PROMO
The New Hampshire Mysteries
Rock Spider
ISBN-13-9780692597460
A NEW HAMPSHIRE MYSTERY
In the chill of a foggy night, life as Gertrude Inman knows it ends when her car crashes into the murky waters of a quiet lake, killing her teenaged sister. Though she survives, she has no memory of the accident or the long, disturbing night leading up to it.
Returning to her position as a social worker, she's assigned only one case: to assess the home of a reclusive family where a ten-year old girl died by suicide. The mother is a former Hollywood starlet, the father a retired cop, but it's their seventeen-year old daughter - a peculiar girl with a cunning smile and a mysterious hold on the family - who reminds Gertrude of horrifying, fragmented memories. And this seemingly straightforward case launches her into an investigation that will threaten the very fabric of her sanity.
Jake Livingston has had his eye on the family and not just because he's been reporting on the strange occurrences that have been happening ever since their youngest took her own life. Men have gone missing, others are winding up in jail, and it would seem those who cross paths with the Kings are silenced in the same bizarre, ritualistic manner. If the woman from social services isn't careful, he knows she'll be next.
As Gertrude delves deeper into the circumstances surrounding the suicide, it proves to be linked to a brutal crime, one far more shocking than she could have imagined because it has everything to do with the night her sister died.
Teasers
Gertrude Inman has no memory of the night her teenaged sister died. But when she begins to investigate the suicide of a ten-year old girl, it all comes rushing back, and the connections between the two seemingly unrelated tragedies threaten the very fabric of her sanity.
A lone gunshot. A fatal car crash. The suicide of a ten-year old girl. No one in rural New Hampshire believes they're connected, except Gertrude Inman, and if she doesn't figure out exactly how, the next person to die will be her.
A cult hiding in plain sight is a hell of a thing to take down.
Daddy Soda
ISBN-13-9780692575178
A NEW HAMPSHIRE MYSTERY
Hannah Cole has built a life around her job as a receptionist at the local precinct after surviving a tumultuous upbringing, one she's worked hard to forget. For years, Hannah has hardly spoken to her overbearing mother or the half-sisters she barely knows: shy Candice, and Mary, a stunning fifteen year old with an eerie grip on the town. But when she learns her mother has been kidnapped, she returns home to the shack on Hermit Lake and the step-father she's never trusted.
Detective Cody McAlister has never seen a case like this. The kidnapper has planned every detail with exquisite precision and when body parts begin to arrive at his department, the glaring reality becomes all too clear: Kendra won't be alive for long. The key to the deranged kidnapper's motive and identity may be held in the unsteady hands of a twelve-year old girl. But Candice hasn't spoken a word since that tragic night.
As Hannah and Cody's investigation takes them from abandoned strip malls to the outer reaches of the marsh, the unimaginable truth emerges, and Hannah finds herself reliving hellish memories of the shack she thought she'd never have to face. If she doesn't unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past, she won't find her mother in time. In small-town New Hampshire where what you see is what you get, no one is who they seem.
Teasers
The kidnapper has planned every detail with exquisite precision and if Hannah doesn't unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past, she won't find her mother in time.
When Hannah left the shack on Hermit Lake, she promised herself she'd never return to the dark family living there. Not all promises can be kept, and when her mother goes missing, she'll have to face the past she thought she escaped.
In Sanbornton, people simply don't go missing, but when Hannah's mother does, she realizes that in small-town New Hampshire where what you see is what you get, no one is who they seem.
Connect
Contact Info:Social Media:
Mira GibsonFacebook /MiraGibsonAuthor
miragibson@gmail.com Twitter @MiraGibson
516.993.2208Instagram @MiraGibson
THE NEW HAMPSHIRE MYSTERIES are comprised of three stand-alone novels that center on the Lakes Region in New Hampshire where I was raised.
Daddy Soda (the first New Hampshire Mystery) and Rock Spider (the second) are available in paperback and on all digital platforms. The final book, Tar Heart is set to release in March, 2016.
All three mysteries are loosely based on theatrical plays I've written. My background as a playwright is what sets my storytelling apart from other suspense writers. I have a dark, edgy voice, which shines through my characters and packs a real punch with every twist and turn these novels take.
