TAYLOR JONES SAYS: The Magdalenes, by Jeanne Skartsiaris, is a story of redemption. It’s also a fantastic thriller. Elizabeth is a smart, believeable character. Once you start this book you won’t want to put it down. It will make you laugh and cry. You’ll be excitedly waiting to see what comes next!

REGAN MURPHY SAYS: The Magdalenes, by Jeanne Skartsiaris is a great book. The characters are very well written. It touches on senstive topics with care. A wonderful page turner that will keep you full engaged right to the end. Once I started to read it I couldn’t put it down.

AMAZON REIVEW – 5 Star – Michaela

The pefect page turner for an Autumnal weekend!

AMAZON REVIEW – 5 Star – JH

This book, from start to finish, is a character study that touches deeply. Its sensitive topics and situations will keep you up at night. The way the story is wrapped up will leave you with a belief in humanity. My favorite book by this author, Jeanne Skartisiaris!

Chapter 1
Texas

Jude took her seat at the gleaming conference table. Her reflection, mirrored in the wood grain, appearing distorted, as if revealing her soul. She turned to the window and gazed out. Twenty stories up, a dull haze hung over the Dallas skyline. The scorching sun was like heat steam from hell blurring the sharp edges of the buildings.

“Let’s get to work,” Drew said, as he strode to the head of the table and sat. The attorneys became quiet when he entered. Drew exuded power yet fought with compassion for each client. That juxtaposition is what attracted Jude to his practice. “We got hired on a big truck wreck case. The truck case,” he emphasized, opening a file as he slipped on his reading glasses.

“The one where the girl was under her dead mom for an hour before the paramedics found her?” a senior associate asked. “I’ll take it. It’s going to pay huge.” He made a ka-ching sound, exploding his pudgy hands out like tiny fireworks.

Drew looked sternly over his glasses. “The victim is thirteen. We don’t need your bull in a china shop approach.”

“Jude.” Drew slid the file to her like a bartender sending a beer. “This will be the biggest case you’ve handled. You can do it. Your success on the airline case proves your skill.” He winked. “Took some big cajones to take on Delta.”

“You mean, ovarios,” Jude smiled, reaching for the thick folder. She sat forward, eager but unsure. Always unsure. She sucked in a deep breath. Fear of failure constantly nibbled like hungry piranha. She felt like a hack, though she’d handily won each case she’d worked. “I won’t let you down.” Drew had been a solid force in Jude’s law career, like the guy who held her bike after the training wheels were off.

“You’re ready.” He nodded brusquely.

Opening the file, Jude tried not to flinch at a grisly photo of a woman’s decapitated head next to a body as if it were from two different people. Barely visible under the woman’s torso, Jude saw a small, blood-soaked arm tangled in the seatbelt. Holding her breath, Jude quickly flipped through the gory photographs.

“Tell me about the girl,” Jude swallowed shock at an image of the bloodied child strapped on a gurney and being loaded into an ambulance. Tears glistened through thick gore on the girl’s cheeks.

“Tiffany Carmen. She’s recovering from her physical injuries which are detailed in the medical record.” Drew pointed to the file, “not to mention the psychological damage. The paramedics weren’t aware she was in the car until she screamed, nearly an hour after they worked to extricate her mom.” Drew took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Mom’s divorced. She and Tiffany were living with her mother. Grandma watched Tiffany while mom worked and went to college.” He shook his head sadly.

“What about her father?” Jude closed the file, scribbling notes on a legal pad.

“He’s a deadbeat. Not in the picture.” Drew sat back in his leather chair. “We need to make sure the son-of-a-bitch doesn’t get a cent.” He leveled his gaze at Jude. “Capisce? If he comes sniffing around, give him the boot.”

Jude looked Drew in the eye. “I understand.”

“I’ll work lead, Jude can assist,” the other attorney persisted. “Especially if the father tries anything.” He looked Jude up and down as if he held power over her.

“I’ll handle him,” Jude remarked sharply, anger burned like acid on her tongue. She swallowed it down and sat straighter. I’ve got this. She knew about son-of-a-bitch fathers. Her own father booted her out when she was only fourteen, and innocent.

