Indelible: A Grant County Thriller

Review “Well–crafted…Slaughter skillfully maintains the tension in the parallel stories.” Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Indelible CD By Karin Slaughter HarperAudio Copyright © 2004 Karin SlaughterAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780060738341 Chapter One 8:55 A.M. "Well, look what the cat dragged in," Marla Simms bellowed, givingSara a pointed look over her silver-rimmed bifocals. The secretary forthe police station held a magazine in her arthritic hands, but she set itaside, indicating she had plenty of time to talk. Sara forced some cheer into her voice, though she had purposefullytimed her visit for Marla's coffee break. "Hey, Marla. How're youdoing?" The old woman stared for a beat, a tinge of disapproval putting acrease in her naturally down-turned lips. Sara forced herself not tosquirm. Marla had taught the children's Sunday school class at thePrimitive Baptist from the day they opened the front doors, and shecould still put the fear of God into anyone in town who'd been bornafter 1952. She kept her eyes locked on Sara. "Haven't seen you around herein a while." "Hm," Sara offered, glancing over Marla's shoulder, trying to seeinto Jeffrey's office. His door was open but he was not behind hisdesk. The squad room was empty, which meant he was probably inthe back. Sara knew she should just walk behind the counter andfind him herself -- she had done it hundreds of times before -- but survivor's instinct kept her from crossing that bridge without first payingthe troll. Marla sat back in her chair, her arms folded. "Nice day out," shesaid, her tone still casual. Sara glanced out the door at Main Street, where heat made the asphaltlook wavy. The air this morning was humid enough to openevery pore on her body. "Sure is." "And don't you look pretty this morning," Marla continued, indicatingthe linen dress Sara had chosen after going through nearlyevery item of clothing in her closet. "What's the occasion?" "Nothing special," Sara lied. Before she knew what she was doing,she started to fidget with her briefcase, shifting from one foot to theother like she was four instead of nearly forty. A glimmer of victory flashed in the older woman's eyes. She drewout the silence a bit more before asking, "How's your mama andthem?" "Good," Sara answered, trying not to sound too circumspect. Shewasn't naive enough to believe that her private life was no one else'sbusiness -- in a county as small as Grant, Sara could barely sneezewithout the phone ringing from up the street with a helpful "Blessyou" -- but she would be damned if she'd make it easy for them togather their information. "And your sister?" Sara was about to respond when Brad Stephens saved her by trippingthrough the front door. The young patrolman caught himselfbefore he fell flat on his face, but the momentum popped his hat offhis head and onto the floor at Sara's feet. His gun belt and nightstickflopped under his arms like extra appendages. Behind him, a gaggleof prepubescent children squawked with laughter at his less-than-gracefulentrance. "Oh," Brad said, looking at Sara, then back to the kids, then atSara again. He picked up his hat, brushing it off with more care thanwas warranted. She imagined he could not decide which was moreembarrassing: eight 10-year-olds laughing at his clumsiness or his formerpediatrician fighting an obvious smile of amusement. Apparently, the latter was worse. He turned back to the group, hisvoice deeper than usual as if to assert some authority. "This, of course,is the station house, where we do business. Police business. Uh, andwe're in the lobby now." Brad glanced at Sara. To call the area wherethey stood a lobby was a bit of a stretch. The room was barely ten feetby eight, with a cement block wall opposite the glass door at the entrance.A row of photographs showing various squads in the GrantCounty police force lined the wall to Sara's right, a large portrait in thecenter showing Mac Anders, the only police officer in the history ofthe force who had been killed in the line of duty. Across from the portrait gallery, Marla stood sentry behind a tallbeige laminate counter that separated visitors from the squad room.She was not a naturally short woman, but age had made her so bycrooking her body into a nearly perfect question mark. Her glasseswere usually halfway down the bridge of her nose, and Sara, whowore glasses to read, was always tempted to push them back up. Notthat Sara would ever do such a thing. For all Marla knew about everybodyand their neighbor -- and their dog -- in town, not much wasknown about her. She was a widow with no children. Her husbandhad died in the Second World War. She had always lived on Hemlock,which was two streets over from Sara's parents. She knitted and shetaught Sunday school and worked full-time at the station answeringphones and trying to make sense of the mountains of paperwork.These facts hardly offered great insight into Marla Simms. Still, Saraalways thought there had to be more to the life of a woman who hadlived some eighty-odd years, even if she'd lived all of them in the samehouse where she had been born. Brad continued his tour of the station, pointing to the large, openroom behind Marla. "Back there's where the detectives and patrolofficers like myself conduct their business ... calls and whatnot. Talkingto witnesses, writing reports, typing stuff into the computer, and,uh ..." His voice trailed off as he finally noticed he was losing hisaudience. Most of the children could barely see over the counter.Even if they could, thirty empty desks spread out in rows of five withvarious sizes of filing cabinets between them were hardly attention grabbing. Sara imagined the kids were wishing they had stayed inschool today ... Continues... Excerpted from Indelible CD by Karin Slaughter Copyright © 2004 by Karin Slaughter. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From AudioFile Past and present are woven seamlessly in this thriller. Narrator Becky Ann Baker's versatile range carries the listener from Police Chief Jeffrey Tolliver's youth in Alabama to Dr. Sara Linton's life-altering rape in Atlanta to a murderous standoff in a small-town Georgia police station. When a young man from Tolliver's past (chillingly vocalized as cold and troubled) is determined to bring the chief down, divorced couple Tolliver and Linton must team up to prevent disaster. Baker's delightful characterizations of Tolliver's foul-mouthed mother, good-old-boy mentor, and longtime nemesis bring together the seeds of disaster sown years earlier. J.J.B. © AudioFile 2005, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Karin Slaughter is one of the world’s most popular and acclaimed storytellers. Published in 36 languages, with more than 35 million copies sold across the globe, her sixteen novels include the Grant County and Will Trent books, as well as the Edgar-nominated Cop Town and the instant New York Times bestselling novel Pretty Girls . A native of Georgia, Karin currently lives in Atlanta. Her Will Trent series, Grant County series, and standalone novel Cop Town are all in development for film and television. Becky Ann Baker's work on Broadway includes Titanic and Assassins ; among her film credits are Men in Black , A Simple Plan , and Sabrina ; on TV she starred in Freaks and Geeks . --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Amazon.com Review Medical examiner Sara Linton and police chief Jeffrey Tolliver make their fourth appearance in this riveting new back-and-forth thriller that grounds a brutal attack by two young men on the Grant County, Georgia police department in a twelve-year-old Alabama murder case that occurred while Sara and Jeffrey were just beginning their tumultuous romance. En route to a beach vacation shortly after they meet, the couple takes a detour to the small town where Jeffrey grew up and began his law enforcement career. But their carefree holiday is interrupted when his best friend from childhood, a fellow cop, is charged with murder after killing a man who broke into his house. Despite his subsequent confession, Jeffrey believes there’s more to the story than Robert is telling him, and when the skeleton of a young woman with whom both Robert and Tolliver were once involved is discovered in a secret cave only they knew about, and Robert admits to her murder too, Tolliver must again confront a past he thought he had long since put behind him. Slaughter unravels a convoluted story deftly and smoothly as the action moves between those long-ago events and the siege of the police station by two young men who are determined to make Jeffrey pay for a crime they believe he committed. Threatening to kill whoever stands between them and their target--including eight children on a school field trip at the station house when the bloody siege begins--they execute a deputy they mistakenly believe is Tolliver. Skillfully blending past and present events and illuminating the equally convoluted relationship between Sara and Jeffrey (who have married and divorced in the intervening years) without interrupting the breathtaking pace of the action or dropping a beat, Slaughter takes this series to a new level of excellence. --Jane Adams --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From The Washington Post You get a lot of bangs for your bucks in Karin Slaughter's new thriller. Fourteen pages into Indelible, pediatrician Sara Linton and others are taken hostage in the Grant County, Ga., police station, which two gun-wielding intruders have strewn with gore and dead bodies. Just as that imbroglio is raising hairs, Slaughter launches a subplot that occurred a decade earlier, at the beginning of the love affair between Sara and her ex-husband, Jeffrey Tolliver, who is now Grant County's police chief and one of Sara's fellow hostages. Soon this flashback, set in the Alabama town where Jeffrey grew up, turns tense, too: Sara and Jeffrey arrive at the house of his best friend, Robert, shortly after Robert has apparently shot an intruder dead and taken a bullet in the abdomen. From that point on, the narrative switches back and forth from the hostage scene to the investigation of the double shooting, which looks a bit fishy to Sara's medically trained eye. On top of all this, Indelible is a prequel, designed in part to fill in the backgrounds of Sara and Jeffrey, who recur in other Slaughter novels. The question is whether the author does justice to the multiple layers of her material. Almost from the start, I found the flashback the more interesting of the two storylines. Mayhem in a police station, followed by a hostage-taking, may be ideal thriller fare, but one of Slaughter's strengths is her charting of post-sexual-revolution male-female dynamics, and this comes to the fore in the earlier, Alabama sequences. At that stage, Sara and Jeffrey have slept together several times but still hardly know each other, and much of what his friends say about him comes as news to her -- that he went to college, for example. What she does know is that he deserves the nickname his pals greet him with -- Slick -- so much so that she's of two minds about his riposte to her observation that a handsome, randy guy like him must have "screwed practically every woman in town": "They were just place-holders while I waited for you," he says. It's a perfect line, especially when delivered by a man who acts on Sara "like some drug that she could not get enough of," and she wants very much to believe him. But he's not Slick for nothing, is he? Their process of getting acquainted becomes even more fraught when Sara and Jeffrey duck into a local cave to escape a rainstorm and discover a human skeleton inside, its skull bashed in such a way as to indicate homicide. Turns out that Jeffrey's old friends -- some of whom are policemen, too -- figure in both cases: the double shooting and the remains in the cave. Just how they are implicated lies at the heart of the mystery that unfolds as the young lovers keep sparring and sizing each other up. For that matter, the novel's two main foci -- past murders and present-day hostage crisis -- are not as discrete as they first appear. The main thread tying them together is all the sleeping around engaged in by the younger generation of Alabama townspeople. (The not-so-subliminal message is that sex is apt to be more powerful -- and have more lasting effects -- than bed-hopping teenagers would like to believe.) Throughout Indelible, Slaughter excels at pitting one strong character against another. A long conversation between Sara and her mother, as Sara gets ready to go off for a weekend with Jeffrey and her mother takes over the packing, epitomizes the blend of love, bossiness, resistance, banter and tenuous compromise that shapes relations between a tough-minded parent and a willful child. And in Slaughter's steady hands, the trajectory of Sara and Jeffrey's off-and-on romance is clear and convincing. Ultimately, though, too much happens in this book. For all its deaths and splattered walls and countdowns toward the moment when the cops will rush their own station house, the hostage crisis gets shortchanged. Maybe Slaughter asked too much of herself in trying to fuse a prequel with an update (the outcome of the present-day crisis sets the stage for a new act in the Sara-Jeffrey relationship). To readers who concentrate on the Alabama murder case, however, Indelible will give considerable pleasure. Copyright 2004, The Washington Post Co. All Rights Reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review "[Slaughter] has been compared to Thomas Harris and Patricia Cornwell, and for once the hype is justified.... Slaughter's plotting is brilliant, her suspense relentless." --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Booklist This fourth entry in Slaughter's Grant County series features meticulous plotting, a cast full of the walking wounded, and gruesome forensic detail. Small-town pediatrician and part-time coroner Sara Linton stops by the police station to give her ex-husband, Chief Jeffrey Tolliver, her much-practiced speech on why they should not get remarried. Sara still loves Jeffrey, but she continues to suffer from the emotional fallout of his infidelity, which broke up the marriage. But their heart-to-heart is soon interrupted by gunfire as two zombie-eyed, heavily armed 20-year-olds enter the station and open fire. In the tense standoff that follows, Sara flashes back 12 years to when she first met Jeffrey. Frenetically cross-cutting from one time frame to another, the novel intersperses the events that occurred then with the dire circumstances in the present, as multiple police officers lie dead and dying. After a few surprising twists and a head-turning appearance by the series' third lead character, officer Lena Adams, the two story lines converge. What's even more disturbing here than the graphically detailed violence is the creepy atmosphere as Slaughter creates a town, and a world, full of the revenge-seeking victims of child abuse. Joanne Wilkinson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly Complex characters with credible relationships underpin this gripping prequel to Slaughter's Blindsighted (2001). Georgia pediatrician/medical examiner Sara Linton is visiting her ex-husband, Police Chief Jeffrey Tolliver, when two malevolent strangers, hauntingly familiar to Sara, pull out guns at the station house, where several schoolchildren are on a class trip, and bloody mayhem ensues. The action shifts to the past, when new lovers Sara and Jeffrey detour to his hometown on their way to a beach weekend. A nostalgic tour of Jeffrey's youth turns sinister as buried secrets and injustices slowly come to light. An ugly midnight encounter with Jeffrey's sloshed mother sends Sara outside in time to hear gunshots from the neighboring house of Jeffrey's childhood friend Robert, a cop, who's found bleeding, gun in hand, across the bedroom from his dead victim. Sara is grateful to perform the autopsy, knowing there's more than meets the eye in this puzzling crime scene. The couple's budding romance is put to the test as Sara tries to coax answers from tight-lipped Jeffrey, whose silence and suspicious actions nourish her doubts. Slaughter's tightly disciplined rhythm and occasional sly humor keep readers hooked right up to the end. