Domestic Deceit Summary:
Come along on this powerfully gripping investigation as reporter K.J. Corchoran unravels a secret psychological program that has government neuroscientists on the verge of cracking the brainâs synaptic code. Their discovery is stunning: Deep in the brainâs recesses, a small anomaly is creating an evil evolutionary defect in a growing cluster of the populationâincluding the domestic terrorists responsible for attempting to overthrow democracy during the January 6th attack on the U.S. Capitol. But to find a cure, Military scientists must test their hypotheses on volunteersâincluding children whose fatherâs participate in the experiments as part of unfolding Probate Court cases.
Domestic Deceit will leave readers on the edge of their seats as Corchoran unveils the secrets and whether scientistsâin their zeal to help mankindâhave gone too far.
Reminiscent of Stieg Larssonâs Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Domestic Deceit is a scintillating fast-paced suspense thriller with roller-coaster twists, full of political and psychological intrigue, dark, edgy elements, gut-punch conflicts and an emotional backbone.
Based on current cutting-edge research, author H.C. Johnson has created a believable, captivating, and, ultimately, a hopeful suspense drama, while exploring important cultural and societal themes with piercing clarity and satirical wit.
Domestic Deceit Summary:
Come along on this powerfully gripping investigation as reporter K.J. Corchoran unravels a secret psychological program that has government neuroscientists on the verge of cracking the brainâs synaptic code. Their discovery is stunning: Deep in the brainâs recesses, a small anomaly is creating an evil evolutionary defect in a growing cluster of the populationâincluding the domestic terrorists responsible for attempting to overthrow democracy during the January 6th attack on the U.S. Capitol. But to find a cure, Military scientists must test their hypotheses on volunteersâincluding children whose fatherâs participate in the experiments as part of unfolding Probate Court cases.
Domestic Deceit will leave readers on the edge of their seats as Corchoran unveils the secrets and whether scientistsâin their zeal to help mankindâhave gone too far.
Reminiscent of Stieg Larssonâs Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, Domestic Deceit is a scintillating fast-paced suspense thriller with roller-coaster twists, full of political and psychological intrigue, dark, edgy elements, gut-punch conflicts and an emotional backbone.
Based on current cutting-edge research, author H.C. Johnson has created a believable, captivating, and, ultimately, a hopeful suspense drama, while exploring important cultural and societal themes with piercing clarity and satirical wit.
Frustrated, the driver looked over her shoulder into the carâs back seat. Her fore- head wrinkled. âCan you hear me? Miss Charissa?â Charissa Earnst, her head turned sideways, ignored the woman. âPlease turn down music, Miss Charissa.â
The middle-aged womanâs voice rose to compete with the iPhone.
âWhat?â Fourteen-year-old Charissa snapped irritably.
âAre you listening?â her nanny said.
Charissa, already sliding toward the passenger side exit, yanked the buds out of
her ears. âYes, Iâm listening. Iâve been listening,â she complained. Unbuckling the safety belt, Charissa pulled on the door handle before the driver maneuvered the Jaguar XE into the horseshoe-shaped driveway.
âCharissa! Stay in veehucul,â the woman yelled in broken English. âIt not safe.â The pleading full of exasperation. The womanâs nervousness caused her to hit the brakes harder than she intended. The car jerked as the door flew open. Charissa tossed forward.
âJeez, Rosita, are you trying to kill me?â A terrified expression rolled across the nannyâs face. âYes, yes, of course I heard you,â the girl said through the open door. âYouâre running an errand then picking me up for my appointment,â she said in a sarcastic parroting tone.
âPlease be ready, or we be late,â the woman said. âNo tardio.â
âWe canât be late, now, can we?â Charissaâs terseness deepened as she kicked the door closed with her foot while slinging her backpack over her shoulder. She pushed the earbuds back in as she walked up the few steps to the three-story stone French Provincial. The house, on a three-quarter acre lot, sat in the corner of affluent Dunmore Ln. in tony Foxhall Village, Washington, D.C.
