Back in March 2017, I was sitting on a plane feeling my ankles swell up like itchy inner tubes and watching a repeat of The Leftovers on the tiny wee personal screen. Although I loved the opening credits and music to series one of the Leftovers, this was series two with the starred outlines of people who have disappeared shown in poses with the people left behind. While waiting impatiently for Justin Theroux to push Patty into a well, I started thinking about an outline for a short story I’d committed to writing for an anthology. Wouldn’t it be great, I thou
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THE ONLY SECRET LEFT TO KEEP
Detective Ngaire Blakes is back on the case when a skeletonized murder victim is discovered thirty-six years after his death. While a fierce and glorious fire lights up the Port Hills of Christchurch, Ngaire fights to piece together a crime that took place during the Springbok Tours of 1981. A period that pitted father against son, town against city, and showed the police using batons to beat back protesters on the evening news, night after night.
When the victim is identified as Sam Andie, a young African American man transplanted from the States to New Zealand by his family, Ngaire must investigate whether racial motives were behind the death. In line with evidence from the forensic pathologist, a police baton could easily have been the murder weapon. Or was his death connected to Sam’s girlfriend—a young woman convicted of a savage double homicide in the same week that Sam disappeared?
With files missing, memories hazy, and a strident false confession muddying the waters, Ngaire must sift through the detritus if she hopes to find the truth hiding deep beneath the lies.
COMING IN NOVEMBER 2017 – AVAILABLE NOW FOR PREORDER
Bretta Ariel works a job that few others have the stomach for—delving into the memories of deceased victims, searching for the scattered clues to identify their killers. A task that is as disrespected as it is dangerous.
But when a botched execution proves an innocent man was put to death, Bretta seizes the opportunity to prove her value. After all, the Bureau of Imprint Investigations has more than its reputation on the line.
Thousands of convicted offenders are seeking a judgement to render their initial verdicts unsafe. If Bretta can’t identify the correct killer before the clock counts down, the streets will seethe with men and women hungry to kill again.
Without even a firm identity for the murdered victim in the botched case, can Bretta solve the puzzle that those before her got so wrong?
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Anika Huakoi is the wrong age and the wrong gender in the wrong job.
When Anika’s mentor dies, naming her as successor to the position of tohunga, she finds herself battling for the right to perform a job she was born and trained for. In 1960s New Zealand, being young, Maori, and female is tough enough. Performing a traditionally male role takes everything one step too far.
Soon after, Anika finds herself promoted to the solitary role of keeper of the supernatural treaties. This mysterious occupation tips her in way over her teenage head. With human enemies already pounding on the gates, is it any wonder she struggles to keep the supernaturals in line?
Throw in a male tohunga with self-admittedly glorious hair and an overbearing Wildman as her allies, then add a troublesome brew of faes, werewolves, and witches and Anika might soon wish she’d stuck to cooking and cleaning instead.
- 24 May 2017
Back in the old days when I smoked, I used to tear off the end of the cigarettes in order to get my full-scale nicotine hit faster. It was no use dragging in a breath when they were full-length – the smoke would dissipate to almost nothing by the time it reached my lips. Although, every time I was asked, I laboriously pointed out the perfectly acceptable explanation for me doing so, people around me (usually also smoking) still used to give me funny looks. Of course, I could have fallen into step and smoked the damn things whole, but I’m stubborn and I would also m
- 09 May 2017
Today my left elbow started to send shooting pains up toward my wrist, followed shortly afterward by numbness and tingling. I shook it back to life, got back to work, then half an hour later it did the same thing again. This got me to thinking, partly because I’ve got a word count to reach today, so obviously I follow up any possible excuse for procrastination, but also because it seems there was a tipping point back in my early thirties when my body turned on me. I’m not saying that up until that point, everything was plain sailing. There were headaches, ha