Thursday, January 15, 2015

Stand-Book 2 in the Charlotte Marshall Series

Title: Stand (2nd book in the series)
Author: Becky Johnson
Publisher: Becky Johnson
Pages: 160
Genre: Mystery Suspense
Format: Paperback/Kindle
Purchase:at AMAZON
Nine months ago Charlotte Marshall survived a nightmare when she was hunted by a sadistic killer. Now routine, ritual, and a vigorous self-defense schedule barely keep the fear at bay.

Desperate to move on Charlotte finds hope in volunteering with FindMe, an organization dedicated to finding missing people and helping their families. Her first case ends up being more than she bargained for, and she soon learns that a little hope can be a dangerous thing.

While Charlotte unravels a mystery, an old enemy circles waiting for just the right moment to strike. Charlotte will have to choose to stand and fight, or to give in to the fear that waits for her.

My Impressions: 

This is the 2nd book in the Charlotte Marshall series I have read and I am loving it! The characters are full of life. I adore Charlotte. She is spunky, fierce, dependable and a go getter. Despite all life has thrown her way, she still wants to fight for others to bring them peace and closure. Skeet is a hoot! I think he had to be favorite character of them all.  

The book is narratoratedby our main protagonist, Charlotte Marshall 9 months after the first bookRun ends.Struggling to keep her life from falling apart aftter her ordeal with Pheares, Charlotte has put into place safety measure of every kind to make her feel secure. With the help of Skeet, Moeshe, Jack and her dog Max she fights through the demons that have held her cavtive for far too long, but just around the corner, llurking in the shadows, her greatest obstacle is waiting for her.

This whole series has been a great read. Full of mystery, intrigue, suspense, love, and finding ones self in the midst of chaos. Cannot recommend highly enough as a stand alone and series.


Book Excerpt:

My own scream woke me.


Zero to sixty in less than a second. One second I was sound asleep, and the

next I was bolt upright in bed with the sound of my scream still echoing across

the bedroom. My heart thundered in my chest, and my panting breaths sounded

loud in the silence. My shaking hands gripped the blanket in tight fists. Kitty

looked up at me from her cozy spot at the end of the bed. Yellow eyes blinked.

Then she meowed in sympathy and dropped her calico head back down onto

her paws. She used to love sleeping curled right up against me. But my regular

nightmares disrupted her. Unfortunately nightmares are not an uncommon

occurrence. I have suffered from them ever since Lawrence Pheares.


Nine months ago I faced a monster, a murderer responsible for the deaths

of twenty-three innocent girls. At night he haunts me. Sometimes the dreams

are a reenactment of the events. I see Pheares choking me. Or I remember

Jack and Pheares fighting. Sometimes the nightmares are filled with images

of my lost girls. I watch helpless as Emily runs from a mad man. I cannot save

her. The worst ones though, the dreams that make it impossible for me to go

back to sleep, are the ones like the nightmare I just woke up from. They leave

me with a jumble of images and tangled feelings. Nothing concrete that makes

sense. When I wake up screaming, I am overwhelmed with terror. That’s the

only feeling or sense I get from these dreams, bone deep fear.


According to my therapist I am suffering from PTSD. Simple letters for a

life that is changed by trauma. Nine months ago I had lived the nightmare. It

all began so simply. I was doing research for my next novel when I stumbled

onto a serial killer and twenty-three girls who were abducted, raped, tortured,

murdered, and then thrown away. When I found the killer, he found me. I

almost didn’t survive. In the end I beat Lawrence Pheares, but in doing so I was

forever changed.


Without conscious thought, my hand reached over to cover the E tattooed

on the inside of my right arm, a daily reminder of what I had survived and a

tribute to those innocent girls who did not.


In the months since I discovered evidence of a serial killer and my life

became entwined with those lost girls who were heartlessly killed by a

madman, I had become a different person, scared of my own shadow. At first it

wasn’t so bad. I was still cruising on adrenaline. Now every day is a battle.

When I let myself really think about it, thoughts of Georgia frighten me the

most. I never learned from Pheares what role she played in the killings, but I

knew in my heart that she had one. Pheares was dead. But I knew Georgia was

still out there. There was no evidence of this, but my gut told me different. I

knew she was alive. I could feel her watching me.


I looked over at my bedside clock. It was four forty-three in the morning.

There was no point in trying to go back to sleep. My body was slick with sweat

and the hands I ran over my face shook. Max, my black Pit Bull mix, looked at

me from his spot beside my bed. His ears were perked. Brown eyes focused on

me. He looked ready to get up with me or go back to sleep, depending on my

next move. These days Max rarely leaves my side. He is a good friend.