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover The internationally bestselling author "squarely in the ranks of Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs" ( Publishers Weekly ) shows off her superb talent with this brilliantly conceived, skillfully executed tale of suspense. In Karin Slaughter's exciting new thriller, an officer is shot point-blank in the Grant County police station and police chief Jeffrey Tolliver is wounded, setting off a terrifying hostage situation with medical examiner Sara Linton at the center. Working outside the station, Lena Adams, newly reinstated to the force, and Frank Wallace, Jeffrey's second in command, must try to piece together who the shooter is and how to rescue their friends before Jeffrey dies. For the sins of the past have caught up with Sara and Jeffrey -- with a vengeance ... Deftly interweaving present and past, Slaughter -- dubbed "the new face of crime" by Book magazine -- offers another brilliant knife-edge tale of suspense that cements her place among the most outstanding practitioners of crime fiction today. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Fallen: A Novel (Will Trent Book 5)

Review PRAISE FOR THE CRIME FICTION OF KARIN SLAUGHTER “Karin Slaughter is one of the best crime novelists in America.” —The Washington Post “Crime fiction at its finest.”—Michael Connelly “Slaughter writes like a razor . . . better than Cornwell can ever hope to be.” —The Plain Dealer “Slaughter will have you on the edge of your seat.” —The Seattle Post-Intelligencer “One of the boldest thriller writers working today.”—Tess Gerritsen “Move over, Catherine Coulter—Slaughter may be today’s top female suspense writer.”— Library Journal (starred review) From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. SATURDAY CHAPTER ONE Faith Mitchell dumped the contents of her purse onto the passenger seat of her Mini, trying to find something to eat.  Except for a furry piece of gum and a peanut of dubious origin, there was nothing remotely edible.  She thought about the box of nutrition bars in her kitchen pantry, and her stomach made a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge groaning open. The computer seminar she’d attended this morning was supposed to last three hours, but that had stretched into four and a half thanks to the jackass ion the front row who kept asking pointless questions.  The Georgia Bureau of Investigation trained its agents more often than any other agency in the region.  Statistics and data on criminal activities were constantly being drummed into their heads.  They had to be up -to -date on all of the latest technology.  They had to qualify at the range twice a year.  They ran mock raids and active shooter simulations that were so intense that for weeks after, Faith couldn’t go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without checking shadows in doorways. Usually, she appreciated the agency’s thoroughness.  Today, all she could think about was her four-month- old baby, and the promise Faith had made to her mother that she would be back no later than noon.              The clock on the dash read ten after one o’clock when she started the car.  Faith mumbled a curse as she pulled out of the parking lot in front of the Panthersville Road headquarters.  She used Bluetooth to dial her mother’s number.  The car speakers gave back a static-y silence.  Faith hung up and dialed again.  This time, she got a busy signal.   Faith tapped her finger on the steering wheel as she listened to the bleating.  Her mother had voicemail. Everybody had voicemail.  Faith couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard a busy signal on the telephone.  She had almost forgotten the sound.  There was probably a crossed wire somewhere at the phone company.  She hung up and tried the number a third time.   Still busy.              Faith steered with one hand as she checked her Blackberry for an email from her mother.  Before Evelyn Mitchell retired, she had been a cop for just shy of four decades.  You could say a lot about the Atlanta force, but you couldn’t claim they were behind the times.  Evelyn had carried a cell phone back when they were more like purses you strapped around your shoulder.  She’d learned how to use email before her daughter had.  She’d carried a Blackberry BlackBerry  for almost fifteen years.  But, she hadn’t sent a message today.    Faith checked her cell phone voicemail.  She had a saved message from her dentist’s office about making an appointment to get her teeth cleaned, but there was nothing new.  She tried her phone at home, thinking maybe her mother had gone there to pick up something for the baby.  Faith’s house was just down the road from Evelyn’s.  Maybe Emma had run out of diapers.  Maybe she’d needed another bottle.  Faith listened to the phone ring at her house, then heard her own voice answer, telling callers to leave a message.              She ended the call.  Without thinking, she glanced into the back seat.  Emma’s empty car seat was there.  She could see the pink liner sticking out over the top of the plastic.               “Idiot,” Faith whispered to herself.  She dialed her mother’s cell phone number.  She held her breath as she counted through three rings.  Evelyn’s voicemail picked up.              Faith had to clear her throat before she could speak.  She was aware of a tremor in her tone.  “Mom, I’m on my way home.  I guess you took Em for a walk …”  . . .”  Faith looked up at the sky as she merged onto the interstate.  She was about twenty minutes outside of Atlanta and could see fluffy white clouds draped like scarves around the skinny necks of skyscrapers.  “Just call me,” Faith said, worry needling the edge of her brain.              Grocery store.  Gas station.  Pharmacy.  Her mother had a car seat identical to the one in the back of Faith’s car.  She was probably out running errands.  Faith was over an hour late.  Evelyn would’ve taken the baby and …  . . .  Left Faith a message that she was going to be out.  The woman had been on call for the majority of her adult life.  She didn’t go to the toilet without letting someone know.  Faith and her older brother, Zeke, had joked about it when they were kids.  They always knew where their mother was, even when they didn’t want to.  Especially when they didn’t want to.              Faith stared at the phone in her hand as if it could tell her what was going on.  She was aware that she might be letting herself get worked up over nothing.  The landline could be out.  Her mother wouldn’t know this unless she tried to make a call.   Her cell phone could be switched off or charging or both.   Her Blackberry BlackBerry could be in her car or her purse or somewhere she couldn’t hear the tell-telltale vibration.  Faith glanced back and forth between the road and her Blackberry BlackBerry as she typed an email to her mother.  She spoke the words aloud as she typed—             “On-my-way.  Sorry-I’m-late.  Call-me.”  She sent the email, then tossed the phone onto the seat along with the spilled items from her purse.  After a moment’s hesitation, Faith popped the gum into her mouth.  She chewed as she drove, ignoring the purse lint clinging to her tongue.  She turned on the radio, then snapped it back off.  The traffic thinned as she got closer to the city.  The clouds moved apart, sending down bright rays of sunshine.  The inside of the car began to bake.   Ten minutes out, Faith’s nerves were still one edge, and she was sweating from the heat in the car.  She cracked the sunroof to let in some air.  This was probably a simple case of separation anxiety.  She’d been back at work for a little over two months, but still, every morning when Faith left Emma at her mother’s, she felt something akin to a seizure take hold.  Her vision blurred.  Her heart shook in her chest.  Her head buzzed as if a million bees had flown into her ears.  She was more irritable than usual at work, especially with her partner, Will Trent, who either had the patience of Job or was setting up a believable alibi for when he finally snapped and strangled her.  Faith couldn’t recall if she had felt this same anxiety with Jeremy, her son, who was now a freshman in college.  Faith had been eighteen when she entered the police academy.  Jeremy was three years old by then.  She had grabbed onto the idea of joining the force as if it was the only life preserver left on the Titanic .  Thanks to two minutes of poor judgment in the back of a movie theater and what foreshadowed a lifetime of breathtakingly bad taste in men, Faith had gone straight from puberty to motherhood without any of the usual stops in between.  At eighteen, she had relished the idea of earning a steady paycheck so that she could move out of her parents’ house and raise Jeremy the way that she wanted.  Going to work every day had been a step toward independence.  Leaving him during the day had seemed like a small price to pay.  Now that Faith was thirty-four, with a mortgage, a car payment, and another baby to raise on her own, she wanted nothing more than to move back into her mother’s house so that Evelyn could take care of everything.  She wanted to open the refrigerator and see food that she didn’t have to buy.  She wanted to turn on the air conditioner in the summer without worrying about having to pay the bill.  She wanted to sleep until noon, and then watch TV all day.  Hell, while she was at it, she might as well resurrect her father, who’d died eleven years ago, so that he could make her pancakes at breakfast and tell her how pretty she was.  No chance of that now.  Evelyn seemed happy to play the role of nanny in her retirement, but Faith was under no illusion that her life was going to get any easier.  Her own retirement was almost twenty years away.  The Mini had another three years of payments and would be out of warranty well before that.  Emma would expect food and clothing for at least the next eighteen years, if not more.  And it wasn’t like when Jeremy was a baby and Faith could dress him in mismatched socks and yard sale hand-me-downs.  Babies today had to coordinate.  They needed BPA-free bottles and certified organic applesauce from kindly Amish farmers.  If Jeremy got into the architectural program at Georgia Tech, Faith was looking at six more years of buying books and doing his laundry.  Most worryingly, her son had found a serious girlfriend.  An older girlfriend with curvy hips and a ticking biological clock.  Faith could be a grandmother before she turned thirty-five. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. SATURDAY CHAPTER ONE Faith Mitchell dumped the contents of her purse onto the passenger seat of her Mini, trying to find something to eat.  Except for a furry piece of gum and a peanut of dubious origin, there was nothing remotely edible.  She thought about the box of nutrition bars in her kitchen pantry, and her stomach made a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge groaning open. The computer seminar she’d attended this morning was supposed to last three hours, but that had stretched into four and a half thanks to the jackass ion the front row who kept asking pointless questions.  The Georgia Bureau of Investigation trained its agents more often than any other agency in the region.  Statistics and data on criminal activities were constantly being drummed into their heads.  They had to be up -to -date on all of the latest technology.  They had to qualify at the range twice a year.  They ran mock raids and active shooter simulations that were so intense that for weeks after, Faith couldn’t go to the bathroom in the middle of the night without checking shadows in doorways. Usually, she appreciated the agency’s thoroughness.  Today, all she could think about was her four-month- old baby, and the promise Faith had made to her mother that she would be back no later than noon.             The clock on the dash read ten after one o’clock when she started the car.  Faith mumbled a curse as she pulled out of the parking lot in front of the Panthersville Road headquarters.  She used Bluetooth to dial her mother’s number.  The car speakers gave back a static-y silence.  Faith hung up and dialed again.  This time, she got a busy signal.   Faith tapped her finger on the steering wheel as she listened to the bleating.  Her mother had voicemail. Everybody had voicemail.  Faith couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard a busy signal on the telephone.  She had almost forgotten the sound.  There was probably a crossed wire somewhere at the phone company.  She hung up and tried the number a third time.   Still busy.             