Chapter 1
10:02 p.m., Saturday, July 4
The dead talked to Riley Thorn in her dreams. The living inconveniently telegraphed their secrets to her over grocery conveyor belts and in crowded restaurants.
She did her best to ignore them all.
In fact, right now, the only thing she was talking to was her breasts.
“Heading south on 83 toward the bridge. We’ve got company,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Oh my God. She’s lost it. She’s talking to her tits,” one of her backseat passengers whined.
“I talk to mine all the time. Don’t you?” another announced.
“I do not know if I speak to any body part,” the only man in the vehicle mused. “Perhaps I should try it.”
“You people are not normal,” complained the final backseat tagalong.
Ha. Normal.
Normal had been Riley’s rebellion against a patchouli scented, home-grown vegetable selling, seance attending childhood. Normal was her middle name. Well, not technically. Her legal middle name was the worst possible middle name in the history of middle names. She’d change it if it didn’t involve actually writing it down on paperwork and handing it to another human being.
Normal was what she longed for now as she jammed her foot down on the accelerator. The stolen pickup truck lumbered up to speed while Ram Jam howled “Black Betty” at full volume.
Her front-seat passenger slapped fresh magazines into her guns.
“It looks like the cops,” Riley reported, wondering if she should pull over or if it would be the last mistake she’d ever make. Red and blue lights flashed on in her rearview mirror. “You can’t shoot at cops!”
There was a loud bang, and one of her backseat passengers shrieked. “They’re shooting at us! Bad cops!”
Just then the night sky lit up to the right.
“They’re not shooting at us,” Riley insisted over the music. Fireworks exploded to their right as City Island’s pyrotechnics crew went balls to the Fourth-of-July-wall. There was a baseball stadium full of families enjoying both the nation’s favorite pastime and birthday, completely unaware that the bad guys were closing in on a group of—what had been until last week—relatively normal citizens.
She desperately wished she could have been one of them. Innocent. Happy. Her only concern the inflated prices at the beer stand. But no. She’d made one stupid mistake, one seemingly innocent decision, and now she was going to end up in the Susquehanna River in a stolen truck full of weirdos.
The unmarked sedan behind her veered into the left lane, and she knew exactly what the occupants were going to do. It blared into her mind in high definition.
“Everybody get down!” she shouted and slammed on the brakes.
All five of her passengers hit the deck just before a hail of bullets took out the windows on the driver’s side.
“Pretty sure they’re shooting at us now,” one of the smartasses pointed out.
“You think?” Riley yelled back.
Glass rained down, and the smell of burning rubber assailed her nostrils.
“We’re taking fire,” Riley yelled in the vicinity of her breasts. If anyone was talking back, she couldn’t hear them. Not over the fireworks or the screaming or the rock song wailing at full blast on the radio with the broken volume knob.
She peeked over the wheel. Black tire tracks led up to the car sitting sideways across two of the bridge’s three southbound lanes. Two men stood in front of the car, legs braced, guns drawn. She couldn’t go back. There was only one way to get past gun-toting bad guys barricading the road to freedom. She could only hope the truck’s massive engine block would protect them enough to make it work.
“Everybody hang on,” she said grimly as she revved the engine. A shower of golden sparkles rained down from the sky above, drifting toward the inky black of the river.
“What’s the plan?” her front-seat passenger asked, calmly chambering rounds in both guns.
“I’m gonna ram them.”
Step one. Accelerate to thirty miles per hour.
“I blame you, Nick Santiago,” she yelled to her breasts again and mashed the gas pedal to the floor. She couldn’t tell which pops and booms were fireworks and which were bullets peppering the front of the truck.
“Ohhhhhhmmmmmmm,” hummed the large black man wedged into the back seat in the midst of three shell-shocked waitresses.
“What the hell is Beefcake doing?”
“How should I know? Maybe we should hum with him?”
Riley blocked out the back seat ohms.
Step two. Aim for the center of the front wheel.
Her passengers abandoned their ohm and joined together in a chorus of screams and regrets. Bits and pieces from each of their lives flashed before Riley’s eyes. She had half a second to appreciate the irony that it was other peoples’ lives and not her own. Because that’s what her quest for normal had earned her. A too quiet, forgettable life.
“I should have stayed in school!”
“I never should have given that guy a BJ!”
“I should have had that second hot fudge sundae!”
Riley never should have answered the knock on her door two weeks ago.
Boom.
Chapter 2
6:55 a.m., Tuesday, June 16
The soothing sounds of digital wind chimes and chanting monks yanked Riley from an unsettling dream about an elderly woman obsessed with lymph nodes.
