The Guest House - Book Tour and Giveaway

​When a young deaf entrepreneur rents a guest house from a stranger at a coffee shop, she soon finds herself entangled in a web of intrigue and danger. 

The Guest House
Silicon Valley Series Book 2
by Bonnie Traymore
Genre: Psychological Thriller 

"This twisty, spine-tingling thriller will have you hooked to the very last page." - Leslie Lutz, Award-winning author of Fractured Tide

Wow! What a ride. I was hooked from the first page. I did not see that ending coming. Full of suspense and intrigue. A good follow-up to book 1, but it could be read as a stand-alone. There's an entirely new storyline, but it also returns to wrap up some unfinished business from book 1. The addition of a deaf protagonist with a cochlear implant who can sometimes hear and sometimes not was original and refreshing. It added another dimension of complexity and sense of danger. A great read. - Netgalley

He holds out his business card, and she plucks it from his fingers without touching them. “Hope to see you around, Allie Dawson,” he says. That was over a month ago. It seemed too good to be true, but Allie told herself to ignore the nagging feeling in her gut. That was her first mistake.

When she saw Laura Foster’s email welcoming her into a cohort of grant recipients, Allie literally jumped for joy. She was headed to Silicon Valley with a chance to bring her innovative product to market.

But she had no idea how tight the rental market would be, or how cutthroat the competition is for everything from housing to venture capital. So, after a futile search to find a short-term apartment she could afford, she rented a guest house from a chummy real estate agent who approached her at a coffee shop.

But it’s clear now that she should have trusted her instincts. Because there’s something off about her landlord. And his moody wife. And the cryptic Hungarian guy renting his master suite.

Are they after her technology? Did he see her, peeking out the window when he was dragging a suspicious duffel bag across the lawn? She knows what it feels like to see her life flash before her eyes, and she doesn't need that kind of stress right now.

So why is she still living there?
And has she already seen too much?

Innovation, greed, and danger collide in The Guest House, Silicon Valley Series Book 2, a stand-alone sequel to the best-selling hit page-turner The Stepfamily.

For fans of Freida McFadden, Shari Lapena, Daniel Hurst, Shalini Boland, and Kaira Rouda.

This was such a good book! I loved the characters, and their story. The dialogue was realistic and enjoyable. I was very surprised by the ending! - NetGalley

This was a quick and easy read for me. As a reader who loves a psychological thriller it’s sometimes easy to see through the plots, but this story had me guessing for the most part until the end. Just the right level of spooky for me without the blood and gore that some authors choose to use. Would definitely recommend. - NetGalley

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​PROLOGUE
One thing I’ve realized over the years is that not everyone has what it takes to go the distance when the time comes. If you want something done right, you need to be prepared to do it yourself. I’m committed to reaching my goals, whatever the costs.
If I could achieve them without spilling any blood, of course, that would be my preference. I have killed before though, and I’ll do it again if that’s what it takes to succeed.
But only if I have no choice. That’s what separates me from the crazies. I get no pleasure out of harming people. In fact, it leaves me feeling very empty. But I won’t stop until I get what I need. And I’ll eliminate anyone who stands in my way.


