I Know When You're Going To Die a YA Mystery, Thriller by Michael J. Bowler

I Know When You're Going to Die 

by Michael J. Bowler 

Genre: YA Mystery, Thriller 

Leonardo Cantrell is a painfully shy sixteen-year-old who cannot look people in the eye. One night while he’s volunteering at a homeless shelter, an old man forces eye contact and gives Leo the power to see Death.

His best, and only, friend—J.C. Rivera—thinks this new power is cool until Leo accidentally looks into J.C.’s eyes and “sees” his murder, a murder that will occur in less than two weeks. Stunned and shaken, the two boys sift through clues in Leo’s “vision” in a desperate effort to find the killer and stop him before he can strike.

Aided by feisty new-girl-at-school, Laura, the boys uncover evidence suggesting the identity of the murderer. However, their plan to trap the would-be killer goes horribly awry and reveals a truth that could kill them all. 

**only 99 cents until March 10th !!** 

Add to Goodreads

Amazon * Apple * B&N * Kobo

EXCERPT #1

After lunch, we head to a nearby McDonald’s and buy bags of hamburgers, chicken sandwiches, and fries to give out on the streets. I make momentary eye contact with each person I hand a bag to because I want them to   know they’re human like me. But I can’t hold it for more than a second until, beneath the dim shade of the freeway overpass on Main Street, this one man grasps my arm as he takes his bag. He’s a regular named Hank, an older guy with a limp who always wears a dirty Dodgers cap and mismatched clothes   I’m sure he found in a dumpster.

“Thank you, Leo.” Hank’s voice is strained, but sincere.

I force myself to look into his grateful eyes and our gazes lock. I can’t    seem to look away. It’s like I’m being drawn into Hank’s  very soul. Then I see it! Gasping, I lurch back and yank my arm away from him.

He recoils, looking stung by my action, and I want to apologize, but no words come. I’m paralyzed by what I just saw and can only offer him a silent nod.

Gripping the bag with gnarled fingers, Hank lurches down Main Street until he reaches the corner and turns out of sight.

J.C. steps around in front of me. “Hey, Leo, you okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“I know… when he’s… going to… die.” I barely get the words out.

J.C. stares at me. “Huh?”

EXCERPT #2

J.C. slurps his drink and waits till I’m ready. This is one of those moments I need a lot of time. Five minutes pass while I process everything I saw in   Kyle’s eyes. I know J.C. is about to jump out of his skin, so I finally whisper, “He’s going to be shot.”

“No way!” J.C. looks as shocked as I’ve ever seen him. “When?”

“Tuesday.”

He gags on the sip he’s taking. “You sure?”

 I nod.

“Could you see where?”

I shake my head. “It was hazy. The gun went off and he was on the ground bleeding out.”

“Oh, my God!” J.C. puts down his drink and we sit a moment in silence. He must know what I’m thinking because he says, “You can’t warn him, Leo.”

“Why not?”

He hesitates. “I don’t know for sure, but maybe it’s like he’s supposed to  die on Tuesday and if you warn him and he doesn’t, then maybe you create some rift in time or something, like in X-Men comics.”

J.C. is a major X-Men fan. Me, not so much. “J.C., he’s just a kid like us.”

“I know.” He pauses. “But what if you tell him now and on Tuesday he changes what he would normally do and because he changes his routine, that’s why he gets shot.”

Having had these geek conversations with him over the years about time travel and numerous “what if ” scenarios, I understand what he’s trying to tell me.

Make wise choices.

Was this what Mr. Franklin meant? That the choices I make to tell or not tell people what I see could be as significant as J.C. suggests?

EXCERPT #3

I’m not sure how long I lay curled up on that beach before I hear someone huffing and puffing above me.

J.C.

I crack open my eyes. He’s doubled over, clutching at his sides and fight- ing for breath. Sweat streams from his wavy black hair down onto his face. “What…” he wheezes, struggling to breathe, “did… you… see?”

I unravel myself and sit up, pulling my knees in and clutching my legs tightly. I don’t look at him, instead scanning the surrounding beach. It’s a weekday and there’s nobody around except the lifeguard in his station, and he isn’t very close.

