forge sidebar - Tor/Forge Blog

Soft Spring Stories from Forge

March 22, 2025March 21, 2025Ariana CarpentieriLeave a comment

Spring has officially sprung, and we’re moving from harsh winter days to soft sunny ones! If you’re on the hunt for some books to read out in the sunshine, then you should definitely take a look at the list we’ve put together for you. These books are soft, peaceful reads that will have you either bubbling with laughter or feeling as fuzzy inside as a newborn spring duckling. We hope you enjoy!

At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities by Heather Webber

From the USA Today bestselling author of In the Middle of Hickory Lane comes Heather Webber’s enchanting novel, At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities! Two women find they’re kindred spirits, as they’re both haunted—not by spirits, but by regret. Both must learn to let go of the past to move on—because sometimes the waves of change bring you to the place where you most belong.

Raw Dog by Jamie Loftus

Part travelogue, part culinary history, all capitalist critique—comedian Jamie Loftus’s debut, Raw Dog, will take you on a cross-country road trip in the summer of 2021, and reveal what the creation, culture, and class influence of hot dogs says about America now.

An Irish Country Cottage by Patrick Taylor

An Irish Country Cottage is a charming entry in Patrick Taylor’s beloved New York Times and internationally bestselling Irish Country series. As a new and tumultuous decade approaches, sectarian division threaten to bring unrest to Ulster, but in Ballybucklebo at least, peace still reigns and neighbors look after neighbors.

Mrs. Plansky’s Revenge by Spencer Quinn

Mrs. Plansky’s Revenge is bestselling author Spencer Quinn’s first novel in a new series since the meteoric launch of Chet and Bernie–introducing the irresistible and unforgettable Mrs. Plansky, in a story perfect for book clubs and commercial fiction readers.

My Three Dogs by W. Bruce Cameron

My Three Dogs is a charming and heartfelt new novel from the #1 bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose, about humankind’s best, most loyal friends, and a wonderful adventure of love and finding home.

What's New

Excerpt Reveal: The Murder Show by Matt Goldman

March 20, 2025March 19, 2025Ariana CarpentieriLeave a comment

The Murder Show is a pulse-racing novel about secrets, old friends, and how the past never leaves us by New York Times bestselling and Emmy Award winning author Matt Goldman!

Showrunner Ethan Harris had a hit with The Murder Show, a television crime drama that features a private detective who solves cases the police can’t. But after his pitch for the fourth season is rejected by the network, he returns home to Minnesota looking for inspiration.

His timing is fortunate — his former classmate Ro Greeman is now a local police officer, and she’s uncovered new information about the devastating hit and run that killed their mutual friend Ricky the summer after high school. She asks Ethan to help her investigate and thinks that if he portrays the killing on The Murder Show, the publicity may bring Ricky’s killer to justice.

Ethan is skeptical that Ricky’s death was anything but a horrible accident, but with the clock running out on his career, he’s willing to try anything. It doesn’t take long for them to realize they’ve dug up more than they bargained for. Someone is dead set on stopping Ethan and Ro from looking too closely into Ricky’s death — even if keeping them quiet means killing again…

The Murder Show will be available on April 15th, 2025. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

Twenty-two years after Ethan Harris heard Ricky O’Shea’s blood, yes heard Ricky’s blood as it dripped from his body and splattered on the soft ground below, Ethan wheels his carry-on bag into his childhood home. He drops his luggage in the entryway, walks through the small living room, and continues into the kitchen where he sees a note on the countertop:

Welcome! At the Shapiros. Home around nine. There’s a plate in the refrigerator if you’re hungry. xoxo—Mom

She signs her texts, too. As if Ethan doesn’t know who the sender is. He’s about to check out what’s inside the refrigerator when he looks out the kitchen window and sees Rosalie Greeman—at least he thinks it’s Ro Greeman—standing in her mother’s living room. The Greeman house is directly behind the Harris house. The backyards run into each other. No fence. No hedge. No trees. No obstacles whatsoever so Ethan can see clearly into Ro’s mother’s house.

Ro and a man appear to be arguing. Their arms flail. The man’s back is turned toward the window. Ethan can’t see his face. But he can see Ro’s and he feels her anger. Ethan used to know Ro well, back when they were teenage neighbors living in these houses with dreams of leaving and never coming back.

Ro and the man now stand five feet apart. They’re pointing at each other. Shouting at each other. Ethan, of course, can’t hear a word but he knows Ro’s body language. At least he used to. He has no idea who the man is.

The argument looks like it could escalate into something physical. Something dangerous. Ethan is far from a tough guy. He’s never been in a fistfight in his life. That’s forty years of never fighting, and it seems a little late to start now. His choices are to call 911 and hope the police get there in time to stop whatever might happen or to go over there himself and knock on the door like the old neighbor he is. Just to say hello and tell Ro that he’s back in town for a week or two and . . .

Ethan exits the kitchen and walks back through the living room that hasn’t changed since he moved out of this house over two decades ago. He rarely visits Minneapolis anymore. The Harris family gathers once or twice a year, but usually at one of Ethan’s siblings’ homes, which is far larger than his parents’ bungalow. Ethan’s surprised to see the same Sears furniture. Soft man-made fabrics in earth tones. Same light-sucking drapes. Same Judaica on the bookshelves reminding him that he’s returned to Minneapolis to visit his parents for the High Holidays. That’s the excuse he gave them anyway—the real reason is more complicated. And desperate. There’s the familiar Seder plate, menorah, and Shabbat candlesticks. Nothing has changed. For Ethan’s entire youth, his parents lived like they were on the run. But when they settled down, they really settled down.

He continues toward the front door and catches sight of himself in the entryway mirror. When Ethan was in high school, this is where he’d check his appearance before leaving the house to meet with friends. Back then, he had no gray hair, no lines on his forehead, no crinkles around his eyes. Now his dark curls are riddled with silver, and Ethan’s olive skin complains about life. And he’s missing one thing he had in high school. Cocksureness. He was sure of himself when he was younger. A confidence blanketed in ignorance. But then life did what life does, and all that youthful bravado leaked out through the lines in his face like steam through fissures in geothermal rock.

Perfect. No confidence and he’s about to knock on a neighbor’s door to interrupt two fighting adults. Ethan Harris to the rescue. What a joke. He hitches his jeans up. Why do they keep slipping down? He sighs something regretful, opens the front door, and jogs around toward the backyards. This is where he met Ro Greeman the summer between ninth and tenth grade.

Ethan was mowing his new yard when Ro pushed her mower into hers. No fence. No hedge. No trees. No obstacles whatsoever. Just one patch of green with no impediment to Ethan stealing glances of the neighbor girl’s long legs sticking out of short shorts as she put one foot atop the engine and pulled the starter cord. Ro’s mower sputtered but didn’t catch. Ethan watched her unscrew the gas cap, look in, and shake her head. Then she did something he didn’t expect. She walked to the back of her backyard where it met the back of his backyard. She looked at him, he killed the engine on his mower, and fifteen-year-old Ro Greeman said, “Hi. I’m Ro. Could I borrow a hit of gas?”

