1989A sadistic serial killer is on the prowl at Juniper College. The victims, all students, are targeted alphabetically; the naked bodies of A to H found floating in the city sewer, each of them suffocated and with their surname initial carved into the back of their neck. Victim I narrowly escapes, but not before identifying the killer as Rodney Boone, a mild mannered English professor at the college. After stabbing Boone she leaves him to burn in his death house.
1997Eight years later and rookie police officer, Rebecca Angell, is thrown headlong into assisting an FBI investigation when she finds a body in the sewer with the initial J. From a small town and new to Juniper Police Department, Angell is young, smart and keen to impress, but already up against a sexist partner and colleagues who don’t believe she is up to the job. In over her head, she is determined to prove them wrong.
The Feds are convinced they are dealing with a copycat killer, as while there are many similarities, the crime scenes are slightly different. Boone’s body was never recovered though, which leads Angell to question if maybe he didn’t die in the fire.
As they scramble to uncover the truth, the body count continues to rise, and meanwhile a killer stalks the campus, intent on completing the alphabet.
A rollercoaster of a ride, Dead Letter Day grabs from the first page and doesn’t let up.
If you enjoyed A Thin Dark Line by Tami Hoag or I Can See You by Karen Rose, you will love this book. Rebecca Angell is a feisty likeable lead who has been compared to JD Robb’s Lieutenant Eve Dallas, in the In Death series, and is an enjoyable companion through the twists and turns that lead to the shocking conclusion.
About the author
I have always been something of a daydreamer. Even back to when I was a tot and all the other babies were starting to crawl and walk and talk, I just sat there in my own little bubble, taking it all in, not in any rush to go anywhere.
As I grew the pattern continued, I hated school with a passion, was painfully shy – hard to believe now - and only happy when I was scribbling stories. In the rest of my classes I doodled, dreamt and stared out of the window. I wanted to have adventures in Enid Blyton’s Magic Faraway Tree, I longed for my life to be a John Hughes movie. I wanted to write like Stephen King and have my plots directed by Alfred Hitchcock.
An overactive imagination is a powerful tool and great for what I do, but unfortunately it didn’t help me with my grades. Released into the real world at fifteen, I had no idea what path to follow and so I tried a bit of everything, from working in my dad’s video rental store – which only fuelled my love for film – to being the world’s worst hairdresser. Seriously do not ever let me near your head with a pair of scissors; I make the stylist who worked on Edward Scissorhands look like Vidal Sassoon.
I wrote my first novel at age twenty. Six months earlier I had been devouring Stephen King’s Misery on a sun lounger in Tenerife, thinking it must be a hell of a task to write a book. I had ideas, some of them good, and eventually decided to commit one to paper.
A few months later I finished writing a tale I tentatively called Twisted. Armed with a copy of the Writers Year Book I bombarded every publisher and agent I could find. I had several flat out rejections, but some gave encouragement, telling me I had potential and to persevere.
So here we are in 2013 and I have persevered. There were four more novels, a few more rejection letters, a brush with an unscrupulous publisher, a break with a top agent that restored my self-belief, then when I had almost cinched a deal with one of the big guns, another blowing rejection. I quit my dreams for a while but the writing bug wouldn't go away... and you now hold twenty years of my dreams in your hand.