BEHIND THE BLUE DOOR: 708 Pleasant Lane

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Hannah Shores' fiance has deserted her just months before their wedding date leaving her heartbroken. When Phil Robeson arrives spouting theories that his brother was murdered, Hannah refuses to believe it.

As they work together to investigate Tom Robeson's disappearance, secrets come to light that make Hannah doubt whether she knew the man she was set to marry. 

Read an excerpt: 

Behind the Blue Door

Chapter 1

“Pick one, Hannah,” Sherry demands, the words streaming together sounding like “Pickunanna” but I can’t mistake her meaning as she’s waving a fan of cards decorated with naked men in my face. She sways towards me. I grab her by the elbows to keep her from falling on her face.

“I’m hosting this bachelorette party for you, Sis. I’m exempt from the games,” I reply slowly, looking her right in the eye. But Sherry’s drunker than a freshman at a frat party. She’s like a terrier on speed when she’s drinking.

I release her elbows. She grips the edge of the Formica countertop with one hand in a white knuckled grip.

“I’m th’ bride an’ I say pick un or I’ll give ya a wile card an’ then you haffa do wha’evah I wan’.” She waves the deck in front of my face again, her lower lip protruding in a pout she’s used to get her way since she was three years old.

I haven’t seen that expression in a few years. I open my mouth to capitulate without thinking.

“In your dreams,” I hear and realize the words have come out of my mouth. I smile when I see the shocked look on her face.

Someone turns up the music. The floor vibrates to the beat of Stayin’ Alive by the BeeGees. I hate this song.

Sherry’s eyes narrow and her lips form a pout worse than the last. I glare at her, but even my most evil look has never succeeded in deterring my sister on a mission. Her goal tonight is either to pull me out of the blue funk that I’ve lived in for the last two months or to embarrass me so much I won’t have the energy to be depressed anymore. I’m not sure which.

One thing is certain, she will not give up.

Still giving her the stink eye, I pull a card from the center of the fanned deck, glance at it and groan.

“What?” Sherry giggles, bouncing like the aforementioned terrier. She downs her shot and grimaces, dropping the cards. They flutter to the floor like confetti.

I bend over to pick them up, and also to hide my suddenly red nose and damp eyes. “I have to French kiss a stranger. Since the only stranger here will be the stripper,” I glance at my watch, “in five minutes, I guess it’ll be him.”

Sherry giggles again, sounding a little manic. The doorbell chimes simultaneously.

Kill me now. I’d promised Sherry that I’d host this party long before my world crushed me like a cigarette butt under a boot heel. I should’ve begged her best friend, Carly to take the responsibility off my hands. I should be celebrating my own marriage, not wallowing in despair. “Pull yourself together,” I mumble to myself. I can’t spoil Sherry’s party. It’s not her fault my fiancé, Tom, ran off and left me.

Exactly two months ago today.

Without a word.

Rage and hurt swirls and flutters in my chest like an alien being pounding to escape. I grab a shot glass from the counter and toss back the unidentified contents. Fire burns my throat. I choke and wheeze. Oh, no. Tequila. I know better than to drink worm juice. It makes me mean. Still coughing, I yank open the front door.

Great. The stripper. Even through a suit and tie I can tell he’s built like a bodybuilder. Or an Olympic swimmer on steroids. Heavy, black framed glasses finish off the nerd look. Sherry has a thing for geeks, so she should like him. I’m not sure how the other ten girls will feel.

“Hello, I’m looking for…” he starts.

“Shut up. Let’s get this over with.” I grab his purple and teal tie and ignore the shock shooting his eyebrows toward his hairline. “Sherry, are you watching? I’m only doing this once!”

Thumbs up, Sherry hollers, “Woohoo!”

I cringe, still clasping his tie, and press my lips against his. If my hormone-crazed algebra students could see me now. This is so wrong. I shove the man away. “Tell them I Frenched you and there’s another twenty in this for you.”

Eyes narrowed to slits, he adjusts his tie with a quick jerk before tucking it back into his suit jacket. Why the hell is he scowling?

“I’m looking for Hannah Shores.”

That voice sounds familiar. Dark, almost black hair. Olive complexion. Lighten the hair a little, take away the glasses and twenty or so pounds and…oh, God, he could be Tom. The pressure in my chest erupts like Vesuvius before it killed all the Pompeii-ites. Pompeiians? Who knows. I should write that on my list of Things to Google When I Can’t Sleep Tonight.

I study his face and see other subtle differences; an old scar bisecting his eyebrow, a hardness to his features that Tom didn’t possess. The air seizes in my lungs. This can’t be Phil.

“I’m Hannah Shores. Who are you?” Please not Phil.

“Phil Robeson, Tom’s brother,” he says, as if he’s been sucking lemons. The disgust apparent as he looks at me sends chills rippling over my body.