ONE
Allie
I’m half awake when I feel a thud reverberate through my apartment and shake the bed. I spring up, and my heart is immediately in my throat.
Is this what an earthquake feels like?
Grabbing my phone, I check to see if there’s an alert. It’s 3:17 in the morning, and there’s nothing of concern on my phone, but maybe it takes a while to get the word out. I’m new to California, so I have no idea what an earthquake feels like or if anyone even bats an eye at something like this.
I hold still for a few minutes, and I don’t feel any more shaking. I reach for my speech processor on the nightstand. I’m deaf, and without my cochlear implant I hear nothing. Now I’m concerned there might be an intruder or some other threat lurking outside my door.
The small guest house I rent sits behind a stately, expensive home, and the owners have been away for the last week. There’s a boarder who rents a suite inside the main house. I thought he was still around, although it’s hard to tell with him. The guy’s kind of a ghost, and I don’t normally run into him much.
Once my speech processor is in place, I notice some kind of intermittent scraping noise outside. A tingling sensation crawls up my scalp. They have a dog, and she’s not barking. But then I haven’t heard her at all this week, come to think of it. Maybe they took her with them?
I peek out the window, poised to call 9-1-1 if someone is burglarizing the house, and I spot my landlord—at least I think it’s my landlord—dragging a large duffel bag across the lawn. It seems heavy, and he’s straining to move it. He whips his head around towards me, and I quickly duck down and out of sight.
Did he see me?
My heart starts to race.
I hear a voice call out. “Hurry up,” it says.
A woman’s voice?
I’m terrified of the dark, so I keep the bathroom light on when I sleep. I’m hoping it’s not bright enough for him to see inside my place. I lift the curtain just a hair and look out again. His back is to me, so hopefully he didn’t notice me.
What the hell is he doing?
I thought they were away until tomorrow. Did they come home early and I didn’t hear them? But this is strange. And this living arrangement made me uneasy from the start. Maybe I need to look for another place, although the thought of that puts my stomach in knots. It’s a nice unit at a decent price, and the rental market is extremely tight here. Perhaps he has a good explanation for what he’s doing, although I can’t imagine what it could be.
I double-check the dead bolt on the door, turn off the bathroom light, and get back into bed. I’m not taking my speech processor off though, so I probably won’t be able to get back to sleep; I’m used to total silence. I grab my phone, hold it under my comforter, and start thumbing through apartment listings as I wait for the sun to rise.