Faith steered with one hand as she checked her Blackberry for an email from her mother.  Before Evelyn Mitchell retired, she had been a cop for just shy of four decades.  You could say a lot about the Atlanta force, but you couldn’t claim they were behind the times.  Evelyn had carried a cell phone back when they were more like purses you strapped around your shoulder.  She’d learned how to use email before her daughter had.  She’d carried a Blackberry BlackBerry  for almost fifteen years. But, she hadn’t sent a message today.   Faith checked her cell phone voicemail.  She had a saved message from her dentist’s office about making an appointment to get her teeth cleaned, but there was nothing new.  She tried her phone at home, thinking maybe her mother had gone there to pick up something for the baby.  Faith’s house was just down the road from Evelyn’s.  Maybe Emma had run out of diapers.  Maybe she’d needed another bottle.  Faith listened to the phone ring at her house, then heard her own voice answer, telling callers to leave a message.             She ended the call.  Without thinking, she glanced into the back seat.  Emma’s empty car seat was there.  She could see the pink liner sticking out over the top of the plastic.               “Idiot,” Faith whispered to herself.  She dialed her mother’s cell phone number.  She held her breath as she counted through three rings.  Evelyn’s voicemail picked up.             Faith had to clear her throat before she could speak.  She was aware of a tremor in her tone.  “Mom, I’m on my way home.  I guess you took Em for a walk …”  . . .”  Faith looked up at the sky as she merged onto the interstate.  She was about twenty minutes outside of Atlanta and could see fluffy white clouds draped like scarves around the skinny necks of skyscrapers.  “Just call me,” Faith said, worry needling the edge of her brain.             Grocery store.  Gas station.  Pharmacy.  Her mother had a car seat identical to the one in the back of Faith’s car.  She was probably out running errands.  Faith was over an hour late.  Evelyn would’ve taken the baby and …  . . .  Left Faith a message that she was going to be out.  The woman had been on call for the majority of her adult life.  She didn’t go to the toilet without letting someone know.  Faith and her older brother, Zeke, had joked about it when they were kids.  They always knew where their mother was, even when they didn’t want to.  Especially when they didn’t want to.             Faith stared at the phone in her hand as if it could tell her what was going on.  She was aware that she might be letting herself get worked up over nothing.  The landline could be out.  Her mother wouldn’t know this unless she tried to make a call.   Her cell phone could be switched off or charging or both.   Her Blackberry BlackBerry could be in her car or her purse or somewhere she couldn’t hear the tell-telltale vibration.  Faith glanced back and forth between the road and her Blackberry BlackBerry as she typed an email to her mother.  She spoke the words aloud as she typed—             “On-my-way.  Sorry-I’m-late.  Call-me.” She sent the email, then tossed the phone onto the seat along with the spilled items from her purse.  After a moment’s hesitation, Faith popped the gum into her mouth.  She chewed as she drove, ignoring the purse lint clinging to her tongue.  She turned on the radio, then snapped it back off.  The traffic thinned as she got closer to the city.  The clouds moved apart, sending down bright rays of sunshine.  The inside of the car began to bake.  Ten minutes out, Faith’s nerves were still one edge, and she was sweating from the heat in the car.  She cracked the sunroof to let in some air.  This was probably a simple case of separation anxiety.  She’d been back at work for a little over two months, but still, every morning when Faith left Emma at her mother’s, she felt something akin to a seizure take hold.  Her vision blurred.  Her heart shook in her chest.  Her head buzzed as if a million bees had flown into her ears.  She was more irritable than usual at work, especially with her partner, Will Trent, who either had the patience of Job or was setting up a believable alibi for when he finally snapped and strangled her. Faith couldn’t recall if she had felt this same anxiety with Jeremy, her son, who was now a freshman in college.  Faith had been eighteen when she entered the police academy.  Jeremy was three years old by then.  She had grabbed onto the idea of joining the force as if it was the only life preserver left on the Titanic .  Thanks to two minutes of poor judgment in the back of a movie theater and what foreshadowed a lifetime of breathtakingly bad taste in men, Faith had gone straight from puberty to motherhood without any of the usual stops in between.  At eighteen, she had relished the idea of earning a steady paycheck so that she could move out of her parents’ house and raise Jeremy the way that she wanted.  Going to work every day had been a step toward independence.  Leaving him during the day had seemed like a small price to pay. Now that Faith was thirty-four, with a mortgage, a car payment, and another baby to raise on her own, she wanted nothing more than to move back into her mother’s house so that Evelyn could take care of everything.  She wanted to open the refrigerator and see food that she didn’t have to buy.  She wanted to turn on the air conditioner in the summer without worrying about having to pay the bill.  She wanted to sleep until noon, and then watch TV all day.  Hell, while she was at it, she might as well resurrect her father, who’d died eleven years ago, so that he could make her pancakes at breakfast and tell her how pretty she was. No chance of that now.  Evelyn seemed happy to play the role of nanny in her retirement, but Faith was under no illusion that her life was going to get any easier.  Her own retirement was almost twenty years away.  The Mini had another three years of payments and would be out of warranty well before that.  Emma would expect food and clothing for at least the next eighteen years, if not more.  And it wasn’t like when Jeremy was a baby and Faith could dress him in mismatched socks and yard sale hand-me-downs.  Babies today had to coordinate.  They needed BPA-free bottles and certified organic applesauce from kindly Amish farmers.  If Jeremy got into the architectural program at Georgia Tech, Faith was looking at six more years of buying books and doing his laundry.  Most worryingly, her son had found a serious girlfriend.  An older girlfriend with curvy hips and a ticking biological clock.  Faith could be a grandmother before s... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of eleven thrillers, including Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, Triptych, and Faithless . She is a native of Georgia. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review “A complex, gripping and deadly serious novel that reflects anew Slaughter’s abundant talent.” —The Washington Post “An amazing effort . . . This is [Karin] Slaughter’s best book to date, and readers unfamiliar with her work will find this one a perfect place to begin.”—Associated Press“An absolute master . . . Slaughter creates some wonderfully complex and mature female characters, a distinctive achievement in the world of thrillers.” —Chicago Tribune “Slaughter has always known how to pace the suspense in her stellar crime novels, but she really outdoes herself here. . . . [She] reveals the heart and soul of her characters within a highly choreographed, unrelentingly suspenseful plot.”— Booklist (starred review) -- Booklist (starred review)PRAISE FOR THE CRIME FICTION OF KARIN SLAUGHTER  "Karin Slaughter is one of the best crime novelists in America.""--The Washington Post " "Crime fiction at its finest."--Michael Connelly "Slaughter writes like a razor . . . better than Cornwell can ever hope to be.""--The Plain Dealer" "Slaughter will have you on the edge of your seat.""--The Seattle Post-Intelligencer" "One of the boldest thriller writers working today."--Tess Gerritsen "Move over, Catherine Coulter--Slaughter may be today's top female suspense writer." --"Library Journal" (starred review) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Faithless: A Novel (Grant County Book 5)

Review "Georgia medical examiner Sara Linton returns in Slaughter's Grant County crime thriller series, and this time she's hot on the trail of a demented killer who buries teenage girls alive.... Slaughter's fifth Grant County case offers tough love, suspenseful spadework and life-affirming vigor."— Publishers Weekly " Faithless , Karin Slaughter's fifth novel, confirms her at the summit of the school of writers specialising in forensic medicine and terror, a field which includes Patricia Cornwell and Kathy Reichs.... Slaughter’s characters talk in believable dialogue, She’s excellent at portraying the undertones and claustrophobia of communities where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and even better at creating an atmosphere of lurking evil."— The Times , London"[Karin Slaughter is] one of the best crime novelists in America.... Her novels smolder with reality."— Washington Post "The pleasure of Slaughter's Grant County series—this is the fifth installment—rests in how the characters deal simultaneously with their messy personal lives and some fairly horrific crimes."— San Francisco Chronicle From the Hardcover edition. From Booklist Slaughter's dark, forensic-driven Grant County series of crime novels has always drawn a thin line between the members of the law-enforcement team and the victims of the crimes being investigated. The title of the fifth entry in the series reflects both the marital difficulties of coroner Sara Linton and her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver, and the label affixed to certain willful members of a religious cult. Jeffrey makes a grisly discovery in the woods when he stumbles over a metal pipe. A young woman was buried alive in a wooden crate for several days and appears to have died of asphyxiation. But Sara's autopsy reveals a far different scenario. Jeffrey and officer Lena Adams' investigation leads to a farm owned by the Church of the Greater Good, which appears to have used burial as a form of punishment before. Meanwhile, Lena finds her own sick relationship with an abusive lover mirrored in the marriage of a former cult member who has damning information but is too afraid to disclose it for fear of provoking another vicious beating from her husband. Slaughter cannily incorporates any number of women's issues--from the difficult work of rebuilding a ruined relationship to finally figuring out when to call it quits--within a compulsively readable narrative. Joanne Wilkinson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From AudioFile Buried alive in a box underground, Abbie Ward is found--dead--by Sara Linton, a medical examiner, and her ex-husband, Police Chief Jeffrey Tolliver. Ward's family owns the soybean farm in Grant County; they're fundamentalist Christians who let their foreman, Cole, run the farm and family with an iron hand. Francie Swift reads each word with an intensity that drives the plot forward and keeps the suspense building. Linton and Tolliver work hard to solve this mysterious death as they face down characters who refuse to talk about it. Swift brings Slaughter's characters to life with mind-numbing precision and never-ending wonder at the brutality of man. M.B.K. © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Sara Linton stood at the front door of her parents' house holding so many plastic grocery bags in her hands that she couldn't feel her fingers. Using her elbow, she tried to open the door but ended up smacking her shoulder into the glass pane. She edged back and pressed her foot against the handle, but the door still would not budge. Finally, she gave up and knocked with her forehead.Through the wavy glass, she watched her father making his way down the hallway. He opened the door with an uncharacteristic scowl on his face."Why didn't you make two trips?" Eddie demanded, taking some of the bags from her."Why is the door locked?""Your car's less than fifteen feet away.""Dad," Sara countered. "Why is the door locked?"He was looking over her shoulder. "Your car is filthy." He put the bags down on the floor. "You think you can handle two trips to the kitchen with these?"Sara opened her mouth to answer, but he was already walking down the front steps. She asked, "Where are you going?""To wash your car.""It's fifty degrees out."He turned and gave her a meaningful look. "Dirt sticks no matter the climate." He sounded like a Shakespearean actor instead of a plumber from rural Georgia.By the time she had formed a response, he was already inside the garage.Sara stood on the porch as her father came back out with the requisite supplies to wash her car. He hitched up his sweatpants as he knelt to fill the bucket with water. Sara recognized the pants from high school--her high school; she had worn them for track practice."You gonna just stand there letting the cold in?" Cathy asked, pulling Sara inside and closing the door.Sara bent down so that her mother could kiss her on the cheek. Much to Sara's dismay, she had been a good foot taller than her mother since the fifth grade. While Tessa, Sara's younger sister, had inherited their mother's petite build, blond hair and effortless poise, Sara looked like a neighbor's child who had come for lunch one afternoon and decided to stay.Cathy bent down to pick up some of the grocery bags, then seemed to think better of it. "Get these, will you?"Sara scooped all eight bags into her hands, risking her fingers again. "What's wrong?" she asked, thinking her mother looked a little under the weather."Isabella," Cathy answered, and Sara suppressed a laugh. Her aunt Bella was the only person Sara knew who traveled with her own stock of liquor."Rum?"Cathy whispered, "Tequila," the same way she might say "Cancer."Sara cringed in sympathy. "Has she said how long she's staying?""Not yet," Cathy replied. Bella hated Grant County and had not visited since Tessa was born. Two days ago, she had shown up with three suitcases in the back of her convertible Mercedes and no explanations.Normally, Bella would not have been able to get away with any sort of secrecy, but in keeping with the new "Don't ask, don't tell" ethos of the Linton family, no one had pressed her for an explanation. So much had changed since Tessa was attacked last year. They were all still