Sunday Session: What’s missing?

Posted on

November 2016
It is an older crowd, but an appreciative one. They’ve gone to a lot of trouble for their special guest.

It’s pouring rain when I arrive but there are plenty of gentlemen with umbrellas to carry my heavy book box inside. They’ve set up a sale table for my crime novels, which are inspired by Ursula and the missing, with a burgundy tablecloth that matches the brick walls and dark timber of the café where the Rotary club has their monthly dinners.

I had turned myself inside out to get here on time. I swapped out my working from home clothes to something that felt like it passed muster for a formal event including my favourite cardigan, and ran out the door, leaving my husband with the dinner and bath time chaos.

Bread roll and first course over, it is time for me to speak. With a beaming smile and the standard ‘I’m totally okay’ façade I manage to put on at all these speaker events, I share the story of my desperate search for Ursula. It is 2016, and it will be another year before she is found. I recall memories of our childhood, and appeal for everyone in the room to share her story because I was absolutely certain that someone, somewhere knew where she was.

When I’m done, an elderly gentleman with stooped shoulders and shaking hands takes a few moments to get out of his chair. He stands close and reaches his soft, crinkled hand out to shake mine, before bringing the other hand over it and clasping mine tight.

He shakily holds the microphone. It is then, at close quarters with his lined and kind face, I notice his eyes are glassy and filled with tears that sit in swollen droplets across the full length of his bottom lid.

He addresses me before he addresses the crowd.

‘First of all I’d like to say that you are very brave, and that your cousin Ursula is very lucky. I am not brave like you.’

A tear spills over and rolls down the lines which age has creased into a million hidden stories. His accent makes it hard to pick up every word but once I become accustomed he draws me into his tale.

‘When I was a young boy in Germany I used to ride my bike everywhere in my village. Delivering messages every day, lots of messages…’

The room falls silent as he recounts his wartime story, as a young Jewish boy who lost his entire family during the Second World War. He often wonders if he could find them, but war memorial events like ANZAC Day render him incapable of leaving his house.

I don’t remember all his exact words but I do remember how they made me feel – that I am not alone in this grief for Ursula that seems to go on forever. Is she alive? Is she dead? Did they survive the prison camp the Nazi Germans took them to? Was she living happily ever after in a foreign country far far away? Were they living happily ever after in France or Italy, having escaped and miraculously surviving the war?

His eyes are leaking faucets now as he repeats, ‘You are so brave. I am not brave like you. You must love her very much.’

It is the first time in the past three years since I set out on this mission impossible to discover what happened to Ursula when she disappeared in 1987 that someone has called me brave. It is also the first time someone has so eloquently acknowledged the power of familial love.

Feeling somewhat shattered by the whole experience I stumble out the door into the crisp, cold night which is now washed clean and smelling like eucalyptus leaves and freshly mown grass. The room had cleared out like an RSL Club after lunch service, so it was just me to lug my half empty box of books to the car and face the dark drive home, on alert for kangaroos and wombats.

My mind races in all directions. This elderly gentleman has given me strength and resolve to keep moving forward through the awkwardness and discomfort of sharing Ursula’s story and accepting the ending might not be what I hoped.

As I am about to turn out the light and go to sleep I flick through the photos of the night. Something doesn’t look right. There is is. My cardigan is missing a button. Despite my goal to appear neat, organised, in control – this wife, mother of three, business owner and public advocate for Ursula and the missing is showing signs of disrepair.

I obsess over this missing button as I try and drop off to sleep, even though I know far more important thoughts need my attention.

Tears drip onto my pillow while I imagine the hundreds, thousands, millions of people in the world too terrified and traumatised to search for their missing loved ones. What can I do to help them? Tears flow more freely. I’m not exactly winning or taking giant steps forward in my own Pollyanna mission for Ursula. There is nothing I can do for anyone else. Absolutely not one thing.

I was wrong though. I couldn’t see it then but I saw it later. Not giving up hope for Ursula spread hope for others. What we learnt in our search, they could do in theirs. A lot of changes for the better happened because of this renewed search for Ursula.

This lightbulb would turn on down the track. But tonight I fall into a fitful sleep and dream of buttons missing from cardigans, never to be found again.

Melissa x

My debut crime novel, Write About Me, sparked a new investigation into the disappearance of my cousin Ursula Dianne Barwick. Five years and five novels later, she was FOUND.

