Pre-order it Read the reviews Read an excerpt Read the "story behind the story"

"A riveting story." --Lauraine Snelling Over Her Head FaithWords 0-446-69493-2 May 2007 What kind of mother suspects her own daughter of murder? Laurie Hale has the perfect life--and the perfect family to go with it. She imagines fun, love, and academic success for her daughter, Anna. But when one of Anna's classmates is found murdered and the police start asking questions, fear and suspicion threaten everything Laurie values. Anna isn't the only suspect-a whole group of teenagers seems to be involved, but none of them is talking, and the community is in an uproar. Laurie is asked to leave her prayer group just when she needs it the most, and her marriage bears the strain of the crisis. Laurie's only ally is Janice, the mayor's wife, whose own son could implicate Anna-or exonerate her. Ultimately, Laurie must face her fears: What if Anna really was involved in Randi Peizer's murder? And what kind of person is Laurie if she can doubt her own child's innocence? Only God can provide the answers when Laurie finds herself in OVER HER HEAD. "As tragedy unravels a community and a church, a good woman is forced to face the stark truth of her own faith in Shelley Bates's Over Her Head. Once more, Shelley has created a compelling story of crisis and spirit." --Mary Jo Putney, author of The Marriage Spell

"Every mother and her teen daughter should read Shelley Bates's Over Her Head together. And dads, too. Powerful. Moving. Uplifting."  --Lyn Cote, author of The Women of Ivy Manor series

   Even in November, when the trees were bare and skeletal and the ground wet, the jogging trail by the river was still Laurie Hale's favorite place to run. Not that she was wild about jogging, mind you. But something had to be done about this flabby stomach and wobbly thighs, because she was simply not going into a size sixteen on her next trip to the mall, and that was that.

   There are barriers in every woman's life beyond which she will not go, and a size sixteen was one of them.

   Besides, jogging got her out of the house. Going to Curves would do the same, but she'd still be in a gym with people she knew from church and Anna's and Tim's schools. What Laurie liked best about running by the river was simply that she was alone.

   When you had a ten-year-old son and a fourteen-year-old daughter, who could blame you for taking extreme measures and resorting to jogging in order to get a little peace and quiet?

   So what if her sweats were a shrunken pair of Colin's and her shoes were from the local discount store? No one was out here at seven on a winter morning. The executive types had already been and gone, taking the commuter train from the little station in Glendale into Pittsburgh and leaving the trails to the winter birds, squirrels, and slightly chunky moms.

   Laurie's legs were beginning to ache, though, at the end of her mile. She wasn't much of a goal setter, but if she had to set one, it would be getting back to the bridge without feeling as though she was going to keel over and die of oxygen deprivation. The halfway point where she turned around was about here, where the Susquanny River widened a little and a sandbar had built up in it. Often the herons would gather here to pick over what the river had tossed up, or to spear minnows on their way past in the shallows. In the summer, the kids had loved to play here. Someone had tied a rope swing into a tree, and they'd drop off it into the deep pools close to the bank. But now the swing was as frozen and lifeless as the tree that supported it, waiting for the sun and the return of the children.

   There must have been some high water recently. A log had washed up on the sandbar, and crows were walking around it like car salesmen sizing up a new deal. There were clothes draped over it, too. Good grief. Surely someone hadn't been swimming? It had to be forty-five degrees out here.

   Laurie jogged a little closer, taking one of the offshoot trails closer to the bank. Maybe it wasn't a log, after all. Maybe someone had tossed a bag of old clothes off the bridge instead of taking them to the Salvation Army like normal people. But weren't there branches sticking out? And was that an animal trapped under it? With brown fur?

   The river trail, though beautiful and scenic, didn't change much. That was why Laurie liked it. She didn't have to watch out for hazards because she knew where they all were, and she could pay attention to seasonal changes in the scenery without worrying about falling flat on her face.

   So anything different meant a little investigation was in order. Maybe there would be identifying marks among the clothes to tell her who the litterbug was. And then she'd march down to the Glendale police station and wake up one of the- Good heavens.

   Laurie slid down the bank and landed upright by sheer luck. She squinted against the sparkle of the sun on the water and focused on the pile on the sandbar.

   Not fur. Hair. Dark brown, short-cropped hair, drying and rimed with sand.

   A green jacket. Jeans.

   Bare feet. Slender, pale feet, so cold they were gray.

   The bundle on the sand was a girl.

   Had been a girl.

   Because even Laurie could tell she was dead.

Coming soon!

From the book Over Her Head by Shelley Bates, FaithWords, publication date May 2007, copyright by Shelley Bates. R and TM are trademarks of the publisher. For more information, surf to FaithWords.