Violated by Carolyn Arnold - NEW RELEASE!!!
I'm very happy to be able to showcase this talented author on my blog today. I'm a huge crime fiction fan, and this lady's series is addictive - crime done right. There aren't many indie crime authors out there, so i was thrilled to come across Carolyn's work.
Check out her latest release, Violated.
VIOLATED
(BRANDON FISHER FBI SERIES)
by Carolyn Arnold
Published by: Hibbert & Stiles
Publishing Inc.
ISBN (e-book): 978-1-988064-71-0
ISBN (print): 978-1-988064-70-3
Approximately 250 pages
BOOK
OVERVIEW
Sometimes the past should
stay there…
The murder is one of the most heinous FBI agent and profiler Brandon
Fisher has ever seen. But that’s not why he and two members of the team are
rushing to California. The Bureau is interested because the prime suspect is
one of their own, Paige Dawson.
But Paige didn’t go to Valencia to kill anyone. She had set out on
“vacation”—her new lover in tow—only to confront the man who raped her friend
twenty-some years ago. While the hands of the law are tied, she wants him to
face the fact that he destroyed a young woman’s life and know that, as an FBI
agent, she’ll be watching his every move. Yet, instead of accomplishing her
goal, she wound up in the back of a police cruiser.
Now Paige must face off with a hard-nosed detective determined to stick
a murder charge to a fed. But with the trained eyes of the FBI on the case,
it’s becoming more and more obvious that the evidence lends itself to a serial
killing, not an isolated incident. And as long as the local authorities are
focused on Paige, the real murderer is still out there, possibly waiting to strike
again…
CAROLYN ARNOLD
is an international best-selling and award-winning author, as well as a
speaker, teacher, and inspirational mentor. She has four continuing fiction
series—Detective Madison Knight, Brandon Fisher FBI, McKinley Mysteries, and
Matthew Connor Adventures—and has written nearly thirty books. Her genre
diversity offers her readers everything from cozy to hard-boiled mysteries, and
thrillers to action adventures.
Both her female
detective and FBI profiler series have been praised by those in law enforcement
as being accurate and entertaining, leading her to adopt the trademark: POLICE
PROCEDURALS RESPECTED BY LAW ENFORCEMENT™.
Carolyn was born
in a small town and enjoys spending time outdoors, but she also loves the lights
of a big city. Grounded by her roots and lifted by her dreams, her overactive
imagination insists that she tell her stories. Her intention is to touch the
hearts of millions with her books, to entertain, inspire, and empower.
She currently
lives just west of Toronto with her husband and beagle and is a member of Crime
Writers of Canada.
Connect with CAROLYN ARNOLD Online:
Website - http://carolynarnold.net/
Twitter - https://twitter.com/Carolyn_Arnold
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/AuthorCarolynArnold
And don’t forget to sign up for her
newsletter for up-to-date information on release and special offers at http://carolynarnold.net/newsletters.
Excerpt #1
Excerpt from the Prologue
MONDAY,
AUGUST 24TH, 11:10 PM
PACIFIC TIME
CANYON
COUNTRY, CALIFORNIA
THE MARK WAS IN HIS FORTIES, had no kids, and worked
a white-collar job. Average height, average looks. Nothing was truly memorable
about him except for his uncommon first name, and that was only because it
belonged to a character from a popular eighties movie.
Ferris Hall.
She
had followed him to some honky-tonk in Canyon Country, an unsavory location at any
time of day, but factor in the late hour and it was even worse. But Ferris had chosen
this dive as his hunting ground. Women were easier to lure in with a little
chemical persuasion, and that was easy to pass off around here.
He
entered the bar with head held high, his back straight, the tease of a smirk on
his lips—the end of the evening a foregone conclusion in his mind. He was
sipping on his first bourbon, though he was acting as if he was on his third by
slurring his words and talking loudly. He’d even thrown a sway into his
swagger. Somehow he always managed to make his eyes look bloodshot, too,
furthering the charade. And the women would come. And the women would fall for
his tricks.
