Friday, February 9, 2018

Free E-book With Newsletter Signup

A Gift For You!

Please enjoy this free copy of Hush!  Just sign up for my newsletter to receive information on new releases! Even though Hush came out several years ago, it remains one of my most popular titles and has over 500 5-star reviews.
~ Anne




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About the book:
It's criminal profiler Ivy Dunlap's job to unravel the psyches of the most dangerous men alive. None haunts her dreams more than the killer who took her son's life sixteen years ago, then silently disappeared into the dark. Now an urgent request for help from the Chicago police has reawakened Ivy's greatest nightmare. The Madonna Murderer has returned to fulfill his calling. This time Ivy understands the killer and will face her greatest fear to stop him from killing again.


Publishers Weekly
Few serial killers penned by suspense writers today are as warped or as fully realized as the Madonna Murderer, who preys on newborn baby boys and their unwed mothers. As if the crime itself isn't bad enough, the killer leaves a musical snow globe that plays "Hush, Little Baby" in the infant's crib as his calling card. It has been nearly two decades since Ivy Dunlap and her infant son were victimized by the Madonna Murderer. Unbeknownst to the killer, Ivy survived the assault. Her baby didn't. Now a respected criminal psychologist, Ivy is called into service by the Chicago P.D. when the killer resurfaces after 16 years of dormancy. Her personal interest in the case takes on a sharper edge when she learns that her partner, Detective Max Irving, has a son named Ethan who is the same age her child would have been had he survived. When Ivy tries to rattle the Madonna Murderer by publishing a "dead-baby letter" in the newspaper, the killer becomes more daring; he befriends Ethan, sends Ivy a chunk of his skin bearing a tattoo and expands his profile of victims. Although some readers may be turned off by the novel's graphic nature, a wealth of procedural detail, a heart-thumping finale and two scarred but indelible protagonists make this a first-rate debut.

"With Hush, Anne Frasier slams into the fast lane and goes to the head of the pack." Jayne Ann Krentz   "Warning: Don't read this book if you are home alone." Lisa Gardner    ...a wealth of procedural detail, a heart-thumping finale and two scarred but indelible protagonists make this a first-rate debut. — Publishers Weekly

 

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Do Living Spaces Define Our Inner Selves?

Tap, tap. Is this thing on? I'm having so much trouble with the blog on my website that I decided to re-awaken this one.  And speaking of awakening...

I was lying awake at 4:00 a.m., thinking about a house I recently bought that I simply can’t connect with no matter what I do to make it feel like home. And I started thinking back to all the living spaces I’ve occupied in the last twenty years, and came to the uneasy realization that it’s not them, it’s me. I’m weak. I’ve allowed living spaces to define me. I don’t feel good about this, because I want to be the SAME rendition of me no matter where I am. And I hate to think that my sense of self is so shaky that it can change the moment I step into a building. But this is my reality. I’ve gone through numerous inner selves in numerous different places, shedding and sluffing, but mostly taking on whatever the living-space vibe demands of me.



Let’s start with the house I can’t connect with. There, I’m a lost soul shuffling from room-to-room with no compass, plucking at her nightgown and fretting about a life gone horribly awry.

Then there’s the condo. Ten years ago, I briefly rented a condo (WTF was I thinking?) in what should have been a delightful and charming Victorian. Instead, inside those walls, I took on the form of a shadow person who spent her days dealing with slumlords, gangs of mice, and leaking roofs. From the apartment above, bad music seeped through the ceiling and a young mother shrieked at her boyfriend while her kids played video games and roller-bladed in the living room.

Before that, it was a tidy bungalow in a somewhat upscale area of Saint Paul. I was an imposter, knowing I didn’t belong, but unable to pinpoint why I was so unworthy. It gave me little comfort that another outsider, Sara Jane Olson, previously of the Symbionese Liberation Army and now a cookbook author, lived nearby.  In that house, I eventually became one with a permanent state of unease, enough to remain four years.

In my problematic and impractical church home, I’m confident and focused and at peace most of the time. No nightgown plucking or slipper shuffling. In the church house, I feel I’m my truest self, but this could all be a lie. The house could be tricking me, but it’s a trick I’m willing to embrace.

The big question. Why do spaces shape our inner selves? And how do they do it so quickly, sometimes within moments of stepping in the door? Am I just that weak? Or, because I’m a writer, am I more open to suggestion? Must I become what the dwelling suggests? Why can’t I be me wherever I am?  Do others experience this, but don’t recognize it? Or is this common knowledge and I’m blabbing about something everybody else has always understood?