#Review - Shattering Dawn by Jayne Ann Krentz #Suspense #Romance

Series: The Lost Night Files (#3)
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: January 7, 2025
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Romance / Suspense

An unsettling investigation teaches two deeply suspicious people how to trust in the next thrilling novel of the Lost Night Files trilogy by New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz.

Amelia Rivers, a member of the Lost Night Files podcast team, hires private investigator Gideon Sweetwater to catch the stalker who has been watching her. Amelia suspects the stalker may be connected to the shadowy organization responsible for the night that she and her two friends lost to amnesia—a night that upended their lives and left them with paranormal talents.

Gideon suspects that Amelia is either paranoid or an outright con artist, but he can’t resist the chemistry between them. He takes the case despite his skepticism. For her part, Amelia has second thoughts about the wisdom of employing the mysterious Mr. Sweetwater. She is wary of the powerful attraction between them, and deeply uneasy about the nightmarish paintings on the walls of his home. She senses they were inspired by his own dreamscapes.

Amelia knows she doesn’t have time to find another investigator, and Gideon is forced to reckon with the truth when he disrupts what was intended to be Amelia’s kidnapping. Now the pair is on the run, with no choice but to return to the haunting ruins of the old hotel where Amelia’s lost night occurred. They are desperate to stop a killer and the people who are conducting illegal experiments with a dangerous drug that is designed to enhance psychic abilities. If they are to survive, they will have to trust each other and the passion that bonds them.

Shattering Dawn is apparently the finale of the The Lost Night Files trilogy. This series ends with Amelia Rivers and Gideon Sweetwater as the main characters. Not too long ago, Pallas Llewellyn, Talia March, and Amelia Rivers were strangers, until their fateful stay at the Lucent Springs Hotel. They were lured to the Lucent Springs Hotel under the false premise of job opportunities related to its remodeling. That night changed their lives forever - they lost all memory of what transpired and emerged with paranormal abilities.

This shared experience led them to form the Lost Night Files podcast, through which they discovered others with similar stories: some gained enhanced abilities, while others were driven to madness. Now, close friends, the three women, along with Phoebe Hatch, Lukas Rand, and Ambrose Drake, co-host a podcast called the Lost Night Files. The Lost Night Files investigates cold cases and hopes to connect with others who may have had similar experiences—experiences that have somehow enhanced the psychic abilities already present in each woman. 

Amelia wonders if she is going mad as her enhanced paranormal powers increase and are not under control. She has difficulty sleeping and has become terrified of the dark since she lost the night with her two friends at Lucent Springs. Amelia's particular gift allows her to perceive the night world in a landscape of colors and auras, which she captures through vintage photography equipment. When she becomes aware of a stalker, she uses her ability to photograph their aura before seeking help from private investigator Gideon Sweetwater.

Gideon, who has his own brand of psychic abilities, is a private investigator hired by Amelia to find the answers she needs and, in some ways, protect her from someone who apparently wants to kidnap her. There is a list of people who have participated in other psychological research, and it is Amelia and her friend's goal to find these people and thus find those responsible. Gideon comes from a powerful family, one of whom may have been involved in putting together the list that changed the lives of Amelia, Pallas, and Llewellyn forever. 

Gideon suspects Amelia is either paranoid or an outright con artist, but he can’t resist their chemistry. He takes the case despite his skepticism. For her part, Amelia has second thoughts about the wisdom of employing the mysterious Mr. Sweetwater. She is wary of the powerful attraction between them and deeply uneasy about the nightmarish paintings on the walls of his home. She senses they were inspired by his own dreamscapes. Now the pair has no choice but to return to the haunting ruins of the old hotel where Amelia’s lost night occurred. 

They are desperate to stop a killer and the people who are conducting illegal experiments with a dangerous drug that is designed to enhance psychic abilities. If they are to survive, they will have to trust each other and the passion that bonds them. The primary story is always the mystery to be solved, and in the case of The Lost Night Files it’s a doozy. Pallas, Talia and now Amelia have been pulling at the threads of that mystery from the very beginning. They know they’re closing in on the truth – and Amelia is certain that the truth is closing in on her as well.

So, apparently, if you have read other series by this author, she leaves you with various Easter eggs to uncover, things like The Foundation and the Bluestone Project. There's also information about the Sweetwater family if you want further research. The author reveals some interesting twists in this book by finally uncovering the lunatic behind what happened to these women and why they are destroying everything that this person has built by remaining alive and causing him trouble. This book wraps up the series and the unanswered threads from the prior books. 

CHAPTER ONE

Maybe the stalker would not return tonight.

Maybe she had imagined the ghostly figure in the hoodie and running sweats. Maybe no one was watching her. Maybe she was falling into a vortex of delusions and hallucinations.

No. She might be losing it but she was not that far gone-not yet, at any rate. She was not hallucinating. She was a rational, logical woman descended from a family tree that had produced a lot of highly successful individuals in fields ranging from psychiatry to engineering.

Okay, so she wasn't one of the overachievers, and yes, there was the occasional self-declared psychic like Aunt Cybil dangling from a branch or two. The point was, none of them had wound up in an asylum. As her mother said, every family had a few eccentrics.

Amelia Rivers hovered in the shadows of her second-floor apartment balcony and struggled to suppress the stirring tentacles of panic. The balmy San Diego night seemed to close in around her.

Dr. Pike was right. She was developing a full-blown phobia, complete with anxiety attacks and excuses. At the rate she was losing ground she would soon become a total recluse after sundown. Pike had warned that the fear would eventually creep into the daylight hours. She probably should not have canceled the last two appointments with him. He meant well. She did not doubt his concern for her mental health. But she no longer had any real hope that he could help her deal with the visions.

She checked her watch. It was almost one o'clock. She clutched the old-school film camera in one hand and waited. The stalker would either show up or not. She no longer knew which outcome she wanted. Both were equally scary. If the watcher was real, she was in danger. If she had hallucinated him, she should probably check herself into a psychiatric hospital.

