure that was the intention of the original reviewer. But it is a useful review because it warns (or encourages) potential readers and hopefully puts off those who might be similarly offended.

This is also another example of the fact you can’t please everyone, which is why I believe you should only please yourself as a writer.

I prefer my characters to be as real as possible and it might be the company I keep but I know very few people that don’t swear at all. Most people do, in my experience, to some degree, so for me it would feel weird to create a world in which nobody swore.

I also fully agree with Billy Connolly (one of my favourite comedians) above. I don’t believe that swearing has anything to do with a lack of vocabulary. You only have to read my books to know that. I know loads of words but there is always room for a well-placed f**k.

The only time I have regretted the swearing I have written into a book is with Parallel Lies, the first book in my mostly forgotten middle series (I seriously need to market them better, or at all perhaps…) The Ross Duology. My regret is that I didn’t go far enough with it. There is something that happens in this book that is truly horrible and there is a word that the person involved would have used. I backed away from writing it and while I didn’t think too much of it at the time I have realised since that I made a mistake.

This is what I’m leading up too. There is a character in A Stolen Future who swears. It’s not all the time but it is there and I believe it is fully in line with their personality so I make no apology for it. Like I said, I want my characters to be real.

So, if you are not offended by a little bad language then please check out A Stolen Future HERE. The eBook is available to pre-order now and will be published on the 1st April 2025. Paperbacks and hardbacks will be available then too. And if you are offended by such words then please look away, this is not for you.

Thank you x

The post Using bad language in writing #newrelease A Stolen Future (#AShadeDarker Book 4) from @GeorgiaRoseBook #domesticsuspense #psychologicalthriller #suspense appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

I invited Alice Fraser onto the blog this week to find out more about the person at the centre of my upcoming book, A Stolen Future.

Welcome, Alice. Make yourself comfortable.

Thank you, Georgia. It’s lovely to be here. And thank you for giving up some of your weekend to talk to me.

You work such long hours there didn’t seem to be any other way to make this happen. You obviously enjoy your job?

I used to. But things have changed and I’m not so sure any more. It feels more like a duty. But, of course, I need the money so I have to stick with it.

I’m sorry to hear you feel like that. Would you like to tell the readers where you work?

Oh, actually, I’ve just realised how indiscreet I was then I hope the boss doesn’t read this…

I know him and I’m sure he won’t. Don’t worry.

How well do you know him? Are you friends?

Absolutely not. And there’s no need to be suspicious, Alice. I just meant he’s not the sort to spend his time er, reading…. So I think you’re safe talking to me and my readers.

Ah, yes. I see what you mean. Well I guess it won’t hurt to share. I work for Marchant and Son. A building company in the nearby village of Buntingley.

And have you been there a long time?

Yes, since my early twenties. I originally worked for Mr Marchant Senior, of course. He was a marvellous man. Such a visionary, and so generous.

It sounds like you certainly enjoyed your time with him. And you live in Melton, I believe?

Yes. Dora Smith is my next door neighbour, and friend, of course. I think you’ve interviewed her here before?

That’s right. Last year. She’s had a bad time of it recently, hasn’t she? I’m sure she appreciates your support.

I think we were all shocked by what happened at the Murder Mystery evening. But I hope she’s put that behind her now.

A little bird tells me she’s been encouraging you to find a little romance in your life.

She has but I rather think that ship’s sailed. I was so focused for so many years on work I guess I forgot to make a life for myself at the same time. It feels too late now.

Never say never, Alice. So, just going back to your position at Marchant and Son. If things have changed, and you’re no longer happy there. Why do you stay?

I feel a responsibility towards the company, and all those who work there. And… and… I’m not about to be driven out of something without receiving what I’m due. There, I’ve said it.

Okay. You feel you’re being driven out?

Absolutely! And I can tell you now it’s not going to happen. It doesn’t matter how he treats me. I am not going to walk…

He?

Oh! I’ve said too much. I knew I shouldn’t have come here.

