9 Best Detective Novels Everyone Should Read [March 2023]

The best detective novels from Next Chapter [March 2023]

Detective fiction is a genre of fiction that focuses on the investigation of a crime or a mystery. The roots of this genre can be traced back to the mid-19th century with the publication of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," which is considered to be the first detective story. Since then, the genre has evolved and has become one of the most popular and enduring genres in literature.

One of the defining features of detective fiction is the central character, the detective, who is usually a professional or amateur investigator tasked with solving the crime or mystery. The detective is often portrayed as a brilliant and intuitive individual who uses logic, deduction, and observation to uncover the truth. The detective's investigation often leads them down a twisting and convoluted path, filled with red herrings, false leads, and unexpected twists and turns.

Detective fiction has been enjoyed by readers of all ages and backgrounds for generations. It offers a thrilling and engaging way to explore the complexities of the human psyche and the consequences of crime. From Sherlock Holmes to Hercule Poirot to Lisbeth Salander, the genre has given us some of the most iconic and memorable characters in literature. Whether you are a fan of classic whodunits or modern thrillers, there is always a great detective story waiting to be discovered.

Below, you’ll find some of our best detective novels as of March 2023. All of the books here are available in eBook, paperback, and some in audio as well. Some of the books on this page are also completely free to download from Amazon, Apple Books, B&N, Google Play and Kobo!

If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know your favorite :)

Novels featured on this page

• A Mersey Killing (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Brian L. Porter

• The Quasimodo Killings (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 1) by John Broughton

• Catching Phantoms - The Strange Case Of Martin Lumb by Ian & Rosi Taylor

• Inside Sam Lerner by Gwen Banta

• Made A Killing (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Zach Abrams

• Tell Me Why (Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Book 1) by Sandi Wallace

• Vengeance List (Foley & Rose Book 1) by Gary Gregor

• The Fireraisers (Detective Watters Mysteries Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald

• The Whistleblower Onslaught (Scott Winslow Legal Mysteries Book 1) by David P. Warren

A Mersey Killing (Mersey Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Brian L. Porter

Book excerpt

“That's it? That's all the contact you had with Brendan after the time you'd met at the flat?”

Andy Ross had hoped Ronnie's recollection of the last contact between the Doyle brothers and Brendan Kane might prove to be a little more revealing. In truth, he found it rather odd that the brothers appeared to have had minimal contact in the run-up to their little sister's perceived departure for the New World. He said as much to Ronnie, who replied,

“Honest, Inspector, that's all, right Mickey?” his elder brother nodded in confirmation and added to his brother's words. “We wanted to go and see him again. We were a bit worried by these 'problems' he was supposedly having with the whole emigration thing. We thought we might be able to help him, but Marie said it was best not to keep going round there, to his flat that is, in case someone saw him and Ronnie going there a lot and maybe word got back to Dad. She told us she'd pass on any messages between us and Brendan, and that Phil Oxley was doing what he could to help. He was good at paperwork, filling in forms and stuff like that, was Phil.”

Ross shook his head and fell silent. He found it hard to accept some of the Doyle brothers' story, but then remembered that back in the nineteen sixties the world, and Liverpool in particular was a very different place to today's fast-paced, technology driven metropolis. There had been a naiveté, a sense of being involved in the beginnings of a brave new world, almost, as the rapid rise of the British pop music industry walked side-by-side with the technological and lifestyle revolutions that went along with it. For people like the Doyle brothers and Brendan Kane, all children of the immediate post-war years, a set of old-fashioned values and standards, alien in many ways to those of a similar age as the millennium dawned, were the norm, and despite their claim to the contrary, the teenagers and young adults of those days were in fact far less 'street-wise' than their modern-day counterparts. Perhaps the current familiarity of the music and the groups who made the Liverpool of the sixties such a throbbing, vibrant environment in which to grow up somehow masked some of the realities of those times. Andy Ross just couldn't imagine the kids of today being quite so 'unworldly' as the boys from Brendan Kane and The Planets appeared to have been back then. Today, a few minutes on the internet, a few calls on the phone, and today's youth would have all the information they needed at their fingertips.

“Sir? Do you have any more questions?”

Izzie Drake broke into Ross's reverie. The inspector hadn't realized he'd allowed himself to drift away from the conversation and he quickly pulled himself together again and faced Ronnie Doyle.

