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Monday, 31 August 2015

☀ The Memory Box - Eva Lesko Natiello

Thank you for joining us today for our featured novel, The Memory Box, a Psychological Thriller  by (, Eva Lesko Natiello, 358 pages).

PREVIEW: Read the first two chapters with Amazon Look Inside. The Memory Box is FREE on Kindle Unlimited and Kindle Owner's Lending Library.

Check out the book's synopsis and the excerpt below, as well as our Q&A with author Eva Lesko Natiello.


Synopsis | Teaser | Author Q&A || About the Author |

Synopsis

What would you do if you searched your own past and uncovered something shocking?

In this gripping domestic thriller, a group of privileged suburban moms amuse themselves by Googling everyone in town, digging up dirt to fuel thorny gossip. Caroline Thompson, devoted mother of two, sticks to the moral high ground and attempts to avoid these women. She's relieved to hear her name appears only three times, citing her philanthropy.

Despite being grateful that she has nothing to hide, a delayed pang of insecurity prods Caroline to Google her maiden name-which none of the others know. The hits cascade like a tsunami. Caroline's terrified by what she reads. An obituary for her sister, JD? That's absurd. With every click, the revelations grow more alarming. They can't be right. She'd know.

Caroline is hurled into a state of paranoia-upending her blissful family life-desperate to prove these allegations false before someone discovers they're true.

The disturbing underpinnings of The Memory Box expose a story of deceit, misconceptions, and an obsession for control. With its twists, taut pacing, and psychological tenor, Natiello's page-turning suspense cautions: Be careful what you search for.

Teaser: Excerpt

Chapter One

Friday, September 22, 2006, 2:38 p.m. it’s impossible to un-know a secret. Once you know it, you own it. It can’t be returned like a borrowed book. Or burned like a love letter. The click of a mouse won’t delete it from the conscious mind. It’ll stick to the walls of your memory like dried oatmeal to a dish. The secrets you wish you never knew become a burden to lug. A bowling ball without holes.

Some people are great collectors of secrets. They’re smitten to roll around, like swine, in the muck of them. They are shameless purveyors, gloating with pride to be the bearer of indelicate news.

I am not one of those people. I don’t want to pry into the backstories of others with a crowbar and a meat hook. What’s happened to privacy anymore? Nothing is private. Everything is knowable.

The thing about secrets is they’re mostly regrets, aren’t they? I mean, “good news” secrets aren’t really meant to be kept. Just the embarrassing, shameful kind. Everyone’s said or done something they wish they hadn’t. Maybe they were young and immature, or drunk and displayed temporary poor judgment. Do these things need to be broadcast? Should mistakes be tattooed on forearms?

The latest gossip around town is about a man whose daughter is in Lilly’s third-grade class at Lincoln Elementary School. When he was young and drunk, he took a dare from a frat brother and streaked through the dean’s backyard. Unfortunately for him, he was unaware of a ditch being dug and fell into it, breaking his fibula in the process, which left him stranded to sober up in a dark hole, waiting to be rescued in his birthday suit. One of our neighborhood snoops discovered this by Googling his name. Now this mature adult is living the shame all over again, as the gossipmonger moms of Lincoln Elementary pass their babble baton down a line of eager recipients. I’m surprised by how prevalent this rumor wielding type is. Even in a place like Farhaven.

Practically everyone in town has been Googled by these women, who in turn cast out their questionable findings like a fistful of feed at the zoo. I make sure to smile warmly whenever I see this dad or any of the other gossip victims at school. It could be any of us. I wouldn’t want to be someone with something to hide in this town.

When they Googled my name—Caroline Thompson—a weeklong joke ensued at my expense. The search elicited only three hits. The skipper of the gossipistas, Gabrielle Callis, gave me the heads-up. “Caroline,” she said, locking her gaze on mine. Unblinking. (She never blinks. Sometimes I want to blow in her eyes to see if that’s physically possible. You’d think the weight of six coats of mascara and the law of gravity would collapse those lashes.) She placed a concerned hand to my forearm. “I wanted to be the first to tell you so you won’t be embarrassed when you hear others talking about it.” I swear she sips from a coffee mug with “Bomb-Dropper” written across it. What’s more, she pays only occasional deference to the facts.