From where she stood, she had a view of the lushly planted courtyard and the glowing blue pool in the center. The four wings of the two-story apartment complex surrounded the gardens on all sides. There were four entrances. Each was guarded by a high wrought iron security gate and there were cameras, but it was easy enough to slip onto the grounds if you waited for an opportunity to follow a resident inside.

There was no roving guard or drive-by security service. Amenities on that level were only available at the more expensive properties. She was on a budget. It was tough to make a living as a photographer.

Last night the stalker had arrived from the service lane gate, which was veiled by a couple of palm trees and a bunch of strategically planted bushes. No one wanted to look at the massive garbage and recycle bins.

The walls of night seemed to move in on her. She would not be able to stay outside much longer.

Stupid phobia.

She was coming to the grim conclusion that she had imagined the stalker when she glimpsed a slight movement in the shadows near the service lane gate. She almost stopped breathing.

The figure in the hoodie emerged from behind the mass of greenery that shielded the entrance on the far side of the courtyard. The vintage Nikon camera that she had purchased from an online collector shook a little in her fingers. She was already tense but the fresh dose of fear-driven adrenaline sent shivers through her.

The stalker went swiftly along the path that led to the pool and disappeared behind the equipment shed. Something about the smooth, efficient-one could even say predatory-way he moved was as disturbing as the silent shriek of her intuition warning her that she was the stranger's target. Dr. Pike could blame her nerves as much as he liked. She no longer gave a damn. She knew this creepy sensation all too well. This was not the first time she had been hunted.

Down below, the stalker reappeared from behind the pool house. She held her breath, raised the camera, and focused through the viewfinder. She could not use a flash. The bright burst of hot light would interfere with her other vision. But she was not out here on the balcony, braving the oppressive weight of the night, because she hoped to grab a photo of the stalker's face. She was after some very different images, the kind that could only be captured with an old-fashioned single-lens reflex camera and black-and-white film. A digital camera would not work for what she had in mind.

The hooded figure glided toward the courtyard stairs that served her wing of the complex. Sure, he might be a new tenant who happened to live on her floor, but what were the odds?

She waited as long as she dared, letting the stalker get close, and took the picture. The snap of the shutter sounded loud to her ears, but down in the courtyard the figure in the hoodie did not appear to hear it. He continued to head toward the stairs of her building.

A rush of panic hit her. She took another shot, this time with the flash. The bright burst of light grabbed the stalker's attention. He stopped abruptly and looked up. The hood of his sweatshirt still shielded his face.

"You down there in the gardens," she called, going for an irritated but unsuspecting tone. "Would you mind getting out of the way? I'm trying to practice my night photography."

The figure did not move. She got the feeling he was trying to decide how to handle the situation.

"Feel free to stay in the scene," she said. "But I'll be publishing these pics online, so if you value your privacy-"

The stalker made his decision. He whirled and ran, heading back toward the service lane gate.

The balcony door of the apartment two doors down on the right opened. Irene Morgan appeared. She was dressed in a slinky satin bathrobe and a pair of sexy, stylish mules. Her mane of blond hair hung in deep waves around her lovely face. No matter what she wore she managed to project a vibe of Old Hollywood glamour.

"Amelia?" she said in a loud whisper that enhanced her husky voice. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine," Amelia said. "Sorry to wake you. I was trying to get some night shots."

"Shut up out there," the jerk in the apartment between Amelia's and Irene's yelled through an open window. "I've got an early-morning meeting."

"Right, sorry," Amelia said.

The window slammed shut.

"Jerk," Irene murmured.

"Jerk," Amelia echoed in low tones. She raised her voice. "It's all good, Irene. Don't worry."

"Okay." Irene yawned and went back inside.

Amelia darted into her apartment, closed and locked the balcony door, turned on the lights, and took a few deep breaths. Now came the hard part. She wasn't finished. She had to go downstairs into the gardens to get the other photos.

When her nerves steadied, she went to the table next to the front door of the apartment, picked up the Taser and the key fob, steeled herself, and opened the door.

She went quickly along the open-air walkway that ran the length of the second floor and rushed down the stairs to the courtyard. The panic monster crouched at the edges of her awareness, threatening to pounce. In an effort to hold the anxiety at bay she chanted the signature sign-off of the podcast she and her friends, Pallas and Talia, produced. We're in this together until we get answers.

Unfortunately there was no we involved tonight. She was on her own.

Cold sweat was trickling between her breasts and dampening the front of her T-shirt by the time she reached the courtyard path. She went into her other vision and reminded herself to focus on what she had come out here to see. Do not get distracted by the fog, she told herself.

Technically speaking, there was no fog. She had finally come to understand that what she was viewing was an ankle-deep river of luminous paranormal radiation flowing the length of the garden path. The mist was the result of the many layers of energy prints that had been laid down over time by people who had walked along the sidewalk.

In the past few months she had struggled to adapt to her strange new talent, but the learning curve was steep, not to mention unnerving. The one thing she had concluded was that the splashes of energy laid down by individuals were as unique as their fingerprints.

She had also figured out that the energy in the prints faded with time as others walked the same path and left their own tracks.

Fortunately the stalker's footprints were only minutes old. They seethed with strange, erratic currents that sent icy frissons across her senses. Her intuition was screaming at her again but she did not know if it was reacting to the stalker's prints or the claustrophobia generated by the night. She managed to focus through the viewfinder and snap off a couple of shots.

That was it; all she could handle. Taser in one hand, camera in the other, she fled back toward the stairs. She was breathing hard and trembling by the time she was safely inside her apartment.

Stupid, stupid phobia. This was getting ridiculous.

She slammed home the three locks on the door; set the camera, key fob, and Taser on the small hall table; and went around the corner into the kitchen. She opened a cupboard, took down the bottle of pricey cognac that Irene had given her for her birthday, and poured a healthy shot into a water glass.

She carried the glass around the end of the wide island that divided the kitchen from the living room and began to pace, sipping methodically, until she had her nerves back under control.

