Annie Reed has been called "one of the best writers of her generation" and for good reason. She writes in multiple genres, including urban and contemporary fantasy, mystery, suspense, science fiction, romance, and thrillers, along with the occasional story that doesn't fall into any one specific category.
She's a founding member and frequent contributor to the innovative UNCOLLECTED ANTHOLOGY, now in its tenth year of publishing themes urban and contemporary anthologies three times a year. Her short fiction appears regularly in PULPHOUSE FICTION MAGAZINE; MYSTERY, CRIME & MAYHEM; and starting this year in THRILL RIDE – THE MAGAZINE. She's even written official STAR TREK fiction and admits that she's an unabashed MCU fangirl. She currently writes and edits fulltime. When she's not cuddling cats.
One simple favor for her ex plunges private investigator Abby Maxon into a deadly game of cat and mouse.
The last thing Abby Maxon wants to do is spend her day tailing her ex-husband's pretty new fiancé. But no woman should have to put up with a stalker, not even the personal fitness trainer who wrecked Abby's marriage.
The job turns tough when Abby discovers more than one potential stalker.
The tough job turns deadly when someone torches the trainer's car. With the woman inside.
And the police finger Abby's ex as the chief suspect.
Like Dayle A. Dermatis, Annie Reed can write pretty much anything she puts her mind to, but her mysteries are extra special. They've won her all sorts of accolades. The first book in this series was a finalist for Best First Private Eye Novel from the Private Eye Writers of America. This novel does stand alone, but once you finish, you'll want to go back and read the first book. – Kristine Kathryn Rusch
"In private investigator Abby Maxon, Annie Reed has created a believable, sympathetic character readers can relate to. I can't wait to read Abby's next adventure!"
– Marcelle Dubé, author of THE WEEPING WOMAN"One of the best writers I've come across in years. Annie excels at whatever genre of fiction she chooses to write."
– Kristine Kathryn Rusch, award-winning editor and writer of The Retrieval Artist series"Annie's writing is magic, seriously."
– Robert J. McCarter, author of A Ghost’s Memoir series"You can't go wrong with Annie Reed. Her deftly-crafted tales—with characters as memorable as the stories themselves—far surpass most of what's out there."
– Michael J. Totten, author of ResurrectionThe last thing I wanted to do on a hot Saturday afternoon in August was meet with my ex-husband.
I'd spent the morning shopping with my clothes-conscious teenage daughter, Samantha, just the two of us along with about a million other parents and kids crowding the aisles in Target for a little last-minute back-to-school shopping. We also had a messy house we needed to wrestle into shape before tomorrow when her boyfriend and his mother would be in town for a visit. And to top it all off, I had a date in a few hours, and I needed time to transform myself from a sweaty, frizzy-haired mom into actual date material.
But then Ryan had called and said the only thing guaranteed to interrupt my day: "I need your help."
So here I sat in a nice air-conditioned Starbucks, ready to meet my ex and offer whatever assistance he needed.
Yes, there are days I feel like Abby Maxon, World's Biggest Sap. Why do you ask?
At least we weren't meeting in the Starbucks where I sometimes had coffee with Kyle.
Kyle Beecham's my boyfriend, and boy does it feel weird to acknowledge that I actually have a boyfriend. Kyle's a detective with the Sparks Police Department, and we've been dating semi-seriously since the first of the year. He's a busy cop and single dad. I'm a busy private detective and single mom. It's a wonder we have time for anything other than a quick coffee at Starbucks. Tonight was one of our rare Saturday night dates, and I wasn't about to blow him off, no matter what Ryan needed.
I'd arrived a few minutes before we were scheduled to meet, so I grabbed a table near the back. Starbucks wasn't crowded, wonder of wonders, but the line at the drive-through was a good ten cars deep. I wasn't surprised. August in Nevada is not for the faint of heart. When I'd pulled in the parking lot, my car had helpfully told me it was ninety-five degrees. Drive-throughs do a bang up business during the dog days of summer when people don't want to leave the comfort of their air-conditioned cars.
I thought about ordering myself an iced latte—the aroma of fresh-ground coffee was making my mouth water—but I hoped I wouldn't be here that long. Ryan was punctual to a fault, and he'd always been a man who got right to the point.
Except, apparently, for today.
I'd looked at my watch for the tenth time in as many minutes before Ryan arrived.
Ryan Maxon had always been a handsome man. Even in his mid-forties, he still had the athletic body he'd had when I'd first met him in college. I felt a little guilty about the fact that I noticed how in shape he still was. He had a fiancé and I had Kyle, and weren't we supposed to be moving on? So instead I made myself concentrate on the gray hair at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and the shadows beneath his eyes.
I blinked.
Wait a minute. Those were some serious shadows, and the lines in his face looked deeper than the last time I'd seen him.
Ryan was a trial attorney. He'd worked long hours when we'd been married, and I was used to seeing him stressing over a hard case or a particularly difficult client. I was used to tired Ryan. I wasn't used to a Ryan who looked like he'd just lost his best friend.
I didn't feel like the world's biggest sap anymore. Maybe he really did need me.
He didn't apologize for being late. Instead he asked me if I still drank mocha lattes.
I said yes without thinking. Before I could tell him I didn't really want anything, especially anything hot, he was at the counter ordering coffee.
Well, at least that hadn't changed. He was still the same take-charge kind of guy.
He came back with two large drinks. Our fingers brushed when he handed me my latte, and I was surprised at how cold his hands were. Maybe it was just the air-conditioning, but I doubted it. Whatever was going on, Ryan was seriously upset.
Well, okay then. Time to get down to business. Ryan had always appreciated when his clients did that. I hoped he appreciated it now.
"Tell me why you called," I said before he had a chance to try to make awkward small talk.
Most people don't look me in the eye when they need to tell me something difficult. I don't take it personally. Telling secrets to a private investigator isn't easy. It's not like confessing your sins to a priest. There's no anonymity, no convenient partition to hide behind, so people tend to distract themselves in order to pretend I'm not there.
Ryan didn't do that. Whether it was his legal training—trial lawyers don't let anything intimidate them in the courtroom—or because we hadn't hidden from each other during that horrible time in our lives when Samantha had nearly died thanks to a hit-and-run driver, he looked me in the eye instead of staring down at his coffee.
"I need help with Melody," he said.
Melody was his fiancé. She was also the woman he'd left me for. While she wasn't exactly a forbidden topic, Ryan didn't mention her around me unless he had to.
"Okay," I said, drawing the word out. "What kind of help?"
"She has a stalker."