Oblivious to the manicured landscaping framing the grounds, Charissa un- zipped the side pocket of the bag holding her schoolbooks as she made her way onto the patio at the side of the house. Out of synch to the musicâs beat, her head bobbed slightly as she groped for her keys. Unlocking the door, she tossed the backpack onto one of the three kitchen islands.
For a moment, Charissa seemed confused. Looking around the nook area, she hesitated. No, going upstairs to her room seemed way too far. Instead, she walked slowly through the dining area into the middle great room, lined by its built-in shelves. âIâm getting warm,â she thought. âWhy is my jacket still on?â Tugging at the zipper with both hands, she stumbled against an end table. âSheez, itâs hot,â she mumbled, her tongue Novocain-like numb. Her jacket hung on her shoulders briefly before dropping away.
She no longer heard the music. Losing her balance, Charissa began weaving. Bent over, she lurched toward the settee in the middle of the room. The earplugs plopped out the moment she fell. Bouncing off the sofa, she rolled once before sliding onto the kaolin-patterned area rug covering the hickory floor. The girl came to rest on her side.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
Wow, that was weird, Charissa thought. She took in a deep breath, leaning against the portico frame in the front hallway at Willowhurst Academy. âItâs like Rosita just dropped me off at the house.â The neon image so vividly vibrant, causing her to squint. Definitely odd, but here she was at school. Right where she was supposed to be.
She looked around at her classmates bustling about, the dissonant end-of-pe- riod talking and shoe squeaking vibrating through the air, reaching Charissa as a low din. Bright sunlight flooded through the doorâs frosted glass, bathing the corridor in a warm glow that overpowered the canned ceiling lights. The tur- quoise-striped walls pulsated in fast rhythm. Everything appearing incandescent.
Charissa saw several of her friends wending their way down the wide hall- way, each following the other in turn, taking model-type strides as if on a fashion runway. The soft beams from the skylight backlit the girlsâ shinny hair perfectly, which seemed to gently swish in unison from a phantom wind.
âWhereâs her school frock?â Charissa smiled, noticing Jenniferâs shimmering yellow top.
âForget it, Charissa. Iâm not texting back,â Jennifer snapped as she brushed by. âBTW, bitch, Iâm lol.â She flipped her middle finger as she passed. Charissaâs smile turned, replaced by shock as she watched her friend stop against the wall.
Lindsey followed, clicking photos of classmates on her cell as they strolled the hall, striking poses. Forming an exaggerated smile, Charissa shifted her head to the side, her hands strategically poised on her hips, giddily anticipating her picture. But when Lindsey reached her, she suddenly stashed the phone behind her back. âSweet, Charissa. How could you ever think I would put you on my Wall?â the girl said snot- tily over her shoulder.
Charissa sank. A perplexed fright had replaced her confident smile. Giggling, Britney broke formation, shuffling past Charissa to the side of the two other girls. Staring at their bewildered friend, they cocked their heads while Lindsey clicked a group selfie.
âYou better not show up at my party, Charissa. Donât @ me. Do you hear me?â Britney shouted. âHashtag#PNG,â Jennifer added. âYouâre such a skank,â Lindsey hissed. âYouâre not wanted.â âDonât beg, Charissa. I know you want to beg. Donât.â Britneyâs voice, sharp and cruel, bit into Charissa like a rabid animal.
âYouâre filthy. A dirty whore.â A Greek chorus shouted at Charissa from above and below. Why are they slut-shaming me, Charissa thought as the voices finally began receding into the background. Her head lowered as she cried.
âŚâŚâŚâŚâŚâŚ
âAre you okay? Mi Dios, Miss Charissa. Este bien?â Balancing on her knees, Ros- ita panicky shook the unconscious girl. Bending over, Rosita placed her cheek next to the girlâs face. She felt a cool, moist, breath expel from Charissaâs mouth.
âUuugh,â came the first response. Lying on her stomach, Charissa turned slowly to her right, her body half on the hardwood floor, half on the hand-woven rug. The position she landed in after striking the sofaâs arm. Drool oozed down the girlâs lower cheek. Again, she was still, her face pressed against the floor.
Rosita continued shaking. âPlease, Miss Charissa, wake up. Wake up, por favor.â Her tense voice rising. The housekeeper didnât notice the twitching muscles in the girlâs legs. She squeezed her arms tighter with each shake. An imperceptible tremor rippled from Charissaâs temple down her side.
