A missing child. A dead mother. Kala Stonechild is about to discover what one betrayal can lead to. When Adele Delaney and her daughter Violet go missing, Jacques Rouleau is called upon to investigate. However, struggling with the impending death of his ill ex-wife, he sends Kala Stonechild and Paul Gundersund instead. On the second day of the investigation, Adele’s body turns up, dumped on the shoulder of the highway with no sign of her daughter. Her husband, Ivo, denies any involvement with either his wife’s death or their child’s disappearance, but not everyone is convinced. As the investigation unfolds, Stonechild learns that Adele was once entangled with a Montreal biker gang and heads to Quebec to investigate further. As Stonechild and Gundersund juggle personal troubles and a complicated, dangerous case, they find themselves piecing together a chain of disasters leading back to a single betrayal. Brenda Chapman knows her way around a mystery. Tightly written and cleverly plotted, Tumbled Graves begins with the disappearance of a mother and child. The book drives toward the surprise ending with a fine storyteller at the wheel. I highly recommend the series. Chapman is an author to watch. ― Anne Hillerman, bestselling author of the Leaphorn and Chee series Richly drawn characters enhance this well-constructed, thoroughly enjoyable whodunit that will leave readers eager for the next installment. ― Publishers Weekly A deft balance of character, story, and setting. ― Booklist What makes this mystery most interesting are the tightly knit details. Chapman never tips her hand as she presents readers with a wide-open field of suspects. For the majority of the novel, the list of potential culprits is lengthy, and the author skillfully deploys twists and decoys to misdirect us, while also dropping tiny clues to help make the final reveal seem perfectly logical. ― Quill & Quire A terrific read from beginning to end. ― Midwest Book review Chapman wrings every bit of suspense out of this tightly plotted novel. ― Globe and Mail At the end of the day, Chapman’s series is one worth following. ― Ottawa Citizen Brenda Chapman is a crime writer who has published over twenty books, including six in the lauded Stonechild and Rouleau mystery series. She lives in Ottawa. Chapter One At first, Catherine Lockhart wasn’t worried. Perplexed, possibly even annoyed if she was honest, but definitely not worried. It wasn’t until she and Sammy stood on the country road in front of Adele Delaney’s house that a sense of foreboding rolled slowly upwards like a bad meal from the bottom of her gut. Her shoulders wriggled as a shiver travelled up her back, even as her face was warmed by the late-April sun. Something doesn’t feel right, she thought. She’d remember that exact moment of trepidation for days afterward. Sammy tugged at her arm until she looked down into his freckled face. “They’re home,” he said, pointing a chubby finger toward the rusty Fiat halfway up the long driveway. His blue eyes brightened and his voice rose joyously. “Can I play with Violet?” She’d meant just to walk by, to assure herself that Adele had been ignoring her phone messages because she’d been called away suddenly. The sight of Adele’s car standing unashamedly in the drive felt like a betrayal ― as if she were thirteen again and her best friend had just ditched her for the cooler crowd. The bit that didn’t feel right, though, was the front door. Wide open, it swung gently back and forth on its hinges in the gusty spring breeze. Catherine and Sam had moved into the small white house with the blue shutters a kilometre down the road a year and a half ago. She’d wanted Sam to grow up surrounded by trees and space, not in a scuzzy high-rise in the east end of Toronto. Luckily, her freelance writing job meant she could work anywhere. This stretch of land just east of Kingston and north of Highway 2 was close enough to civilization but far enough out of town to feel like they were living in the countryside. They’d met Adele and Violet at a mom-and-me fitness class and their kids had hit it off. Naturally, they’d started meeting up for coffee and playtime during the weekdays when Adele’s husband Ivo was at work. Catherine ruffled Sammy’s ginger hair, soft and fluffy from his morning bath. The strands felt like warm silk in her fingers. “I’m not sure Violet and her mommy are up for company just now.” She checked her wristwatch. “Maybe Violet’s having a nap.” “Violet doesn’t nap,” Sam said, scowling. “She said that napping’s for babies.” Before Catherine could stop him, Sam had sprinted across the gravel shoulder of the road and was halfway up the long drive. He stopped long enough to check that she was following before turning and running toward the front steps. A premonition made her call out to him. “Wait, Sam! Wait for me.” She stepped around the puddles left over from the morning rain. Sam had barreled through the mud an