shell-shocked, though no one seemed to want to talk about it. In a split second, Tessa's assailant had altered not just Tessa but the entire family. Sara often wondered if any of them would ever fully recover.Sara asked, "Why was the door locked?""Must've been Tessa," Cathy said, and for just a moment her eyes watered."Mama-- ""Go on in," Cathy interrupted, indicating the kitchen. "I'll be there in a minute."Sara shifted the bags and walked down the hallway, glancing at the pictures that lined the walls. No one could go from the front door to the back without getting a pictorial view of the Linton girls' formative years. Tessa, of course, looked beautiful and slim in most of them. Sara was never so lucky. There was a particularly hideous photo of Sara in summer camp back in the eighth grade that she would have ripped off the wall if her mother let her get away with it. Sara stood in a boat wearing a bathing suit that looked like a piece of black construction paper pinned to her bony shoulders. Freckles had broken out along her nose, giving her skin a less than pleasing orange cast. Her red hair had dried in the sun and looked like a clown Afro."Darling!" Bella enthused, throwing her arms wide as Sara entered the kitchen. "Look at you!" she said, as if this was a compliment. Sara knew full well she wasn't at her best. She had rolled out of bed an hour ago and not even bothered to comb her hair. Being her father's daughter, the shirt she wore was the one she had slept in and her sweatpants from the track team in college were only slightly less vintage. Bella, by contrast, was wearing a silky blue dress that had probably cost a fortune. Diamond earrings sparkled in her ears, the many rings she wore on her fingers glinting in the sun streaming through the kitchen windows. As usual, her makeup and hair were perfect, and she looked gorgeous even at eleven o'clock on a Sunday morning.Sara said, "I'm sorry I haven't been by earlier.""Feh." Her aunt waved off the apology as she sat down. "Since when do you do your mama's shopping?""Since she's been stuck at home entertaining you for the last two days." Sara put the bags on the counter, rubbing her fingers to encourage the circulation to return."I'm not that hard to entertain," Bella said. "It's your mother who needs to get out more.""With tequila?"Bella smiled mischievously. "She never could hold her liquor. I'm convinced that's the only reason she married your father."Sara laughed as she put the milk in the refrigerator. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw a plate piled high with chicken, ready for frying.Bella provided, "We snapped some greens last night.""Lovely," Sara mumbled, thinking this was the best news she had heard all week. Cathy's green bean casserole was the perfect companion to her fried chicken. "How was church?""A little too fire and brimstone for me," Bella confessed, taking an orange out of the bowl on the table. "Tell me about your life. Anything interesting happening?""Same old same old," Sara told her, sorting through the cans.Bella peeled the orange, sounding disappointed when she said, "Well, sometimes routine can be comforting."Sara made a "hm" sound as she put a can of soup on the shelf above the stove."Very comforting.""Hm," Sara repeated, knowing exactly where this was going.When Sara was in medical school at Emory University in Atlanta, she had briefly lived with her aunt Bella. The late-night parties, the drinking and the constant flow of men had finally caused a split. Sara had to get up at five in the morning to attend classes, not to mention the fact that she needed her nights quiet so that she could study. To her credit, Bella had tried to limit her social life, but in the end they had agreed it was best for Sara to get a place of her own. Things had been cordial until Bella had suggested Sara look into one of the units at the retirement home down on Clairmont Road.Cathy came back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She moved the soup can Sara had shelved, pushing her out of the way in the process. "Did you get everything on the list?""Except the cooking sherry," Sara told her, sitting down opposite Bella. "Did you know you can't buy alcohol on Sunday?""Yes," Cathy said, making the word sound like an accusation. "That's why I told you to go to the store last night.""I'm sorry," Sara apologized. She took a slice of orange from her aunt. "I was dealing with an insurance company out west until eight o'clock. It was the only time we could talk.""You're a doctor," Bella stated the obvious. "Why on earth do you have to talk to insurance companies?""Because they don't want to pay for the tests I order.""Isn't that their job?"Sara shrugged. She had finally broken down and hired a woman full-time to jump through the various hoops the insurance companies demanded, but still, two to three hours of every day Sara spent at the children's clinic were wasted filling out tedious forms or talking to, sometimes yelling at, company supervisors on the phone. She had started going in an hour earlier to try to keep on top of it, but nothing seemed to make a dent."Ridiculous," Bella murmured around a slice of orange. She was well into her sixties, but as far as Sara knew, she had never been sick a day in her life. Perhaps there was something to be said for chain-smoking and drinking tequila until dawn after all.Cathy rummaged through the bags, asking, "Did you get sage?""I think so." Sara stood to help her find it but Cathy shooed her away. "Where's Tess?""Church," Cathy answered. Sara knew better than to question her mother's disapproving tone. Obviously, Bella knew better, too, though she raised an eyebrow at Sara as she handed her another slice of orange. Tessa had passed on attending the Primitive Baptist, where Cathy had gone since she and Bella were children, choosing instead to visit a smaller church in a neighboring county for her spiritual needs. Under normal circumstances Cathy would have been glad to know at least one of her daughters wasn't a godless heathen, but there was obviously something that bothered her about Tessa's choic... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Beyond Reach and A Faint Cold Fear , which was named an International Book of the Month Club selection; she contributed to and edited Like a Charm. She is a native of Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel, which Delacorte Press will publish in 2010. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. From Publishers Weekly Georgia medical examiner Sara Linton returns in Slaughter's Grant County crime thriller series (Indelible ), and this time she's hot on the trail of a demented killer who buries teenage girls alive. Out in the woods chatting about past infidelities, Sara and ex-husband/lover Jeffrey discover a young girl buried in a grotesque coffin, dead despite a breathing pipe extending to the surface. The victim is soon identified as Abigail Bennett, a member of the Holy Grown soybean farming collective, a group curiously unfazed to learn a daughter was poisoned. Suspicion blooms around Holy Grown's many farmhands, mostly ex-felons on work release, but then centers on the parishioners who congregate at the Church for the Greater Good, a local congregation run by a shifty minister. Another shallow grave, physical violence and another girl's disappearance lead Sara, Jeffrey and assisting detective Lena Adams back to the Bible-thumpers and their unholy dealings. Issues of abortion, domestic abuse and forgiveness afford these recurring female characters three-dimensional humanity, nicely offsetting Slaughter's patented grim forensic detailing. Slaughter's fifth Grant County case offers tough love, suspenseful spadework and life-affirming vigor. Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more

A Faint Cold Fear: A Grant County Thriller

Review “This is one of those rare books that keeps delivering surprises right up to the very last page.” From the Back Cover Gillian Flynn says, "Karin Slaughter is simply one of the best thriller writers working today." An apparent student suicide has brought medical examiner Sara Linton to the local college campus, along with her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver. But a horribly mutilated corpse yields up few answers. And a suspicious rash of subsequent "suicides" suggests that a different kind of terror is stalking the youth of Heartsdale, Georgia—a nightmare that is coming to prey on Sara Linton's loved ones. A small town is being transformed into a killing ground. And the key to a sadistic murderer's motive and identity may be held in the unsteady hands of a campus security guard—a former police detective driven from the force by the hellish memories that will never leave her. Lena Adams survived the unthinkable and has paid a devastating price. Now the survival of future victims may depend upon her ... when she can barely protect herself. --This text refers to the mass_market edition. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the author of more than twenty instant New York Times bestselling novels, including the Edgar–nominated Cop Town and standalone novels Pretty Girls , The Good Daughter , and Pieces of Her . She is published in 120 countries with more than 40 million copies sold across the globe. Pieces of Her is a Netflix original series starring Toni Collette, and False Witness , the Grant County, and Will Trent series are in development for television. Slaughter is the founder of the Save the Libraries project—a nonprofit organization established to support libraries and library programming. A native of Georgia, she lives in Atlanta. --This text refers to the mass_market edition. From the Inside Flap Gillian Flynn says, "Karin Slaughter is simply one of the best thriller writers working today." An apparent student suicide has brought medical examiner Sara Linton to the local college campus, along with her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver. But a horribly mutilated corpse yields up few answers. And a suspicious rash of subsequent "suicides" suggests that a different kind of terror is stalking the youth of Heartsdale, Georgia--a nightmare that is coming to prey on Sara Linton's loved ones. A small town is being transformed into a killing ground. And the key to a sadistic murderer's motive and identity may be held in the unsteady hands of a campus security guard--a former police detective driven from the force by the hellish memories that will never leave her. Lena Adams survived the unthinkable and has paid a devastating price. Now the survival of future victims may depend upon her ... when she can barely protect herself. --Michael Connelly --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. A Faint Cold Fear By Karin Slaughter Sound Library Copyright © 2003 Karin SlaughterAll right reserved. ISBN: 9780792730651 Chapter One Sara Linton stared at the entrance to the Dairy Queen, watching hervery pregnant sister walk out with a cup of chocolate-covered icecream in each hand. As Tessa crossed the parking lot, the windpicked up, and her purple dress rose above her knees. She struggled tokeep the jumper down without spilling the ice cream, and Sara couldhear her cursing as she got closer to the car. Sara tried not to laugh as she leaned over to open the door, asking,"Need help?" "No," Tessa said, wedging her body into the car. She settled in, handingSara her ice cream. "And you can shut up laughing at me." Sara winced as her sister kicked off her sandals and propped her barefeet on the dashboard. The BMW 330i was less than two weeks old, andTessa had already left a bag of Goobers to melt in the backseat andspilled an orange Fanta on the carpet in the front. Had Tessa not beennearly eight months pregnant, Sara would have strangled her. Sara asked, "What took you so long?" "I had to pee." "Again?" "No, I just like being in the bathroom at the damn Dairy Queen,"Tessa snapped. She fanned her hand in front of her face. "Jesus, it's hot." Sara kept her mouth shut as she turned up the air-conditioning. As adoctor, she knew that Tessa was merely a victim of her own hormones,but there were times when Sara thought that the best thing for all concernedwould be to lock Tessa in a box and not open it until they heard ababy crying. "That place was packed," Tessa managed around a mouthful ofchocolate syrup. "Goddamn, shouldn't all those people be at church orsomething?" "Hm," Sara said. "The whole place was filthy. Look at this parking lot," Tessa said,swooping her spoon in the air. "People just dump their trash here anddon't even care about who has to pick it up. Like they think the trashfairy's gonna do it or something." Sara murmured some words of agreement, eating her ice cream asTessa continued a litany of complaints about everyone in the DairyQueen, from the man who was talking on his cell phone to the womanwho waited in line for ten minutes and then couldn't decide what shewanted when she got to the counter. After a while Sara zoned out, staringat the parking lot, thinking about the busy week she had ahead of her. Several years ago Sara had taken on the part-time job of county coronerto help buy out her retiring partner at the Heartsdale Children'sClinic, and lately Sara's work at the morgue was playing havoc with herschedule at the clinic. Normally the county job did not require much ofSara's time, but a court appearance had taken her out of the clinic fortwo days last week, and she was going to have to make up for it thisweek by putting in overtime. Increasingly, Sara's work at the morgue was infringing on clinic time,and she knew that in a couple of years she would have to make a choicebetween the two. When the time came, the decision would be a hard one.The medical examiner's job was a challenge, one Sara had sorely neededthirteen years ago when she had left Atlanta and moved back to GrantCounty. Part of her thought her brain would atrophy without the constantobstacles presented by forensic medicine. Still, there was somethingrestorative about treating children, and Sara, who could not have childrenof her own, knew that she would miss the contact. She vacillateddaily on which job was better. Generally, a bad day at one made theother look ideal. "Getting on up there!" Tessa screeched, loud enough to get Sara'sattention. "I'm thirty-four, not fifty. What the hell kind of thing is thatfor a nurse to say to a pregnant woman?" Sara stared at her sister. "What?" "Have you heard a word I've said?" She tried to sound convincing. "Yes. Of course I have." Tessa frowned. "You're thinking about Jeffrey, aren't you?" Sara was surprised by the question. For once her ex-husband had beenthe last thing on her mind. "No." "Sara, don't lie to me," Tessa countered. "Everybody in town sawthat sign girl up at the station Friday." "She was lettering the new police car," Sara answered, feeling a warmflush come to her cheeks. Tessa gave a disbelieving look. "Wasn't that his excuse the last time?" Sara did not answer. She could still remember the day she'd comehome early from work to find Jeffrey in bed with the owner of the localsign shop. The whole Linton family was both amazed and irritated thatSara was dating Jeffrey again, and while Sara for the most part sharedtheir sentiments, she felt incapable of making a clean break. Logic eludedher where Jeffrey was concerned. Tessa warned, "You just need to be careful with him. Don't let him gettoo comfortable." "I'm not an idiot." "Sometimes you are." "Well, you are, too," Sara shot back, feeling foolish even before thewords came out of her mouth. But for the whir of the air-conditioning, the car was quiet. FinallyTessa offered, "You should've said, 'I know you are, but what am I?'" Sara wanted to laugh it off, but she was too irritated. "Tessie, it's noneof your business." Tessa barked a loud laugh that rattled in Sara's ears. "Well, hell,honey, that's never stopped anybody before. I'm sure damn Marla Simmswas on the phone before the little bitch even got out of her truck." "Don't call her that." Tessa waved her spoon in the air again ... Continues... Excerpted from A Faint Cold Fear by Karin Slaughter Copyright © 2003 by Karin Slaughter. