#thecrimecircle

The Crime Circle by Yeyet Soriano (Blog Tour)

Four stories/arcs make up a circle, where the lines are blurred between victim and perpetrator, between innocent bystander and involved participant, and between right and wrong.

The Crime Circle print versions (local through POD and international through Amazon CreateSpace) were released on March 24, 2018. The novella 3B4U (TCC #1) was also released at the same time as an ebook on Amazon. The other novellas are planned for release as follows:

 Release Dates

(TCC #2) Lost - May 31, 2018

(TCC #3) Climb - August 2018

(TCC #4) Breathe - October 2018

bitly.com/TCC-print  → The Crime Circle local print order form

bitly.com/TCC-print-I  → International (CreateSpace)

bitly.com/TCC-3B4U  → ebook TCC #1 3B4U (Amazon)

bitly.com/TCC-Lost  → ebook TCC #2 Lost (Amazon)

bitly.com/TCC-GR → The Crime Circle in Goodreads

bitly.com/TCC-3B4U-GR → TCC #1 3B4U in Goodreads

bitly.com/TCC-Lost-GR → TCC #2 Lost in Goodreads

EXCERPTS:

3B4U David Roces is the front man of Baliw, one of the biggest rock bands in 90’s Manila. He is young, talented, driven, and extremely popular. He also just received an anonymous letter with newspaper clippings saying, “There’ll be 3B4U.”  And then the front men of other bands start dying.

Blackout.     1-2-3.     A steady drumbeat pierced through the din of voices and suddenly everyone in the dark, cramped room was silent.     A seemingly bizarre bass guitar riff floated through the smoke-filled air, and people started moving, slowly but deliberately.     A rhythm guitar joined the fray, and the energy level of the spectators increased.     A voice, more a musical groan, took up the melody, and the crowd started going wild.     The music slowly reached its climax, and suddenly there was silence.     A single spotlight turned on and focused on a lone figure caressing a sleek black electric guitar. The sounds made by his fingers running across the strings brought the people in the club to a frenzied state. The guitar solo was both powerful and heartrending, the guitarist’s face was covered by a mass of unruly long hair.     Blackout and silence.     The anticipation was palpable. A few seconds more and the music exploded. The lights went on, and a voice pierced through everyone’s consciousness. From that moment, everyone’s focus was centered on the singer, whose voice soared above the music; every word he uttered went straight to the heart. He was taller than normal, lean, wearing a simple white T-shirt, black ripped denims and boots. His eyes were deep-set and expressive, and his mouth was wide, his lips full, but his mop of longish unruly dark brown hair concealed half of his face. Ordinarily, offstage, he was considered almost handsome, but when he was onstage and making his music, he was beautiful.     The crowd went crazy.     Very apt, since the band onstage was named . . . Baliw, the Filipino word for crazy.

Lost Zia is an artist with a lot of inner demons to slay. A victim of rape as a child, her road to recovery has been long and arduous. In fact, she is still on it. But then she starts receiving anonymous emails with links to her old court case. Then she gets an offer of a lifetime any artist would die for. Are they related? Can she ever really escape her dark past and not let it define her?

Trigger warning: this is about a child rape case and the effects on the person when she grew up. There are scenes that pertain to the act itself and this is definitely not for the faint hearted.

The Artist   Zia is a mad woman. Her hair is disheveled, her hands and knees stained with colors. The canvass is on the floor, and she is moving her entire body on the canvass, to distribute the colors in the bizarre pattern that is in her head. There are tools scattered around—brushes, paints, different types of cloth and material, and in the middle of it all, Zia, operating on adrenaline, coffee, and a mad propulsion to let out all her feelings on the canvass.   The painting that is on its way to being created is not for the faint of heart, but neither is it without appeal. It is hauntingly beautiful, and more so because the person creating it is possessed, haunted. Her seemingly random scattering of colors blend in a way that makes the painting more alive. More heartbreaking. More forlorn.   It is sad. Frightening. Magnificent.   After a few hours, Zia collapses just beside the finished painting. She is of the same color as the canvass, and as she remains unmoving, she seems to be an extension of the painting. A spillage.   Many hours later, she wakes up. She had been dreaming. She looks at the canvass beside her and realizes she hadn’t been dreaming. She surveys herself in the mirror, and she doesn’t recognize herself, all covered in paint.   She takes a shower and the paint and dirt and everything else is washed away.   She is clean.   On the outside.   She will never be clean on the inside.