Tonight,
she’d be that woman, but she’d be his last. He had to learn there was a price
to pay for his actions.
She
was sitting down the bar from him. Occasionally, he’d pass her a look—the
predatory kind that made her blood boil. She smiled at him, doing her best to convey
carnal hunger with her gaze, smearing on a seductive curve to her lips. She
dipped her finger into her manhattan and sucked on it—the cherry juice sweet,
the whiskey bitter.
Ferris
was off his stool and sidling up her to within three seconds.
The
ruse worked every time. It also helped that she exploited what nature had given
her—a slender frame and shapely legs. High heels accentuated her well-defined
calf muscles, and men stared when she walked into a room. When she paired even
higher stilettos with a short skirt and crossed her legs, men’s mouths tended
to fall open. She utilized all these virtues tonight.
She
flashed another sultry smile, and he lifted his glass toward her before tilting
his own back and draining it. He set it back on the bar and knocked on it to
get the bartender’s attention.
“I’ll
have another on the rocks and—” he rolled his head toward her “—get the lady
whatever she’d like.”
Time to feign innocence and flattery.
She
waved a dismissive hand in his direction. “I really shouldn’t.”
She saw
the quick look he gave her glass before meeting her eyes again. “Nonsense.
Please, it would be my treat.”
If she
stripped his voice of its candy-coated tone, his words were pushy and
controlling.
“Well”—she
angled her glass, showing how little of her drink she had left—“only if you’re
sure.”
If she
had actually been given a chance to prove her acting skills, she could be
living in a sprawling mansion by now.
“Absolutely.
What will it be?” Ferris asked, a grin teasing his lips as he tugged down on
his left earlobe. It wasn’t hard for her to figure out what was going on.
Ferris was asking for something “special” to be added to her drink—the
“special” being some kind of date-rape drug.
She
lifted her glass to the bartender. “Another manhattan.”
“Coming
right up.” The tender left to make their drinks, and she watched him, taking
the time to calm her heartbeat and flow of adrenaline.
“I
like a woman who can handle her whiskey.” Ferris was looking quite comfortable
beside her now. He was fully facing her, his left elbow perched on the counter,
and he wasn’t discreet about his drifting gaze, which gravitated to her thighs.
“What
can I say? I’m a little whiskey girl.” The words from the country song rolled
off her tongue, cinching her gut, but she had to do what was necessary to pull
him in.
“Toby
Keith,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Toby
Keith.” He pointed to a speaker on the ceiling. “The singer who sings that one.”
“Ah, yes.”
And here, she thought she was doing well by knowing it was even a country song.
She smiled at him again. He truly thought of himself as a woman’s man.
Pathetic.
“Have
I seen you here before?” he asked.
She
dipped her head.
“I
knew it. I never forget a beautiful face. So what’s your name?”
“Names
really aren’t important, are they, baby?” She extended her hand, her long,
narrow fingers bowing before him in feminine elegance.
“Oh,
she’s mysterious. I like it.” He kissed the back of her hand, and she was proud
of herself for not rolling her eyes.
The bartender
returned and placed their drinks in front of them. “Here you go.”
From
her observations, Ferris seemed to keep a running tab here. Rape now, pay
later?
Oh,
and Ferris would pay…
“You
never told me your name,” she said, falling into her role.
“Oh, I
can tell you mine, but you can’t—”
“Uh-huh.”
She sucked on the tip of her finger again.
“Ferris.”
He still held onto her other hand, and she pulled it back shyly.
“Are
you from around here?” she asked, resorting to the necessity of small talk.
“I
just fly in from time to time for business.”
“Ah.”
She’d have to call upon her acting skills for this performance. She knew he
lived less than three miles away from this place. “What business?”
He
tapped his jacket pockets, then slid a hand inside one. “How embarrassing. I
don’t have any cards with me. Besides, I don’t really want to bore you. Why
don’t we talk about you?” He leaned toward her and lifted his rocks glass. “To
a fun night.”