I’m sorry you feel like that, Alice. I’m sure it’s fine but let’s change the subject. What do you like to do in your spare time?

I haven’t had much of that, but things are going to change and I thought I’d like to grow some vegetables. Gardening is meant to be good for you after all.

Plus you get all that lovely produce to eat. I look forward to seeing how green your fingers are, Alice. In the meantime, I can see you’re itching to get away so don’t let me keep you.

Thank you, Georgia. And can I just say how much I appreciate you persevering with A Stolen Future. I know it’s not been easy to write but I hope your readers enjoy finding out what I did. I don’t know about you but I am a bit apprehensive about what they’ll think.

As am I, Alice. As am I. Many thanks for talking to me and have a lovely weekend.

If you’d like to find out more about Alice Fraser and read her story you can buy A Stolen Future from all the places you usually get your books. You can start HERE, or by clicking on the book cover below.

Thank you. x

The post An interview with Alice Fraser, leading character in the upcoming #NewRelease A Stolen Future (Book 4 in the #AShadeDarker series) by @GeorgiaRoseBook #psychologicalthriller #suspense #domesticsuspense #series appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

When I started planning the A Shade Darker series, I had a simple idea in my head: Twelve books, each one covering a different sin, or the breaking of a commandment, because of there only being seven sins. As soon as I started my research, it quickly became apparent this was never going to be simple. Sins, or the act of sinning, rarely means just one sin is committed or one commandment is broken, one, or more, lead to another. Adultery committed through envy, for example. Or murder because of anger. Then, of course, there are the degrees of sinning along the way to consider too.

I was also shocked by how much of a sinner, or breaker of commandments, I was. I’d never really thought about it before but, we all are, really. How many of can truly say we are without sin? I’m obviously not saying we all do the big ones; murder, adultery, theft. But what about those that feel like the less serious ones? Have we never experienced pride, envy, greed, and gluttony? I know I have.

As I start each book I write down the commandments likely to be broken and the sins the story will incorporate. For A Stolen Future I wrote down – Theft – Pride – Envy. Make of that what you will.

If you’d like to see what those three words spiralled into the eBook of A Stolen Future is available to pre-order now. It will be published on the 1^st April 2025 but if you pre-order now, it will be delivered seamlessly to your reading device without you having to give it another thought. Simples!

Click on one of the images or HERE if you’d like to find out more.

Thank you x

The post Incorporating Themes of the Seven Deadly Sins into #AShadeDarker – The new series from Georgia Rose – Book 4: A Stolen Future – A Shade Darker – April 2025 #preorder #psychologicalsuspense #domesticsuspense #suspense #psychological appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

Book Description

A rival to overcome… A truth to reveal…

A family firm. A long-held promise. What will it take to protect all she loves?

Alice Fraser has everything she needs. A comfortable home. A few good friends. A satisfying career. But when the promise made doesn’t materialise and everything changes at work she finds herself losing control of all she once held dear.

She could have left. She should have left. Instead she decides to dig in, and make life uncomfortable for her tormentor.

Petty revenge, she calls it. And that’s how it starts. But one day she is pushed too far, and once she takes the next step there is no going back.

A Stolen Future is a gripping domestic suspense novel. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this psychological thriller.

*****

If this looks like something you might like to read, you can find the eBook at your favourite bookshop HERE. Or click on the book cover.

Of course, as with all series it is always best if you start at the beginning so you can find Book 1, A Killer Strikes, HERE, Book 2, Shape of Revenge, HERE and Book 3, Hard to Forgive, HERE.

There will be a paperback and hardback available too. These will follow once I’ve received the map and covers from my cover designer, Simon, and will definitely be in place by the 1 April 2025.

As always many thanks for your support. x

The post #AShadeDarker – The new series from Georgia Rose – Book 4: A Stolen Future – A Shade Darker – April #preorder #psychologicalsuspense #domesticsuspense #suspense #psychological appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.