When she was satisfied that she was no longer a complete wreck she set the unfinished cognac aside. She had work to do. She went back around the corner into the front hall, picked up the camera, and kept going. She passed the laundry room and continued on to the walk-in closet she had converted into a darkroom.

In the morning she would take the stalker problem to the one private investigation agency in the San Diego area that might treat her case with the seriousness it required. She had found only minimal information about the firm online. The website consisted of a single page.

Sweetwater Investigations.

Private clients only. No corporate or business accounts.

Fees negotiable. Call for appointment.

The number had dumped her into voicemail, where she had been instructed to leave her name, a brief explanation of her problem, and her contact information. The lack of a proper receptionist had been worrisome but half an hour later a man identifying himself as Gideon Sweetwater had returned her call. He had asked her a few cursory questions about the case and then provided her with the address of his office. The appointment was for nine o'clock in the morning.

She'd had two takeaways from the brief conversation. The first was that she liked Sweetwater's voice. She liked it a lot. It was dark and compelling and it sent unfamiliar but very pleasant little thrills across her senses.

The second impression was that she was pretty sure he had made the decision to take her case before he returned her call.

CHAPTER TWO

Gideon Sweetwater looked up from the photos scattered across his desk. "What do you expect me to do with these pictures, Ms. Rivers?"

"As I told you on the phone, I have a stalker," Amelia said. "I want you to identify the individual in those photos."

"You said you are a professional photographer."

"That's right."

"No offense, but these images are not helpful. All I can see is a lot of foggy glare around the figure in the hoodie, and the spots on the sidewalk look like splashes of phosphorescent paint."

Amelia tried to suppress her disappointment. She told herself not to give up. It wasn't like she had a lot of alternatives. But the interview with Gideon Sweetwater was not going well.

The address of Sweetwater Investigations had been her first clue that Sweetwater might not be the private investigator she had been hoping to hire. Instead of the parking lot of a commercial building, she had found herself in the driveway of a lushly landscaped Spanish Colonial bungalow. The house was in an exclusive, gated community perched on the bluffs above the Pacific. It was the sort of neighborhood that had not only a guard at the front gate but actual, roving security.

It had immediately become evident that Sweetwater Investigations was a one-man agency. There was no sign of any staff.

She had told herself that Gideon Sweetwater had to be very good at his work if he could afford such a high-end residence. Her next thought was that she hoped he was serious about his "negotiable" fees. That morning Bridget Hampstead, one of her real estate clients, had left a message explaining that the can't-miss deal on the McCall listing had fallen apart and that the payment for the property photo shoot would be delayed. Again.

The upscale address of Sweetwater Investigations had given her an uneasy feeling but the real shock had been Gideon Sweetwater himself. He looked like he had recently survived a serious accident. He was not in a neck brace or a cast, but he was not in good shape. He had answered the door leaning on a cane. When he led her down a hallway lined with creepy, depressing, dystopian landscapes, he limped. When he sat down in the chair behind his desk he had winced and gingerly touched his ribs.

He had not offered any explanations for his injuries and she told herself it would be rude to ask about them, so she was pretending not to notice his beat-up condition. She knew she was probably in denial. She couldn't help it. She was a desperate woman.

He considered her in silence for a long, unnerving moment, as if he had never before encountered a client like her. Fair enough. She had never met anyone like him.

She was not sure how professional private investigators dressed, but she had not expected one wearing a button-down oxford cloth shirt, chinos, and wing tips. It was all very ordinary.

The man, himself, however, was anything but ordinary.

Her photographer's eye was intrigued by his watchful, hazel eyes and fiercely etched profile. The whisper of energy in the atmosphere around him tugged at her senses. She could not see his aura or his energy prints, because her new vision only worked at night or in deep darkness. Nevertheless, she had been sensitive to the energy of other people for most of her life. That ability told her that Sweetwater radiated the centered strength of a man who had mastered himself. He would make a very good friend or a very bad enemy.

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#Review - The Night Island by Jayne Ann Krentz #Romance #Mystery #Suspense

Series: The Lost Night Files # 2
Format: Hardcover, 320 pages
Release Date: January 9, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Romance, Mystery, Suspense

The disappearance of a mysterious informant leads two people desperate for answers to an island of deadly deception in the second novel of the Lost Night Files trilogy by New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz.

Talia March, Pallas Llewellyn, and Amelia Rivers, bonded by a night they all have no memory of, are dedicated to uncovering the mystery of what really happened to them months ago—an experience that brought out innate psychic abilities in each of them. The women suspect they were test subjects years earlier, and that there are more people like them—all they have to do is find the list. When Talia follows up on a lead from Phoebe, a fan of the trio’s podcast, she discovers that the informant has vanished.

Talia isn’t the only one looking for Phoebe, however. Luke Rand, a hunted and haunted man who is chasing the same list that Talia is after, also shows up at the meeting place. It’s clear he has his own agenda, and they are instantly suspicious of each other. But when a killer begins to stalk them, they realize they have to join forces to find Phoebe and the list.

The rocky investigation leads Talia and Luke to a rustic, remote retreat on Night Island in the Pacific Northwest. The retreat promises to rejuvenate guests with the Unplugged Experience. Upon their arrival, Talia and Luke discover guests are quite literally cut off from the outside world because none of their high-tech devices work on the island. It soon becomes clear that Phoebe is not the first person to disappear into the strange gardens that surround the Unplugged Experience retreat. And then the first mysterious death occurs. . . .

Jayne Anne Krentz's The Night Island is the second installment in the authors Lost Night Files series. Seven months ago, Pallas Llewellyn, Talia March, and Amelia Rivers were strangers, until their fateful stay at the Lucent Springs Hotel where they all ended up after responding to a help wanted ad. An earthquake and a fire partially destroyed the hotel, but the women have no memory of their time there. Now close friends, the three women co-host a podcast called the Lost Night Files, along with Ambrose Drake, where they investigate cold cases and hope to connect with others who may have had a similar experience to theirs.