“Yes, sorry Sergeant, sorry gentlemen. I was lost in thought for a minute there. Thinking about what you've told me so far. So, Ronnie, I'm presuming things went along quite normally from that time until Brendan and Marie suddenly disappeared, right?”

“Yeah, well, no, not really 'normal', Inspector. Over the next couple of weeks, we could see Marie was getting edgy, nervous, like. I tried to get her to tell me exactly what Brendan had arranged but she was a bit…what's the word? Evasive, that's it.”

“In what way?” Ross asked.

The Quasimodo Killings (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 1) by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Ridgeway drummed his fingers on the desk, leant back in his leather chair, tilted back his head on its comfortable rest and stared at the ceiling. At certain times of the day the sunlight spotlighted the one small area that the decorator had missed when passing his roller over the surface. Small things like this no more than two-inch aberration irritated Mal beyond belief. Not that he would ever take steps to remedy the slight defect that nobody else would ever notice. Pragmatically, he preferred an excuse for irritation from a non-human source to doing anything about it except sighing whenever he focused on it.

The reason for his bad mood and boredom could be summed up in two words—unnecessary pressure. There was no point in the commissioner pressing him for a breakthrough, and on what basis? he asked himself. Why should a crank letter have an experienced professional policewoman so agitated? On reflection, the first days in a job of such enormous responsibility would test anyone’s nerves, he reasoned. More so if that person had to overcome the scepticism and prejudices that he had come so close to expressing. The more he thought about his attitude to Aalia Phadkar, the more he was ashamed of himself. Political correctness? I’m not a male chauvinist, nor am I racist. My Rachel would tear me apart if I confessed any doubts about Aalia. He glanced back up at the ceiling where, thankfully, the sun had moved a little to the right, no longer highlighting his fixation. Besides, she’s proved herself an exceptional detective. Not everyone would have pinned sufficient damning proof on the Talarico clan to dismantle it and break its stranglehold on the narcotics trade in London. She’s a damned good copper.

A knock on his door snapped him out of his trance.

“Come!”

Another woman he admired slipped into the room. Dr Sabrina Markham, head of forensic science, whose competence was second to none.

“Good morning, Mal. I thought I’d bring this myself since I’m the bearer of bad news.”

She probably was because he could detect her Manchester accent, only perceptible when tense or shocked.

“Regarding the big chief’s letter, Sabrina?”

She smiled very slightly in recognition of his sharpness.

“Well, yes. No news is good news except in my sector. I’ve put the letter and envelope through every test known to science—but nothing. Your troll is extremely careful. Everything about this communication screams caution. The sheet is standard white printing paper available at every supermarket in the city. The ink is standard and authentic HP black. Even the individual’s conservative choice of font, Calibri, suggests a desire to hide their personality. Whoever this person is, they have used every precaution. The envelope was sealed with a moist cloth impregnated with London tap water, so no saliva for a DNA sample, I’m afraid. No trace of a fingerprint, so they’ve worn latex gloves. This crank did not want to give you anything to work on, Mal.” She uttered this last sentence with a definite Lancashire accent.

“Don’t stress, Sabrina! I swear I wouldn’t have mistreated any of your colleagues had you chosen to send a messenger. It seems to be a lot of fuss over nothing. After all, threats are two a penny in this day and age. It doesn’t mean that the nutter who wrote the message has any real homicidal intentions. There’s a difference between dashing off a threatening letter and committing murder.”

Catching Phantoms - The Strange Case Of Martin Lumb by Ian & Rosi Taylor

Book excerpt

Martin was working at his computer in the detectives' first-floor office at HQ, typing up the report of the morning's investigation, when Ray hurried in.

"Those metal detectorists have been identified," he announced with a smile of satisfaction, "so that's a bit of progress. Evidently they're a couple of familiar faces – not from our area, I should add – known for knocking off copper from closed-down factories and for handling all manner of stolen industrial goods. They've both done time. They're also suspected of nicking artefacts from archaeological sites." He laughed. "Can't say they lacked initiative!" He waited for Martin's question.

"How did they die?"

"What would you have thought? Logically."

Martin didn't enjoy Ray's inclination to be constantly challenging him, but he went along with it.

"The most obvious cause would be from burns. Or from organ failure like Al said. Or a combination of both."