A shrill, nerve-splitting siren comes from the corner of my desk, nearly knocking me out of my chair. Everything on the desk vibrates; even the pencils poking out of their cup knock against each other. I grab the egg timer and silence it while I simultaneously contemplate throwing it out the window. Instead, I return it to its spot. I’m the one who sets the damn thing, and then I’m always shocked when it goes off. Smarty Pants, who a moment ago was sleeping under the desk, sprawled across my foot on his back with his paws sticking into the air like an upside-down coffee table, flips over and rights himself on all fours. He barks and shoots me a look of annoyance. “I’m sorry, sweetie.” I scoop him up and spill him into my lap. “I hate that thing, too.” I kiss the top of his head and rake my fingers through his white, corn silk hair. I lift one of his ears and whisper, “Who’s my best friend?” He follows, as always, with one certain bark. Sometimes I actually think he barks “Me!” which wouldn’t be correct English, but I’d let it slide because he’s so cute.

I have a love/hate relationship with the egg timer–my version of a personal taskmaster. It’s rather adorable–a cracked egg propped up by two little chicken feet–until it goes off. I set it at sixty-minute intervals to track my writing progress. This time, in those sixty minutes I bought Speedos for the girls and searched for a new halibut recipe. Then I got stuck on a website for a yoga retreat in upstate New York.

The time on my computer says 2:43 p.m. If I don’t leave the house in the next three minutes to pick up the girls, the closest parking space I’ll find at school will be in front of my own house.

Before I leave, I reread what I typed in the Google search box.

“Caroline Thompson.”

I don’t know why I haven’t ever Googled myself. I’ve been so glued to my soapbox trashing this voyeuristic time-suck, I’ve brainwashed myself. I’ve got a right to know what people know about me. And I don’t care if it is only three mentions. That’s not embarrassing. Frankly, I’ll be relieved.

It’s a good thing I have no time to devote to this. I click “search.” If there are only three mentions, this isn’t going to take very long, anyway. I check the time. I’ve got two minutes. I quickly scan the first few pages.

The first page has a strip of photos running across it of various Caroline Thompsons. I’m none of them. Who’d guess my name was so common? Once the esteemed potter from Colorado and the college professor from Pensacola are weeded out, as well as a few others I’m thankful I’m not, like the one who’s incarcerated, I read the mentions that look like mine.

All three of them.

Well, at least Gabrielle didn’t make that up!

The first is a review I wrote on Amazon for an electric toothbrush. No wonder people have tons of Google hits if reviews count. The second is for the time I coordinated the used book collection for the Farhaven Public Library. The third—when I headed the Healthy Lunch Committee at Lincoln Elementary.

Dirt like that could land me in Star Magazine.

Who cares? At least I don’t have any explaining to do.

I close the document, collect Smarty, and jump in the car to pick up the girls.

When I arrive at Lincoln Elementary, I head toward the third-grade door where I find Vicki on her cell phone. There are clusters of moms and babysitters overlapping like a Venn diagram. Vicki’s wearing head-to-toe moisture-wicking Lycra–her second skin–even on days she’s not teaching a spinning class at the Y. Her head is tipped down and she’s deep in conversation, unaware of my arrival. She repeatedly twirls the ends of her hair. I stand beside her, waiting for her to finish, when I feel a tug at my pant leg. Then a hand rifles through the pocket of my khakis like a crab in a paper bag. It belongs to a two-year-old. My friend Meg’s youngest. She’s looking for a dog biscuit to give Smarty, who is curled up in my cardigan.

“Hiya, Sweetie!” I say. “Don’t you look beautiful in that orange dress! Are those daisies on the pocket?” She nods with her whole body. “Where’s your mommy?” She points behind her without looking. “Do you want to give Smarty Pants a biscuit?” This time she nods with such gusto her dress rocks back and forth like a church bell.

Vicki still has the phone pressed to her ear, though she hasn’t said a word the entire time.

“You still on the phone?” I whisper.

“Not really.” The words sift out of clenched teeth.

“On hold?”

Her head stays low while her eyes dart back and forth, then she snaps the phone shut. “I was faking a call.” She leans into me. “I’m not gonna be a sitting goose for her anymore. What, do I have some sign on my head that says ‘please, please accost me with your boring, senseless blabber?’” she hisses without taking a breath.

“That would be a large sign.” I have no idea what she’s talking about.

“No offense, but I don’t want to hear about how her daughter won first place, again, or her son the science genius, blah, blah, blah,” she continues. “She’s insufferable!”

“Oh. Gabrielle?”

