I was raised deep in the Alaska bush — no electricity, no running water, no neighbors for hundreds of miles. Just wilderness, silence, and the long dark that swallowed the world for eight months at a time.

The wild wasn’t afraid of me, and I wasn’t afraid of it. We respected each other — the way predators do.

I learned early that survival isn’t a story. It’s a rhythm. A truth. A pulse in the dark.

Now I live in the desert, where the heat cuts as sharply as the cold once did. Where shadows burn, secrets breathe, and every long road has a memory.

I write noir‑grit mysteries forged from both worlds — the unforgiving wild that raised me and the relentless desert that shaped me. My stories carry teeth, scars, and the kind of truth that doesn’t flinch.

If you’re here, you’re probably looking for something real. Something raw. Something that bites back. You’re in the right place