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From AudioFile The third in the Grant County series is set in a small town in Georgia. Sara, the central character of the story, is the medical examiner of Heartsdale. In this story much of the plot is woven around people who are integral members of Sara's life. Dana Ivey does a superb job of character identification through her variations in voice, which provide subtle insight into the characters' struggles. The story is not without graphic description. However, a complex plot and conclusion make this an interesting listen. S.K.P. © AudioFile 2004, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This text refers to the cassette edition. From Booklist Slaughter returns with the third riveting entry in her Grant County series, in which her lead characters seem to suffer as much as the victims of the horrific crimes they investigate. County coroner Sara Linton arrives at a crime scene with her sister in tow. She consults with her ex-husband, Detective Jeffrey Tolliver, and Lena Adams, a former policewoman who jumped ship rather than undergo psychological counseling and is now employed as part of the security force for the local college. Within minutes, they determine that the victim jumped off a bridge and had recently slashed his wrists and undergone genital piercing. But their investigation is interrupted by a devastating discovery--Sara's heavily pregnant sister has been stabbed. Jeffrey, Sara, and Lena join forces to determine whether the events are related, but their work is fraught with interpersonal difficulties, and their small town, once a safe haven, starts to seem like a claustrophobic and terrifying place. Slaughter knows how to ratchet up the psychological tension in a compelling plot with an unexpected twist. And Lena is a fascinating character, in thrall to a dark compulsion to play out her fears in unnerving sex games. Chilling and addictive reading. Joanne Wilkinson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to the cassette edition. From Publishers Weekly In the coldly captivating tradition of Cornwell and Reichs, Slaughter (Blindsighted; Kisscut) returns to Grant County, Ga., to offer a third installment in the adventures of smalltown pediatrician and part-time medical examiner Sara Linton. Called in to investigate the apparent suicide of a male Grant Tech student, Sara brings along her pregnant sister, Tessa, who wanders away from the scene and is brutally attacked. The distraught Sara must work side by side with her ex-husband, Det. Jeffrey Tolliver, whom she loves despite his past infidelity, but it's Lena Adams, formerly a cop and now a campus security guard, whose story the novel follows most closely. Still mourning the murder of her sister and recovering from her own torture and rape by the same man, Lena is looked on with suspicion by her ex-boss, Jeffrey. With reason: she's hiding a few key facts. The dead boy's mother is her therapist and Lena is involved with an abusive young man with a shady past. Campus gossip Richard Carter further confuses investigators; meanwhile, police discover the bodies of two more students, their deaths potentially suicides but more likely murder. Slaughter provides grisly variations on the themes of sibling rivalry, sexual abuse and campus politics in a story not for the faint of heart. Readers who can stomach gruesome details and like fitting together multiple stories of physical and psychological abuse will savor the way Slaughter can evoke sympathy for perverse, even criminal, behavior by tracing its origins, and those who make it through the complexities and the gore will be rewarded with a satisfyingly chilling ending.Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information, Inc. --This text refers to the cassette edition. Read more

Criminal (with bonus novella Snatched): A Novel (Will Trent Book 6)

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. oneAugust 15, 1974LUCY BENNETTA cinnamon brown Oldsmobile Cutlass crawled up Edgewood Avenue, the windows lowered, the driver hunched down in his seat. The lights from the console showed narrow, beady eyes tracing along the line of girls standing under the street sign. Jane. Mary. Lydia. The car stopped. Predictably, the man tilted up his chin toward Kitty. She trotted over, adjusting her miniskirt as she navigated her spiked heels across the uneven asphalt. Two weeks ago, when Juice had first brought Kitty onto the corner, she’d told the other girls she was sixteen, which probably meant fifteen, though she looked no older than twelve.They had all hated her on sight.Kitty leaned down into the open window of the car. Her stiff vinyl skirt tipped up like the bottom of a bell. She always got picked first, which was becoming a problem that everyone but Juice could see. Kitty got special favors. She could talk men into doing anything. The girl was fresh, childlike, though like all of them, she carried a kitchen knife in her purse and knew how to use it. Nobody wanted to do what they were doing, but to have another girl—a newer girl—picked over them hurt just as much as if they were all standing on the sidelines at the debutante ball.Inside the Oldsmobile, the transaction was quickly negotiated, no haggling because what was on offer was still worth the price. Kitty made the signal to Juice, waited for his nod, then got into the car. The muffler chugged exhaust as the Olds made a wide turn onto a narrow side street. The car shook once as the gear was shoved into park. The driver’s hand flew up, clamped around the back of Kitty’s head, and she disappeared.Lucy Bennett turned away, looking up the dark, soulless avenue. No headlights coming. No traffic. No business. Atlanta wasn’t a nighttime town. The last person to leave the Equitable building usually turned off the lights, but Lucy could see the bulbs from the Flatiron glowing clear across Central City Park. If she squinted hard enough, she could find the familiar green of the C&S sign that anchored the business district. The New South. Progress through commerce. The City Too Busy to Hate.If there were men out walking these streets tonight, it was with no amount of good on their minds.Jane lit a smoke, then tucked the pack back into her purse. She wasn’t the kind to share, but she was certainly the kind to take. Her eyes met Lucy’s. The dead in them was hard to look at. Jane must’ve felt the same. She quickly glanced away.Lucy shivered, even though it was the middle of August, heat wafting off the pavement like smoke from a fire. Her feet were sore. Her back ached. Her head was pounding like a metronome. Her gut felt like she’d swallowed a truckload of concrete. Cotton filled her mouth. Her hands felt the constant prick of pins and needles. A clump of her blonde hair had come out in the sink this morning. She had turned nineteen two days ago and already she was an old woman.In the side street, the brown Olds shook again. Kitty’s head came up. She wiped her mouth as she got out of the car. No dawdling. No giving the john time to reconsider his purchase. The car drove away before she could shut the door, and Kitty teetered for a moment on the high heels, looking lost, afraid, and then angry. They were all angry. Fury was their refuge, their comfort, the only thing that they could truly call their own.Lucy watched Kitty pick her way back toward the corner. She gave Juice the cash, trying to keep her forward momentum, but he caught her arm to make her stop. Kitty spat on the sidewalk, trying to look like she wasn’t terrified as Juice unfolded the wad of cash, counted off each bill. Kitty stood there, waiting. They all waited.Finally, Juice lifted his chin. The money was good. Kitty took her place back in the line. She didn’t look at any of the other girls. She just stared blankly into the street, waiting for the next car to roll up, waiting for the next man who would either give her a nod or pass her by. It’d taken two days, tops, for her eyes to develop the same dead look as the rest of the girls. What was going through her mind? Probably the same as Lucy, that familiar chant that rocked her to sleep every night: When-will-this-be-over? When-will-this-be-over? When-will-this-be-over?Lucy had been fifteen once. From this distance, she could barely remember that girl. Passing notes in class. Giggling about boys. Rushing home from school every day to watch her soap. Dancing in her room to the Jackson Five with her best friend, Jill Henderson. Lucy was fifteen years old, and then life had opened up like a chasm, and little Lucy had plummeted down, down into the unrelenting darkness.She had started taking speed to lose weight. Just pills at first. Benzedrine, which her friend Jill had found in her mother’s medicine cabinet. They took them sparingly, cautiously, until the feds had gone crazy and banned the pills. The medicine cabinet was empty one day, and the next—or so it seemed—Lucy’s weight ballooned back up to well over one hundred fifty pounds. She was the only overweight kid in school save for Fat George, the boy who picked his nose and sat by himself at the lunch table. Lucy hated him the same way he hated her, the same way she hated her own reflection in the mirror.It was Jill’s mother who taught Lucy how to shoot up. Mrs. Henderson wasn’t stupid; she had noticed the missing pills, been pleased to see Lucy finally doing something to get rid of her baby fat. The woman availed herself of the drug for the same reason. She was a nurse at Clayton General Hospital. She walked out of the emergency room with glass vials of Methedrine chattering like teeth in the pocket of her white uniform. Injectable amphetamine, she told Lucy. The same as the pills, only faster.Lucy was fifteen years old the first time the needle pierced her skin.“Just a little bit at a time,” Mrs. Henderson coached, drawing a red tinge of blood into the syringe, then slowly pressing home the plunger. “You control it. Don’t let it control you.”There was no real high, just a lightheadedness, and then of course the welcome loss of appetite. Mrs. Henderson was right. The liquid was faster than the pills, easier. Five pounds. Ten pounds. Fifteen. Then—nothing. So Lucy had redefined her “just a little bit at a time” until she was drawing back not five cc’s, but ten, then ten turned to fifteen, then her head exploded and she was on fire.What did she care about after that?Nothing.Boys? Too stupid. Jill Henderson? What a drag. Her weight? Never again.By the age of sixteen, Lucy was just under a hundred pounds. Her ribs, her hips, her elbows, jutted out like polished marble. For the first time in her life, she had cheekbones. She wore dark Cleopatra eyeliner and blue eye shadow and ironed her long blonde hair so that it slapped stiffly against her impossibly thin ass. The little girl her fifth-grade PE coach had, much to the delight of the rest of the class, nicknamed “Steam Roller” was model-thin, carefree, and—suddenly—popular.Not popular with her old friends, the ones she had known since kindergarten. They all spurned her as a waste, a dropout, a loser. For once in her life, Lucy didn’t care. Who needed people who looked down on you for having a little fun? Lucy had only ever been a token anyway—the fat girl to pal around with so the other girl could be the pretty one, the charming one, the one all the boys flirted with.Her new friends thought Lucy was perfect. They loved it when she made a sarcastic quip about someone from her old life. They embraced her weirdness. The girls invited her to their parties. The boys asked her out. They treated her as an equal. She finally fit in with a group. She finally didn’t stick out as too anything. She was just one of many. She was just Lucy.And what of her old life? Lucy felt nothing but disdain for everyone who had inhabited it, especially Mrs. Henderson, who abruptly cut her off and said Lucy needed to get her shit together. Lucy’s shit was more together than it had ever been. She had no intention whatsoever of giving up her new life.All of her old friends were squares, obsessed with college prep, which mostly consisted of debating which sorority they would rush. The finer points of these sororities, whose Victorian and Greek Revival–style mansions dotted Milledge Avenue and South Lumpkin Street at the University of Georgia, had been part of Lucy’s vernacular since the age of ten, but the lure of amphetamine reduced her Greek to a forgotten language. She didn’t need the disapproving glances from her old friends. She didn’t even need Mrs. Henderson anymore. There were plenty of new friends who could hook her up, and Lucy’s parents were generous with her allowance. On the weeks she was short, her mother never noticed money missing from her purse.It was so easy to see now, but at the time, the spiraling down of her life seemed to happen in seconds, not the actual two full years it had taken for Lucy to fall. At home, she