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

Today it is my pleasure to Welcome romance 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 Captive Girls!

HI readers. I’m so grateful for you! Love a thriller adventure and a triangle love situation? Read on!
 

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

A determined reporter. An ingenious serial killer. A high stakes game of cat and mouse pulling you through the streets and hidden tunnels of Ybor City during the chaos of Tampa’s annual Gasparilla Pirate Festival. A white knuckle thrill ride that grabs you by the throat and never lets go. #riveting #heart-stopping adventure #passionlikeapirate #Gasparilla
 

Please share the opening lines of this book:

Saturday 2 p.m.
Gasparilla Children’s Parade
“I’m Channel 15 reporter Mari Alvarez, and it’s a Chamber of Commerce Day for a pirate parade in Tampa Bay.”
The perfect day for a killer to hide in plain sight.
I stare into the TV camera, praying nothing goes wrong.

Please share a few Fun facts about this book…

• The Gasparilla the festival wasn’t created by swashbuckling pirates, but rather by the society editor of the Tampa Tribune, in partnership with civic and social leaders in the Bay area.“Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla” was born in 1904, and carried out a mock pirate invasion of Tampa. The event was so popular that citizens clamored to make it a yearly occurrence.
• at times 300 thousand people attend the Gasparilla adult parade.
• All the Captive Girls explores artificial intelligence and how it can ruin your reputation over night. Have you heard of Pegasus? Here’s what it can do. Pegasus spyware infects the victim’s phone through zero-click exploits, meaning the victim doesn’t need to click a link or take any other action to trigger the spyware on their device. Once installed on an Android or iOS device, Pegasus can secretly monitor and collect sensitive data by
  Reading text messages and emails
  Accessing the microphone and camera
  Listening in on phone calls
  Recording passwords using a keylogger
  Tracking the phone’s location
  Surveilling app usage
  Yikes!
• I love a good love triangle. This book has a good one in it.
• My publisher wanted a thriller – no kissing. I snuck kissing in. 🙂

What first attracts your main characters to each other?

They share a love for seeking justice. He’s a homicide detective. She’s a crime reporter. They both want to right wrongs. And they both share a love of family.
 

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

I can describe it in one. Complicated.
 

The First Kiss…

“Where would you like me to meet you, Mari? When this is over?”
A rush of that goo-gooey feeling overtakes me. I grab him, pull him closer, and whisper a location into his ear.
When I pull back, he’s smiling.
To my surprise, he pulls me close and plants a kiss on my lips. Forceful and fast, as if we’re teenagers and don’t want to get caught by our teacher.
I glow from the inside, my lips tingling with the promise. “Don’t get yourself killed, Mari.”
I see in his gaze he means it. He doesn’t want to live without me. I just have to help repair the broken parts in him that won’t let him say it. Maybe he can help repair the broken parts in me that struggle with intimacy, too.
Maybe we can blossom together in our secret place at sea…like pirates. Searching not for treasure, but trust. And healing.
To get to that meeting, and our own version of the Empire State Building, first I must find those being held captive, then capture a phantom, and finally, survive the night.
That’s all.

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

The finale – butI don’t want to ruin it, so I’ll just share this :

“Oh, I think you’re still up for some action,” I tease, my voice low and sultry.
“What kind do you have in mind?” he asks, leaning in closer.
“We have a number of days to play naughty pirates,” I whisper, my breath hot against his ear.
His eyes widen in mock horror. “You’re kidding, right? Haven’t you had enough of pirates?”
I laugh, the sound carrying over the festive noise around us. “We can be our own kind of pirates. We can write our own story now.”
His expression softens, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, give me the first line to our new story.”
I clear my throat dramatically, adopting my best pirate accent. “‘Now and then we had the hope that, if we lived good, God would permit us to be pirates.’”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You made that up? That was fast.”
I shake my head, grinning. “No, I wish. That’s Mark Twain.”
“So we’re going in search of literary treasure? You and I?” He asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“That we are, matey,” I reply, planting a kiss on his cheek.
He turns his head, capturing my lips in a long, slow kiss. The crowd around us erupts in applause, and a blush creeps up my neck.
When we finally part, I whisper, “‘To be loved by a
pirate is to feel the wind in your hair, the salt on your lips, and the thrill of adventure coursing through your veins.’”
He cocks an eyebrow. “That is not Mark Twain.”
I laugh. “No, it’s Johanna Lindsey from her romance novel A Pirate’s Love.”
“Mari, you do realize I’m not a pirate,” he says, his voice filled with amusement.
I lean in close, my lips brushing his ear. “Oh, when are you going to realize I am?”