"You're right, of course. There was no evidence of violent blows or bullet wounds."

Ray lapsed into silence, but Martin knew his colleague well enough to sense there was more. "Is there a but?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I've a doubt." Ray paused. "I have to wonder if they had to die at all."

Martin sighed quietly. It was another of Ray's agonised wrestlings, but as he’d seen for himself, they sometimes led to the solving of difficult cases. He forced a smile. "Tell me more."

Ray eased himself back in his chair. It was anecdote time, Martin realised.

"When I was a young uniformed officer I was called to a case where an elderly spinster had died in a house fire. Neighbours told me she had appeared in her yard shouting for help, but had rushed back into the house again to rescue her cat. No one could get to her. She died of severe burns. The cat escaped by jumping through a shattered window." Ray lapsed into silence, preoccupied with his recollections.

"You're saying she didn't have to die?" Martin prompted.

"I can't get away from the possibility that these cases have similarities." Ray admitted. "The case of the spinster gave me a couple of sleepless nights. Then I realised her fear of the fire had been cancelled out by her selfless love for the cat. I'm wondering if something similar – a huge emotional counter-force – happened to those two detectorists."

He's building castles in the air, Martin thought. "Maybe we shouldn't take Jack's word for what happened."

"You saw the bodies."

Yes, indeed. So he had.

It was Martin's turn to fall silent. "Okay," he said eventually, "they went back in. They were more scared of something else than they were of the fire. But we don't know what."

Ray took a deep breath. "I've a hunch that if we can discover the reason, it may be close to becoming a murder inquiry."

Inside Sam Lerner by Gwen Banta

Book excerpt

Sam slept at Maire's place for two days. He had awakened the first morning to find Madsen feeding Beatrice a beef bone, then he had drifted back to sleep. Not once did he have the persistent nightmare which often awakened him in the night, soaked in sweat, still lingering in a dream world where he was struggling in vain to close the wounds on Kira's mangled face.

He awakened again later, this time to the smell of smoke and hot wax. Through his sleep-induced stupor he could see Madsen in front of an altar aglow with candles. After Sam mumbled something about a smoke detector, Madsen crawled back into bed next to him then pulled the sheet up over his chest and waited until he drifted off again.

When he finally crawled out of his half-coma the second morning, he stumbled to the kitchen to find Maire. There they drank a pot of steaming chicory coffee as the late morning sun glinted off her long, silky legs. Sam quietly listened as she filled him in on her life since they had last seen each other. He knew she would wait patiently until he felt he could do the same.

“Convince me again why it was a good idea that we never slept together,” Sam teased her.

“You know you were underage when we met. Then you got pinned to that uptight sorority girl at Tulane, and that’s when I became persona non grata.”

“Never persona non grata to me. But maybe to uptight Simone.”

“After you and Simone headed to Pepperdine Law School, I thought that was the last I’d hear from you except for the occasional scraps of information from Duval. I must admit I was pleased when you occasionally stayed in touch. So why is it you never practiced law after passing the bar, Sam?”

“I found law to be about as exciting as a Tabasco colonic. If I had given it enough time, I might have found a branch of law I liked, but joining the Marines felt right at the time. Maybe I was just trying to get away from Simone,” he grinned.

“Well, that’s the one thing that does make sense!”

“Before I met Kira, I did come back to see you. That’s when I heard you had married and moved to Martinique. I was jealous and envious.”

Made A Killing (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Zach Abrams

Book excerpt

Warren overcame the challenge provided by an icy cold rain carried by a moderate wind and, at a few minutes before eight am, with bleary-eyes and arms weighed down by a large cardboard box of photographs, he stumbled into the incident caravan to find Sandra. She was the only other person already there, working her way through a stack of filed reports which had already arrived. With a loud bang, he allowed his burden to land onto a spare desk and he slumped into a chair.

“You look like shit,” she uttered, taking advantage of their privacy to speak more personally than she might have dared had subordinates been present. “What the hell have you been doing?”

“Nothing, that´s the sad part,” he murmured. “Just lack of sleep and thinking about the job.”