was sullen and sulky. She started sneaking out at night and lying to her parents about stupid things. Mundane things. Things that could be easily disproven. At school, Lucy failed class after class, finally ending up in rudimentary English with Fat George sitting in the front and Lucy and her new friends in the back row, mostly sleeping off the lows, biding their time until they could get back to their real love.The needle.That finely honed piece of surgical steel, that seemingly innocuous device of delivery that ruled every moment of Lucy’s life. She dreamed about shooting up. That first prick of flesh. That pinch as the tip pierced vein. That slow burn as the liquid was injected. That immediate euphoria of the drug entering her system. It was worth everything. Worth every sacrifice. Worth every loss. Worth the things she had to do to get it. Worth the things she all but forgot about the second the drug entered her bloodstream.Then, suddenly, came the crest of the last hill, the biggest hill, on her roller coaster ride down.Bobby Fields. Almost twenty years older than Lucy. Wiser. Stronger. He was a mechanic at one of her father’s gas stations. Bobby had never noticed her before. Lucy was invisible to him, a pudgy little girl with lank pigtails. But that changed after the needle entered Lucy’s life. She walked into the garage one day, her jeans hanging low on her newly lean hips, bell-bottoms frayed from dragging the floor, and Bobby told her to stop and talk awhile.He listened to her, too, and Lucy only then realized that no one had really listened to her before. And then, Bobby had reached up with his grease-stained fingers and stroked back a piece of hair that was hanging in her face. And then, somehow, they were in the back of the building and his hand was on her breast, and she felt alive under the bright glare of his undivided attention.Lucy had never been with a man before. Even high as a kite, she knew she should say no. She knew that she had to save herself, that no one wanted spoiled goods. Because as improbable as it now seemed, back then there was still a part of her who assumed that despite the slight detour, one day she’d end up at UGA, pledge herself to whichever house she chose, and get married to an earnest young man whose bright future met with her father’s approval.Lucy would have babies. She would join the PTA. She would bake cookies and drive her kids to school in a station wagon and sit in her kitchen smoking with the other mothers while they complained about their boring lives. And, maybe while the other women discussed marital discord or colicky babies, Lucy would smile pleasantly, remembering her reckless youth, her crazy, hedonistic affair with the needle.Or, maybe one day she would be on a street corner in the middle of Atlanta and feel her stomach drop at the thought of losing that homey kitchen, those close friends.Because, while sixteen-year-old Lucy had never been with a man before, Bobby Fields had been with plenty of women. Plenty of young women. He knew how to talk to them. He knew how to make them feel special. And, most important, he knew how to move his hand from breast to thigh, from thigh to crotch, and from there to other places that made Lucy gasp so loudly that her father called from the office to see if she was okay.“I’m all right, Daddy,” she had said, because Bobby’s hand had felt so good that Lucy would’ve lied to God Himself.At first, their relationship was a secret, which of course made it more exciting. They had a bond. They had a forbidden thing between them. For nearly a full year, they carried on their clandestine affair. Lucy would avoid Bobby’s gaze when she made her weekly trek to the garage to count quarters with her daddy. She would pretend Bobby didn’t exist until she couldn’t take it anymore. She would go to the dirty bathroom behind the building. He would grip his greasy hands so hard around her ass that she would feel the pain when she sat back down beside her father.The hunger for Bobby was almost as intense as her hunger for the needle. She skipped school. She fabricated a part-time job and fake sleepovers that her parents never bothered to verify. Bobby had his own place. He drove a Mustang Fastback like Steve McQueen. He drank beer and he smoked dope and he scored speed for Lucy and she learned how to go down on him without gagging.It was all perfect until she realized that she couldn’t keep up her fake life anymore. Or maybe she just didn’t want to. She dropped out of high school two months before graduation. The final straw came the weekend her parents took a trip to visit her brother in college. Lucy spent the entire time at Bobby’s. She cooked for him. She cleaned for him. She made love to him all night, and during the day she stared at the clock, counting down the minutes until she could tell him that she loved him. And Lucy did love him, especially when he got home at night with a big grin on his face and a little vial of magic in his pocket.Bobby was generous with the needle. Maybe too generous. He got Lucy so high that her teeth started chattering. She was still high when she stumbled home the next morning.Sunday.Her parents were supposed to go to church with her brother before driving back, but there they were, sitting at the kitchen table, still in their traveling clothes. Her mother hadn’t even taken off her hat. They had been waiting up all night. They had called her friend, her alibi, who was supposed to say that Lucy had spent the night. The girl had lied at first but after only the slightest bit of pressure told Lucy’s parents exactly where their daughter was and exactly what she’d been up to for the last several months.Lucy was seventeen by then, still considered a child. Her parents tried to have her committed. They tried to have Bobby arrested. They tried to prevent other garages from hiring him, but he just moved to Atlanta, where no one cared who fixed their car so long as it was cheap.Two months of hell passed, and then, suddenly, Lucy was eighteen. Just like that, her life was different. Or different in a different way. Old enough to quit school. Old enough to drink. Old enough to leave her family without the pigs dragging her back home. She went from being her daddy’s girl to Bobby’s girl, living in an apartment off Stewart Avenue, sleeping all day, waiting for Bobby to come home at night so he could shoot her up, screw her, then let her sleep some more.The only regret Lucy felt at the time was toward her brother, Henry. He was in law school at UGA. He was six years older, more like a friend than a sibling. In person, they generally shared long moments of silence, but since he’d gone away to school, they had written each other letters two or three times a month.Lucy had loved writing letters to Henry. She was the old Lucy in all of her correspondences: silly about boys, anxious for graduation, eager to learn how to drive. No talk of the needle. No talk of her new friends who were so far outside the margins of society that Lucy was afraid to bring them home lest they steal her mother’s good silver. That is, if her mother even let them through the door.Henry’s responses were always brief, but even when he was covered up in exams, he managed to send Lucy a line or two to let her know what was going on. He was excited about her joining him on campus. He was excited about showing around his baby girl to his friends. He was excited about everything, until he wasn’t, because her parents told him that his darling sister had moved to Atlanta as the whore of a thirty-eight-year-old hippie, drug-dealing gearhead.After that, Lucy’s letters came back unopened. Henry’s scrawl informed her, “Return to sender.” Just like that, he dropped Lucy like trash in the street. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review “Dazzling . . . possibly [Slaughter’s] best novel to date.” —The Atlanta Journal-Constitution “One of the best crime novelists at work today . . . Slaughter weaves a rich tapestry of complex characters with a compelling mystery. Readers will feel emotionally attached to these characters, and their journey will both delight and surprise even the jaded suspense fan.”—Associated Press “This could be her best.” —USA Today “Slaughter keeps on fulfilling and surpassing the promise of each of her books. . . . Criminal is full of surprises.”—Bookreporter   “Crime fiction at its finest.”—Michael Connelly   “Slaughter flawlessly executes a gripping crime novel. . . . Old devotees will be thrilled, and new readers will be hooked.”— Library Journal “The book should be considered one of the best thrillers of the year.” —The Roanoke Times “Slaughter delivers another riveting, pulse-pounding crime novel.”—Booklist (starred review) --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of numerous thrillers, including Cop Town, Unseen, Criminal, Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, Triptych, Faithless, and the e-original short stories “Snatched” and “Busted.” She is a native of Georgia. From the Hardcover edition. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Review Advance praise for Criminal “Karin Slaughter’s best yet by far: All her signature strengths are amplified a hundredfold by the past explaining the present. Reading this book was like watching a great athlete having a career year.”—Lee Child   “Fascinating . . . Slaughter delivers another riveting, pulse-pounding crime novel.”— Booklist (starred review) PRAISE FOR THE CRIME FICTION OF KARIN SLAUGHTER “Karin Slaughter is one of the best crime novelists in America.”— The Washington Post “Crime fiction at its finest.”—Michael Connelly “An absolute master.” —Chicago Tribune “Slaughter writes with a razor. . . . Better than Cornwell can ever hope to be.”— The Plain Dealer “Slaughter will have you on the edge of your seat.”— Seattle Post-Intelligencer “One of the boldest thriller writers working today.”—Tess Gerritsen   “Move over, Catherine Coulter—Slaughter may be today’s top female suspense writer.”— Library Journal (starred review) --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

The Kept Woman: A Will Trent Thriller

From the Back Cover With the discovery of a murder at an abandoned construction site, Will Trent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is brought in on a case that becomes much more dangerous when the dead man is identified as an ex-cop. Studying the body, Sara Linton—the GBI’s newest medical examiner and Will’s lover—realizes that the extensive blood loss didn’t belong to the corpse. Bloody footprints leading away from the scene indicate there is another victim—a woman—who has vanished . . . and who will die soon if she isn’t found. Will is already compromised, because the site belongs to the city’s most popular citizen: a wealthy, powerful, and politically connected athlete—a man who’s already gotten away with rape, despite Will’s exhaustive efforts to put him away. But when evidence links Will’s troubled past to the case, the consequences will tear through his life, wreaking havoc for Will and everyone around him, including his colleagues, family, friends—and even the suspects he pursues. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Review “Exciting...an intense look at the nature of loss and control, and how love can taint both.” — Publishers Weekly “Suspense that continually ratchets upward, a revealing look at domestic violence in all levels of society, and the continued development of a tight-knit cast of characters. This is prime Slaughter, must-read fare for thriller fans.” — Booklist (starred review) “A thriller that’s part ‘True Detective,’ part ‘The Girl On The Train.’ All parts gripping.” — The Skimm --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author Karin Slaughter is theNew York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of over a dozen thrillers, including the Will Trent and Grant County series.A longtime resident of Atlanta, she splits her time between the kitchen and the living room. --This text refers to the mp3_cd edition. From the Inside Flap With the discovery of a murder at an abandoned construction site, Will Trent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is brought in on a case that becomes much more dangerous when the dead man is identified as an ex-cop. Studying the body, Sara Linton--the GBI's newest medical examiner and Will's lover--realizes that the extensive blood loss didn't belong to the corpse. Bloody footprints leading away from the scene indicate there is another victim--a woman--who has vanished . . . and who will die soon if she isn't found. Will is already compromised, because the site belongs to the city's most popular citizen: a wealthy, powerful, and politically connected athlete--a man who's already gotten away with rape, despite Will's exhaustive efforts to put him away. But when evidence links Will's troubled past to the case, the consequences will tear through his life, wreaking havoc for Will and everyone around him, including his colleagues, family, friends--and even the suspects he pursues. --The Skimm --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Kisscut: A Grant County Thriller