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

The opening scene when we realize this book will be a cat and mouse game between a reporter and a serial killer like in Silence of the Lambs

Chapter One
Saturday 2 p.m.
Gasparilla Children’s Parade
“I’m Channel 15 reporter Mari Alvarez, and it’s a Chamber of Commerce Day for a pirate parade in Tampa Bay.”
The perfect day for a killer to hide in plain sight.
I stare into the TV camera, praying nothing goes wrong.
“For the next two hours, we’ll be bringing you the sights and sounds of Tampa’s annual Children’s Gasparilla parade from atop our TV station’s float.”
Heart pounding, loud as cannon fire, I scan the crowd of cheerful parents and kids lining Bayshore Boulevard, three rows thick.
They have no idea who might be standing next to them. But I do.
My muscles coil, ready to spring into action, as our float inches down the street, an imposing ship sailing straight
from the pages of a storybook. Large, tattered black sails ripple in the blistering bay breeze, emblazoned with a fearsome skull and crossbones.
I stand on a raised platform in the center, surrounded by dancing coworkers donning eye-patches and shimmering fake beads.
Unaware of the potential threat.
Our live broadcast off to a perfect start, I wipe away sweat before it blinds me. “Blue skies, temps in the high eighties.” My tone remains warm, a rainbow of colors, like the baggy pants and tricorne hat my TV news photographer wears.
The exact opposite of the black-and-white fear bottoming out in my belly.
“One hundred thousand expected on Bayshore today.”
One hundred thousand potential victims.
Women in the crowd sport fun, flamboyant wench-wear, their kids dancing around in creative costumes, masks and floppy hats, shading their faces from the brutal, Florida sun.
Masking their faces from me and our TV cameras.
Making it impossible to spot who I’m looking for. Boom.
Cannons fire from the float in front of us.
Boom.
Members of Ye Mystic Krewe of Gasparilla discharge their pretend weapons continuously.
And yet I jump every time.
I play it off. “I’m sure I’m not the only one startled by the cannon blasts or the high-school drummers beating their way down Bayshore.” I breathe in both air and sound. “Listen to the musical monsoon erupting around us.”

Dance songs blare from various float speakers. Yearning voices blend in a high-pitched mix, “Beads. Beads. More beads. Big beads. Fancy beads. Please!”
The high energy inflames my already fired-up nervous system.
I catch Detective Tony Garcia’s gaze. He’s walking the street next to our float. He mouths, “You okay? See anything?”
I shake my head. In a T-shirt and blue jeans, not his usual homicide detective button-down and khakis, Tony had told coworkers at Tampa’s Police Department he’d picked up this security detail for extra cash.
We both know better.
I zero in on the bump at Tony’s waist, barely covered by the cotton shirt. He must be carrying his personal Glock, smaller than his station-issued weapon.
Something strikes me in the cheek. I grab a strand of beads before they fall.
“Rowdy little pirates and wenches attack with their weapons.” I fist the beads and raise them high in the air. “The goal: to take over Tampa.” Pushing the plastic necklace toward the camera, I say in a pirate-like voice, “Lucky for us maties, these armaments are mere beads—treasure—not swords.” I toss the string back at the kids lining the street.
The crowd erupts.
“Over the next two hours, we’ll—”
A whizzing sound.
Another bead whacks me. This time on the shoulder. It
burns.
What the—? I swallow the expletive.
My photog stumbles backward, smashing against our

