Death by Misadventure

A Fatal Case. A Dangerous Affair.

Newly divorced and teetering on the edge, Detective Jennifer thought she’d already hit rock bottom. Then a high-powered attorney is gunned down in his luxury garage, and Jennifer is pulled into a case that spirals through corporate secrets, personal betrayals, and a murder that may not be the last.

As leads go cold and her own judgment falters, Jennifer finds herself entangled in a reckless relationship with an old flame—who may know more than he’s letting on. With another body on the ground, a PI tracking her, and her own career under threat, Jennifer has to untangle a deadly conspiracy that could make her the perfect scapegoat.

Death by Misadventure is a gritty noir thriller about corruption, consequence, and the cost of not knowing who to trust.

Get the book now and dive into a world where every choice has a price—and every truth hides a lie.

Excerpt from the book

One week earlier…

Martin Barrows lit another cigarette as he drove home from dinner. Killian’s Pub was an Irish bar that was about as authentic as any restaurant you could find in Disney World. It was designed to look old and New York City–like, but it was located on the ground floor of one of the modern glass office buildings in the complex where his office was located. And it had the best corned beef in the state.

Reuben sandwiches were his guilty pleasure. He had turned sixty this past July, and while his doctor told him to watch his cholesterol, no one could take this away from him. Five years ago, he was married, and his wife Lissa would nag him not to eat these types of food. But she was having an affair with her tennis coach, so fuck her, he figured. His failed marriage of thirty years had left him with the belief that life was for having a good time—long or short.

His cigarette burned down to the butt, and he flicked it out the window. He was driving through the downtown section of the city where everything was covered in concrete or asphalt. There was zero chance of his cigarette starting a fire out here. He rolled up the window and cranked up the volume on the stereo. Pink Floyd was playing.

His car was a two-year-old black Mercedes E350, and he loved it. The inside was immaculate, save for the smell of cigarettes that he would always cover up with air freshener spray every time he parked it somewhere. It was just after eleven. He had been stuck at the office until eight as he caught up on paperwork without anyone there to bother him. Then he went to Killian’s, had dinner, and drank a few beers as he watched the hockey game. The Buffalo Sabres beat the New York Rangers. Sure, he was a little buzzed, but he was also a great driver and a big donor to the PBA, so no worries.

In front of him was a large apartment complex that was practically right on the water. It was built before the Great Recession, so it wasn’t new, but it wasn’t that old either. This building was gorgeous. One side had views of the ocean, while the other made the city a panorama through its windows. He had originally purchased this place as an investment property in the $700s when it was new. But after he needed a place to live when he moved out of his house—the one he had paid for—he came here. Now it was worth about two million.

He pulled up to a garage gate and hit a remote button on his visor. The gate rolled up, and he drove down a ramp. He passed through the first level, and it was packed with cars. Not that it would have mattered if a spot was open; everyone had assigned parking. He drove down a second ramp to the bottom level and pulled into his space at the corner.