 

What is known is that all three women were on a list of those who took psych tests ten years before. Each experienced something that has somehow enhanced the psychic abilities already present in each woman as well as Ambrose. Talia was once a research librarian who could find almost any object that belonged to the missing or the deceased. Now, she has the psychic ability to track down the bodies of those who died by violence.Talia and her friends, plus Ambrose Drake who joined the group and their The Lost Files podcast during the first installment, are still hoping to find answers to what really happened to them and by whom. 

 

Nobody believes what happened to them, and for 6 months, they've received a bunch of leads that ended up nowhere. Until Talia receives an anonymous trip from a woman named Phoebe Hatch who is a fan of the podcast. The problem is that right before she gets to Phoebe, it appears someone has taken Phoebe away which leads to a meeting with Luke Rand who is also looking for Phoebe and answers to what happened to him. You see, Luke is the survivor of an experiment that some mysterious scientists tried to create super soldiers and assassins with psychic abilities. 

 

Luke was once a teacher, and did time in the military which made him an idea candidate for testing. He also doesn't remember what happened to him, except it seems as though he may or may not have left bodies behind. It also appears that someone wants him dead. Luke's ability to read people via their emotions has also ramped up. Now he's afraid that he has become a psychic assassin who can kill people with his talent. Talia and Rand decide to join forces to find Phoebe who claims she has the full list of names of all of those who were tested 10 years for their psychic abilities. 

One of the clues that Phoebe leaves behind for Talia to find is a pamphlet leading to the Night Island in the Pacific Northwest. The retreat promises to rejuvenate guests with the Unplugged Experience. Upon their arrival, Talia and Luke discover guests are quite literally cut off from the outside world because none of their high-tech devices work on the island. It soon becomes clear that Phoebe is not the first person to disappear into the strange gardens that surround the Unplugged Experience retreat. 

And then the first mysterious death occurs, and then a second, and then it appears that someone is trying to kill Rand, and if Talia isn't careful, she will be next. To make matters even more dangerous, there is an assassin on the island, and Night Island was once the site of botanical experiments, and the plant life has gone feral and dangerous and it seems as though nobody is who they claim they are, and one of the guests could be the mastermind of the psychic experiments. 

 

*Thoughts* This is one of those series where each book focuses on two particular main characters. The first was Ambrose and Pallas. The assumption is that Amelia will be the main character in the next book. While this book does alternate between Luke and Talia, there are secondary characters who you need to pay attention to because they are clues to what is really going on with Night Island, as well as those who seem to be behind these experiments. The story leaves some really important clues to think about while waiting for the sequel to be released. The reason for my rating was the ending. It was disjoined and felt rushed to me. I am hopeful the third installment will pick up the pace a little bit.    

 

CHAPTER ONE

There would be nightmares again tonight.

She'd always had a knack for finding misplaced keys, glasses, and pets. She was fine with that. But her new psychic ability for tracking down the bodies of those who had died by violence was not only depressing but frequently led to anxiety attacks and disturbing dreams.

Why couldn't it have been a talent for something more positive-like, say, picking winning lottery numbers? Why did it have to be dead bodies?

Talia March clenched the dead man's gold cuff link in one hand, gathered her nerve, and flattened her other hand against the metal side of the industrial-sized trash bin. She was braced mentally and physically, her core Pilates-tight; nevertheless, the jolt of psychic lightning rattled her nerves and her senses. In the past few months she had learned that the energy laid down by violence always came as a shock.

She had finally figured out that what she detected with her new ability was the psychic stain of the killer's emotions-or lack thereof-and the pain and fear of the victim. It made for a toxic brew that seeped into the crime scene and, to her, was as obvious as a pool of blood.

She was aware of a weak frisson emanating from the cuff link. The owner was dead but the item that he had worn frequently in life was still infused with the hollow echo of his vibe.

She could work with almost any object that had belonged to the missing or the deceased, but over the course of the past several months she had learned that some materials absorbed and reflected paranormal energy more efficiently than others. Gold was a particularly strong conductor, almost as good as crystal.

"Shit," she whispered. She took a quick step back. "He's in there."

Roger Gossard, the head of Gossard Consulting, a crime scene consulting company, studied the trash bin with a pained expression. "Are you sure?"

"You hired me for my best guess," she said. "This is it."

Roger grunted but he did not argue or demand more details. He knew better than to ask her to explain her conclusion. He looked at the unhappy man wearing a security guard uniform emblazoned with the logo of the company that controlled the loading dock.

"Okay if we take a look?" Roger said. "We need to find out for sure if there's a body inside before we call the police."

The security guard shrugged. "Boss says I'm supposed to cooperate but I'm telling you right now I'm not going into that bin to look for a dead body. You're on your own."

"Right." Roger switched his attention to the two members of his team who were waiting for instructions. "Bailey and Thomas, take a look. We need to make sure."

Grim but resigned, the pair pulled on heavy gloves, climbed into the bin, and went to work sorting through the trash generated by the several hundred office workers employed in the building.

Talia retreated to the front of the loading dock and contemplated the view of the alley. The rain was coming down in the steady way that was typical of Seattle in the late fall. The heavy skies indicated the weather was not going to change anytime soon. The Big Gray was just getting started.

In the past she had been comfortable with the drama of the city's dark season. But the night she had lost to amnesia had changed a lot of things. Now she was aware of a relentless sense of urgency simmering just beneath the surface, a sensation that was intensified by the late dawns and early twilights.

She tuned out the noise of the trash bin excavation process and opened her phone. There was no new text from her mysterious informant. She was starting to lose hope. Maybe she had been conned. It was a discouraging thought because the lead had appeared so promising.

"Looks like we found Clayton, boss," Bailey called. "Wrapped in plastic sheeting. Not a pretty sight."

The security guard backed away from the trash bin as if it was radioactive.

"That's far enough," Roger said. "Don't touch anything else. I'll call Seaton and let him know. He'll be thrilled. It's no longer a missing persons case. He's got a genuine homicide on his hands."

"No question about that," Thomas muttered. "Looks like someone used a hammer on him."

