#BlogTour Last Girl Ghosted by Lisa Unger

 It’s a pleasure to take part in the BlogTour Last Girl Ghosted by Lisa Unger.

About the Author

Lisa Unger is a New York Times and internationally bestselling author. With books published in thirty languages and millions of copies sold worldwide, she is widely regarded as a master of suspense. Her latest novel is Last Girl Ghosted.

Unger’s critically acclaimed novels have been featured on “Best Book” lists from the Today show, Good Morning America, Entertainment Weekly, People, Amazon, Goodreads, and many others. She has been nominated for, or won, numerous awards including the Strand Critics, Hammett Prize, Macavity, ITW Thriller, and Goodreads Choice. 

In 2019, she received two Edgar Award nominations, an honor held by only a few authors, including Agatha Christie. Her short fiction has been anthologized in The Best American Mystery and Suspense, and her non-fiction has appeared in The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, NPR, and Travel+Leisure. She lives on the west coast of Florida with her family. Follow @lisaunger on Twitter, Visit lisaunger.com

About the book

Think twice before you swipe. – She met him through a dating app. An intriguing picture on a screen, a date at a downtown bar. What she thought might be just a quick hookup quickly became much more. She fell for him—hard. It happens sometimes, a powerful connection with a perfect stranger takes you by surprise. Could it be love? But then, just as things were getting real, he stood her up. Then he disappeared—profiles deleted, phone disconnected. She was ghosted.

Maybe it was her fault. She shared too much, too fast. But isn’t that always what women think—that they’re the ones to blame? Soon she learns there were others. Girls who thought they were in love. Girls who later went missing. She had been looking for a connection, but now she’s looking for answers. Chasing a digital trail into his dark past—and hers—she finds herself on a dangerous hunt. And she’s not sure whether she’s the predator—or the prey. 


Wren knows she is lucky to have found someone and have such a strong connection with them. Navigating the dating world is a an empty endeavour when it comes to finding true relationships with depth. Everything seems to be on track until one day her love disappears mysteriously without a trace.

Unger creates a dark psychological thriller that shines a light on the new era of engaging, meeting and dating people. Gone are the days where face-to-face was the basis from which the rest grew – or not. Nowadays instant gratification, shallow unrealistic online data and photos are the baseline by which people judge and choose.

It’s a world that allows for the complete annihilation of confidence and self-worth, it’s also the dubious world of the unknown variable. The possible threat that could be lurking in plain sight. The question is how do you identify it? It’s also the world that has eradicated any kind of polite conversation, gesture or honesty. Instead of a quick you’re not my type, there is just nada. Ghosting is the new tactic to signal lack of interest.

The plot is drawn around the this new world and quickly devolves into something darker and more twisted.

Buy Last Girl Ghosted at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer. Publisher ‏: ‎HQ Digital; pub date 5 Oct. 2021. Buy at Amazon com.

#BlogTour The Stranger Inside by Lisa Unger

Today it’s a pleasure to take part in the BlogTour The Stranger Inside by Lisa Unger.

About the Author

Lisa Unger is the New York Times and internationally bestselling, award-winning author of 16 novels. Her books are published in 26 languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide. Lisa Unger lives in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with her husband, daughter and labradoodle.

Follow @lisaunger @HQStories on Twitter, on Amazonon Goodreads,Visit lisaunger.com

Buy The Stranger Inside

About the book

You committed the perfect crime. But someone knows the truth.

You followed the trial obsessively. Knew the evidence, alibis, and witnesses inside out. You know they’re guilty and can’t believe they got away with it. But where judge and jury failed, someone is determined to see justice done.

Rain Winter left journalism behind to focus on her baby daughter. But when a man acquitted for murder is killed, in the same way as his suspected victims, Rain sees a pattern emerging between a series of cold cases.

Meticulous and untraceable, this killer strikes in the dead of night, making sure that the guilty are suitably punished for their crimes.

As Rain’s investigation deepens, she must face up to dark secrets in her own past and the realisation that the killer may be closer than she thinks…


This is Unger’s best crime story so far. It is crime and suspense par excellence. Unger plays with the concept of guilt, fear, revenge and justice in a way that makes the most peace-loving among us yearn for the chance to rid the world of a bit of evil.

