I’m on a roll with the character interviews this week! And I have something a little different for you today, Dear Reader. I’m chatting with FBI profiler Jeff Crandall from Mia Kay’s HARD SILENCE who I happened to visit in the Sawtooth Mountains (talk about getting your isolation on!). Read on to check out what happened. š
Standing on the porch of a hilltop farm house, the field slopes down to a river and the tree-cluttered valley, and a neighboring small ranch is visible. The Sawtooth Mountains loom in the distance. I ring the bell.
The man who opens it has glasses perched on his nose, and his bright green eyes stare over the rims. His dark, shoulder-length hair is shaggy and graying at the temples. His beard matches in color, but it’s well-trimmed.
This interview could be fun.Ā Dr. Crandall? Iām Linda.
He blinks at me, clearly confused.
Your SAC in Chicago called you, right?
āShit. Sorry. Yes. Bob called a few days back.ā He yanks his glasses from his nose. āIām just trying to get a few things done before I have to pick Evan up at school. Come in, and please call me Jeff.ā
I walk into a dark, cool hallway, and immediately turn right into what appears to be an office. The first thing that catches my attention is a lovely photograph–a landscape of a lone tree, its leaves silver-green in the fog.
Thatās beautiful.
His broad smile, slashing through the dark beard, is almost as distracting as his thick eyelashes. This is definitelyĀ going to be a fun afternoon.
āAbby took it. Itās one of my favorites.ā
When I turn to survey the room, the pictures on the opposite wall are startling. Crime scene photos are taped everywhere. Skeletons and excavation sites mark them as old burials.
āWe can talk in the living room if youād prefer.ā
I walk along the wall, staring at the photos. āNo, this is why Iām here after all. So Agent Myers–Bob–says you think all these cases are related.ā
āYouāre going to sit on the interview until weāre sure weāve caught the killer, right?ā When I nod, he relaxes. āThen yes, theyāre related. I think a mother/daughter team was involved in the first three. After 1997, I believe the deaths were committed by the younger member of the team.ā
Footsteps in the hall catch his attention, and he turns just as a young woman pokes her head in the door.
āIām leaving for town, do you need–oh, hello. Sorry to interrupt.ā
No problemo.
āNope, but thanks for checking, Cassie. Iāll be at Abbyās tonight for dinner. Evan and I are going there after baseball practice.ā
āI wonāt wait up,ā Cassie says, winking. Sheās gone before I can say anything.
Given her resemblance to Jeff, I hazard a guess.Ā Daughter?
He shakes his head. āYoungest sister. She came out for a visit and I canāt get her to leave.ā
She must be a big help with your son.Ā When I reach the end of theĀ wall, I turn to see the rest of his notes.
āSon? Oh, Evan. Heās not…not really. He lives in the valley with Abby.ā The alarm on his phone interrupts him, and he fumbles with the buttons, cursing until it quiets. āSorry. I will never get the hang of that damn thing. Abby is Evanās foster mother. Weāve sort of agreed to co-parent while Iām here. Itās a long story.ā
Abby. Her name is on the makeshift workspace on the opposite wall. Below it are scribbled notes that I recognize as behavior patterns, phobias, and symptoms.Ā You profiled your neighbor?
He runs his hand back through his hair, staring past me at the notes. āUm, yeah. She doesnāt like to talk about herself, so this was easiest.ā
So baseball practice, dinner, sister, neighbor, little boy…when do you have time to catch a killer?
He snorts a laugh. āThatās a good question.ā He checks his watch again. āIām sorry to cut this short, but I really do need to get Evan. He shouldnāt stand on the sidewalk alone.ā
Would you like me to visit again when you get back to Chicago? Maybe in your lab?
āThat would probably be best,ā he says as he grabs his jacket.
When will that be, Jeff?
āIām due to be back in September.ā He takes a deep breath as we walk to the cars. āHonestly, Linda, I have no idea when Iāll be back. Donāt tell Bob yet, okay?ā
Your secretās safe with me.

