You Enter a Room: Nancy Defoe

In You Enter a Room: Advent Goodwin didn’t set out to become a detective. She would rather write her dissertation and fall in love, but her friend has been murdered.

Nancy DeFoe author of You Enter a Room will giveaway a digital copy of her book.

#YouEnterARoom #Mystery #Suspense

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EXCERPT: You Enter a Room


“Yeah, well, they meant business, so I knew something was going down there. After circling the house, the cops pounded on the door again, then one of them looks through a window he’d already passed and returned to, standing on his toes, and yells something. The other one comes back to the front, or I guess, really a side door, and starts kicking at it. Then both of them were smashing their boots against the door. I mean, I’ve seen this kind of smash in the door on TV, but to actually see these guys break something down is damned impressive.”

Suddenly, I wanted him to slow up and not say the next part out loud, but Sam urged him on. “Then?”

“They went in, and I ran across the street like I was still jogging and looked in the open doorway because I guess I wasn’t thinking about anybody having guns, and I realize that wasn’t the smartest thing for me to do—see, I wasn’t even thinking about myself at that point.”

“Andrew!” I wanted to slap him.

“It was awful, really. This guy, he was hanging from the ceiling fixture at the top.” I covered my face and Sam gripped my arm, her painted nails digging in and leaving little impressions. “They were trying to get him down, so they didn’t see me. One cop grabbed his legs and pulled him back to the top of the stairs to check for a pulse. Then he let him go, accidentally, I think, and the guy starts swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I stepped back then because I’d never seen a dead person hanging like that, and that’s when I saw his boot at the bottom just inside the door. One of his boots was still on, but the other had fallen. I was so close that I could have picked it up. I went back to the other side of the street and called my friend Jay to come get me. I was starting to feel sick.”

At first the detail of the boot seemed pointless and then I saw the image as clearly as Andrew had, marking the death of the individual. Michael’s boot, the worn, old leather ones that he wore every day. “How do you know the shoe or boot was Michael Lawler’s?” Sam asked. “Did you know him?”

“No, never heard of him, but when an ambulance pulled up and the EMTs went in, I was still waiting for my friend. Jay had been sleeping in that morning because he didn’t have class, so he wasn’t there yet. See, I didn’t feel like running anymore, I was nauseous, like you.” He looks at me, then said, “Just like you. Another cop came and took pictures, then they brought out his body covered up like on a TV show. One of the cops said to the other, ‘Anything in his pockets?’”

““License says Michael Lawler,” I’m pretty sure the cop said. “Student ID on him too. University of Rochester student. Suicide.” I didn’t want the cops to notice me, so I stepped back further and ducked around behind a house. Thinking about what I did now, maybe it wasn’t such a good idea because they might have thought I had something to do with it, like I was involved in a murder or something. I mean, he was hanging, but who knew how he got there, even if he did say suicide?”

“Oh, no,” was all I could get out. Sam was crying. Looking back later, I realized Andrew might have been the one to put the word ‘murder’ in my head.

“You’re sure?” Sam asked, and he nodded. I liked Sam a little bit more during those moments we were drawn together in horror. Whatever else life held for either of us, we experienced a temporary bond in that claustrophobic space where breathing becomes more difficult.

Andrew waited a few minutes but saw that neither one of us was up to questioning him further, so he walked off, ready to repeat his tale. He probably had friends back home who had yet to hear of his dramatic morning. That would be all the experience was for Andrew, an opportunity to enlarge his life.

Sam hugged me, and I took that solace greedily. We finally stopped holding one another. “You okay?” she asked.

I nodded, “I can’t believe it.”

“Me either. I’m so sorry, but I’ve got to go,” and we parted. As soon as I left the bookstore, I was hit again, my whole body aching. By the time I reached my apartment, my head hurt so badly that I turned off the lights, pulled the curtains, and rolled into a fetal position on my bed where I stayed for hours. It didn’t help and changed nothing. Hours later, I woke to restless fear and more nausea.

Although I didn’t know Michael well, I was aware of his peculiarities, his withdrawn silence, his intelligence and gentleness. What was certain was I wanted to know him better. What I recognized him best for, however, was his talent. We had read each other’s work on multiple occasions, wrote a few comments that were generous rather than critical. I couldn’t quite believe that Michael had taken his own life, that he was gone. Logically, my search should have ended there with his death and certainty. We were told he had hanged himself. Everything should have been obvious, as related circumstances appeared to be to nearly everyone around me, but suicide and Michael did not fit, would never fit.

My mind kept seeing Michael’s worn boot at the bottom of the stairs and then him swinging when the cop let go of his body either accidentally or deliberately. Unlike Andrew, I was not a witness, had not been at the crime scene, but I might as well have been because I conjured up the sight as clearly as if I had been standing outside in the snow, looking through that open doorway. My eyes followed a line of dread up narrow stairs in disbelief, but I kept turning away before seeing his distorted face, as if I couldn’t bear to look at him in death, even in imagination.





Murder mystery; Woman amateur detective


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9 responses to “You Enter a Room: Nancy Defoe”

  1. Chris Young says:

    Welcome to the Rogue Phoenix Press Blog.

  2. […] 1. My first pet as a young adult was a Golden Retriever pup that I named Shaman. He did, indeed, live up to his name, being an intelligent and mystical force I have yet to write about with any justice. 2. I don’t know if it is odd, but I own my father’s old sweater. After he passed away, I had the task of settling my parents’ affairs and kept a sweater he wore fishing. I also wear it when I go to camp to fish. I don’t think it brings me luck, but I cherish it. 3. Guilty pleasure? Sitting on a docked boat, eating Concord grapes, and writing a novel that may never be published but is deliciously fun to write. 4. The song I’d dance to alone or with my love is the Otis Redding song “Try A Little Tenderness.” 5. What I collect? I have some old books, some of which are valuable and some are worthless but I love them. I also have rocks or small stones and have written a poem about “returning to our mineral state.” 6. The question about what job I would want if I wasn’t writing and teaching is best answered by admitting that I’d still be writing. I’ve been a journalist and worked in public relations before I went into education, but I continued to write throughout my career shifts. I had thought about law, but if I’d pursued it, I would still have been a writer. CHECK OUT NEW RELEASE: YOU ENTER A ROOM […]




  6. […] I have always loved reptiles,  especially lizards. As a boy I caught a Bearded Dragon and kept it as a pet for a liitle while before releasing back into the bush. I own a pair of boxer shorts with a picture of Mr.Spock on them and the words, ‘Are you out of your Vulcan mind?’ I used to be afraid of dragonflies,  but having conquered that little phobia, I now fear nothing. My guilty pleasure used to be pornography, but I now hate it so I don’t have any guilty pleasures. I’m a big heavy metal fan so I often danceheadbang to bands kike Disciple, Metallica and POD. I’m not very active but I have a pretty good collection of money: coins and notes from around the world. My first car was a 1971 HG Holden station wagon. White on the outside and all red on the inside. My ‘hero’ is Jesus Christ. The perfect man, God incarnate. I follow him and worship him as my lird and saviour. CHECK OUT NEW RELEASE FROM ROGUE PHOENIX PRESS […]

  7. Nancy Dafoe says:

    Love my cover. Thank you. Intriguingly, there is a correlation in design to the cover of my memoir, An Iceberg in Paradise: A Passage through Alzheimer’s. Several people have commented on it. I’m busy setting up readings and scheduling book clubs.


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