Alex gazed across with strained vision and it struck him that Sandra appeared particularly attractive this morning. She looked bright and fresh. Her cheeks were rosy, her deep brown eyes sparkled and he could see her rich, black hair was freshly washed, showing to best effect the Vidal Sassoon-style cut and the fresh, fragrant, soapy aroma of her shampoo wafted in his direction. She was wearing a smart, white, open-necked blouse and a tight-fitting black skirt which stopped a few inches above her knee. Standing as she was next to her desk and leaning over her files, Alex was treated to the pleasant view of her athletic, curvaceous outline. As was regulation when on duty, she wore no jewellery and had little or no make-up on, but the pure and wholesome look just seemed to add to her allure.

Alex hadn't realised he'd been staring until Sandra enquired,” Are you okay? You don´t seem yourself.”

He blinked a couple of times and then cast his eyes down at the desk.

“Yeah, yeah, fine. Just thinking about where to start,” he lied. “Okay let´s compare notes. Where are you up to?”

“There´s nothing unexpected. We've had the ME´s report already though. Duffie may have arrived late but he must have worked half the night to rush it out. Death most likely occurred sometime between twelve noon and three pm, which is consistent with what we've already been told. The victim had a hearty breakfast of fried bacon, sausage, black pudding and eggs about four hours before death, probably sometime about 10am. The cholesterol didn't kill him though. Death resulted from being stabbed in the abdomen with the tusk. It did have a sharp pointed end but not razor sharp. It must have been swung with some force, penetrated the abdomen and was then forced upwards puncturing his heart. Death would have been quick. The assailant must have been very strong, almost certainly a man. He must have used both hands to wield it and, from the angle of entry, he would most probably have been right handed. It doesn´t narrow down the search too much but I suppose it helps.”

Alex was satisfied with the summary. He nodded as she was talking, making a mental record of each piece of data while intending to read the full report later to pick up on any lesser details which may come in useful.

“Next, we had a call from Connor. He promised the report for this morning but that was before you called him out to Whitecraigs. So he can´t deliver. He expects to have prelim' reports on both incidents by early afternoon.” Alex nodded again and tried to withhold a scowl.

Tell Me Why (Georgie Harvey and John Franklin Book 1) by Sandi Wallace

Book excerpt

The chorus of Billy Joel’s Pressure screamed inside Georgie’s brain. The damn hangover squeezed her temples.

Eyes slit. Belly burning. Teeth furry.

The chorus repeated, either as a distraction device or sadistic form of torture.

A search through her sports bag unearthed zilch paracetamol and she’d used the last tablet in the Spider’s glovebox yesterday. She likewise bummed out on a toothbrush. The closest implement was a de-clumping mascara brush.

Remind me again how the fuck I ended up in the sticks.

The vice tightened on her skull.

Desperate, she rubbed soap over her right index finger and buffed her teeth. It made a marginal improvement. However, there wasn’t much she could do about the lack of clean underwear. If she rinsed her undies, the dampness might seep through her jeans.

At least she’d showered. If you could call the showerhead spitting irregular droplets of alternating hot and cold water showering. She’d had to run around the cubicle to get wet.

Now dry but naked, Georgie puffed on her third cigarette for the morning and hovered over the kettle. Finally it boiled. She poured two sachets of coffee into a cup and drank it, scalding hot and revolting. Still, the cheap powdered shit was a caffeine shot and kick-started the day. Another cup of the gross coffee later and Georgie set off to Susan Pentecoste’s farm.

Abergeldie was on Grimwells Road in Hepburn. She’d swiped a tourist map from the motel and memorised the route, seeing as she didn’t have satnav and could never be fucked trying to follow a map on her phone, especially with the mother of all hangovers.

She’d thought she’d memorised the route.

Five minutes later she stopped in front of the small post office in Hepburn Springs to recheck the map. And spent several minutes holding her aching head while trying to commit the directions to her foggy brain.

Too much to remember and much of it via roads she’d never been on before.

In the end, Georgie made the trip in legs.

Left turn before the Blowhole. Map check.

Turn left again onto Bald Hill Road. She lost her spot on the map, swore and refocused. Nearly there; she could do this.

Georgie hooked right at Howlong Road. If she reached Scheggias Track, she’d missed the Grimwells Road intersection.

Ta-da, Grimwells Road.

Georgie swung onto Grimwells Road and halted, appalled by the rugged track ahead. She normally drove the Spider at one speed—fast—but now eased the sports car into walking pace. Bumps vibrated through the suspension. Gravel struck the black duco as personal body blows. She cursed the Padleys and Susan Pentecoste and her voice jarred, aggravating her hangover.