And pregnant.

“I have more experience,” he groused. Reaching for the file, he grunted as he bent forward, making Jude think of accordion bellows.

“You have enough to finish before Christmas,” Drew said. “Jude will knock this out of the park,” He nodded to her. “We need someone who has the silent sense of a shark. Sink your teeth into it. Draw blood.”

“Roger that.” Jude stacked her files neatly, ignoring the other attorney. She wished she was as sure of herself as Drew thought. Pretend, act. She pulled her files closer.

“I’m here if you need anything,” Drew said, tapping the shiny conference table with a finger. “The father has already called sniffing around.”

She nodded, remembering her own abusive father. Of course, Jude would never bring up her history here. No, she held the kink tight on that hose. Jude was determined not to let her broken past derail her future. She’d sealed off that part of her life, as if with brick and mortar.

Jude clenched her fist under the table, her fingernails biting the fleshy part of her hand, no doubt leaving half-moon marks. She wished she’d had the courage to take on her own father all those years ago. That sink-stone still wrapped heavily around her neck, kept her gasping at the surface. Now, her job was to find justice for her clients.

She could play in the big leagues and take a punch with the best of them.

And had taken many.

Chapter 2
New York – Christmas Day
17 years ago

If I find out you’re pregnant, I’ll kill you,” Judith’s father sneered shoving her against the wall in their living room. A lit cigarette dangled from his lips, its ash glowed hot fire.

“Wh…what?” Judith sputtered, cowering from his raised hand.

“Whore!” He slapped her face so hard she heard, more than felt the pain. “Just like your mother.” His thick New York accent was dense with spit. He grabbed her arm, shook her until her long hair tore loose from its ponytail. Judith reached for her hair to hold it in place before thinking to dodge his fists.

“You’re worthless,” he slurred. That priest said you’re running with boys.” He threw Judith down, her ribs slammed into the arm of his greasy recliner before she landed on the wood floor gasping for air. A full pedestal ashtray fell, scattering the remains into a pile of empty beer cans. His evening shrine. Christmas decorations tinkled from the force.

“I should’a known you’d be just like your mother.” He ground his cigarette on the top of a can, the hot ash sizzling like burnt bacon.

Still on the floor, trying to make herself small, invisible, Judith closed her eyes and steeled herself for another blow, fought to think of something else as his foot landed in her back. A shot of pain tore through her chest. Tramp, whore, slut—all words her father used to describe her. He called her mom those names. An image of her mother came to her mind’s eye. Her smile, her strength, her bruises.

Judith stayed down and held her breath as pain pulsed in her face and back where he’d struck her. He paced, cursed, picked up a thick glass vase, and threw it. She flinched as it landed by the Christmas tree. It didn’t break. She tasted blood from his first punch.

“I work my ass off,” he yelled from the doorway. “If you’d listen, maybe you’d learn something from the goddamned nuns and priests at that school instead of carrying on the family tradition and opening your legs to any dick that wants it.”

Pinching her eyes tight, Judith refused to cry. Tears made him madder. Most of the time he wasn’t happy until he saw blood. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. She buried her face in his chair and wiped bloody snot in the rough dank upholstery praying he’d leave.

No matter how hard she tried to be good, it was never enough. One minute he could be decent, then like a time bomb, explode at the smallest trigger. Was there a difference between fear and love?

How did he know? She wasn’t sure. Didn’t want to know. Her period had never been regular. She’d only just gotten it last year. Judith hoped her constant upset stomach was from a virus or cancer or anything but what she feared.

At school, Mary Toby, one of the bad girls, talked about French kissing boys and where babies came from. At fifteen, Mary was a full year older than Judith, having been held back in the second grade. Mary used her extra year of experience to teach the younger girls. She seemed to feel a need to tutor what the nuns didn’t talk about. Judith was appalled, especially since Mary knew how to do everything. Judith never wanted to learn about such things, wanted to stay pure for Jesus, secretly hoped to be a nun. The sisters at St. Francis Academy, especially Sister Agnes, took her under their wing. Made her feel special and, sometimes, normal.

