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Three years after I died, my mother sent me twenty dollars for living expenses. Three years before that—the first time I ever asked my family for money—she said to me, offhand, "Sometimes I think you're just putting on an act. What's so unsanitary about a thirty-cent boxed meal? And why can't you wear a five-dollar down jacket? Face it, you're just more high-maintenance than your little brother." Later, when I needed twenty dollars to buy some cheap medicine for my stomachache, she blocked me immediately and cut off all contact—along with every relative we had. "Don't contact me anymore. I'm clearly not a good mother. I can't afford to give my son a life of luxury." But for my younger brother, who had just started high school, she spared no expense—renting him a three-bedroom apartment. Even the family dog got its own room. In the end, on the day my brother became the top scorer in the state, she finally remembered me. She took me off her block list and transferred twenty dollars. "It's only twenty dollars. Was it really worth giving your family the silent treatment for three whole years?" What she never knew was this— On the night my stomach ruptured, three years ago, I had already died. I couldn't afford to go to the hospital. I froze to death in the snow.

In my previous life, my husband suffered a sudden brain hemorrhage and died instantly in his office. When I arrived at the hospital, all that awaited me was his lifeless body. Overwhelmed with grief, I coughed up blood and was bedridden ever since. On my deathbed, I happened to see a news report—my husband had won a $15 million lottery. Standing beside him at the prize ceremony was none other than my best friend. The shock killed me on the spot. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my husband had just died.

I watched Ryan die. So how is Ben wearing his face? Six years ago, I watched my best friend--and secret crush--splatter all over the pavement. He died. I saw him. Yet, in the back of my mind, I've never stopped looking for him. Seeing him in crowds, in the classroom, in my dreams--and my nightmares. It's cost me everything--my identity, my sanity, and maybe my life. So when I walk into class to see a man who looks exactly like Ryan standing before me, I freak out again. My therapist tells me to stay away from Ben. He's no good for me. I'll end up back in a padded room. But I have to know the truth. Is Ben really Ryan? That's not possible. But Ben has scars--real ones and metaphorical ones. If Ben is Ryan, why doesn't he just tell me? Is he trying to drive me crazy? Or worse--is he trying to kill me? The Boy Who Died is the first romantic suspense novel from bestselling romantacy author Bella Moondragon writing as B. Moon. If you love romantic suspense, are a fan of Colleen Hoover, Gillian Flynn, Christopher Greyson, or Paula Hawkins, you won't want to miss this page-turner!

Eighteen years old Anna Greg just got admission into her dream campus far away from home. Shortly after she moved in, she had a feeling someone was stalking her. When she told her boyfriend and her friends they didn't believe her, they all thought it was all an illusion and urged her to visit a therapist. Not until Anna's boyfriend was murdered right in her apartment did they believed her but then it was too late. Anna is left to figure out how to save not just herself from the murderer but also her loved ones. A Sad Murder is a suspense thriller that intrigues you to read every chapter of it.

During a livestream of my brother, Douglas Wilcox's heart transplant surgery, I, the lead surgeon, turn tail and flee with my tail between my legs halfway through the surgery. Because of that, Douglas ends up dying on the operating table, and I become a murderer. My mom kneels on the floor with tears streaming down her cheeks. She questions me, "You're the only one capable of performing this surgery in the entire country! Why did you run away? "We've been waiting for 20 long years for a suitable heart that can save Douglas' life! You're the one who killed him!" In the face of the growing public outlash and the pressure exerted by the health department, the police built a case on this incident and decided to investigate me. On the day I'm whisked away by the police, the enraged onlookers and the reporters have me surrounded. "Dr. Wilcox, although you're just an adopted daughter, the Wilcox family still loves and pampers you to no end. Why did you do this? "People without medical ethics like you are murderers! You deserve to get skinned alive!" I just look at the camera with a stony expression. "Someone else is the actual murderer here. The truth and the proof that all of you badly want are already revealed in the livestream."

When my son suffered a heart attack in the middle of the night, I rushed him to the hospital where my wife worked. Instead of taking charge herself, she handed the operation to an intern. "New doctors need opportunities to learn. I'll be right there supervising. Nothing will happen." But before the surgery even began, a phone call pulled her away, leaving a trembling Marvin Vance alone in the operating room. My son never made it off the operating table. I collapsed in the hallway, sobbing in grief. Yet I overheard my wife gently comforting Marvin. "For your first surgery, you held on this long. You've done an amazing job, my little cinnamon roll." Awkwardly copying trendy slang younger people used online, she reassured him with endless patience. Then she turned to me with a cold expression and demanded that I sign a letter forgiving Marvin. "He has his whole future ahead of him. You can't destroy his life." I tore the document to pieces and threatened to call the police and expose what had happened. In response, she arranged for a medical donation and had my son's body dissected that very night. Driven insane by grief, I threw myself from a building while clutching my son's ashes. When I opened my eyes again, I found myself back on the day of my son's surgery. This time, I immediately contacted my parents and transferred him to another hospital. But that night, they still dissected a child.