Rain is a survivor. Rain is a loving mother and wife, but Rain is also guilty. She is guilty of letting her friends face a fate worse than death, and indeed for one it does end with death. It’s a past she has hidden away in the recesses of her mind.

Many years after the incident that changed her life forever she finally seems to be at peace. It has taken her a while to build a successful career as a journalist – her baby hiatus is interrupted when someone commits a vigilante killing. Much like the way her own tormentor came to his end.

It awakens a need to dig. A deep urgent need to examine the truth, both her truth and the truth as her friend sees it. Is she really to blame? Someone certainly thinks so. She is the reason two of them experienced hell on earth and why one of them is dead.

I found it both intriguing and admirable how the author manages to write a psychological thriller with this amount of tension and the incredibly violent nature of the crimes without actually going into detail. There are no superfluous scenes of depravity – in fact Unger proves you can do it in such a suggestive way that your imagination fills in the blanks. A far worse scenario and perfect way to awaken hidden fears, as far as I am concerned.

It’s a gripping psychological thriller, a crime that will make you wonder where your own boundaries are. Unger takes a close uncomfortable look at survivor’s guilt, at the way our criminal and justice system fails the victims, and at just how many loopholes there are in systems that are supposed to keep children safe. It is a spectacularly riveting read, and it will be going on my best crime reads of the year list.

Buy The Stranger Inside at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer. Publisher: HQ; pub date 3rd October 2019 – Paperback – £7.99. Buy at Amazon com.

Read my reviews of Ink and Bone and Under My Skin by Lisa Unger.

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#BlogTour Under My Skin by Lisa Unger

Today It’s my turn on the BlogTour Under My Skin by Lisa Unger. I have an extract of this fantastic book and a Giveaway to win a copy of Under My Skin.

Leave a comment under this post between the 18th – 25th October to enter the Giveaway to win a copy of Under My Skin!

About the Author

Lisa Unger is the New York Times and internationally bestselling, award-winning author of 15 novels, including the latest psychological thriller The Red Hunter.

Her books are published in 26 languages and have sold millions of copies worldwide. Lisa Unger lives in the Tampa Bay area of Florida with her husband, daughter and labradoodle.

Follow @lisaunger @HQStories on Twitter, Visit lisaunger.com

Buy Under My Skin

About the book

Her husband’s killer may she closer than she thinks…

It’s been a year since Poppy’s husband, Jack, was brutally murdered during his morning run. She’s trying to move on but what happened that morning is still haunting her. And now she’s sure she is being followed…

Sleep deprived and secretly self-medicating, Poppy is unable to separate her dreams from reality. She feels like she’s losing her mind. But what if she’s not? What if she’s actually remembering what really happened? What if her husband wasn’t who he said he was? And what if his killer is still watching her…


Poppy is still suffering from the loss of her husband, the loss of her time and the ability to separate reality from dream. There is something in the back of her mind, some element of suspicion that is trying to wriggle its way to the front of her consciousness. A secret perhaps or a wisp of a conversation, possibly even a clue she has been looking for.

In her own convoluted way she starts investigating the mysterious death with little regard to the home truths she may encounter. She discovers a less than comfortable image of herself in the course of her investigation. A woman who thinks little of her own safety and constantly puts her own life on the line. Is she playing with fire because of the grief or is this the real Poppy?

Unger keeps her readers in the dark until the very end, which is a feat in itself, because keeping a certain amount of tension throughout the entire book is no easy task. Readers are never quite sure whether Poppy has a secret to hide or whether she is just a victim of grief and shock after the murder of her husband.

The author sits on the secrets like a mother hen warming her chick and lets the story wind around a woman filled with grief, doubt and intuition. It becomes an interesting one woman show, a dialogue of self-doubt, fragmented memories and fear.

It is a tension filled riveting read, a slow-burning psychological thriller with a surprising end. The plot really does try to get under your skin like a worm of doubt.