walled-in port-o-potty. His grunting mere noise lost in a sea of sounds.
But when blood trickles from his shoulder, slithering down the front of his white, Channel 15 polo, I know.
I know.
My breath stops.
My photographer picks up on the red trail. His eyes go wide. The camera slides out of his fingers, the heavy equipment landing on his right foot. His mouth opens in a horror film–worthy scream. But no sound comes out.
I cringe, phantom pain shooting through me.
I need to say something, because we’re live on the air. Words vaporize. For once in my decade-long career, I don’t know what to do.
Time slows.
The noise of the parade dims into a hum.
It’s happening.
Just like he promised.
I duck down. Fall to my hands and knees.
I’d warned the police chief and my boss before today’s
parade about this. Police had upped security but refused to call off the parade based on the one phone call I’d received. They’d called it a false alarm made by someone trying to scare me. I’m scared, all right.
Staccato shots at assault-rifle speed incite screams.
People dart away from our float as if a bomb exploded. They fan out like shrapnel dispersing in every direction.
I’m breathing hard; it’s like inhaling flames. Snippets of random shouts rise from the street. “What’s that?”
“Gunshots. Get down!”

“Shooter!”
One shrill voice escalates above others. “Active shooter. Run!”
The hired security guard rushes toward my photographer as the float jerks to a stop.
My photog falls to his knees and pitches forward, facedown onto the floor, landing on top of his equipment.
“Medic!” I scream, my body tingling from my ears all the way down to my toes. “We need a paramedic!” Pushing to my feet, I hunch over and pull myself past my colleagues.
Most shove me out of their way. Others throw their bodies flat on the float’s floor.
I step over them, get to the side, grab the rail, and search for Tony.
The thick crowd streaks away from Bayshore, pulled like an outgoing tide.
I scan the crowd. My heart stretches. Where is he? Did he fall under the float?
I can’t find the shooter, either. I know you’re here, you devil.
Too many pirates are dressed in feathered hats and puffy vests, faces distorted by fake scars and bloody makeup. And now—fear.
Unrecognizable.
A high-end baby stroller falls over in front of our float. A mother screams, while an older man swipes the baby up off the concrete.
High-school band members, in black-and-red uniforms that say WARRIORS, stumble past our float, zombie-like, their instruments abandoned and cluttering the street, like an alien-led invasion vaporized everyone.

Kids scream in a choir of terror.
I catch the yellow vest of a—
“Hey!” My heart leaps. “Over here.” I gesture with both
hands, knowing the paramedic can’t hear—
Pop. Pop. Pop. Bam. Bam. Bam.
Not a cannon.
I drop to my knees. Cover my head with my arms.
The shooter is firing this way! Where’s Tony?
My heart slams my ribs with such force I’m afraid my
bones will break. Was that bullet meant for him?
One of my coworkers falls next to me. She rolls over,
eyes blinking, screaming.
I’m shrieking now, too.
It hits me.
Not a bullet, but the truth. He’s targeting me.
Evil asshole told me he would, but I had no idea he’d take out innocent people during a children’s parade. Stars spin in my peripheral vision.
Ding.
I jerk my cell phone out of my pocket, read the incoming text.
It’s me.
He doesn’t have to type his name. I know who it is.
The serial killer I helped bust has returned seeking revenge.

Readers should read this book …

because – check out the reviews

Picture it— a determined reporter is thrust into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse with an ingenious serial killer, racing through the streets and hidden tunnels of Ybor City during the chaos of the annual Gasparilla Pirate Festival. This is the gripping premise of All the Captive Girls, a standalone book in a series of fast-paced thrillers that comes out on February 17th. Early reviews have hailed it as a “white-knuckle thrill ride” that “grabs you by the throat and never lets go,” calling it a “riveting” and “heart-stopping adventure” from start to finish. Nick Steele – editor StPete Life Magazine

Cutting edge AI meets old world Tampa in this terrifying chase for a serial killer. Crackling with high-stakes tension and racing at breakneck speed through the streets and tunnels of Ybor City, All the Captive Girls is the ultimate thrill ride. Best selling author Bonnie Kistler

Propulsively paced – – with nonstop action! Not only a riveting thriller with an immersive setting, but a savvy and smart look inside the total immersion world of journalism – – and the balance demanded of a devoted reporter under pressure from her professional and personal responsibilities. Only Linda Hurtado Bond, with her depth of experience and savvy writing, could bring us this heart-stopping adventure about the clash of cultures–revealing the power of greed, passion, heartbreak and ultimate redemption.
Hank Phillippi Ryan USA TODAY Bestselling Author

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

My publisher has a TV pitch deck out for my series ending with All the Captive Girls.
i’d love to see these characters live on on your TV screens.

