C.T. Adams/Cat Adams/A.S. James Newsletter
October 2020
Brutal Cold
BRUTAL COLD is out on Kindle and is doing well. Thanks to all of you who’ve bought it! I hope you are enjoying the read. Let me know what you think of Sam and Stephanie—whether they’re worth another visit . And if you loved the book, please leave a rating on Amazon.
There have been (ahem) a couple of issues (tech stuff, personal stuff, and just stuff) that made it possible for me to post on Blogger but not the website. (It is being fixed by the inestimable KarenneLyn – Bless her!) In the meantime, I’m including the first two segments (short and sweet) here for you to “catch up.” 

Send me an email at catadamsfans@gmail.com so I can get your name and preferences for your prize(s)
I wasn't home when the house exploded. I was three blocks away, taking Shameless O'Houligan to the vet for his shots and stitches. Shameless, according to Dr. Conner, is 110 pounds of Irish Wolfhound Scottish Terrier mix. He is also, as his name would imply, a handful.

This morning he had caught wind of Norman, the squirrel who had been tormenting him for weeks by pelting him with acorns from my old oak, in time to actually do something about it. One bound from the front step, a mighty leap, and he had a shocked and terrified gray squirrel by the tail, fighting for its life.

Squirrels have wicked claws, sharp teeth, and an attitude problem. This one, however, had pitched its last acorn. Scratched and bloodied Shameless may have been, but he was prancing around the yard with Norman's severed tail. No dog, ever, had been prouder or more satisfied.

I loaded Shameless, and his prize, into my battered old VW and to Dr. Conner.

It saved my life.

They said it was an accident--a natural gas explosion.

But it wasn't.

I was left with my dog, my car, the clothes on my back a whopping $300.00 in my checking account, and a killer on my trail.

My name is Erin Murphy.

Welcome to my life.
I am thirty-six years old. I am 5'5" Brown and Brown per my (Colorado) driver's license. Until it exploded, I lived at 3135 N Julian St., Denver, a small brick bungalow that I was paying exorbitant rent to stay in and an even more exorbitant pet deposit--neither of which I could really afford on my military disability and Social Security, but were better than my current dilemma of homelessness.
I served with distinction as a medic in various conflicts from the time I had enlisted bright and early on my eighteenth birthday until injured in the line of duty. I am right handed-which is good, since it was my left arm that was damaged. I have a prosthesis from the middle of my left forearm down. It works well, but it will never be a "hand" to me. It's a machine. A useful tool. It's not a part of me, and it sure as hell doesn't replace what I lost.
And yes, now, that you mention it. I do have just a teenie weenie bit of bitterness about that. But only a little. I could have died. Hell, I probably *should* have. I owe my life to a man from my unit who got me the hell out of that mess, and into the middle of this one.