So far...

My internal narrator has died and haunted her Good Samaritan in my novel, The Shadow's Testimony. Mitchell Caulfield pulls Evvie Harmon from her shattered coupe, but her life is beyond hope.  Rejecting the beckoning light on a stubborn impulse, her spirit is locked out, stranded and clinging to her last comfort - the stranger who held her hand as she died.  Evvie discovers, from her unique vantage point, that Mitchell entertains a murderer in his midst.  But she can only warn him while he's deeply asleep, the only way she can communicate with any of the living.  Through her subliminal meddling, Evvie reignites this dormant killer and must struggle to find a way around her limitations to stop further bloodshed and rescue her hero from harm's way.  

If you've ever wondered about that shadow darting at the tail of your vision, or the importance of the dream you can't quite remember, Evvie tells all, as only someone who knows firsthand can. (approx. 90,000 words)

The Liar's Margin is the story of Jason Getty, who's killed a man and buried him in the backyard.  Jason's no monster, just a milder-than-average guy, but prone to panic and pushed once too far.  When a landscaping crew uncovers a set of entirely unrelated remains on his property, Jason buckles under the strain of police scrutiny and runs, but not before he's - dug up his own secret, nearly brained an innocent bystander with a shovel, and skewered a cop with a length of kitchen chair.

With his decomposing nemesis and his two newest victims in tow, Jason flees Detective Tim Bayard and his injured partner's clever dog.  But when one of his passengers bails out on the side of the road, a chase through the forest in the middle of the night gives Jason a final chance to plead his case to the only one left to hear him.  Ultimately, a moonlit standoff with Detective Bayard demands he choose between becoming a criminal in earnest or trusting himself as an honest man, just this once. (approx. 80,000 words)

My one and only piece, so far, of Flash Fiction (short stories clocking in at under a thousand words) is titled Mojave Endgame and is a snapshot of a man arriving in a small desert town with a deadly agenda.  A double-cross curls in on itself and it's up to you to decide which cop is more crooked.

My most recent completed work of fiction is a short story called, Heritage and the first sentences set it up it better than anything I can think to say for it:

    My mother always said never to keep a man for more years than you could count on your fingers.  That was a faster-paced game for her than for most.  My mother had managed to lose two of her fingers in completely separate escapades.  Her long, abbreviated left hand and the mischief glittering in her eyes made the joke all the richer.  Everyone's scars are interesting, but hers always hinted at epic…

In Heritage, a daughter struggles to reconcile the memory of her cloak-and-dagger mother with her instincts about the red flags cropping up in her own marriage.  Is she paranoid?  Or is she as right as her mother taught her to be?  Blood and water, nature and nurture; can anyone escape who they were born to be?