One month earlier
TWO
Allie
I rush into Starbucks to grab a pick-me-up before I embark on my next round of apartment viewings. It’s packed in here, and I need to use the bathroom. Badly. I’ve never been to this Starbucks before. Rancho Shopping Center, according to my app.
“I’ve got a to-go order,” I say to the barista. “Is there a restroom in here?”
“Over there,” she says, pointing towards the other side of the café. “Past the pickup area.”
I’m also hungry and hot. But I’m on a tight schedule, so although I’d like to chill for a while, I need to keep going. I locate the restroom and, thankfully, there’s no line. When I come out, I rush up to the counter to look for my drink order. I pick up a few cups that could be mine and examine them, but my latte’s not ready yet. I let out a long sigh and glance at my watch.
A frazzled worker glares at me but quickly softens her look. I offer her an apologetic smile, not wanting to stress her out any further. I’m surprised she heard me over the whir of the blenders and the milling of the coffee grinder. They’re very backed up and seem hopelessly understaffed. I worked my way through college at jobs like that, so I know exactly how she feels. And if I can’t get my idea off the ground before my funding dries up, I might be right there behind that counter with her.
But I can’t be late for my next appointment, so if my order doesn’t come up soon, I’ll need to leave without it. I’ve just finished a two-week boot camp along with the other women in my cohort, a requirement of the organization that gave me the funding for my start-up venture. I’ve also been looking at apartments on this visit, and I’m starting to think I might have to give up and go back to Milwaukee, at least for now, which is not an ideal option.
The man standing to my right says something, but I don’t catch it. I can’t hear anything out of my right ear, and the background noise is making it harder. And I remind myself that this is exactly why I’m here, trying to bring my concept to market.
I turn to face him so I can read his lips. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”
“New in town?” he asks.
“Yes. Is it that obvious?”
“You went to the wrong side of the store for your pickup,” he says, “and you’re holding a rental car key.”
His wandering eyes look out from a kind, almost jovial face. I glance down at the key in my hand, wondering if I should be more discreet. I don’t need to advertise the fact that I’m a single woman traveling alone.
“You’re very observant,” I say.
“Not always,” he replies.
I hope he’s not hitting on me. He’s nearly twice my age if I had to guess.There are a lot of rich guys around here who can probably get women half their age to go out with them. He’s dressed down in jeans and a t-shirt, sporting a Patek Philippe on his wrist—and not an entry-level one. Money’s a compensating factor for some women, but not for me. Not for that big of an age gap. Then I notice a wedding ring and relax a little. Perhaps he’s just being friendly.
“Looking for a place to live?” he asks.
“Um, yes.”
“I’m in real estate,” he says.
“Oh.” I nod.
That explains it.
Now I’m going to get the sales pitch. I should tell him to move on and not waste his time. I’m not planning to buy. But I realize he’s just doing his job. Maybe I can learn something from him. Networking in person isn’t my strong suit, and I need to get better at it.
“Mike Tabernaky,” he says.
“Allie Dawson,” I reply.
“Is it just yourself, or do you have a family?”
“Just me.” Saying that out loud makes me feel vulnerable all of a sudden.
“Well, it just so happens we have a guest house behind our home that’s become available. It’s nearby, in Cupertino. Just over the border from Los Altos. Perfect for a single person.”
Generally, I’m a trusting person, but this seems a bit too good to be true. My mind flashes to the shower scene in Psycho.
“That’s great, thanks. But I think I may have found something.”
He nods as he chews on his lower lip.
“Allie? Your order’s ready,” the barista calls out.
“Well, that’s me,” I say. “I need to run. Nice to meet you, Mike.” I offer him a fluttery wave and flash my best Midwestern-girl smile. If I end up living in this neighborhood, I’ll probably see him again, so I don’t want to seem rude or unappreciative. Plus, he might know some venture capitalists he can introduce me to.
“Here. Take my card. In case it doesn’t work out.” He reaches out to me with his business card perched between his thumb and forefinger. I pluck the card from his fingers without touching them.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You’re welcome, Allie Dawson. Hope to see you around.”
I head outside and mentally prepare myself for another round of apartment viewings, trying to lower my expectations. The market’s supposedly softening for renters, but it doesn’t feel that way to me. And without a steady stream of income, I’ve been having a hard time qualifying for a place to rent. I gave up my stable job as a luxury branding specialist to pursue this opportunity. At the moment, I’m hoping that wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.
It’s a competitive market, and I’m sure there are a ton of prospective renters who seem more desirable, with longer track records in the area. That’s why I’m a little overdressed for the occasion, in my red cap-sleeved Tory Burch dress paired with strappy black sandals. I want to make a good impression and try to appear a bit more mature than my twenty-nine years.
When I open the door to my rental, a white Kia Soul, the heat inside the car hits me and nearly knocks me off my feet. It’s late August, so hopefully it will cool down soon. They say it doesn’t get this hot here too often—just my luck. I see heat waves radiating off the black vinyl interior. I run around to the other side and open the door to air it out a little. I don’t want to show up sweaty and disheveled. Then I shut the passenger door, head back over to the driver’s side, and hop in.
The seat is warm but, thankfully, not burning hot. I sit down, strap myself in, and realize that I still have the business card in my hand. I tuck it into my wallet, start the car, crank the a/c, and pull up the address on my app. Then I take one last look in the rearview mirror, apply some lipstick, and fluff my hair. I make a mental note to find a hairdresser. My dirty blonde roots are showing, and I’m badly in need of a trim. Still, I’m presentable enough.
The dark circles under my eyes are gone because the loud people renting the front half of my Airbnb left yesterday morning, and I finally got a good night’s sleep. I’m not used to sleeping with my speech processor on, so any noise at all bothers me. I felt vulnerable sleeping without it in an unfamiliar place though, so it seemed safer to sacrifice deep sleep. Last night was better, and the extra hit of caffeine is starting to kick in.
I can do this.
***
Today’s apartment search was even worse than the previous ones, probably because it’s Saturday and everyone’s available. I had four appointments, and each rental had a steady stream of prospective tenants, including the unit that was totally unacceptable to me with no air conditioning, smelly, dog-pee-soaked carpets, and communal laundry.
Even the cramped one-bedroom suite I’m sitting in right now is better than that one, but I can’t afford this Airbnb for much longer, even if I could stand sharing part of a house with a revolving door of random travelers. I’m burning too much cash and energy on this trip, and although I filled out applications at the other three apartments, I’m not holding my breath.
Now I’m taking some time to regroup. I decide I’ll reach out to the organization that helped me with my pre-seed funding and see if they can give me some suggestions. I reach into my wallet to grab the executive director’s business card. But I come across the card I got from Mike Tabernaky, the real estate agent I met at Starbucks, with the guest house. I pull that out instead. He’s a luxury property specialist and the principal broker at the firm. Maybe he does have a pipeline of wealthy venture capitalists he can introduce me to. At the very least, I should try to connect with him on social media.
But why would he be giving his card out to people at Starbucks when the rental market is this hot? Perhaps he doesn’t want to deal with a parade of random strangers at his home? Or maybe he wants a single person, but he can’t say that in the advertising because of antidiscrimination laws. I do a search and find his website. It’s a small firm with two other agents and a few upscale listings on the site.
I tell myself that if I’m going to be a successful entrepreneur, I need to take some risks. If an opportunity like this dropped in my lap, maybe it’s fate. Part of the success story I’ll tell one day about how I was ready to give up when I found a place to live from a random guy I met at Starbucks who introduced me to so-and-so…and then it all fell into place.
Am I this desperate?
Yes, but I’m also not stupid. I’ll make an appointment to see the unit, and I’ll have my brother on the phone with me when I go see it, just in case.
It’ll be fine.
I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, and punch in Mike’s number. I’m a little surprised when it goes to voicemail and a little relieved. It would be more concerning if he was sitting around waiting for my call. Perhaps it’s rented already and I missed my shot. The thought of that makes me want it more.
I open up my email and start drafting a message to Mina Rao, Executive Director at Start-Her, the accelerator that’s sponsoring me, hoping that something comes through before I have to hang it up and head back east rather than burn through the money they gave me before I even get started.