Thanks for blogging at HJ!

Giveaway: I wrote all 3 books in this series as stand alone books but you can read them together. My give away is the first two books in the series.

To enter Giveaway: Please complete the Rafflecopter form and Post a comment to this Q: Do you use artificial intelligence and if so what for? Are you scared of what AI can do?

 
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Excerpt from All the Captive Girls:

Saturday 9:00 p.m. Tony’s house
I drive over to Tony’s house, my mind still reeling from the day’s events. The shooting at the parade, Domingo’s disappearance, and now this email from the Phantom to Jessica. My fingers grip the steering wheel until they tingle from lack of blood flow. The warmth of the yellow rice and chicken, in Tupperware, on the passenger seat beside me is my only small comfort.
As I pull up to Tony’s house, I notice it’s not only dark, but quiet. Usually, there’s a warm glow from the windows, the sound of Domingo’s laughter or the excited barks of Freedom as they play in the front yard under the motion lights. Several cars in the driveway indicate buddies are over watching some baseball or football. Or music floats from the backyard, where Tony’s BBQ smoker is often in use.
But tonight, it’s eerily still.
I let myself in with the key Tony told me about, hidden in a locked box under a planter his mother gave him just for this reason. He recently gave me the code, a big step toward our romantic future.
At least, I’d hoped.
The code is my birthday. Another sure sign. Right? He’d finally texted me a couple of hours ago, when I
was leaving the TV station, saying he saw me on the news. Wanted to make sure I was all right. I told him I’d bring dinner. Didn’t ask. I knew he’d say no.
“Tony?” I call out softly, but there’s no response. The kitchen is dark, the patio lights off out back. No smell of food.
I smile. I knew he’d need to eat.
I’d dropped by his mother’s house on my way here to pick up his favorite and spent thirty minutes recounting the day for his lovely mom, who worried her son had been too tired to come by and eat after his stressful day. That told me all I needed to know about the condition of the man whose home I’m entering.
He wants to be alone.
He’s not in a good place.
What I’ve brought him may cheer him up. Or at least fill
his belly, allowing him to sleep. Maybe.
I set the food down in the kitchen and make my way through the house, a sense of unease growing with each step. The decor makes this home the perfect man cave for the homicide detective who, until recently, never had a long- term, serious girlfriend.

But am I his girlfriend?
I walk down the hall, glancing into his bedroom, surprised the door is open. Tony, the blue-collar cop, doesn’t want his bros to see the softer, more cultural side of him, like the mosaic and tiled pieces of art on the bedroom wall he bought from Fuster, a famous artist, while in Cuba. A water fountain on the dresser, delivering white, meditative noise throughout the night. Or the military thrillers by Don Bentley and Andrews and Wilson settled on top of his classic literary favorites stacked on his nightstand, next to eyedrops and cucumber sparkling water. Touches that make him both tough and human to me.
I’ve never been in Domingo’s room before, but I know it’s at the end of the hall. I’m drawn there now.
Pushing open the door, I’m struck by the sight of Tony sitting on the bed, his broad shoulders hunched, his head bowed. The room, a shrine to Domingo’s new life in America, favors a huge American flag on the wall, brand new Nikes on the floor, a bed for Freedom. A prosthetic leg Tony had made for the dog is propped up against it. But it’s the photos that catch my eye—Domingo’s mother, his uncle Maximo, his old street in Cuba. And the makeshift Santeria altar in the right corner of the room, with Chango and Saint Barbara along with what I recognize as his mother’s rosary. A lump forms in my throat as I remember Tony’s fight with his cousin, Domingo’s mother, and how Tony convinced her to let her teenage son come to America, promising to keep him safe.
I sit down beside Tony, the bed dipping under our combined weight. Wordlessly, I place my hand in his, caressing the calluses and strength there. His skin feels

