THE LOBBY

I’m not wrapping this in a bow. From December 24–28, The Dollmaker of Point is free on Amazon. No email signup. No catch. Just a full Texas thriller about a town that should’ve stayed buried, secrets that don’t respect holidays, and a killer who never clocked out. Consider this my Christmas gift to readers who prefer their stories dark, unsettling, and just a little too real. Merry Christmas. 🎄🩸

The man was pronounced dead at the scene, bagged, and transported while the house was scrubbed clean and returned to the market. Hours later, in the morgue, his body began bleeding again—fresh, warm, and impossible. When the wounds reopened, the house answered too. New stains surfaced where blood had already been erased, as if the violence hadn’t ended… only relocated.

Lesson 7 is your wake-up call to stop auditioning for love and start disqualifying the wrong people early. Dating isn’t about being chosen — it’s about compatibility, honesty, and refusing to shrink yourself for approval. This lesson breaks down why wearing a mask early guarantees resentment later, how clarity filters faster than chemistry, and why the right people don’t need you to perform to stay.

In a quiet East Texas county, a routine autopsy was signed, filed, and closed as accidental. By morning, the report had changed—cause of death rewritten, injuries added, timeline shifted. The medical examiner swore she hadn’t touched it. Worse, when the body was reexamined, it now matched the new report. No access logs. No explanations. Just paperwork that corrected itself—and a truth that arrived late.

Lesson 6 dismantles the myth of closure and replaces it with something far more powerful: distance. Not every situation needs a conversation, an explanation, or an emotional wrap-up. Some endings don’t come with answers — they come with peace. This lesson is your permission slip to stop reopening healed wounds, stop negotiating with the past, and finally accept that walking away is sometimes the most complete resolution you’ll ever get.

A man walked into a small East Texas sheriff’s office before sunrise and calmly confessed to a murder that hadn’t happened yet. Minutes later, deputies found the victim exactly where he said she’d be—killed while he sat in their interview room. When he predicted the next two deaths with the same impossible accuracy, the question stopped being who was doing the killing…and became what he was remembering.

Lesson 5 exposes the truth nobody wants to admit: you can’t save people who are dedicated to their own chaos. You’ve been playing emotional lifeguard for adults who keep diving back into the same fire, then acting shocked when they get burned. This is your permission slip to stop rescuing, stop explaining, and let consequences do the teaching you never could.

They say the Pine Curtain keeps to itself, but anyone who’s lived near Nacogdoches long enough knows better. Shadows move out there—slow, deliberate, almost curious. When Hannah Cole walked out of those woods after three days missing, she didn’t come back alone. Something followed. Something that learned her shape a little too well.

Silence isn’t rude—it’s a power move. You don’t owe your plans, emotions, or personal business to people who gossip, pry, or twist information for sport. The quieter you become, the safer your life gets. Not everyone deserves access to your inner world, and withholding details isn’t secrecy—it’s strategy. This lesson breaks down why your silence isn’t cold… it’s self-protection.

You’re not “acting different.” You’re adapting to the energy people bring into your life. Warmth is earned, not owed. When someone demands the best version of you while giving you their worst, that’s not your cue to over-explain—it’s your cue to survive. This lesson breaks down why your personality shifts aren’t attitude… they’re intelligence, boundaries, and dark-side self-protection.

You didn’t stop caring what people think because you’re reckless—you stopped because living your life for spectators is a slow death. Lesson 2 breaks down why “unbothered,” “too bold,” and “living like it’s your last day” aren’t chaotic traits—they’re dark-side survival skills. When you stop performing for approval and start making choices for yourself, you don’t become mean. You become free.

Welcome to the Unofficial Survival Guide for Chaotic Adults—where being “too much” is actually proof you adapted better than everyone else. This lesson breaks down why your so-called “dark traits” (suspicion, bluntness, detachment, pettiness, dark humor) are survival instincts, not flaws. From holiday ambushes to late-night drama texts, here’s how the dark side keeps you sane—and unsteppable.

The case ends where it began—with motive. Hal Crouse’s autopsy showed rage and intent, but the hidden clause in his will shifted suspicion. Martha stood to gain control of the dairy if Ray was cut out, giving her reason to want Hal gone. Whether she wielded the pitchfork or manipulated another hand, the violence was personal, not random. Case File #001 is closed, but Tyler County’s shadows remain.

Buried in Hal Crouse’s will was a clause no one saw coming: if Ray was cut out, Martha regained partial ownership of the dairy. The language was buried deep, missed by the first review. Now the motive shifts. Martha didn’t need to swing the pitchfork—she just needed Hal gone. Whether she manipulated the killer or simply benefited from the fallout, one thing’s clear: someone knew exactly what that clause meant.

Hal Crouse wasn’t just struck—he was finished. The autopsy shows two blows: one wild and splintered, the other clean and final. First came rage. Then came intent. Whoever did this didn’t lose control—they made a choice. The killer knew Hal, hated him, and stayed long enough to make sure he wouldn’t get back up. This wasn’t a robbery. It wasn’t random. It was personal, and it was planned.

Marlene Givens swears she saw Clint Dyer’s truck near the milking shed at 3 a.m.—headlights cutting through the fog like a blade. Clint says he was checking cattle, but the cows weren’t on his side of the fence. No forced entry. No alibi. Just a long-standing feud over water rights and a witness who knows that engine rattle by heart. Clint’s close enough to smell the feed. Whether he swung the pitchfork is another matter.

We found the pitchfork head behind the shed—no blood, no prints, just discarded in the straw. Hours later, the handle turned up in Jessie Morales’ truck bed, tucked under a feed sack. Wood grain matches the splinters in Hal’s skull. Jessie says it broke last week. No tool head, no blood, no prints. Just a clean break and a cleaner lie. Someone’s planting evidence, and they know this farm inside out.

The milking shed smelled of ammonia and iron. Hal Crouse lay face-down in the muck, skull cracked wide open, while the cows screamed like they knew justice wouldn’t come easy in East Texas. No forced entry. Blood spatter wiped clean in one spot. Under Hal’s desk, we found a feed ledger soaked in blood. One entry circled in red ink: “Ray – unpaid $15,000.” Someone wanted us to look at Ray. We’re not convinced.

The folder was thin, warped at the edges, but heavy with ghosts. Murder Doesn’t Clock Out: Before Quinlan. Back then Loretta and David thought they were invincible—Texas Violent Crimes Task Force rookies chasing shadows. What they found instead was a wax museum of the dead, a blaze that erased more than evidence, and the first mistake that would haunt every case to come.

Before the cabin. Before the quiet. Before East Texas started calling us back. David and I were detectives chasing murder through backroads, burned-out buildings, and lies that didn’t crack easy. Murder Doesn’t Clock Out: Before Quinlan is the prequel — seven cases that built our grit, tested our instincts, and taught us the hard way that justice doesn’t come clean. You want the truth? Start here. — Loretta