A Murder of Crows

Rev your engines and hold on tight as you enter the high-speed world of classic hotrods and street racing. A Murder of Crows takes you on a wild ride as Avery Byrne, the tattoo artist turned vigilante, is determined to avenge the death of her friend.

But as she delves deeper into the hotrod scene, Avery uncovers a darker side filled with larger-than-life personalities, staged conflicts, and a killer who will stop at nothing to win.

With heart-pumping suspense, nail-biting plot twists, and a powerful heroine, A Murder of Crows will leave you breathless. If you enjoy heart-pounding suspense, page-turning plot twists, and queer women who kick ass, you’ll love Dharma Kelleher’s goth rock anthem of a thriller.

Don't miss the second book in the Avery Byrne Goth Vigilante crime thriller series and join Avery as she takes on the deadliest race of her life.

"This was an amazing book. The storyline pulls you in from the first page and doesn’t let go until the last.

"The book is well written with a mystery that is at once fascinating and horrifying."

-reader reviewer

"The characters left me speechless. They are so multifaceted that there is no nuance left unexplored."

-reader reviewer

"This is one of those stories that just won’t let you put the book down. I love the unique characters with all their personal foibles, the well-considered plot that keeps you guessing, and the overall attention to detail that draws you into the story so completely that you can see everything unfold in your mind as clearly as watching a good movie."

-reader reviewer

"This one definitely belongs on the “must read” list of anyone enjoying a good vigilante thriller."

-reader reviewer

“Boze, dude, what’s wrong?” Hatchet wiped the blood-red cupcake crumbs from his hands and onto his grease-stained work shirt. He set the bottle of ginger beer he’d been drinking on a nearby metal tool cabinet. 

The tall, older man shook his head as if trying to clear the cobwebs. “Feeling woozy. Must be the meds them docs got me on. Or maybe I’m coming down with something.”

“You don’t look too good, my friend,” Fisch chimed in. “You need to lie down or something? There’s a cot in the office we can set out if you need.”

“Naw, I’ll be all right. After all, it’s payday,” Boze replied with a tired grin. “Don’t wanna be falling asleep for that. When’s that guy supposed to be showing up, anyway?”

Hatchet gazed up at the old clock on the service bay wall. “Said eight. So half an hour.”

Boze rose unsteadily to his feet. “Maybe I’ll splash some water on my face.”

He took two steps before he lost his balance and fell against the side of a 1955 Thunderbird that Classic Autos was restoring. His head clipped the side-view mirror on the way down. 

“Fuck!” he groaned.

Hatchet was at his side in a heartbeat, checking his friend for injuries. Blood seeped from a cut on Boze’s temple, staining his gray afro a bright red. 

“Something ain’t right, Hatch. Feelin’ all kinda—I dunno,” Boze said woozily. “Maybe I oughta drive myself to the ER.”

“You can’t drive yourself like this.” Hatchet pressed a clean shop rag to Boze’s wound. “Fisch, help me get him into the Blue Streak.” 

“Probably better if we call for an ambulance,” Fisch replied.

“No!” Boze snapped, his voice shaky. “Don’t need no damn ambulance. Got enough medical bills already. Blue Streak’s faster.”

The two younger guys helped Boze to his feet and, supporting him on their shoulders, got him out into the parking lot.

“Where should I take him?” Hatchet asked.

“Saint Joe’s closest,” Fisch replied. “On Thomas at Third Avenue.”

“Sounds good.” 

Hatchet lowered his friend into the passenger seat of his 1965 Mustang convertible, pulled the seatbelt across his waist, and closed the door. The pale-blue paint looked silver in the golden glow of the streetlight.

“Just hang in there, brother. We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Should I follow in my car?” Fisch asked, pulling out his keys.

“No,” Hatchet insisted. “Someone’s got to stay here and collect the money. I’ll call you soon as I know something.”

“Okay. Be safe.”

Hatchet jumped in behind the wheel and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing. Engine roaring, they raced south on Seventh Street, using the suicide lane to get around cars in their way. 

“Oh, man. Oh, man,” Boze gripped his chest. “Hard to breathe.”

Hatchet wasn’t feeling so good himself. A wave of drowsiness hit him suddenly. He struggled to keep his eyes open and on the road, even as he wove through the obstacle course of vehicles in front of him. 

Whatever was making Boze sick seemed to be affecting him now too. The flu? In early May?

As it became increasingly harder to focus on the road, Hatchet considered pulling over. He was looking for a parking lot to pull into when Boze slumped forward, held into his seat only by the seatbelt around his waist. 

“Boze! Wake up! Hey!” He tried to shake his friend awake, but there was no response. Panic gripped him. “Fuck! Hold on, brother!”

Hatchet pressed the accelerator to the floor. His own drowsiness intensified. Suddenly, he was floating. His concerns for Boze dissolved into a cloud of euphoria. 

“Shit!” Hatchet opened his eyes in time to see the utility pole flying toward him at bullet speed. A deafening metallic crunch was the last thing he heard.