Ro looked at him with brown-specked blue eyes, as if she’d received neither dominant nor recessive genes but rather genes that just want to get along. She had long limbs and light brown hair that fell halfway down her back. Her nose was freckled from the sun as if it were the factory that sent brown specks to her blue eyes. She wore no jewelry. She wore men’s clothing. Based on their size, she wore men’s work boots that were either too big for her or she had circus-people feet. She was, thought Ethan, strikingly beautiful in a most unconventional way.

Ethan said, “No. Sorry. I’m not giving you any gas.” He heard his voice shake and hoped she didn’t notice. He was taking a chance, talking this way to a girl, the first he’d met since moving to Minneapolis.

Ro’s eyes widened, and her shoulders slumped. That is not how Minnesotans act toward one another, especially when meeting for the first time. If you have gas in your can and your neighbor needs gas, you share. It’s in the Minnesota Constitution.

“But I will make a deal with you.” Ethan tried to sound serious. Businesslike. “I’ll mow your lawn today and buy you more gas if, in return, you show me around the neighborhood. I just moved in. I don’t know anything about anything around here. Or anyone.” He was playing the vulnerability card. Another risk because she might see him as pathetic and not worth her time.

Ro took a good look at Ethan. He was short—five foot six— had a baby face damp with sweat, and dark brown eyes that looked especially warm above his baby-blue T-shirt. She said, “I’m not making a deal with you. I don’t even know your name.”

“Ethan,” he said. He held out his hand. “Ethan Harris.”

Ro hesitated as if she were being asked to do something indecent. Indecent but exciting. Maybe exhilarating.

“Do you play Scrabble?” said Ro. “I do,” said Ethan.

Ro extended her hand and said, “Okay, Ethan Harris. That’s a nice enough name. Deal.”

Ethan hears a scream that jolts him out of his jaunt down memory lane and back into the present. He breaks into a run, and thirty seconds later, he stands on the Greemans’ front step. Ethan hears shouting from within the house. Ro’s voice and the man’s voice. But he can’t make out what they’re saying. He presses the button on the Greemans’ Ring doorbell. Once, twice, three times. He hears footsteps, and a moment later, Ro opens the door.

She stares at him as if she’s looking through Jell-O. Is that who I think it is? she wonders. And then Ro Greeman says, “Ethan?” Ro clutches a pink, steel water bottle as if it’s her life source. She still has blue eyes with specks of brown. Her brown hair falls to her shoulders. She wears old Levi’s, a navy quarter-zip fleece, Hoka running shoes with marshmallow soles, and forty years on her pretty face. Ethan feels a chill. It could be from Ro. It could be that it’s mid-September in Minnesota and autumn has sent out feelers to introduce itself.

“Ro,” says Ethan. He doesn’t have to manufacture a smile—it bursts onto his face whether he likes it or not.

Ro presses her right palm against her chest. “Oh my God. I can’t believe it’s you.” Her hand moves from her chest to her mouth as if she’s trying to stop what she’s about to say. “Look at you. You’re a man.” She laughs.

Ethan laughs with her. He has not seen Ro since the summer after high school—he grew three inches in college—now he and Ro stand eye to eye. “This is so…Wow, it’s good to see you.”

“Come in, my long-lost friend,” says Ro. “Please.”

Ethan steps through the home’s small entryway and into the living room. He hardly notices that the furniture is pushed toward the center of the room and covered in tarps. A stepladder, cans of paint, brushes, and rollers are clustered on the floor near the fireplace. Ethan isn’t sure if he should shake Ro’s hand or hug her, and she seems equally unsure. They kind of stumble into an awkward hug, but once they’re there, neither wants to let go. The man in the room announces his presence with a heavy sigh.

When they part, Ro Greeman says, “Ethan, you remember Marty Mathis.”

“Hey,” says Ethan. “Nice to see you, Marty.” That’s a lie because it’s not nice to see Marty Mathis even after all these years. Marty is two years older and started dating Ro when he was a senior and she was a sophomore, stealing her away from Ethan. At least in Ethan’s mind because he and Ro were never boyfriend and girlfriend. What a loser Marty Mathis was. Couldn’t get a girl his own age. Although neither could Ethan. But maybe he would have if Marty Mathis hadn’t been in the way. That’s what Ethan told himself anyway. And worst of all, Marty continued dating Ro even after Marty had graduated. He was that weird twenty-year-old who came back for senior prom. Loser. Loser. Loser.

“Nice to see you, Ethan,” says Marty Mathis with dead eyes. He is medium height, medium build, with a struggling head of hair, thin and in retreat. The anger in his eyes is not mollified by his charcoal suit, blue shirt, black tie, and black dress shoes. Marty looks like he’s either in the early stages of growing a beard or he needs a shave, and most likely a drink.

“I haven’t seen Ethan since we were eighteen,” Ro says to Marty. “Since we were children.” She smiles then turns to Ethan and says, “What are you doing here? Are you visiting your parents?” She seems genuinely happy to see Ethan.

Maybe it’s not happiness, thinks Ethan. Maybe it’s relief that he interrupted something that was about to go bad. Real bad. He steals a glance of Marty Mathis. The man is seething under a façade of fatigue. Ethan’s about to answer Ro’s question, but Mathis speaks first.

“I should get going,” says Mathis.

“Sorry,” lies Ethan. “I didn’t know I was interrupting.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Mathis. “We were just having a work chat.” He stares something unkind toward Ro and adds, “Nothing we can’t finish tomorrow.” He walks toward the front door and without looking at Ethan says, “Welcome home, Ethan. Hope you have a good visit.” Like that he’s gone, and Ro shuts and locks the door behind him.

“Are you okay?” says Ethan.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I saw you through the window. It looked like you were arguing. Did you get back togeth—”

“No,” says Ro. “God, no.”

“Not that it’s any of my business. Man. First time I see you in how many years and . . .” Ethan manages a smile. “I was worried.”

“Ethan Harris,” says Ro, “all growed up into a man, but still sweet.”

They hear the rev of Mathis’s pickup and tires squeal as he pulls away from the curb. Ro drops her eyes in embarrassment. Marty is acting like a pissed-off teenager.

Ethan wants to save her from her shame and says, “I don’t know if I’m all that sweet. Want to come over for a drink?”

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Murder Show, available April 15th, 2025!

opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window

Excerpts / Featured / New Releases / What's New

Excerpt Reveal: You Deserve to Know by Aggie Blum Thompson

February 19, 2025February 18, 2025Ariana Carpentieri2 Comments

A brand new suspense novel from “the master of the suburban scandal” (Samantha M. Bailey), Aggie Blum Thompson.

Neighbors Gwen, Aimee, and Lisa share more than playdates and coffee mornings on their tranquil street in East Bethesda. They confide their deepest secrets, navigate the challenges of motherhood together, and provide a support system that seems unbreakable.

But when Gwen’s husband is found murdered after one of their weekly Friday night dinners, the peaceful quiet of their cul-de-sac shatters. The seemingly idyllic world of the three close-knit mom friends becomes a web of deception, betrayal, and revenge.

As the police investigate, the veneer of friendship begins to crack, revealing hidden tensions, clandestine affairs, and long-buried jealousies among the three women. With suspicions mounting and the neighborhood gripped by fear, Gwen, Aimee, and Lisa must confront the chilling truth about their husbands, and the sinister undercurrents in their own friendship.