“Yes, Gabrielle. She ambushed me this morning.” I look around at the thick mass of moms. “I don’t see her anywhere.”

“Well, don’t let that fool you—she can appear out of nowhere. Like the Wicked Witch of the West. I don’t want to hear any more about that stupid crafts show she’s having at her house. I’m not going.” “I’m not going, either.” I shrug.

“Well, neither am I. I don’t care that the wife of the pitcher of the Yankees is gonna be there. Or the Mets—” Vicki looks up at the sky for help, “who the hell knows. That’s the only way she can get anybody there anyway. She claims she’s raising money for the ‘have-nots.’ Do you believe she said that?!”

“Sheesh. Altoid?” I flip the top open, trying to distract her.

She straightens up and ignores my offer. “And, I didn’t want to tell you this, ’cause it’s so ridiculous, but when I was volunteering at Field Day last week I heard her tell someone she saw you coming out of Weight Watchers.” She yanks at her jogging top and scratches the skin on her forearm. “Not that anyone would believe it.” Vicki’s attention shifts for a moment to flake a gauzy piece of skin off her arm, post-sunburn. “You’re thinner than your eight-year-olds,” she adds before throwing her phone into her fringed handbag.

What? ” I balk.

The school doors sigh open, and 416 students scurry out like freed lab mice. I spot my girls racing over toward Meg, who’s about twenty feet away clutching the hands of her toddlers as if they’d blow away in the wind.

“Hey, Meg, ready for tonight?” I shout over the heads of others. Expressionless, Meg nods. But not at me. Gabrielle is firing news at her. I think about retracting, but it’s too late. A hand grasps my forearm.

“What a shame, Gabrielle. Did you hear that, Caroline?” Meg attempts to sound engaged as she now holds my arm for dear life, letting go of her daughter to do so. The little darling blasts off as fast as her tiny legs will take her until she trips on the bulging root of an old maple tree, then begins to wail. Meg’s cue to bolt. Leaving me with the Wicked Witch of the West—who doesn’t miss a beat. Gabrielle simply pivots on the heels of her powder-blue suede loafers to direct the news at me. I subconsciously cross my arms in front of my chest.

“Oh, Caroline, I may as well tell you, too, before you hear it from someone else, no doubt laced with falsehoods.” She tightens the belt on her Burberry trench and takes a deep breath. The veins in her scrawny neck wiggle with excitement. Her head hinges first to the right, then to the left, and says, “It’s confirmed. You-know-whose husband took off with the au pair—back to England. They left yesterday.”

My mouth drops open, and I quickly shut it. No need to give Gabrielle free advertising. “Oh, God—that’s terrible.” I’m sick to my stomach. I was the last holdout to think that it was idle talk, that people were just jealous of the Norwegian au pair who has legs, like chopsticks, up to her ears.

“Well, yes, of course it’s terrible<, but if you ask me, it wouldn’t hurt to pick yourself up a little. Having five children is no excuse for not keeping up on personal maintenance.” She sweeps the flip of hair resting on her right shoulder, and her eyes pluck the crowd to see who she can apprehend next. This is her segue sign—she’s about ready to move on. “Not that getting rid of the gray would have held onto him, but it was time to lose the baby fat at the very least. I’m sure you’d agree.” She fixes back on me. “I hear Weight Watchers is quite successful.”

Gabrielle’s eyes throw a net over her next victim, thank God. She heaves her hand up over her head. “Oh, Bern!”

Bern—who wears a perpetual look of surprise—is Gabrielle’s chief disciple. In a twitch she’s at Gabrielle’s side, her springing curls still bouncing though her feet have come to a halt. She blows her nose and sticks the tissue up the cuff of her sweater, then gives Gabrielle her rapt attention.

“I’ve got the greatest news …” Gabrielle reports. I’m long gone by the time she spews her next package of poison.

The crowd around school is dwindling. I wave at Vicki who, with her daughter, climbs into her car across the street. It takes Meg a little longer to herd her four urchins from their far-reaching escapes. Lilly and Tessa, in a tight braid of friends, turn their heads toward me and call out in unison, “Hi Mom!”

“Hey, Caroline, I’ll see you later,” Meg calls out as she walks in my direction, the kids dribbling behind. I wait for her to catch up. “Sure you can’t stay for a drink tonight? Andy’s still out of town, isn’t he? Stay for a while,” she says, and we resume walking toward our cars.