Hard to Forgive is one week old today and I thought I would share with you the first chapter:

1: Not the Weather for a Funeral

Now

I usually look forward to a funeral. Prefer them to weddings, in fact. There is less dancing. But that wasn’t the case with today’s following the horrific murders of the Jackson family. The police have gathered all the evidence they need. They have their man behind bars. And they have released the bodies.

I carry the tray into my front room and place it on the small round table that sits in the bay window. I lift the teapot onto the decorative tile in the centre, add a cup and saucer, a small jug of milk and the side plate on which lies my breakfast. Toast and marmalade. One piece. Cut diagonally.

It is still early, not much past seven, but a lifetime spent as a school secretary has carved routine into my bones and I am incapable of sleeping in. I feel enough of a slouch to be eating breakfast whilst still in my dressing gown. I would never have done that during my working life and that thought makes me pause while I consider whether retirement has made me lax. On balance, probably not. I maintain most standards, and I am certain nothing has slipped so far that the outside world would notice. Everyone there sees what they expect to see. Dora Smith. Spinster of this parish. Ex-school secretary. Pillar of the community. Village treasure.

I do hate that word. Spinster. The equivalent word for a man who has never married is bachelor, which is so much better. Bachelor has a rather dashing rakish edge to it, like they are still desirable, still sexy.

Spinster: the word carries such depressing undertones. Dried-up old husk. Desiccation. But I cannot escape it. I cannot pretend I have spent my life notching up husbands, or even managing one. And as I have lived in Melton my entire adult life, everyone knows exactly what I am.

I sit in my comfy chair, the only seat at this table, place the tray down to one side, then straighten the white linen tablecloth. I pour my tea, add a little milk and reach for a piece of toast. As I eat, I gaze out of the window. The occasional car passes, but other than that, the village is quiet. Daffodil heads bob on the verges on each side of the road. Their sunny yellow muted by the net curtains I view them through. Despite the filter, I can tell it’s a bright morning. A fresh spring breeze causes puffs of cloud to scud across the baby-blue sky.

Not the weather for grief.

It will be standing room only, of course, at the church. Probably worse than that, because the entire village has been so consumed by the tragedy. I have heard talk of speakers being set up for those left in the churchyard. I thought I would stay back, be among the outside mourners. I am sure there will be enough family and close friends to fill the church on their own.

Naturally, I knew the Jackson family. Such is the social life in a village. Plus, I enjoyed watching both the girls, Jenny and Judy, grow and flourish over their years at the primary school. But I would not consider myself close to any of them. Also, on this occasion I think I would prefer to be in the churchyard. It might mean standing for the duration, but all that grief trapped inside will be suffocating, pressing in on us like a weighted blanket. At least out in the fresh air, it could dissipate on the bracing March wind.

I have not voiced my thoughts to anyone, because even my friends might consider me cruel, but privately I thought it was just as well the whole family had gone. While I never indulge in gossip, even I have heard disturbing rumours as to what had instigated the attack. Though I found them hard to believe of such a sweet child as Jenny, the oldest daughter. But by all accounts, the murderer had killed the girls first. The thought of John and Jan surviving without them had been almost too much for me to contemplate. No parent should be without their child. I know it happens, but it is against the natural order of things.

As I pour myself another cup of tea, a movement catches my eye and I glance swiftly back out of the window. The front door has opened on the cottage opposite. Amos Chamberlain steps out. His routine is as regimented as mine. I reach for the small pair of binoculars that have permanent residence on my table and lift them to get him in my sights. They are not strictly called for. I have spent my ordered life doing daily eye exercises to avoid the need to wear glasses, but they do add to the drama I like to build into my steady existence.

I see he is using his stick. He fell outside the shop a couple of weeks ago, one wet day in February. I had stayed around to help but it was not appreciated. Nothing broken, but he has limped ever since and is clearly still in need of some support. We don’t bounce, or indeed mend, as well, or as quickly, as we once did. That is for sure.