You Deserve to Know will be available on March 11th, 2025. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

She has a sneaking feeling that her friends are talking about her. Anton and Lisa, outside on the patio, keep glancing at her through the kitchen window, where Aimee stands at the counter, dressing the salad. They’re sitting at the large patio table, too close together, too close for other people’s spouses, that is. What are they whispering about?

Her.

Aimee is sure of it. Probably talking about that stupid argument that she had with Lisa earlier, and the way she stormed off. Not stormed, exactly, but Aimee stood up so abruptly that her chair scraped the flagstone in an earsplitting screech as she announced, “I’ll get the salad.”

From where she stands inside her kitchen, Aimee has a good view of the two of them at the table. Through the large sliding doors to the right, she can see the whole of her backyard. At one end, all six of the kids are running around, jumping on the trampoline, chasing the dog. A plume of smoke curls from around the side of the house where her husband, Scott, and Lisa’s husband, Marcus, are presumably manning the grill, a behemoth of a thing she gave to Scott for Father’s Day a few months earlier.

Lisa and Marcus.
Gwen and Anton.
And Aimee and Scott.
The three families live on the same cul-de-sac, Nassau Court,

in East Bethesda, just outside Washington, D.C. The five younger kids are all close in age and attend the same school—both sets of twins in first grade and Noa in fourth grade, while Lisa and Marcus’s son, Kai, has just started middle school. The three families have spent so much time together in the past year that Aimee can read Anton’s and Lisa’s body language even thirty feet away.

Gwen appears beside her with a bowl of potato salad.

“I think that salad is ready, girl,” she says. “You’re whipping it like it’s egg whites.”

Aimee looks down at the metal salad servers in her hands. She drops them in the bowl and sighs.

“What were you staring at?” Gwen asks.

“I was watching Anton and Lisa. I think they’re talking about me.”

“Hmm. Knowing Anton, he’s telling her to calm down, maybe not be so judgy?”

“Or maybe he agrees with her,” Aimee says. “That my mothering leaves something to be desired.”

Gwen sucks in her breath. “No. You’re an amazing mother. She was being a—”

“Don’t say it.” Aimee turns to smile at Gwen. Three-way friendships are tricky. She was friends with Lisa first. For a few years, they were the only families with kids on the cul-de-sac. When Gwen and Anton moved in next door a year ago, the three women formed a trio. Aimee loves having two close friends on her block that she can count on. Loyalty is everything to her. Sometimes, though, she senses an undercurrent of competition between her two friends.

“I appreciate your coming to my defense, but I’m fine,” Aimee says. She doesn’t want to encourage Gwen to say anything negative about Lisa. She loves Gwen, considers her one of her closest friends, but she can be a little sharp.

Still, Aimee is a bit stung by Lisa’s earlier sanctimonious outrage. Her tone was nasty. You let your daughter do what?

Gwen snorts and pulls open the sliding door to the backyard, and Aimee follows her, clutching the large wooden salad bowl as if it might protect her from incoming arrows.

This is their Friday night ritual. The three families pile into one of the backyards and either grill or order takeout. In the cooler weather, they build a fire and roast marshmallows. Sometimes they drink too much. Sometimes people say things they shouldn’t. But mostly they have fun.

“It’s getting chillier, but I’m so glad we can still eat outside.” Aimee puts the salad down and takes a seat across the table from Anton. The air has the slightest crisp to it, a hint of the autumn to come.

These cloudless September days are her favorite time to be working. In the fall, her landscape design business does not have to deal with the frantic panic of homeowners who want instant flowers in the spring, impatient with the pace at which most plants grow. In the fall, she gets a different sort of client. The ones interested in reshaping their yards, preferably with native plants—her specialty. She’d like to transition to only native designs, but the market isn’t there yet. People love their boxwoods and crepe myrtles.

“What’s this?” Gwen sits down next to Anton and picks up his glass, which contains one large square ice cube sitting in a golden-brown liquid, before taking a sip.

“Blandon’s.”

“Anton. Really. You brought your own?” She smirks at Aimee as she says this, her tone halfway between teasing and mocking. Ribbing her husband is a regular thing for Gwen, which sometimes leaves Aimee uncomfortable at the obvious underlying tension. She wouldn’t do that to Scott, nor he to her. They made a promise to each other to never become a publicly bickering couple. On the surface, Gwen and Anton seem perfect. Anton, the successful writer and university teacher, their beautiful twin boys, and sophisticated Gwen, who works part-time at a Georgetown PR firm and directs her excess creative energies into complicated holiday displays, interior design, and her own flawless appearance.

Aimee always feels slightly unkempt around Gwen. Probably because her own wardrobe consists of Carhartt jackets and cargo pants, and her hair is always up in a messy bun. Not that Gwen has ever said anything to make Aimee feel less than. Gwen can’t help it if she’s one of those moms who makes every other woman feel slightly inadequate.

Anton reaches into a bag at his feet and pulls out a bottle shaped like a large glass grenade, a wide grin on his face. His contribution to Friday nights has been to introduce everyone to expensive alcohol. Aimee chalks this up to his being a writer. She pictures him at home every day, sitting in front of an old typewriter, surrounded by books, sipping bourbon. She once shared this flight of fancy with Gwen, who laughed and said that when she gets home from her work, she often finds Anton in his underwear playing Fortnite.

“Want some?” Anton asks as he holds the bottle in the air. “I’ll take an old-fashioned,” Aimee says.

He cringes in exaggeration, pulling at his clipped beard. “I can’t let you pollute my Blandon’s, but I think Scott’s got some Maker’s Mark in there I can use.” He stands up.

“He definitely does,” Aimee calls after him. “On his beautiful bar cart.”

Once Anton is out of earshot, Aimee turns to Lisa. “Did you see the bar cart Scott bought? It was made in Denmark in 1960 and he’s very, very proud of it.”

“Ooh, mid-century modern,” Gwen says. “Who’s the designer?”

Aimee shrugs. “Beats me.” Her husband’s fascination with Scandinavian mid-century modern furniture is a passion she doesn’t begrudge him, but one she doesn’t share. It seems all the men she knows in their forties and fifties have developed some strange hobby. Anton and his top-shelf liquor—he’s always traveling far distances to pick up some limited-edition bottle—or Scott and his hours spent online hunting down some Danish chair. And Lisa’s husband, Marcus, took up cycling during the pandemic and now heads off every weekend at the crack of dawn in some neon spandex outfit.

“Of course, we’re going to have to trade that thing of beauty in for a locked liquor cabinet at some point,” Aimee says. “I found Noa pouring apple juice into a martini glass from the shaker the other day.”

Gwen laughs. It’s supposed to be a funny, self-deprecating look- at-the-things-our-kids-get-into story. That’s what mom friends are for, to make you feel less alone in your parenting challenges. But when Aimee looks over at Lisa, her friend’s face is frozen in a neutral mask. Aimee feels an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach. The way she parents her nine-year-old daughter has become something of a sore subject with Lisa. Leaning across the table to touch her hand, Lisa smiles. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

Aimee shakes off Lisa’s hand and tucks a loose curl back into her top bun. “Oh, it’s okay, I get it.” She doesn’t get it. Why Lisa lit into her like that, in front of everyone, for letting Noa visit one of her clients. But she’s trying to avoid a repeat of the conversation.