*****

  Another email, this time with no link, just a picture and a screenshot of part of a document. The picture is of a child on a long bench or pew surrounded by important-looking people, inside what looks like a courtroom. The child is playing with a Barbie doll while eating what looks like a pack of biscuits.   The document screenshot underneath the photo had portions blacked out.   "That sometime on the _____ week of _______________, ______, at ______________, Barangay __________________________, Municipality of _____________, City of __________________, Philippines and within the jurisdiction of this Honorable Court, the abovenamed accused, by means of force and intimidation, did then and there wilfully, unlawfully and feloniously lie with and have carnal knowledge with ____________________________________, a six (6) year old minor, against her will and consent.   Contrary to law."   Notwithstanding the misspelling and wrong tenses, it should hurt, but it really doesn’t anymore. I am numb. Even with the details blacked out, I know what the words would say. How can I not?   I know the name of the child in the picture. Elizabeth F. Henson.   The child in the picture is me.   The case is of my rape when I was six years old by my next-door neighbor.   No wonder I’m screwed up, right?   Whoever sent this email wants me to be flustered.   But I am not.   So, whoever you are, bring it on.   Nothing more can hurt me.   The bastard who raped me made sure of that.   My own family made sure of that.

Climb Pablo is an IT practitioner by day and an erotic fiction writer by night. He is also an information broker, responsible for the recent heists in different executive subdivisions. He suddenly develops a conscience, but he knows his policeman contact will not take kindly to this very lucrative venture ending abruptly. So what can Pablo do? And will the friendly neighborhood sari-sari store owner with a checkered past and his tall, dark and sexy Law student niece be instrumental in helping him out?

Note: This has a high heat level written in the POV of a male erotic writer.

“Qing bu yao shang hai wo men! Bu yao shang hai wo men de hai zi!”     I motioned to her to keep quiet, to keep her toddler boy close to her. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, but I was sure that she was pleading for me not to hurt them. The look of fear is universal. She embraced him with her arms, and that’s how they were when I tied her hands.     “Which room has a sturdy lock?” I asked.     “Zhu wo shi wei sheng jian,” she whispered. She must not have realized that she was speaking a language I could not understand. Stress and fear made people do strange things, because I was sure she could speak perfect English and Filipino.     “I don’t understand,” I said, shaking my head.     “The master’s bathroom.” Her English was impeccable. She motioned with her head and eyes toward the said room.     I heard the others ransacking the other rooms.     “Quickly!” I led them to the bathroom. There was a large tub. Oh boy.     “Lock the door, get in the tub, and don’t make a sound. Don’t open the door unless you know who it is. Don’t open it even for me.”     “Xie xie,” she whispered.     I understood that she was thanking me, even if I didn’t understand the words she uttered. I felt like a cad. She was looking at me like I was saving her life, when it was my fault that their house was being robbed. My fucking fault.

*****     There had been a series of home burglaries in the executive subdivision where the Chinese mom lived. The village was huge, situated over three big local areas—Pasig, Cainta, and Taytay. There had been speculations as to who were involved. People said the police were involved. Some said the burglars were residents.     They’re almost correct. There is a policeman involved, some hired muscle, and yes, a resident—me.     I’m no mastermind. I am no longer sure why I am still involved. Okay, I know why.     I do it to be accepted.     I am an information broker. You can’t imagine how much information can be had from different sources that we don’t know can actually make us very vulnerable.     First, there is Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, LinkedIn, Snapchat, and other social media platforms. The amount of information you can get about someone from the internet is actually insane, if you know how to consolidate and use it.     Next, there are the people we usually let into our homes without a second thought. People who can be asked to divulge information without them even knowing it. The maids, the electricians, the plumbers, the construction workers, the guys who deliver the mineral water and gas, the men who deliver and pick up party tables and chairs, the home service masseuses, and even the tutors.     If you have a way to get specific pieces of information from all these sources and know how to weave them together, then you get enough to stage a burglary.     Take the pretty Chinese mother, for example. A construction guy known for being a tsimay killer (or someone who likes getting pretty, young house help as his girlfriends) is in my payroll, to an extent. We would hang out for drinks after he does some work on my house, and I just let him talk. I make prodding follow-ups, and on his fourth shot, he would basically tell me anything. Sometimes, I can ask him to date a maid and transmit to me what he finds out. What he knows is that I am a writer, and I need lots of material. He never questioned my motives for the questions.     From him, I found out (courtesy of a not-so-young-but-still-single nanny) that the beautiful woman’s husband was a prominent businessman who had lots of cash lying around the house toward the end of the month. He also liked his gadgets and toys and has a state-of-the-art entertainment center. The maid bragged that when the family is out, she would watch her favorite noontime show on the big-ass screen with surround sound. From her too came the schedules of his frequent out-of-town trips. She was also too glad to share that she was happy not to have to clean up after any house dogs, and that she usually cleans the garage on the dot at 5 PM, opening the gate to let the garbage out.     I should have told the beautiful woman to fire her blabbermouth maid.

Breathe Rachel is a horror fiction writer known for her dark and disturbing stories, but she doesn’t look it in her bright summer dresses and perennial smile. She tries her hand at writing a true-to-life crime story from her past and in the process, discovers that she was never just an innocent bystander but an integral part of the story. Can a wizened crime novelist join forces with an elegant psychiatrist to help unravel Rachel’s past in order to save her future?

Trigger Warning: This has some themes of child abuse—physical, emotional and psychological—as well as crimes of passion, police brutality, and suicide.