FBI profiler Jeff Crandall returned to Fiddler, Idaho, to work on new Bureau protocols in peaceā¦and because he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about Abby Quinn. Kind, beautiful and quietly sexy, the petite rancher next door is loved by the entire town but keeps fiercely to herself. She’s a mystery that doesn’t want to be solved, though he’s desperate to try.
Whether that interest is professional or personal is a question he’ll sort out later.
Abby knows sharing her secrets would bring death and destruction to Fiddler. She survived her childhood, barely, but a long list of stepfathers weren’t nearly so lucky: their bodies are buried across the country, waiting to be discovered. The best protection is silence, anonymity and isolation, though the handsome agent next door seems hell-bent on destroying all three.
And he just keeps kissing herā¦
When Jeff is called in to investigate an interstate serial killer case spanning two decades, Abby knows it’s only a matter of time before he connects the dots, sees her for who she really is and walks away. But it’s when he’s standing in the crosshairs of Abby’s past that Jeff faces his biggest challenge yet: how to give the woman he loves the life she doesn’t believe she deserves.
BUY LINK:Ā http://amzn.com/B01BKK6KRU
EXCERPT:
She lay down on the blanket and stared up at the stars winking down at her. There. The one that looked pink was Connie. Pink had been her favorite color. And that one was Beau, and that one was Ron, and that one was John. The one there, all alone, was Walt. That fuzzy one there was the Toby Wallis had killed. The twinkly one nearest the horizon was Buck. And the brightest one, in the middle, was Papa.
Raising her camera, she focused on that one and adjusted the lens. She could see the wispy clouds in front of it and the drifts of stars behind it. Then she couldnāt see anything. Putting her feet flat, she pushed her back against the ground and prepared to fight. The auto-focus adjusted, revealingānot a monsterābut gray hair gleaming in the moonlight.
Moving the camera, she blinked up at the obstruction. āYouāre in my shot.ā
āSorry,ā Jeff muttered.
He wasnāt sorry enough to move. Instead of taking the picture, she sat up, put her camera on the blanket and grabbed her ale. The sour apple flavor reminded her of Jolly Ranchers. She blinked up at him, waiting on his anger.
āLook, I donāt mean to ruin your evening or push you. Just tell me what I did to piss you off so badly youād refuse an apology.ā
Her skin heated. Shit. See? This is what happens when you try to be normal. People find out youāre weirder than they thought. āWhy would you. Apologize. To me?ā she asked, cursing that heād approach her tonight when so many memories clanged against her tongue, begging to be told. āIām the one. Who ruined. Everything.ā
Without waiting on an invitation, Jeff sat next to her on the blanket. āAre you? Iāā he ticked the items on his fingers āādidnāt let you cancel, didnāt make reservations, forgot our date, took you to the hospital for an emergency, and then asked you to talk about something very painful.ā He looked at the bottle in her hand. āI thought you didnāt drink.ā
āOnly on special occasions.ā She smothered her belch and put the empty in the six-pack.
āIt looks like a very special occasion.ā
She stared at the Jack Danielās bottle in his hand. Buck had loved Jack Danielās. āYou seem to be having one of your own.ā
āAnniversary. You?ā
She wove her fingers through the yarn fringe on the blanket. Sheād attached it after the satin border had given way during the first year sheād been here alone. āAnniversary.ā
āYour father?ā
āMy best friend.ā Abby preempted the question she knew heād ask. āShe was murdered.ā The last word tightened her lungs.
āHow old were you?ā
You can do this. One word. Just this one. āEight.ā
āDid they catch him?ā
It wasnāt a him, it was a her. And no, they didnāt. She got away, and sheās out there, and I canāt tell anyone. Every nerve in her body begged her to tell him. Heād find her monster. Just like heād found Maggieās monster last year.
But Wallis would escape. She always did. And then Maggie would have a new monster to fear. So would Faye, and Evan, and even Jeff. Heād pay for his good deed. So Abby glued her lips together and shook her head.
