Welcome to my stop on the blog tour today. Isn’t that cover eerily stunning!? Whenever I decline a book for review due to time pressure I always immediately regret it, while I couldn’t read this in advance of the tour I will certainly be adding it to my TBR. I have heard some great comments about it in the blogging community.
They thought that they had all the power, until she took it from them.
A killer hunts abusive spouses, blogging about their sins post-kill. Soon the murders and the brazen journaling draws the attention of Police Scotland’s CID.
This killer works with surgical preparation, precision and skill, using a unique weapon of her own and never leaves a trace of evidence behind.
Edinburgh’s DI Kathy McGuire, nearing the end of her career, begins the hunt for the murderer as a media frenzy erupts. But McGuire might have met her match…
What has led this killer to take the law into her own hands?
Is the woman accountable really a cold-hearted killer or a desperate vigilante?
About the Author
C.P. Wilson writes Psychological Thrillers. Ice Cold Alice is due for publication by Bloodhound Books on April 20th, 2017 and is currently being adapted to a screenplay.
Wilson is also the author of ten works of fiction in multiple genre and one non-fiction memoir under the name Mark Wilson.
Wilson currently teaches Biology in a Fife secondary school, is one half of a parent-team to two very active children, and mentors independent authors. He writes in his spare time, in lieu of sleep.
Wilson’s short story ‘Glass Ceiling’ won first prize in May, 2015 on Spinetingler’s Short story competition. dEaDINBURGH: Vantage reached the quarter finals of the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award in 2014 and was a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards, 2015.
Amazon Author Page
Ice Cold Alice, by CP Wilson, is the first volume in a Psychological Thriller series featuring ‘Tequila Mockingbird’, a serial-killer who hunts abusive men. The following excerpt is a sneak preview of the opening chapter of Book 2, currently titled Alice in Anger. The preview introduces a horrific new adversary for Alice.
Salt and iron sting inside your nose, waking you from the deepest of sleeps. Still drowsing, you breathe the scents of the room in more deeply. At the humid-coppery scent neurones fire, relaying panic to your central nervous system. A single moment passes, during which your mind has put the pieces together but has yet to inform your consciousness. You rub the side of your cheek and temple against something soft and warm. With the motion, the limits of your body become perceptible. Awareness of your skin, your limbs and the silence around you trickles in. Your naked skin feels clammy, sticky with something warm but cooling in the flow of a draught crossing the room. Comfort crests and is instantly shattered as your brain fits the disparate pieces of sensory input into a single sharp conclusion.
Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. The gentlest of tremors borne of excitement or fear or exhaustion, you do not know and scarcely care.
Some rarely explored, dormant section of your mind cries, not again, but the pitiful denial barely registers in your conscious thoughts.
Your eyes slide open as though of their own volition. Bright light pierces, causing you to narrow your eyes until they’re almost closed once again. Eyes slits, you sit to swing your legs over the edge of the sofa, resting your bare feet on a wooden floor. Sticky, viscous liquid pools around your toes. Eyes widen instantly and the room comes into dreadful focus.
Sat at the end of a very large couch, you crane your neck, directing your gaze to your left. Three people sit on the couch along with you. Two kids… your kids… and their mother. Your wife is naked. The kids have their underwear still in place, an inadequate scrap protecting a dignity that no longer matters to anyone aside from yourself.
Blackness edges in around your vision. With great effort you force your eyes to focus. Sliding off of the couch you come to your knees, facing the bodies of your family. The blood on the floor sloshes at your knees and splashes up onto your thighs.
Abbie, your wife, sits with her left arm around your son, her fingertips brushing the shoulder of your little girl. On Abbie’s thigh, crimson smears where your cheek had lain. The twins, nine years old, have their chins laid on their chests, their lifeless corpses slumped in a seated position, similar to their mother’s. Cody’s face looks peaceful, he could be sleeping if it weren’t for the slackness of his expression. Keira’s is a mask of fear. Without intending to you reach out to hold her little face in your hands, attempting to rearrange her unfamiliar expression. Her upper-body slumps forward at your tentative touch. Keira falls into your arms.
A bestial moan escapes from you as you lift her into my embrace. Cradling your daughter in the manner you had when she was still an infant, you scan Julia and Cody’s faces and bodies.
Abbie has a wide, long cut across her throat allowing blood to flow down to pool in the fabric and padding of the sofa until it has dripped to collect underneath, spreading out across the floor as a macabre indication of how long they’ve lain dead.
Each of them bears a small incision high up on the right of their abdomens. A surgical cut, their body wounds look to have bled little. A deliberate shift of Keira’s legs, hung over your right forearm, nudges her against her brother. The movement causes his body to fall forward, bringing his mother with him.
They crash heavily onto you and Keira, all loose-limbs and dead momentum. Under the unmoving mass of your entire family pinning you to the floor, you are abruptly distracted by frantic screaming. It takes you several long moments to realise that the despairing, shrill noise is coming from your own throat. You shove feebly at Keira, conflicted between wanting their corpses off of you, and not wanting to hurt her little body, the pressure you exert is laughable. Mercifully, you feel the blackness edging once again. This time, you accept its embrace as an old friend, leaving the indescribable agony behind.