She travelled a kilometre or so yet passed only one driveway before she saw the arched sign for Abergeldie. A mob of sheep stared from the front paddock as she manoeuvred through the entrance. The leader bolted as she slammed the gate, the rest following with anxious bleats. Cattle in a far field lifted their heads, then returned to their munching.

The gravel driveway had been recently graded, and Georgie’s grip relaxed as she nosed the car through an avenue of large gums. Weeping willows overhung a creek that followed the road. Prior to recent record rainfall across the state, the creek bed had probably been dry and creviced for a decade or more. But water ran now. It rippled with the undulations of the land.

She passed several stone outbuildings that looked a century old. A comparatively new barn clashed with these, as did its attached hay shed chocked with golden bales and the machinery shed.

At last she reached a wall of lofty cypress bounded by a low white picket fence. Several terracotta chimney pots topped the windbreak.

Georgie drew a deep breath and pulled the Spider’s handbrake. The crunch echoed.

What would she find beyond the hedge? Safe bet: Susan and that the tedious journey had been a waste.

Georgie finger-combed tousled hair and noticed sweat pooled at her armpits. It was already steamy under the cloudless blue sky. Enough to make anyone perspire, yet hangover and curiosity probably chipped in too.

Vengeance List (Foley & Rose Book 1) by Gary Gregor

Book excerpt

Sam emerged slowly from the murky depths of a whiskey-induced coma. Behind his eyes, a dull pounding threatened to cleave open his skull, and an incessant ringing in his ears promised never to stop. He determined eventually, that the noise came from the telephone beside his bed. With difficulty, he disentangled himself from the bedding and reached blindly for the handpiece.

“Hello,” he groaned.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Sam lad. Top o’ the mornin’,” Paddy O’Reily greeted with a cheerfulness that depressed him.

Sam grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his face to keep the piercing light from penetrating his eyes and searing his brain.

“Jesus Paddy, what time is it?”

“It’s time to go to work lad, time to go to work.” Paddy’s voice echoed painfully inside Sam’s head bouncing from the right hemisphere to the left, and back again.

“I’m on my way over,” Paddy continued. “Get your tired arse out of the fart sack. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Sam heard the line disconnect, and stared at the handpiece for a moment as his brain scrambled to focus. After two awkward, fumbling attempts to replace the handset, he managed, with consummate ease, to upset the whole works. The telephone crashed to the floor and the pounding in his head intensified. His mouth felt like he had eaten a kilo of cotton wool, and there was an after taste on his tongue that defied description.

His confusion rapidly turned to discontent. How could Paddy be so bright and cheerful after all the alcohol they consumed last night? It was unfair. It was two o’clock in the morning when he left the Irishman still throwing back whiskey like it was water, although he suspected many years had passed since Paddy had drank anything remotely resembling water. Somehow, he managed to fall into a cab and get himself home. At that hour of the morning, after consuming what seemed like half a dozen litres of Irish Heather whiskey, Sam was as drunk as ten men. He couldn’t believe where the tiny newsman put it all. Paddy was half his size and probably twenty years older. It simply wasn’t right that Paddy should be this cheerful when he was a blithering, unintelligible idiot.

The Fireraisers (Detective Watters Mysteries Book 1) by Malcolm Archibald

Book excerpt

Watters tugged at his starched collar, fidgeted uncomfortably and wished he could at least look at his watch to see how much longer he had to endure this torture. His natural dislike of weddings was not improved when he did not know the participants.

‘I could stand outside the building, sir,’ Watters had suggested.

Mackay had shaken his head. ‘I’ve spoken to Mr Beaumont. You’re down as a friend of the family and an usher.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Watters knew that as a police sergeant he could be working in the most noxious of alleys one day and guarding the queen the next. He accepted that was part of the job, but he did not have to enjoy it.

Watters looked up as the organist began the music and Charlotte Beaumont appeared. From the long veil that concealed her face to the bouquet of orange blossom in her white-gloved hands, past the frilled white dress that enhanced her trim waist then flounced out to hide the flat white shoes, Charlotte looked as pristine as a bride should.

For a second, Watters nearly smiled, for the gloves, from Henry Adams of Dundee, had been his present to her, which Marie had chosen with care.