Sunday Session, with love

Posted on

Welcome to my mp book news Sunday Session, a quick check in to see how you’re going and what you’ve got planned for your Sunday!

Sunday Session, with love

This weekend I have love on my mind. You’d need to be living under a rock not to know it’s Valentine’s Day season, and romance is here to stay. My husband and I laughed as we wished each other Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s not that we’re past it, it’s just that we’re past getting caught up in the flowers, chocolates and the romantic gestures from sunrise to sun-up!

In saying that, I’m a real romantic and always thought I’d write romance novels and not crime novels. My first true love, like many women my age, was Johnny Castle. Many of you will know exactly who I mean, but if not, the next clue is Dirty Dancing!

Although my novels sit fairly and squarely in the crime genre, I haven’t been able to resist exploring the love story of Rhiannon and Mac – MacVee. Their red dirt road to true love is not exactly smooth, but for the most part, it feels like they’re meant to be together forever.

Isn’t that where things ended up for Johnny and Baby? After the final scene where he lifts her high in the world’s most famous and most watched dance move, I am sure they headed off, hand in hand, to live happily ever after. Or did they?

As for Rhiannon and Mac, I get a lot of readers tell me how much they love the scenes that include the glamorous cowgirl Wynona who has a short fling with Mac  while he and Rhiannon were on a break.

In the spirit of Valentine’s, please read on for a few snippets from You’ll Never Find Me, book 3 in the Rhiannon Series.

Happy Sunday y’all!

Melissa x

You’ll Never Find Me

Wynona took another sip of her drink. Mary Chapin Carpenter was playing on the jukebox. She was new to the country scene but Wynona knew she’d hit big one day. She was singing a song for Wynona and Mac, What You Didn’t Say. The lyrics were written just for them, especially the line about not what you said, what you didn’t say. It was a sign. That’s it. She had to go back. She had to touch him, feel him, and show him that she was the one for him. She’d send him a letter first, just a casual Hello, how ya going? Wynona was going to Australia to get her cowboy. Then bring him back home, hand in hand and side by side, to ranch together and live happily ever after.

…

Mac was in turmoil. Rhiannon was coming home for the Bollon B&S, and so was Wynona. And it was only one day away. He’d managed to shield Rhiannon completely from his relationship with Wynona. He now regretted not being more honest after he and Rhiannon got back together. A few times he’d come close to telling her, because he hated hiding anything, but the words always got stuck.

He knew he had to tell her. Tonight was his last chance. Because when he had to introduce them at the B&S, he knew Rhiannon would know. She would sense it. She would see it.

Everyone north of the border knew Mac and Wynona had been a hot item. Their relationship had been hard and fast. It didn’t last long but it left a mark wherever they went. How could it not, when Wynona was one of the most beautiful women God put on this earth, and Mac her perfect accompaniment? They seemed to have an ideal relationship, working side by side on stations all around the southwest. They worked together and played together. Those who knew Rhiannon had broken Mac’s heart felt relieved for him. Happy he had found new love.

…

He was hip to hip with Rhiannon, beer in hand and deep in conversation with old friends from boarding school. The chattering crowd quietened. The change in noise level was what got Mac’s attention.

He looked up and his breath drew in, then stopped, his heart a giant flutter. He’d forgotten how stunning she was. It was like she was from another world. And she was. She should be on the cover of a magazine.

He squeezed Rhiannon’s hand tight. She winced as the blood stopped flowing to her fingers, and her eyes followed his. She felt ill. Sick to the stomach.

Wynona was dressed in a beige silk décolleté singlet that draped low to her small perfectly rounded breasts, but not so low that it was tacky. Her blemish free tanned skin was the perfect complement. Not a freckle in sight. She had teamed her top with fitted black silk pants. Perfectly pressed pleats fell neatly  at the front, following her slender legs forever.

She was one of the tallest women Rhiannon had ever seen. She knew without seeing that the fabric hugged Wynona’s perfectly toned arse cheeks at the back, and that from every angle she was perfect. Dammit.

But it wasn’t just her body. It was her perfectly proportioned facial features. Her glorious dark hair was piled high on her head, with escaping tendrils falling delicately around her face. It was like an artist had created her.