“Yeah, he doesn’t come back till Sunday. But I’ve got class tonight. Let’s do something next week. It’ll be easier for me with Andy back. Hey, I heard you ordered a fancy cake for Delia, you want me to pick it up? I’m going into town.”

“Mommy!” Tessa shouts from behind. “Smarty wants to go to the woods!” I didn’t even notice Smarty pulling the leash toward the wooded area behind the school. Tessa runs up and grabs my arm. “Can we let Smarty catch something so Delia can see, please.”

“No, we cannot let him catch something. He’s already been a bad boy once today,” I whisper, “I’ll tell you about that later.”

Tessa turns to Delia and says, “Smarty Pants hunts mice! My mom says he has an identity crisis cause he thinks he’s a bloodhound.”

We silently pass Gabrielle and Bern, who are standing next to Gabrielle’s gold Mercedes, still tangled up in a sticky glob of gossip. Two zoo lions at feeding time gnawing the same piece of slaughtered meat.

“Are you serious?” Bern exclaims. Her tiny stature forces her to look up at Gabrielle like she’s gazing at the Statue of Liberty. Occasionally she pops up on tippy toes with excitement. “Gabrielle—you can’t be serious.”

“I am. Allison doesn’t have eighty-seven Google hits!” Gabrielle reports this in a volume that benefits the far and wide, while her hands dance all over—shrieking-pink nail polish punctuating every word. “When she Googled herself, she didn’t realize that there was another Allison Scotte— also with an ‘e,’ who’s dead now but apparently led quite an interesting life back in the sixties. So when she counted her hits, she included the other Allison Scotte’s. How arrogant, really, don’t you think? Like she’s the only one with that name! Anyway, she’s down to a legitimate forty-three hits, which is only six more than I have. And I’m not the one that ran for councilwoman!”

I think about my measly three Google hits and can’t help but feel slightly inferior, and I can’t believe I’m letting their adolescent behavior get the best of me. Meg and I don’t say a word until we’re well past them. Once we’re down the hill, Meg says, “Were they talking about that au pair again?” She shakes her head, “as if it isn’t painful enough without their … going at it, like some—I don’t know …” It’s clear that Meg didn’t hear them, but she knew their noses were stuck in the wrong place.

Out of nowhere, my sister flashes through my mind. It’s not the first time Meg has reminded me of JD. She’d say something like that. Both of them have an ability to soar above the clothesline of others’ dirty laundry. They rarely engage in it. With JD living so far away, I’m lucky to have Meg to keep me grounded.

Since moving here nearly six years ago, making friends has brought along a certain amount of self-examination. It’s like being a teenager all over again. No matter one’s age, it’s important to feel part of something. To feel like you belong. But the balancing act inevitably becomes how much of yourself are you willing to compromise in order to be part of a community? Which, in this case, is the very specific subculture of stay-at-home moms.

I’m in Meg’s camp as far as choosing not to engage in dagger throwing with the likes of Gabrielle and Bern. It’s one thing I will not conform to as an at-home mom who has put her career as a journalist and future novelist on hold to raise a family in the suburbs.

Apart from being a dagger thrower, Gabrielle is famous for talking about dinners she’s had with “the Lesters” or “the Ferrneggis,” or how, at her beach house, she’s entertaining “the Pinnochets” or some such family with whom she’s “very close.” And somewhere after “we just got back from Vail with the Robsons,” she’ll stop midstream and say, “You do know the Robsons, don’t you?”

I have no desire to wear my friends like charms on a bracelet. I have dear friends. We’re very close, too.

I wave good-bye to Meg, who has crossed the street to her car. “No worries about the cake. I picked it up already. It’s huge—you better take some home!”

The girls and I hop in the car and drive into town to buy a birthday present for Delia.

“Hey, how was school?” I ask, as we stop at the corner for the crossing guard to sweep the streets clean of school children.

“Great,” says Lilly.

“Great,” says Tessa.

“Great.” Who can argue with that?

“The car smells disgusting,” says Lilly. “Smells like puke.”

“That’s gross, Lilly,” says Tessa.

“Well, it does. I’m just tellin’ it the way I’m smellin’ it.” Lilly clothespins her nose with her fingers.

“Smarty had a little accident this morning,” I interject. “But it’s all gone now, and I sprayed it with Lysol.”

“Smarty pooped back here!” Lilly shrinks back in her seat, hoists her legs up, and draws her knees to her chin.

“No, he didn’t poop. He threw up on the floor.”

