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Superbly written with a tight plot, lots of dark alleys and nooks and crannies all over the place. It's a fast and entertaining read, and Lanyon is carving out quite a niche for herself as the creator of gay mysteries. The characterizations make the book absolutely delicious. Excellent!

Shelley Glodowski for Midwest Book Review
Three classic novels of murder and suspense from “the Agatha Christie of gay mystery.”
A disgraced FBI agent and a small-town sheriff team up to catch a serial killer in the atmospheric thriller Winter Kill.
Probing the enigma of legendary 1960s artist Cosmo Bari’s disappearance proves deadly to his son in the traditional cozy Murder in Pastel.
Murder and mayhem make for strange bedfellows at a mystery writing conference in the comic who-dunnit Somebody Killed His Editor (the first book of the Holmes & Moriarity series).
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The blue woman, her mouth an open “O” but no sound coming out. Over her shoulder a crescent moon, old and tarnished. No…dipped in blood. Something else. Someone else…

My own yell of terror woke me. I found myself sitting bolt upright, my heart stuttering with fright and anger as I gulped in oxygen. I put my hands up to my face and they were shaking. I could see the white blur of them, and for some reason this alarmed me all the more.

I told myself to think of something else, but all I could think of was that Brett had been murdered, that someone had watched us and waited. And when I ran for help, that same someone had picked up a rock—

I pictured Brett lying there in the sand, helpless, thinking perhaps that rescue had come. I pictured this faceless person slipping silently through the shadows of my own home. I saw a gloved hand opening the cupboard and taking down my pills…

I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but somehow I was dialing Adam’s phone number.

The phone rang once. Twice. Picked up.

Adam’s voice was scratchy. He cleared it, repeated, “Yes?”

“It’s…me.”

“What’s wrong?” He sounded alert now.

I couldn’t answer. What the hell was I doing?

“Kyle?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I laughed. It didn’t come out quite right. Embarrassing. I admitted, “Bad dreams.”

“I’ll come over.”

My heart spread its wings like Drake Trent’s angel; ready for liftoff. I said reluctantly, “No. I’m okay now. It’s late.”

“I’m on my way.”

The phone clicked down before I could say all the things I should have. I rolled out of bed and went to the window. The light was on at Adam’s, a cheery glow. A minute later I saw the verandah spot come on, saw him briefly illuminated in the grainy light as he shrugged on a sweatshirt.

I went downstairs, not bothering to turn on the lamps. I knew this place in the dark, I knew it in my sleep. I unbolted the door and was waiting on the porch as Adam jogged up the stairs.

I began nervously, “I feel like a foo—” But he put his arms around me and I bit off the rest of it.

We hugged each other. I breathed in his sleepy scent; his unshaven cheek rubbed against mine. It was like coming home. Adam’s arms were strong, safe, like being held by my father, except I don’t remember ever being held by my father.

Seven minutes later I was back in my nest of pillows and blankets, cradling the mug of decades-old (though I didn’t like to break it to him) Ovaltine Adam had heated for me. He lay on the bed beside me, head propped on his hand, while I related my dream. To my relief he didn’t laugh at any of it: the furtive knock at the window, the blue woman, the moon that turns into a blood-spattered scythe.

“You know what it’s like, Adam? Did you ever see that painting by de Chirico? Melancholy and Mystery of a Street?

“The one with the carnival wagon? The girl with the hoop running from the shadow?”

“Right. There’s something, I don’t know, sort of desolate about that painting.”

“Disquieting.”

“Yeah. That’s it. Of familiar things being…sinister.” I wasn’t explaining it well. The unconscious mind digests our experiences and translates them into dreams; that’s what I was trying to say.

Maybe Adam understood. He softly quoted de Chirico, “And what shall I love if not enigma?”

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