I’m delighted to be co-hosting today’s stop on the blog tour for Find Me, a tense, suspenseful thriller by J. S. Monroe. You can read an extract from Find Me below.
Plus there’s a chance to win your own copy of Find Me (UK & ROI only). You can enter here. Entries close on 17th September 2017.
About the Book
Five years ago, Rosa walked to the pier in the dead of night, looked into the swirling water, and jumped. She was a brilliant young Cambridge student who had just lost her father. Her death was tragic, but not unexpected.
Was that what really happened? The coroner says it was suicide. But Rosa’s boyfriend, Jar, can’t let go. He sees Rosa everywhere – a face on the train, a figure on the cliff. He is obsessed with proving that she is still alive.
And then he gets an email. Find me, Jar. Find me, before they do…
Format: Paperback (400 pp.) Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 7th September 2017 Genre: Thriller
Find Find Me on Goodreads
Extract: Find Me by J S Monroe
After the pub we went for a meal, even though I wasn’t hungry. I don’t know where it was, some place down by the river. I was still pretty drunk – until it was time to pay.
And that’s when I met him. Why now, with so little time left? Why not in my first term?
He was making his way around the table, taking payment from each of us. One bill, split fourteen ways, can you believe it? But this guy never complained, not even when he came round to me and my card didn’t work.
‘The machine’s acting up,’ he said, so quietly I could hardly hear him. ‘We’re out of range. Best you come up to the till now.’
‘Sorry?’ I said, looking up at him. I’m not short, but this guy was tall, a big bear of a man with a clean-shaven chin and a soft Irish brogue.
He leant down, checking that no one else could hear. His breath was warm and he smelt clean. Sandalwood, maybe.
‘So we need to try your card again, nearer the till.’
There was something about the look he gave me, an avuncular, reassuring smile, that made me get up from the table and follow him over to the till. And I liked his big tidy hands, a discreet ring on his thumb. But he wasn’t my type at all. The wide sweep of his jawline came together too sharply at the chin and his mouth was pinched.
It was only when we were out of earshot that he turned to me and said in a louder voice that my card had been rejected.
‘I’ve been advised to take the card from you and cut it up.’ He grinned. His big face brightened and gained better proportions when he did that: the chin softened and his cheekbones rose up.
‘What do we do?’ I asked, pleased that we seemed to be in this together. I’ve been broke since the day I arrived.
He looked down at me, realising for the first time, I think, quite how drunk I was. And then he glanced across at the table.
‘The cast?’ he said.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Maybe they’ll leave one in cash,’ I said, suddenly defensive of my new friends.
‘That would be a first.’
‘You’re not an actor yourself then,’ I said.
‘No. I’m not an act-or.’
He made me feel embarrassed by the word, rhyming the second syllable with ‘roar’.
‘So what do you do when you’re not being rude about my friends?’ I asked.
‘I’m a student.’
‘Here? At Cambridge?’ It was a stupid, patronising question and he spared me an answer. ‘I write a bit, too.’
‘Great.’ But I wasn’t listening. My mind was already wandering back to my contribution to the bill and the fact that I had no means of paying. I don’t want any of the cast to know I’m penniless, even if it goes with the profession. And I can’t tell them that my financial worries – all my worries – will soon be over. I can’t tell anyone.
‘There’s enough money in the tip box, from other diners, for me to cover it,’ he said.
For a moment I was lost for words. ‘And why would you want to do that?’
‘Because I think it’s the first time you’ve hung out with these people and you’re trying to impress them. Not being able to pay might cost you the part. And I’m already looking forward to coming to watch. Ibsen’s all right, you know.’
We looked at each other in silence. He caught me by the elbow as I swayed too much. I was starting to feel very sick.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Can you take me home?’ The tone of my voice – slurred, pleading – sounded all wrong, as if I was listening to some- one else talking.
About the Author
Jon Stock, now writing as J.S. Monroe, read English at Cambridge University, worked as a freelance journalist in London and was a regular contributor to BBC Radio 4. He was also a foreign correspondent in Delhi for the Daily Telegraph and was on its staff in London as Weekend editor. He left Telegraph in 2010 to finish writing his acclaimed Daniel Marchant spy trilogy and returned in 2013 to oversee the paper’s digital books channel. He became a fulltime author in 2015, writing as J.S. Monroe.
His first novel, The Riot Act, was shortlisted by the Crime Writers’ Association for its best first novel award. The film rights for Dead Spy Running, his third novel, were bought by Warner Bros, who hired Oscar-winner Stephen Gaghan (Traffic, Syriana) to write the screenplay. It is currently in development.
He is the author of five novels and lives in Wiltshire, England, with his wife, a photographer, and their three children.
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