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30 May 2017

❤❤5 star review + Excerpt of THE WATCHER by Bella Jewel ❤❤

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


Seven years ago, Marlie Jacobson was kidnapped by a serial killer and lived to tell about it. But it was actually her mother who told the story, in a bestselling book that made Marlie famous. Today, she s known as the girl who slayed a killer. The one who got away. Now, there s just one thing Marlie wants to get away from: her past. But when her little sister disappears, her worst fears comes rushing back with a vengeance

Kenai Michelson is a world-renowned investigator. Dark, brooding, and dangerously good-looking, he s the kind of man Marlie would normally avoid at all costs. But Kenai is her only hope in finding her missing sister. Together, Kenai and Marlie follow a trail of clues that leads them toward the truth and into each other s arms. As her trust in Kenai grows, so does their fierce connection. But will their desire turn deadly as they close in on a ruthless enemy who s watching their every move?

*arc provided for an honest and unbiased review*

I read 72 hours and while I liked it, I felt like a lot was missing. With THE WATCHER, I did not get that feeling at all. I felt like I was reading the script to an episode of Criminal Minds, or a sequel to Kiss the Girls or something. For me, this book was hands down fabulous. Bella Jewel at her best. There was so much angst with finding out who the villain was, the steam between Kenai and Marlie. The horror of her flashbacks and what she went through, but then what they are going through daily in trying to find her sister. The head games the psycho is playing with them. Honestly, for me, I think the flashbacks were some of the best parts of Bella's writing. They were intense, gripping, fear inducing, and so dark and sickening. The twists and turns, the breadcrumbs, and then finding out who the master mind was behind it all. I really thought she was going to through us a huge curve ball and make it be Kenai. Thank GOD she didn't do that!

The heat between these two, the connection. It was so thick at time. The steam. The way they collide and combust when they ignore everything going on.

"You don't need to say a single word to understand what another person feels. Sometimes you can sense it with every fiber of your being, just by looking at them. It's an energy that passes between you. A deep understanding. A bond. It's real. It's pure. You know it with every single piece of who you are . No, words are not needed when you have a connection that reaches you soul."

And this is the first time Marlie has felt anything in so long. She's just been existing for so long. And who can blame her after what she went through, and then what her mom did. At the end of 72 hours, you get a glimpse of what mom put Marlie through, and did it without thought. But then in The Watcher you get to find out so much more. But Kenai, the one who thought he knew it all, sure was surprised when he learned everything, wasn't he? Judge much...

Did you ever see the movie the Bone Collector? i've put my finger on it. This book reminds me of that movie. Following the breadcrumbs. Finding out who the psycho is while being chased and watched. But yet the things being done are so horrific. But it's so sad and gut wrenching you can't put it down or look away. You just have to know what's going to happen next and how it's going to turn out. That was this book to me.

I said it before, and I'll say it again. It was Bella Jewel at her finest. May just rank up there with James Patterson himself.


Seven Years Later

Chirp chirp.

Groaning, I throw my hand over my face. Morning already? Another day? Really. It seems I only went to bed five minutes ago, how could it possibly be time to wake up? The dramatic sing- ing of the birds outside indicate that it is, in fact, morning, and that means I’ve made it to see the light of another day. Another lonely, dragging day of misery.

Okay, that’s slightly dramatic, but what can I say? It’s my life now.

More loud chirping makes me throw my arm from my face and slap it down on the bed be- side me. “All right, I’m up,” I grumble, attempt- ing to sit.

My body aches and my head is pounding. It seems I wake up this way more often than not these days. The doctor tells me it’s all in my head, that there is nothing physically wrong with me anymore. He didn’t get his entire body beaten with a bat, so what the hell would he know? I feel it every time I move. My legs mostly. An ache that seems like it’ll never leave, a soreness in my mus- cles that I’m constantly trying to stretch out.

I shove myself up to a sitting position, and stare out the window. I see nothing but trees. Just a vast expanse of skinny, yet lush, trees. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and that’s the honest truth. I bought this tiny, one-bedroom cabin just outside of Colorado Springs for a bargain three years ago. The owner gave me a great deal because he had an emergency with his family and needed to sell it urgently. It was a dream come true for me.

I left my home in Denver just before that, around the time I went from being a nobody to a famous serial killer survivor. I don’t say this lightly. Fame didn’t come as a relief; it came as my own personal hell. I was suffering serious mental instability, but my mother figured, Hey, why not put my daughter in the spotlight by writing a novel about her hor­ rible ordeal with a deranged psychopath? I’ll never forget the hours she sat, talking to reporters, the police, and me about what happened. She managed to piece together enough information to make a bestseller. 

Seemed like a solid plan. 

The book took off, became massive overnight. So did I. 

Then came the time I couldn’t walk down the street without being noticed by someone. If it wasn’t insane requests for autographs—Really, who does that?—it was people staring at me like I was a zoo animal. They were either too afraid to talk to me, scared no doubt that I might have a giant breakdown, or wanted to ask me a million non- sensical questions about my kidnapping. As if they were casually discussing a movie and not a human life.

I played along for a while, for the sake of my family—mostly for my widowed mother, who was smiling for the first time since my father died only a year before my kidnapping. But later, I struggled with knowing that her happiness came from ex- ploiting my pain. After all, her daughter nearly lost her life, but then, she was making millions from my story, so what the hell, right?

I was suddenly a survivor. The girl who got away. The brave one. The one who got a second chance at life.

I didn’t want any of that.

I don’t know why I didn’t pack up and run ear- lier, but the truth is I didn’t even know my name most days. Intense therapy and people screaming for my story on the street made my already trau- matized mind shut down. I lived most days like a zombie, moving through life purely because I had to, not because I wanted to. Instead of supporting me, my mother made my ordeal about her. Resent- ment lives deep in my chest daily because of that.

Because she wasn’t there for me when she needed to be. Because she didn’t help me when I was suffering. Because she didn’t comfort me when I’d wake up screaming from the nightmares. 

The god-awful nightmares. 

Even now, I see his face every time I close my eyes. My therapist assures me it won’t be this way forever. I think she’s wrong. I think it’ll be this way for the rest of my life. I just don’t see how talking to someone about it is going to take away the fact that he’s in my head, and I’m damned sure he’ll never leave. 

But I’m surviving, now that I’m out here, on my own; I’m making it through. Some days I don’t know how, but I think the solitude helps. No re- porters. No family members. No walking down the street with judgment. No fear. It’s just me. I feel safe, which is something I haven’t felt in such a long time. 

I throw myself out of bed and my knees protest angrily, but I push on. I don’t need any more re- minders about what he did. My knees like to keep my mind in the past. Part of the reminder is my fault, I guess. After all, I picked the worst job there is for weak knees—waitressing. In my defense, living this far out of Denver, it was really the only option for me.

My boss is understanding. Mostly.

Except for days like today, when I sleep in. 


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