Review “Few young writers show more promise than the thirty-year-old Slaughter. She writes…with skill, anger, sensitivity, and compassion.” Amazon.com Review When police chief Jeffrey Tolliver responds to a disturbance at a local skating rink, the last thing he expects is to have to shoot a 13-year-old girl who's holding a gun on a fellow student. Then Jenny Deaver's autopsy reveals two stunning facts: she did not bear the murdered newborn discovered in the rink's restroom, and she had recently been genitally mutilated. With his ex-wife, pediatrician Sara Linton, Jeffrey uncovers a child sex and pornography ring involving Jenny, her classmates, and their mothers--a horrific enterprise that culminated in the killing that Tolliver will never be able to forget. This taut, chilling thriller showcases Karin Slaughter's skill at plotting, pace, and narrative, and will linger in the reader's mind long after the stunning denouement. This is a terrific sequel to her debut, Blindsighted , with two protagonists whose complex relationship will no doubt be a featured subplot in her next offering. --Jane Adams From AudioFile Sara Linton, local doctor and coroner, and Jeffrey Tolliver, local sheriff, team up to investigate the murder of a victim who practiced self-mutilation. The trail leads them to a kidnapping, child pornography, and incest. Horrific crimes and graphic descriptions of sexual acts fill this mystery. Although Patricia Kalember uses a credible Southern accent, all the characters sound the same. Kalember reads the narration and dialogue in a straightforward manner, distancing herself emotionally from the subject matter. This effect buffers the listener from the descriptions but also downplays the tension of the plot. Not for the faint of heart. M.B.K. © AudioFile 2003, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine From Booklist This is Slaughter's harrowing follow-up to her brutally graphic best-seller Blindsighted [BKL Ag 01], again featuring pediatrician Sara Linton; her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver; and detective Lena Adams. Jeffrey is struggling emotionally in the aftermath of a shooting. Teenager Jenny Weaver in effect committed suicide by forcing Jeffrey to shoot her in a standoff, and he is desperate to uncover the motive behind her rash actions. Sara, who was Jenny's doctor and also doubles as the town coroner, must now perform the autopsy, and what she discovers shocks the law-enforcement team: Jenny had undergone a very crude form of female castration. Lena, who is wrestling with her own dark side and seems on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Jeffrey, unable to sleep and haunted by images of shooting Jenny, must conduct the investigation, which leads them to a lucrative child pornography ring. In a tension-filled narrative with plenty of plot twists, Slaughter, borrowing a page from Andrew Vachss and his Burke books, portrays the sinister world of child sexual abuse and the seemingly nondescript ringleaders who profit from it This is just the ticket for readers who like their crime fiction on the dark side. Joanne Wilkinson Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved From Library Journal Blindsided was a runner-up for several major awards given for first crime novel, so you'd be blind not to get this follow-up, which involves the death of a child. Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Publishers Weekly Aptly named novelist Slaughter (Blindsighted) brings back her horribly scarred cast of Grant County, Ga., cops and coroners for more murder, mayhem and horrific sexual violence. Pathologist Sara Linton, who has been dating her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver, is witness to Tolliver's fatal shooting of a teenage girl when the girl threatens to shoot a 16-year-old boy in a standoff outside the local skating rink. A search of the rink turns up a dismembered fetus in a toilet; Sara's postmortem reveals the girl had a long history of abuse most gruesomely, her vagina is sewn shut. Working the case alongside Jeffrey is Det. Lena Adams, herself the victim of a recent abduction and rape, who is also trying, with difficulty, to come to terms with the death of her gay sister. Questioning Mark, the boy who was almost shot, Lena gradually uncovers a true horror show of pedophilia, incest and kiddie porn, an inverted world where parents rape their children before peddling them to strangers for money and blackmail. Slaughter adheres to the traditional mystery format, but turns up the shock factor tenfold, demonstrating that the deepest depravity can be business as usual in small towns as well as big cities. The undertone of violence is pervasive, even at quiet moments ("Lena was able to pull her hand away, but not before she felt Grace's thumb brush across the scar.... The touch was tender, almost sexual, and Lena could see the charge Grace got out of it"), amplifying Slaughter's equation of intimacy with menace and placing her squarely in the ranks of Cornwell and Reichs. (Sept.) Forecast: Slaughter's much-praised first novel, Blindsighted, put her on the thriller map. Kisscut, a featured alternate selection of the Literary Guild, Doubleday Book Club, Mystery Guild and BOMC, could make her a bestseller. 10-city author tour. Copyright 2002 Reed Business Information, Inc. Review "Few young writers show more promise than the thirty-year-old Slaughter. She writes...with skill, anger, sensitivity, and compassion."--Atlanta Journal-Constitution --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Back Cover First the kiss . . . then the blood. Sara Linton, pediatrician and medical examiner in Heartsdale, Georgia, knows only too well the horrors that can hide behind closed doors in a small community. But when a Saturday night argument between teenagers at the local skating rink leads to death—and a subsequent autopsy reveals evidence of ritualistic self-mutilation and long-term abuse—she realizes that true evil is closer than she imagined. Aided by her ex-husband, police chief Jeffrey Tolliver, and Detective Lena Adams, still traumatized by her brush with a maniac, Sara's investigation is frustrated at every turn by the cold silence of the family and friends of the slain girl. But the truth cannot be hidden forever, as Sara inexorably peels back the many layers of an inhuman outrage that goes far beyond mere murder. For an ominous cloud has settled over the young daughters and sons of Heartsdale—and those who would protect them must act quickly before all innocence here is devoured. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the author of more than twenty instant New York Times bestselling novels, including the Edgar–nominated Cop Town and standalone novels Pretty Girls , The Good Daughter , and Pieces of Her . She is published in 120 countries with more than 40 million copies sold across the globe. Pieces of Her is a Netflix original series starring Toni Collette, and False Witness , the Grant County, and Will Trent series are in development for television. Slaughter is the founder of the Save the Libraries project—a nonprofit organization established to support libraries and library programming. A native of Georgia, she lives in Atlanta. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more

Unseen (with bonus novella "Busted"): A Novel (Will Trent Book 7)

Review Slaughter's most powerful book to date...No one writes like Slaughter...Her words fairly growl on paper, but yet her descriptions of relationships are tear inducing. This may make her an anomaly but she is the best damn anomaly writing books today. Make sure you read Unseen . -- "Huffington Post" The secrets and lies mount, leading to heart-pounding and dangerous showdowns. -- "Romantic Times" The twisted plot and shocking reveals remind readers why Slaughter remains a dominant voice in crime fiction. -- "Publishers Weekly" Narrator Kathleen Early incisively paces Slaughter's eighth Will Trent novel, which pulls in characters and events from her earlier work titled B eyond Reach. Backstory is sharply delivered through the antagonism between Trent's lover, Dr. Sara Linton, and Macon cop Lena Adams. As Agent Trent, of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, seeks to identify hospital-linked drug dealers, he winds up in a more complex scenario with the lines between good and and evil severely twisted. Early makes the most of these chameleon-like characters. The gruff turf war between the high-ranking female cops is terrific...Overall, Slaughter's suspenseful plot keeps the listener as tied up as Will Trent finds himself with this case. -- "AudioFile" Current series fans will be delighted, and newcomers to Slaughter's work will find a new obsession. -- "Library Journal" --This text refers to the audioCD edition. From Booklist Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent Will Trent is undercover in Macon, hoping to finally corner elusive criminal mastermind Big Whitey. The notorious high-level drug dealer uses the same blueprint in every town he moves in on, infiltrating the local drug scene, injecting plenty of cash, and retaining a retinue of first-rate lawyers. The result? A bunch of low-level thugs are turned into businessmen, and crime goes up while prosecutions go down. Will crosses paths with Detective Lena Adams, whom he had previously investigated for reckless conduct and who has just endured a brutal raid on a dealer’s house that saw multiple gunshot victims on both sides of the law. Meanwhile, Will’s relationship with Sara Linton deepens, although he must face his own intimacy issues, which are the result of years of abuse suffered while in foster care. Slaughter plunges readers into the action from the get-go with her electrifying ability to write suspenseful, riveting confrontations between cops and criminals, all while deepening the backstories of her longtime series leads. Another intense read, on multiple levels, from the ever-reliable Slaughter. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: The eighth entry in Karin Slaughter’s best-selling Will Trent series is backed up by a national advertising campaign, including a tie-in to Save the Libraries events. --Joanne Wilkinson --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1.WEDNESDAYMACON, GEORGIADetective Lena Adams winced as she pulled off her T-shirt. She took her police badge out of her pocket, along with her flashlight and an extra clip for her Glock, and tossed them all onto the dresser. The time on her phone showed it was almost midnight. Lena had rolled out of bed eighteen hours ago and now all she wanted to do was fall back in. Not that she’d done that much lately. For the past four days, just about every waking hour had been wasted sitting at a conference room table answering questions she’d answered the day before and the day before that—navigating the usual bullshit that came from having to justify your actions to Internal Affairs.“Who led the raid into the house?”“What intelligence were you acting on?”“What did you expect to find?”The internal investigator for the Macon Police Department had the dour, lifeless personality of a career pencil pusher. Every day, the woman showed up dressed in the same style black skirt and white blouse, an outfit that seemed more appropriate for greeting diners at an Olive Garden. She nodded a lot, frowned even more as she took notes. When Lena didn’t answer quickly, she’d check the tape recorder to make sure it was picking up the silences.Lena was certain the questions were designed to provoke an outburst. The first day, she had been so numb that she’d just answered truthfully in the hope that it would soon be over. The second and third days, she’d been less forthcoming, her level of irritation rising with each passing minute. Today, she had finally exploded, which seemed exactly what the woman had been waiting for.“What do you think I expected to find, you miserable bitch?”If only Lena hadn’t found it. If only she could take a razor and slice the images out of her brain. They haunted her. They flickered into her vision like an old movie every time she blinked. They filled her with a constant, unrelenting sorrow.Lena started to rub her eyes, then thought better of it. Six days had passed since she’d led her team on the raid, but her body was still a walking reminder of what had happened. The bruise fingering its way across her nose and underneath her left eye had turned a urine-yellow. The three stitches holding together the cut in her scalp itched like a rash.Then there were the things that no one could see—Lena’s bruised tailbone. Her aching back and knees. The roil in her stomach every time she thought about what she’d discovered in that desolate house in the woods.Four dead bodies. One man still in the hospital. Another who would never wear the badge again. Not to mention the terrible memory she would probably end up taking to her grave.Tears came into Lena’s eyes. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to let the grief have its way. She was exhausted. The week had been hard. Hell, the last three weeks had been hard. But it was over now. All of it was over. Lena was safe. She would keep her job. The rat squad investigator had scurried back to her hole. Lena was finally home where no one could stare at her, question her, probe and prod her. It wasn’t just Internal Affairs. Everyone wanted to know what the raid had been like, what Lena had found in that dark, dank basement.And Lena wanted nothing more than to forget all about it.Her cell phone chirped. Lena exhaled until her lungs were completely empty. The phone chirped a second time. She picked it up. There was a new text message.VICKERY: u ok?Lena stared at the letters on the screen. Paul Vickery, her partner.She tapped reply. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard.The distant rumble of a motorcycle shook the air.Instead of typing out a response, Lena held down the power button until the phone turned off. She placed it on the dresser beside her badge.The roar of the Harley-D’s twin-cam engine vibrated in her ears as Jared gunned the bike so he could make it to the top of their steep driveway. Lena waited, following the familiar sounds: the engine cutting, the metallic groan of the kickstand, the heavy tread of boots as her husband made his way into the house, tossed his helmet and keys onto the kitchen table even though she’d asked him a million times not to. He paused for a moment, probably to check the mail, then continued toward their bedroom.Lena kept her back to the door as she counted off Jared’s footsteps down the long hallway. His stride sounded tentative, reluctant. He’d probably been hoping Lena would be asleep.Jared stopped at the doorway. He was obviously waiting for Lena to turn around. When she didn’t, he asked, “You just get in?”“I stayed late to finish.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She’d hoped Jared would be asleep, too. “I was about to take a shower.”“All right.”Lena didn’t go into the bathroom. Instead, she turned to face him.Jared’s gaze flickered down to her bra, then quickly back up again. He was dressed in his uniform, his hair twisted into a peak from the helmet. He was a cop with the Macon PD, too—a motorman, one rank below Lena and twelve years younger. Neither one of these things used to bother her, but lately, every inch of their lives was a provocation.He leaned against the doorjamb, asking, “How’d it go?”“They cleared me to go back to work.”“That’s good, right?”She replayed his words in her head, trying to decipher the tone. “Why wouldn’t it be?”Jared didn’t respond. There was a long, uncomfortable silence before he asked, “You want a drink?”Lena couldn’t hide her surprise.