feverish. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t speak, either. The silence between us hangs heavy, charged with unspoken fears and questions. The tension radiating off Tony’s body makes its way into my muscles, his usual calm demeanor, shattered by worry, shakes me as well.
Where could Domingo be?
Where could Hanks be holding him captive?
The questions swirl in my mind, tossing around in my
stomach, but I push them down. Right now, Tony needs me to be strong. “What’s that in your hand?” I ask, nodding to the paper he’s clutching.
“Domingo got accepted to the Fire Academy,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “He’ll also train to be a paramedic.”
Pride washes over me. We’d all been waiting for the news. Domingo told me when we met in Cuba that he wanted to come to America to be a doctor. Tony helped him realize, once here, maybe all that schooling wasn’t really his thing. “That’s perfect for him.” I squeeze Tony’s hand, knowing this is the result of his loving guidance.
“I let him down, Mari,” he whispers, his words weighted. “In so many ways. Let down his mother, too. This is what she feared.”
My heart clenches at the pain in his voice, the way his usually straight back and shoulders are slumped under the weight of his perceived failure. In this moment, I see Tony in a new light—not just as the tough, unflappable detective, but as a man capable of deep, fierce love. Love for Domingo, the young man he’s taken under his wing. Love for Freedom, the three-legged dog he rescued from Cuba. Love for his mother, his grandfather, his family.

But I also see a man who puts up walls, who doesn’t allow himself to be cared for in return. I want to be that person for him, to show him that he deserves love and support, too. It doesn’t make him weak to lean a little on others. But he keeps holding me away, making me wonder if he feels the same. Maybe I’m not the woman he needs. Even if I want to be.
“I brought yellow rice and chicken,” I say, breaking the heavy silence.
He shakes his head.
“I got it from your mom.” As if on cue, my stomach growls.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his face. “You should go eat.” Just as quickly, it disappears. “I’m not hungry. Not much company, either.”
He’s not dismissing me that easily. “Only if you join me. At least sit at the table with me. Please.” I know that will get him.
I stand, tugging on his hand until he rises to his feet. Before he can change his mind, I step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist, holding him tight. For a moment, he’s stiff, unyielding. But then, with a shuddering sigh, he melts into me, his arms coming around to pull me closer.
He smells of sweat, and cologne to cover it. Of hunger and fear. I squeeze him tighter.
We stand there, two broken pieces fitting together, drawing strength from each other. In this embrace, I try to pour all my love, all my faith into him. I want him to know that he’s not alone, that we’ll find Domingo together, that he’s a good man, who has done so much for this young man, and that he, too, deserves happiness.

“We’ll put the acceptance letter on Domingo’s desk,” I murmur into his chest. “So he can read it as soon as he gets home.”
Tony nods, pulling back slightly. He takes a picture of the letter and sends it to Domingo’s phone. “I want him to know now.”
I wonder if Domingo still has his phone. Maybe Tony already checked for its location. I push those questions aside. Right now, Tony needs a moment of normalcy and comfort.
Hand in hand, we walk to the kitchen, the aroma of his mother’s cooking enveloping us like a warm embrace. And for a moment, as we sit down to eat, the horrors of the day fade away, replaced by the simple comfort of being with someone you trust.