“Leo!”

I look up as he collapses to the sand and gazes at me with wide, terrified eyes.

Still, I can’t bring myself to say it.

He grabs me by both shoulders. His grip feels like iron. His panting has lessened, but not the fear on his face. “Tell me. Please.”

I lower my eyes again. “You’re…” I force myself to breathe. “You’re going to be…” I can’t say it.

“What?”

“Murdered!” I blurt, glancing at the stunned look on his face.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a long moment. “When?” His voice is a choked whisper.

I don’t want to say it, but I have to. “A week from Friday.”

He gags, like he’s gonna throw up all over me. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable, so small and afraid, and that scares me more than what I saw in    his eyes. He collapses onto the sand and cries.

EXCERPT #4

I hear the door to the parking lot open with a creak and spin around in fear. J.C. and Laura do the same. We listen. The door closes quietly. Muffled footsteps approach along the catwalk.

Crap, we’re trapped!

I ignore the other two and take in my surroundings. There’s a door behind us. With no time to even wonder where it leads, I scuttle over as the footsteps grow louder. In seconds, the newcomer will round the colossal boilers and    see us. I grab the door handle and pull. It’s  not locked. I ease it open and    find a large storage room with boxes and plastic jugs lined up on shelves and odd pieces of equipment in corners on the floor. Laura darts inside without hesitation, but J.C. looks at me uncertainly. I shove him harder than I intend and squeeze in right behind him. The footsteps clanking along the catwalk  are almost around the corner when I ease the door closed and hold the inside handle tightly to keep it from rattling. I feel J.C.’s raspy breath on my neck  and his body pressed in tightly against mine as I place one ear up against the cold metal door and listen.

The footfalls saunter on past as though the person doesn’t have a care in  the world and isn’t worried about being detected. I hear a muffled greeting in Spanish, but it’s not Mendez. My breath freezes as I recognize that voice.

EXCERPT #5

I’m ladling out stew to ragged old men, boys in hoodies, and women clothed in layers of dirty, mismatched apparel. They’ve come to stay the night at one of Skid Row’s rescue missions because it’s better than a tent or cardboard box on San Pedro Street. I like being here more than I like being at home, so I help out every weekend.

I’m  chatting with a skinny boy and his mother passing through the line   on their way to scarf a hot meal at one of the foldable tables when one of the mission staff taps me on the shoulder.

“Leo, there’s  a guy in the sleeping quarters asking for you. Said his name   is Franklin.”

“Thanks,” I reply. I don’t  recognize that name, but I make my excuses to the boy and his mom and hand over my ladling duties to the girl who’d brought me the message.

To get to the sleeping quarters, I walk down a narrow, dark-paneled hallway with the familiar smell of sweat and unwashed socks. The door to the dorm is open and I step in. It looks like a huge barn with a worn hardwood floor studded with row after row of folding cots. Since it’s dinnertime, all the cots are empty except one.

An old man with surprisingly alert eyes lies atop that cot staring at me. Most of the older people who frequent the shelter have rheumy eyes, always

moist and often clouded, because they’ve struggled for so long on the street, and maybe because they have alcohol or drug problems.

“Come here, boy.” His voice is raspy and echoes faintly in the cavernous room.

At first, I don’t recognize him. True, there are hundreds of homeless on the streets every day, but I’ve been volunteering on Skid Row since I was fourteen and after almost three years, like I said, I know most of them. I’m  thinking  that if this guy is a regular, he’s passed under my radar.

And yet…

I have seen him, I think. Not here at the shelter. Walking to my car…?  Yes!  Several times over these past two or three weekends, I’ve noticed him.  He’s caught my eye because, every time, he’s stared at me so intently it made  me shiver. He’d be pretending to rummage through a dumpster, but his eyes would follow me until I got into my car. I confess his gaze made me uncom- fortable, but I let it go. I’ve learned to shrug off such creepy feelings because   so many of the people I meet down here have mental health issues.

I steel myself and walk between the rows of empty cots—each with its  neat bedroll awaiting an occupant—and stop before the stranger  with  the scary eyes. Unlike most of the people, his clothes aren’t especially dirty and he doesn’t smell like someone who’s been on the streets for a long time. Wisps of gray hair stick out from his head at haphazard angles and his face has so many wrinkles I don’t think I could count them if I tried.

