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| About the Book |
A Good Man
“Decades after a brutal childhood trauma, a famous novelist finds his life shattered once again, in this unsettling psychological mystery thriller.”
He wants to remember. He’ll wish he could forget . . .
Decades after a brutal childhood trauma, a famous novelist finds his life shattered once again, in this unsettling psychological mystery thriller.
Brooks Anderson should now be enjoying life, but the persistent nightmares and sleepwalking still haunt him.
As hard as he’s tried, he can’t run away from the defining event of his life: the senseless murders of his mother and brother during a vacation in Montauk, which left the eight-year-old Brooks the sole survivor of the carnage and in a catatonic state. He buried his pain and eventually overcame his demons.
But now an unscrupulous journalist is threatening to twist the truth by digging up the past. To prove his innocence and exorcise his demons, Brooks must dig into his own psyche and the events of that fateful summer. His pursuit of the truth soon leads Brooks down a slippery slope that challenges everything—and will bring him face-to-face with the real monster of Montauk . . .
Purchase Link - https://geni.us/AGoodMan
Author Bio – PJ McIlvaine is a prolific best-selling Amazon author, screenwriter, and journalist. Also, her Showtime film with Mimi Rogers, Karen Allen, and Eric Stoltz was nominated for an Emmy. She’s been published in Crime Reads, Writer’s Digest, The New York Times, and numerous outlets. She lives in Eastern Long Island with her family and pampered fur baby.
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| Read An Excerpt |
A GOOD MAN EXCERPT
When I percolated the plot line of A GOOD MAN, a major theme was good vs evil and how the two co-exist on a razor’s edge. This is personified in Bernard Anderson, an academic who became a statesman through tragedy. Bernard’s on a speed dial with leaders and brokered dozens of peace treaties, but still has a fractured relationship with his only surviving son, Brooks, and this extract is a perfect example of their tightrope. Brooks is still haunted by the brutal murders of his mother and older brother in Montauk, but Bernard has moved on. And then some.
“Dad lives in a tony three-story brownstone on the East Side. Henry Kissinger--Dr. K., as Dad calls him--used to live on the block, his Secret Service agents annoying the hell out of everyone. Now the neighborhood’s a mix of day traders and social media celebrities. After we ate grilled salmon in the solarium--Dad’s private chef worked the line with the great, much-missed Anthony Bourdain, who intimidated even me--we pad into the library. Dad has his cigar and brandy in hand. I’m armed with a watermelon spritzer.
“Are you done with the speech for the gala yet?” Dad tries to sound nonchalant. It’s like asking a cat, not to meow.
I had an idea this was coming, so I’m prepared. “It’s almost done. A few more tweaks here and there. I’m sure you’ll be happy with it. Would you like to--”
Dad laughs the request off. “No, no. I trust you, son. You can knock that kind of thing off blindfolded.” He pauses, his long, thin fingers curled around his glass. He’s the only man I know who has his manicurist on stand-by. “But if you’d like a second opinion, I’d be willing to take a look at it and offer suggestions. A memorable speech is like a fine wine that one savors long after the bottle is empty.”
I take a long sip of my drink and smile, but inside I’m boiling. I don’t want or need his suggestions. I’m a best-selling novelist. I’ve sold millions of books. I was nominated for a Pulitzer and an Oscar. And I won a fucking Emmy. I can string a speech together.
“Are you going out to the new house this weekend?” Dad puffs on his Cuban cigar. I never developed a taste for nicotine. One of the few--exceedingly few--vices I’ve never been tempted to use regularly. Palmer would sneak a smoke behind the dunes, but I think it was more to impress girls than anything else.
“That’s the plan, but it depends. We’ll see.” I hired a contractor to do renovations on the house: open walls, gut the kitchen, and install a whole house generator, among other improvements. Hell, you’d think for the price I paid it would be move-in ready. But who the fuck was I kidding? I wasn’t buying a house. I was buying memories. Memories to make with Cassie and the kids. If she came back. The few phone calls we’d had since she left hadn’t been promising.
“You look haggard, son. Are you sleepwalking again?”
My throat tightens. I never stopped.
“What about the night terrors?”
I nod, terse. The night terrors had begun shortly after I’d been released from the hospital. We never returned to the Big House, instead living in an apartment close to Dad’s school. I understood why, but I still hated it. The apartment wasn't home, it was just four walls. Anyway, at night I’d wake up in a cold sweat, screaming gibberish. The psychiatrist said that was common in kids who’d survived trauma. Today we call it post-traumatic stress disorder.
Dad refills his glass. He drinks too much in my opinion, but he doesn’t ask and I’ve learned not to volunteer. “Now for your book, do you plan on going back to the scene of the crime, as it were? For research?”
I shrug. “I don’t see the point.” After Grandpa William’s death, the summer houses were sold. If the family had held onto them, the land alone now would be worth millions.
Dad leans forward. “Look, if you’ve changed your mind about writing the book, that’s fine. I can write a check for the advance right now, no questions. It’s your money, really. It’s going to be all yours when I’m fucking maggot food.”
I wince. I’ve written some excruciatingly brutal, graphic scenes. I’m no wallflower. But Dad can be exceptionally crude. It’s not the kind of thing you expect from a distinguished, refined statesman. For a second I wonder how Dad has amassed such a fortune that he’s able to write a check for six million without flinching. Not that I hadn’t asked but his answer is always the same: if people wanted to pick his brain he’d charge them an arm and a leg. “Dad, it’s not about the money. Well, maybe at first, but not now. I need to do this.”
“To do what?” He sounds bemused. “Set the record straight? Has your memory of that night returned?”
“No,” I reluctantly admit. I remember that night up to a point. After that, it’s just a vast, bottomless black tar pit.
“Then what is the point? I don’t understand. No one cares. We know who did it. Really, Brooks. You need to let it go. It’s ancient history.”
I stare at him, incredulous. No one cares? Let it go? Ancient history? “Maybe you don’t care, but I do. I won’t have trash written about Mom by that scumbag Marshall Reagan.”
Dad airly waves his hand. “They wrote trash then. The things they dreamed up. That it was a cult sacrifice. Wife swapping gone wrong. Or a child sex-trafficking ring among the elite. As if we were elite.”
What? This is a new one even to me, and I’d heard plenty. I choke down a wave of acid.”
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(note: Helen has not yet read the book herself)
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