Playing with Fire (eBook)

A BitterSweet tale of Reinvention and Revenge.

Joy Strouse (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2025 | 1. Auflage
400 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3178-2014-5 (ISBN)

Infos

In 1952, young Bonnie Madsen perished in a tragic house fire-or did she? Decades later, her family discovers she may have faked her death to escape something more devastating than fire. They hire private investigator Joe Minelli who follows her trail, pulling the family-and himself--into a tangle of deadly secrets, trauma, and the unbreakable ties that bind. Spanning from 1936 through 1986, Playing with Fire moves between past and present, rich with the history, culture, and music of each era. Mystery, romance, and psychological suspense intertwine in an emotional journey of survival, reinvention, and revenge. BitterSweet and unforgettable, Playing with Fire will draw you into its flames-and its smoke will linger long after the last page. Like Where the Crawdads Sing and Sleeping with the Enemy, for readers who love family sagas with dark secrets, romantic suspense, and psychological twists, this prequel to Beyond the Broken Window stands powerfully on its own.

Joy Strouse is writer, artist, teacher, actor, mom and Granjoy. As an author, she paints with words, vivid and authentic, driven by a creative spirit and a deep understanding of the human condition. Strouse has a rare gift for immersing readers deep into the lives of her characters and their world. With tenderness and insight, she reveals their joys, heartbreaks, and quiet truths in a way that feels both intimate and universal. Their voices echo long after the final page, as if they were people you have truly known. Join her at https://joystrouseauthor.com for side stories, updates, and events.

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Playing with Fire: A BitterSweet story of suspense and survival, romance and revenge. In the winter of 1952, the Madsen family home went up in flames. Matilda and Jesse Sr. perished in the fire, and authorities believed fifteen-year-old Bonnie died in the basement, trapped beneath a blaze fueled by moonshine and Sterno. Her gravestone was etched in smoke and ash. But the truth was far more complicated. Bonnie Madsen survived that night. Armed with a train ticket and a borrowed name, she buried her past and disappeared into a life built on layers of reinvention. As Eliza, she built a career, forged friendships and romances, and gave generously to her community. Yet buried with Bonnie were family secrets too dangerous--too horrific--to bring to light. For thirty-five years, she kept them hidden, some even from herself. When Jess Madsen Jr. and his niece Dawn uncover evidence that Bonnie might still be alive, they turn to retired homicide detective Joe Minelli for help. Joe remembers the Madsens from one of his last cases on the Baltimore County police force, and the chance to unravel what really happened draws him in. His search leads him to Florida, where every lead peels back another layer of truth about Bonnie, her family, and even himself. Unflinching yet tender, Playing with Fire pulls readers deep into a tangle of human emotion trauma that scars and love that heals. Spanning fifty years from the 1930s through the 1980s the novel moves between past and present, alive with the culture, music, and atmosphere of each era. Mystery, romance, and psychological suspense collide in a BitterSweet story of survival, revenge, and the unbreakable bonds of family. Perfect for fans of Where the Crawdads Sing, Safe Haven, and Sleeping with the Enemy, this prequel to Beyond the Broken Window stands alone as a powerful saga. Its smoke will linger in your thoughts long after the flames subside.

Textauszug

Chapter 1

WICKED IS BORN

She hadn’t heard from Floyd in a while. His letters were sporadic, so it surprised her to hear his voice on the phone. When he told her about the visit with Jess and Dawn, her legs went weak, and she sat heavily in the nearest chair.

Now what? How could she connect to Dawn without causing more damage? How do you raise yourself from the dead? Scenarios of joyful reunions and of explosive ones play in her mind all day. Finally, she does what she always does when her heart and head can bear no more. She writes.

At her typewriter, she takes a deep breath, and her fingers begin to tap out the words that release Bonnie Madsen from hiding.

August 1,1986

Dear Dawn,

I can’t tell you where I am, but you deserve to know your family history, sordid and sad as it is. I won’t make excuses for all I’ve done, but I hope you can forgive me for disappearing. In 1952, I thought I had no choice.

I also hope I can shed light on the man your father became. I don’t excuse him either, but I have forgiven him his sins. Once upon a time, he was sweet and gentle.

Contrary to what the world was told, I am very much alive. I go by Eliza now.

I guess you could say the young girl I used to be is dead, but once in a while she crawls out of the dark and surprises me.

She was born in darkness on October 29, 1936, a night with no moon and an icy wind whipping up the valley and shaking the trees. I don’t remember, but my big brother told me—it was a wicked night.

Rich was four and excited for Halloween, so witches were on his mind. When Momma started wailing, it scared the bejesus out of him. He thought for sure it was something evil come to get him and went running to find a bigger brother. Instead, he ran straight into Pa coming out of his room with blood on his arms and holding a squalling bundle.

“Meet yer sister, squirt,” Pa said to him and leaned down so he could see me, “This here’s Bonnie. Finally got me a girl.”

The evil thing turned out to be me.

Rich told me that I was smooshed and sticky-looking, but when I looked at him with shiny eyes, he loved me, plain and simple. He was the best brother. Killed in Korea, only 20 years old. But he told me that story every time I was hurting, told me I was born in dark and brought him light, that I was strong and smart, that I could withstand and overcome anything.

And I have overcome huge hurdles and withstood many heartaches in my life; a big one is not being there with you.

I’m not sure what Jess has told you about our growing up years, so I’m going to spill it ~

Pa had a still out back, down by the creek. Started up during prohibition and kept it going into the fifties. Pa prided himself in double run batches of his potent whiskey. He’d give it a shake and say, “See that bead?” meaning the bubbles on its surface, “proof of the proof!”

