New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones brings a fresh, modern take to the thriller genre that will keep you guessing until the very end. Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Poet, which releases on March 9th 2021.
SYNOPSIS
Some call him friend or boss. Some call him husband or dad. Some call him son, even a favorite son. But the only title that matters to him is the one the media has given him: The Poet.
A name he earned from the written words he leaves behind after he kills that are as dark and mysterious as the reason he chooses his victims.
One word, two, three, a story in a poem, a secret that only Detective Samantha Jazz can solve. Because he’s writing this story for her. She just doesn’t know it yet.
Excerpted from The Poet, by Lisa Renee Jones. Entangled Publishing, 2021. Reprinted with permission.
I sit in the back row of the theater-style Austin, Texas speakeasy, the air conditioner cranked on high, soothing the heat of a hot August night. A stage sits in the center of the room, and there is whiskey in my hand—an expensive pour of a high-end Macallan—my preferred drink. I’m loyal to what I believe to be quality in all things. There are other, more affordable whiskey choices, of course, but when I’m alone, without my family, I am no longer forced to play the frugal husband and father. A role that is cumbersome, but necessary to protect a higher purpose I must serve.
I glance at the attendees of tonight’s poetry reading, counting twenty heads, the ages varied; one young woman can’t be more than sixteen, while one man’s shriveled skin ages to sixty-plus.
This is a cozy little spot indeed, and I sip my Macallan, oaky with a hot lick on the tongue, as Michael Summer steps to the microphone. He has thick dark hair, much like the look I’ve created for myself in this persona. He’s tall, six-foot-two, I imagine, a good four inches above my five-foot-ten, with glasses and a bow tie accentuating his button-down. I appreciate the attention to detail, and considering his role as tonight’s poetry guide, I’ve now raised my expectations. Perhaps he’ll be good enough to continue in his role.
His gaze scans the crowd and finds me, “the professor,” as he knows me from a prior event, one that led me to an invitation to this one.
He clears his throat and then says, “Good evening. I’m Michael Summer. Welcome to our poetry night, a night of literary delight. Now, to get started, I’ve placed a book of poems under your seat.” I hear nothing else. Poetry is the bible of words, not meant to lie on the ground, not meant to be dirtied and disrespected. Poetry is history to be protected, lessons to be learned, a path to change our society or prevent its demise.
And I am the chosen master—not the original, of course, but the chosen one nevertheless.
I sit back, sipping the luxurious whiskey that I now know to be a mismatch to a night where I watch one person after another step to the microphone to butcher the great works: Frost, Shakespeare, Poe. The list goes on, but I don’t blame the students. I blame the teacher, and the teacher must pay. He will not continue in his role, but he will serve a purpose.
I down my drink and slide my glass into my bag on the floor. The only part of me I ever leave behind is words, and my decision is made. Tonight is the night. Summer is the one. He’s the one who will let her know it’s time to fulfill her destiny. It’s time for her to train, to prove her worth, to be tested. He’s the one who will bring her to me, my perfect student, the future master.