The Stepfamily
Silicon Valley Series Book 1 

"I couldn't put it down!" - Amazon

"Heart pounding thriller that left me on the edge of my seat. Definitely one of the best books this year." - NetGalley

Laura Foster's not the type to go looking for trouble. But it seems to be looking for her.

Laura’s on the verge of living the life she’s always wanted. At the age of twenty-seven, she put her career plans on hold, married handsome widower Peter Foster, settled down in his Silicon Valley home, and helped raise his two children.

Twelve years later, it’s her turn to shine. Her career is thriving, the kids are out of the house, Peter’s company is on the verge of an FDA approval that could garner a windfall in stock gains for them, and she's training for the Kona Ironman. But when a series of freak accidents can no longer be chalked up to bad luck, it becomes clear that someone is out to get her. Is it someone from work, jealous of her promotion? Or is it perhaps someone more dangerous? Someone closer to home?

Laura has no enemies that she knows of, but she senses that husband Peter is keeping secrets. And when she starts digging into the family’s past, a twisted and unsettling story starts to slowly reveal itself. But with the walls closing in on her, she needs to find out why someone would want to harm her…and what really happened to his first wife.

Before it's too late.

"I devoured this in a few short hours. Very easy to read and the story keeps you coming back for one more chapter." -NetGalley

"Full of suspense and twists and turns!" - NetGalley

For fans of Freida McFadden, Daniel Hurst, Shari Lapena, Shalini Boland, Miranda Rijks, or Minka Kent.