I fancy myself as something of a sleuth. And despite an early setback, I pride myself on being able to sniff out a wrong ’un a mile away. Probably another reason I am single. I never miss a Murder Mystery evening, which is an annual fundraising event in the village, and I know every Agatha Christie novel as if I had written it myself. Miss Marple, my favourite sleuth. If only a crime would present itself, I am sure I would be up to the task of solving it. The recent murders aside, of course. The police have been all over them. Besides, they were decidedly unpleasant, from what I have heard. No, I would prefer something considerably more refined. Someone expiring at the village fete, perhaps, amid the floral bunting and buttered scones, a drop of cyanide having been slipped into their tea. I would impress the hovering crowd by diagnosing the murder weapon from its almond odour. A spot of light questioning of everyone present would follow. Then I would gather the suspects together and dramatically reveal the culprit who would be carted off by the police. Afterwards we would all sit down to a nice slice of Victoria sandwich and a fresh pot of unadulterated tea. But then, and not for the first time, I have had to consider the distinct possibility I was born at the wrong time.

Therefore, until such an opportunity arises, I must console myself with my second favourite pastime, people watching. I keep my binoculars trained on Amos until he is out of sight. This trip does not particularly interest me. I know he is only off to get his paper from Sharon’s Stores. He will be back in less than five minutes. But I make a note in my jotter, anyway. Force of habit.

Once I have cleared away my breakfast things, I prepare for the day ahead. After showering, I open my wardrobe, and reach right to one end to retrieve my only black item of clothing, a dress. Black is such a draining colour and does absolutely nothing for me, so this I save for funerals. As I drag it out, there’s a spill of ivory lace from behind it which distracts me for a moment or two. I run the delicate fabric across my fingers before allowing it to fall back into the recesses of the wardrobe.

I dry my hair, taking more care with my neat bob than usual as I am going out. I have never coloured it, despite me thinking it a drab brown earlier in my life. Now I rather like the sophisticated iron grey it has become. I apply makeup. Only a light touch, but it is much needed between the black of my outfit and steel of my hair, otherwise my face might fade away completely. A foundation to even out the complexion. Mascara to highlight eyes that would otherwise disappear. A neutral lipstick. A short while later, I am back sitting at the table in the downstairs window. My favourite seat, from where I watch the world go by.

My stone cottage is in a row that runs along Main Street as it stretches toward the Melton Estate, the old end of the village. A small walled garden, the distance from gate to door being barely three decent strides, fronts each cottage. I have planted roses in my small patch of earth. One trails over the door. Next door Alice has a small table and two chairs. When the weather allows, we often sit out there with a glass of wine to enjoy the evening sun.

There is a similar row of cottages opposite. Similar yet subtly different. The cottages on my side suit singletons, or possibly young couples starting out. Those opposite are a better fit for families. They are consequently wider and set further back from the road with more of a garden out front.

Most of the other cottages are kept in good order, there being a sense of pride about the village. It is quite a sight in the summer months when everything is blooming, and on both sides of the street there is an abundance of hanging baskets. It is the sort of street that ends up on postcards. The exception to all the beauty on display is the gnomes out the front of Agnes Peach’s place. Every year she adds more to her collection. The only saving grace is that they are corralled by the wall and largely out of view. I do not mind them, of course, but I know there are some who are glad she is not their direct neighbour.

The funeral is at eleven. I assume Amos will go, but I see several friends and neighbours pass by on the way to the church and there is still no sign of him. It would be odd if he didn’t go. He knows the family about as well as I do and with his place in the community – chair of the Parish Council and a driving force behind many village activities, including Shaz’s Septuagenarians, the group of volunteers that help at the shop – it is his place to attend. I am on the verge of giving up waiting for him, and am standing, coat on and handbag hanging from the crook of my arm, when his door opens once more and he exits in suitably sombre attire. I count to ten to allow him a head start, then walk out onto the street to follow. If he knows I am there, he gives no indication. But then that’s been the case for many a long year.