Her nose was tiny. Her teeth were pearly white, and amazingly straight. Her large dark brown eyes, so dark they were almost black, were stunning. Sparkling as well. And her mouth. Not big and wide and overly smiling like Rhiannon felt hers was. It was also in perfect proportion. Dazzling. She looked a bit like Elle Macpherson, but with darker hair and bigger eyes.

Rhiannon’s face flushed as Wynona strode purposefully towards Mac, her feelings for him written all over her face. Wynona didn’t even notice Rhiannon standing by his side, with her gaze so intent upon Mac.

Sunday Session – cowboys and crime

Posted on

Aha, I know I have your attention! I asked if this cowboy is what my readers imagine Mac to look like. They knocked the nail on the head when they said he looks very much like an American cowboy, whereas Mac is a true blue Australian cowboy. Another reader asked if this is an AI-generated image. I’d say it potentially is. If not AI, it is very much photoshopped! She also imagines Australian cowboy Mac to be a lot more rugged, maybe with a scar. This is how Mac is in my head – he’s not so smooth faced, he’s definitely more rugged and more real. However, the fictional cowboy that posed for this photo is still good inspiration!

My obsession with Australian cowboys, country music and western movies started before I can even remember. I grew up going to rodeos, country shows and country races. When I left home at 18 and spent a year in the outback, I loved the true outback country race meetings, polocross weekends, outback pubs and Bachelor and Spinster balls.

It’s fun to create new characters and place them in the settings I’m familiar with, although what happens in my books is far removed from my own experiences! That’s the joy of fiction – it’s an escape both for me as a writer and you as a reader.

I also had this message from Lisa in response to my question about whether Mac and Rhiannon belong together: I love Mac and Rhiannon together, but figuring out their next moves as they have different ideas going forward. Some compromises need to be made. I’ve read all the books in the series and love their dynamic. I like a good romance, as well as, a crime story.

I can’t tell you how much I love hearing from my readers – it’s such a great boost when I’m writing my next book and feeling stuck and uninspired – it’s YOU who encourage me to keep at it!

One more look at this dreamy fictional cowboy. Not Mac, but he does alright.

Sunday Session: Cowboys and Crime

Posted on

Introducing Sunday Session, a quick check in to see how you’re going and what you’ve got planned for your Sunday!

This morning I opened Life’s Little Instruction Book to see what the day had in store. 188. Be the most positive and enthusiastic person you know.

Okay, I’ll try! But Sundays can be a struggle. I am usually tired, I have a lot of household chores that need doing to ensure the following week goes smoothly. I should be doing this, and that, and the other.

How is my Sunday shaping up so far? It’s a wet, rainy day and these are my favourite Sundays as I feel like I have permission to slow down.

I got up early and wrote some of my new book and had my nature fix before the rain, I’ve drunk coffee and wrapped book orders to post out tomorrow. As soon as I finish this I’m back to my book. Then I may watch TV, or read a book. I have also decided that chores can be squeezed into the week.

I’ve learnt that I don’t have to be productive every single minute of every single day. It’s impossible for a start. And although I agree with 188 above, it’s also not possible to always be positive and enthusiastic. And that is okay. Just do what you can, at your own pace, on your Sunday. Because that’s what I’m doing today!!

Melissa x

New crime novel update, Back O’ Bourke

Posted on

If you have heard the phrase ‘The Back O’ Bourke’ then you’ll have a sense of the isolated places where my crime novel characters live.

My new crime novel has its heart set in Bourke and I bring you a story about a young reporter from the city who lands smack bang in a remote outback town where not much happens. Except a whole lot is happening in this rugged place with bars on its shop windows, a dodgy newspaper editor, what appears to be a corrupt police sergeant and disappearing backpackers that nobody wants to find.

I started this new crime novel back in 2022 and spent an outback road trip in early January listening to an audio version of what I’d written so far, and I LOVE it! I thought I’d share one of the early chapters with you, let me know what you think!

2005

‘We’re not going to make it.’

My eyes darted from the massive black storm cloud hovering less than a metre from the horizon in a straight line, back to Billy. No time to admire his chiselled jaw and the working man’s hands he’d wrapped around me at the Deni Ute Muster a few weeks earlier.

Here we were, driving into the wildest outback storm I’d ever experienced. Actually, the only outback storm I’d experienced. The ute muster was my first taste of the outback life I had chosen after graduating the top of my class from a journalism degree. Although I had dreams of being the next big thing in television reporting, I didn’t have the face, or the body, for it. Working in a suburban Sydney newspaper reporting on the life I’d grown up in held a lot less appeal than a wild west reporter in Bourke, a frontier town with bars on the shop windows and a crime rate assured to keep me busier than Kings Cross on my police rounds.