I don’t make eye contact, but that’s because I never do. Not here, not anywhere. People tell me I’m the definition of “shy” and they’re right.

“You asked to see me, sir?” I say deferentially, my gaze on his gnarled hands.

He rolls over onto his back. “I been watching you, boy. Seen you on the streets a lot.”

I freeze. So, I didn’t imagine it! “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The voice sounds like sandpaper scraping along a fence. “Rich boy like you helping out poor folk like me. What gives?”

I’ve been asked this question by all my relatives, so I’m ready with my answer. “I think people like me who are lucky to have a lot should help people who don’t. And I hope I’m making the world better instead of worse. The kids  I know just party and think about themselves all the time. I don’t want to be like that.”

A crooked smile cracks the wrinkled face. “You’re the one, all right.” “The one?”

With effort, he unclasps his hands with their swollen knuckles and holds his right arm out toward me. It shakes, like he barely has enough strength to keep it aloft. “Take my hand, boy.”

Unlike my best friend J.C., who never touches any of the people when he comes with me to the shelters, I usually have no worries about contact. But I hesitate this time. I mean, this guy has been watching me on the streets. But kindness makes me swallow my anxiety and I clasp his hand. He squeezes gently.

“Look into my eyes.”

Ordinarily, I’d just glance into his eyes and then look away. But that com- manding tone compels me. I raise my eyes and focus on his. They’re brown  and alert and they shimmer beneath the overhead lights. We  lock gazes, and     I stiffen. Something I can’t quite pin down swells within me, like a surge of emotion. I suddenly feel… different.

All the tension drains from his face in an instant. Relaxed, he releases my hand, pulling his arm back with great deliberation. He rests both hands across his stomach and gazes up at me with obvious gratitude.

“Thank you, boy. Now I can die.”

I shudder. “Wha-what do you mean?”

The man offers a gentle smile. “I gave you a great gift, boy. Or maybe a curse. Had it so long, I can’t be sure no more. But I couldn’t die till I passed it on.”

I stand frozen in place, my heart thumping, my breathing on hold. A gift?

A curse? “Uh, pass what on, sir?”

He chuckles and it’s a wheezy sound, like he doesn’t have much air in his lungs. “Just you calling an old bum like me “sir” proves you be the one.”

I feel different inside and his words scare me because I know he’s done

something to me. “I’m just a regular kid, sir. Nothing special.”

That chuckle erupts again, wheezier this time. “Oh, you’re more than a regular kid. Like you said, most kids only care about stupid crap like partying. You’ll  use my gift well.” He lapses into a coughing fit that scares me even  more.

“Want me to get some help?”

He waves away the idea with one hand. After a few moments, the hacking

ceases. “No need. It’s  my time.” He suddenly looks really pasty and gray in   the face. “When you find someone worthy, boy, pass on the gift to them,” he whispers, his voice very soft and almost inaudible. He closes his eyes and lies still. “Until then, make wise choices.”

Then he stops breathing. Literally, just stops. One second his chest is ris- ing and falling and then the next, there’s nothing. I want to shake him back to life and ask a thousand questions, but instead I run from the room to get help.

Michael J. Bowler is an award-winning author who grew up in Northern California. He majored in English/Theatre at Santa Clara University, earned a master’s in film production from Loyola Marymount University, a teaching credential in English from LMU, and a master’s in Special Education from Cal State University Dominguez Hills. Michael taught high school in Hawthorne, California for many years, both in general education and students with disabilities. When Michael is not writing you can find him volunteering as a youth mentor with the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, volunteering within the juvenile justice system in Los Angeles, or caring for his newly adopted son. He is a passionate advocate for the fair treatment of children and teens in California, and hopes his books can show young people they are not alone in their struggles. 

Website * Blog * Facebook * Twitter * Instagram * Pinterest * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

$25 Amazon gift card 

➜ #OnSale #Giveaway
#iknowwhenyouregoingtodie #mystery #thriller #ya #michaeljbowler
 #99cents #newrelease