Spotlight & Giveaway: All the Broken Girls by Linda Hurtado Bond

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome author Linda Hurtado Bond to HJ!

Hi Linda and welcome to HJ! We’re so excited to chat with you about your new release, All the Broken Girls!

 
HI friends, thanks for taking the time to read about my latest thriller All the Broken Girls. I appreciate you! Linda Hurtado Bond.
 

Please summarize the book a la Twitter style for the readers here:

Who is killing All the Broken Girls? When one falls, the others will break unless she plays the game.. Just finished #AllTheBrokenGirls by @AuthorLindaBond and WOW!!!!! One of the best #books of 2022! Thank you @Netgalley and @entangledpub for this amazing book!
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

On a normal day, I’d be first into the conference room, laptop open, eager to impress El Jefe and my TV news colleagues with a list of exclusive stories to pitch – mined from my confidential, well-placed police sources.
But this is not a normal day.
Today, my center spins in one anxiety-fueled funnel cloud as I, the disgraced crime reporter back from suspension, walk into the lively afternoon content meeting.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• The main character is a TV news reporter and I have been a TV news anchor and reporter for over 30 years.
• The main characters are Cuban American living in Tampa, Florida and I met my husband while on assignment in Cuba during the meeting of Pope John Paul and Fidel Castro. We now live in Tampa.
  So it’s based, in part, on my real life love story.
• Santeria is introduced into this book and I used a religious professor from The University of South Florida to fact check my information but the part about the evil eye from others making you sick came from my Cuban mother-in-law.

What first attracts your main characters to each other?

They need each other to help find a serial killer and they are impressed with each other in different ways. Marisol is impressed not only with the detective’s intelligence but also his compassion. And He is impressed with her strength and her insight into the clues the killer is leaving behind.
 

Using just 5 words, how would you describe your main characters”love affair?

Enemies to survivors to lovers.
 

The First Kiss…

Hasn’t happened yet but the sexual tension is building…..

Without revealing too much, what is your favorite scene in the book?

This is the scene where the reporter and the homicide detective realize they have feelings for each other that they really shouldn’t explore since they’re working on homicide investigation together. The detective just took her to interview a witness based on a hunch she has, which she appreciated. it shows her he believes in her. Then he drives her home:

“Probably not proper police protocol to take a witness with you.”
“It’s not.”
I fill the silence that follows his admission. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to report it.”
He doesn’t respond. Nor does he open the car door. Or get out.
We’re both sitting here. In front of my house. My pulse pounding. I’d give a grand to know if his is, too.
“Why did you do it? Take me with you just now?” I can’t help myself. I’m a reporter—asking questions is what I do. “If it could get you in trouble?”
“I think a snowball is starting to roll here, and you’re involved in it.”
My heart skips a beat. Not what I expected to hear. “You’re trying to protect me from it?”
He opens the car door. “My job is to protect you and our west Tampa community.” But he doesn’t step out. “But it’s not just that. You have your pulse on this community.”
“I do.” I follow his lead and open my door, pleased at what I’m taking as a compliment. I get out and look around the simple streets. “I love this place.” I love the outdoor fruit and veggie markets, the small colorful houses, with their statues of the Virgin Mary and Saint Barbara outside. I love the tricycles in the driveways and the Spanish music blaring from their backyards. I love that everyone knows each other by their first names and their family histories.
He exits the car and leans against the top, across from me. The harvest moon is bright and lights his face enough for me to see it. “Where did you disappear to last night?”
He’s a good detective. “I visited a Babalawo down the street.”
“Gotta admit I’m surprised you practice Santeria.”
“I don’t. Not really.” His blunt honesty surprises me, and I feel the need to explain. “Never visited a Babalawo before, but I felt drawn there. He actually did help me.”
Garcia pushes off the car and starts walking toward my house. “I don’t believe in any of that shit.”
That hijacks the mood. I push off the car, too, and the aggressive movement feels good. “I know you don’t. You’re a I-have-to-see-it-or-I-don’t-believe-it kind of guy.” I hustle around the car and run to catch up with him.
He stops mid-step in the middle of the stone walkway leading up to my front door and turns. I run into his chest. Full on, right into his body, and I have to fling my arms around him to stop myself from falling. I close my eyes, embarrassment rushing through me like the cool water of an IV. I start to pull away.
His arms fall around me, and he says, “I’ll tell you what kind of guy I am.”
All the air leaves my body. I don’t even know why—I don’t even like this guy. He’s bossy and a bit of a show off. He’s a gym rat who’s probably a hit with all the women because of those muscles and that jaw and—
“I’m the kind of guy who walks a young lady to her door to make sure she’s home safely.”
Ay Dios Mio. “Of course you’re that guy.” I pull away, full of shame I was actually thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. And all he’s worried about is my safety.
“And tells her to lock the door and don’t answer it unless it’s the police.”
“Right, thanks.” I smile and don’t fight his goodness. I hand him my key and let him open my door for me.
“Do me a favor,” he says as he guides me through my own door. “Take a few Advil and get some sleep.”
For some reason, that irks me. Maybe because he’s proving he’s a much nicer person than I am. Maybe because I’m finding myself physically attracted to him when I don’t want to be. Maybe because he’s pulling off that Latin machismo thing that bugs me.
In a rebellious turn, I lean against the door frame like Sofia Loren or some other femme fatale in a black and white movie classic. “First, I thought I’d visit my abuela’s back room and pray to my orisha. Shall I say a prayer for you, too?” I wait for the reaction I know I’ll get. Why? Because, well, I’m me. And that’s not always a good thing.
He stills and eyes me with a sharp look that’s not weak or joking. “Don’t play with something you don’t understand. Okay?”
Is he talking about Santeria or this energy buzzing between us right now? I gulp, but words stick in the back of my dry-as-hell throat.