Billy wasn’t part of the plan but had become part of the adventure when my shitbox car broke down in Deni and was languishing at the wrecker’s who’d paid me $800 when the local mechanic established it was unfixable. Dust billowed behind us as we rattled down an isolated dirt road towards the station Billy was meant to start shearing tomorrow and had roped me in to help. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do but was up for any job they gave me. I’d never seen a real sheep in my life, or stepped foot inside a shearing shed. Sheep sales were going to be part of my new job so if I was going to talk the talk, I’d have to walk the walk.

‘We’re not going to make it,’ I repeated.

Billy ignored me, a slight twitch in his jaw the only sign he’d heard. I wondered if he was panicked too or if he wasn’t bothered by the storm we were driving into. A flash of lightning sliced a cloud ahead of us in half like a hot knife through butter before hitting the ground like an exploding bomb. I felt a twinge in my lower bladder, wondering if I was about to experience the most humiliating moment I had witnessed in primary school when cruel school boys tackled then tickled my best friend until she wet herself.

In the few weeks I’d known Billy he had been unflappable. Me, on the other hand, I was completely flappable. Bridie Brown-Leather, a hyphenated last name complements of my feminist mother who refused to give up her last name when she married my conservative banker Dad. She also thought it made her sound like she was living an exciting life, with hints of city biker vibes.

‘Look, there’s a mailbox. Why don’t we head in there?’

Billy chuckled. ‘Navigation advice from a city girl, that’s a turn-up for the books.’

As the mailbox got closer, with white knuckles Billy made a snap decision and swags, canvas bags and eskies slid suddenly from one side of the Landcruiser ute tray to the other at his sharp turn. I cringed at the thought of my expensive Nikon camera, with the three fancy lenses I’d paid for with my second and third jobs I fitted around study, getting jammed in a corner and smashed by an esky. Billy’s blue heeler cattle dog cross, who had soft floppy black ears and was sleeping at my feet, startled, filling the cab with an odour like no other.

‘Geezuz Lucy, that’s not very ladylike,’ Billy mumbled as we wound down our windows in unison. We were almost under the storm cloud and I could taste the moisture about to burst from it.

Five minutes later we caught our first glimpse of a grand homestead wrapped by a gauzed in verandah on three sides and three, make that four, chimneys protruding from its expansive tin roof space.

Giant rain drops fell like rocks onto our windscreen, leaving red streaks. Billy headed for a cluster of tin sheds of all shapes and sizes at the back of the homestead, seeking out an empty bay.

As we passed the homestead I noticed it wasn’t as grand as it had looked in the distance, and as the black cloud hovered right above and shut out the light, a shiver danced across my shoulders.

‘Haunted,’ I whispered. ‘I wonder if anyone lives here.’

A deafening rumble of thunder chased down less than a second later by a crack of lightning that could power the whole of Sydney illuminated a woman on the verandah, peering out at the unexpected visitors.

The lightning raised my voice a few octaves. ‘Thank goodness for that, I hope they’re friendly. Of course they’ll be friendly, we’re in the outback. Everyone’s friendly. Apart from Bradley Murdoch that is. Then again, he was friendly. But in a serial killer kind of way.’

‘Bloody hell Bridie, you can talk.”

I snapped my mouth shut. I could talk, a lot, especially when I was in panic mode.

Just as the heavens opened and dumped its entire contents on us, Billy expertly inched his way into a narrow space between a rusted open topped tractor with a bird’s nest on its seat that looked like it hadn’t moved for half a century, and a beat up holden sunbird, faded yellow with four flat tyres.

With eyes wide, I spun around to look out the rear window to watch sheets of water wash the dust and dirt away, the homestead completely invisible except in those seconds when lightning followed the roaring thunder. The rain on the tin shed roof was deafening as Billy and I huddled in the cab, the odour of Lucy lingering even though Billy had banished her to the back soon after we arrived.

‘We made it,’ I whispered.

Just.