To learn more about me, please visit www.mira-gibson.com
Author Biography
Mira Gibson is a playwright, screenwriter, and novelist. After majoring in Playwriting at Bard College, Mira was accepted into Youngblood, the playwrights group at Ensemble Studio Theatre (NYC). There, Mira's plays received developmental readings and workshops. Most notably: Daddy Soda (2009), Old Flame (2012), and Diamond in the House of Thieves (2012). Her one-act play The Red White and Blue Process received a commission from The Sloan Foundation. And her one-act play Old Flame won the Samuel French Playwriting Competition and is available for licensing via Samuel French Play Publishers. In 2012 Mira's first screenplay, Warfield was produced by Summer Smoke Productions. It is available on Amazon Direct. She lives in Los Angeles, CA. Story is her life.
After spending years slogging through a career in accounting, struggling to find time to write, and feeling unfulfilled, I became a ghostwriter for a prominent ebook publisher where I wrote contemporary and paranormal romance, crime thrillers, and cozy mysteries. Thirty books later, I had the confidence and skill to put forth my own stories. Though I continue to ghostwrite (I love it!) and still have one accounting client (we're friends!) I've committed myself to finding the time to write and haven't looked back. I'm excited about my future and eager to share my stories with you!
Praise for Rock Spider
Amazing Edge of Your Seat Thriller!
"Wow! What a riveting, edge-of-your-seat, dark psychological thriller! "Rock Spider" may be an unusual name for a title, but that tells you right there this book is different & the storyline will be unique & not your 'cookie-cutter' mass publishing mystery/thriller! This was my first book I've ever read by this talented author, but will definitely not be my last! ... Mira Gibson does an awesome job of hooking the reader right from the start, and holds on even after the shocking, but satisfying end! (NO cliffhangers in this stand-alone, though it is part of series :)
This gut twisting roller coaster ride has so many twists & turns woven throughout, that it will keep you guessing until the very surprise ending! I was so absorbed in the story, that at times my stomach was in knots & found my heart pounding with terror! ... Ms. Gibson does an amazing job with well defined, multi-faceted characters and psychological profiles. Combined with great descriptions, not too detailed, but with just the right amount of imagery to keep the reader engaged & the pages turning. Once I started reading, I did not want to stop!
I highly recommend this must read to all 18+ readers of fiction & suggest you "one-click" right now! ... But make sure you have plenty of time to read, coz once you start, you won't want to put it down! *Even tho I was fortunate to receive an advanced readers copy for an honest review, I just bought my own copy to help support this talented, up & coming, bestselling, new Indie author! You can help, too- just click to buy, read & review :)"
- Five Star Review, Amazon
Praise for Daddy Soda
A Must Read Mystery!!!
"I loved this book! I felt a strong connection with Hannah right from the start and the story sucked me right in. The many twists and turns were intriguing and I couldn't put it down. I was guessing the whole way through and I never saw the ending coming and yet it made perfect sense. A very satisfying read :) I'll definitely be watching out for more New Hampshire Mysteries and buying them as soon as they come out!"
- Five Star Review, Amazon
A mystery that kept me guessing until the very end
"Oh my goodness, what a fantastic mystery! From the first chapter, I really loved Hannah, her gumption and vulnerabilities really rang true, and there's a distinct intensity in her search to find her mother that keeps the pages turning. I really liked the writing style, because at times there was a dark wit present that reminded me of Gillian Flynn (who I love, Dark Places was excellent). The story is incredibly engaging and I was in a constant state of trying to figure out who was behind the kidnapping, but as soon as I thought I had a handle on it, there was a twist that sent me in a whole new direction. This book is mystery and suspense at its finest! I won't spoil the ending, but I will say that I never saw it coming. Though Daddy Soda seems to be marketed as a series, it has a conclusive ending, so I'm following the author on Facebook and understand that her future books will center on the same location with different characters etc. making the theme of the New Hampshire mysteries the dark stories that occur in and around the lakes region. I'll definitely be watching out for those books!"
- Five Star Review, Amazon
Fun mystery!
"I enjoyed this mystery novel set in NH. The main character Hannah was very interesting, had great depth and was very believable. The descriptions of NH were very accurate and Hermit Lake was almost a character in itself. The mystery kept me guessing til the end, and sucked me right in from the beginning. Overall a fun read!"
- Four Star Review, Goodreads
Excerpt from Daddy Soda
Hannah wished she hadn’t worn this blouse. The number of things she regretted in life was low enough to count on her right hand - making out with Cody McAlister beneath the bleachers during prom twelve years back, growing up in Sanbornton, New Hampshire, which technically she’d had no control over, and this blouse. It was silky and loose and got caught on just about every item on her desk.