“Yuck. Did you have to tell us that?”

“Well, sorry, you thought he pooped. Anyway, he caught a chipmunk, and I guess he swallowed it because when I found it, it was kind of very disgusting. Pretty gross actually.”

“Mom! Eww!”

“Hey, go easy on me. I’ve had a tough morning. I couldn’t just leave it there for Daddy to clean up.”

“Did Smarty find it in the basement?” Tessa asks.

“Well … I don’t know. Maybe, because when I walked him this morning, he was on a leash.”

“Ha! Daddy was right!” Tessa exclaims. “Smarty knew something was down there! See Mom, Smarty is a dog detective. You have to let Daddy get him a job at the police department.”

“Daddy’s not serious. Anyway, I don’t think he is. He can’t possibly believe the police would hire a thirteen-pound Westie to be a search dog. Why don’t we keep Sherlock Holmes to ourselves? Maybe you can train him to find stuff when we lose it. Like Daddy’s car keys, Daddy’s cell phone, Daddy’s wallet …”

“I’m gonna tell Daddy you said that!” Tessa playfully slaps the back of my seat. Once we finish in town, the girls pack for the sleepover, and we head to Meg’s house, picking up another friend on the way.

After dropping everyone at Meg’s, I head home, stopping first to pick up some Chinese food for a quick bite before my class. I pack a tote bag with a notebook and pens, a bottle of water, and a fresh copy of a chapter I’m working on. My Novel Writing class at Drewer University starts at seven. By the time I get home, I barely have the energy to undress before I flop on my bed and fall asleep.

The next morning, despite it being Saturday, I resist the urge to hide under my comforter so I can instead be somewhat productive before I pick up the girls. A printout of today’s schedule is on my nightstand. I swipe it and head to the shower.

The smell of brewed coffee meets me halfway down the stairs. The closest I’m ever going to get to someone waiting on me is my programmable coffeemaker. And the doggy door. I grab a mug from the cabinet and take my coffee and yogurt to the den to work on some writing.

The house is quiet. It’s just me and Smarty Pants. The only sound comes from Smarty chewing his toy mouse under the wing chair in the corner of the den. A wet rubber sound, a gummy-saliva squeak. Though I often crave quiet, this is not the welcomed kind—like a snowstorm that shuts the world down. Instead, it’s an empty, hollow quiet. A lonely, I-miss-my-family quiet.

I turn on the computer, and it hums softly. It fills the empty air and comforts me. My right calf is pressed against the side of the CPU, which subtly vibrates. Smarty moseys over and snuggles up to my left foot, using it as a pillow for his head.

Through the den window, above the mounds of pink rose bushes, the morning sun is cowering behind clouds. Every so often it slowly bobs and weaves, in and out, but seems ultimately reluctant to reveal itself. The world is still. Or at least Brightwood Road is. No one is racing to work. No dogs are being walked. Nor are there any joggers jogging by. No sign of even a single grey squirrel scampering across any of the verdant lawns. All of the pristine center-hall colonials line up like toy soldiers, their American flags saluting at attention. The street looks like a vacant movie set.

There are a bunch of new emails to read. I check them first before I start to write. Chief among them is one from Andy. His arrival time tomorrow has changed to noon. After a quick glance at today’s news headlines, I open the document with my work in progress.

I stare at the screen without really seeing anything. My mind keeps wandering. Bits of yesterday’s conversation between Gabrielle and Bern float through my mind. It was a stupid conversation between senseless, gossipy moms, and I’m angry that it’s getting in the way of my focus. It’s taking up too much space in my brain. If only I could type a few words, that might get me going. Time’s ticking; I don’t have all day. I need to pick up the girls at ten.

The wooden desk chair is short on comfort, and while I ponder whether a more comfortable chair will increase productivity, I squirm to unstick myself from my body’s right angles. I’m an independent thinker, I remind myself. Just because I’m a stay-at-home mom doesn’t mean I fill my days with vacuous activities, like other people.

My attention grows fickle. It’s no longer on the screen at all. My eyes meander around the desk and stop on a framed photo of Andy and me at the beach, taken when we were dating, when I was still Caroline Spencer. Both of us are tanned a golden brown, the color of Andy’s eyes, and I’m wearing a rather skimpy bathing suit, which I hold onto just in case my body ever looks like that again. As I stare at this photo, it occurs to me that the people in this town don’t know my maiden name. Do they? When we moved here, I had already changed my name to Thompson. They would never Google Caroline Spencer. I don’t even think Meg knows my maiden name.