‘You’re going to a wedding,’ Marie had said. ‘You have to give the bride something.’

‘I’m not a guest! I’m on duty.’

‘I’ll choose a suitable present,’ Marie told him. ‘You guard the guests.’

Watters nodded; there was no advantage in continuing the discussion. Marie had made her mind up.

The instant the ancient church doors creaked open, the bells began to ring. The great and the good of Dundee were present, together with relatives from both families. Watters saw a hundred eyes examining Charlotte as she walked down the aisle, supported by her father and followed by her bridesmaids.

Watters concentrated on the guests, searching for potential troublemakers. There was Sir John Ogilvy of Baldovan House, the local Member of Parliament, resplendent in the scarlet of the Volunteers. There was David Jobson, Provost of Dundee, together with his frowning wife. There was Bailie George Ower, sitting stiffly at attention in a soberly cut suit, and beside him William Foggie, the Hospital Manager. Fidgeting on the nearest pew to the aisle was Charlotte’s personal friend, Mrs Foreman of the Dundee Abolition Association. None of these people was likely to cause any trouble, murder stray seamen or set fire to mills.

George Beaumont’s business associates clumped together in a solid block of Dundonian respectability, some looking as uncomfortable as Watters. The Cox clan, whose huge Lochee works was already among the largest jute factories in the world, spoke quietly with the linen and sailcloth dynasty of the Baxters. Patrick Anderson, the Director of the Dundee Banking Company, winked at Charlotte. He had been a family friend for years, as had George Welch, manager of the Tay Whale-Fishing Company. Watters slid his gaze over them. None of these dynamic and respectable gentlemen or their ladies would be any threat to the wedding.

The Whistleblower Onslaught (Scott Winslow Legal Mysteries Book 1) by David P. Warren

Book excerpt

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon, and its over eighty degrees as I run through the parking lot toward Department 15 of the Superior Court, where I will wait for Judge Roy Carswell to conduct a settlement conference, so that he can eliminate the sexual harassment case I am to start next week from his calendar. Not because he cares about my case, but because he has three trials set the same day and wants to eliminate all of them and go fishing. Judge Carswell has been on the bench since my ancestors were small children. He was appointed by a governor who hates lawyers, for the purpose of abusing lawyers, and he has never disappointed. The entire bar has railed against Judge Carswell, in an attempt to cause his ouster, but to no avail. He is politically wired in and will probably outlast us all.

I walk into the courtroom and check in with the clerk, a dark-haired woman in her thirties, who shows me a half-smile and a dimple. She has an unruffled air, as she tells me that the judge will be with us soon. “Soon” is a legal term meaning when Carswell is ready, whether ten minutes or two hours has passed. I see my opposing counsel sitting in the courtroom with a young man that I have never seen before, who looks like he doesn’t quite fit the suit he wears. This would be the insurance adjuster I have never seen before. I give Doug Ferguson, my opposing counsel, a nod, which he returns almost imperceptibly, and then I walk out into the hall to look for my client. She is walking toward me. Linda Darnell is a very attractive woman in her early thirties. We met in my office last week to prepare for this conference and discuss our settlement position. Now she is waving vigorously, and has something important to say. Her excitement will have to do with the settlement dollars we discussed. Either she wants more money to sufficiently compensate for the injury inflicted, or she wants to accept less, and be done with it. In this case, I’m betting that it’s the latter, because Linda has been stressed out by the litigation process, and does not want any contact with the harasser, who causes her nightmares. It doesn’t take long to get confirmation that my guess is correct.

“Scott, how are you?” she asks, extending a hand.

I shake the hand. “I’m good, Linda. How are you feeling?”

“Well,” she says hesitantly, “I’ve been better.”

“What is it?” I ask, having a pretty good idea what comes next.

“Stressed,” she says, glancing at the floor. She looks back at me. “I really want to get this over with—I mean the case,” she offers, softly. I wait, sensing more is coming, and I don’t have to wait long. “If we can settle it today, I’d be willing to take less than we talked about. If it’s okay with you.”

I smile and nod acknowledgment. She’s a nice lady and appropriately nervous in this environment. “I understand. Let’s see what kind of a settlement we can persuade these guys to put on the table. At the end of the day, I’ll be with you whatever you choose to do.”

There you have it - the best detective novels from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!