Williams, as she investigates moonshine, murder, and the ghosts of
her own past…
sheriff’s detective at home in the Missouri Ozarks, Katrina is
living her life one case at a time—between mandated therapy
sessions—until she learns that she’s a suspect in a military
investigation with ties to her painful past.
however. Brutally murdered, the girl’s corpse is found by a
bottlegger whose information leads Katrina into a tangled web of
teenagers, moonshiners, motorcycle clubs, and a fellow veteran
battling illness and his own personal demons. Unraveling each thread
will take time Katrina might not have as the Army investigator
turns his searchlight on the devastating incident that ended her
military career. Now Katrina will need to dig deep for the
truth—before she’s found buried…
featuring sheriff’s detective Katrina Williams as she exposes the
dark underbelly of Appalachia . . .
veteran and sheriff’s detective Katrina Williams copes the only way
she knows how—by immersing herself in work. A body’s just been
pulled from the lake with a fish haul, but what seems like a
straight-forward murder case over the poaching of paddlefish for
domestic caviar quickly becomes murkier than the depths of the lake.
a charismatic tent revival preacher. But as Katrina tries to
investigate the enigmatic evangelist, she is blocked by antagonistic
FBI agents and Army CID personnel. When more young female refu-gees
disappear, she must partner with deputy Billy Blevins, who stirs
mixed feelings in her, to connect the lake murder to the refugees.
Katrina is no stranger to darkness, but cold-blooded conspirators
plan to make sure she’ll never again see the light of day . . .
side. It was broken down on the approach road into Ft. Rucker,
Alabama in the kind of rain that would have made a Biblical author
jealous. You never saw a tornado in the Old Testament did you? As
omens of a coming life go, mine was full of portent if not exactly
glad tidings.From there things got interesting. Life on a
series of Army bases encouraged my retreat into a fantasy world. Life
in a series of public school environments provided ample nourishment
to my developing love of violence. Often heard in my home was the
singular phrase, “I blame the schools.” We all blamed the
schools.Both my fantasy and my academic worlds left marks and
the amalgam proved useful the three times in my life I had guns
pointed in my face. Despite those loving encounters the only real
scars left on my body were inflicted by a six foot, seven inch tall
drag queen. She didn’t like the way I was admiring the play of three
a.m. Waffle House fluorescent light over the high spandex sheen of
After a series of low paying jobs that took me
places no one dreams of going. I learned one thing. Nothing vomits
quite so brutally as jail food. That’s not the one thing I learned;
it’s an important thing to know, though. The one thing I learned is a
secret. My secret. A terrible and dark thing I nurture in my
nightmares. You learn your own lessons.
Eventually I began
writing stories. Mostly I was just spilling out the, basically, true
narratives of the creatures that lounge about my brain, laughing and
whispering sweet, sweet things to say to women. Women see through me
but enjoy the monsters in my head. They say, sometimes, that the
things I say and write are lies or, “damn, filthy lies, slander
of the worst kind, and the demented, perverted, wishful stories of a
wasted mind.” To which I always answer, I tell only the truth. I
just tell a livelier truth than most people.
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