Life’s Little Instruction Book

Posted on

When I was 18 and working as a governess in the remote Australian outback I started a book of quotes that helped inspire, guide and keep my life on track. Lines from songs, paragraphs from books, poetry, things people said to me all went into this little book. Back then, in 1991, we didn’t have social media, Google or the plethora of online spaces to tell us how to live a good, happy, prosperous life.

Life’s Little Instruction Book – 477 suggestions, observations, and reminders on how to live a happy and rewarding life came into my possession during my first year of university. Using a pencil (because I could never and still can’t bring myself to write in a book with a pen!) I have underlined, added asterisks and written exclamation marks on instructions that have resonated at one time or another since then.

I get it out on January 1 every year. January is one of those months where my brain decides it’s too full for the high productivity levels of the previous year, and the days blend into each other. I live at the beach and am surrounded by people on holidays, perhaps I could pretend I’m on holidays too?

Each day I turn to Life’s Little Instruction Book – something, anything, to jolt me into action for a new year! This morning the message on the left hand page was clear. 416. Don’t procrastinate! Do what needs doing when it needs to be done. (I have underlined this and put several exclamation marks in pencil!!) But then on the facing page there’s 420. Get your priorities straight. No one ever said on his death bed, “Gee, if I’d only spent more time at the office.”

And would you look at that, it’s another perfect beach day so if you’re looking for me, I’ll be at the beach!

Melissa x

Who is Australian Detective Rhiannon McVee?

Posted on

I first met Detective Rhiannon McVee when I was writing my debut novel, Write About Me, inspired by the 1987 disappearance of my teenage cousin Ursula. She only appears fleetingly in the book and was not a detective at that point, but it was a key moment. When my fictional character, Annabelle Brown, arrives in Kings Cross and stands at the corner where you can see the El Alamein fountain, Kings Cross Police Station and the full length of Darlinghurst Road up to the Coke Sign – this young policewoman named Rhiannon McVee, who had just started at her first real policing job, notices her.

As momentum gathered behind the scenes for the real life search for Ursula, Rhiannon kept turning up in my head so I started a new crime fiction series and her character started to form.

Who is Detective Rhiannon McVee?

She was born in the Australian outback, southwest Queensland; the only child of sheep graziers with a strong sense of adventure. She was always a tomboy and preferred being outdoors with her Dad, Bill. When she decides she wants to pursue a police career she has her sights set on the bright city lights of Sydney and her first job is at Kings Cross. Immediately she is drawn to missing persons cases at a time, the late 1980s, when police attitudes to a lot of missing persons cases are dismissive, careless and sloppy. Rhiannon wants to change that!

But, and there’s always a but, Rhiannon has a doting cowboy waiting for her to return to him in the outback. He’s patient, kind, rugged, good with his hands, hard working and gives her stomach butterflies. Long before Rip entered our lives on the small screen in Yellowstone, there was Mac.

In the five books so far of my Rhiannon Series, it has been such a pleasure to get to know Rhiannon and travel through her ups and downs, good decisions and bad decisions.

In Rhiannon’s Last Look, I finally feel she is starting to really come into her own. Although she hasn’t changed at heart, when she first enters our lives in Find Me she is young, fearless, a little bit spoilt and self-absorbed. At the same time a perfectionist, dedicated, passionate, adventurous and relentless in her pursuit of the truth for her missing cases.

Why Rhiannon?

I invented Detective Rhiannon McVee because she was who I wished was investigating Ursula’s case from the day she disappeared from Kings Cross. My view at the time was, if we’d had a Detective Rhiannon McVee, it wouldn’t have taken 30 years for us to discover what happened to our Ursula.

In Australia, on average, 150 people are reported missing every day. Of those 90% are found safe and well within a week and 3% are long-term missing people (missing for three months or more). How many people is 3%? More than 2500. Wow. That’s a lot of families who are going through ambiguous loss and wishing they could do something, anything, to bring their loved one home. For those of you living in much more highly-populated countries than Australia, these numbers are a lot higher.

I’ve learnt a lot since I published Write About Me in 2013 and it’s sequel FOUND in 2017, through Rhiannon and my own personal experience.

When someone goes missing, it’s not as simple as having someone like Detective Rhiannonn McVee in charge of the case. This is why I continue to write fiction about ‘missingness’ – it’s an escape from reality and helps me process my own grief, with the hope that it’s helping others too.

Melissa x

Rhiannon’s Last Look: what’s the Australian outback really like?

