Author Name: Elizabeth Horton-Newton
Book Title: “View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale” and “Riddle”
Genre and Sub-Genre: Romantic Thriller/Alternate History
Book Content Rating: Adult (18+) Based on language, violence, sexual content.
Meet our charming author, ELIZABETH HORTON-NEWTON
About the Author:
Elizabeth Horton-Newton was born and raised in New York City. She began writing when she was a child, writing stories for friends and family. In the 4th grade at P.S. 151 in Manhattan she wrote an essay about her dream job- she wanted to be an author. While attending Hunter College High School she often cut classes to sneak off and work on writing her first novel, a love story about her favorite Beatle, Paul McCartney. It has long since been lost to time. Continuing to write short stories over the following years, she married, raised a family, divorced, set up housekeeping with her four children, and returned to school.
After attending Long Island University in Brooklyn, NY majoring in Media Arts and East Tennessee State University earning a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with concentrations in Psychology and Sociology, she worked in the social work field for thirteen years. She currently lives in E. Tennessee with her husband, author Neil Newton, and a collection of rescued dogs and cats. Her first book "View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale" was published in October 2014; a love story that revolves around the assassination of President John Kennedy on Nov. 22, 1963 and the ensuing conspiracy theories.
This was followed in June 2015 with the release of "Riddle" a romantic thriller about a Native American convicted of killing his high school girlfriend. Returning to his hometown he struggles to readjust to life in a town divided in its belief of his guilt or innocence. Suddenly accidents are happening and people are dying in the town and some eyes turn suspiciously toward Kort Erikson. She is currently at work on her third novel, "Stolen", a romantic thriller about kidnapping, gypsy crime families, and the Witness Protection Program.
After attending Long Island University in Brooklyn, NY majoring in Media Arts and East Tennessee State University earning a degree in Interdisciplinary Studies with concentrations in Psychology and Sociology, she worked in the social work field for thirteen years. She currently lives in E. Tennessee with her husband, author Neil Newton, and a collection of rescued dogs and cats. Her first book "View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale" was published in October 2014; a love story that revolves around the assassination of President John Kennedy on Nov. 22, 1963 and the ensuing conspiracy theories.
This was followed in June 2015 with the release of "Riddle" a romantic thriller about a Native American convicted of killing his high school girlfriend. Returning to his hometown he struggles to readjust to life in a town divided in its belief of his guilt or innocence. Suddenly accidents are happening and people are dying in the town and some eyes turn suspiciously toward Kort Erikson. She is currently at work on her third novel, "Stolen", a romantic thriller about kidnapping, gypsy crime families, and the Witness Protection Program.
Elizabeth's Novels:
View From the Sixth Floor: An Excerpt
“Olivia, I don’t want you to think I was snooping. Last night when I looked through your luggage for your pajamas I… why do you have a gun?”
That was certainly not a question I’d anticipated and I had to laugh “Oh that! George bought that for us years ago. Normally I keep it in a gun safe. With all the strange things that have been happening I was afraid someone might break in and steal it so I stuck it in my suitcase. It’s perfectly legal.”
Bill looked concerned. “So you have a permit to carry?”
That puzzled me. I knew we had a license and I brought it with me. I explained that to Bill but he still looked worried. “To be honest I’m not really comfortable with having it around and I wish you had mentioned it before we left. If we were stopped by the authorities for any reason and they found it there might be questions.”
I was very confused by his attitude. “But I can show them the license and explain why I brought it. They would understand. I mean seriously Bill, what would two old people do with a handgun, rob a bank?” I started to laugh but Bill’s expression had not changed and he went back into the kitchen. I watched as he started to make a pot of coffee trying to understand why something as silly as having a gun in my luggage was causing such a big problem.
“Olivia, I don’t want you to think I was snooping. Last night when I looked through your luggage for your pajamas I… why do you have a gun?”
That was certainly not a question I’d anticipated and I had to laugh “Oh that! George bought that for us years ago. Normally I keep it in a gun safe. With all the strange things that have been happening I was afraid someone might break in and steal it so I stuck it in my suitcase. It’s perfectly legal.”
Bill looked concerned. “So you have a permit to carry?”
That puzzled me. I knew we had a license and I brought it with me. I explained that to Bill but he still looked worried. “To be honest I’m not really comfortable with having it around and I wish you had mentioned it before we left. If we were stopped by the authorities for any reason and they found it there might be questions.”