As we reach the church, satisfactorily distanced, I understand the reason for his late departure. He clearly has the same idea as me. I smile to myself. Great minds think alike. The church is already full, and people stand in small groups in the churchyard. Some even outside the walls, such are the numbers. Conversations are held in low voices all around as I enter the churchyard, the heavy oak gates pinned back for the occasion. The grass has the soggy softness of early spring under foot. Much rain has fallen in recent days and I am thankful I am wearing flat boots and not the shoes I had been considering. Standing some twenty metres away from Amos by the boundary wall, I am near Susannah Bugby, who, among many other things, does the refreshments at the writers’ group, and Olivia Croxton, who eats most of them. I add a brief smile to the nod I give both, and as I know they are friends, I ask Susannah where Manda Babcock is. They are rarely seen apart at any gathering. She leans in as though to confide, ‘Oh, it’s awful. Have yer not heard about the row she had with Sharon? Hasn’t been able to leave the house since. I reckon she’s got that… what’s it called… aggiphobia.’

Petula Cross, as glamorous as ever, wearing a hat with veil, is doing the rounds handing out Order of Service booklets. Susannah reaches to claim our copy. I am hit by a wave of sorrow as I glimpse the family photo on the front and swallow back tears.

‘Agoraphobia.’ My voice cracks, and I clear my throat before continuing. ‘Has she called the doctor?’ I knew Susannah would take no notice of the correction, and she ignores my question too, so keen is she to continue with her next piece of news. Her voice is still lowered.

‘And, and, guess what? Speaking of Sharon, have you heard what’s happened? Eric’s only gone and left her. Taken Daisy too. I can’t even begin to imagine what’s gone on there.’ She eyes me. Her beady look ready to pounce on any sign I may know something. I realise she has only shared this with me because I am in a position to add the detail she is missing. But I am well-practised in the art of giving nothing away.

Because this is news I already know, being part of the previously mentioned volunteer group, Shaz’s Septuagenarians. A name I deplore, not least because even now I am only sixty-nine. I also know the reason behind Eric and Daisy’s departure. Or at least the reason I have been told. That he has another woman. But I don’t believe for one moment that is all there is to it. The fact that Daisy has gone too does not quite sit right. Or perhaps I am reading too much into it.

In addition, as I appear to be the volunteer most often called upon, I’m also aware it is not only Manda who is ill. Sharon has been unwell herself and has moaned to me about having been abandoned by her family at such a time. But I mention none of this to Susannah, because it is private and if I did, it would be halfway round the village by the end of the service.

Thankfully, if you can be thankful at such a moment, I can do little more than nod by way of response because a hush falls over the crowd as the hearses arrive. I have never attended a funeral where more than one was needed, and the enormity of the loss hits me again.

As the procession of four coffins makes its way into the church, heads turn and lower. A train of mourners follows. The wider family. I recognise no one, although it is easy to pick out John and Jan’s parents. Aged faces drained by grief. I am not sure how they are still standing under the weight of loss. I then spot Laura Brown in the group. It is common knowledge she has returned to her previous married name. She was the closest friend of the Jackson family and yet, after what happened, she must be feeling awful. Still, the wider family clearly attribute no blame in her direction, thank goodness, and I am glad she is included. She has lost weight, her face drawn, and shadows haunt her eyes.

The entourage moves inside and the service starts. There are speakers set up and I can hear clearly enough, but some of the emotion of the service is lost listening out here. Not that I mind that. I know I would have cried had I been inside but out in the spring sunshine, as I suspected, I feel a step removed from the intensity, and I am somewhat relieved as a result.

I wonder if Amos is going to the wake at The Red Calf. The pub is not somewhere I often go, what with being single, but occasionally one of my groups meets there, or I will join a friend for a morning coffee and a chat. I like the fact pubs are not all about the alcohol nowadays and make the effort to reach a different audience with decent coffee, excellent cakes and afternoon teas too. I know Mike and Yasmin, the landlords, have put up a marquee in the pub garden to accommodate the expected crowd today. The sound of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’ floats across the churchyard and I am relieved to find those of us outside are not expected to sing, although a few join in.