Because it was cheaper than name brand hooch, the whiskey brought in a pretty penny. They called it Madshine, because of the Madsen name. It did make you go mad if you drank too much. Pa’s Madshine had a little methanol in it, the stuff that eats your brain and causes blindness, where the term ‘blind drunk’ comes from. My Pa was blind drunk most nights and the Madshine had eaten the goodness right out of him by the time I was ten.

Your grandpa grew up in the Appalachian Mountains somewhere. Never talked about it, except to say he was glad he come down to earth, where he found work in the quarry and dug up a prize of a bride. I think in the beginning, it was a compliment to Ma but by the time I heard it fall out of his slurry mouth, it sounded nasty. Pa had a way with sarcasm.

Anyway, he hurt his back working at the quarry, so he found some more savory ways for income. There’d be meetings at our kitchen table with some local men, shine in mugs and guns on the table. When they were around, Ma would turn her radio up loud and push us young ones outside. That made me happy. I’d dance along to “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” blow my imaginary horn to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” and forget all about the adults. Sometimes Ma would dance with me, back before her bitterness ate her.

When he was old enough, my brother John worked at the paper mill in White Hall but in the evenings, sat in with the kitchen men. Your Uncle Jess, who we called Junior, was the oldest brother. He dropped out of school at 15 and worked as a mechanic. He only sat in on those meetings once or twice that I know of. He was queasy about the law. The next brother, Kelly, was born beautiful but slow-witted. Momma said he was dumb as a box of rocks, too dumb to be involved in the kitchen men’s business.

Momma drank a lot too, went to bed early most nights. I suspect she was tired of Pa getting at her, tired of having babies, tired of life in the woods of northern Baltimore County. John said that in our part of the woods there wasn’t much to do but fight and F^%k. Ma and Pa were in the fighting stage. She was fat by the time I came to be, with rolls of flesh on her arms and torso like insulation. When I was little, she’d let me climb up on her lap and all that padding was warm, but when I turned five, she said I was too big to fit on her lap. Truth be told, she didn’t have much lap anymore, because her insulation had grown.

Momma didn’t smile so much, mostly because she was mired in self-pity. When she did, her hand went up across her mouth because her teeth were pitted with dark decay. That’s why she was so tough on us about brushing. Every morning she’d inspect our toothbrushes and if they weren’t wet, she’d thrash us when we got home from school. Luckily, all but Jess inherited Pa’s hard, white teeth.

Poor Junior. Not only was he a lackadaisical brusher, but he was cursed with Ma’s soft, cavity-prone teeth and a hand covered smile.

Outside looking in, I suppose my early years were strange, being a tiny girl amongst all those brawny boys and a lackluster mother. I didn’t know any different, so I was happy enough. I wore their hand-me-downs, never had dolls or anything girly. Anybody seeing me probably thought I was one more Madsen boy, playing in the dirt. Until school, I had never played with another girl.

Sometimes Otis, who lived on the farm next to us came to play. He was Floyd’s age, and I thought he was beautiful! He had smooth brown skin, even darker than mine and hair that stood on his head like a storm cloud. But his nature was sweet, like a sunny day. Mostly, I played with Floyd and Rich. Your Pop, Floyd, two and a half years older than me, was nicknamed Babe because he was the baby before I came along. He hated that nickname, much to the glee of the bigger brothers. Rich, who was called Squirt, taught Floyd and me to read, so by the time I started school, I was already smarter than most, but I was straggly looking in my two dresses Ma made me from one of her old ones.

Eliza’s mind replays the memory of climbing up on a chair beside her Momma as she sewed—

“That’s gonna be real pretty, Ma.” I said as my eyes went up and down with the direction of her needle.

“Can’t go to school in pants. Ain’t right.” She grunted as she rose, “Stand up here. Lemme hold it to ya.”

I stood on the chair and fingered the material as she held it in front of me.

“I’m gonna love school, right Ma? I ain’t gonna be scared.”

“Course not, you got three brothers there with you. They’ll look out for you.” She sighed. “Never had brothers. Why God chose to give me all these stinking boys, I’ll never know.”

“Glad you outgrew that dress you’re using, Ma,” I said, when she went back to work. My eyes resumed their up and down. “How come you got so fat?”

Next thing I knew I was on the floor, knocked there by her smack. “Fat from you, little smart-mouth! Shoulda knocked your Pa to next week.”

She grunted and stood up. “He ain’t doin’ it again, though. I’m closed for business!” Ma tossed the dress to me and after a pause at the door jamb, left the room.

I was excited to start school. It sounded exotic since I’d never been much of anywhere.

The first day, I was up before dawn. I slid my dress over my head and crawled up on the dresser to see in the mirror. After a close examination, I spit on my hand and rubbed the dirt off my cheeks. Then I took Ma’s brush and swiped my knotty head a few times. It didn’t have the effect I wanted but at least the wild beast I got for hair smashed down a little.

Rich came in and took the brush from me, “Here, Bon, Let me.” After a struggle and a lot of caterwauling out of me, the beast got wrangled into a ponytail.

“Better.” He said and took my hand. “Let’s get to school!”

Junior drove the four of us, Kelly, Rich, Floyd, and me, in the back of the truck on that first day. On most days we’d walk the railroad tracks to school, but sometimes, Junior would do something thoughtful like ride us in the truck and it just warmed my heart.

My first lesson learned at school was there was another life out there. Girls wore pretty dresses and ribbons, went to church and socials, and had friends besides brothers. I longed for a life like that. Mostly I got ignored at school, but I was never picked on because I had the Madsen boys for protection.

Most of the girls at Sparks...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 13.11.2025
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3178-2014-5 / 9798317820145