Side Hustle by Wendy Gee (EXCERPT)

Hello, dear readers! We have a treat for you today with the latest thrilling novel by Wendy Gee, the second in her Caroline Crossfire mystery series!

Plucky TV reporter Sidney Quinn is back and ready to bring the hard news to viewers of Charleston, South Carolina’s Action 7 channel. Now she’s on the scene in a tony neighborhood where a hostage situation is unfolding. With her highly placed resources, she’s hoping to get inside the house and score an interview with the hostage-taker, in exchange for gathering intel for the police on the case.

She’s shocked, however, to discover that there’s a dead woman inside the home. The homeowner was an insurance executive and, more personally, a friend of Sidney’s. Confoundingly, the hostage taker, a former firefighter who blames the deceased for terminating his workman’s comp benefits, swears he didn’t kill her and that he’s being framed.

Determined to uncover the truth, Sidney follows the clues, plunging into a world of identity theft and cyber-embezzlement. Complicating matters is her own ongoing PTSD from her time embedded with Marines in Iraq. The only thing that helps her outrun her memories are increasingly risk-taking behaviors. How far will she go, however, to both chase down the truth and escape her own demons?

Check out a scene-setting excerpt depicting a routine moment in Sidney’s professional life before everything goes sideways:

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Three more police cruisers wedged at sharp angles against the curb. Bewildered neighbors clustered nearby, riveted to the growing fleet of first responders. A relentless pulse of red and blue lights caromed off the lavish Coosaw Creek homes, casting an eerie pall over the usually serene neighborhood. It was one thing when a large police and firefighter turnout happened elsewhere. But it became a whole new ball game when that activity happened close to home.

Ever the broadcast professional, Sydney managed to look both harried and glamorous as she emerged from the van emblazoned on every available surface with Action 7 News. Her station’s E350 spearheaded the convoy of media trucks that added to the traffic knot. A foil wrapper crinkled in her pocket, a reminder of the hastily devoured Waffle House BLT she’d wolfed down en route to the spectacle. She took a final swig of her Diet Mountain Dew, then folded a stray curl of shoulder-length chestnut hair behind an ear.

Her photojournalist, a man who could find the perfect angle in a room full of obtuse angles, was already setting up his camera near the imposing POLICE LINE barricade tape circling a yard. A pair of magnolia trees towered nearby, blissfully unaware of the unfolding drama. Sydney adjusted her earpiece, a gesture that was part habit, part preparation for her upcoming live shot. She surveyed the scene with the practiced eye of someone who’d seen it all, yet always hoped for a twist worthy of the six o’clock news.

A veteran reporter from Eyewitness 13—and constant thorn in Sydney’s well-manicured paw—offered her patented frothy smile. “Hey, Syd. I heard they have explosives and machine guns inside that house.”

Sydney pretended to listen to her rival’s drivel as she studied the two-story brick Georgian. The residence seemed better suited for a warm and fuzzy Christmas movie set. Not the kind of place to harbor bombs, guns, or even a tweaker in-law. “Sheesh, Julia. We’re in the ’burbs, not on the front lines,” Sydney said.

“This is North Charleston, Sugar. They play by their own set of rules way up here.”

Way up here was only a thirty-minute drive from the Holy City’s cobblestoned lanes, horse-drawn carriages, and pastel antebellum houses. But a century removed from its grandee neighbor. The South Carolina legislature, hoping to add more pizzazz to the state’s third largest city, once toyed with a name change to Upper Charleston. Denizens objected when they considered potential nicknames, such as Upper Chucktown, which shorthanded to Up Chuck in urban vernacular.

Up Chuck wasn’t blessed with the chicest Lowcountry zip codes. Yet the city possessed several fashionable neighborhoods that helped elevate the tax base. Among them, Coosaw Creek—a five-hundred-home golf and country club community generally immune to serious crime.

Until now.

The crowd thickened along the length of the barrier tape while Sydney continued to scrutinize the Georgian. The house backed onto the sixteenth fairway, a lush expanse lined with towering loblolly pines and majestic oaks. She was familiar with the golf course, having played in a few celebrity events there.

Her mind wandered to those easy days that remained untarnished by a veteran reporter’s weary viewpoint. She even smiled as she recalled the marshy water hazard that split the par 5’s fairway, causing headaches for club members. Though she couldn’t see the marsh from her location, her mind’s eye remembered an osprey nest balanced atop a utility pole, waiting for the community’s most famous residents and their new clutch to return for the season.

A youthful NBC reporter spoiled her thoughts. “I know Julia’s exaggerating, but what’s really going on, Syd? My producer can’t tell me nothin.’”

“Waiting for the press conference, same as you.”

Julia gave her bleached mane a well-practiced tousle before pressing her palms together. “C’mon, you’re always the first to know any scuttlebutt. Throw us a bone. A scrap. A morsel.”

Sydney was enjoying one of those days when she could tolerate the groveling from her opposition. After all, they were right about her ability to pry open the tight-lipped law enforcement community. She’d already tapped a coveted source at North Charleston’s police department who provided valuable information regarding an EMS crew presumably being held against their will inside the Georgian. That accounted for the ambulance parked in the driveway next to a beat-up Ford Focus that likely belonged to the unidentified male who’d placed the 911 call summoning the ambulance.

At first glance, the beater reminded Sydney of a guy on her street who used to fix cars in his garage when she was a kid. Her mom always complained about his mess, citing distressed property values and abominable curb appeal. But Sydney had been taken in by the grease and specialized tools. Digital wrenches for torquing fragile cast housings. Tubing straighteners. Deburring gadgets. Exhaust pipe cutters. And her favorite—pickle forks.

Despite few confirmed details from her police source, Sydney knew this event qualified as a genuine lulu according to genteel Southern ranking standards. One rung below brouhaha, yet noticeably ahead of kerfuffle, humdinger, and doozy.

She dabbed on a fresh coat of lip gloss but didn’t bother glancing at her notes before offering her colleagues a solid nugget. “Better settle in. Might be here a while. Two paramedics are being held hostage.”

“Omigod, how awful,” the NBC guy said.

Before she could comment, Sydney’s cell phone vibrated with an incoming text from her producer, indicating the Georgian was owned by a high-level executive at an area insurance company. Obvious follow-ups ping-ponged in Sydney’s head, such as the name of the executive, for starters. She felt confident the production team would provide that information soon.

She shielded her eyes from the bold pre-summer sun riding high overhead and noted the time. A little after two.

She wasn’t about to settle in.

Questions were piling up faster than answers.

Now was the time to uncover the rest of the story.

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From Side Hustle by Wendy Gee. Copyright © 2026 by the author and reprinted by permission.

Side Hustle by Wendy Gee was published today February 24 2026 by BooksFluent and is available from all good booksellers, including