Buy Under My Skin at Amazon Uk or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

Read an extract of Under My Skin:
I like him. I do.
There’s always a but, isn’t there?
He’s talking and I should be listening. I’m not. Does he see it, that I’m scattered, distracted? Doubtful. He doesn’t seem especially observant, has that way about him that people do now. As if they are putting on a show of themselves, as if the moment is being watched rather than lived. He glances about as he talks. Up at the television screens over the bar, all on mute, all tuned
it, that I’m scattered, distracted? Doubtful. He doesn’t seem especially observant, has that way about him that people do now. As if in to different sporting events. Down at the phone that sits dark beside him. Back to me, off again to the rowdy table across from us – a postwork gathering I’m guessing from the rumpled suits and tired eyes. I soak in the details of him: his shock of ink black hair, thick – any girl would kill for it; dark stubble on his jaw, just enough – sexy, not unkempt, style, not neglect; his gym-toned body. Beneath the folds of his lavender oxford, the dip of cut abs, the round of a well-worked shoulder. If I had a camera in my hand – not a smartphone but a real camera – say a mirrorless Hasselblad X1D ergonomic, light – old-school style with high tech innards – I’d watch him through the lens and try to find the moment when he revealed himself, when the muscles in the face relaxed and the mask dropped, even for just a millisecond. Then I’d see him. The man he really is when he steps off the stage he imagines himself on.
To read more click this link…