Suddenly, Charissaâs eyes popped open. âWow, what the fuck?â A startled gasp came with a sudden exhale. Catapulting to her feet in a single motion as if rec- ognizing a terrible mistake, her arms whipped around her head like a windmill yawing in a heavy gust.
âEste bien, you bien, Miss Charrisa?â Rosita repeated, her English becoming more erratic with the obvious concern.
âYeah, sure, of course, Rosita. Iâm okay. I must have been tired. I just fell asleep.â
âI call el medico. Llamar el medico,â Rosita said.
âIâm going to see the doctor, remember?â The incident failing to dampen the girlâs sarcasm.
âNo, no, yo quiero decir regular medico. Dr. Treibor. I telephono Dr. Treibor.â
âForget it, Rosita. Iâm not going to Dr. Treibor. Iâm telling you Iâm fine.â Charis- sa glared at the bewildered housekeeper. She tilted, her hands brushing her hair before falling to her waist. They looked at each other for several seconds, the girl finally saying, âWe better get going, Dr. Mazanec doesnât like it when Iâm late.â
Rosita stared at her charge before shaking her head.
âLook, Rosita, Iâll talk to Dr. Mazanec about it. She went to med school too, right?â Answering her own question, the girl said, âSheâll know what to do. Iâll ask her if I should go to Treibor. Okay, fine.â She tried to convincingly punctuate the decision for her keeper.
Charissa, still reading worrisome doubt on the nannyâs face said, âItâs no prob- lema, Rosita.â She added sharply, âIf Dr. Mazanec thinks I need to see Treibor, Iâll go. Promise.â
Hesitating, Rosita said begrudgingly, âI bring car up the drive.â
âFine. Iâm going to wash my face,â Charissa said, heading to the bathroom in the hallway. The girl cupped her hands under the faucet, attempting to capture the escaping water. Patting her forehead, the droplets mixed with the sweat beads still dotting her face. The cold water felt good, and she splashed on more while looking into the mirror.
It wasnât the first time she had lied to Rosita. After all, Rosita was only the housekeeper, more like a gatekeeper, the girl thought. But it hadnât seemed as serious before. Charissa Earnst looked at her face and felt the fear. She shook from the eidetic imagery, its vividness.
âThat dream, nightmare, whatever the fuck it was seemed so real,â she said, talking to her reflection. âItâs bizarre. Thereâs no way Iâm telling Dr. Mazanec about it. Iâm not telling anyone, ever.â
Charissa Earnst was waking from her first psychogenic fugue.
As the chapter opens you're confronted with mind tricks. Teenager Charissa blackouts. The dream, the nightmare haunts her. The psychgenic fugue caused by mad scientist Dr. Mazenac. This is because she wants to experiment on children. She insists she can find a way to fix a brain defect. This anomaly causes domestic terrorism. Her delusion is that she can exploit this in the name of science.
It's a psychological thriller with a journalist who has stumbled upon knowledge of these dark deeds. He found a note about an organization called DAD. After K. J. Corchoran begins his investigation he finds obstacles. His other struggle is saving his marriage. His wife had left telling him he makes work his life.
Domestic Deceit paints a picture of government experiments. And how the one percent stay wealthy. It has so many parallels to today's politics. It is a thrilling read about a man coming to a reckoning with his past and how it seeps into his marriage. K.J Corchoran throws himself into his work. Lauren accepts it at first but then it takes a toll. I must confess I had to look up the definition of aslant and atramentous.
I am pleased someone took a go at understanding the history of racism. It's a sharp, explosive story. The short chapters march along if a drummer is pushing you to scroll all the while preparing you for the character's motivations. White male extremism is explored. These men are convinced women need management. Without a doubt, it cuts close to the bone for anyone who has suffered misogyny, and "boys will be boys."
So H.C. Johnson is selling the notion of controversy and I'm buying it. Readers will come away with questions that need answering. It's a study of the strange complexity of society. I am going to take away that if you're fond of conspiracy theories this will fit the bill.