Chapter Eleven
The yellow rice and chicken from Tony’s mom tastes like home, but I’m finding it hard to palate Tony’s continued silence. Before today, I would have settled into our familiar patterns. Sometimes after a long day at work, one of us craves quiet. We’re both good with that. He spends his days with dead people and their grieving families. I spend my day telling their neighbors about the tragedy. Sometimes silence is, indeed, golden.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I need to talk.
But I know he needs silence.
Is this what marriage is like? All this uncomfortable
compromise?
I push the food around on my plate, my appetite gone. “I
went to the Blind Tiger today.” Did I tell him that already? No, I told El Jefe and Jessica. “After the shooting.”
“I wondered where you took off to.” Tony looks up, his eyes shadowed. “Why?”
At least he seems interested. “Orlando wanted to meet
me there.” Should I tell him about O and Izzy? Later. I hesitate, then add, “Hanks left another message. For Orlando this time. In person.”
The spoon stops before it hits his mouth. His jaw clenches. “What did he say? And why am I only hearing about this now?”
“This day, Tony.”
He exhales.
I don’t have to explain. “Hanks left an invitation to the
Stanley House. His way of telling Orlando to join the game.” I stab a piece of chicken with more force than necessary. “All kinds of social media video of it, but Hanks hid his face again. With that stupid phantom mask this time under a Panama hat.”
“Figures,” Tony mutters.
“He touched me, Tony. Not suggestively. No, I’m sure he touched me because he wants me to know he can get that close to me whenever he wants, in public, whatever. I think he wants me to know he’s going to play with me until he gets tired. And then kill me.”
“Stop.” His silverware slams down. “I mean it. Stop with that.”
“I was thinking…” I ignore him, because the truth is the truth. “Maybe Matt could look at the videos on social media. Use his AI skills to prove it’s Hanks anyway. The way he walks, a scar, something the human eye might miss.”
Tony nods slowly. “Matt’s an expert in AI, well- respected across the state.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Do you like him?”
I expect Tony to say, “Why do you care?”
Instead, a wry smile tugs at Tony’s lips. “He’s a bit of a player, but good at his job. What he does in his personal life”—he shrugs and picks up the silverware again—“I don’t care.”
My heart sinks a little. Tony’s indifference stings more than it should. Or maybe he just isn’t clued into Matt’s flirting with me today. “I don’t have his number.” I mean, I do, but not his phone number.
Tony pauses, breaks from eating, scrolls through his contact list. “Here.” He slides his phone across the table. “Text him tomorrow, set up a time to go over the videos. That’s a good idea, Mari.”
I stare at the phone, confusion and hurt swirling inside me. The hug in the bedroom, the way he held me…I thought it meant something. But now he’s casually giving me the number of a player who hit on me earlier, right in front of him.
Does Tony care about me in a romantic way or not?
I push more, both for the case and my own personal information. “I want to revisit Hanks’s brother. You remember, I interviewed him when I started catching on to Hanks.”
“Nando, right?”
Not surprised Tony remembers. “He hates Hanks, so I don’t think he’d let him stay at his house, but maybe he can give us some leads. Like before. He lives close by.” I meet Tony’s gaze. “Do you want to come?”
He shakes his head, his expression distant. “I’m going to go over FDOT cameras tomorrow, toll footage. AI-powered cameras can scan and read license plates in real time. If I integrate the technology with the FDOT cameras, I can quickly identify all the times Domingo’s car was captured on footage in the last forty-eight. The AI can compile a database of timestamps and locations. Track his phone records, lay down his last two days. I’ll follow his digital road map.” He rubs a hand over his face, looking exhausted. “I need to get a good night’s sleep.”
The implication is clear. I can’t stay. He’s pushing me away again, so he can go off and do his own thing. Until he finds Domingo, until we stop Hanks, this relationship isn’t going anywhere.
Not unless I push it.
He won’t. So I do.
I lean across the space between us—sitting side by side,
it’s not far—and I press my lips on his. I kiss him, pouring all my longing, all my confusion into it. His lips move under mine. For a moment, he kisses me back, and hope flares in my chest.
Then his phone rings.
He pulls away, glancing at the screen. “Homicide. In Tampa.”
Is it wrong of me to want sex to wipe away the day’s grit and blood? To dive into pleasure with the man who has always had my back in the past but won’t commit to our future? “Related to the parade?” My voice sounds distant.
“Don’t know.”
He looks like he needs some physical release, too, all scrunched eyebrows and pale, slick skin.
“Either way, I’m head of homicide.” He stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “I’ve got to go.”
“Do you?” But I nod as I say it, realizing he wants to leave. Staying busy probably keeps him from dealing with his feelings. Leaving will also allow him to avoid dealing with mine. “I’ll clean up,” I say, resigned.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” I also know he wants me to. Tony likes order. That includes a clean house. “I’ll lock up, too.”
He pauses at the door, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about leaving me alone to clean up or sorry that he can’t be what I need right now. My body still thrums with unfulfilled desire, and I can’t help but feel a twinge of resentment. I long to twist the azabache charm usually on my wrist, but it’s gone. Like this evening. Part of me wants to beg him to stay, to forget about work for once and choose me instead. But I know better. Tony’s dedication to his job is part of what I admire about him, even if it frustrates me sometimes. Still, as I watch him prepare to leave, I can’t shake the feeling that we’re both running from something bigger than Hanks or this new homicide case.
As I wash the dishes, tears prick at my eyes. I angrily brush them away. Stupid to cry over a man who can’t even admit he cares. When I know he does. He’s so locked up.
As I leave, the click of the deadbolt sounds final. Pulling out my phone, I text Matt.
Hey, I’ve got some video I’d like you to go over with me.
I think it’s Hanks, but I need AI to find something to prove it. I’d like to go visit his brother but don’t want to go alone. He’s creepy.
His response is immediate.
Like I said, I’m your guy. Let’s meet tomorrow morning. 9:00 a.m. too early? I stare at the phone, my finger hovering over the keypad. A part of me wants to lose myself in someone who seems to want me. But the bigger part, the part that still aches for Tony, hesitates.
In the end, I type back a single word. “Perfect.”