Her phone rang and when she reached for it, the sleeve, like a net sweeping the sea for tuna, knocked over her mug of pens and pencils, writing utensils clattering to the linoleum before she could even announce the town and precinct she worked for. Embarrassment flared hot across her skin at the fumble, making her sweat, giving the blouse another chance to thwart her.
At least no one on her floor noticed the clumsy move. But they'd noticed others, all morning in fact, mainly because she was wildly overdressed, damned blouse and a pencil skirt, though the skirt seemed to be less of a culprit.
“Gilford Precinct, Homicide,” she said absentmindedly into the receiver as she collected pens off the floor. Her greeting must’ve sounded guttural, strained. Well, the pencil skirt was catching up, she supposed. Lunch had been a real feat, silk and polyester cotton digging into her waist. She’d been dying to unzip, but she’d made her bed.
When a nervous woman came through the line requesting Detective Barnes, Hannah placed her on a brief hold and transferred the call, being sure to alert Barnes the woman was following up on her court date. Barnes grumbled a sigh into the receiver and reminded Hannah to direct these types of calls to the District Attorney.
Hannah knew that. She blamed her oversight on the blouse, but only in her head then got off the phone fast.
It wasn’t that she was trying to prove anything to the department by showing up dressed fancy. Lord knew she wasn’t fancy in the first place. But as a twenty-six year old receptionist she felt the twinge of her life’s failings on a daily basis and that morning, like a fool, she’d thought looking a bit nicer might ease the sting. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
Hannah kept her head down as she rolled her chair backwards to the fax machine, the spit of its wheels having alerted her to a report coming through. She said a silent prayer that she wouldn’t have to walk it through the entire department and hand it to the Chief. Every walk through the office in this outfit, the heels of which were the cherry on top of her misfortune, felt like a walk of shame, the worst kind of insult considering it’d been ages since she’d gotten it on. She cringed at the thought then cringed harder when she saw the intended recipient in bold lettering across the top: Chief Holder.
Her desk phone’s blaring ring saved her at least for a few minutes.
“Gilford Precinct, Homicide,” she said on autopilot.
There was breathing on the other end, light and feathery, but not panicked, which was good. She hated when someone in crisis called the station instead of 911.
“Hi,” a female voice came through, apprehensive. “Is this Hannah Cole?”
Hearing her name spoken was the force that shed pretense from her tone, as she responded. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
Wind over the receiver, as the caller exhaled.
“Look, if you’re calling for personal reasons then make it quick. The station is a madhouse today and my feet hurt too much to put up with any nonsense.”
“It’s Mary,” she interrupted.
Hannah stiffened in her chair. The phone felt suddenly heavy in her grip and then an overwhelming sense of loss washed over her.
“How've you been?” Mary asked, but dryly, an edge of subtle resentment in her tone.
She had nothing to say if not an outpouring of apologies, and she didn’t dare break that dam, so she stated, “Good,” as clinically as possible.
“Not sure if you’re keeping up with what happened,” Mary started, tone even, responsible sounding, not at all like her fifteen years. “It didn’t exactly make headlines. We’re not rich enough for that, I guess.” Hannah felt the prick of it like she’d felt every year of her life growing up in Sanbornton. It wasn’t merely that the Cole’s weren’t rich. They were dirt poor, poorer than sin which made them all the more likely to commit it.
“What didn’t make headlines?” Hannah asked, resting her elbows on her desk in a hunch of secrecy. Her stomach clenched.
“Mom.” The solitary word gripped Hannah's gut, but her ears were wide open. “She disappeared a month back.”
Disappeared? A month ago? And no one had contacted her?
“No one knows what the fuck happened. Candice came home covered in blood. Now the town’s done looking.”
It was too much to process in a moment.
“Wait. What? Start over,” she ordered, though kindly. “Mom disappeared a month ago and Candice came home covered in blood?”
“Yeah.” Mary sounded exhausted. “There was a search party and the town kept at it for a few weeks then gave up. Look, I thought you knew all this-”
“You thought I knew about this and I was sitting in Gilford on my high horse?” She shouldn't have snapped so she quickly offered, “I honest to God hadn’t heard.”
“Fine. The point is...” Mary’s sharp tongue lost its edge and she softened. “Candice is doing really bad.”
“Was she hurt? I mean what happened? She was attacked?”
“Would you listen?”
