I have been a crime fiction fan for thirty years, since reading Thomas Harris’, The Silence of the Lambs, and my enthusiasm for thrillers dates back to Peter Benchley’s Jaws.

In August 2012, Winnie Johnson died, aged 78. She died never knowing where her twelve year old son, Keith Bennett, was buried, and her long held wish to give her son a proper burial was never fulfilled.

My husband and I were out for breakfast when the seed for my third novel was planted.

You could say I’ve been involved with crime for a long time. Over two decades in law enforcement taught me a lot about human nature, good and bad.

I write about death a lot. Always have. About terminal illness and celestial apocalypse and women killed for the amusement of men. Murderous cults and a family line of women who see people’s deaths when they touch them.

I grew up in Gulfport, Florida, about thirty miles from Tarpon Springs, where in the early 1900s Greek sponge divers plied their trade after an extensive bed of natural sponges was discovered.