She slapped at the buttons on the expensive gradual progression monstrosity she’d stolen from a very stupid man and pulled the blanket over her head. Here, in the space between sleep and work, she was alone. Blissfully, quietly alone.
No intrusive thoughts from strangers to acknowledge. No dead grandmothers to appease.
Here, under the covers, everything was normal.
Well, as normal as a broke, divorced, 34-year-old proofreader who hailed from a long and distinguished line of female… Never mind. She didn’t like to think about the special “talents” that ran in her family. Especially not first thing in the morning.
It was a summer Tuesday. Which meant her cubicle mate, Bud, would bring in sushi just past its expiration date and then spend most of the afternoon in the bathroom. Donna, the front desk gargoyle, would be wearing a withering glare and take out her Monday night church bingo losses on anyone who wandered past her desk.
It also meant that Riley would treat herself to the one and only fancy coffee drink she budgeted for the week.
With the siren’s call of caffeine fresh in her mind, she dragged herself out of bed and shuffled for the bathroom in the hall.
“Riley!” A thin, reedy voice called from one of the lower floors. “Fred needs help with his Kindle again.”
“Okay, Lily,” she yelled back.
Riley’s mother took a ceramics class with Lily Bogdanovich. So when Riley had found herself on the other side of a changed lock on the front porch formerly known as hers, Lily had happily opened her attic.
The crumbling stone mansion on Front Street belonged to the Bogdanovich twins. Lily and Fred were elderly siblings who had inherited the house, half of a racehorse, and every issue of Playboy Magazine published between 1972 and 1984.
Never having families themselves, the Bogdanovich twins had set up an off-the-books flophouse in the mansion, opening up their guest bedrooms to complete strangers.
Riley had space on the third floor that included room for a bed, a small living area, and a microscopic kitchenette that couldn’t handle much more than microwave popcorn and toast.
The plaster ceiling followed the odd, grandiose rooflines of the ancient architectural wreck in hard angles and weird slants. But the dormer windows offered a decent view of the Susquehanna River as it meandered its way south on the other side of Front Street.
The downside?
“Keep it down out there,” the downside snarled from behind his closed door.
Riley shared a bathroom with the tenant across the hall. Dickie Frick was a grumpy, presumably perverted old man. His welcome mat said Fuck Off, and he always left his dirty underwear on the floor in front of the sink. She didn’t know much more about him except that he sometimes remembered to flush the toilet, had a job that involved working late, and that, depending on his mood, he liked to watch NCIS reruns or porn.
Ignoring Dickie, she left the bushy rose wallpaper and hunter green woodwork of the hall behind and stepped into the bathroom.
There they were. The tighty-not-so-whities. On a yawn, she reached under the sink and pulled out the pair of plastic salad tongs she’d stashed there. Trying not to look too closely—she’d made that mistake once—she made the short journey to Dickie’s door and tossed the briefs over the knob before returning to the bathroom.
The room had a decades-past-its-heyday charm. The sink was bile yellow as was the clawfoot tub. The floor was covered in a dingy black and white checkered tile. It creaked dangerously whenever she got into the tub, but it had yet to give up the good fight against gravity.
She shoved a toothbrush into her mouth and a hairbrush into her thick, shoulder-length hair. Her mother’s side’s Ukrainian genes had won the genetic wrestling match. Her hair was dark brown. Her eyes were the same, just a little too big for her face. Heavy lids made her look bored even when she wasn’t. The upside was, if she took the time to bother with eyeshadow, she could really rock the hell out of a good come-hither stare.
Not that she was come-hithering anyone right now. The divorce still stung. And there was that whole being broke thing. She didn’t want to meet someone new and have to explain to him why her roommates were all on Medicare. If anyone with a badge asked, she was supposed to call them all Aunt and Uncle So-and-So.
Morning bathroom business taken care of, Riley returned to her room, still yawning. She’d been short on sleep for most of her life. It was the dreams. They’d only gotten more… annoying, more insistent, the older she got. Turning on the TV, she listened to the perky news team banter about the latest vigilante activity in the city while she dressed. A group of unidentified adults in masks had tracked down a repeat offender of the litterbug classification and filled his car—incidentally illegally parked in a handicap spot—to the roof with trash.
“Harrisburg Mayor Nolan Flemming had this to say about the vigilantes.”
The screen cut to a shot of the mayor—whose main claim to fame since his election was his Kennedyesque hotness—on the steps outside his office building downtown. “I have full confidence in our police department. No one in our fair city is above the law, and citizens must remember that though justice may move slowly, it will still be served. Taking the law into your own hands is not only dangerous—it’s illegal.”