“I should’a sent you to public school and saved my money,” her father seethed. Judith snuck a glance as he stood near the front door, hand on the knob. The lights from their Christmas tree gave his face a reddish, evil glow. Cracks in the plaster seemed to radiate out of his head.

Judith knew he wouldn’t open the door until he was done screaming. She reached under his precious chair and felt the stuffing, like cotton candy. She slowly, quietly ripped open a seam.

“I don’t want you here when I get back. Go live with the bastard.” He opened the door, sharp, cold wind whipped through the room. Leaving, he slammed the door so hard the house shook. Judith’s favorite glass angel ornament, the one with the sweetest bell, fell from the tree and shattered. Its song silenced forever.

Judith tried to muster the strength to get up. Go live with the bastard. His words echoed in her head. If he only knew who the bastard was. Judith didn’t have the courage to tell anybody. Who would believe her? Sister Agnes seemed to realize what had happened, but nothing had been done. As Judith counted the days since her last period she thought about that evening. She’d been in church on a Friday at dusk, alone. Judith often ducked out of the house on weekend nights when her father was home. His alcohol-fueled temper lashed like the crack of a whip. Judith found peace in the solitude of the sanctuary.

The street noise on Thirty-first Avenue in Astoria was muffled through the oak doors of their small duplex. Across the river, Manhattan’s lights brightened as the evening sky dimmed. Christmas lights cast a festive glow through the window.

If Judith could have known what would happen in the church that night, she would have gladly taken whatever her father doled out. Instead, sitting in the quiet sanctuary, as she watched silhouettes of shadows playing off the stained glass, her rosary entwined in her fingers, she never expected the old priest to be there. Life would again twist her dreams, her future, wrung out like an old sheet.

Judith stayed on the floor counting each pulse of pain, prayed her father wouldn’t come back. She tried to take a full breath, but a sharp stab in her chest and sickness in her stomach clutched, turning her inside out. The smell of his oily chair clung in her nose. Listening to the noise outside, she thought of families sitting down to Christmas dinner. Today’s Christmas dinner here, with the old priest, had been a nightmare. She prayed the floor was quicksand and would suck her through.

The taste of blood and the odor of the rancid chair brought another kick of nausea. Painfully, she rolled on her back. She didn’t want her mother to find her like this. Her mom fought like a tiger when she saw her babies getting hurt and paid a heavy price for it. Her father beat her mother often, thought she “deserved” it. He usually saved hitting the kids until mom was out. Judith’s older brother took the beatings without crying. Judith wondered why he never fought back. He’d been big enough for years. Stephen never raised a hand to their father. Knocked to the floor, he’d take each blow, each kick, his face strained and red as he fought tears. Instead, he tried to deflect the blows with his hands to shield his face.

Judith gingerly hugged her knees to her body fighting sickness. The thick hardwood floors absorbed the smell of her father’s cigarettes and stale beer which also lingered in the throw rug. Her mother spent hours cleaning, even after work, but her father could trash a room in minutes. He was the king of his house and could do whatever he damned well pleased.

Occasionally, if they were lucky, he was on the road. Judith lived for his business trips. It saved her from having to crawl on hands and knees to avoid him.

She’d gotten pretty good at being quiet.

She sat up and touched her bloodied face, praying her father’s fists had taken care of the baby inside her. Judith wiped a tear away, or was it blood, and felt her upper lip. It was starting to swell. She squeezed hard on her lower abdomen. No bruises, no pain. Damn, why couldn’t one of his punches have landed there?

Judith pushed the hurt down, swallowed bile, and stood on shaky legs. Wiping her face with her shirt, she wavered and grabbed a sturdy bookcase for balance. A statuette of St. Jude stood prominently on the shelf. The patron saint of lost causes.

Her namesake.

His image beckoned, but she knew better than to pray for help, for hope. As a child she’d blow bubbles, watch the rainbow-tinted spheres float toward heaven. She imagined each bubble filled with prayers, and when they popped it meant an angel had taken the message to God. Now, Judith could see each prayer fallen, unanswered.