Is There A Sequel Planned For 'Cues'?

The protagonist in 'Cues' is a fascinating character named Elena, a former forensic psychologist turned high-stakes poker player. What drives her is this deep, almost obsessive need to solve puzzles—whether it's reading people's tells at the poker table or unraveling the psychological mysteries of her past. The story kicks off when she gets dragged into a shadowy world of underground gambling rings where the stakes aren't just money but lives. Elena's motivation isn't just survival; it's this relentless curiosity about human behavior, a trait that made her brilliant in her old career but also got her into trouble. The way she analyzes every twitch, every hesitation in her opponents is mesmerizing. Behind all that, though, there's a personal vendetta—someone from her past is pulling strings in this world, and she's determined to expose them. The author does a great job showing how her professional skills bleed into her personal obsessions, making her both brilliant and dangerously single-minded. What makes Elena stand out is how her drive shifts throughout the story. Early on, it's about proving she can outsmart anyone, but as the plot thickens, it becomes more about justice—not the legal kind, but her own version. She's not a typical hero; she's flawed, sometimes reckless, but always compelling. The underground settings add this gritty layer to her character, where every decision feels like a high-risk bet. The psychological depth here is what hooked me—it's not just about winning games but understanding why people play them in the first place.

The novel 'Cues' digs deep into deception by showing how subtle gestures and expressions can manipulate entire conversations. The protagonist uses microexpressions to detect lies, but the real twist is how often they deceive themselves. Body language becomes a weapon—a slight tilt of the head or prolonged eye contact can signal honesty while hiding ulterior motives. The story contrasts professional deception (like spies or negotiators) with personal betrayal, where characters fake love or loyalty. What’s chilling is how easily people accept surface-level cues as truth. The book made me realize deception isn’t just about big lies; it’s the tiny, deliberate omissions that reshape relationships.

I recently got my hands on 'Cues' and loved it! You can grab the ebook version on Amazon Kindle—super convenient if you like reading on your phone or tablet. The paperback is also available there if you prefer physical copies. For audiobook fans, Audible has a great narration that really brings the content to life. If you’re into supporting indie platforms, check out Bookshop.org; they often have it stocked and support local bookstores. I’ve also seen it pop up on Scribd, which is perfect if you already have a subscription. Happy reading—it’s worth every page!

Reading 'Cues' was like being on a rollercoaster of revelations. The biggest twist hits when the protagonist, who's been meticulously solving crimes using subtle behavioral cues, realizes he's been manipulated all along. The mastermind behind the chaos isn't some shadowy criminal but his own mentor, the person who taught him everything about reading people. This mentor orchestrated the entire series of crimes just to test and ultimately break the protagonist's trust in his own skills. The emotional devastation is compounded when the protagonist discovers his mentor's motive: a twisted form of revenge for a past mistake he didn't even realize he'd made. Another jaw-dropper comes late in the story when the protagonist's love interest, who seemed like an innocent bystander, turns out to be the mentor's accomplice. Her entire personality was a carefully constructed act, and every emotional moment they shared was calculated to push him toward a mental breakdown. The final twist recontextualizes the whole narrative - the protagonist's greatest strength, his ability to read cues, was actually his fatal flaw because it made him overconfident in his perceptions while blinding him to the bigger picture.

I've devoured countless psychological thrillers, and 'Cues' stands out like a neon sign in a foggy alley. The way it messes with your perception is next-level—unlike most thrillers that rely on jump scares or obvious twists, 'Cues' plants these tiny, almost invisible details that rewired how I interpreted every scene. The protagonist's unreliable narration isn't just a gimmick; it's woven into the fabric of the story so subtly that I didn't realize I'd been duped until the final act. What really sets it apart is the pacing. Most thrillers hit you with constant action, but 'Cues' lets tension simmer like a slow poison. The side characters aren't just props—they have their own layered motivations that clash with the main plot in ways I haven't seen since 'Gone Girl'. The cinematography (if we're talking film adaptation) or prose (if novel) uses color and sound symbolically rather than just for mood. It's the kind of story that makes you re-examine every interaction in your own life afterward, wondering if you've missed your own 'cues'.

Some habits stick with me because they feel like tiny rituals. When I'm about to speak, I literally touch my lips with my index finger — it sounds silly, but that physical cue forces a half-second pause and reminds me to check tone and purpose. If there's a bigger conversation coming, I use the two-second rule: count to two in my head before replying. That small delay keeps snark and impulse from sneaking in. Another cue that helps is imagining the other person's perspective for a beat. I picture them hearing my words, see their face in my mind, and ask myself whether what I'm about to say builds the connection or burns it. On days when I'm rusty, I actually draft a one-line script in my head — a short, kinder version — and say that instead. It saves awkward backpedaling and usually keeps things clearer. Sometimes it feels like a social superpower; other times, it’s just saving me from explaining things later.

There’s a sneaky little thing that happens when music nudges a scene into what it really wants you to feel. I often catch myself tracking cues the way others track dialogue, because a single chord change can turn a neutral frame into a gut punch or a warm memory. Composers use motifs, harmony shifts, tempo changes, and instrumentation like punctuation — a minor third creeping in under a smile makes the smile bittersweet; a sudden swell of strings can let you finally exhale after minutes of tension. I love how this unspools in layers: a character motif ties a face to an idea, subtle dissonance teases danger, silence before a beat lets the viewer’s heartbeat fill the gap. Directors and editors pace cuts around the music’s breaths, and mixing decides whether the cue sits like wallpaper or stabs like a dagger. Think of John Williams in 'Star Wars' — the brass fanfare tells you heroism is in the room — versus Joe Hisaishi in 'Spirited Away', where simple piano can map childhood wonder. Listening to cues is its own hobby; you start noticing how a tuba or a single close-miked guitar can change a whole emotional grammar. If you’re trying to hear it more clearly, mute dialogue and focus on how the scene’s intent changes when music arrives or disappears. It’s like learning a language — once you know the words, you start reading the emotion behind the lines.

Whenever I'm working on a project and hear the same chord progression or the same pad across consecutive cues, I get twitchy—like the soundtrack is wearing the same shirt to every scene. To avoid that, I try to treat each cue as its own tiny world, even if it's part of a larger theme. I start by sketching out a palette: three or four core instruments or sound sources for the sequence, plus two wildcards. That forces me to change texture instead of leaning on the same go-to piano or synth patch. One concrete trick I lean on is motif transformation. Instead of writing a brand-new melody every time, I'll take a small intervallic idea and flip it—retrograde it, stretch it, change its mode, or move it to a percussive instrument. Suddenly the same musical DNA feels fresh: what was heroic on brass becomes uneasy on bowed crotales, or intimate on a breathy vocal sample. I also love playing with register and rhythm—keeping harmony constant but shifting rhythmic emphasis or tempo gives cues unique momentum. Workflow matters too. I keep a living library of variations for major themes and label them with mood tags (tense, wistful, hopeful). I make a habit of sending 2–3 different stylistic treatments to collaborators early, and I resist the temp-track trap by asking directors which emotional reference they want rather than which exact sound. Little things—changing reverb type, swapping a distorted guitar for a plucked lute, or adding diegetic elements—go a long way. It keeps the score cohesive yet unpredictable, and honestly, it keeps me excited to compose each day.