So I just got a call.
Apparently my mom-yes, the same one who just came cannonballing back into my life a few weeks ago after ten years without a word-might have killed someone. A self-help guru. You know, one of those guys promising to SHIFT your life into overdrive with his magical secrets.
“Shift” because those secrets come from a long lineage of shifters. Yeah, I don’t get it either. Then again, I wasn’t one of his loyal disciples, so I never paid much attention to his corny late night ads.
But this guy getting murdered? That sure has my attention. Because if I don’t figure out who killed him, my mom is going down for the crime. Although there’s one thought that I can’t shake from my mind as I sort through the mounting evidence: maybe she actually did it.
And if that’s the case, who the hell is this woman who’s returned after all these years?

I just woke up in a motel.
I have no idea who I am or how I got here.
But I do know three things.
There’s a body on the floor . . . and one in the bathtub.
There’s a bullet in my shoulder. And it hurts. Bad.
And there’s a vampire warlock right outside the door. And he’s coming to finish the job.
Drop Dead is the first book in the new urban fantasy series starring Tess Skye.

Why do the worst cases always start with anonymous calls?
I should have just kept ignoring my phone. Just like I’ve been doing for the last couple months. It’s been a concerted effort, since my investigation skills are in demand after a string of high-profile cases. But I haven’t been interested in more business.
I’ve been more focused on other things.
Too bad Serena Adams doesn’t care what I want.
Hell, she doesn’t even want to hire me.
She just wants me to know that three bodies are going to drop today.
And that after the tally hits three . . . I’m next.

Emmy Davis, the world’s most famous fox shifter, went missing two years ago.
And I’ve just been hired to find her.
If only things were that simple. The cops have no leads. Other PIs haven’t fared any better. The trail is colder than an arctic winter. And to make matters worse, a mysterious creature from Javy Diaz’s past has taken an alarming interest in the case.
But all that might be the least of my problems. Because you know everything you’ve heard about the pitfalls of social media?
Yeah. Turns out it’s worse than that.
Way worse.
And having 113 million crazed fans breathing down my neck as I search for their lost idol might prove more dangerous than crossing paths with whoever actually took her in the first place . . .