Extract – Under My Skin by Lisa Unger

I already knew he was handsome, stylish, in shape, before we agreed to meet. His profile told me as much. He works in finance. (Of course he does.) His favorite book is the Steve Jobs autobiography. (What else?) But what’s under his skin, that carefully manicured outer layer? Beneath the mask he puts on in the morning—what’s there? The camera always sees it.
He runs his fingertips along the varnished edge of the table between us, then steeples them. I read somewhere that this is the gesture of someone very sure of himself and his opinions. It tracks. He seems very sure of himself, as people who know very little often are.
He laughs, faux self-deprecating, at something he’s just said about himself. His words still hang in the air, something about his being a workaholic. What a relief that it’s just drinks, not dinner. No point in wasting time, if it’s not there, he wrote. Who could disagree? So adult. So reasonable.
I never thought it would be. It can’t be. Because it has nothing to do with the way he looks. It isn’t about his eyes, black, heavily lashed and half-lidded. Or the bow of his mouth, full, kissable. (Though I might kiss him anyway. Maybe more. Depends.) Attraction, desire is nothing to do with the physical; it’s chemical, a head trip. And my head—well, let’s just say it’s not on straight.
A woman laughs too loud—a cackle really, harsh and jarring. It startles me, sends a pulse of adrenaline through me. I scan the crowd. I really shouldn’t be here.
“Time for another?” he asks. His teeth. They’re so white. Perfectly aligned. Nothing in nature is so flawless. Braces. Whitening.
The rim of the glass is ice-cold beneath my fingertip. The
drink went down fast, too fast. I promised myself I wouldn’t drink, not with everything that’s been going on. It’s been a long day, a long week. A long year. The weight of it all is tugging at me, pulling me under.
I take too long to answer and he frowns, just slightly, looks at his phone. I should just leave. This is crazy.
“Sure,” I say instead. “One more.”
He smiles again, thinks it’s a good sign.
Really, I just want to go home, pull up my hair, put on my sweats, get into bed. Even that’s not an option. Once we walk out of here, it’s back to the jigsaw puzzle of my life.
“Grey Goose and soda,” he tells the waitress when he’s flagged her down. He remembers what I’m drinking. A small thing, but so few people pay attention to the details these days. “And Blanton’s on the rocks.”
Straight bourbon, very manly.
“Am I talking too much?” he says. He looks sweetly sheepish. Is it put on? “I’ve heard that before. My last girlfriend, Kim—she said I ramble when I get nervous.”
It’s the second time he’s mentioned her, his “last girlfriend, Kim.” Why, I wonder? Carrying a torch? Or just trying to market himself as someone who’s been in a relationship? Also, “last girlfriend.” It begs the question: How many others? Maybe I’m reading too much into it. I do that.
“Not at all.”
I am a seeker. I want to explore the world. Don’t you? I love to learn, to cook, to travel. I get lost in a good book.
That’s what his profile said. In his picture, he smiled, nearly laughing, hair wind-tossed. It was a good photo, could have come from a magazine—which is always suspicious. Photographers know all the tricks to capturing beauty, the right angles, the proper lighting, the magic of filters. The truth is that most people aren’t that hot in person. Even beautiful people, real ones, are flawed in some way—not airbrushed, or prettily
windblown, eyes glittering. Lines around the eyes and mouth, an almost imperceptibly crooked nose, a faint scar—chicken pox or a childhood fall from a bike. People, real people, have a little stain from lunch on their tie, maybe something hanging from their nose or in their teeth, patches of dry skin, shoes that need replacing. These imperfections make us who we are, tell the truth of our lives.
But to his credit, he is close to as good-looking as his profile picture. But something’s off. What is it?
There’s nothing special about my profile picture, nothing misleading, just a photo snapped by my friend Layla, who set the whole thing up. Of course, she’s a talented photographer, my oldest friend and knows how to shoot me. No filter, though, no Photoshop tricks. What you see is what you get. Sort of.
“What about you?” he says.
The waitress delivers the drinks to our high-top. Her ears are lined with silver hoops; another in her lip. She is fleshy but pretty with startling green eyes that give her an otherworldly look. I bet she reads a lot of teen fantasy novels. Twilight. Harry Potter. Hunger Games.
“Thank you, darlin’,” he says to her. He drops the g and inflects the word with a twang, though I know he was born and raised in New Jersey. She beams at him, flushes a little. He’s a charmer in a sea of snakes.
I notice that he has a way of looking at women, a warm gaze, a wide smile. It seems like a choice. A technique. He knows that women like to be gazed upon, attended to with male eyes. It makes them feel pretty, special in a world where we too rarely feel like either of those things. She smiles at him, does this quick bat of her eyelashes. She likes him. I can tell; she glances at him from time to time as she shuttles back and forth along the bar, between the other high-tops she’s also serving. Even if I walk out of here, I’m sure someone will go home with him.
Good-looking, charming guys emanating the scent of money rarely go lonely.
“What do you want to know?” I ask when he turns back to me.
He takes a sip of his bourbon, gazes over his glass, mischievous. “In your profile, you said you were a runner.”
Did Layla put that in my profile? Layla—this dating thing? All her idea. Time to get back out there, girlfriend. I honestly don’t remember what we put in the profile.
“I run,” I say. The truth is that I used to run. “I don’t know if I’d call myself a runner.”
“What’s the difference?”
“I run—for exercise, because I like it, because it calms me. But it doesn’t define me. I don’t have a group, or register for races, travel to do marathons or whatever.”
Am I rambling?
Finally, “I run. I am not a runner. Anyway, I’m more indoors lately, at the gym.”
He nods slowly, a pantomime of the careful listener, looks down at his glass.
I almost tell him about Jack then; it’s always right on the tip of my tongue.
My husband was killed last year, I want to say. He was attacked while he was running in Riverside Park at 5:00 a.m. Whoever it was—they beat him to death. His murder is still unsolved. I should have been with him. Maybe if I had been… Anyway. I don’t find running as enjoyable as I used to.
But then he’s talking about how he started running in high school, ran in college, still runs, travels for marathons, is thinking about a triathlon in New Mexico next year, but his work in finance—the hours are so crazy.
Kim’s right, I think. He talks too much. And not just when he’s nervous. Because he’s not nervous, not at all.
It’s his nails. They’re perfect. They are, in fact, professionally manicured.
Expertly shaped and buffed squares at the ends of thick fingers. He steeples them again on the table between us. That’s the but. Vanity. He’s vain, spends a lot of time on himself. The gym, his clothes, his skin, hair, nails. Which is fine for tonight. But in the long game, when it’s time to stop worrying about yourself and start thinking about someone else, he’s not going to be able to do it. The lens would have seen it right away.
Should I mention my nervous breakdown, the one I had after Jack died, how days of my life just—disappeared? Probably not, right?
The space grows more crowded, louder. It’s one of those Upper East Side sports bars with big screens mounted at every angle, games from all over the country, all over the world playing. It’s filling up with the after-work crowd, men who are really still babies with their first jobs, fresh out of school, girls—tight-bodied, hair dyed, waxed and threaded, tits high—who have no idea what the next ten years will hold, how many disappointments small and large.
It’s Thursday, tomorrow the end of the workweek, so the energy is high, exuberant voices booming. Our waitress drifts back and forth, deftly balancing trays of clinking highballs, frothy pilsners of beer, shot glasses of amber liquid. Shots? Really? Do people still do that?
There’s a buzz of anxiety in the back of my head as I scan the crowd, turn to look through the big windows to the street. Someone’s been following me, I almost say, but don’t. I’ve been suffering from some sleep disturbances, some unsettling dreams that might be memories, and to be truthful my life is a bit of a mess. But I don’t say those things. He’s still talking, this time about work, a boss he doesn’t like.