Hannah didn’t even breathe she was so poised to listen.
“Dale’s been drinking a lot ever since. He’s in a bad way, Hannah.” Mary took a moment to swallow her pride. That much was clear when she’d used his name instead of referring to Dale as her father. That’s what he was, after all, Mary and Candice’s dad, and nothing more than a stepfather to Hannah. “I need help over here.”
“Hey, whoa, I’d love to help, but on my salary-”
“Not money.” Again, there was a pause on the line, a fresh billow of tension between them. “I need real help.”
Excerpt from Rock Spider
Gertrude eased her old Audi onto the grassy shoulder, feet pressing intently on both clutch and brake as she jiggled the stick in neutral and came to a stop. Through a sparse line of Maples, she spied a row of dormer windows tucked under a pitch of wooden shingles that were so weathered they’d turned gray and buckled. The King’s home was a New England Cottage far past its prime.
To get her bearings on who she would need to be - the person she had been before the accident - she reviewed her car’s interior or rather the tips and instructions she’d left for herself. A yellow index card with black pen marks embedded deep into the paper told her to SMILE! from where it rested over the center of the steering wheel. It had fallen off several times during the drive and as a result had a smudged shoe print - gray and dusty - across its right side. Another card taped to the inside of the driver’s side door said, the truth is between the statements. And six others spanned the cracked leather dash, though it had been too dusty for the tape to stick properly. Realizing that, she’d stopped at Benjamin’s Crafts and bought crazy glue to adhere the cards - everyone has secrets, and kids want to be heard, and trust is built, and show them you’re safe. The last two, which had flapped when the windows were down, were glued to the glove box door and completely illegible, though she recalled their content: disclosure works and connect.
She realized the car was still idling, so she turned the key and slipped it into the front pocket of her blazer.
The case file, thick and tattered, was resting on the passenger’s side seat where Doris should’ve been. And it might have been that association that prevented her from thumbing through it once more to re-familiarize herself with the three years of spotty visits as documented by Amanda Seevey.
Gingerly and partially anticipating the door would break off, she popped the handle and climbed out, bringing along only the notebook and pen Wendy had collected for her earlier that day.
Getting the door to latch closed required a number of attempts, the last of which included her throwing her hip into it, but sent her beret sliding down the buzzed side of her head on impact. She straightened her hat, starting for the gravelly driveway while peering at the house through the trees, their thick trunks and billowy tops, and the lake beyond.
Once she cleared the Maples and the house came into full view, she observed that its wood-shingled siding was nearly identical to the sloped roof - weathered gray and buckling like a snake in the throws of shedding its skin. The gables were chipped. The chimney bricks looked white and powdery as though something sickly was trapped inside and trying to escape, and the metal crickets at the base should’ve been smooth to prevent ice and water buildups, but were starkly bent like petals peeling off of a dying flower.
Doris would have a lot to say about this house. For a ragtag teen approaching her senior year of high school, it had been clear she would go into architectural design had she graduated, had she lived, had Gertrude been able to save her.
Doris would have personified the house in an instant - An old man too grumpy to let anyone care for him or a cripple in denial or maybe simply Sisyphus. And then she’d point out the architectural details, their flaws, offer a prescription, much in the way Gertrude assessed her cases, houses no different than people, objects and subjects deteriorating unless you helped them.
So lost in the comparison was Gertrude that she didn’t notice the planters wrapping the house, their bushes and weeds sprouting tall yet dying, until she veered up the muddy walkway and saw the hunched, squatting form - a red dress amongst vegetation - of what appeared to be a teenaged girl, her knees splayed like a frog, elbows deep in soil, head lost between the bushes that shook and rustled, as she dug.
Gertrude spent a painstaking moment trying to figure out how to introduce herself. Should she state her name, announce her credentials, clear her throat loudly? The longer she hesitated, the worse the interruption seemed, and it didn’t help that the girl was oblivious.
Deciding on taking a few notes first, she did what she could to scratch the pen noisily against the pad:
August 5th, Monday. Roberta (presumably) unsupervised. Unusual choice of dress. Abnormal. Sandy blond hair not like Doris’. No vehicles at the home.
It slipped her attention that she had crept towards the girl, but the trance of noting her behavior helped Gertrude forget herself, and as a result, a straightforward question tumbled out.
“Roberta King?”
