Alicia began writing stories as a child. At age 10, she wrote her first ever romance (featuring a hero who looked just like Elvis Presley, and who shared the name of Elvis’ character in the movie, Tickle Me), and she still has the tattered, pencil-written copy. Alicia is from Moore, Oklahoma and now lives in Edmond. She has three grown children and a huge network of supportive friends and family. She writes mostly contemporary suspense and paranormal, but has also written in other genres, including a few vintage historicals.
Other than reading and writing, her passions are Elvis Presley, MLB, NFL (she usually works in a mention of one or all three into her stories) and watching (and rewatching) her favorite televisions shows like Ozark, The Walking Dead, Dexter, Justified, Sons of Anarchy, Haven, Vampire Diaries, and The Originals. Some of her favorite authors are Michael Connelly, Dennis Lehane, Stephen King, Lee Child, Lisa Gardner, Ridley Pearson, Joseph Finder, and Jonathan Kellerman…to name a few.
Boston ~ 1947
Iris Taggart should be ecstatic. She’s engaged to one of the wealthiest men in Boston, and he dotes on her. But, her marrying a rich man is her mother’s dream, not hers. Iris longs to be a nurse and care for others, and she’ll never have the career she wants if she marries a Boston Blue Blood. It just isn’t done.
Dante Morello returned from WWII a war hero, and now he’s a Boston detective working the South End Slayer case where a deranged killer is butchering the poor and homeless. Dante’s investigation leads him to reconnect with Iris—a girl he’s known most of his life—who is volunteering at the soup kitchen where the murderer finds his victims. When Dante learns Iris is in the killer’s sites, he’ll do whatever it takes to protect her, and not just because she’s woken something in his heart he thought he’d never feel.
But neither of them is prepared for how precarious life can be. When secrets are exposed, and a madman’s full intent is revealed, will their love…and their lives…be destroyed?
Dante stood and rolled down his shirt sleeves, then slipped on his jacket, not bothering to straighten his tie. “Hello, Iris. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Y-yes.” She held something tightly in her fists and shoved it toward him. “I-I found this.”
He peered at the object—a woman’s scarf, which looked as though it had been dragged through a tar pit—then lifted his brows. “And?”
She drew in a deep breath, her breasts rising with the action. He forced his gaze back to her face. “I found it at the clinic.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, waiting. He’d offer her a seat, but then she might stay all day, rambling on and on about whatever popped into her pretty head. On one hand, that sounded like the perfect way to spend his day. On the other, he had a killer to catch.
“The bastard left it there for me.” She didn’t apologize, or even flinch, at her use of the curse word. She thrust the scarf out again, and this time he took it. “Have you heard any news? Any new victims? It belongs to Alma Vernon. She’s dead, isn’t she?” The sentences fell on top of one another. Her eyes filled with tears and she shook her head. “Mercy me. I don’t understand what’s happening.”
Dante tightened his fist around the scarf, battling the rage rising inside him. “How well did you know Ms. Vernon?”
“I saw her frequently at the kitchen. Then, a few days ago, she had a seizure, and I treated her.”
Shannon’s shout drew Dante’s attention away from Iris, and for a moment, he was peeved at the interruption. Although she was bearing potentially disturbing news, seeing her lovely face was a balm to his soul.
“What is it?”
“We got a report of another victim.”
“Dammit to hell.” Dante shot a look at Iris but didn’t apologize for his language. He was damned well frustrated and feeling more incompetent each day. He said to Iris, “I’m sorry. I have to go. We’ll talk later.”
She nodded. Her lovely blue eyes swam with unshed tears, and her lips trembled. He wanted to stay, to hold her and comfort her. It was obvious that the killer was either fixated on Iris, or working his way through victims until he got to her. Either option opened a cold pit of fear in his chest.
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