As an author, I don't often write about what personally drives my stories. But this one is different.
I lost my father when I was six years old.
Decades have passed. I've built a life, written two novels (and more screenplays than I can count), and lived on four continents. Yet in quiet moments, I still think about him.
Not with crushing grief, but with that particular ache that never completely leaves.
The ache of unfinished business.
Of things left unsaid.
Of a goodbye that never happened.
Most of us know that feeling in one form or another. Someone leaves—suddenly, gradually, far too soon—and we're left holding all the words we thought there would be time to say.
That feeling became the emotional heart of Revenge of the Hungry Ghost.
On the surface, it's a mystery thriller filled with murder, betrayal, ancient Chinese legends, a 2,000-year-old quest for immortality, and a conspiracy that stretches across continents. But beneath all of that is something much quieter.
A woman is given something almost none of us ever receive.
One last chance to say goodbye to someone she loved.
I wrote that scene thinking about my father.
About what I would say if I had ten minutes with him again.
Then I realized I probably wouldn't say much at all.
I'd just hug him for the entire ten minutes.
I'd want him to know he was loved.
That he mattered.
That I've carried him with me every day of my life.
When I began writing this series, I made myself a promise. Beneath every mystery, every clue, every chase scene, I wanted there to be an emotional truth. I wanted readers to feel something beyond the suspense.
In every book, my heroine Paige carries the last remaining vial of an ancient immortality elixir—one capable of bringing someone back from the dead.
It's an extraordinary gift.
But every gift comes with a price.
Sometimes the greatest act of love isn't bringing someone back.
Sometimes it's letting them go.
That's what this story is really about.
Not ghosts.
Not immortality.
Not even murder.
It's about the people we carry with us long after they're gone, and the impossible wish for just one more conversation.
One more hug.
One more chance to say what mattered.
Fiction can't change the past.
But sometimes it lets us imagine the ending our hearts have always wanted.
So I'll leave you with the question I've quietly carried for most of my life.
If you could spend ten more minutes with someone you've lost, how would you spend them?
I don't think there's a right answer.
I know mine surprised me.
If you'd like to share yours, I'd be honored to read it.
And if this story resonates with you, I hope you'll find something meaningful in Revenge of the Hungry Ghost. Beneath the mystery lies the question that inspired it all.
Sometimes fiction lets us finish conversations that real life never could.