Dressed for the day, Riley grabbed her leftovers out of the fridge and headed down the skinny back staircase. It was a tight corkscrew, dangerous for anyone who wore a shoe size above a woman’s eight. Down three flights she went, catching signs of life on every floor.
She peeled off into the kitchen on the first floor, a sunny room with butcher block counters and ancient mint green cabinets that required a step ladder to access.
Fred, the oddly muscular senior citizen, was wearing his side-part toupee and a Hall and Oates t-shirt. He happily handed over his e-reader to her so she could work her youngish person magic, which consisted of connecting to the Wi-Fi and hitting Sync.
“You’re the best, Riley,” Fred chirped while his Yoga Poses for Sexy Seniors downloaded.
“Don’t pull any muscles,” she warned. “See you later, Mr. Willicott,” she said to her other neighbor.
“Who the hell are you?” groused the elderly version of Denzel Washington as he poured coffee into a bowl. She wasn’t sure if his memory was faulty or if Mr. Willicott just didn’t give a shit about anything.
Ducking out the backdoor, she inhaled a breath of fresh almost summer. June in Pennsylvania was nice.
Maybe she’d take an hour or two of vacation time and leave early today, she mused as she unlocked her Jeep.
“Yeah, maybe do some fishing.”
“I’m not going fishing, Uncle Jimmy,” she muttered, turning the key and cranking the stereo. The Jeep had belonged to her now deceased uncle. It became hers after she’d had to return the BMW her ex-husband had tried to surprise her with after forgetting her birthday. Again.
Jimmy, her father’s brother, had died doing what he loved best. Napping in his boat after drinking a six-pack of cheap beer. The coronary took him out before he could wake up and finish his triple-decker roast beef and fried onion sandwich. The man was dead but not exactly gone. His spirit lingered in the Jeep she’d inherited. Her sister refused to ride anywhere with Riley, claiming she could still smell the ghost of the Styrofoam cooler of fish the man had once forgotten about for a week in the dead of summer.
She pulled out onto Front Street with the river to her right and Harrisburg to her left. As the state capital, parts of the city were almost impressive. The capitol complex, with its green-glazed terra cotta dome and post-modern fountain, drew crowds for tours year-round. Then there were the not-so-nice parts. The “don’t walk down the street alone at night” parts, the easily flooded parts, and the “what’s that weird smell?” parts.
Of course, it wasn’t just crime and weird smells that had given Harrisburg its notoriety. There was that brush with bankruptcy thanks to an incinerator debacle, and then there were the millions of city dollars tied up in a collection of Wild West artifacts for a museum that never happened.
Despite all this, revitalization was slowly oozing in from the city’s borders. Festivals along the riverfront drew huge crowds. Family-friendly 5ks snaked their way down city streets. Breweries and restaurants popped up in once abandoned storefronts. And long empty buildings found new owners with renovation budgets.
Little Amps was a hip coffee shop that roasted its own beans and attracted the kinds of people who enjoyed the inconvenience of not going through a chain drive-thru. The coffee was excellent. But the parking was stupid. The building sat on a corner on the skinny, one-way Green Street. Riley circled twice before getting desperate and slipping into a spot down the block tagged with a faded paper sign that read No Parking Until Further Notice, Harrisburg Parking Enforcement.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Uncle Jimmy’s voice sang in her head.
She ignored it. The sign had been there for the last six weeks, and as far as she could tell, the parking office was just screwing with drivers at this point.
She waited for a rusted-out pickup and a shiny Tesla to cruise past before crossing the street. A guy with dreadlocks and a lot of facial piercings held the door for her as she jogged up the two concrete steps into the shop. There was a line, as there always was on weekday mornings. But no one else seemed to be in the hurry that Riley always was. They all probably had make-your-own schedules or work-from-home jobs.
Lucky bastards.
The higher-ups at the marketing firm where she worked had freaked out over the suggestion.
Employees were required to be in the building for exactly eight hours a day, five days a week, in order to get paid. Her boss, Leon Tuffley Jr., a crotch-scratching “charmer,” told them all that there was no way he was paying employees to “pretend” to work when he knew damn well they’d all be “drinking beer naked and farting around.”
In an unspoken rebellion, the offended employees had since dedicated wildly inappropriate amounts of time to social media and computer games during work hours. It had been the only thing to unite them.
Riley shifted her weight from foot to foot, tantalized by the smell of Honduran dark roast. Unless everyone in front of her was ordering a black coffee, she was going to be late. Again. And Donna, the front desk sentinel of indeterminate age and humanity, was going to be a pain in the ass about it. Again.