If your book was optioned for a movie, what scene would be absolutely crucial to include?

The murder wall scene where the main character, a female reporter, convinces the homicide detective there’s a serial killer at play. And he finally sees it.

Garcia exhales slowly and turns to face my murder wall. He strokes his chin, eyes narrowing as he scans the wall. It’s quite a mess, my murder wall, much like me.
He’s silent for a few more minutes. Finally, he
says, “Walk me through your train of thought here.
I’m a little, I don’t know, confused?”
I love his honesty. Hate it, too. It makes me feel
less of a perfect human.
I start at the beginning of my corridor of clues,
at the picture of the first recent crime scene,
Deputy Natasha Rodrguez’s murder. I point to
what I’ve posted on the wall, explaining why, all the
way up to the big number six.
“At first I thought six was important because the
original victim was six when the kid shot her. The
deputy—shot six times, at six p.m. Six keeps
showing up.”
“Why did you write ‘what if six references something
else’?” he asks.
I’m not sure he’s going to like the answer.
“Promise you’ll stay with me before passing judgment.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
I glance at the picture of Saint Barbara on
Abuela’s altar. “Six is the number associated with
Chango.”
He nods. He doesn’t ask who Chango is, or why
Chango has a number. He’s Cuban American. He
knows Chango is a mighty orisha in the Santeria
religion. He may not like it, he may not believe it,
but he knows it. And he doesn’t judge it.
“And what does this line lead to?” He drags his
finger across the red marker and points to the
picture of an anonymous person with one eye open
and one eye shut. “What…who is this?”
“A picture from a magazine to illustrate the one
eye closed of Deputy Rodriguez. It’s the crown on
the coin that’s important.”
“Chango wears a crown.”
Not a question.
He’s catching on.

Readers should read this book …

If you love a good who done it mystery, with edge of your seat suspense and a slow burn growing romance with the flavor of Tampa’s Cuban American community.

What are you currently working on? What other releases do you have planned?

I’m working on the second book in the series: All the Missing Girls

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: Your choice of a digital copy of any of my books: Alive at 5, Cuba Undercover, Flatline or the newest release All the Broken Girls.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: Do you believe in superstitions like the one Mari believes in? She believes if you wear an azabache charm, the black gemstone will protect you from the ill will of others, be it intentional or unintentional.