“To one
we won’t remember.”
They
toasted, and he took a long pull of the amber liquid. She pressed her own glass
to her lips and pretended to take a sip.
Excerpt
#2
Excerpt
from Chapter 1
“Agent
Fisher.” I had answered without checking the caller ID, but the ensuing silence
on the other end of the line had me pulling back the phone and consulting it
now.
SANTA CLARITA
V.
That tells me nothing…
“Hello?
This is Special Agent Brandon Fisher. Can I help you?” I looked for Zach, but
he was gone again.
There
was no verbal response on the other end of the line, but I heard a distinct
exhale, followed by more deep breaths.
Santa
Clarita… Where was that? It sounded Californian.
And I
knew only one person in California.
“Paige?”
There
was a jagged intake of breath. A sob, maybe?
“Oh
God, Brandon.” It was Paige, and she was definitely crying. And Paige didn’t
cry. I’d witnessed the odd tear fall when our relationship had ended, but this
was different. Something was very wrong.
I
leaned on my desk and looked around, but no one was nearby.
“What’s
going on? Are you okay?” I asked. I gave her a few seconds to respond. She
didn’t. “Where’s Sam? Is he okay? Talk to me, Paige.”
“Shh.
I don’t want everyone to know.”
“What’s
going on?” I was starting to get annoyed that she was avoiding my question. She
was the one who had called me.
“I’m
in trouble,” she began. “Big trouble.”
“What
kind of trouble?”
“I’m
in…jail,” she ground out.
Her
words struck me as a physical blow. I even stopped breathing for a second. I
sank back into my chair. “You’re what?”
“There’s
been a misunderstanding is all.”
I’d hope so…
“Where
is Sam?” I asked again.
“Please,
Brandon, don’t tell Jack or Zach.”
Another
aversion tactic. “I don’t know much to tell.” My concern for her was quickly morphing
into irritation. “Where’s Sam?” I repeated a third time. Maybe I should record
myself and just hit “play.”
Another
deep exhale into the receiver.
“Talk
to me,” I entreated.
“He
doesn’t know.”
“What?
How can he not know you were—”
“Shh! I
can’t explain everything over the phone. I need you to get me a good defense
attorney and send him to the Santa Clarita Valley Sheriff’s Station. Have them
ask for Detective Grafton or Mendez.”
A good defense attorney?
“What
are you suspected of?”
“I
don’t want—”
“You
called me, remember?”
She
sighed. “Something I might be regretting…”
“I’m
sorry, but you asked me to get you—”
Jack
came up next to my desk. He ran a hand along his throat, indicating my call
needed to end. Now. And based on the way he was staring me down, refusing him
wasn’t an option.
“Where’s
Zach?” he asked.
“God,
is that Jack?” Paige whispered. “Brandon, you can’t say a—”
I
cupped the receiver portion of my cell phone and held it away from my ear.
“He’ll be back,” I told Jack. “He probably just went to the bathroom.”
“Hang
up,” Jack demanded. He never tolerated personal calls on the job, but this was
going overboard. Besides, this particular one wasn’t personal. Or was it?
And
why did Paige call me and not Sam? Was it just that I was familiar, or did she not
want to give the new guy a bad impression? I dismissed the idea of her still
harboring feelings for me before I even considered it, but whatever it was, I
wasn’t sure I was completely comfortable with it.
I got
up from my chair and walked away from Jack, taking my cell phone with me. I had
it pressed to my ear again and could tell Paige was still on the line. I could feel
Jack’s eyes watching me, but so far, he wasn’t following.
“I
will do what you asked,” I said into the receiver, “but it would help to know
what you’re…you know.” I didn’t want to say being
charged with, seeing as Jack was still within earshot.
“I
don’t want to get into it with you, Brandon. Hell, I probably shouldn’t have even
called you. I just thought I could trust you.”