Posted on

When I was 18, fresh out of high school and with a pocket full of dreams, I boarded a tiny yellow plane at Quirindi airport, waved my family goodbye, and disappeared into the vast open place known as the Australian outback.

I grew up in rural Australia but there’s a big difference between the rolling, green hills of the Great Dividing Range and the open skies, flat clay pans and never-ending red dirt roads.

I spent a year in this magical place, but as my life grabbed me and ran me through the years and away from the outback, something kept drawing me back.

In the past decade I’ve spent a big part of my time travelling through the outback, and it’s provided me with the ideal backdrop for mystery, people going missing and the frustrating search to find them.

Abandoned homesteads, falling down shearing sheds, far-flung paddocks so far from anywhere you could disappear and never be found.

Not to mention morning light, afternoon light, blazing sunsets that paint the sky orange, red, gold, pink and purple, lightning cracks followed by booming thunder and drenching rain, full moons in a starry sky, the endless chitter chatter of outback birds, paddocks moving in the shimmering haze as hundreds of kangaroos cross from one side to the other and sleek and deadly brown snakes that stop your heart from beating when they appear from nowhere. Also cowboys, don’t forget cowboys!

Right now the average temperature is around 38 degrees Celsius (100.4 degrees Fahrenheit) so for those of you who are rugged up and seeing your first flakes of snow, the outback is the complete opposite! This time of year outback Australia also gets drenched by the most impressive summer storms you’ll ever see where the sky opens and pours what feels like a year’s worth of rain onto the dusty, barren paddocks – filling creeks and rivers and giving those who live and make a living in this isolated place a much-needed reprieve.Each of my Rhiannon Series covers features one of the hundreds (if not thousands) of photos my husband and I take in our outback travels  – it is always hard to choose but each one ends up fitting perfectly with the words inside.

I love them all but I think the Rhiannon’s Last Look cover is my favourite.

When I came across this building and saw the chair facing out the door, it filled me with a sense of yearning and loss and how it feels when someone goes missing and doesn’t come home.

However, if they are fortunate enough to have a Detective Rhiannon McVee in their lives, hope that they will be found is never far away.

Melissa x

The special bond between dads and daughters

Posted on

November has been a whirlwind and in amongst that whirlwind Rhiannon’s Last Look is out in the wild! It’s so exciting to read reviews, wrap signed books and see photos of my book baby in hairdressing salons and on planes. One reader gave me a blow by blow update as she arranged her busy life as a farmer’s wife during harvest around reading it. This is why I write!

Last weekend I got a very special order for signed copies of all my books from a Dad for his daughter. It is such a Dad thing to do, not just buy one book for their daughter, but buy all the books (all seven of them, Write About Me, Found, Find Me, When You Find Me, You’ll Never Find Me and Search for Sky, Rhiannon’s Last Look!).

Apologies in advance for a book spoiler alert, but when I wrote Find Me in 2014, there was a devastating and heartbreaking ending for Rhiannon when she lost her Dad. The scene wasn’t plotted out or planned, it was just one of those chapters which came to me when I sat down to write.

I sobbed my heart out because at the time I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose my Dad suddenly and with no warning. My Dad, John Waters Hosking, was my biggest fan, always reading my books in one sitting in his special chair by the fire. He carried many boxes of books to events and was there every step as the way as I travelled a crazy road of writing a book a year while desperately pursuing the truth about my cousin and his niece Ursula who went missing aged 17 in 1987.

As a crime writer, there is no shortage of devastation and heartbreak for my characters, but Rhiannon losing her Dad Bill resonated strongly with a large number of my readers and I still get messages today from daughters who have lost their Dads.

Fast forward to 2024 and I lost Dad in the most shocking of circumstances. He was two minutes from home, driving across the railway crossing he crossed every day multiple times, and was hit by a passenger train. I can’t tell you how difficult it has been to pick myself up and move forward and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to finish Rhiannon’s Last Look.

For six whole months I didn’t write a word, and I wondered if I’d ever write another book. I kept trying to tell myself Dad would want me to keep doing what I loved – also that I needed to treasure every moment and not waste a minute of my life. But I just couldn’t lift myself out of the sludge.

The fog lifted gradually, one sentence at a time, then one chapter at a time and ta-da!! I made a book!

A big thank you to everyone who has purchased a copy of Rhiannon’s Last Look – and an extra special shoutout to all the dads and daughters.

Melissa x