 
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Excerpt from All the Broken Girls:

First Chapter of All the Broken Girls

CHAPTER ONE

On a normal day, I’d be first into the conference room, laptop open, eager to impress El Jefe and my TV news colleagues with a list of exclusive stories to pitch – mined from my confidential, well-placed police sources.
But this is not a normal day.
Today, my center spins in one anxiety-fueled funnel cloud as I, the disgraced crime reporter back from suspension, walk into the lively afternoon content meeting.
I present my best journalistic poker-face as I parade through the room in my only pair of red-bottomed stilettos. I pray that, despite my nerves, I’m pulling off a got-no-worries look. No one needs to know my goal is simply to survive my first day back without getting in trouble. Or worse, fired.
I intend to grab an easy assignment and not screw up. Sencillo. No pido mucho. Easy. Not asking much.
My various coworkers stop the daily debate over story priority and stare. Today, I’m fish food for their curiosity. I smile at the afternoon anchor with the perfectly blown-out hair. She raises her eyebrows and glances to the other side of the room. As do I.
There are only two open seats in the room packed with managers, producers, writers, reporters and photographers. One chair is next to the afternoon anchor. The other is at the end of the elongated conference table, directly across from El Jefe.
The Boss.
I deliberately head toward the seat across from Mr. Payton.
I’m running fifteen minutes late after driving my Abuela Bonita to her doctor’s appointment. But that’s not bad, actually, for Cuban time. Of course my statement high heels click on the uncarpeted floor like my abuela’s disapproving tongue and all I can think of is the silly commercial with the tagline “Wanna get away?” Except I can’t escape. It’s my first day back at the TV station after two weeks at home with no work and no pay. I’m still on probation, and I need this job like I need water and air.
Speaking of which, the thought makes me notice how parched my throat is and I’m afraid my voice will crack when I talk. My lungs are so empty I’m not sure I can deliver any story pitches, even if my job depends on it.
Which, it does.
Reporting is in my blood.
But my paycheck – also a necessity.
I rub my right wrist. The red rope is there. The pea-sized, black gemstone dangles from it. I roll the azabache charm between my fingers, silently going through my routine: twist the stone three times to the right, three to the left. Six times in all. My lucky number. I swear I’ll never go to a crime scene again without the charm. I’ve learned my lesson. Asi es. Truth. That’s how it is.
I pull out the chair across from Mr. Payton and accidentally scrape the floor. It’s loud.
More stares cut my way. The air conditioning kicks up a notch, but that means nothing to the sweat rolling down my back, sliding into the most inconvenient places. I ignore the wet tickle and stand even taller before taking a seat.
My boss drills me with that intense stare that says everything he’s not allowed to vocalize for fear Human Resources will reprimand him. “Thanks for joining us, Ms. Álvarez.”
“Had to drop off my grandmother at her doctor’s office. She doesn’t drive.” I sit and twist the water bottle on the table until it faces me. I look at El Jefe and force the corners of my mouth up. Abuela Bonita always told me, no matter what’s going on inside, you can win over the world with a warm smile.
“Let’s continue.” Mr. Payton looks at Paul Johnson, our political reporter.
Paul clears his throat. “As I was saying, the governor is going to hold a press conference on the opioid crisis at a local…”
I cross my ankles to keep my leg from bouncing. It’s clear my boss doesn’t trust me anymore. Not since my serial killer story got the station sued.
I catch the ambitious, crime reporter wannabe eyeing me from the right corner of the room. Bet she’s dying to know what happened to warrant my suspension. She probably already knows. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long in a newsroom.
What the hell had gone wrong?
Abuela Bonita calls it mala suerte. She insisted I wear the azabache bracelet to ward off the bad luck following me. I find the charm again and twist.
I will fix this. Don’t know how. But I will repair my damaged reputation.
“Álvarez?”
I flinch in my seat.
“You have anything to add to the meeting?” El Jefe taps his engraved pen on the table in a slow, rhythmic pattern.
“Well, Mr. Payton.” He likes it when we use his last name. “I thought I’d do a feature on a young girl in New Tampa Hospital who needs a kidney transplant.”
“That from the crime beat reporter?” I hear the words he isn’t speaking.
“I know.” I answer in my head. “Eleven Emmys, and I still messed up that last crime story, didn’t I?” Out loud I say, “She’s an artist – truly amazing gift – and she’s willing to auction off her paintings to raise money so people can get tested to see if they’re a match. We could save her life by sharing her story.”
My boss nods but says, “Busch Gardens is showing off a new baby sloth this evening.”
My cheeks burn. I sit back. The heat floods down into my chest. “A baby sloth?” I’m pretty sure this is what a public castration feels like.
“We have enough crime corruption, death and destruction today. We need something positive after Weather. Sloth baby it is. Can’t go wrong with baby animals,” he says.
Can’t get the station sued again, you mean.
“You’re on that, Álvarez.”
“Gracias.” I close my eyes and visualize a sloth picking at El Jefe’s bushy, needs-to-be-cut eyebrows with those two big, claw-like toes. In slow motion, of course. “If our viewers see what I’m envisioning, they’re going to love it” I smile. Warmly.
Whatever. It will keep me employed for at least one more day. My sister Izzy and Abuela Bonita are counting on me.
My phone goes off. I look down, fumbling it as I try to flip off the ringer. “Sorry. Sorry.” It’s not someone calling. It’s my home RING security camera alerting me. My pulse takes off like an F-16. Someone is at our front door. My heart stalls. And falls.
“An important source?” El Jefe asks.
A scoff from the right corner of the room. “Baby sloth police calling?” Crime reporter wannabe gets the room laughing.
Wannabe must have missed her café con leche this morning. I join the laughter and wink at her, despite the slow scalding heat I’m feeling. Abuela Bonita also taught me you get more with honey than vinegar. “No. No. Sorry.” Just my sister’s boyfriend of the week, who is not supposed to be at our house. I shake my head.
“Álvarez?”
My spine straightens. “Yes?”
“You can take the new photographer, Chris Jensen.”
That pulls me back to the moment. “But I always work with Orlando.” A big eyeball fills the RING camera at the front door, but it isn’t Izzy’s new boyfriend. His eyes are blue as the Florida sky. Isabella’s are dark brown, so dark you can’t tell where the pupil ends, and the iris begins. Izzy pulls back and yells at the RING camera, “Stop spying on me!”
My younger sister is always telling me to mind my own business and get a life of my own.
Snickers flicker across the room.
Every hair on the back of my neck rises. The audio on my iPhone is still on. Wanna get away?
I glance at my coworker Kiara. She smiles and shakes her head. I appreciate her support. Time to turn the sound off my iPhone.
“Everything okay?” El Jefe’s features remain constant. He doesn’t chastise me for my sister’s outburst, even though she interrupted his busy news meeting.
“Yes sir, I’m fine.” Wait till I get home, Isabella! “I’m fine.”
He nods, but his eyes narrow.
I sit though one of his nerve-wracking, wish-I-knew-what-he’s thinking pauses.
He says, “You can take Orlando.”
I exhale.
El Jefe is throwing me a peace offering, I think. Or maybe he believes I can’t even handle an animal story with the newbie photographer, so giving me Orlando is like tossing out a safety vest.
Wow.
Two week ago, I would have rolled my eyes at the insult of such an easy, nonrelevant assignment. I would have been deeply offended by the shade of making sure I had a veteran babysitter with me.
Tonight, I’m grateful for it.
Even though I know I can’t possibly screw up a baby sloth, story, right?

