Is Kyle preoccupied and distant because of a problem with his development project?
Or is it something worse?
A little getaway takes a deadly turn for Morgan and Kyle Murphy in this spicy suspense thriller about a marriage filled with passion, secrets, and suspicions.Is Kyle preoccupied and distant because of a problem with his development project? Or is it something worse? Could Kyle Murphy be...cheating? He’s hiding something, that’s for sure. And Morgan’s determined to find out what it is.
With the help of gal pal Carla Flores, Morgan tracks her husband’s movements, and the signs increasingly point to infidelity, the ultimate sin in Morgan’s book. When Kyle increases their life insurance and surprises her with a weekend getaway to get their mojo back, she goes on the offensive and hatches a plan to make him come clean about what’s been going on.
But before she can pull it off, Morgan’s attacked and nearly kidnapped, and Kyle vanishes from the resort without a trace. With no clue as to who took Kyle or why, she’s not sure who is the biggest threat: the shady investor he owes money to, the police, or the guys she hired to teach Kyle a lesson. With the clock ticking, she needs to find out soon.
Before they come for her, too.
For fans of Liv Constantine, Kimberly Belle, Jeneva Rose, Kaira Rouda, Freida McFadden, and Daniel Hurst.
"Edge of the seat suspense in this riveting thriller about a husband and wife hiding deadly secrets from each other that will keep you guessing all the way to the explosive ending. Another winner for Bonnie Traymore!" -- R.G. Belsky, author of the award-winning Clare Carlson series
ONE
Morgan
I smell death in the air. A briny scent with an undercurrent of decay, wafting in from the murky sea outside our sliding glass door.
“Kyle?” I call out again.
Nothing.
Maybe he went for a walk on the beach?
But that wasn’t the plan.
Something’s not right.
I close the door and lock it.
Where did he go?
A log pops in the fireplace, and I startle. This was supposed to be a romantic little getaway, but so far, things have been tense.
“I have a surprise for you, Morgan,” he said, about a week ago.
So here I am, in this little cottage on the beach that he picked for us, in the middle of nowhere, a few miles north of Monterey Bay. A chance to rekindle our marriage. Put some spark back into it. The resort, if you could call it that, is a series of separate units on a vast swath of beachfront land, one step up from a trailer park. I suppose it could be romantic under different circumstances, with the rugged beach outside our door and a cozy fire inside.
I have a bad feeling, though. I came out of the shower and saw a few drops of blood in the bathroom sink. I figured he’d cut himself shaving. And now he’s nowhere to be found. A chill runs up my spine. This place is getting creepier by the minute. Do I wait here like a sitting duck?
The office is on the other side of the property, and I’m not sure if anyone’s there at this hour of the night. It’s not that late. Just after nine in the evening. But even when we checked in, around noon, it took a good twenty minutes for the woman to come to the front desk and help us.
I don’t want to overreact, so I decide I’ll take the car and drive to the store.
Better safe than sorry.
We talked about the fact that I needed milk for my morning coffee. It’ll buy me some time, and when I get back, maybe he’ll be here, wondering where I’ve been. And if it turns out to be nothing, I can keep this little freak out to myself.
But we took his car, so I have to find the keys. I rush into the bedroom and look around. I thought I saw them on the dresser, but they’re not there.
His pants are draped over the back of a chair.
I check the pockets.
Nothing.
My heart starts to race.
I rifle through his carry-on bag.
No luck.
His cell is gone, along with his wallet. I wonder if he went out for provisions while I was in the shower? But the car is parked near the office, a few cottages away, so I can’t see if he’s taken it. I pick up the house phone and call the front desk, thinking maybe the attendant could check if the car is there. It rings and rings and nobody answers.
My heart races even faster. Rushing into the kitchen area, I survey the options. I grab the utility knife. With its five-inch blade, it’s the best option. This is a risky move. I’ll look like a psycho walking around with it if someone sees me, and the last thing I want is to call attention to myself. But the place seems deserted, so it’s unlikely I’ll be spotted.
Who comes to a beach resort in the middle of winter?