Roger took out his phone and made the call. When he was finished he walked toward Talia, watching her as if she was a member of the Addams family. This wasn't the first case she had worked on for him and she knew what was coming next. He no longer needed her. She was now a problem. He wanted her gone before the police detective arrived.

Roger was good-looking, smart, well-dressed, and ambitious. Everything about him, from his expensive business suit to his salon-styled hair, projected the image of a man on the fast track to success. He made no secret of his goal. He was headed for the top of the psychological forensics field, building a reputation as a consultant who brought state-of-the-art technology and the latest scientific theories to the business of crime solving. The very last thing he wanted was for his clients to find out that he occasionally employed a psychic.

He stopped in front of her. "You were right," he said quietly. "Ray Clayton did not walk out on his wife and disappear. She murdered him with the help of her lover."

"You'll have to prove that last part."

"It's not my problem. It's up to Seaton to close the case. But now that we found the body for him that shouldn't be too difficult. There will be a lot of evidence."

"There always is on the body."

Roger lowered his voice a little more. "You can go now."

She gave him an icy smile. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hang around until the cops get here. We all know Seaton would have a few questions if he saw me. It wouldn't do for Gossard Consulting to admit that they brought in a psychic to find the missing body. Bad for the brand."

Roger winced and glanced uneasily over his shoulder. "Keep your voice down. I told you, Bailey and Thomas think you're a forensic psychologist who figured out the most likely dump site after studying my profile of the wife."

"I won't blow your cover. A job is a job and I need the money." Talia looked at the trash bin and then quickly averted her gaze. "Besides, it's not like I want to be here when they retrieve the body."

Roger frowned. "Are you okay?"

"Absolutely." Well, except for an incipient anxiety attack and the knowledge that the night ahead will be very long and very dark. What the hell. Not my first dead body. I'm a professional. Don't try this at home. "I'll ride off into the sunset now."

"Don't forget to send your bill."

"Oh, I won't." She realized she was still holding the gold cuff link. She unclenched her fingers and held out her hand. "You can have this. I won't need it anymore."

"Right." Roger picked up the cuff link and slipped it into a pocket.

She went down the loading dock steps, pulled up the hood of her jacket, and walked toward the far end of the alley. The relentless howl of a siren in the distance announced the approaching police vehicle. The big SUV roared into the alley just as she was crossing the street. She did not look back.

It was a good thing that Roger had not asked for an explanation of how she had located the body of Ray Clayton, because she did not understand it herself. She was not sure she wanted to comprehend it. Her new ability was unwelcome on so many levels. She had not been forced to look at the face of the dead man in the trash bin today, but that would not protect her from the psychic fallout.

Tonight there would be nightmares.

CHAPTER TWO

Come any closer and I'll kill her," Martin Pilcher yelled.

Luke Rand opened his senses to the nightmarish currents of energy that shivered through Pilcher's threats. It didn't take any psychic talent to figure out that the man was totally unhinged.

Pilcher was in the doorway of the small, shadowed house. He tightened his arm around his wife's throat and put the barrel of the pistol against her head.

"I'm not fucking around here," he screamed.

"He's going to do it," Luke said quietly. "We're talking a couple of minutes at the most before he pulls the trigger."

"Shit." Sam Hobbs's expression was grim but resigned. "I'll signal Wilson to take the shot."

"It won't work," Luke said. "Wilson can't get a clear shot. Best case is the bullet punches through Pilcher and strikes the wife."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hobbs's jaw tightened. "I don't have a choice. We don't have time for any more negotiation."

"Let me try before you give the order to Wilson."

Hobbs hesitated. "Okay, you've got one minute."

"Understood," Luke said.

He and Hobbs were standing behind one of the three police vehicles parked in the front yard of the house. Katy Pilcher had tried to hide in the rural town in Northern California after obtaining a restraining order that was supposed to keep her stalker husband from contacting her. But Pilcher had tracked her down. Katy had managed to dial 911 just as Pilcher broke in through a window.

When the police arrived on the scene it became a hostage situation. Now it was about to mutate into a murder-suicide.

So much for the rural community's promise of safety, Luke thought. Lesson learned. Katy Pilcher wasn't the only one who had chosen the small, remote town as a hideout.

In hindsight, it had been a mistake to accept Hobbs's invitation to play poker on Friday nights, but it had seemed like a small risk. Unfortunately, over cards and whiskey, Luke had mentioned that he had done some hostage negotiation. Now he was paying for that slip of the tongue. Fifteen minutes ago Hobbs had called, asking for assistance at the scene of a crime in progress.

Luke focused on the man in the doorway. "No one here is going to make any moves, Mr. Pilcher. What do you need?"

On the surface, the words sounded calm and reassuring, but they formed an invisible Trojan horse carrying the currents of a psychic trap.

"I need you and everyone else to leave us alone," Pilcher shouted. "This is none of your fucking business. She's my wife."

Luke ignored Katy's panic-stricken face. He had the fix now. He concentrated on the dangerously unstable frequencies of her husband's aura.

"All right, Mr. Pilcher," he said, infusing the words with the counterpoint currents that would send Pilcher's vibe into a wildly oscillating mode. "We understand this is a private matter. Give us a little time to clear out of here."

Hobbs scowled. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"You've got thirty seconds," Pilcher screamed. "If you're not gone, I'll-"

He went silent, his mouth open, his eyes wide as he stared at something only he could see.

"Shit," Hobbs whispered. "What's going on?"

Luke did not reply. He had the focus. He continued talking to Pilcher.

"It's over, Pilcher," he said, continuing to lace his words with the frequencies that would suppress the erratic wavelengths of the other man's aura. "You don't want to kill your wife."

"Stop," Pilcher said. But he sounded dazed and disoriented. "What are you doing?"

"The situation has changed," Luke said. "Let Katy go. You don't need her."

Pilcher hauled Katy deeper into the house and away from the door. Now neither could be seen.

