A woman is missing, paths are misleading.

Can Psychic Detective Jackie Vaughn see through the veil of lies to find her?


Kidnapped and sold into the Chinese slave trade the survival of Annette Freder, the wife of University Chancellor, Charles Freder, depends on struggling psychic detective, Jackie Vaughn.

Crippled by grief over the unexpected death of her wife, Jackie deals with her anguish through pills and booze. While these coping mechanisms numb her pain, the growing addiction hampers her abilities, and places her health and livelihood in jeopardy.  The missing person’s case of Annette Freder shifts Jackie’s focus, challenging her psychic abilities.

Blind Redemption Cover

While on the job in China, Jackie finds herself with limited access to medication, resulting in bouts of withdrawal and depression. But that is just one of the many hurdles hindering Jackie in her quest to find Annette and return her to safety. Will corrupt police, maxed out credit cards, an ousted Greek intelligence officer assassin, and a revelation from an unexpected source prove too much for her?

Entangled deceit and unraveling lies Blind Redemption captures the essence of the human spirit and the power of redemption.


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ANNETTE, A lanky, middle-aged Caucasian woman with hazel eyes, a smattering of freckles, and curly auburn hair, meandered, as if her spirit labored to exist. Hordes of mostly Chinese patrons maneuvered through wide concrete halls leading to meeting rooms and auditoriums featuring a variety of cultural festivities.

An elderly Asian woman winced, moaned, then slumped down in a wheelchair. Her tired almond-shaped eyes peeked out from behind a brimmed straw-braid hat that practically consumed her. Gesturing haphazardly for help she focused on Annette.

Annette greeted the older woman in Chinese and asked, “Are you okay?”

The old woman stifled a cry, reaching for Annette’s hand, their eyes locked.

“Ouch!” Blood oozed from a microscopic puncture swelling on Annette’s palm.

The woman sped the motorized chair down a crowded hallway lined with glassless mahogany doors.

“Wait!” Annette yelled.

She applied pressure to the wound and started out after the woman. One by one, conference-room doors swung open to throngs of participants in pursuit of the next venue. Entangled within the masses, people rushed by Annette, pushing her out of the way. A crescendo of panic immobilized her senses. She wanted to run but pangs of nausea negated the notion. She leaned against the wall; rubbing her eyes didn’t stop dense shadows from coming through the spectacle of an hourglass in the hallway. Voices once pronounced became garbled and distant.

As the crowd thinned, Annette became aware of approaching footsteps. Ceiling lights throughout the auditorium flickered off and on. A Chinese man she didn’t recognize squeezed her forearm. Her soft whimper lacked the force of the scream escalating inside. Although she thought her lips moved, her voice again fell still. She staggered, the numbness and a prickly pain in her feet unrelenting. The stranger remained silent, and with a detached confidence, he directed her down the corridor away from the festivities. Thoughts of her daughter, Cleo, swirled. Had she told Cleo she loved her before the trip? At the end of the hall, a door opened into a cramped dark room. The overwhelming smell of a musky-sweet scent, and ammonia mixed with dampness, intensified her pangs of nausea. A briny ocean aroma materialized from nowhere.

Strong hands pressing on Annette’s shoulders brought her down to the coldness of a vinyl chair, her feet landed on metal foot plates, chills shot throughout her body. Nervous oriental voices whispered. Warm sweaty hands gathered her fists and held them together with a vice grip as someone else bound her hands and feet with duct tape. A gray fleece blanket tucked around her body did little to ease the shivering. Her head slumped against her chest; heavy eyes drooped and focused on light filtering in from the bottom of the door. She strained to listen to inaudible chatter. What could they possibly want? A person standing behind Annette began twisting and gathering her loose curls, binding the hair with handfuls of bobby pins, a net cap concealing the handiwork. Two hard tugs secured a silver and grey long, straight wig.

The door shot open and the wheelchair with Annette in it moved swiftly forward toward the back of the arena. They passed by festival patrons and a few employees, all engrossed with a carefree life, or unconsciously deciding not to stare at the poor old soul in the wheelchair. They stopped at a small freight-elevator door and waited. The freight door opened with a jolt. A man reeking of citrus and ginger wheeled Annette inside. When the door didn’t close right away, he hit the elevator button so hard Annette hoped he’d broken it. She glared at the red emergency button. Tape squeezed against her wrist, the elevator clamored shut, and seconds later the door opened again. Two Asian men stood waiting. They wheeled her through a parking lot into a restricted delivery zone. A security guard stationed inside a white cube smiled at the men and looked away. He’s in on this. The men lifted Annette out of the wheelchair, and with a heave, she landed inside the back seat of a black cargo van. In an instant, the vehicle accelerated into traffic. With each aggressive lane change, Annette cursed. Twenty minutes into the ride the van entered a barren alley and stopped. Car doors slammed, another motor revved. The passenger door swung open and two men gathered Annette while another, dressed in black, leaned against the car with his arms folded. He flicked away a cigarette and calmly popped the trunk.

“Let me out of here,” she screamed, the demand coming out as a raspy whisper. She struggled with the tape, but her muscles refused to obey her mind’s commands. Her stomach lurched forward when the car took off.

“God help me,” she whispered.



DENISE DEARTH is a novelist and songwriter.  Blind Redemption is the first novel in the compelling Jackie Vaughn detective series. She is a member of Broadcast Music Incorporated, a music performing right organization, and the National Writers Union, UAW Local 1981. When’s she’s not writing she may be seen riding a two-toned, sky blue and white Victory Vegas Steel horse into the Midwestern sunset.

Denise Dearth can be found at:


AMY GILLEN is a co-creator of the Jackie Vaughn detective series.  She earned a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Indiana University.  She is a poet, photographer, and entrepreneur with a passion for kayaking and travel.

Amy Gillen can be found at:




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