After nearly a year at Sullivan, Hartfield, Aster, Reynolds, and Tuffley, Riley had yet to see the woman smile, say “excuse me” when she elbowed someone out of her way in the snack room, or wash her hands before leaving the restroom.
“Should I shave the ol’ bikini line in case we have sex tonight? Or should I not shave it and hold out for one more date?”
Instinctively, Riley glanced over her shoulder. The woman behind her was studying the menu board, but apparently her mind was on more important things. Things that a stranger such as herself should not be eavesdropping on.
Opening a news app, Riley drowned out the private thoughts of strangers and focused on more local happenings.
“Welcome to Little Amps,” the barista said cheerfully when she arrived at the front of the line. “What can I get you?”
Her hair was chopped short and shaved on one side. Her cat eye glasses were a bright shade of raspberry that matched the tips of her hair. The tattoo at the base of her thumb was a penguin with heart eyes. She also had swollen lymph nodes on one side of her neck.
Not that Riley could actually tell. But she knew.
Oh, shit. Not again. Not here.
Her nose twitched.
“Uh, I’ll have the cold jar, please,” she croaked, looking everywhere but the girl’s neck.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2025 All Rights Reserved
When she has a vision of her elderly neighbor being murdered, she battles with her conscience and warns the police.
Enter Nick Santiago, retired cop, now PI, who likes to set his own hours, work load and priorities. Those priorities do not include finding THE ONE and set...
When she has a vision of her elderly neighbor being murdered, she battles with her conscience and warns the police.
Enter Nick Santiago, retired cop, now PI, who likes to set his own hours, work load and priorities. Those priorities do not include finding THE ONE and settling down. He is attempting to serve legal documents to Riley’s neighbor and inevitably steaks out the flophouse when said neighbor is murdered.
Enter Gabe, a spiritual advisor and trainer, sent by Riley’s Grandma to help her develop and control her gift.
Enter Riley’s family, residents of the flophouse, Nick’s family, shady characters, Riley’s best friend, police detectives and menage of large animals and we have a shenanigans filled murder mystery/rom-com of epic proportions!!!
I could not stop laughing and swooning while reading this whodunnit, laugh out loud hilarious love story. This book has something for everyone - love, lust, family drama, commune, swoon, steam, murder mystery, one large cuddly dog and other large animals all wrapped up in a “vision” driven chase to bring the culprits of the murder conspiracy to justice.
Hope you’ll enjoy it as much as I did!!!
Please log in to write a comment.
Please log in to write a comment.
Riley Thorn has been told all her life that she has psychic abilities but she doesn't want them. All Riley wants is to be is normal. She's divorced and lives in a rooming house with people way past retirement age. But despite how hard she tries, she keeps having visions of something happening to the guy across the hall.
When the neighbor winds up being killed, a very handsome PI shows up to help solve the case.
Nick Santiago is hotter than heck. He's trying to solve the a m...
Riley Thorn has been told all her life that she has psychic abilities but she doesn't want them. All Riley wants is to be is normal. She's divorced and lives in a rooming house with people way past retirement age. But despite how hard she tries, she keeps having visions of something happening to the guy across the hall.
When the neighbor winds up being killed, a very handsome PI shows up to help solve the case.
Nick Santiago is hotter than heck. He's trying to solve the a murder when he meets Riley,who seems to know an awful lot about the murder. He decides to help solve the case and protect Riley, who may be the prime suspect.
Nick has an uphill battle on his hands. From a police detective who seems to hold a grudge against him to an odd but handsome guy sent to help Riley hone her psychic skills, trouble seems to be around every corner.
I was in stitches through a lot of this book. The characters are awesome, especially the secondary ones. This book has it all; laughter, tears, intrigue...
I can't recommend this book highly enough. Just make sure you don't start reading it before bedtime or you'll wind up with a book hangover in the morning.
Please log in to write a comment.
A reluctant psychic, a knife wielding private investigator, a pile of waitresses, and a spiritual guide walk into (or crawl out of) a skanky bar…only Lucy Score could take this scene and make it sing with hilarity and hijinks.
Riley Thorn just wants to be normal, no visions, no cotton candy clouds foretelling murder and mayhem. Nick Santiago just wants to get through his days serving papers and surveilling errant spouses with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of pleasure. Slammed together while they investigate what happened to the dead guy next door, Riley ...