"You don't want to hurt Katy," Luke called, forcing as much energy into the words as he could manage. He was still learning the limits of his new talent. "There will be nothing but pain if you hurt her. More pain than you have ever known-"

The muffled roar of a gunshot inside the house reverberated through the woods.

"Fuck," Hobbs muttered. He raised his hand to signal the officers to move in.

"Don't shoot," Katy Pilcher screamed from the shadows. "Please. It's me. I think my husband is dead."

"Toss the gun outside, Ms. Pilcher," Hobbs ordered.

The pistol sailed through the doorway and landed on the front steps.

"Come out with your hands up," Hobbs ordered.

Katy Pilcher emerged. She came down the steps, moving awkwardly. An officer intercepted her and pulled her to the side of the house, out of the line of fire.

But there were no more shots.

A deep silence emanated from inside the house. The officer who had taken Katy to safety shouted from his position on the side of the structure.

"She says Pilcher had some kind of seizure. He collapsed. She grabbed the pistol and shot him because she was afraid he would recover and kill her."

Hobbs looked at the shocked woman. "Are there any more guns in the house, Ms. Pilcher?"

"No," she said. "I swear it. I thought about getting one to protect myself but I didn't. I just hoped he would never find me."

She started to cry.

Hobbs gave the orders to secure the house and moved forward. Luke watched the officer escort Katy Pilcher to a patrol vehicle. She half collapsed on the rear seat and put her face into her hands.

Luke walked to the vehicle, flattened a palm on the roof, and leaned in a little. He opened his senses, got the focus, and infused a calming note into his voice.

"Are you hurt, Ms. Pilcher?" he asked.

She raised her head, lowered her hands, and looked at him with stricken eyes. "He was going to kill me this time. Not just beat me like he did before. He was really going to kill me."

Luke reflected on the terrible energy in Pilcher's voice. "I know."

"Is he dead?" Katy whispered. "I hope he's dead. I don't care if I go to jail so long as he's dead."

Hobbs emerged from the house. He saw Luke and Katy and came toward them.

Katy wrapped her arms around her midsection and rocked. "Martin wouldn't have stopped. I know him. He would not have stopped. Ever."

Hobbs reached the vehicle. He gave Luke an unreadable look and then he turned to Katy.

"Your husband is dead, Ms. Pilcher," he said.

Katy closed her eyes. "Good. Will I go to jail?"

"No," Hobbs said. "It was a clear case of self-defense as far as I'm concerned, and I'm the one who makes that call in this town. But I need you to tell me exactly what happened in there."

"I'm not sure," Katy admitted. "I think he had a stroke or a seizure. Maybe a heart attack. He just seemed to forget that I was there. He dropped the gun and sank to his knees, clutching at his chest. I grabbed the gun and pulled the trigger."

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#Review - Sleep No More by Jayne Ann Krentz #Romance #Suspense

Series: The Lost Night Files # 1
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages
Release Date: January 3, 2023
Publisher: Berkley Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Romance / Suspense

New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz returns with the first novel of the Lost Night Files, an exciting new romantic suspense trilogy about a night that changed three women forever—but that none of them can remember.

Seven months ago, Pallas Llewellyn, Talia March, and Amelia Rivers were strangers, until their fateful stay at the Lucent Springs Hotel. An earthquake and a fire partially destroyed the hotel, but the women have no memory of their time there. Now close friends, the three women co-host a podcast called the Lost Night Files, where they investigate cold cases and hope to connect with others who may have had a similar experience to theirs—an experience that has somehow enhanced the psychic abilities already present in each woman.

After receiving a tip for their podcast, Pallas travels to the small college town of Carnelian, California, to explore an abandoned asylum. Shaken by the dark energy she feels in the building, she is rushing out when she’s stopped by a dark figure—who turns out to be the women's mysterious tipster.

Ambrose Drake is certain he’s a witness to a murder, but without a body, everyone thinks he’s having delusions caused by extreme sleep deprivation. But Ambrose is positive something terrible happened at the Carnelian Sleep Institute the night he was there. Unable to find proof on his own, he approaches Pallas for help, only for her to realize that Ambrose, too, has a lost night that he can’t remember—one that may be connected to Pallas. Pallas and Ambrose conduct their investigation using the podcast as a cover, and while the townsfolk are eager to share what they know, it turns out there are others who are not so happy about their questions—and someone is willing to kill to keep the truth from coming out. 

Sleep No More is the first installment in author Jayne Ann Krentz's The Lost Night series. Seven months ago, Pallas Llewellyn, Talia March, and Amelia Rivers were strangers, until their fateful stay at the Lucent Springs Hotel. After an earthquake and a fire partially destroyed the hotel, the women found that they had no memory of their time there. Officials chalked it up to a girls’ night out party ending in a drunken blackout. But those three women knew that wasn’t the case. 

 

They had all undergone a traumatic experience, they all had transient global amnesia about the events, and they all had their various forms of ‘strong intuition’ ramped up to the point of being honest-to-goodness psychic powers. Now close friends, the three women co-host a podcast called the Lost Night Files, where they investigate cold cases and hope to connect with others who may have had a similar experience to theirs—an experience that has somehow enhanced the psychic abilities already present in each woman.

After receiving a tip for their podcast, Pallas travels to the small college town of Carnelian, California, to explore an abandoned asylum. Shaken by the dark energy she feels in the building, she is rushing out when she’s stopped by a dark figure—who turns out to be the women's mysterious tipster. Writer Ambrose Drake looked into The Lost Night Files because his experience mirrors theirs. Ambrose Drake is certain he heard a woman scream and a possible murder, but without a body, everyone thinks he’s having delusions caused by extreme sleep deprivation. 

 

But Ambrose is positive something terrible happened at the Carnelian Sleep Institute the night he was there. And his own ‘intuition’ suddenly ramped up to eleven. Unable to find proof on his own, he approaches Pallas for help, only for her to realize that Ambrose, too, has a lost night that he can’t remember—one that may be connected to Pallas. Pallas and Ambrose conduct their investigation using the podcast as a cover, and while the townsfolk are eager to share what they know, it turns out there are others who are not so happy about their questions—and someone is willing to kill to keep the truth from coming out. Pallas soon realizes that her case, and Ambrose's are eerily similar in that someone is directing experiments on individuals.

