Killing Faith is an International Crime Thriller: One woman's confession sets off a deadly chain of events that reaches halfway around the world. As Detective Inspector Melissa Lloyd and Father Fildew pursue a ruthless mafia boss willing to kill anyone who stands in his way, they'll discover that exposing the truth may cost them their lives.
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Killing Faith is an International Crime Thriller: One woman's confession sets off a deadly chain of events that reaches halfway around the world. As Detective Inspector Melissa Lloyd and Father Fildew pursue a ruthless mafia boss willing to kill anyone who stands in his way, they'll discover that exposing the truth may cost them their lives.
First, let me say - I didn’t set out to become a writer. I was too busy running — literally. At fourteen, I was a competitive runner with my eyes on the finish line… until a friend (bless his clumsy soul) accidentally shattered my knee and my athletic dreams in one fell swoop. Overnight, I went from racing tracks to lying flat on my back, trapped beneath a fortress of blankets and a towering stack of Harlequin romances. My dad took one look at those bodice-rippers scattered across my bed, said nothing, and disappeared — only to return moments later, drop a book onto my lap, and declare: “You need to broaden your reading horizons.” The book was Iceberg by Clive Cussler. And just like that, my fate was sealed. Dirk Pitt became my new hero. Adventure, mystery, danger — all danced off the page and straight into my imagination. While my knee healed, a new dream took shape: I wanted to whisk readers away on thrilling journeys of their own. So here I am: a writer fueled by a twist of fate, a determined dad, and the legendary Clive Cussler. And while I may not be sprinting down tracks anymore, I’m still chasing stories — and loving every second of the race.
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Present Day
Leeds, England
Father Alastair Fildew walked along the aisles of St. Gregory’s, his footfalls echoing, reverberating off the empty pews. The heaviness in his heart weighed deeply on his mind, and the storm blowing outside—cold and damp—far from ministered to his temperament. He was weary, and as he moved to the vestry to await the usual handful of confessors, he again questioned his life—and his faith; something he found himself doing more and more with each passing year; each passing month.
The sound of the rear door opening drew him from his musings and he sighed. That would be Mrs. Woolmer, he thought, glancing at the time. She was early. Then again, she was always early, although this evening she was earlier than usual. He exhaled audibly and moved sluggishly to the confessional, settled on the hard wooden bench, and waited. When the woman began to speak, it didn’t take him long to realize that the voice belonged to someone other than Mrs. Woolmer.
Mrs. Woolmer’s voice was raspy—both from age and an indulgence in cigarettes. This voice caressed his skin with its youthful sultriness, but beneath the sensual tone was a timidity that reached deep into his soul. He wished the church hadn’t voted to remove the transparent screens in the confessionals, in favor of a more private black veil, for he would have loved to see whether the beauty of the voice matched that of the speaker. He forced himself to hear her words and not dwell on the tenor in which she uttered them.
“Father Fildew?” The voice repeated in a timorous whisper, when the father failed to acknowledge her presence immediately. The tone made the father sit up straighter.
“I’m sorry. I’m here, my child. What is it you wish to confess?” Alastair asked in his soothing ministerial way; the tone all priests learn in which to draw people to confession, so as not to drive them away from it. It was another aspect of his duties that had him questioning whether he was meant for this vocation.
“Are you Father Fildew?”
“I am. What have you to confess, my child?”
“I have nothing to confess, Father. I have not come seeking absolution,” the woman whispered, sadness and fear issuing with each word spoken. The father’s brow knitted in concern, for she sounded young; but not so young as to have committed no transgressions beyond forgiveness; not so young as to think absolution superfluous. Or did she believe her sins unforgivable? He needed to disabuse her of the notion that pardon was not attainable.
“Absolution...” he started, but she cut him off the moment the word left his mouth; the tremor in her voice more prevalent, along with an urgency that drove the timidity away. She didn’t want to hear him speak; rather needed to voice what was in her heart.
“Father, please, I don’t believe I have much time,” she whispered harshly. Were those tears he heard behind the tremors? Whatever had brought this woman to him on this cold, stormy, blustery night had her very distressed indeed. “Whatever I have done in my life, will go with me to my grave. I am not here for me, but for you—and another.”
The knit in his brow deepened, “Me? Why me, my child? I’m not certain I understand.” He shuddered, not sure if was the result of the constant chill filtering through the stone walls of the old church or whether it was from the tone of the young woman’s voice. An Australian accent, he only just noticed.
“Your brother, Father,” the woman whispered, the cadence of her speech picking up momentum, borne out of desperate need for him to hear her and to stop interrupting. “You must do something. He’s in great danger. I know he is.” She sighed heavily when her desperation went unheeded and he persisted in interrupting her thoughts, her revelations. Yes, she realized that she spoke hesitantly, giving him margin to insert his own thoughts, but it was because she felt uncomfortable in approaching a priest to assist in something that could prove deadly to himself. She was also uncertain how to express a danger of which she was barely convinced herself, but if she sat back and waited for certitude then she knew with a deep conviction that Arran would die.
“Perhaps you are mistaken, child,” he replied. “I haven’t a brother.”
“But you do! Please, you must listen to me,” the woman insisted. “You need to help him and...bloody hell!”
“I do beg pardon, miss, but if you could avoid swearing...”
A faint thud sounded from the confessional, soft in pitch, but nonetheless deafening—and then all was silent.
“My child, is all okay?”
The sound of the rear door closing drew a moan from his lips. He’d driven her away, and now she may end in Hell because of transgressions he couldn’t get her to confess. He sighed heavily. He really wasn’t meant for this—not any more.
Imagine being relentlessly pursued across continents, where every choice could lead to justice or doom. In this gripping tale, Melissa finds herself entangled in a web of international crime, her determination to seek justice pushing her deeper into danger. The stakes are high as she races from England to Australia, navigating a world where villains are always a breath away, and trust is a rare commodity.
Readers have praised the fast-paced narrative that keeps you on the edge of your seat. With memorable characters and a plot that twists and turns, the story unfolds like a heart-pounding chase where every moment counts. If you're craving a read that immerses you in suspense while exploring the depths of resilience and courage, this thrilling journey through perilous choices is sure to captivate you.
