splashesintobooks

Somewhere to review books I'm reading without giving away any spoilers!

#Promo with an #Extract from Unjust Bias by Liz Mistry

Today it is my turn to share with you
About Unjust Bias and how it starts, too.
It sounds like a really intriguing read
Perhaps it will be just the book that you need!

Synopsis:

A murdered boy disowned by his family.

A teen terrified his past will catch up with him.

A girl with nowhere to go.

Men with rage so visceral they will do anything.

With the unsolved murder of a homeless boy still preying on his mind, DI Gus McGuire is confronted with a similar murder, a missing teen and no clues.

Does the answer lie with an illegal dark web site where ‘slaves’ are auctioned off? Or with an online forum for teens?

How can Gus keep people safe when unjust bias rears its head and being different could cost you your life…?

Purchase Links 

UK – https://www.amazon.co.uk/Unjust-Bias-different-Fiction-Procedural-ebook/dp/B0B61NXSZK/

US – https://www.amazon.com/Unjust-Bias-different-Fiction-Procedural-ebook/dp/B0B61NXSZK/ 

Author Bio – 

Born in Scotland, Made in Bradford sums up Liz Mistry’s life. Over thirty years ago she moved from a small village in West Lothian to Yorkshire to get her teaching degree. Once here, Liz fell in love with three things; curries, the rich cultural diversity of the city … and her Indian husband (not necessarily in this order). Now thirty years, three children, two cats and a huge extended family later, Liz uses her experiences of living and working in the inner city to flavour her writing. Her gritty crime fiction police procedural novels set in Bradford embrace the city she describes as ‘Warm, Rich and Fearless’ whilst exploring the darkness that lurks beneath.

Struggling with severe clinical depression and anxiety for a large number of years, Liz often includes mental health themes in her writing. She credits the MA in Creative Writing she took at Leeds Trinity University with helping her find a way of using her writing to navigate her ongoing mental health struggles. Being a debut novelist in her fifties was something Liz had only dreamed of and she counts herself lucky, whilst pinching herself regularly to make sure it’s all real. One of the nicest things about being a published author is chatting with and responding to readers’ feedback and Liz regularly does events at local libraries, universities, literature festivals and open mics. She also teaches creative writing too.  Liz has completed a PhD in Creative Writing on Diverse voices in crime fiction

In her spare time, Liz loves pub quizzes (although she admits to being rubbish at them), dancing (she does a mean jig to Proud Mary – her opinion, not ratified by her family), visiting the varied Yorkshire landscape, with Robin Hoods Bay being one of her favourite coastal destinations, listening to music, reading and blogging about all things crime fiction on her blog, The Crime Warp.  

Social Media Links – 

Twitter: @LizMistryAuthor /  Facebook: @LizMistryBooks  /    Website: lizmistry.com

Wondering how this intriguing book starts?

Here’s the Prologue:

Heart hammering, she wandered round the living space, her eyes flitting everywhere, scrutinising each item on display, logging each photograph. Iris paused at the doorway of her son’s room, breathing in his essence as her gaze rested on his favourite teddy. The one he pretended, at 11, to be too old for, but still kept on his pillow and cuddled every night. His trainers, the new ones she’d bought for his birthday last week, neatly placed on the floor by his desk. The tablet his dad had given him and that had made his cheeks glow as he worked out how to use it, lay off-centre before his laptop. With a sigh, she allowed her fingers to trail over the tabletop as she soaked up every photo on his windowsill, every Post-it on his cork board before resting on his iPhone.

She moved to the baby’s room – all pink and fluffy, filled with teddies and smelling of baby lotion. Her heart stuttered as she closed the wardrobe, hefted the changing bag onto her shoulder, and fastened the carrier across her chest, her hand floating over the red fuzz on her baby’s head.

She paused by the door, cradling the baby in its papoose, and took a last look around. Had she ever been happy here? She tried to grasp the fleeting memories of laughter and joy that circled the external edges of her memory and then gave up. Would she miss this flat? It was everything she’d wanted; modern, filled with mod cons — luxurious by anyone’s standards – yet she wouldn’t miss it. Not one bit. Not the pain. Not the judgement. Not the suffering and mental torture. None of that.

With a critical eye, she scrutinised the room, looking for mistakes, telltale signs that would give her intentions away. She could see none. Still, that knowledge didn’t ease the hawk-like claws that gripped her stomach. The sound of the elevator arriving stirred her and as the doors swished open, revealing her ‘minder’, she schooled her face into its usual smile. Not too friendly, but not remote enough to cause comment. ‘Almost ready, Gabe. Lock up for me, will you?’

Gabe, the strong silent type, in his fifties, raked his eyes over her following instruction number one as issued by her husband – ‘make sure she’s not dressed like a slut’. As she walked into the lift and waited for him to enter and press the button for the ground floor, she pretended not to notice. Her jeans, T-shirt, and jacket did not differ from those she wore any other day, so would provoke no warning signals. She prepared for Gabe to follow instruction number two, which would occur as soon as the elevator doors closed. Without him asking, she looked straight ahead, and she spread her arms out wide to her sides, her fingers almost skimming each side of the lift’s walls and moved her legs akimbo. She’d long since become used to this indignity, and so had Gabe. His face an inscrutable mask, Gabe knelt and skimmed his shovel sized palms up her calves and thighs, progressing to her body and over each arm. The faint smell of his Invictus aftershave tickled her nostrils, but she didn’t react, for they were both well aware they were on camera. Their every move recorded so her husband could check at a whim that neither she nor Gabe had behaved inappropriately.

Gabe’s voice, ruggedly familiar, filled the small space. ‘Need to check the baby carrier too, Mrs M.’

Iris swallowed, but kept her arms stretched, allowing him access to the papoose. This violation hurt her more than the ones inflicted on her personally. It was like her baby was being invaded by his prying hands. As if sensing her discomfort, Gabe’s fingers hesitated as he skimmed the inner fabric of the carrier. But neither of them betrayed this by word or deed. It was more than Gabe’s job was worth, and Iris knew better than to resist. 

Today, though, she had another reason to worry, for inside the nappy, Iris had concealed a plastic bag containing all the money she’d siphoned off over the past few months. Everything hinged on it not being found. Her life and that of her children depended on this. For if her carefully orchestrated plan failed, there would be no other chance for her. It had to work.

As the lift came to rest on the ground floor, Gabe turned and positioned himself next to her, hands linked in front of his crotch – a bodyguard rather than a prison guard to any casual observers. Iris breathed easier but schooled her face to reflect nothing except the cool disinterest she’d learnt was the only acceptable expression by her husband’s standards.

Escorted to the limo, Iris transferred her daughter into the car seat, accepted the mobile phone Gabe handed her, and slipped it into her pocket without checking it. She never had notifications. Its only purpose was to call Gabe when she was ready to be collected – and for her husband to track her whereabouts.

Gabe’s eyes met hers through the rear-view mirror. ‘School play, is it, Mrs M?’

Aware that, even here in the limo, he monitored her actions, her every expression, every response, Iris allowed her lips to flick into a polite smile. ‘Yes. Jacob’s singing. Afterwards, there’s a parent/teacher coffee afternoon. I’ll be done in two hours.

Gabe nodded. He knew all this already. Her husband had already logged it into Gabe’s work list and had confirmed it with the school. This was her only window of opportunity, and Iris was determined to use it.

One comment on “#Promo with an #Extract from Unjust Bias by Liz Mistry

  1. liz mistry
    August 6, 2022

    Thanks so much for being part of the Unjust Bias Blog Tour and for hosting this extract xx

    Like

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This entry was posted on August 6, 2022 by in Uncategorized.

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