 

So, the obvious fact is that each character from Pallas, to Talia, to  Amelia will have their own stories as well as a slow burn romance like we have in this book between Pallas and Ambrose. It is also apparent that will likely will have to wait until book # 3 to find out who the puppet master is who is controlling what is happening to these characters and why. This is a series that has mystery, suspense, romance, and of course, paranormal. 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Carnelian, California . . .

Blood dripped from the bottom of the laundry cart.

Ambrose Drake flattened one hand against the wall to keep himself on his feet. He was back in the underwater world. That meant he was dreaming again. He struggled to focus on the glary aura of the figure pushing the cart toward the swinging doors at the far end of the corridor. Was that what a ghost looked like?

"What's going on?" he said.

The words came out in a slurred, raspy jumble that he knew probably made no sense, assuming he had managed to say them aloud. It was hard to talk underwater. He thought he had been getting better at navigating the strange atmosphere down here below the surface, but either he had been fooling himself or he had regressed, because tonight he was having trouble just staying upright.

And what the hell was he doing on his feet? He was supposed to be in bed.

Shit. Was he sleepwalking again? That was not good. It meant the nightmares and hallucinations were getting worse. But did you know if you were sleepwalking? That didn't sound logical. If you were aware that you were walking in your sleep it meant you were awake. Didn't it?

Or did it mean you had slipped over the edge of sanity and fallen into the abyss? Maybe his worst nightmare had finally become his new reality.

The rattle of rubber wheels on the tiled floor distracted him. The glowing figure propelling the cart was leaning into the task now, picking up speed. Seconds later cart and ghost vanished through the swinging doors.

That seemed to indicate the figure had heard the question and had reacted by leaving the scene as quickly as possible-which led to another disturbing conclusion. Maybe the ghost with the laundry cart leaving a trail of blood drops on the floor was real. You could never be sure when you were in this deep.

"Am I awake or asleep?" he mumbled. "Only one way to find out."

He took his hand off the wall, pushed aside the hallucinations, and managed another couple of steps forward. His progress was complicated by the fact that the corridor was drenched in underwater shadows. He finally realized what was wrong. The window in his mind was open. That explained why he had seen a glowing ghost pushing a laundry cart.

"I really do not need this."

It took some doing, but he succeeded in shutting down his aura-reading vision. He was back in his normal senses now. The eerie, murky shadows disappeared. The hallway was abruptly illuminated in the light of the overhead fixtures.

Okay, he was not dreaming and the window was closed, but something was very wrong. He did not have overhead fixtures in his bedroom.

A whisper of horror sent a jolt of panic across his senses. He had walked out the front door of his house and into an unknown building. The damned sleepwalking was going to get him killed. Another terrible thought struck-was he in his underwear? Please don't let me be strolling through some strange place in my underwear.

He made himself look down and was overwhelmingly relieved to discover he had on a pair of pajama bottoms. Or was he still dreaming?

"Shit. Wake up. Wake up."

This time he was sure he had spoken aloud. The sound of his own voice was reassuring. It drew him back toward the surface. He rubbed his eyes and tried to make sense of the white walls of the hallway and the cold white tiles underfoot.

Sleep clinic.

A murky memory swept back, bringing in the tide of semi-reassuring reality. He was spending the night in the Carnelian Sleep Institute in an effort to get control of the nightmares. He should be in a bed. There ought to be a lot of wires attached to him. What the hell was he doing out here in the hallway?

The scream.

He had heard a woman scream. That's why he was standing barefoot in the hall. The answer to the mystery was in the laundry cart. He had to find it and look inside.

He lurched forward a few more steps and nearly lost his balance. The problem with staying upright was a new one. He had always taken his fast reflexes and excellent coordination for granted. After the spell of amnesia eight months ago, both had actually improved. His sleeping habits had gone to hell, but he was faster and quicker than he had ever been. Tonight, though, it was all he could do to keep his feet under him.

He steadied himself, but the sudden change of position caused him to look down again. This time he saw a crimson rivulet trickling under the closed door of a patient room. Maybe he was still dreaming. Still sleepwalking.

To test the theory, he leaned down to take a closer look at the blood.

"Mr. Drake, what are you doing out of bed?"

The stern masculine voice was familiar. Dr. Conrad Fenner, the director of the Institute. He sounded seriously agitated. Alarmed. Furious.

Startled, Ambrose lost his balance altogether and pitched forward. He would have fallen flat on his face if his reflexes hadn't finally kicked in. About time.

He landed on one palm and a knee and instinctively started to get back on his feet. His fingers skidded through the little river of blood.

"Get up, Mr. Drake," Fenner ordered. "You should not be out here. We must get you back to your room."

"Something's wrong," Ambrose said, his voice little more than a hoarse whisper. "I heard a woman scream."

"No, you did not," Fenner said. "You are dreaming. Sleepwalking. Here, let me assist you."

Ambrose started to tell him about the blood on the floor but was interrupted by a sharp stinging sensation in the curve of his shoulder.

"What?" he mumbled.

He wanted to ask another question, but he was going back down into the depths, and this time there were no shadows. No light at all. A great weakness was overtaking his senses. He was vaguely aware of Fenner urging him to his feet and steering him back to his own room.

"Hurry," Fenner snapped. "I can't carry you."

The next thing Ambrose knew he was slumped in a chair. Fenner was leaning over him, working swiftly to clean his hand, the one that had slipped into the crimson stream.

"Blood on the floor," Ambrose said. He stared at his fingers but he could no longer see the red stain.

"There was no blood," Fenner said. His authoritative tone was infused with anger and anxiety. "It was just a dream, Mr. Drake. Trust me, you won't remember it in the morning."

When he was finished, he helped Ambrose get out of the chair and stumble onto the bed.