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

ABOUT THE BOOK:
When one falls…

Crime reporter Mari Alvarez was never able to solve her mother’s murder ten years ago. But when a woman is gunned down on the doorstep of her West Tampa neighborhood, Mari can’t shake the eerie sense of connection.

The others will break…

Now there have been two murders in two days. Each crime scene awash with arcane clues―and without a trace of DNA from the killer. And for each victim, a doll. The first is missing an eye. The second is missing a heart. But are these clues leading to the killer…or messages for Mari?

Unless she plays the game…

Caught up in a maelstrom of Old-World superstition, secrets, and ties to her own past, Mari has only one option. Put the puzzle together before someone else dies―even if it destroys her career. But there’s no escaping the hungry spider’s web when it’s been made just for you…
Book Links: Amazon | B&N |Goodreads |
 
 

Meet the Author:

By day, Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy and Edward R. Murrow award-winning journalist. By night, she’s an author of James Bond like adventures and heart-stopping thrillers. Linda met her husband Jorge on assignment in Cuba, twenty-some years later they’ve raised a doctor, a nurse, a pilot, a paramedic firefighter, and an aspiring psychologist. A breast cancer survivor, she’s active in the Tampa community raising money and awareness. When not working she finds time for her passions, her husband Jorge, world travel, classic movies, and solving a good mystery. Visit Linda at lindabond.com.
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