āDo you know how frustrating that is?ā Jeff asked. āTo be talking to you and have you just stop?ā
āThen why spend time with me?ā she countered. āGo home.ā Though she used her best glare, he stayed put. āYou canāt help me,ā she persisted. āIām not a. Victim. You can save.ā Itās too late for me.
He took a sip of whiskey. āCanāt I just like spending time with you?ā
No he couldnāt. He should go away. āJeffāā
āI need someone to talk to, Abby. If I was back in Chicago Iād be out with friends, where I wouldnāt be stuck in my own head.ā He looked across at her.
āWhat about Cassidy?ā
āSheās out with Carter.ā His smile widened. āSheās my sister. Didnāt she tell you?ā
Not his girlfriend. She stared back, her skin heating even as her heart thudded. She ought to stick to her resolution. One last rebuff, after heād confided in her, would permanently exile her. Taking a deep breath, she rehearsed the damning lines. I donāt care. Go away and leave me alone.
āIs this the date your father died?ā she asked.
āTwenty-three years ago today,ā he said. āItās weird. Iāve not had him longer than I actually did have him, but it never gets easier. I was still looking for him in the crowd when I finished my PhD. Hell, I even dreamed Mom had him stuffed and put him on the sofa like a pillow. Heās missed all the experiences that made me who I am, but heās colored all my decisions.ā He sighed. āI feel like heās looking over my shoulder, and I donāt want to disappoint him. And I have. One of his murderers was just granted parole, and I wasnāt there to fight it.ā
She nodded. She felt a similar weight every day that Wallis walked free.
āMaybe it was meant for us to hang out together,ā he murmured, nudging her. āMy dad, your friend, same day. Thatās a big coincidence.ā
If this was Fate in action, she had a sick sense of humor. Still, it was comforting to share this loss with him, knowing heād experienced something similar. Even if she couldnāt talk about it.
āWhat was her name?ā he asked.
āConnie.ā That was safe enough. No last name, no location. Just a little girl whoād died.
āDid you grow up with her?ā
Abby shook her head. āI met her my first day of third grade. The desk in front of her was empty, so I sat there. We were wearing the same shoes.ā
āSo you became instant friends?ā
She nodded. āWe used to stay on the playground until she had to go home, swinging so high the chains buckled and weād drop like we were on a roller coaster. Her braids would bounce against her back, and sheād whoop and laugh and start again.ā
āI always liked the seesaw,ā Jeff whispered. His breath brushed her ear. When she turned her head, they were almost nose to nose, and his arm was warm against her back. This close, his smile was blinding. āYou looked cold,ā he explained as if reading her mind. āMy younger sisters were Brownies. Were you and Connie?ā
āNo. But sheād found an old handbook at the library, so we were working through it. One night we camped in her backyard and her dad showed us the stars while we roasted hot dogs and marshmallows.ā
He shook out her extra blanket and covered their legs. The flannel trapped his body heat against her skin and concentrated his scent.
āWhat constellations did you learn?ā he asked.
She pointed at the sky. āBig Dipper. Little Dipper. Perseusāā
Jeff pointed to her left, and drew a design. āThereās Cassiopeia.ā Then another. āAndromeda.ā Then he pointed to her right. āAnd thereās Hercules.ā His fingers tightened on her hip. āYou know, that thing youāre doing with your hand is driving me crazy.ā
His words made her focus on the hand resting on his thigh. His well-worn jeans were silky soft, and she was rubbing the inside seam between her fingers. He shivered as her nails scratched the fabric. She yanked her hand away.
He pulled her back to him and placed his hand atop hers. Underneath were large solid muscles and bone, above were long, gentle fingers. Everything about him was comforting and not at the same time.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Mia Kay spent years writing legal documents and keeping people out of trouble. Now she spends her days looking for ways to get her characters into trouble. She lives in Arkansas with her husband, who doesnāt mind discussing (and sometimes causing) mayhem over breakfast.
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