It’s closing in, all the laughter, cheering, bodies starting to press, ties loosening, hair coming down. I let him pick the meeting place. I’d have chosen a quiet spot downtown—in the West
Village or Tribeca, someplace soothing and serene, dark, where you speak in low tones, lean in, get to know someone.
Note to self: don’t let them choose—even though the choice speaks volumes. In fact, this dating thing, maybe it’s not for me at all.
“I’ve got an early day tomorrow,” I say, in the next lull between things he’s saying about himself. He’s been practically yelling, to be heard above the din. I should get out of here. Huge mistake.
I see it then. A flinty look of angry disappointment. It’s gone in a millisecond, replaced by a practiced smile.
“Oh,” he says. He looks at his watch—a Fitbit, wouldn’t you know it. “Yeah, me, too.”
“This has been great,” I say. He picks up the check, which the bartender must have laid in front of him at some point.
I take my wallet out.
“Let’s split it,” I say. I prefer to pay or split in these circumstances; I like the feel of equal ground beneath my feet.
“No,” he says. His tone has gone a little flat. “I’ve got it.”
It’s not just the nails. There’s a sniff of arrogance, something cold beneath the flirting. I can see the glint of it, now that he knows he’s not going to get what he came for. Or maybe it’s not any of those things. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with him at all. Very likely it’s that something is wrong with me.
Or most likely of all, it’s just that he’s not Jack.
Until you let your husband go, no one else will measure up. That’s what my shrink said.
I’m trying. I’m dating.
Setting them up to knock them down isn’t dating.
Is that what I’m doing? Just killing time with men who can’t help but to ultimately reveal themselves as not-Jack. They won’t be as funny as he was, or know just where to rub my shoulders. They won’t run out at any hour for anything I need, without being asked. I’ll go grab it for you. They won’t have his laugh, orthat serious set to his face when he’s concentrating. They won’t bite on the inside of their cheeks when annoyed. They won’t feel like him, or smell like him. Not-Jack.
Until one day, says Dr. Nash, there’s someone else who you love for all new reasons. You’ll build a new life. I don’t bother telling her that it’s not going to happen. In fact, there are a lot of things I don’t bother telling Dr. Nash.
On the street, though I reach out for his hand, he tries for a kiss. I let his lips touch mine, but then I pull back a little, something repelling me. He jerks back, too. It’s awkward. No heat. Nothing. I shouldn’t be disappointed, should have long ago lost the capacity for disappointment. I suspected (knew) that it wouldn’t be there. But I thought maybe if there was heat, some physical spark, I wouldn’t need the sleeping pills tonight. Maybe we’d go back to his place and I’d have a reprieve from putting back the pieces of my fractured life.

Now I must decide where I will go tonight—back to an apartment I was supposed to share with my husband but where I now live alone and no longer feel safe, back to Layla’s penthouse, maybe to a hotel.
A police car whips up Lexington. Whoop. Whoop.
“Maybe we could run this weekend?” He’s still working it, though I can’t imagine why. “Ever try the trails up in Van Cortlandt Park? Short but pretty—you feel miles away from the city.”
“Nice,” I say.
Unless there’s someone lurking in the shadows, and no one can hear you call for help.
“Should I text you?”
He’ll never text me, of course.
“That sounds great.”
Even if he does text me, I won’t answer him. Or I’ll put him off until he gets the hint. It’s easy like that, this dating thing in the age of technology. You can dangle someone off the edge of
your life until they just float away, confused. Ghosting, I think the millennials call it.
“Can I see you home?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
I feel wobbly, suddenly. It’s after nine, and those two vodka sodas are sloshing around in an empty stomach, not to mention the other chemicals floating in my bloodstream. I haven’t eaten anything since—when?
“You okay?” he asks. His concern seems exaggerated, his tone almost mocking. There are other people on the street, a couple laughing, intimate, close, a kid with his headphones on, a homeless guy sitting on the stoop.
“I’m fine,” I say again, feeling defensive. I didn’t have that much to drink.