Excerpts. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
 
 

Book Info:

Don’t believe your eyes.

What you see
Can’t be believed.

He’ll take who you love.

He’ll take her family. Her friends. Her reputation.

Guilty until proven innocent…

From Emmy-award winning journalist Linda Hurtado Bond comes a ferocious, terrifying game where your own eyes can deceive you…and a killer will watch every move you make.

Tampa Bay crime reporter Mari Alvarez thought the worst was behind her. She thought she could return to work, her sister, her friends, and her still-undefined relationship with Detective Tony Garcia. To find something almost normal…until a killer everyone thought was dead contacts her.

Because he wants to play a game—a twisted dance of revenge, where Mari must play by the rules…or lose everyone and everything she loves.

Now Tampa Bay’s lively Gasparilla pirate festival has turned into an event filled with terror and horror, and Mari is the unwitting star. Every move she makes is being watched by social media, even as the killer twists the truth and manipulates her with lies, deep fakes, and misinformation.

He can take her job. He can take her reputation. He can take everyone who loves her.

And unless she can stop him, he’ll hold her captive in the one cage she won’t be able to escape: her own fear.
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Meet the Author:

Linda Hurtado Bond is an Emmy-award winning journalist. She works as a television news reporter and anchor in Tampa, Florida. For the past twenty years, she’s been reporting on local and national events, as well as writing emotional, human-interest stories on both the best and worst in our society. She’s seen it all, and her unique vantage point provides endless content for her fiction books. Entangled Publishing released Linda’s two romantic adventures, Alive at 5 and Cuba Undercover as well as her medical thriller, Flatline. Think James Bond meets Romancing the Stone. Her latest series takes a darker turn, investigative thrillers, starting with All the Broken Girls. All the Missing Girls and The Phantom Pirate of Gasparilla release in late 2024 and early 2025. Linda is also the host of Tampa Bay Reads, an author-related segment that airs on her TV news station highlighting local book influencers, authors, and others in the book community. A breast cancer survivor, Linda took the worst day of her life and turned it into one of life’s best opportunities, now using her platform as a news anchor to support nonprofits like the American Cancer Society and to advocate for others fighting cancer. She has won 13 Emmy awards, numerous Society of Professional Journalist and Associated Press awards, as well as a Florida Bar and an Edward R. Murrow award. This former baton-twirling beauty queen from the deep south, Go Dawgs, now lives in Tampa with her husband. They’ve raised five kids, a surgeon, a nurse, a paramedic, a pilot, and a future psychologist. Fair to say they’ll be taken care of in retirement.
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