The darkness was closing in fast, but Ambrose managed to open the window in his mind one more time. Fenner's aura pulsed in a way that indicated he was telling the truth. He was certain that Ambrose would not remember what had happened tonight.

"A woman screamed," Ambrose said, not because he believed he could convince Fenner of that fact but because he hoped repetition would anchor the memory in his brain. "A woman screamed. A woman screamed."

"It was just a dream," Fenner insisted. "You experienced a brief sleepwalking episode. Nothing more. You won't remember a woman screaming."

The last thing Ambrose saw before he fell into the oceanic trench was the small indicator light on the camera that was aimed at the bed. It glowed bloodred. That was good, he thought. In the morning the video recording would tell him the truth.

If he woke up.

CHAPTER TWO

Carnelian, California. Six weeks later . . .

The snakes spilled down the old staircase, coiling, unfurling, seeking prey. Pallas Llewellyn's fingers flew across the page of her sketchbook. She had to work quickly. She could not risk remaining in the trance too long. It was like dropping into a dream-in this case, a nightmare-an interesting place to visit, but you would not want to live there. Her greatest fear these days was that she would slip into her other vision and get trapped.

And yet there were too many times now when she could not resist the temptation to slide into her enhanced vision. She needed to see the images concealed in the small storms of energy that she frequently stumbled into.

She had gotten much better at controlling the automatic drawing trances; at least, she told herself she had more control. She saw things when she was in this other vision, sometimes terrifying things-snakes falling down a staircase, for example. But there were answers to be found here, too. It was the promise of discovering the secrets concealed in the visions that was irresistible.

The snakes were closer now, reaching for her. If she had any sense she would get out while the getting was good. Her intuition was shrieking at her.

As if detecting her presence, two of the snakes stretched out to grasp her and draw her deeper into the trance. She could have sworn she heard them hissing. That was new. In the past the visions had never had an audio component.

"Okay, okay, I'm gone," she gasped.

With an effort of will she came out of the trance, riding a senses-disorienting wave of panic charged with a giddy thrill. She had done it. She had once again leaped into the abyss and made it safely back to the surface.

The triumphant elation receded swiftly but the panic did not. It was growing stronger. She realized she was too close to the scene. She needed to put some distance between herself and the now-invisible snakes spilling down the staircase.

She snapped the sketchbook shut and tossed it and the pencil into the well-worn messenger bag. Later there would be time to try to interpret whatever the episode of automatic drawing had revealed. The answers might elude her, though. They often did. Her intuition told her there were truths to be found in the pictures she created while she was in her other vision, but she was still learning how to see those truths. She had discovered she needed context in order to figure out what she was looking at.

Her pulse was still beating too rapidly. She cradled the messenger bag in both hands, holding it as if it were a shield, and headed for the front door of the abandoned asylum. Her instinct was to run, not walk, to the nearest exit, but running was not a good idea. There were too many obstacles in her path, and she had never been the most coordinated person on the planet.

She had always been easily startled. For as long as she could remember, the tiniest flicker of light or the slightest sense of movement at the edge of her vision had been enough to make her flinch and send her veering off-balance. The unfortunate tendency to overreact to the slightest surprise had gotten markedly worse after the amnesia episode seven months ago. She had learned to compensate by moving slowly and deliberately whenever she was in unfamiliar surroundings. The ruins of the old asylum definitely qualified as unfamiliar. The hidden storms of bad energy were scattered everywhere.

The bones of the Carnelian Psychiatric Hospital for the Insane still stood, surrounding her on all sides. The four-story structure had been constructed of stone and stout timber, but the interior, now sunk in an eternal gloom, had been slowly crumbling for decades. She was forced to scramble through a minefield of broken chairs, rusted bedsprings, sagging doors, shards of broken glass, and the discarded medical equipment of another era.

The scene came straight out of her nightmares. At least this time the place wasn't on fire. She probably ought to see another therapist about her little obsession with scary old buildings, but she craved answers, and she had concluded no therapist could provide them. She also knew she would not be able to let go of her morbid fascination until she got the answers she needed.

She was halfway through the rubble of the hospital lobby when a figure detached itself from the shadows and came toward her, blocking the path to the door.

Focused on escape, her senses still in an adrenaline overload, she yelped in alarm, swerved to the side, and tried to change course. Her intention was to steer a path around the stranger, but the sudden move caused her to stumble into a three-legged table. It toppled under her weight. Of course it did. Sometimes she wondered if every stick of furniture in the world was out to get her.

She knew she was going down. She thought about the jagged chunks of glass that littered the floor. This was going to be a bad fall. She could only hope the messenger bag would protect her from the worst-case scenario.

The man who had been in her path was suddenly at her side. A strong hand gripped her forearm, steadying her.

She was shocked by the speed with which he had moved. It was as if he had known she was going to change course and run into the table.

"It's all right," he said. "I've got you."

The physical contact sent an electrifying jolt of intense, intimate awareness across her senses. Maybe she was still in the automatic drawing trance. Maybe this time she really had stayed under too long.

"Let me go," she screamed.

She was amazed and reassured when the earsplitting cry escaped her throat and echoed through the ruins. In her dreams she was always voiceless.

"Shit." The stranger released her, clamped his hands over his ears, and took several steps back. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk."

Freed, she headed for the front door again. She reached into the messenger bag, groping for the Taser she had carried religiously since Lucent Springs.

She managed to grab the electroshock weapon, but in her frenzy she dropped it. The stranger scooped up the device. Simultaneously he used his free hand to keep her from tripping over a door that had come off its hinges and was now on the floor.

Another flash of breathtaking intimacy rattled her nerves. She had never experienced anything like it. She froze, frantically trying to figure out what was happening. Before she could recover from the shock, the stranger released her and stepped back.

"We're getting off on the wrong foot here," he said. He held the Taser just out of reach. "If you'll give me a minute, I can explain."

He was still between her and the door. She launched herself at him, hoping the head-on attack would catch him by surprise.

He didn't appear surprised, but he moved out of the way.

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