I’m one of those people who can give you the exact date, time and place. 8:02pm on August 2nd, 1981, in the Mountbatten Theatre, Southampton, where our church at the time was meeting, due to having been knocked down and being rebuilt. I have no idea what the sermon was on, only the minister, a guest speaker whose name I don’t recall either, kept coming back to the cross and the point of it.
I can remember my salvation scene, too—August, Saturday night, during a revival, when I was 7 years old. You’re planning a writing retreat where you can only have four other authors. Who would they be and why?
CS Lewis, Frank Peretti, Rosamund Picher, Tom Clancy. All authors whose books I really enjoy.
What is the most embarrassing thing that has happened to you and how did you handle it?
Probably childbirth. And lots of gas and air. Amazing stuff. Or it was giving my testimony in church at my baptism. I hate water and public speaking.
People are always telling me that they’d like to write a book someday. I’m sure they do to you, too. What would you tell someone who came up to you and said that?
Just do it. Even if it doesn’t see the light of day, do it. Try Nanowrimo, an online community.
Tell us about the featured book.
With trouble on the streets, DS Zander Ellery is under even more pressure to solve the case of the Prayer Slayer. His partner DC Isabel York is convinced she is being targeted, as all the postcards the Slayer sends are addressed only to her.
With Zander and Isabel pulled in different directions, the body count escalates, until the case explodes in a direction no one could foresee—Something that will test everyone to the limits of their experience and faith.
Please give us the first page of the book.
Detective Constable Isabel York stood motionless—victim number six on the ground by her feet. She knew she ought to feel something—anything—but only guilt consumed her. This death was on her, having literally occurred on her watch.
The body of Lexi Eke knelt posed in prayer with the word ‚guilty‛ written in black ink on her forehead. That, along with the white towelling baptismal robe, grey duct tape bonds, and clean feet matched the other victims of the Prayer Slayer. The only difference was the head wound and the blood staining the white dress.
Isabel swallowed hard. They’d been here the whole time. For two days her unit had staked out the chapel and grounds of
. She’d been
sitting mere feet away for several hours, yet still the woman had died. Not
with only Isabel on duty either. A dozen other police officers had been
watching the churchyard and buildings after the Slayer’s latest postcard—a
picture of where he would leave his next victim along with a clue as to her
apparent crime—had arrived on Isabel’s desk. Headley Baptist
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