This was his idea, I remind myself.
And now I’m here.
Alone.
At a deserted resort.
Clenching the knife in my fist, I step out the sliding glass door and start making my way to the front office.
Morgan
I smell death in the air. A briny scent with an undercurrent of decay, wafting in from the murky sea outside our sliding glass door.
“Kyle?” I call out again.
Nothing.
Maybe he went for a walk on the beach?
But that wasn’t the plan.
Something’s not right.
I close the door and lock it.
Where did he go?
A log pops in the fireplace, and I startle. This was supposed to be a romantic little getaway, but so far, things have been tense.
“I have a surprise for you, Morgan,” he said, about a week ago.
So here I am, in this little cottage on the beach that he picked for us, in the middle of nowhere, a few miles north of Monterey Bay. A chance to rekindle our marriage. Put some spark back into it. The resort, if you could call it that, is a series of separate units on a vast swath of beachfront land, one step up from a trailer park. I suppose it could be romantic under different circumstances, with the rugged beach outside our door and a cozy fire inside.
I have a bad feeling, though. I came out of the shower and saw a few drops of blood in the bathroom sink. I figured he’d cut himself shaving. And now he’s nowhere to be found. A chill runs up my spine. This place is getting creepier by the minute. Do I wait here like a sitting duck?
The office is on the other side of the property, and I’m not sure if anyone’s there at this hour of the night. It’s not that late. Just after nine in the evening. But even when we checked in, around noon, it took a good twenty minutes for the woman to come to the front desk and help us.
I don’t want to overreact, so I decide I’ll take the car and drive to the store.
Better safe than sorry.
We talked about the fact that I needed milk for my morning coffee. It’ll buy me some time, and when I get back, maybe he’ll be here, wondering where I’ve been. And if it turns out to be nothing, I can keep this little freak out to myself.
But we took his car, so I have to find the keys. I rush into the bedroom and look around. I thought I saw them on the dresser, but they’re not there.
His pants are draped over the back of a chair.
I check the pockets.
Nothing.
My heart starts to race.
I rifle through his carry-on bag.
No luck.
His cell is gone, along with his wallet. I wonder if he went out for provisions while I was in the shower? But the car is parked near the office, a few cottages away, so I can’t see if he’s taken it. I pick up the house phone and call the front desk, thinking maybe the attendant could check if the car is there. It rings and rings and nobody answers.
My heart races even faster. Rushing into the kitchen area, I survey the options. I grab the utility knife. With its five-inch blade, it’s the best option. This is a risky move. I’ll look like a psycho walking around with it if someone sees me, and the last thing I want is to call attention to myself. But the place seems deserted, so it’s unlikely I’ll be spotted.
Who comes to a beach resort in the middle of winter?
This was his idea, I remind myself.
And now I’m here.
Alone.
At a deserted resort.
Clenching the knife in my fist, I step out the sliding glass door and start making my way to the front office.
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Bonnie Traymore is the award-winning, Amazon best selling author of page-turner mystery/thrillers that hit close to home. Her books feature strong but relatable female protagonists. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.
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A Hudson-to-Honolulu Short Story
Award-winning Hudson Valley Series
After three decades as a Major Crimes detective, Jack Stark is retired, living the good life with his new wife in Scarsdale, New York—and bored out of his mind. When a breaking news banner flashes across the TV screen, he’s taken back to a Honolulu cold case, one that hit way too close to home.
Thirty years earlier, visiting college student Katie Carter—his Westchester neighbor—was found murdered in the cane fields on the North Shore of O‘ahu. New evidence has surfaced in the case. Jack has regrets about how he handled the case back then, and faced with an opportunity to get it right, he seizes it.
Jack and his wife Sandra head to Honolulu in a last-ditch effort to close a case that’s haunted him for decades. Will the evidence they found be enough to finally get justice for Katie and her family, or will it be another disappointing dead end?
Find out in this snappy novelette, an intro to the award-winning Hudson Valley Series, and also a fun read for those who have already read the series.
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I really like the cover and the excerpt.
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