A spine-tingling new suspense-thriller from bestselling author Daniel G. Miller that will keep your heart racing to the last page.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Daniel G. Miller’s The Red Letter, which is out July 22nd 2025.
A DEAD BODY. A MYSTERIOUS RED LETTER.
Hazel has everything she wants.
Business is booming at her boutique private investigation firm. She’s dating the man of her dreams. Even her perpetually skeptical mother seems impressed. Then the NYPD finds a beloved neighborhood priest dead along with a mysterious red letter.
Hazel investigates the murder as a favor to an old friend and discovers that the priest wasn’t the only recent murder victim to receive a red letter…and one victim has ties to a psychopath from a past life that Hazel thought she had buried. One by one, the red letters continue to appear, and with every letter, another killing, each more mysterious than the last.
As Hazel closes in on the killer, the killer closes in on her, and Hazel begins to question everything she thought she knew about herself and the people around her. Even worse, Hazel discovers that the only way to find the truth is to open one more…
1
Watching a man die is a tough way to spend your afternoon.
The video plays and I see the inside of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in Lower Manhattan. The camera shows the inside of a sparse Gothic cathedral sitting dark, silent, and empty. The footage is a little grainy, but it’s sharp enough to identify details. Moonlight slips through stained glass, creating a haunting mix of light and shadow. Dark maple pews straddle a long walkway down the spine of the building. Marble pillars stand watch overhead. I’ve attended this church before, but never at night. It’s chilling. Even the silence seems to echo. I feel like I’m watching one of those found-footage horror films where a group of plucky grad students investigate a mysterious haunting and things quickly go awry.
A whining door hinge breaks the silence, followed by shuffling footsteps. Father Kenneally appears and springs into the sanctuary at the front of the cathedral. As a private investigator, I’ve learned to note every detail, and he’s exactly as I remember him. He’s about sixty years old. His red hair recedes from his domed forehead and gray peppers his temples, but his wide, angular face is ruddy and vigorous. The crinkles around his eyes carry the kindness of someone who’s smiled and chuckled much of their life. I wish more priests were like him.
He wears all black and a clergy collar. The moonlight glints off the small silver cross around his neck. He walks into the sanctuary with a lumbering, happy gait, whistling “Danny Boy,” the old Irish tune. A tan leather portfolio rests in one hand and a Bible in the other. A smile plays on his lips. He sings the words under his breath: “Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.”
He’s enjoying the peace of the empty church.
But something eerie hides behind the silence.
He takes the pulpit and turns on the reading lamp, which highlights his aloneness in the gloomy structure. He rests a pair of frameless reading glasses on a small, slightly upturned nose, then licks his thick fingers and riffles through the Bible. He turns the gilt-edged pages with care, giving the book the respect it deserves. It reminds me of my father when he reads his dusty detective novels. I think it’s a requirement when you read old books to lick at least one finger before you flip the pages.
He begins speaking to an audience of none, presumably practicing his homily for the following day. My mind flashes back to those Sundays I visited here, when smiling parents and squirrelly kids filled every seat. It was a happy place then.
“Good morning, everyone. It’s so nice to see you all this fine Sunday.”
His posture is humble, but his speech booms through the hollow space with assurance. His voice carries a warm timbre. He’s the type of priest you’d confide in over a beer. I’ve always felt welcome in his church.
“This morning I’d like us to travel to the temple mount and listen to a sermon that Jesus gave over two thousand years ago.”
Even in the empty cathedral, his sermon draws you closer, forcing you to reflect on his meaning. He talks about the poor in spirit, the meek, the merciful, about faith, about being a good Catholic, about how church on Sunday isn’t enough, about how you must give back to your community. But he does it in a way that’s not preachy, more the gentle coaxing of a close friend.
Behind him, moonlight shines through curved stained glass with a cross at its center, forming a perfect silhouette. As he speaks, I perceive that even alone, he can’t help but get excited. He adjusts his glasses. He hops up and down on his toes, and his pace accelerates.
And then it happens.
He fumbles a word.
Until now, his speech flowed so smoothly. The error hits like a needle scratch. It catches him off guard. He’s a professional unused to making mistakes.
Then he stops speaking.
He retreats from the podium and studies the room, searching for any witnesses to his mistake. His fingertips tremble as he presses them to his lips. Then he licks them as though he’s searching for a feeling, but finds nothing. He cranks his head to the side in confusion but resumes speaking, likely hoping it was a momentary glitch.
Again, the words emerge mumbled and slurred. He sounds like a drunk. Even from the camera’s distance, I notice his panicked expression etched into every line on his face. He sidesteps from the podium as if it has infected him and looks around again, searching. He stares at his notes. Then at his hands. He surveys the sanctuary, then the pews. Each head turn, each eye movement more clipped and frantic than the one before.
He looks to the ceiling.
To God.
I lean in closer to the screen and squint my eyes. My mouth dries. I hate watching him suffer like this, but I can’t look away. I scan the video frame, searching like he’s searching, but the church is as empty as when he began. No one has entered. No item is out of place. Nothing has changed. He’s alone.
Father Kenneally brings both hands to his scarlet face, and I watch as the panic metastasizes into terror. He runs his fingers up and down his cheeks and across his forehead as though he’s trapped in a mask he can’t touch and can’t remove. Sweat beads on his brow, reflecting the dim light in sickly glints. He reaches for his Bible, but it slips from his grasp and crashes to the floor with a hollow thud—a symbol of his hope crumbling. He tries to call out for help, but only a weak cry escapes.
No one can hear him.
Realizing his only chance to find help is to run outside onto the bustling Manhattan streets, he descends the steps of the sanctuary and stumbles down the aisle. After a few paces, his feet give way and he falls. The thump of his body against the cold stone echoes through the empty church. He begins crawling, and for a moment, I think he might survive.
Then he vomits.
He retches so violently, I’m afraid he’ll break his back, and I can almost smell it through the screen. He collapses onto the floor, writhing in agony, gasping for air. Seconds tick by, and it appears he’s found a brief respite from the horror that’s overtaken him.
But then his body starts convulsing.
He spasms and tremors like he’s possessed by a demon. He cries out again, but this time he can’t muster words, only a pathetic grunt.
Father K. heaves one side of his body forward, then the other, losing strength with each thrust. The sound of his failing body sliding along the aisle sickens me. He reaches the middle of the nave, and his strength gives out. He gazes into the camera—directly at me—his desperate stone-blue eyes pleading for mercy.
But there is none to be found in this empty church.
No mercy.
No one to save him.
I wish I could reach through the screen to help him.
He rolls onto his back and gasps for his few remaining breaths, wheezing in and out. First fast, then slow. His body seizes, shaking and trembling as an invisible force grabs hold of his insides. His skull shakes against the floor like a bass drum. Spit and foam spill from his mouth, staining his once-pristine robes. Eventually, the shaking slows, then ceases. His face twists into a horrific expression that mirrors my own.
And just like that, this kind man, this pillar of the community, is gone.
The video ends, and I am left with only one thought.
I cannot be a part of this case.
