Bonnie Tharp Books
"Tharp has structured an excellent suspense novel, with many surprises in store for Amanda along the way. This book kept me reading as I wanted to know what would happen next. Good job, Bonnie." - D. W.
"Another great novel by this author. This suspenseful novel kept me guessing until the end. I was hooked early on to the pace and great writing of this book; so much that I spent several nights staying up way too late to read just one more chapter. Amanda, the young protagonist, grows and matures through the story and ultimately demonstrates her strength at the climax. While the ending was bittersweet, it left this reader satisfied and hopeful. Although the other books I have read by Bonnie Tharp are not in this genre, I was thrilled with this offering." - C. M.
"Your Every Move is a departure from Bonnie's previous stories about family dynamics. Her fans will enjoy reading this darker, more sinister story about an attractive college student who attracts the wrong kind of attention and ends up fighting for her life. This book will surely attract new fans." - M. M.
The phone ringing startled me from sleep. “Hello.” At least, I think that’s what I just mumbled.
“Rachel, wake up. This is Thomas.”
Shooting up off the bed, I stumbled over the top sheet. "Where, when, tell me what is going on."
"Wake up, girl. There's a little old house on the South end that someone set fire to."
“Arson?” My eyes focused on the dresser mirror where I took note of my bed head.
“Looks like, but I can’t find any evidence to prove it. I’d like for you to come in and excavate the scene. Find the hidden treasures. This lady didn’t have much, but if you could find anything of value, sentimental or otherwise, I know she’d be grateful.”
“I can’t pay the bills on grateful, Thomas.” Okay, but I know how a lone woman feels.
“As a favor to me then? I’ll take you to a steak dinner and even buy good wine.”
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had steak or good wine, for that matter. “How big is the house?” Besides, it sounded like she could use some help.
"Small, one-story, three-bedroom, garage turned into a living area and an add-on dining room."
“Sounds bigger than small, but I’ll do it.” I needed coffee and a shower, not necessarily in that order.
"I'll text you the address. It's a mess, we had to pull down the ceiling in the living room where the blaze started, but the back rooms are mostly smoke damage. Better get here quick, the neighbors seem curious, and this isn't the best neighborhood. I'll hang around and make sure there are no hot spots."
"Thanks, Thomas." First, a shower, mostly to wake up, but I felt better starting a dirty job with a clean body and hair. It’s a thing. Once I donned my butt-kicker boots, heavy jeans, and long-sleeved tee-shirt, I grabbed my work bag and dashed out the door.
Fire recovery is a dirty job, and not too many people want to do it. I don't have much competition or a boss looking over my shoulder. The only drawback is the danger of doing it alone. Most people have a family to help. I show up when they don't.
Fall in Kansas is one of my favorite times of the year. Cool nights, warm days. The leaves were beginning to turn. What’s not to like.
When I got to the house, Thomas sat on the stamp-sized porch. What once was a screen door hung crookedly from one hinge, the bottom one. The striking thing about fires is the smell. I could smell the smoke from the street, that acrid, dense, sinister smell. Grabbing my bag, I stepped out and smiled at my oldest friend. “Hey, Thomas, you look a bit bedraggled.” There’s no reasonable time to have a fire, and the heroes who work them give all they have.
He laughed. "Rachel, I imagine you'll look even worse by the end of the day. Come here and hug this guy before you get on your gear for the walk-through."
I looked back at my beater of a Ford van and hoped it would still have the tires when I got through with this mess. The assortment of neighbors began gathering after I pulled up. Like cockroaches, they stayed in the shadows.
Enormous arms covered in golden hair wrapped around me and squeezed. I punched his iron midsection, to which he faked an injury with a yelp and a chuckle. He carried the odor of sweat, smoke, my favorite fireman. His sweaty blond hair stuck to his head, but he still looked handsome. We kissed once when we were in our teens. We agreed to never do that again. It felt wrong, like siblings kissing each other. Total yuck.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“I’m good, once we’re acquainted with this mess, I may have to leave for a few hours to do my report, but I’ll be back to check on you throughout the day.”
Scanning the neighborhood, I noted many a rough-looking person tucked onto porches and leaning on old cars. "Good, the natives look restless."
“Most of them are old folks that have lived here for decades.” I looked over my shoulder again and saw more tattoos and stained muscle tees than white hair and canes. “Right, they must sleep late.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
I laughed. “I see your point; these guys haven’t been to bed yet.” He put his arm around me and walked me to the drunken front screen.
"Now you're waking up. It is only four forty-five in the morning. Many of us haven't been to bed yet. We kicked down the front door at one-thirty this morning. I'll help you nail things shut this evening. You'll have to move fast, or we'll have to chance an overnight intrusion if you need another day."
I concentrated on the layers of ceiling lying under my boots. “Where’s the furniture?”
"There wasn't any furniture in this room, it had already been cleared out. But this is where the fire started."
A smoke-stained lamp lay overturned beside a laminated side table across the room. The chair was missing. A charred chest of drawers sat by the front door. A gold-framed mirror hung on the wall, so you could examine your face before you opened the door. Women had lived here. This had once been a feminine room.