“You’re an awesome mother,” Lisa says, gathering her long black hair and pulling it over one shoulder.

“Yes, she is!” Gwen says. “In fact, I think we’re all killing it.” “It’s just, how well do you know this woman, Aimee?”

Gwen groans. “Unbelievable,” she says. “Just drop it.”

“Look, I know you mean well, but I’ve got this, okay?” Aimee

stares into Lisa’s almost-black eyes. She is not about to relitigate why she’s been letting Noa spend time visiting one of her clients. The woman, a retired elementary school teacher named Cathy, is perfectly harmless in her baggy Eileen Fisher clothes and chunky black glasses. She wants to hire Aimee to replace the azaleas on her sprawling front lawn with native plants to attract butterflies and birds. When Aimee first went out there to brainstorm design ideas about a month ago, she hit it off with Cathy. On her second visit, she brought Noa, who discovered Cathy had not just a cat, but three newborn kittens, after which she insisted on coming back whenever Aimee went. And yes, over the past few weeks, Aimee has let Noa spend a few hours here and there at Cathy’s to play with the cats. Aimee doesn’t tell Lisa and Gwen that Noa’s fourth grade is off to a rough start, that words like ADHD and sensory processing issues have been bandied about. That being around those kittens makes Noa’s face light up, a welcome contrast to the defeated state in which she comes home from school every day.

Aimee isn’t ready to admit to herself what challenges Noa might have, can’t even bring herself to open the psychologist’s report that arrived in her inbox a few days ago.

And why should she have to say any of this to Lisa? To Gwen? Why should she have to justify herself?

She doesn’t have to. Anton comes back with drinks, followed closely by Scott and Marcus carrying trays laden with burgers, sausages, and grilled corn. Any further conversation is impossible, about Aimee’s parenting choices or anything else. Smelling the meat, the children converge on the table. Lisa and Marcus’s son, Kai, hangs back with Noa, but the four younger kids swarm the food.

“Slow down, boys!” Gwen stands and begins delivering commands while Marcus struggles with the tongs, distributing the slippery hot dogs. Finally, the boys step back and Kai and Noa hold out their plates.

“You two are so patient,” Lisa says to Kai and Noa. “Thank you for letting the younger boys go first.”

All the parents pitch in to get the kids settled with condiments and bean salad, with napkins and forks. This shared sense of responsibility, that they are all helping to raise each other’s children, has created a tight bond. Aimee’s heard people complain that the D.C. suburbs are cold and unfriendly, too transient to make any real connections, so she feels extra lucky to have this circle of friends. They seamlessly step into and out of each other’s lives—picking up one another’s kids at school, for example, or checking if anything is needed before going on a Costco run.

Scott sits next to her, slipping his hand behind her neck and giving it a little rub.

“How’s Bethesda’s most innovative gardener doing?”

She laughs. That accolade was bestowed upon her company by Bethesda Magazine last spring, and he’s called her that ever since. “It’s been a long week.” She needs to tell him about Noa’s psycho-educational report. They usually sit down after dinner on

Sundays to go over important things. She can tell him then. “Then drink up!” Anton says. “How’s the old-fashioned?” Aimee takes a big swig, catching the cherry in her teeth. It’s delicious, and as the bourbon does its job, her stress begins to melt.

After dessert, as everyone is getting ready to leave, Aimee hunts for a book on gentle parenting that she found useless but promised to lend Gwen. She remembers leaving it in the laundry room, and heads there to look. A little buzz from the bourbon has her a bit fuzzy but in a good way. Behind her she can hear the chaos of kids and adults, who have all moved from the backyard through the house and into the large foyer. As she grabs the book from a basket of random things, Aimee senses someone behind her and looks up to see Anton standing there.

“Hey.” She straightens up and holds out the book. “Gwen asked for this.”

He doesn’t take it, but he wobbles a little, and Aimee realizes he’s drunk. It’s not the first time she’s seen him this way. Last winter break, when the three families went to Vermont together, Anton drank so many IPAs that he passed out in the snow outside the Alchemist Brewery in Stowe.

“Listen—about before, you know with Lisa . . .” His voice trails off. He witnessed the worst of Lisa’s nasty comments about Aimee’s parenting.

Aimee waves her hand. She doesn’t want Anton getting involved. She can handle Lisa. “I’m fine. No hurt feelings here.”

“Yeah, that’s not it,” he says, irritated, vibrating with nervous energy. He glances behind him as if to make sure no one is listening and turns back.

“Anton?” Gwen calls from the foyer.

“I think Gwen’s looking for you.” Aimee puts her hand on his arm, gently nudging him in the direction of the front door.

Gwen appears. “There you are! Didn’t you hear me calling? We have to go. The boys are really tired.” The tension in her voice is evident. Gwen doesn’t like to let the ugly parts show. It’s all about control with her. Tidy house. Twins in matching clothes. Job at a prestigious PR firm with high-powered clients. The only thing that refuses to bend to her will is Anton.

He’s a hot mess.

And tonight, he is messier than usual.

Gwen maneuvers around her husband and gives Aimee a hug. “Thanks for bringing the potato salad,” Aimee says. “Here’s the book I told you about. It just ended up making me feel guilty, but maybe you’ll get more out of it.”

Gwen takes the book and turns to go, but Anton doesn’t follow her. Not right away. He leans into Aimee, as if for a goodbye hug, but instead he hovers, his mouth inches from her ear.

Aimee can feel his hot breath on her neck, smell the bourbon. The intimacy of someone else’s husband so close unnerves her. She instinctively pulls back, but not before he whispers something in her ear.

“You deserve to know.”

Click below to pre-order your copy of You Deserve to Know, available March 11th, 2025!

opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window

Featured / Lists / What's New

Fuzzy Forge Reads that’ll Have You Feeling Fond for Valentine’s Day

February 14, 2025February 13, 2025Ariana CarpentieriLeave a comment

Love is in the air and Valentine’s Day is officially upon us! Forge is here to help set the mood, because we have a plethora of lovable characters and stories that are sure to melt your heart. Take a look at the list below to see which heartwarming Forge books you should add to your TBR during this season of love!

1. My Three Dogs by W. Bruce Cameron

Cameron’s signature style shines in this whirlwind of a novel that showcases how determination, instinct, and love can make a family whole once more.

2. At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities by Heather Webber

From the USA Today bestselling author of In the Middle of Hickory Lane comes Heather Webber’s next enchanting novel, At the Coffee Shop of Curiosities!

Two women soon find they’re kindred spirits, as they’re both haunted—not by spirits, but by regret. Both must learn to let go of the past to move on—because sometimes the waves of change bring you to the place where you most belong.

3. I Will Not Die Alone written by Dera White and illustrated by Joe Bennett

Dera White’s I Will Not Die Alone is a hilarious, feel-good story about the end of the world. Featuring illustrations by Joe Bennett, it is a story full of realistic self-love affirmations for all of us who are just trying to get by, until we die.

