SEAN CARLESS

CATFISH

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Genre: Murder Mystery Thriller.

Pages: 343

Amazon Customer Review Rating:

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After completing my massive six-part TNT series, I was left with the task of coming up with new and unrelated stories, as well as entirely different genres. Hence: CATFISH. A murder mystery thriller - my second foray into that genre, and a complex who-done-it that I hope will subvert your expectations!

 

I’m very proud of this one, and I hope you will all enjoy it as well! (Please spread the word if you enjoyed it!).

 

Thank you again to everyone who supported me here as well as all my other books, columns and posts! I appreciate you all! 

 

CATFISH is available right now on Amazon, in both softcover, hardcover and on Kindle!

 

S.C.

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The Plot: "CATFISH" delves into the shadowy realm of online dating, as Detective Jake Powell, grappling with personal tragedy, is unwittingly thrust into the heart of his best friend Max's duplicitous life, which intersects with a shocking murder-suicide.

As Jake stumbles upon Max's secret phone, he becomes a pawn in a chilling game orchestrated by the true killer.

In this suspenseful thriller, love, betrayal, and manipulation collide, compelling one man to fight for his innocence and unearth the truth hidden within a web of deceit. 

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Excerpt:

“I have little left in myself -- I must have you. The world may laugh -- may call me absurd, selfish -- but it does not signify. My very soul demands you: it will be satisfied, or it will take deadly vengeance on its frame.”
― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre.

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“Why am I letting you comfort me?” He stared over her head. “Because I’ve made sure you have no one else to turn to.”
― Kresley Cole, Lothaire.

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“To punish someone for your own mistakes or for the consequences of your own actions, to harm another by shifting blame that is rightly yours; this is a wretched and cowardly sin.”
― Richelle E. Goodrich.

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   “Not now, Max,” a woman muttered, barely able to get her words out, as she stood before a bathroom sink, her trembling hands clutching its cold porcelain edges.
She let out a long, exhaustive sigh as she gazed into the mirror.

   This woman, Rachael, 31, she only stared at herself now in this unfortunate reflection; a tear-streaked face looking back that bore the marks of distress: red, puffy eyes, framed by long mascara smudges. Strands of her tangled, curled, chestnut-brown hair clung to her cheeks, and her normally healthy, sightly freckled skin looked ashen and worn. She physically matched now the brokenness she felt inside; her countenance fully mirroring the weight of the evening’s revelations. The bathroom’s harsh fluorescent light only highlighted every detail of her features, casting a further pale, ghostly glow on her disheveled appearance.
   Taking another deep breath, she splashed cool water onto her face, a feeble attempt to wash away the betrayal and pain within that felt like it was burrowing out from her guts. Droplets cascaded down her cheeks, tracing the contour of her slightly upturned nose, her quivering fingers brushing wet strands of hair away from her full, brown eyes, which were still burning from her recent tears. 
The relative silence around her was then disrupted by a sudden, loud crash. It was a deafening thud, followed by the distinct, shrill sound of shattering glass. The noise had come from the living room, and then echoed through the apartment in an unusual cacophony. Rachael’s heart, already racing, now pounded in her chest as if trying to escape.
   “Max, please,” she stated incredulously, although her words barely came out. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this anymore,” She had reserved herself to this statement. It was over. And none of Max’s further histrionics could sway her.
   Rachael’s gaze then left the mirror and her own face staring back. She was now fixated on the bathroom door’s knob - a knob that moved ever-so-slightly before being met with the abrupt halt of its locked mechanism. 
  “Max?” Rachael again spoke, hearing only now what sounded like muffled and congested breathing on the other side of this wooden divider, her knuckles whitening as she again clung to the edges of the sink, waiting for answers.
The lights then went out. Inside the bathroom. And right outside of it. In collective unison. A startling pop that ushered in a blanket of black all at once. Only the slightest sliver of moonlight cascaded in through a small window above the bathtub, giving her any semblance of direction.
  “Max?” Rachael again asked, her nerves spent. “What’s going on?”
She received no reply....
 

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