I swung my legs over and sat on the edge of the bed. A few deep breaths

later my heart was no longer racing, and I was ready to get up.

I start every morning with yoga. It is one of my therapies. Sometimes I

think if I don’t do the little things like yoga, running, and journaling, I will

plunge into a well of terror that will dominate me. So every morning, no

matter what, I make myself stick to my routine, as though that alone will

save me. That morning my poses were a little shaky from my nightmare, but I

made it through them. Mountain pose. Forward bend. Down dog. I could feel

myself steadying. Warrior two. Down dog. Tree pose. I finished with two sun

salutations then stood in mountain pose just breathing.


Max knows my new pattern. When my routine was finished he was ready

to go. He leaned his big body against me and gave that look dog owners

everywhere know – outside please.


I will admit I am afraid of becoming agoraphobic. It would be so easy. But I

make myself go outside. If I didn’t, I think I could live a very content and safe

life, never leaving the safety of my home. But that would mean that Pheares

won. I can’t let him win. So, every day I force myself to venture outdoors. I

stand outside and consider it a small victory in the midst of many battles. Max

helps.


I grabbed Max’s leash from the hall closet and layered on warm winter

gear. Coat, gloves, hat, boots. December in New Jersey is cold. It was so early

that it was dark outside and very still. It had already been a rough icy winter.

There were several inches of snow on the ground. I paused at my front door,

Max waited patiently on his leash beside me. A few deep breaths, and I was

able to convince myself to open the door.


My last home burned down, part of the drama I endured nine months ago

with Pheares. He burned my home and destroyed everything I owned. He

took so much from me, but at the end I was still standing. After a brief stay

in a temporary condo, courtesy of my agent, my new home is comfortably

located in a quiet development with lots of space between the houses and a big

fenced backyard for Max. The small two story home has a nice open floor plan

downstairs and two bedrooms upstairs. It backs up to trees and a lake, so it is

quiet.


It feels like too much quiet sometimes, but I like it.


The only nice thing about taking Max outside in the winter is that he is as

happy to move quickly and get back inside as I am. He is not a fan of the cold.

My breath left cold puffs of fog in the air and I shifted in place to stay warm.

It was eerily quiet out, still too early for most of the world to be stirring. As I

waited for Max to finish his business, headlights flashed over my front door. A

car turned the corner onto my street. I tensed. As it rolled closer I recognized

the logo of the security company hired to patrol my neighborhood. It was one

of things that attracted me to this development. I was looking for a sense of

security, wanting to feel safe. It hasn’t worked, but I gave the security car a

wave as it slowly moved past my house. Looks like Carl. I had made a point to

know every guard that patrolled. I know everyone who is a help or a possible

threat in my fragile world.


Max finished his business, shivered from the chilly air, and whined to go

back inside. We ran toward the door. After the cold the first wave of warmth

was almost too much. I didn’t really relax until I heard the locks click. I was

glad to be out of the cold and the dark. I always breathe a little easier when I

am safely locked inside my home.


I striped off all the winter gear I had piled on and put them back in their

respective places in the hall closet.


After a shower to wash away the sweat from my nightmare and yoga, and

then a bowl of Cheerios, I felt almost ready to face the day.


I stood facing the mirror wearing a pair of yoga pants and a sports bra,

my other daily ritual. I took stock of my body and its changes. Same long light

blonde hair pulled back into a sensible ponytail, same dark blue eyes and

overbite. The differences from nine months ago are obvious. I’ve lost over

twenty-five pounds. Anything less than a hundred and twenty on my frame

is too skinny. I was too skinny. The dark circles under my eyes were almost

permanent. The biggest change though is my eyes. I used to be innocent,

innocent to murder and cruelty. I’m not anymore. My eyes now are old. The

changes were obvious. However, they were not all negative. I was strong. My

arms had muscles they never had before. I was tough, inside and out. Looking

at my reflection I repeated the same positive mantra I said every morning. You

are strong. You are a survivor. Then I finished getting dressed and drove into

Philly.

About the Author:
Books are Becky Johnson’s passion and always have been. She used to get in trouble in school for reading during class!

Becky has Master’s degrees in social work and history, and for her day job she is a social worker. In her writing she tries to answer a question that is important to both social work and history:  Why? She always wants to know why people do the things they do or feel the way they feel.

When not reading or writing she enjoys yoga, cooking, and makes a pretty mean chili!

Her latest books of the Charlotte Marchall Mysteries series are Run and Stand.

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