But then he has his arm looped through mine, too tight, and I find myself tipping into him. I try to pull away from him. But he doesn’t allow it. He’s strong and I can’t free my arm.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” he says, a nasty little mimic. “You’re okay.”
Of course I’m okay, I want to snap. But the words won’t come. There’s just this bone-crushing fatigue, this wobbly, foggy, vague feeling. Something’s not right. The world starts to brown around the edges. Oh, no. Not now.
“She’s okay,” he says, laughing. His voice sounds distant and strange. “Just one too many I guess.”
Who’s he talking to?
“Let go of me,” I manage, my voice an angry hiss.
He laughs; it’s echoing and strange. “Take it easy, sweetie.”
He’s moving me too fast up the street, his grip too tight. I stumble and he roughly keeps me from falling.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask.
Fear claws at the back of my throat. I can’t wait to get away from this guy. He pulls me onto a side street; there’s no one around.
“Hey.” A voice behind us. He spins, taking me with him. There’s someone standing there. He looks distantly familiar as the world tips. Somewhere inside me there’s a jangle of alarm. He has a dark hood on, his face not visible.
It’s him.
He’s big, bigger than—what’s his name? Reg, or something. Rex? The big man blocks our path up the sidewalk.
“Hey, seriously, dude,” says Rick. Yes, Rick, that was it. “Step aside. I’ve got this.”
But the world is fading fast, going soft and blurry, tilting. There’s a flash, quick-fire movement. Then a girlish scream, a river of blood. Black red on lavender.
Then arms on me.

Ink and Bone by Lisa Unger

ink and boneThe Hollows seems to be a place where the supernatural and inexplicable collide. Eloise appears to be the anchor in this place. A way to keep the balance.

This case is Finley’s initiation in a way. It is time for her step up and also time for her grandmother to step down.

Finley’s talent or gift manifests itself in a variety of ways. Sometimes she can hear sounds, other times she can see images and now she even finds herself inhabiting the bodies of other people. Her gift is developing and growing stronger. The more Eloise lets go, the deeper Finley gets drawn in.

She is asked to look into the disappearance of a little girl.The parents are at loggerheads, because one wants to resign himself to the fact she has gone and the other believes she is still alive. The father has his own motivation for moving on, and plenty of pent up guilt, because he wasn’t able to help his child.

Unger describes the desperation of the mother very well. The need for closure, the need to know what happened, regardless of whether her child is alive or not. Not knowing is often worse than knowing.

Unger has a created an Urban Fantasy setting with a sliver of light horror flowing through it. It has the potential to be a compelling series. If that’s the case we might get to see Finley learn to control her gift a little better.

Buy Ink and Bone at Amazon UK or go to Goodreads for any other retailer.

The Whispers by Lisa Unger

download (17)

This is the first of three e-novellas by Unger.
Eloise and her family are struck by tragedy, which changes her life in a drastic way. The extremely distressing events change something in her or perhaps it is better to say they connect her to a completely new world.

Since the death of her loved ones Eloise has started getting visions of young girls in fatal situations. She becomes a possible saviour to those in need and those in their last moments of life.

It wasn’t made clear how Eloise understands what is happening to her so quickly. How does she know to question the girl? Why is the first question ‘Where are you?’ and not ‘Who are you?’ and what the hell is going on?

It also bugged me that she decides to ignore the pleas for help by the second girl. That didn’t make any sense to me. By that time Eloise knows she is being shown girls to help them in dire situations, so why would she turn away from any one of them?

Regardless of whether she is going through the stress of a trial. Weighing it up against each other; you either stop a potential killer from striking in your own backyard or you wallow in misery. Keeping in mind that she knows the threat is watching girls in her town.It not only makes no sense, it is also quite selfish.

I wasn’t keen on the writing, but the plot is interesting enough to overlook that. I think if given more focus and depth it could become a good series.
I received a copy of this book courtesy of Netgalley.