“You
can.” The words had come out of their own volition.
“Thank
you. I just need a defense attorney who is good at getting the innocent off—” Someone
spoke to her in the background. “Yes, I know… Fine,” she said, her voice muffled,
probably from her hand over the receiver. Then back to me. “I’ve got to go.”
“I’ll
get you someone.”
“Remember,
Detective Graft—”
“Grafton
and Mendez. I got it.”
“One
more thing, Brandon. Please let Sam know I’m okay.”
“And what
about the part where you were…” I couldn’t elaborate as Jack was now literally
breathing down my neck.
“You
can’t tell him I’ve been arrested.”
“Yeah,
okay.”
“Can I
trust you or not?” she asked impatiently.
I
nodded even though she couldn’t see it. “You can.”
“Sam’s
at the Hyatt Regency, room 328.” Then she hung up. With the conversation over,
I was left to face Jack, and based on his epic scowl, I was going to have
explain why I didn’t hang up the second he had told me to.
“I
need to make another phone call,” I said.
“Not
right now you don’t,” Jack replied.
Zach came
back to his desk, a confused look on his face when he saw the two of us, and
Jack gestured for us to follow him into his office.
I was
pacing in front of Jack’s door, not wanting to go in because I needed to get
Paige that lawyer ASAP.
Jack
gripped my shoulder with a firm hand. “Go inside.”
“Uh,
yeah. On it.” I pressed on a smile and went into his office.
Jack shut
the door and didn’t bother to take a seat. Neither did Zach or I, but the two
of us kept looking at each other for a clue as to what this was about.
“Paige
has been brought in as a murder suspect.” Jack delivered the statement as if it
were any other case—direct, punchy, and succinct.
I
swallowed roughly, my throat so dry I wondered if my mouth was even producing
any saliva. I sought out one of the chairs that were positioned in front of
Jack’s desk.
Jack’s
gaze followed me until I sat down. “That was Paige on the phone with you,
wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,”
I choked out.
His
jaw tightened. He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
I
wasn’t exactly sure what he was referring to—Paige’s arrest or my consorting
with the…enemy?
Jack
closed his eyes. “She just couldn’t leave it alone.”
“Leave
what alone?” Zach asked.
Jack
let out a heaving sigh, met my eyes, and then turned for the door. “Come on,
we’re going to California. I’ll explain on the plane.”
Excerpt
#3
Excerpt
from Chapter 4
Paige
blinked the tears from her eyes. It couldn’t be. She wiped her wet eyes, her
gaze not leaving the necklace in her hand. The chain was a common style, but
the heart pendant and the letter N…
Still,
it didn’t mean this one had been Natasha’s…
Paige
swallowed. But she remembered when Natasha had realized she’d lost it. She had
dropped on the end of the hotel bed as if all the weight of the world were
piled on her shoulders. It was the morning after the rape.
Tears
now fell freely down Paige’s cheeks. There was no doubt in her mind that the
necklace she now held had been Natasha’s.
Paige
cried as the past washed over her and continued to do so until rage replaced her
sadness.
Somehow,
she would make this son of a bitch pay for what he had done. She was past the
point of keeping within the shades of the law and would circumvent legal means
if that’s what it took to hold him responsible.
She clasped
the necklace around her neck. Had Ferris kept it as some sort of sick notch in
his bedpost? If so, that showed a psychology to him that confirmed he was a
repeat offender. And if that was his mentality, prison wouldn’t have
rehabilitated him, and that meant there were likely date-rape drugs here to
prove it.
She
stormed from the bedroom and toward the bathroom.
Beyond
the point of caring anymore if she left her fingerprints behind, she emptied
the contents of the medicine cabinet, and his toiletries now filled the sink.
Nothing.
She
rushed back to his bedroom and tore it apart. The drugs were here somewhere. A
man like Ferris wouldn’t stop raping…
Several
minutes passed as she searched, and when she was finished, his bedroom looked
like a tornado had struck. But still no pills.
