Mind Over Murder (Janna Rose Mysteries Book 1)

A Killer Mind. A Small Town. A Reluctant Sleuth.

When true crime podcaster Janna Rose returns to her sleepy hometown to regroup after burnout, murder follows close behind. The body of a local teacher is found under suspicious circumstances, and the police are quick to write it off. But Janna’s instincts—and her microphone—tell a different story.

Drawn into the investigation despite herself, Janna must navigate old friendships, buried secrets, and a growing list of suspects. With each clue, the line between her podcast persona and real life blurs, putting her squarely in the killer’s sights.

Mind Over Murder is the gripping first installment in the Janna Rose Mysteries, blending sharp wit, layered characters, and page-turning suspense in a small town where nothing—and no one—is quite as it seems.

Start the mystery today and follow Janna Rose as she discovers the truth comes at a cost.

Excerpt from the book

As I parked my bike outside West Oxford Community Centre that day, crows perching in the bare beech tree overlooking Botley Park rose in unison, as if responding to some hidden disturbance.

I watched the dark shadows melting into a rare glimmer of March sunshine, then turned to lock up. At that moment, a taxi, a silver Toyota, drove into the car park. A faintly audible skid as the brakes were slammed on.

Joining several already there, I now noticed, from the same firm, Regal Cars. Attending some kind of trade convention? Or collecting a big group from across town?

The driver, slight and middle-aged, in grey flannels and a dark-blue zipped cardigan, jammed a flat cap on his head while striding towards the single-storeyed red-brick building. I slung my helmet by its chinstrap on Bertha’s handlebars and followed him inside.

Drawing out the small poster from my bag, advertising as a friendly female neighbourhood therapist, I stopped at the cork wallboard in the foyer and searched for a space, or an expired notice I could legitimately remove.

But voices from just ahead in the Centre’s main hall were growing louder. I pinned up my flyer, pre-cut strips with my email address protruding below for would-be clients to tear off, and stuck my nose through the open door.

“This whole bloody city is grinding to a halt – and you want to stop us getting even one more road?!”, the newcomer was shouting.

“What is this really about, man, huh?” another said. “We’re all good Muslims, we drivers, you know? We just want to make a living, and you’re stopping us, you Greenies.” The word was shot through with contempt. “It’s Islamophobia!”

“This is racist!”, a third chipped in, quivering with rage.

Beyond them, I could see signs being created with paints and cardboard, protesting against the Osney Mead plan. Bits of a nearby industrial estate had long been sliding into disuse. I’d read about the scheme to redevelop it in my old paper, the Oxford Mail.

Taking pride of place in the colourful array was a banner with a choking anthropomorphised Planet Earth and the words, “Stop the Bridge of Doom.”

Sarah, the Centre manager, stood between the antagonists, trying to lower the tension with the classic palms-down gesture. Beyond her, a handful of “Greenies” watched impassively. They’d made a booking, she was explaining, so were entitled to use the space. “We all share the same planet, mate,” I heard one of them call out. “Muslims and everyone else.”

Flat-cap man darted further in and wrested a placard from the hands of its startled maker, flung it to the floor, hawked audibly and spat on it, then just as quickly darted back. A volley of “heys!” from her comrades, and the official raised her voice.

“Right, that’s enough. I’m going to ask you to leave, or I’ll have to call Security.” Turning reluctantly, the drivers began to file back out. One treated me to a scowl as I stood aside to let them pass.

I was due for a meeting later with Kevin, a City and County Councillor who’s also my landlord and upstairs neighbour. As a side-hustle, I help with his correspondence and comms. He’d know why the proposals were generating such strong feelings.

Before moving on, a pair of dark eyes at the back of the hall briefly met my gaze. Their owner lifted a hand to the side of his head in the shape of a telephone and mouthed: “Let’s talk.” But that could wait. It was time for sustenance.