4. An Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor

Love is in the air in the colorful village of Ballybucklebo, but Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly has a long way to go before meeting his sweetheart Kitty O’Hallorhan at the altar. First, he and his young colleague, Barry Laverty, must deal with their usual round of eccentric patients—and crises both large and small.

5. A Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing but Using the Bathroom as an Escape written by Joe Pera and illustrated by Joe Bennett

The cozy comedy of Joe Pera meets the darkly playful illustrations of Joe Bennett in A Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing But Using the Bathroom as an Escape, a funny, warm, and sincere guide to regaining calm and confidence when you’re hiding in the bathroom.

Excerpts / New Releases / What's New

Excerpt Reveal: Dark Vector by Ward Larsen

January 22, 2025February 20, 2025Ariana Carpentieri

The first book in a blockbuster new series from USA Today bestseller, Ward Larsen!

In the wilds of Siberia, a top-secret Russian fighter goes missing on a test flight. The Russian Air Force begins a search, oblivious to their error: they are looking in the wrong spot. The pilot, Colonel Maxim Primakov, has crash landed during an attempted defection.

The new chief of CIA clandestine operations, David Slaton, wants desperately to find him, but only one man is in a position to reach Primakov—Tru Miller, a rookie operator. Slaton plots a rescue deep inside Russia, not realizing that he will have to outfox the one other man who knows the truth. Victor Dubonin is a general in Russian intelligence. His search for Primakov is deeply personal—and if he doesn’t succeed it will cost him his life.

Soon a small group of Americans, including its top female test pilot, Kai Drake, find themselves hunted in the wilds of Russia. Their survival will depend on one thing—just how resourceful and lethal they can be.

Dark Vector will be available on February 4th, 2025. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

Colonel Maksim Primakov walked across the ice-clad tarmac of Skovorna Air Base, his boots crunching over frozen sleet. The big hangar lay before him, its high western wall catching the last rays of dusk as another frigid night descended. A Test Pilot First Class in the Russian Air Force, Primakov cut an arresting figure in his flight suit and winter jacket. He was tall and square-jawed, and his pace was steady. His carriage bordered on arrogant. The close-cropped brown hair was more a habit than a concession to regulation, the sign of a man who had neither the time nor inclination to bother with more.

Primakov drew to a stop near the hangar, then turned and surveyed his surroundings. Not for the first time, it struck him that Skovorna looked more like a salvage yard than an air base. The other airfields where he’d been stationed in recent years invariably flew advanced jets. Most of the ones he saw here had not turned a wheel in years. The skeletons of two IL-76 transports lingered at the fence line, their frames rusting after having been cannibalized for spare parts. A once-sleek MiG-29 stood statue-like on two flat tires, access panels on its belly swinging limp in the glacial breeze. Legend had it that the jet had diverted here due to a rough-running engine. A fleet-wide lack of fuel pumps, combined with rampant organizational ineptitude, had eventually doomed the aircraft to rot.

A year ago, Skovorna Air Base had been all but abandoned, an outpost from another era fading to irrelevance. Two rescue helicopters had operated from the main hangar, and an army training detachment taught survival skills to recruits in the surrounding forest. Those complementary missions—teaching soldiers how to survive harsh conditions, and retrieving those who failed—were all one needed to know about the airfield’s remoteness. The nearest city of note, Chita, was two hundred miles west. The closest depot for food and supplies, a logistical outpost of the 29th Army, was a two-day drive in the summer.

In winter Skovorna could only be reached by air. Weeds thrived amid the cracks in the ramp and windows in the outbuildings failed in storms. On that sad trajectory, the airfield had been a year, perhaps two, from complete abandonment.

Then, last summer, Skovorna had been thrown a lifeline.

With the opposite of fanfare, its two active units were reassigned elsewhere. Soon after, construction crews began arriving. To any casual observer, of whom there were few—only the most ambitious trappers and hunters from Olinsk—the alterations at the airfield would have appeared trivial. The big hangar was sealed and spackled, and the main runway and a single taxiway were refurbished. The living facilities were updated, although not enlarged—the unit preparing to take up residence was roughly the size of the old detachment. From a distance, and particularly from above—the only direction that mattered—Skovorna would appear little changed. It had been selected for rehabilitation for two reasons. First was its remoteness. The second, and far subtler, a tribute was its proximity to the Chinese border.

There were now three airworthy helicopters on the tarmac, Hip J models brought in for logistical support. Near the Hips was a transiting AN-26 transport that had arrived yesterday with an extensive array of test equipment. The markings on the cargo jet attested that it was Russian Air Force, although the provenance of what it carried, Primakov suspected, was likely from farther south. And then, of course, there was the other aircraft—the one parked in the heated main hangar whose doors were shut tight. The one that was Skovorna Air Base’s raison d’être.

Primakov turned back to the hangar, and his pale blue eyes canted downward to study the parking apron. The concrete was dusted lightly with snow, but thankfully there was no ice. Taxiing an airplane here in winter was sometimes closer to ice skating, but thankfully there had been little precipitation in recent days, even if the temperatures held fast to the standards of the Siberian Plateau. It was the second week of January, and the program was on schedule, the only setback having been one major storm during Christmas.

Headquarters was pleased.

The colonel scuffed a boot over the ramp, and beneath the snow he noted a few loose chips of concrete. He frowned. This was one of his ongoing crusades. The surface was beginning to disintegrate, damaged by too many brutal winters, yet further repairs would induce delays. To mitigate the risk, he had ordered the active taxiways be swept every morning, and a second time in the afternoon if a flight was scheduled.

He checked the nearby vehicle apron and saw the big sweeping machine sitting idle. Primakov walked over and found no one inside the cab, yet when he opened the door a bit of warmth drifted out. A vodka bottle lay on the floor, the last drop sucked out of it.

His anvil jaw clenched.

Like any Russian military officer, he was accustomed to such battles, yet Skovorna was supposed to be different. The mission here was an experimental cooperative, a model venture between two great nations. It was working, to a point. Not once had Primakov had a request for funding or personnel denied, and the men and women assigned to the project—fifty-six in all—were among the finest in the Russian Air Force. Unfortunately, these days “the finest” was an appallingly low bar.

It hadn’t always been so. During his company grade days, unburdened by commanding anything beyond his own airplane, Primakov had viewed the service as mostly competent. In those years, when the oil had been flowing, and when Europe had been a beach vacation rather than enemy territory, the Russian Air Force had been functional. He remembered new aircraft arriving from the factory, and having enough fuel to fly them. The crew chiefs had been capable, and even the conscripts did their year of compulsory service with little complaint. The horrors of Afghanistan had been largely forgotten, yet there were still enough skirmishes in the Middle East and the Caucasus to keep everyone sharp. Altogether, Primakov had felt as though he was part of an effective fighting force.

Then the rot had begun. The looting by the oligarchs turned excessive, and the regime overreached in Syria and Crimea. The death knell, plainly, had been the invasion of Ukraine. Experienced mechanics had been issued rifles that belonged in a museum and hauled off to the front. Stockpiles of hypersonic missiles and precision munitions, many of which Primakov himself had been involved in testing, were exhausted within months, most of them wasted on civilian targets. Against a far weaker Ukrainian Air Force, Russian fighter jets largely remained grounded. Deep targets were struck not by Russian bombers, but by cheap drones purchased from Iran and North Korea. Within two years the service had been nothing short of gutted.