“I guess it’s okay now, right?” He tilted his head to the side, forced his lips into a tight smile. He was a few inches taller than Lena, but his muscular frame and athletic grace made him seem larger.Usually.Jared cleared his throat to let her know that he was waiting.She nodded. “ ’Kay.”Jared left the room, but his need lingered—surrounding her, almost suffocating her. He needed for Lena to break down. He needed for her to lean on him. He needed her to show him that what happened had affected her, had altered her in some tangible way.He couldn’t see that not giving in was the only thing that kept her from falling completely apart.Lena took her pajamas out of the dresser. She heard Jared moving around the kitchen. He opened the freezer door, rummaged around for a handful of ice. Lena closed her eyes. Her body swayed. She waited for the cubes to hit glass. Her mouth watered in anticipation.She clenched her jaw. Forced open her eyes.She wanted the drink too badly. When Jared came back, she would put the glass down, wait a few minutes, prove to herself that she could do without it.Prove to him that she didn’t need it.Her hands ached as she unbuttoned her jeans. The day of the raid, she’d gripped her shotgun so hard that her fingers had felt like they were permanently curled. She wasn’t sure why everything still ached. She should be better now, but her body was holding on to the hurt. Holding on to the poison that was eating her up inside.“So.” Jared was back. This time, he came into the room. He poured a large vodka as he walked toward her, the bottle gurgling as the liquid splashed into the glass. “You’re back on duty tomorrow?”“First thing.”He handed her the glass. “No time off?”Lena took the drink and downed half of it in one gulp.“I guess that’s the same as when . . .” Jared’s voice trailed off. He didn’t have to say when. Instead, he looked out the back window. The dark panes showed his reflection. “I bet you get your sergeant’s stripes off this.”She shook her head, but said, “Maybe.”He stared at her—waiting. Needing.She asked, “What are they saying at the station?”Jared walked to the closet. “That you’ve got balls of steel.” He dialed the combination on the gun safe. Lena watched the back of his neck. There was a pink line of sunburn where his helmet didn’t protect the skin. He must’ve known she was watching, but he just took his holster off his belt and stored his gun beside hers. Near hers. He didn’t even let their guns touch.She asked, “Does it bother you?”He shut the safe door, spun the combination. “Why would it bother me?”Lena didn’t say the words, but they were screaming in her head: Because they think I’m tougher than you. Because your wife was taking down some very bad guys while you were toodling around on your bike giving tickets to soccer moms.Jared said, “I’m proud of you.” He used his reasonable voice, the one that made Lena want to punch him in the face. “They should give you a medal for what you did.”He had no idea what she’d done. Jared only knew the highlights, the details Lena was allowed to share outside closed doors.She repeated the question. “Does it bother you?”He paused for a second too long. “It bothers me that you could’ve been killed.”He still hadn’t answered the question. Lena studied his face. The skin was unlined, fresh. She’d met Jared when he was twenty-one, and in the five and a half years since, he’d somehow started looking younger, like he was aging in reverse. Or maybe Lena was getting older more quickly. So much had changed since those early days. In the beginning, she could always tell what he was thinking. Of course, since then, she’d given him plenty of mortar to build up a wall around himself.He started unbuttoning his shirt. “I think I’m gonna go put those cabinets together.”She gave a startled laugh. “Really?” The kitchen had been torn apart for three months, mostly because Jared found a new reason every weekend to not work on it.He let his shirt drop to the floor. “At least Ikea will know I’m still the man of the house.”Now that it was out there, Lena didn’t know how to respond. “You know it’s not like that.” Even to her own ears, the excuse sounded weak. “It’s just not.”“Really?”Lena didn’t answer.“Right.” Jared’s cell phone started to ring. He pulled it out of his pocket, checked the number, and declined the call.“That your girlfriend?” Lena didn’t like the thinness in her tone. The joke wasn’t funny. They both knew that.He rummaged through the dirty-clothes basket and found his jeans, one of his T-shirts.“It’s almost midnight.” Lena looked at the bedside clock. “Past midnight.”“I’m not sleepy.” He dressed quickly, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “I’ll keep the noise down.”“You need your phone to put the cabinets together?”“The charge is low.” --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review ''Narrator Kathleen Early incisively paces Slaughter's eighth Will Trent novel, which pulls in characters and events from her earlier work titled Beyond Reach. Backstory is sharply delivered through the antagonism between Trent's lover, Dr. Sara Linton, and Macon cop Lena Adams. As Agent Trent, of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, seeks to identify hospital-linked drug dealers, he winds up in a more complex scenario with the lines between good and and evil severely twisted. Early makes the most of these chameleon-like characters. The gruff turf war between the high-ranking female cops is terrific . . . Overall, Slaughter's suspenseful plot keeps the listener as tied up as Will Trent finds himself with this case.'' -- AudioFile ''Slaughter's most powerful book to date . . . No one writes like Slaughter . . . Her words fairly growl on paper, but yet her descriptions of relationships are tear inducing. This may make her an anomaly but she is the best damn anomaly writing books today. Make sure you read Unseen .'' -- Huffington Post ''Current series fans will be delighted, and newcomers to Slaughter's work will find a new obsession.'' -- Library Journal ''The twisted plot and shocking reveals remind readers why Slaughter remains a dominant voice in crime fiction.'' -- Publishers Weekly ''Crime fiction at its finest.'' --Michael Connelly, praise for the author ''One of the boldest thriller writers working today.'' --Tess Gerritsen, praise for the author ''The secrets and lies mount, leading to heart-pounding and dangerous showdowns.'' -- Romantic Times --This text refers to the mp3_cd edition. About the Author Karin Slaughter is the New York Times and #1 internationally bestselling author of over a dozen thrillers, including Fallen, Broken, Undone, Fractured, Beyond Reach, Triptych , and Faithless . A long-time resident of Atlanta, she splits her time between the kitchen and the living room. --This text refers to the mp3_cd edition. Read more

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Guerrilla Tacos: Recipes from the Streets of L.A. [A Cookbook]

Review “The reason I love Guerrilla Tacos so much is because it has that authentic, Mexican, East L.A. taco vibe. But it also just screams innovation. The flavors and imagination that Wes has put into the tacos is what really makes it stand out. It has that thing that feels like a taco but it’s so much more than a taco.” —Skrillex “Don’t presume Wesley Avila’s terrific Guerrilla Tacos is a book just about tacos. You’d be mistaken, because this is story, a wonderfully told narrative about a man, his struggles, and his dream. Thankfully for him—and for us—it’s a story with a happy ending and a slew of delicious recipes.” —Nancy Silverton, co-owner of Mozza Restaurant Group “Wes Avila is a great chef, period. He's also a folk hero and a personal hero, and here is a book filled with his brilliant recipes and stories. All I can say is, if you're like me, you're going look at every photo in this book and say, ‘I want that one, I want that one, I want that one, I want that one...’" —Philip Rosenthal, creator of Everybody Loves Raymond and I'll Have What Phil's Having "There are cookbooks you can't wait to actually cook out of, cookbooks you display on your coffee table to remind yourself how cool you are, and cookbooks you read every sentence of because they've somehow nailed storytelling and recipe writing. Well, that last one is a rare unicorn. The new Guerrilla Tacos cookbook is one of those." —Alex Beggs, BonAppetit.com "Narrated in Avila’s relaxed, conversational style, that story pulls you in, as do the 50 recipes. [...] Avila also includes more than two dozen of his fantastic salsas, plus illustrations, comics and helpful advice (on tortillas, on tostadas)." —Tien Nguyen, The Los Angeles Times “[...] the brilliant mashup that is Guerrilla Tacos feels personal, not gimmicky. With offerings like pork belly and caviar tacos alongside adobo, pastor, carnitas and the gang, there’s a reason that Jonathan Gold deemed it L.A.’s Best Taco Truck. In Guerrilla Tacos: Recipes from the Streets of LA (Ten Speed), with writer Richard Parks III, Avila tells his underdog story with endearing charm.” —Christine Muhlke, Bon Appetit "Avila is leading a new wave of LA chefs — children of immigrants, classically trained in French cuisine — who blur the lines between high and low and, in his case, leaving upscale restaurants to serve street food." —Mandalit Del Barco, National Public Radio About the Author Before WES AVILA began his life as a taquero, he was a forklift driver at a box factory for seven years. In 2003, he quit his job to go to culinary school full-time. After attending California School of Culinary Arts in Pasadena, California, he went to work at L'Auberge Carmel with Walter Mansk, followed by Palate Food + Wine, Marche, and Le Comptoir with Gary Menes. In August of 2012, Wes left the world of fine dining to devote himself to running Guerrilla Tacos—at that time, a two-person street cart. RICHARD PARKS is a writer and filmmaker living in Los Angeles. He has written for Lucky Peach , the New York Times , and McSweeneys . Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. AN INTRODUCTION TO GUERRILLA TACOS This is not a taco book. It’s a Guerrilla Tacos book.THE RECIPES YOU FIND HERE WILL GIVE YOU ALL YOU NEED TO MAKE THE FOOD FROM GUERRILL TACOS AT HOME TONIGHT. I DON’T PRETEND THERE’S ANY DEEP DARK SECRET TO WHAT I’M DOING. EVERYTHING ISP RESENTED IN AS STRAIGHTFORWARD A WAY AS POSSIBLE—A MIX OF FLAVORS AND TEXTURES AND COLORS PILED ON TO A FIVE-INCH TORTILLA AND SERVED ON A SMALL PAPER TRAY. WE MAKE PRETTY SIMPLE FOOD. BUT WE DO IT OUR OWN WAY. What is a taco? To me it’s a tortilla and whatever you can dream up to put on top. Savory or sweet, stewed or grilled, soft or crispy, corn or flour—you can take it in any direction, as long as you can reasonably eat it with your hands. You can even put schwarma on a tortilla and call that a taco. I haven’t done that, but now that I mention it, it doesn’t sound half bad. Maybe I’ll even try it at the truck next week. What is Guerrilla Tacos? It’s all the flavors and food I dream about, usually on a tortilla. It’s also the name of a food truck that parks in front of some of L.A.’s better coffee shops. Soon after this writing, it will become a brick-and-mortar restaurant. My wife, Tanya, came up with the name “guerrilla” because in the beginning, we were always in danger of being shut down by the cops. “You’re like a guerrilla soldier, you do it your way, underground,” she said to me. Sometimes it seems our lives resemble that of soldiers participating in unconventional warfare. With the truck, our locations, and with our tacos, everything is always changing, every single day. We keep it small, dynamic, guerrilla. This is not “authentic” Mexican food. It’s personal. I couldn’t give a shit about authenticity, especially when it comes to tacos. A taco isn’t just asada, pastor, and carnitas, with chopped onions and cilantro and your choice of salsa. The truth is there is no such thing as an authentic taco. Taco makers have always known this; if you look at the taqueros cooking in Mexico, there is always experimentation and a lot of “inauthentic” food. That’s the tradition I see myself as a part of—the tradition of inauthenticity. Of not being a slave to tradition. Of experimenting. Evolving. A taco is a blank canvas. How do you want to paint it? Let your imagination run wild. Seared cauliflower with raisins; tuna poke with furikake, uni, and habanero; Armenian beef basturma with a fried farm egg and burnt tomato salsa . . . corn tortillas go with everything. I consider anything an authentic Guerrilla Taco as long as I’m being authentic to myself and my perspective and experiences as a cook.  Who am I? A fat kid from Pico Rivera, turned DJ, turned teamster, turned fine-dining cook, turned DIY food-truck chef. I am sleeved in tattoos and I have a season-pass to Disneyland. I love my wife and my dog and my family. And I love what I cook. The story of Guerrilla Tacos is also my story, told one taco at a time. It’s the story of my childhood in Pico where the house would fill with the aroma that came when my mother fried ground beef in lard with Lawry’s taco seasoning on the stove top. It’s a trip to Baja with my dad, where I tasted my first lobster, and to his hometown in a rural part of Durango, Mexico, where I sampled the most amazing wild anise. It’s a mind-blowing tapas bar in Spain that serves nothing but wine and different kinds of mushrooms. It’s learning the basics at culinary school, getting my fine-dining chops at L’Auberge Carmel with Walter Manzke, and slanging prime rib and liver and onions at a country club in Pacific Palisades. I started Guerrilla Tacos on a whim in 2012 with a $300 cart I found in downtown L.A. and a hibachi grill. Only two kinds of tacos were served that day—chicken and steak. I had no idea what the following morning would bring. Since then, everything has changed. But I still can’t tell you what’s going to happen tomorrow. In the few years since Guerrilla Tacos opened, I’ve gotten shingles from stress, been shut down by the police, and landed near the top of Jonathan Gold’s best restaurants list—and the crazy thing is, we still don’t even have a restaurant. Guerrilla Tacos is still very young. As we write this book, we’re looking to open our first brick-and-mortar restaurant with a real grill and an open fire, things that weren’t available at first as I cooked out of the cart or now out of the kitchen of the food truck. And soon, the truck will go away and Guerrilla Tacos will change into something new. So this book is a snapshot of my cooking at a moment in time, and it is the story of how I got here, told through my life in food. As I have from day one, I’m going to keep moving from here, keep evolving, keep doing it guerrilla style. Read more