**On Sale for Only .99cents 3/1 - 3/8!**
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​A police officer sits across from me at our imposing dining room table. It’s pretentious and formal—not my style—and I feel awkward sitting so far away from him. I would have rather sat in the living room, but this is where he sat. The officer is about forty, with a few extra pounds on his large frame. He seems less than enthused with the assignment. I decided to have the authorities meet me at home so the police could have a look at the car before it got towed in. I was too flustered earlier to make a decision about what to do. After the mechanic came and told me it was the brake line—or, more specifically, the right front brake hose—I told him to leave it there and hopped into an Uber to get to work for my meeting.
“So, what time did you go out to your car, again?”
“About eight thirty this morning,” I repeat.
We’ve already been over this. Why is he asking me again? I can’t tell if he’s actually concerned about the possibility of a neighborhood vandal or if he’s humoring me. He did inform me that the department has been on the lookout for this sort of thing based on warnings from other municipalities. But then he assured me that, as far as he knew, the Bay Area had so far been spared. I worry now that he’ll think I’m paranoid if I ask him to dig further.
“And there’s nothing on your security camera?”
“No. I have a pretty clear shot of the driveway from one of the cameras, and I didn’t see anyone tampering with my car.”
“The break is pretty jagged, at least on one side, based on these photos, so my best guess is that it probably got sliced by some road debris that got up into it like your mechanic suggested. Then it wore down and broke.”
“Or someone could have cut it in another location,” I say.
“True, but then they didn’t do a very good job. That would mean they didn’t know enough to cut it all the way.”
“Maybe they got interrupted. Or wanted to make sure my brakes went while I was driving.”
“Could be. But you’d probably have noticed it on your way home.”
“The mechanic said it might take a few miles to notice if it was a small cut to begin with.”
The officer nods. I can tell he thinks I’m being paranoid. I consider asking him to dust for prints, but since he doesn’t bring it up, I assume it would be an inappropriate suggestion. The mechanic’s prints are probably all over it anyway. And if someone was trying to kill me, wouldn’t they be smart enough to wear gloves?
I hear a car pull up to the house and wonder who it could be. This doesn’t seem like it would warrant another officer. The car stops in the driveway, and I hear a door slam. Then I hear someone running.
What the hell?
I stand up, and so does the officer.
A moment later, Peter comes bursting through the doorway. He runs up to me before I can react or say anything.
“What’s happening?” Peter’s face is pale, as if he’s seen a ghost. I can see sweat beads forming, about to drip from his temples. I should have called to tell him about this, but I knew he had an important meeting. I didn’t want to worry him until I knew more. But what is he doing home so early? It’s only three in the afternoon.
After my meeting, which went swimmingly, I told Bethany about my car, and she encouraged me to go handle it. She’s a hard-ass when it comes to work, but she’s not a monster, and she seemed genuinely concerned. More than the officer standing next to me but much less so than my husband, who looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
He takes my face in his hands. “Laura? Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, Peter.”
“What’s going on? Why didn’t you call me?” My husband is frantic, and I don’t get it. I’m obviously fine.
“Everything’s okay, Mr. Foster,” the officer informs him. “Please. Have a seat.”
So we sit down and take Peter through the whole story from the beginning. I’m much more of a worrier than my husband is, so I expect him to brush it off. And he does, on the surface. But I can tell he’s faking it. And I don’t have a clue as to why.
“Well, Laura, if there’s nothing on the security camera, I’d say it’s pretty safe to assume that it was an accident,” Peter says. But he’s addressing the officer, avoiding eye contact with me. His lips are pressed together, and his jaw is tight. I feel like his words are at odds with his body language.
But then maybe his mood has nothing to do with the brake situation. Maybe it’s the same issue that was bothering him this morning, and he came home early to talk to me about it. But how would he know I was here?
We wrap things up and see the officer to the door. He assures me they will “check into it,” but I’m not holding my breath. I close the door behind him.
Then Peter lets out a deep sigh and almost collapses on the floor. He bends over and puts his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths, looking like he might pass out. Maybe he’s not feeling well, and that’s why he came home early?
“Laura, I thought…”
And then it hits me.
The last time a police officer was here, it was to give him some terrible news. He has seen a ghost today. The ghost of Cynthia Foster—his college sweetheart, the mother of his children, the woman whose home I inhabit.