There was a time when all of that had bothered Primakov.

But no more.

He kicked the sweeper’s door shut and set out across the ramp.

Click below to pre-order your copy of Dark Vector, available February 4th, 2025!

opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window

Lists / New Releases / What's New

Forge’s 2025 Winter Preview!

January 17, 2025February 20, 2025Ariana Carpentieri

2025 is already underway, and winter (aka: the coziest season of the year) is upon us! That means we’re on the hunt for those stories that’ll warm our hearts as we read from underneath a pile of blankets on cold nights — and here at Forge, we’re known for sharing immersive books that do just that! It’s time to settle in and check out the wonderful winter lineup of all the books coming from Forge this season!

Cold Storage by Michael C. Grumley

An expansive new standalone thriller in the Revival series, exploring humanity’s thirst for immortality at any cost.

Available now!

Dark Vector by Ward Larsen

The first book in a blockbuster new series from USA Today bestseller, Ward Larsen! A small group of Americans, including its top female test pilot, Kai Drake, find themselves hunted in the wilds of Russia. Their survival will depend on one thing—just how resourceful and lethal they can be.

Coming 2.4.25!

Smoke on the Water by Loren D. Estleman

From the master of the hard-boiled detective novel and recipient of the Private Eye Writers of America Lifetime Achievement Award comes Loren D. Estleman’s next enthralling Amos Walker mystery, Smoke on the Water. Summer in Detroit was hot enough before the smoke descended, but as the temperature rises and more bodies crop up in connection to the missing file, Walker will have to track down those documents — and unearth why they were worth killing over — before it’s too late.

Coming 2.11.25!

The Rescue by T. Jefferson Parker – Now in Papberback!

The Rescue is a gripping thriller that explores the strength of the human-animal bond and how far we will go to protect what we love by three-time Edgar Award winner and New York Times bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker.

Coming 3.11.25!

You Deserve to Know by Aggie Blum Thompson

A brand new suspense novel from “the master of the suburban scandal” (Samantha M. Bailey), Aggie Blum Thompson. As the police investigate, the veneer of friendship begins to crack, revealing hidden tensions, clandestine affairs, and long-buried jealousies among the three women. With suspicions mounting and the neighborhood gripped by fear, Gwen, Aimee, and Lisa must confront the chilling truth about their husbands, and the sinister undercurrents in their own friendship.

Coming 3.11.25!

What's New

Forge Books That’ll Get You In the Holiday Spirit!

November 22, 2024January 6, 2025Ariana Carpentieri

‘Tis the season for some holiday reading! Whether you’re on the hunt for a timely book to gift someone this holiday season or you’re in the mood to read something perfectly fit for the most wonderful time of the year, Forge is here to provide festive reads that are sure to deck your halls! We’re making a list (and checking it twice), none are naughty and all are nice! Read below to see what books to either read and/or gift this year to help you get in the holiday spirt!

Up on the Woof Top and It’s a Wonderful Woof by Spencer Quinn

Chet the dog, “the most lovable narrator in all of crime fiction” (Boston Globe) and his human partner Bernie Little find themselves in the midst of two thrilling holiday adventures! A wonderful bundle of books to either give as a gift this year, or to snuggle up with while you read by the light of the Christmas tree.

An Irish Country Christmas by Patrick Taylor

Just in time for the holidays, An Irish Country Christmas from beloved author Patrick Taylor presents a new look for the beloved New York Times, USA Today, and Globe and Mail bestselling series! This book has all the cozy vibes and is absolutely perfect for curling up with under a warm blanket this winter!

A Dog’s Perfect Christmas and The Dogs of Christmas by W. Bruce Cameron

Is there anything more precious than sweet puppies at Christmas? Two perfect gifts, A Dog’s Perfect Christmas and The Dogs of Christmas are charming and heartwarming holiday tales that explores the power of love, trust, and what can happen when family members open their hearts to new possibilities. From W. Bruce Cameron, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose!

Deep Freeze by Michael C. Grumley

Looking to lean into the chilliness of the winter season? Then you should add Deep Freeze to your TBR! In his next near-future thriller, bestselling author Michael C. Grumley explores humanity’s thirst for immortality…at any cost. This chilling and thrilling story will have you on the edge of your seat from start to finish!

What's New

Denene Millner on the Personal Story Behind One Blood

November 15, 2024November 14, 2024Ariana Carpentieri1 Comment

Potent, poetic, powerful, told with deep love, and spanning from the Great Migration to the civil unrest of the 1960s to the quest for women’s equality in early 2000s, Denene Millner’s beautifully wrought novel, One Blood, explores three women’s intimate, and often complicated, struggle with what it truly means to be family.

Continue onwards to read Denene’s beautiful and heartfelt note in honor of National Adoption Month.

Dear Reader,

I discovered my adoption certificate at age twelve, while snooping in my parents’ private papers. Asking questions about it wasn’t an option; I was too shocked and scared to say anything because, well, I had no business peeking into that metal box, for one, and two, saying it out loud would make it an alternate reality I wasn’t ready to dissect or accept.

My parents had kept it a secret. They didn’t intend to tell me about it and leaving it that way just made sense for them, so I made it make sense for me, too. I pushed it deep into the recesses, past thick skin and blood and heart muscle—memory—and became the very fabric of the Millner clan. For the longest time, that was beyond enough.

That changed, though, when I got pregnant with my first baby and the questions started: “What’s your health history?” “Do healthy pregnancies run in your family?” “What’s in your blood?” My doctors wanted details. I couldn’t give them. Suddenly, the information I thought wasn’t important actually was. What and who is in your blood?

That’s an answer I’ll never truly have. The night we buried my mother—she died without knowing I knew about my adoption—my father gave me a small piece of my story, the only piece he knows: Someone had left me, a baby, on the stoop of an orphanage, and four days later, he and my mom went looking for a little girl and found me in a corner crib in the basement, arms outstretched, ready to go. That was the beginning and end of my “birth” story.

Over the years, I’ve used my imagination to fill in that story with color and light and grace: Maybe my birth mother was young and scared and couldn’t fathom raising a baby on her own. Maybe she was forced to leave me on that stoop by a family that refused to support her and her child. Maybe she was in an abusive relationship and feared her baby would get swooped into the violence. There are so many ways that it could have ended badly for me, a defenseless baby. But instead, this woman, this angel, gave me life, and then gave me life again by giving me away.

It was a decision—a beautiful, selfless decision steeped in pain, heartbreak and, yes, love—that I can only understand because I am now a mother who carried her own babies in her womb and couldn’t fathom the strength and courage and resolve it would take to leave my children, my blood, the very beat of my heart, on a stoop for someone else to have.

It is the ultimate sacrifice. A miracle.

