ABOUT AUTHOR CINDY DAVIS
Cindy Davis resides in the green/white/brown—depending on the season—state of New Hampshire where she spends most of her time at the computer. When she’s finally released upon society, to autograph her latest book, do a talk, or research the next in the Angie Deacon series—well, heaven help the people she meets. Shutting her up becomes tantamount to stopping a volcano!
She’s edited over 150 books, more than three quarters of which have been published.
Cindy is the author of ten novels and four non-fiction books. Play with Fire is the sequel to the first Angie Deacon novel, A Little Murder.
Visit Cindy on her websites:
Don’t miss the next novel in the Angie Deacon mystery series—
Hair of the Dog
Excerpt:
Bang bang. The damn dog was barking again. Bang bang. She clamped the pillow tight to her ears. All at once her brain registered pounding and not barking. She sat up, wadding the pillow against her chest. The hammering. It came from the back door. Angie flung off the covers and blinked the bedside clock into focus. 5:01. Now what?
She snatched up her robe from the foot of the bed, punched her arms into the sleeves and stomped down the short hallway. This was the first, and last, time she’d visit this town. Through the square window on the back door, a smallish figure stood silhouetted on the deck. The screen door propped against his left hip, right arm raised, his fist thumped on the lightweight wooden door. It was then she realized the dog really was barking, but not the inexorable woof woof of the previous nights. It was now a high-pitched, almost frantic yelping.
She twisted the lock and pulled open the door to the wide-eyed face of a boy of about twelve. His dark hair was disheveled, as though he hadn’t combed it today. Given the hour, he probably hadn’t. He burst into the kitchen. “Phone. I need to call…there’s somebody…the dog…”
Angie put a hand on his shoulder. In a previous life she’d been an ER nurse. Touching the shocked, or bereaved, usually helped bring calmness. She guided him to a chair. He started to sit but before his rear end hit the seat he leaped up. “Phone. I need to call...”
A gentle push settled him in the chair. She knelt between a pair of new looking Nikes, one of them untied. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Mister York. He’s d-dead.”