I quickly type Caroline G. Spencer into the Google search box. A visceral sense of promise gushes through me. Maybe I’m a somebody after all.

Smarty’s now in the kitchen, nudging his metal bowl across the tile floor—dog speak for “I’m hungry.” My mind strays to think about when I last filled the bowl while my finger clicks “search.”A tsunami of “Caroline G. Spencers” cascades before my eyes. I blink and cock my head. Come on! My heart giggles. I click page two, then page three, then page four. “Yes!” Fist pump in the air. If only they could see me now. The Caroline Spencers don’t stop. Is this juvenile? Am I acting like a teenager who’s counting Prom Queen votes? No. Worse. I’m acting like a catty, immature gossipmonger mom. I gloat for another minute. It’s not like I’m going to count them and brag to everyone at school on Monday. I’m just having a private me-moment of reassurance, that I too have been interesting. So there.

Before my head swells any more, I should verify that these “Caroline Spencers” are me. But I can’t, nor do I want to, spend all day on this. I check the egg timer. Good, only a seventeen-minute diversion. My eyes sweep over the page. Midway down the screen, it’s my sister’s name, directly beneath mine, that catches my eye.

Jane Dory Spencer deceased at age 28 Lanstonville Press, April 21, 2000. She is survived by….
www.lanstonvillepress.com/.../jane-dory-spencer-deceased...

What?

What is this?

I blink hard, once—twice—the third time pausing with my eyes squeezed closed to the count of five before I open them. I read again.

This can’t be. This isn’t my sister. My heart leaps up in my chest and goes cold. With flurries. Like it’s a snow globe with a wind chill factor. Saliva floods my mouth. I try to gulp it down, hoping it’ll push my heart back into place. I can’t be reading what I’m reading. I let out a barking laugh to cut through my nerves. This is not true, of course. I just spoke to my sister. When was that? I struggle to remember. It seems like it was just … I don’t know exactly. For some reason, I can’t pinpoint it. But my sister is not dead. That’s for certain. She didn’t die. Oh my God, is this some kind of sick joke? Could someone have done this? People can’t plant a Google, can they?

I convince myself to settle down. Take it easy. This must be another Jane Dory Spencer. Someone else’s obituary. I can’t wait to tell JD that I found another Jane Dory. She’s gonna laugh her butt off over that—she’s always hated her name. Hence the acronym. Oh, she’s gonna love this!I inhale with every muscle of my body, and the oxygen blow to my brain makes my head spin.

I sit in a half-lotus, back in the chair, arch my back for strength, and click on the excerpt to read more:

Jane Dory Spencer, 28
Jane Dory Spencer 28, known as JD, a lifelong resident of Lanstonville, Pennsylvania, died on Friday, April 21, at Danielston Hospital in Danielston, Pennsylvania.
Ms. Spencer received her undergraduate degree in Women’s Studies at Barton College and a law degree from Stanton University in Hammond, New York. She most recently worked as a law clerk for the Clarkston County Courthouse. She is survived by her mother and father, Elaine and Wally Spencer …

As I read my parents’ names I become dizzy; small, white, slow-moving spots are now blocking my view of the computer screen. I press my eyes shut to get rid of the spots.

… sister, Caroline Grace Spencer …

Oh my God, that’s me.

The Memory Box - available NOW!

UK: purchase from Amazon.co.uk US: purchase from Amazon.com purchase from Barnes & Noble find on Goodreads

About the Author

EVA LESKO NATIELLO award winning author of The Memory Box A HOUSTON WRITERS GUILD 2014 MANUSCRIPT AWARD WINNER and THE WRITER MAGAZINE 2012 FINALIST BEST SHORT STORY WINNER.

She is a graduate of The State University of NY at Albany with a degree in psychology (which helps her to understand the "nuance" of her characters...).

Eva is a native of Yonkers, NY and currently lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband and two children.

THE MEMORY BOX, a debut novel, frequents the Kindle Top 100 Paid List.

When Eva's not writing suspense novels, she writes humorous musings about life's ironies on her blog. She loves the creative process: painting, gardening, singing or re-purposing (though many D.I.Y. projects have been fraught with disaster, it doesn't seem to stop her).

Eva is incredibly grateful to her readers for their enthusiasm--when they take time to write reviews, get in touch or spread the word. She is currently at work on her next novel.

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