I refuse to surrender to normal

Like I said, Life Must Go On (at least, I certainly hope so). I’m winding down with MO1. Someone’s critiquing it now, and I’m hoping to find a few beta readers to look at the whole thing and give me feedback before I ship it off to my agent. Which means, I get to go back to work on one of my adult books. The Last Logan (LL for short)

If you’re interested, here’s the beginning of the Romantic Suspense saga featuring the intrepid reporter, Beverly Jefferson and the sensitive artist turned reluctant hero, Kyle Logan.
The last time Beverly Jefferson saw Patrick Logan alive, his gaze moved over her body as if measuring her for a coffin. Then he laughed and said, “A woman’s true place is groveling under a man.” Now she stood in a corner of a rain soaked cemetery. Waited, under a sky empty of any rainbow heralding new promise and life, to see his remains lowered into the earth. A horde of Chicago’s elite–politicians, ministers, sports figures and celebrities–crowded around the coffin. All pretending they weren’t relieved by Patrick’s passing. The minister hired by the family could extol his virtues forever. She knew the truth. Right about now, what passed for Patrick Logan’s soul was engaged in a blazing argument with Satan about who Hell’s lord and master truly was. Beverly wore an old denim skirt and jacket and had no makeup on her dark brown skin. The morning rain and continued high humidity left her hair crimped. She hadn’t bothered decking herself out for this assignment. Powerful men and women in all parts of the Midwest feared becoming the subject of a Beverly Jefferson investigation. Cringed at the prospect of finding their crimes and illicit activities spilled on the pages of the Chicago Messenger. No need pretending to be a beauty when you had power. She remained at a distance from the crowd out of respect for the few people who might actually mourn the deceased. If the dead man’s father chose to seek her out, that was his problem. She hadn’t run from Patrick. Wouldn’t run from his father. “My son’s accident changes things,” Mitchell Logan said as he approached. The sixty-four-year-old man leaned heavily on his cane. His suit probably cost four figures, but no tailor alive could design clothes capable of camouflaging the deterioration that left his once burly body a candidate for one of the Field Museum’s mummy cases. “Nothing’s changed, except your son won’t spend time in prison.” She paused to wonder why those words made the old man tremble. Whether Patrick’s death was an accident or suicide no longer mattered. Her money would be on the coward’s way out, but she wouldn’t waste energy trying to force reality on the old man. At least the state was spared the expense of a trial. “My son did nothing wrong.” “Nothing?” Mitchell opened his lips. The Adam’s apple in his wrinkled neck bobbed as he swallowed back his words. Beverly rubbed a hand across her forehead and reminded herself to let the past go. She knew the family spin. Patrick Logan pillar of the community, servant of the people, future CEO of Logan Industries. This was all a misunderstanding instigated by that insignificant reporter. What was her name again? Oh yes, Jefferson. Wasn’t there something about a vendetta? Only facts mattered. Fact–Patrick Logan was dead and wasn’t coming back. Ever. Neither was the one member of the family she really wanted dead.

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