What secrets are you hiding? We all have a few. Private investigator Dezeray Jackson specializes in uncovering secrets. And she won't stop until she discovers the truth.
Dezeray Jackson examines the cold case of a 13-year-old girl from Fremont, NE. As details unfold, Dez is forced to confront her feelings about her sister's unsolved murder, manage her relationship with former lover, Patrick Murphy, and diffuse the tension he's creating with her current lover, Scott James. Things become more complicated when Dez begins receiving communication from a dead guy.
If you like Janet Evanovich, Marcia Muller or Sue Grafton, then you'll love a series that combines all of their best traits into a smart, sassy, take no BS private investigator from the midwest, who has a penchant for weapons, scotch, fine wines, good-looking men, a great game of pool, and a Rottweiler named Godfrey.
Here's the nitty-gritty: I write sinfully scandalous mysteries for adults, and create memorable adventures for young people. If you love Dr. Who, Sherlock, Star Trek, The Sneetches, Marvin the Martian, and Wonder Woman, then we should talk. I also love people-watching, and creating a storyline and dialogue for what I'm seeing. And I'd be lying if I said that some of those experiences don't end up in my books. Tweet with me @kmillerwrites.
The idea behind the HUSH cover didn't originate with the cold case Dez is helping Tamara investigate. It came from the death of Dez's sister.
What do you think of the cover? Does it stir any emotions in you?
Let me know! I'd love to hear your feedback.
I’d started a file on Alec Covington when Officer Jacobs first told me about him. No one could figure out why Covington’s prints were anywhere near my house the day my door went up in flames. One thing was for sure, the guy didn’t appear to have much of a past. He was a Marine, but all of his files are classified. Haithem couldn’t even hack his way into them. It was like dealing with Murphy. This Covington guy seemed to have gone completely off grid, then resurfaced at my door. But why? My father wasn’t any help, either. Once a Marine, always a Marine. Still, I’d run it by him. Maybe he’d surprise me. He and my mother moved to Baltimore, MD a few years ago. A month after they moved, my mother was killed in a car accident. It was a hit-and-run. It was too late to call, but I sent him an email telling him about the finger and the new contact from Alec Covington. He already knew about my door. Actually, he knew before I even called him. I have no idea how he knew. After my door went up in flames, I got a visit from my oldest brother, Luke. He swore our father didn’t send him, but I have my doubts. Why would he drop everything to see me in Omaha, just because of a door? He had a thriving medical practice in New Orleans, LA. He certainly didn’t need to check on me in person when a phone call would have sufficed. Since my sister’s murder seventeen years ago, my father sent me to every possible training in intelligence and counter-terrorism from the time I was fifteen until I graduated from college. If he couldn’t pull strings to get me into a session, he hired experts to teach me. It’s thanks to him that I know how to use just about anything as a weapon. My brother Luke’s visit was my father’s way of sending reinforcements without annoying me too much. I checked the time. It was after midnight. Godfrey was already curled up by my office door, snoring. I turned off the lights and went up to bed. At four-thirty in the morning, my cell phone rang. It was my father. He insisted on sending someone to keep an eye on me and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I could sense something was off. Alec Covington had my father worried. I needed to figure out why. Whoever my new shadow was, he’d be in Omaha soon, if he wasn’t already. As much as I wanted to crawl back into bed and go to sleep, the conversation with my father had my adrenaline running high. I couldn’t go into my basement, yet, so playing darts was out. I threw on sweats, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, grabbed my knife bag, and went outside for a little target practice. My neighborhood is pretty quiet, especially this early in the morning. I focused on my throwing and didn’t hear the footfalls behind me right away. When I did, I turned and flung the knife. It cut through the cool morning air, and landed in a tree just to the right of Patrick Murphy’s head. “Oh, shit! What the fuck are you doing?” he said, as he dodged the knife.