I was very confused by his attitude. “But I can show them the license and explain why I brought it. They would understand. I mean seriously Bill, what would two old people do with a handgun, rob a bank?” I started to laugh but Bill’s expression had not changed and he went back into the kitchen. I watched as he started to make a pot of coffee trying to understand why something as silly as having a gun in my luggage was causing such a big problem.
Riddle: An Excerpt
Kort gazed out the bus window as the countryside sped by. Seven years, seven months, and seven days and things looked the same. Turning away from the window he tried to stretch his long legs in the cramped space allotted to passengers of all shapes and sizes. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a young boy, maybe nine or ten, staring at him. A child's cowboy hat sat at a crooked angle on the boy’s head. The boy lifted his hand and squinted his eyes like a sheriff in a wild west adventure; he pretended to shoot at Kort. Kort did not react. He didn't blink, he didn't smile, he didn't frown. A woman peered over back of the seat and catching sight of Kort's impassive stare she pulled the child back, out of Kort's line of vision.
"But Mom he's an Indian." the child protested, his voice louder than the hum of the bus engine.
Over the tops of the seats Kort could see heads turn as the mother shushed the child, admonishing him to lower his voice and stay in his seat.
The bus grew still again but after a few minutes the small head peeked back at Kort and the boy stuck out his tongue. He was swiftly pulled back and the sound of a soft slap followed by whimpering once again broke the silence.
Kort leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Seven years, seven months, and seven days and nothing had really changed. He was older, taller, and leaner. He had earned his high school diploma and put a Bachelor of Science degree on his almost bare resume. His hair had grown long; he'd grown a beard and shaved it off. But his skin still carried the bronze of his heritage.
He felt the bus turning and opening his eyes he saw they were coming into town. There was a new gas station at the highway exit, bigger and shinier than any he could recall. Several more businesses had popped up on the road. As the bus wove its way more deeply into town he saw the high school. The football team was practicing, the cheerleaders jumping up and down, their short red skirts flapping in the cool autumn air. He saw one girl, her blonde ponytail bouncing with each hop, and felt a pang remembering Desiree.
He closed his eyes again and for a moment he was seventeen with the future stretched out before him and all the promise of life yet to live. No point going there. He was no longer seventeen. He was a grown man of twenty-six with a criminal record. He was a convicted killer and no one would see him as anything else.
Kort gazed out the bus window as the countryside sped by. Seven years, seven months, and seven days and things looked the same. Turning away from the window he tried to stretch his long legs in the cramped space allotted to passengers of all shapes and sizes. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a young boy, maybe nine or ten, staring at him. A child's cowboy hat sat at a crooked angle on the boy’s head. The boy lifted his hand and squinted his eyes like a sheriff in a wild west adventure; he pretended to shoot at Kort. Kort did not react. He didn't blink, he didn't smile, he didn't frown. A woman peered over back of the seat and catching sight of Kort's impassive stare she pulled the child back, out of Kort's line of vision.
"But Mom he's an Indian." the child protested, his voice louder than the hum of the bus engine.
Over the tops of the seats Kort could see heads turn as the mother shushed the child, admonishing him to lower his voice and stay in his seat.
The bus grew still again but after a few minutes the small head peeked back at Kort and the boy stuck out his tongue. He was swiftly pulled back and the sound of a soft slap followed by whimpering once again broke the silence.
Kort leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Seven years, seven months, and seven days and nothing had really changed. He was older, taller, and leaner. He had earned his high school diploma and put a Bachelor of Science degree on his almost bare resume. His hair had grown long; he'd grown a beard and shaved it off. But his skin still carried the bronze of his heritage.
He felt the bus turning and opening his eyes he saw they were coming into town. There was a new gas station at the highway exit, bigger and shinier than any he could recall. Several more businesses had popped up on the road. As the bus wove its way more deeply into town he saw the high school. The football team was practicing, the cheerleaders jumping up and down, their short red skirts flapping in the cool autumn air. He saw one girl, her blonde ponytail bouncing with each hop, and felt a pang remembering Desiree.
He closed his eyes again and for a moment he was seventeen with the future stretched out before him and all the promise of life yet to live. No point going there. He was no longer seventeen. He was a grown man of twenty-six with a criminal record. He was a convicted killer and no one would see him as anything else.
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