A reluctant psychic, a knife wielding private investigator, a pile of waitresses, and a spiritual guide walk into (or crawl out of) a skanky bar…only Lucy Score could take this scene and make it sing with hilarity and hijinks.
Riley Thorn just wants to be normal, no visions, no cotton candy clouds foretelling murder and mayhem. Nick Santiago just wants to get through his days serving papers and surveilling errant spouses with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of pleasure. Slammed together while they investigate what happened to the dead guy next door, Riley and Nick hurtle into adventure after adventure with a weird and wonderful variety of sidekicks.
This book is full of high-octane laughs, buckets of chemistry, and heart pounding action adventure! If you are looking for something just a little different and twisty, this book is right up your alley!
Please log in to write a comment.
* * * * 1/2 Spoiler Free
Bravery comes in all sorts of forms. It can be standing up to a bully, it can be taking a look in the mirror and changing a pattern, and it can be writing a book, unlike anything you may have written before.
Lucy Score is Hella Brave. She had an idea for years, she let it sit dormant, and then when the time was right, she let loose, gave us it, in all its glory. Her timing was perfect because as a Lucy Score reader, she has been laying the groundwork for just this type of ride.
In Riley Thorn and the Dead Guy Next Door we hav...
* * * * 1/2 Spoiler Free
Bravery comes in all sorts of forms. It can be standing up to a bully, it can be taking a look in the mirror and changing a pattern, and it can be writing a book, unlike anything you may have written before.
Lucy Score is Hella Brave. She had an idea for years, she let it sit dormant, and then when the time was right, she let loose, gave us it, in all its glory. Her timing was perfect because as a Lucy Score reader, she has been laying the groundwork for just this type of ride.
In Riley Thorn and the Dead Guy Next Door we have a woman whose deepest desire is to just be "normal". You see her family is anything but. Her mother and mother's mother have been gifted (not that Riley would call that) with psychic powers, and it seems Riley has been graced with the most powerful ability of all. Since she was a child, she had visions of the future, hears from the dead, and the thoughts of others around her...Yup, she hears them too.
Now from an outsider's point of this, they may think this would be really cool but in actuality, it's not...unless you know how to control it.
So Riley is dealing with her life; she was hosed during her divorce proceedings by her ex, leaving her having to pay him even though he was the one who cheated on her. She works as a proofreader at a company that is practically hostile 24/7.
And the cherry on top is her living arrangement in a rundown mansion owned by an elderly woman who has numerous other elderly people living there. All under the umbrella that they are related so as to not be considered tenants. Meaning Riley isn't renting, she is staying with her aunt and uncles.
Now picture this...
Riley's area up in the attic area of the house is shared with another tenant. They both have these little places with baby kitchens, a place to sit, and a bed area. Unfortunately, they share a bathroom out in the connecting hallway of the house. This other guy is not the most user friendly. In other words, he is an ass. He owns a crappy bar, has worse health habits, and is just all-around icky.
So it wasn't out of the norm when Riley would hear creaking outside her door when someone was in the hallway. Since she was sure it wasn't one of the other neighbors, she looked out through her peephole and saw a man, a very hot stranger who was everything you would see under the label "Bad Boy".
Riley opened her door, got a little dizzy looking into those blue-green eyes, and saw something that she couldn't quite believe. She heard this man saying to her he was looking for someone and it brought her back to the here and now.
Nick Santiago, current private investigator/past cop, was looking at this vision of a woman. She wasn't dressed up, hadn't stitch of make-up on, and yet, she was beautiful beyond belief. He was looking for a guy to serve him and ended up having the cutest banter ever with this person. He liked her sass, her quick mind, and from what he saw...a smokin' body.
But Nick could tell, this woman wasn't for him because Nick liked his life free and easy. Riley had good girl written all over her. She was a rule follower and Nick, since birth, made breaking rules his religion. So she was a no go but that did not stop him thinking about her non-stop long after his first encounter with her.
This story takes off from the very first couple of pages. You get the feel of just what you have bought into and understand to strap in for the ride provided. It will be something that will capture your mind, your heart, and all of your time until you finish it. It is a compulsive read. You want to know where the hell it is going and you want to go with it.
There are so many additional characters, you would think they are too much...BUT not exactly. Because with this type of story, it is the talent of keeping all those plates spinning and not dropping any of them that is the deal. All of those characters fit together like those 1000 piece puzzles. You have to be up for the challenge to attempt them but when you complete them you feel like you mastered the world.
Lucy Score mastered her world. She created a group of people who will stay with you. You will want to know more and follow their shenanigans...because I promise, with this group, oh, there will be more to come.
Please log in to write a comment.