Bonnie Traymore is the award-winning, Amazon best selling author of page-turner mystery/thrillers that hit close to home. Her books feature strong but relatable female protagonists. The plots explore difficult topics such as jealousy, infidelity, murder, and the impact of psychological disorders, but she also includes bits of romance and humor to lighten the mood from time to time. She's an active status member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America.
 

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What is something unique/quirky about you?
I have a lot of fears. Turns out that most of us who write these kinds of books do, which is why we come up with these crazy stories. I don’t like elevators because I’m claustrophobic, I can’t watch medical dramas because I’ll start thinking I have every disease on the planet. I’m afraid of spiders. Heights. And sharks, of course, but that’s a prudent one. I still swim in the ocean, but not too far out. But I try not to let them paralyze me, and I push myself out of my comfort zone. More importantly, I put the fears into my books and characters which is therapeutic.

Tell us something really interesting that's happened to you!
I’ve been chased up a tree by a one-horned rhinoceros and circled by sharks at ninety feet depth in the ocean. As I said, I try to push myself out of my comfort zone. And both of those incidents were very uncomfortable! P.S. both of those events happened decades ago, and now most all my adventures are fictional.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?
I was reading a review of one of my books. I think it was The Stepfamily. And it said something like “another great book by Bonnie Traymore. I love this author.” I was like, I’m this author?? Holy crap! And no, it wasn’t my husband. I swear.

How did you come up with the concept and characters for the book?
Book 1 was inspired by one of my former students who became a successful entrepreneur. She’s from Hawaii and talked about how she had to learn to assert herself in the world of venture capital, as the culture in Hawaii is very different. Since I lived in Hawaii and Silicon Valley, I thought it would be interesting to have a protagonist who grew up in Hawaii and moved to Silicon Valley, and that was the basis for Laura Foster. My husband worked in biotech there, like Peter in the book, so I knew that world. But that’s where the similarities end as far as the husbands! All his exes are still alive and well, I promise.

Book 2 was inspired by my daughter who, like the protagonist, is deaf with a cochlear implant. In it, Allie Dawson comes to Silicon Valley after receiving a grant from Laura Foster, to bring her captioning device to market. I wanted to educate people about what it’s like to sometimes hear, sometimes not, and most of the time, not be able to hear very well. Cochlear implants have internal and external parts, and the external part can’t get wet. They don’t work as well in noisy places. I tried to pepper this into the scenes and not hit readers over the head with it. Just enough to get the feel of what it’s like. Advance reviews have been positive.

Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
If people only read one book of mine, I’d like it to be The Guest House. It’s important to me because of my daughter, and my desire to honor her struggles and accomplishments. I also think it makes for a great thriller read, playing with the different senses that need to compensate for not hearing. I’m most proud of this book.

How long on average does it take you to write a book?
I usually spend about 3-4 months on a first draft. Then I’ll have my alpha readers give me feedback. It’s important to have people you trust enough to show them your crappy first draft and give you feedback on the plot. I don’t want to waste a lot of time perfecting the prose if I’ve somehow given away the murderer too early, or if it’s dragging, so getting that reader feedback is critical. I know some writers who feel like they need to have it perfect before they show it to anyone, but with my genre, I think it’s a waste of time. After I know the plot works, then I’ll go back and smooth out the dialogue, add more description, and make it pretty. I feel bad that the people closest to me have to read my book when it’s at its worst, but I’m lucky to have that option.

Do you believe in writer’s block?
I believe in thinker’s block. When I’m stuck, it’s because the story hasn’t progressed enough in my mind. If that happens, I go for a walk or do some cardio at the gym and let it play out in my head some more. Once I can envision the scenes, I write like the wind. A bomb could go off outside my house and I’d keep going. Oh yeah, I’m afraid of bombs too. And crowds. Psychos. Clowns. Etc.

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