Readings and a poem from the wider family members follow, then beautiful eulogies for each of the family. The vicar speaks movingly and I doubt there is a dry eye among anyone listening.

The sun may be out, but the early March wind cuts like a cheese wire as it whips round the church. I appreciate my full-length wool coat and turn my collar against the icy chill, sinking my chin into the soft folds of my scarf. Despite wearing gloves, I plunge my hands deep into the pockets.

‘Freezing, isn’t it?’ Susannah whispers, leaning close. I merely nod in response, though wonder why she feels it necessary to state something so obvious. She shivers involuntarily. Hardly surprising given she’s only wearing a light jacket, the loose scarf at her neck not nearly enough to protect her.

The service ends with a rousing rendition of ‘Jerusalem’. Then it is time for the coffins to make a return journey to the hearses. Villagers line the route to see them off. The family, red-eyed and ashen-faced, go off to the crematorium in cars. The church empties, the congregation spreading out across the churchyard like bees from a hive. Once the hearses have left, the atmosphere relaxes marginally and conversations start up once more. Susannah begins with, ‘Lovely service,’ but as I struggle with the inanity of small talk, I merely agree with her and move away. A few people nod a greeting or smile at me as I pass. Fortuitously, most are already involved in conversations, so I can continue on by without stopping. Of those that speak, the weather is the subject they start with, followed by ‘lovely service’, something along those lines. Nothing original. If I linger, I suspect discussions would expand into what a tragedy the whole thing is before going down the line of the latest rumour or conspiracy theory. I am not sure if it is because I have spent too much of my life living alone or simply find conversation difficult, quite possibly a combination of the two, but these are all things that do not need saying. To appear polite though, I smile, agree, and add little, so as not to prolong the exchange.

Amos is circulating. He is naturally more gregarious than me and, as always, seems happy to stand and chat. I initially have a job to keep an eye on him in such a large crowd, but it gradually thins as people drift away from the church and towards the pub. I assume Amos will go too, as he likes an excuse to have a pint or two, but he does not. Instead, he eventually separates himself off from those he has been chatting with and, turning down offers to go with them to the Calf, walks towards home. After a suitably discreet period, I follow.

Once home, I quickly change back into something more comfortable. Trousers and a long-sleeved tee-shirt, then add a chunky jumper as it is chilly. I make myself a sandwich and take that and a pot of tea through to the front room where I take up my place at the table for lunch.

The fact Amos has forgone the trip to the pub intrigues me. It is not like him, and it only adds fuel to the fire that has been building in my mind about his recent behaviour. Amos Chamberlain is up to something and I am determined to find out what it is.

Hard to Forgive is now available to buy.

Book Description

A woman abandoned. Her ex now married. How long will she wait to exact her revenge?

Betrayal, birth, and bereavement. Dora Smith had faced it all by the age of twenty. Alone, she tracks down her former lover planning to reveal everything to him, and his new wife. But with their first child on the way she can’t bring herself to rock their relationship.

Instead, she plays the long game, watching, waiting, wanting him to put a foot wrong. Never dreaming it would take a lifetime.

Then another love is lost. Is this the tipping point that pushes Dora into a spiral of self-destruction. Or, had that been triggered long before?

Hard to Forgive is a gripping domestic thriller. If you like character-driven action, suspenseful storytelling and unexpected twists then you’ll love this exciting novel.

If this looks like something you might like to read, you can find it at your favourite bookshop HERE. Or by clicking on the book cover.

Thank you.

The post #NewRelease The 1st Chapter of Hard to Forgive: Book 3 of the #AShadeDarker series #domesticsuspense #psychologicalsuspense #suspense appeared first on Georgia Rose Books.