It was my mediation on miracles, adoption, motherhood, Blackness, Black womanhood, choices, and blood that led me to One Blood, an epic, fictional story told in three parts, about the connection between three women: a birth mother who had her child taken away; the adoptive mother who raised that child; and the child who is the literal product of the two. In One Blood, I’m exploring how race, culture, history, gender inequality, respectability, marriage, mothering, DNA, hate, and, ultimately, love inform the lives of three women intricately connected by the blessings and curses of motherhood—specifically Black motherhood. This sprawling story, set in the American South during the Great Migration, in New York during the Civil Rights Movement and the fight for the Equal Rights Amendment, and in Brooklyn during the ’90s and early 2000s, with the struggle for work/life balance as its backdrop, is an opus to adoption, birthing, African spirituality, Black healers, Black babies, Black motherhood and Black femininity, and how each of these things can either destroy us or set us free.

I wrote this story because I have many questions and zero answers about my past—because I am curious about it, but also scared of what I will find. Of who I will hurt. I write this story because my birth mother and many more like her deserve context—deserve some color in the stark black- and-white judgment we reserve for women who give their babies away. I write this story for my mother and the Black women of her generation, who were led to believe that their very survival was wholly dependent on their being mothers and wives, and that this should be the sole source of their ambition—even as American racism conspired to stop Black women like my mother from succeeding at those very roles.

Telling this story in this way allows me to air out what all my life has gone unspoken, with the intent of honoring the stories—indeed, the lives and plights—of the Black women in my own life, who represent in no small measure the lives of Black women in general. That my mothers—and Black mothers like them—fought through this gauntlet of heartache, loss, subterfuge, patriarchy, and pain and came out on the other side of it is a miracle. A miracle that warrants exploration.

The word “miracle” is a most appropriate descriptor when I think of my own adoption and certainly the writing of One Blood. Consider the miracle of birth—what it takes for sperm to meet egg and egg to attach to womb and for womb to maintain the absolute perfect conditions for new life and for new life to find its way to loving arms. Now consider the miracle of my particular adoption—what it took for my birth mother to get pregnant and give birth, but also to take this new life and make it so that it could find its way to loving arms. My parents’ arms. The arms of a mother whose blood was not my blood but whose heart connection was so deep, so expansive, so unconditional, so incredibly full, that it created the most perfect conditions for me to be . . . me. Safe. Successful. Happy. Deeply loved. Not by just one mother, but two.

This is a lesson I’ve been learning bit by bit since I was that little twelve-year-old girl stumbling across her adoption papers and keeping the secrets and learning to love wholly, fully, like a mother. I have two moms who adored me. I don’t doubt for a second that I am the lucky one.

Still, I’ll always be led to that burning question: Who is in my blood? How much does it matter? Could those answers get me, a Black woman, free?

This, indeed, is the intent of One Blood: to help us get to the miracle of freedom.

One Blood is available now!

opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window opens in a new window

Lists / What's New

No Tricks, Just Treats: Books that Aren’t Scary to Read Before Halloween

October 11, 2024January 6, 2025Ariana Carpentieri1 Comment

Are ghouls and goblins not really your thing? Are you not a fan of being scared? Are you more in favor of “treats” than “tricks?” If you answered “yes” to any of the above, then we have a perfect list of books for you to read that won’t make you feel too afraid to fall asleep at night. These wholesome reads will have you feeling nice and cozy all fall long!

A Certain Kind of Starlight by Heather Webber

In the face of hardship, two women learn how to rise up again under the bright side of the stars in A Certain Kind of Starlight, the next book from USA Today bestselling author Heather Webber, “the queen of magical small-town charm” (Amy E. Reichert). Under the bright side of the stars, Addie and Tessa Jane come to see that magic can be found in trusting yourself, that falling apart is simply a chance to rise up again, stronger than ever, and that the heart usually knows the best path through the darkness.

Love, Clancy by W. Bruce Cameron

From W. Bruce Cameron, the internationally bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose and A Dog’s Way Home, comes Love, Clancy: Diary of a Good Dog, a deeply moving story with a brand-new cast of characters, including one very good dog.

Fingal O’Reilly, Irish Doctor by Patrick Taylor

The beloved Irish Country series continues in Fingal O’Reilly, Irish Doctor, an enchanting novel by New York Times, USA Today, and Globe and Mail bestselling author Patrick Taylor. Shifting back and forth between the present and the past, Patrick Taylor’s captivating new novel brings to life both the green young man O’Reilly once was and the canny village doctor readers have come to know and admire.

A Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing but Using the Bathroom as an Escape written by Joe Pera; illustrated by Joe Bennett

Raw Dog by Jamie Loftus

Excerpts / New Releases / What's New

Excerpt Reveal: My Three Dogs by W. Bruce Cameron

September 20, 2024January 6, 2025Ariana Carpentieri

My Three Dogs is a charming and heartfelt new novel from the #1 bestselling author of A Dog’s Purpose, about humankind’s best, most loyal friends, and a wonderful adventure of love and finding home.

When a tragic accident separates three dogs from their human, they find themselves up for adoption — separately. But Riggs, a dedicated, loyal Australian Shepherd, refuses to see his family torn apart. After the exuberant and fun-loving doodle Archie and quick-witted Jack Russell Luna are taken to new homes, Riggs’ powerful herding instincts send him on a journey to bring his pack back together again.

Cameron’s signature style shines in this whirlwind of a novel that showcases how determination, instinct, and love can make a family whole once more.

My Three Dogs will be available on October 29th, 2024. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

CHAPTER ONE

The morning air brought Archie the scent of freshly cut wood, a peculiar odor with which he had become very familiar over the past several weeks. Barely out of the puppy stage, the six- month-old Labradoodle was too young to really remember the snow from earlier in the year. For him, the strong Colorado sun had always warmed his brown fur and of late had even become a little uncomfortable. A thin tree nearby was struggling to fully leaf out and provided scant shade. He contemplated scratching at the dirt to try to excavate down to cooler soils, but felt too lethargic in that moment to move.

Archie didn’t like being alone and wished anyone or anything would come along to relieve the tedium, but today was much like the day before and the day before that. Sharp percussions punc- tured the stillness, but the dog was accustomed to the noise and didn’t so much as flick an ear. The man with a name that sounded to Archie like “Face” was doing something inside a structure sev- eral yards away. Other men were there, too, and handed long pieces of wood to each other and carried heavy tools and would sit and eat at least once in the middle of the day. They spoke to each other continuously, but rarely to Archie.

Archie was connected to a short chain that drew furrows in the soil when he dragged it over to his water bowl. Sometimes he drank without thirst as a way to relieve his boredom.

Archie yawned and stood up, shaking his curly fur. A fragment of memory came back to him. He’d been dreaming. His dream concerned the first man he had lived with, a man named Norton.

Norton was very friendly and played with Archie every day. Archie could still remember, though, the time when all the play ended. Norton had come and knelt and held Archie’s head in his hands, staring into his eyes. Something about that occasion had stilled Archie, and he ceased his puppylike capering and gazed back at Norton.

“I am going to be leaving you now, Archie. I’m so sorry,” Nor- ton had intoned solemnly. “I may not be coming back for a long time. You’ll be living with my brother, Damien. He’ll take good care of you. Okay, Archie?”

Archie had heard a question associated with his name, but had understood nothing else other than the odd, vague sense that something weighty and grave was happening. He wagged when Norton stood and embraced the man people called Face. “Take care,” Face said. And then Norton left, and Archie never saw him again. Instead, Archie went to live with Face.