Maybe
she was being ridiculous, hoping to find something where there was nothing. And
even if she found the drugs, what did she hope to accomplish? While possession
of date-rape drugs was illegal, her means of getting them would make them
inadmissible in any court. But she couldn’t stop. All she could see was her
friend’s body in that casket—the way her face, even in death, showed her
tortured existence.
She hurried
downstairs to the kitchen. There was no way she was stopping now.
She
searched each cupboard and drawer, pulling out items and rooting to the back.
She had one place left to look, and as she opened it, she saw that it was a
catchall drawer. Stuffed with anything and everything from a meat thermometer,
to sandwich bags, to tin foil, to… She pulled out a sleeve of pills. She
flipped them and read the stamp on the silver backing. Allergy pills.
She
continued working through the contents of the drawer until she reached the last
item. It was an Aleve bottle. That was an inconvenient place to keep a pain
reliever… She opened it and looked inside. It was only the medication. She was still
holding the bottle in her hand when she recalled the one on the counter. She
exchanged one for the other, not about to give up. Just because the bottle was
labeled one way… She twisted the lid.
Police
sirens wailed somewhere nearby, and she paused. Her instinct told her to leave
this alone and get out of his house immediately. But it was too late, the
whooping sirens were on top of her now, and then the patio door slid open on
the other side of the dining room. Two police officers entered the house, guns
drawn.
“Santa
Clarita Sheriff’s Department! Put your hands on your head!”
“What’s—”
The strength drained from her legs, and her head spun. She was under arrest?
Oh God. That woman must have called the police.
“I
said, put your hands on your head!” the same officer shouted.
Another
officer went around behind her, stripped her of her gun, passed it off to the
second officer, and proceeded to cuff her. “You have the right to remain
silent—”
“This
isn’t what it looks like.”
“It
looks like you’re ransacking the house of a dead man.”
A dead man?
“I’m
an FBI agent. I can explain—”
“You
can do that down at the station.”
Excerpt
#4
Excerpt
from Chapter 6
TUESDAY,
AUGUST 25TH, 9:30
AM PACIFIC TIME
VALENCIA,
CALIFORNIA
PAIGE WAS TAKEN BACK TO the Santa Clarita
Sheriff’s Station and tossed into an interrogation room after being carted
through the station like a prized trophy in cuffs. They had a murder suspect in
custody, and she was a fed. No one was talking to her; they talked around her. Her question about what made
her a murder suspect had so far gone unanswered. She’d be able to provide an
alibi, but they obviously weren’t ready to hear it.
The
buzz of the fluorescent light dangling overhead droned steadily. The white
brick walls begged for a splash of color, and the table was a veneer top with
silver metal legs. There was a plastic bucket chair on each side of the table.
She pressed her fingers to the tabletop as she took a seat, and the table
wobbled. Shifting her weight, she tried to find a comfortable position, but it
was impossible. The seat bit into the back of her legs, cutting off her
circulation.
But
she refused to stand and let the detectives witness her discomfort. She guessed
there were probably at least three sets of eyes on her from behind the one-way
glass—the two detectives from Ferris’s house and their sergeant. They’d surely be
discussing how she was found in a dead man’s home. But it wasn’t like Ferris’s
body was in his house. All she was really guilty of was trespassing. If they’d
just listened to her, she could put this sordid mess behind her.
She
glanced at the walls for a clock but there wasn’t one. How long had she been in
here? An hour? Or did it just feel like that?
She
knew what they were doing, as she often played the same game in her career.
Delaying an interrogation was a tried-and-true method. Toss the suspect into a
dank room for long enough, and even the innocent would start to doubt their
innocence. But these detectives were foolish if they thought they could manipulate
her. She had nothing to hide.
The
door opened, creaking on its hinges, and she tucked the necklace beneath her
collar.
Two
men entered the room. There was a stark age difference between them, and the
lead detective was easy to identify. He was in his fifties with silver hair,
while the rookie was in his late twenties—tops—and had a thick mop of dark hair
and bushy eyebrows.
