Coming in Summer/Autumn 2026…
Never date a musician, Serafina Hennessy’s father always told her. But Rudd was a cellist, not a drummer. How bad could it be?
Sera soon finds out when her ratbag of a boyfriend runs off with a rock star, leaving her homeless, unemployed, and thousands of miles from her family. Unwilling to hear “I told you so,” Sera takes the first new position available and finds herself working at The Justice Project, reviewing claims of innocence and working to right past wrongs. Hardly her dream job, but there’s one case she can’t get out of her mind.
On the surface, the Sykes conviction seems airtight, but there are pieces that don’t quite fit. “Facts” that don’t add up… Against her boss’s advice, Sera falls down a rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, cover-ups, and deception in a case where nothing is as it seems.
Convict Levi Sykes has made many mistakes in his life, he’s the first to admit that. Killing his friend and roommate Ruby Costello wasn’t one of them.
But someone had to take the fall, and his world was quickly reduced to a seven-by-twelve cell and a new bestie named Diesel. Life in prison isn’t all bad—at least he doesn’t have to deal with his toxic parents anymore—but he lives in fear that Ruby’s killer will strike again.
When Sera pays him a visit, his only goal is to save lives, but by pitting Sera against his former roommates, he opens a Pandora’s box of trouble. And as a decade-old mystery unravels, a new monster awakens, a Hydra whose reach stretches farther than he ever imagined. Once again, a woman Levi cares for is in danger, but this time, only his enemies can save her…
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*UNEDITED* Sneak Peek…
When we visited Elias Jones in Unit Eight, the atmosphere had been tense. Two stoney-faced guards had escorted him into a room containing only a table and three plastic chairs and stood either side as he lowered himself into a seat opposite us. Elias had been wearing handcuffs and leg irons, and they’d secured his feet to the floor and his hands to the table.
With Sykes, I hadn’t been sure what to expect. Either the same process, or perhaps a non-contact visit with glass between us rather than a private room, seeing as I wasn’t yet a lawyer and therefore had no expectation of privacy.
But I got yet another surprise.
Two, actually.
Sykes wore the prison jewellery, but he walked in with a single guard, chatting about the weather—which had taken a turn for worse and was cold enough to make a snowman shiver—then dropped into the seat opposite me.
And smiled.
My heart flipped, and fuck… I’d been expecting the cowed, nervous man pictured during the trial, the one who never raised his gaze higher than his feet. Wiry in stature, clean shaven, preppy verging on dapper.
This man’s biceps strained at his prison scrubs, and a day’s worth of stubble lent weight to a chiseled jaw. His face had filled out, his hair was longer, and eyes the colour of root beer twinkled beneath a floppy fringe.
“Coffee?” the guard asked, and I was about to decline when I realised he was talking to Sykes.
“A latte, thanks. Serafina?”
The way he wrapped his tongue around my name made me shiver. “Uh… Okay.”
“Milk? Sugar?”
“Black, no sugar. Thank you.”
The guard was halfway to the door when Sykes summoned him back. “Jim…” He pointed to the floor. “My feet?”
“Ah, right.”
The guard secured Sykes’s leg irons to the floor but didn’t touch his hands, then left me alone with yet another convicted murderer. I twisted around and looked through the glass panel in the door because on my other visits, a chaperone with a stun baton had watched us the whole time, but Jim was nowhere in sight. At least Sykes wasn’t undressing me with his eyes or sobbing.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said. Today, his voice was stronger—I figured he had to keep the noise down on a cell phone—but it had a hypnotic quality about it. Almost sensuous. I didn’t think he was speaking that way on purpose.
“Oh, please. After your cold open?” I slapped my membership card for the New York State Bar Association on the table beside my Bar Pass. “There you go.”
“Thank you. How was the drive?”
“Long. If I drove that far in England, I’d end up in another country.”
“How long have you lived in the US?”
I was better prepared today. “As I said before, we’re here to talk about you. Where did the guard go?”
“To get us coffee,” Sykes said, unperturbed. “You asked for black, no sugar, remember?”
“Is that normal?”
“I don’t know; you’re the first visitor I’ve had since I landed here.”
“What about your family? Your friends?”
“If you’ve read up on my trial, you know what happened with my friends. My mother is dead.”
“What about your father?”
“Relieved.”
“Relieved? Why is he relieved? Because your mum passed? Or because you’re in here?”
“Yes.”
“Yes to which one?”
“Both.”
“I don’t…I don’t understand.”
“My parents and I had a complex relationship. The short answer is that my father didn’t want kids, and he resented me.”
“And your mother?”
“She loved me too much.”
Throughout the conversation, his tone didn’t change from the coffee statement. Was he detached? Disinterested? Or just demonstrating extraordinary self-control? Adults were a product of their childhood, and if Sykes had experienced a challenging upbringing, then how did that fit in with the case?
“I read that she was your biggest supporter. That she tried everything to get you out of prison.”
“Undoubtedly,” he agreed. “I was in Redding’s Gap at the time, enjoying the peace.”
“I read the appeal transcript and— Uh, what?” Did Sykes just say he’d been enjoying prison? “I don’t understand.”
For a moment, he just watched me, his brown eyes focused on my blue ones, then he gave the heaviest sigh and looked away.
“I guess it’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to tell some of my secrets, although you signed up to be a lawyer, not a therapist, so I’ll understand if you want to leave.”
“Actually, I haven’t signed up for anything yet.”
There was still the matter of that pesky bar exam I wasn’t studying hard enough for.
Sykes flashed me a smile. “That’s true. So, how about it, Serafina? Stay or go?”
“I suppose if the lawyering thing doesn’t work out, I could always start a podcast.”
I half expected him to shut down, but instead, he chuckled. “‘My conversations with a killer: the Levi Sykes story.’”
Fuck it. I had to know. “Are you a killer?”
His gaze sharpened. “No, I’m not.”
“Are you a liar?”
“I think everyone bends the truth on occasion. But you’re asking if I’m lying to you here, today, and the answer is also no.”
CONTENT WARNINGS
Fire is a reference only.
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