Face was not much like Norton, though they carried similar odors. Human skin gave off a distinctive smell when frequently baked in the sun, and both men had darkly tanned faces and arms. But where Norton had laughed a lot and was very amused when Archie would pounce on tossed balls or thrown sticks, Face didn’t seem to have time or inclination for any games like that. He rarely spoke to Archie, but he did bring him every day to this place of banging wood and buzzing machines. When it rained, Archie lay in the resulting mud, and it clung to his snarled fur. When it was hot, like today, he sprawled out in the sun and panted.

With Norton, Archie had slept inside on a bed. With Face, Archie went home and was led into the backyard, where a chain very similar to the one he was wearing would be affixed to his collar, and then he would remain there overnight. This was the life of a dog, and Archie just accepted it.

Archie felt abandoned on the end of his chain. He could smell his own feces nearby. Norton always scooped up his leavings, but Face just left them lying there in the dirt. This was something else Archie had to accept.

He had gone back to lying down, yawning, not so much sleepy as just exhausted by the sheer inactivity, when his ears picked up the sound of a vehicle bumping its way up the short, rut- ted driveway to where all the other trucks were parked. Archie raised his head, curious. The vehicle stopped, and a cloud of dust pursued it and then overcame it, settling on the gleaming finish.

There was a creak, and a man stood up out of the truck, a man Archie had never smelled before. He took a couple of steps forward, his hands on his hips, watching Face and Face’s friends working. Then the new man turned and looked at Archie.

* * *

Riggs watched in irritation as Luna attacked yet another dog toy, a stuffed lamb with a missing ear. Luna went after the thing as if in a fight for her life. A five-year-old, quick-moving Jack Russell, she more than outmatched Riggs’s own energy. Australian shepherds are far from lazy dogs, but after six years of living with Liam, Riggs had become accustomed to a simple life of patiently waiting for their person to come home before going berserk. Luna, it seemed, simply couldn’t suppress the need to move.

Most days, after lying in her dog bed for a little bit, Luna would suddenly go at her toys, growling, jumping on them, even throwing them across the room and then racing after them as if the animals had assumed actual life and run away from her predatory pursuit.

Riggs was not sure why it bothered him that Luna played like this. There was a disorder to the whole thing, something that offended Riggs’s basic sensibilities. The toys were now scattered around on the rug as Luna gave up on the lamb and suddenly went after a small, brown, monkey-faced animal that had long ago lost its shape to dog teeth.

Luna kept glancing at Riggs as if trying to entice him into helping her with her assault. Riggs just watched, feeling his ir- ritation grow. He knew that when Liam came home, he would patiently round up the scattered dog toys and put them all back in the basket. Why didn’t Luna understand that the basket was where the stuffed animals belonged?

Just as abruptly as she had pounced, Luna decided to put an end to the mayhem. Abandoning the monkey, she ran and nimbly jumped on the sofa, ignoring Riggs’s glare.

Dogs were not supposed to be on the couch. This had been made very clear by both Liam and Sabrina. Though Sabrina had only been around for a few winter-summer cycles, she was as in charge as Liam as far as Riggs was concerned. If she didn’t want Luna on the couch, Luna should obey her. That was just good dog behavior.

From her raised position, Luna triumphantly surveyed the room. Her gaze managed to avoid meeting Riggs’s eyes. Then her attention became riveted on a stuffed cow that was lying like a corpse on a throw rug. Riggs knew what she was going to do before she did, watching the excitement spread through her muscular little body like an electric current. She tensed, lower- ing herself, and then, with a quick burst of speed, Luna dove off the couch and charged at the cow, her nails scrambling across the hardwood floor as she built momentum. When she pounced, her forward motion pushed both the rug and the stuffed cow under an easy chair. She turned and stared at Riggs in disbelief. What had just happened?

Riggs wasn’t sure why the stuffed cow was now under the chair, nor did he have much interest in what Luna proposed to do about it. It was her fault.

Riggs watched as Luna circled the chair, sniffing frantically at her prey. She tried lying down and shoving her face toward the stuffed animal. Her teeth fell just short of snagging one of the cow’s limbs. She circled a few more times, clearly frustrated. Riggs watched with his usual disapproval. What did Luna pro- pose to do? She kept snorting as she jammed her face as close to the cow as she could manage. Then she sat back, her eyes bright, cocking her head.

Was she now pondering how to tip over the chair? Riggs didn’t know but thought that even if the two of them worked together, they would find such a task physically impossible, and anyway, there was no way the two of them were going to work together. Riggs simply refused to participate in her silly games. Sabrina would be especially aggrieved if she came home to find the furniture upended.

Luna eased forward, put her front paws on the throw rug, and began digging at it, pulling it with her forelimbs. She pulled and heaved, tugging with her teeth.

It seemed pretty pointless, but then Riggs watched in aston- ishment as the rug came out from underneath the chair, pulling the stuffed cow with it.

When Luna jumped on the toy, she turned and faced Riggs in absolute triumph.

Unwilling to give her any satisfaction at all, Riggs looked away, put down his head, sighed, and closed his eyes. His senses told him they were a long way from having either Sabrina or Liam come home. Luna’s antics were just one of those things Riggs had to accept.

* * *

Archie saw exciting potential in everything, and the arrival of this new man was no exception. When their gazes locked, Archie wagged his tail vigorously, pawing a little bit at the air, indicating to this new person that he should know that the most fun dog anyone could ever imagine was straining right there at the end of this chain, ready to play, ready to chase balls, ready to go for car rides or do anything else any human could think of.

The man named Face walked out of the construction project, smacked his hands on his pants, and came forward with one hand extended. The new man reached out and shook it.

“You’re Liam?” Face asked.

The man nodded, glanced one more time at Archie, and then turned back to talk to Face. “I am. And you’re Face?” he asked tentatively.

Face nodded. “Name’s Damien Fascatti, but people just call me Face. Almost thought your call was a joke—who puts money down on a place sight unseen? But that’s your business.” He turned and gestured to the structure. “Well, there she is. Fram- ing’s just about done. Plumbing, electrical, everything’s ahead of schedule, if you can believe it. Got a good crew this time. Come on in. I’ll show you around.”

The two men moved toward the half-built structure, but be- fore stepping inside, the new man turned and locked eyes with Archie.

For some reason, Archie shivered.

CHAPTER ONE

Click below to pre-order your copy of The Murder Show, available April 15th, 2025!

CHAPTER ONE

Click below to pre-order your copy of You Deserve to Know, available March 11th, 2025!

CHAPTER ONE

Click below to pre-order your copy of Dark Vector, available February 4th, 2025!

Available now!

Coming 2.4.25!

Coming 2.11.25!

Coming 3.11.25!

Coming 3.11.25!

Up on the Woof Top and It’s a Wonderful Woof by Spencer Quinn

A Dog’s Perfect Christmas and The Dogs of Christmas by W. Bruce Cameron

Deep Freeze by Michael C. Grumley

One Blood is available now!

CHAPTER ONE

Click below to pre-order your copy of My Three Dogs, available October 29th, 2024!

Posts navigation