She
should ask for representation, but something about doing so would make all this
more real. Surely, she’d have an alibi to provide. She just needed to know
Ferris’s time of death and location.
She
swallowed, wishing away any motive she’d have for killing Ferris. Maybe the
time she had spent sitting in here actually was
playing with her mind.
The
senior detective slapped a file folder on the table and made a show of opening
it while keeping his greenish-gray eyes on her. His gaze was cold.
The
rookie walked behind her and stood to her right. He emitted a cocky assuredness
that seemed fueled by the need to prove himself, and he would use her flesh to
advance his rank.
Rule one, don’t speak first. It
would prove that their tactic had weakened her, and she needed to retain all
the power she could.
“I’m
Detective Grafton, and that there is Mendez,” said the older one. The fine lines
around his eyes seemed more dominant as he narrowed his gaze on her, and his
wrinkled brow indicated a rough life. The leathery appearance of his skin suggested
either a health condition or an alcohol dependency.
Grafton
sat in the chair across from her, leaning back casually and clasping his hands
in his lap. His eyes locked on hers, assessing, trying to get a read on her.
But while he analyzed her, she did the same to him. She recognized the lick of
flame in his gaze. He was hungry for a conviction—and to stick it to a fed
probably only made her more appetizing.
After
letting the static build between them for about a minute, Grafton spoke.
“According to your background you’re an FBI agent. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
He had asked a question he knew the answer to, as he’d stripped her of her ID
and badge at Ferris’s house. This was a detour, and she wanted to get things
moving and get out of here. “I can explain why I was—”
Grafton
held up his hand and settled farther back in his chair. The shift in weight
caused the cheap plastic to groan against its metal frame. “I’m sure this was
all a misunderstanding. You were at Hall’s house because he was the suspect of
a crime?”
It
didn’t surprise her that Grafton would approach things this way. It was
probably another reason the detectives had taken so long getting into the
room—they were debating strategy.
“But that
wouldn’t explain why he was found murdered this morning,” Grafton continued. He
gave it a few seconds. “Do you have anything to say about that, Miss Dawson?”
“Where
was Ferris found? It obviously wasn’t in his home,” she said, trying to rush
the detective along.
“Oh, we’ll get
to that.” He was scowling now. “You weren’t there for a case.”
An
expertly laid-out accusation to tempt her to speak. Dirty cops really ruined it
for the good ones who fell into question. Like criminals, law enforcement
officers accused of a crime were also presumed guilty.
“I can
always call your supervisor”—he tapped his hand on the file—“Jack Harper.”
The
threat was to elicit a reaction from her, panic or guilt or anything, really.
And it almost worked… Her mouth fell open, but she snapped it shut.
“Huh,
nothing.” Grafton directed the comment to Mendez, who was still standing behind
Paige.
Paige
glanced back at him. His face was relaxed, his features stoic.
Grafton
smacked the table. Paige didn’t even flinch.
“What
were you doing in Ferris Hall’s house?” Grafton barked.
“If
you had listened to me earlier, you’d know his back door was already open, and
I was concerned about his safety.”
“Come
now, Miss Dawson, one LEO to another… You must have had a good reason to be at
Hall’s house. Your record is impeccable.” He referred to the file. “A total of
seventeen years with the FBI. I wouldn’t even guess you were old enough.”
Grafton gave it about twenty seconds and then went on. “A total of eleven years
with the office in New York, then one year as a training instructor at the Academy,
and for the last five you’ve been with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” He peered
up from the report and met her eyes. He had managed to soften his gaze, as if he’d
found some empathy for her, but she knew better than to accept this display as
genuine.
“When
was time of death?” she asked.
“You
really do like getting right to it.”
She
shrugged.
“Last
night between ten and midnight.”
Her
pulse quickened as anxiety started to fill her. That was around the time she
had followed Ferris. She’d have no alibi.
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