The girl stilled then, turning her head, peered at her through a tangle of weeds like a mangy jungle cat wise to the threat of man. Gertrude was struck by her angular eyes, their indeterminate color, the narrow bridge of her nose, cheekbones high and sharp like those of starved, third-world children that Sally Struthers would advocate for on Gertrude’s TV - snow and static, as she made out her check, never more prone to the hardships of others than she was at two in the morning, the weight of her profound aloneness stinging her heart.
Reasoning it might not be her best move to reveal she was with Child Protective Services, and remembering her own advice, Gertrude smiled, but her lip quirked, causing her mouth to waver badly until she was sure she looked either scared or ill.
“I’m with the DCYF.” Her neck felt hot, her throat dry and raspy, so to compensate she tried to hold her notebook with an authoritative air. “You’re Roberta King, aren’t you? This is 118 Moulton Street?”
The girl straightened up from the planters. Her forearms were stained dark with soil, and examining her hands she said, “Yeah,” then smacked the dirt off and picked under her fingernails, paying no mind to the red dress hanging off her bony shoulders even after one strap slipped off.
Roberta was voluptuous and emaciated in the same breath - arms like reeds, legs two stilts, her breast bone ribbed, and though the dress held her loosely (low on the neckline, high on the thigh) Gertrude could see her lower abdomen sunk in with a concave curve. She had a Vaudevillian quality, as though she were a ghost from the 1920’s, displaced from her troupe, lost and downtrodden that her act wouldn’t translate in this modern time - I can tap dance and sing, step right up, it only costs a quarter.
Clearing her throat and tucking her notebook under her armpit, she explained, “I’ll be your new case worker-”
“I don't need a case worker.”
“I'm afraid you might.”
“You should be afraid.”
Her tone was high and melodic like a child’s, and not at all as chilling as her words.
Excerpt from Tar Heart
“What are you really worried about, Rose? The police knocking on your door?”
“Why would you ask me that?” She snapped.
“Why do you think? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m concerned I’m losing my husband.”
“I thought you had gotten it together,” she said as though pained her twin was heading down a long, familiar, yet sordid road she should’ve outgrown by now. “You have a son, for Christ’s sake.”
“I shouldn’t have called you.” Rose gazed out across the icy lake, fighting the tightness in her chest at her naiveté.
“I can’t do this with you anymore. I can’t go months without hearing from you then get a call in the middle of the night when you’re freaking out. I can’t.”
Holly went on, rattling off detailed accounts of Rose’s various strikes against respecting her, but Rose became distracted when headlights blazed across the yard, tires crunching over compacted snow, as a vehicle pulled up in front of her house.
“Holly,” she said, interrupting her sister’s tirade. “I think he’s here. He just pulled up. I have to go.”
As she lowered her cell, Holly dove into a fresh assault of all the things wrong with their relationship, but she wasn’t listening. She killed the call, her thoughts tangled in how she might convince Benjamin to stay with her, even if layering lies over the raw blades of her truest emotions were the only way to preserve all that she had built with him.
But as she started for the deck, snow crunching under her boots and the icy wind blowing hard off the water, stinging the back of her head and seeping under her sweater collar, she caught sight of a man stalking around the side of her house.
It wasn’t her husband.
“What are you doing here?” She asked, stunned into stilling, her heart punching up her throat. When she added, “You shouldn’t have come,” her voice was a fraying thread.
“We have a problem,” he said and her gaze lowered, incidentally landing on the gun in his hand.
Her eyes snapped up to meet his and she instantly knew why he was here.
Some secrets were meant to stay buried.
“Go,” she ordered, though the weakness of her tone betrayed her. “There are cameras. My sister is on her way. And so is Benjamin.”
“I doubt that,” he said so coolly that her mind began reeling, disoriented with sudden terror.
Without thought, Rose turned the moment he lifted the gun. Punching her boots hard into the snow and pumping her arms, she dashed with little concern she was headed out onto the ice. Her boot’s grip was faltering and she nearly slipped, but pressed on, whimpering and angling over her shoulder to see if he would go through with it.
She felt the ice crack under her feet when she snapped her gaze ahead and in the next instant, a deafening shot rang out across the silent lake.
She didn’t understand she’d been hit until she slammed onto the ice, skidding and gasping and praying this wouldn’t be the end.
As she came to a stop, cheek pressed to wet ice and eyes locked on the man standing in shadows in the center of her backyard, the thin sheet of ice beneath her gave way and she plummeted into the icy depths.
Her last thought was of her son and the secret she had died for.
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