Artwork by Adiantum Inanga.
Allow me to introduce Scott Crownover, a figure shrouded in shadows and secrets. In a world where every word counts, he navigates the murky alleys of intrigue with a sharp wit and an even sharper gaze.
Scott is a towering figure, exuding a raw power and surprising agility that contradicts his imposing stature. Once a lawman with a badge, he now navigates the city's underbelly, taking on odd jobs for those willing to pay for his distinctive brand of muscle. Locals have labeled him an "over the hill do-gooder," yet he possesses a taste for long overcoats, vintage Cadillacs, Cuban cigars, and fine whiskey—preferably when someone else is footing the bill.
This lifestyle only deepens his mysterious persona. Beneath the surface, Scott grapples with an unacknowledged mental struggle, likely a byproduct of years of substance abuse, leaving him shrouded in confusion, fragmented memories, and sporadic visions. He embodies the quintessential noir anti-hero, with creator DL Tracey likening him to "Hellboy in a trench coat" in his Crownover Series.
Book one Innocence of Guilt coming soon ~
Innocence of Guilt
Where legends don’t rise. They crawl out of the wreckage.
Gritty, noir-inspired tone
D.L. Tracey
The bills were stacking up so fast they should’ve charged rent. Every time I walked through the living room, I had to wade through them like I was crossing a swamp made of overdue notices and bad decisions. At that point, any job looked like salvation — even the kind that came wrapped in a bow and smelled like someone else’s guilt.
This one? It sparkled. Simple case, open‑and‑shut, guilt practically shrink‑wrapped for convenience. All I had to do was sign my name, nod like I understood the world, and cash the check before it bounced. Easy. Too easy.
So why didn’t I see the danger coming? Because subtlety and I never got along. My old man used to say I wasn’t blessed with much intelligence — and that was on a good day. On a bad one, he’d shake his head and call me a dumb ass. A family tradition, I guess.
Turns out he was right. The job wasn’t salvation. It was the freight train — and I was tied to the tracks, smiling like an idiot.
Evaporation
A precision‑engineered political thriller.
Gritty, noir-inspired tone
D.L. Tracey
Cape Cod wasn’t my idea. If it were, I’d have picked a place with fewer ghosts and better whiskey. But when the President calls — the same man who once dragged my sorry hide out of a burning mess I’d made myself — you don’t check your schedule. You answer. That’s the curse of old debts: they don’t fade, they ferment.
The First Family wanted quiet. What they got was a breach so loud it rattled the bones of the republic. And me? I got handed a protocol so classified it made the nuclear codes look like a grocery list. “Evaporation.” A polite word for something ugly. The kind of operation you only use when you’ve run out of miracles and excuses.
The world saw a mystery. Headlines. Panic. Experts on TV pretending they knew a damn thing. I saw the bill coming due.
As the storm rolled in and the operatives tightened their perimeter, I walked his family into the fog — not to save them, but to erase them. That was the job. That was the debt. And debts, in my world, get paid in silence.
Protection? People think it means keeping folks alive. Cute idea. Really adorable.
In my line of work, protection means making sure no one ever finds the bodies.
Comins soon "Print"
They say every life tells a story, but mine reads more like a police report someone spilled whiskey on. I’d survived guilt, paid off debts, and buried enough secrets to keep a cemetery busy for a decade. I thought that meant I was done — that the past had finally stopped sending invoices. Then the first envelope showed up. No return address. Just a single sheet of paper with my name typed at the top like a threat. Someone out there had been keeping records — my records — and now they were printing my sins one page at a time. Most people fear the truth. Me? I fear the version someone else writes.
