Unfortunately I wasn’t thrilled about this book. I didn’t find it interesting enough and I didn’t like the writing style. In my humble opinion the author had the ambition to give us a cross-genre novel with several stories within the main story but the final result is not successfully balanced. Descriptions are better written than dialogues, which I didn’t find witty enough. I wish the author better luck next time.
Lady Reader’s Blog Tours presents another exciting week long tour! Just in time to read in front of the fire with a cup of cocoa or your favorite hot beverage, J. J. Lyon’s fun private investigator mystery, with a twist, TRUTH is REALTIVE; the first in the A Truth Inducer Mystery series is here. A giveaway, great posts, reviews and best of all? Fun!
TRUTH IS RELATIVE
By: J.J. Lyon
Pages: 275
Publisher: Gem Cache Publishing
Genre: Who Dunit-Mystery PI – (Fiction/Mystery)Anthony Blackwell’s “gift” compels people to confess their deepest secrets.It corrupts his relationships, derails his career and drives him toward eviction—until he becomes Anthony Bishop, private investigator.His first case drops him into a deadly family drama that will save him financially, if it doesn’t kill him first.
Who can resist a great first line: “The Monday before Thanksgiving, my car disappeared…
the readers:
this book, it’s like PI Morrow meets Liar Liar.”
has the rough feeling of the west but is written smoothly so that it’s hard to
stop reading. I’m hoping there is/will be more.” Stefanie Andersen – Logan, UT
plot.” Billie H – Lamesa, TX
mysteries with a sense of humor, so I wrote one.
other authors:
loved the characters and the concept was one I’d never heard of. Reading was an
absolute pleasure.”–Rebecca Belliston, author of Sadie and
Augustina
“gift” makes him an effective detective, it is almost impossible for
him to establish meaningful relationships. Anthony finds himself in situations
fraught with danger, but tinged with humor. His charm and good looks draw
people to him, but they quickly regret revealing their darkest secrets. I found
myself laughing out loud and reading to find out what happens next. It’s easy
to get caught up in the fresh and intriguing story. Lyon has so much
imagination and skillful writing, I look forward to reading whatever she comes
up with next.”
of Trust and Poaching Daisies
late Sunday night. The day was half over before I even looked outside.
Instead I focused on an ugly painting until I realized I was hungry. I was out
of bread and low on groceries in general. I cleaned my brushes, grabbed my
keys, opened the front door, and stared at gray asphalt where my Mazda used to
be. A few dead cottonwood leaves swirled there before the wind swept them off.
it had been repossessed.
ironic. Compared to our hometown of Jersey, Cheyenne was enormous.
of something else to say. Something that would back up my lie.
car. The abandoned café was a great studio, with north-facing windows and
indirect natural light. My work happened right at home.
gallery to accept it. The art that was already in a gallery had hung there for
months. I needed a day job. A car would help.
place. “It’s hard to get away right now.”
hesitant. “So how are you really?”
beautiful women of Cheyenne.” Bart could afford to be fascinated by my new
ability. He didn’t have to live with it.
talk to you later.”
which was actually a converted storage area in the back of the café. A walk-in
cooler had once taken up most of the space, but it had been ripped out and sold
the last time the place went out of business. There was room for a twin bed and
a battered dresser from Goodwill Industries. I pulled my wallet from the top
drawer and retrieved my old bike from the back of the building.
pushed against my side and cut across my hands. I’d forgotten my gloves. I
zipped my jacket all the way up, stuffed my hands in my pockets, and kept
pedaling, glad I had at least one useful talent. God gave me excellent balance.
useful abilities. I was decent at hanging Sheetrock, and I could tape and
texture as long as the customer didn’t mind it a little antique and heavy. As
for roofs, I’d done it all—patch, replace, steel, asphalt. If I had a truck I
could rent myself out as a handyman. I could work in blissful isolation most of
the time.
shifted my weight, scuffed on the pavement with my feet. In the end my shoulder
hit the road before I could pull my hands out of my pockets. The car behind me
screeched to a stop and a woman got out. “Are you all right?” she asked.
hurt. I scrambled out from under the bike, trying to place the woman’s voice.
voice. The last time I had heard it, its tone had been much angrier. “Hi,
Heather,” I said.
drove a hot Mazda.”
the ax fell.
either. She was just under my influence. After thirty seconds in close
proximity, people began confessing to me. I didn’t know why this began
happening. For the first year or so, I didn’t realize it was happening at all.
But as soon as my “gift” began manifesting itself, my life started rolling down
a rocky slope.
sleeve. “I knew it was you and I don’t want to talk to you, but it looked bad.”
want to be in a car alone with you, pretending I don’t remember how you—”
them a little.
maybe, but not me.”
handlebars. My fingers numbed in the wind. The pain in my arm faded to a dull
ache, and I shook off the encounter with my ex. In the store parking lot, the
lights shone in the murky daylight. It was early afternoon, but the thick
clouds fooled the light sensors into thinking it was dusk. I went inside the
store and found some sandwich meat on sale and a package of rubbery cheese
slices. I picked up some day-old wheat bread and waited in line behind a thin,
fortyish man with a few days’ beard. He wore dirty jeans and a sweatshirt
stained with what looked like motor oil. After thirty seconds, he turned to me.
himself. Louder.
I said, ‘Can we talk about this?’ and she said, ‘It’s too late.’”
about it? Isn’t twelve years worth a little discussion before you throw your
husband in the garbage?”
going around all mopey and resentful. I just figured she’d work it out. And
sometimes she tried to tell me something and I’d change the subject, ’cause I
could only hear that her life sucked so many times—”
clerk.
like the magic distance. More than that, and most people were out of the range
of my gift. Less than that and I was in the confessor’s bubble.
into an emotional conversation with the salesclerk. Apparently I wasn’t far
enough away yet. I took another step back. “That guy needs a little space.”
nodded to her cart. A baby in the front clung to the push bar and gummed it
with a slobbery mouth. A curly-haired toddler sat in the main basket, his fist
buried in a box of cereal. “Maybe they never get over it. ‘I need this,’ ‘I
want that.’”
sex. Everybody’s gotta have something.”
shower in three days, and I’m supposed to be a sex goddess?”
stepped up to the counter the crying man had just left.
mean, I’m doing good to be conscious at the end of the day.”
I didn’t want to hear any more—not today.
a mom who acts like a built-in babysitter, but I’m stuck here alone in the
cold.”
wallet out of my jacket pocket and handed some bills to her.
This might have been interesting, if she were not sixtyish, wrinkled, and
stinking of cigarettes.
J.J. Lyon is a wife, mom, public relations professional and recovering journalist.Her passion for prose and love of the American West are so intertwined; she doesn’t think she can separate them. When J.J. runs out of words, she reaches for her camera, takes off on a back road and returns home with a bucketful of inspiration.She lives in a mountain valley with her husband, three children, some cats, two goats, a bird and a basset hound.
September
29th – October 3rd