Lilac Girls: A Novel

Review “Harrowing . . . Lilac illuminates.” — People “A compelling, page-turning narrative . . . Lilac Girls falls squarely into the groundbreaking category of fiction that re-examines history from a fresh, female point of view. It’s smart, thoughtful and also just an old-fashioned good read.” — Fort Worth Star-Telegram “A powerful story for readers everywhere . . . Martha Hall Kelly has brought readers a firsthand glimpse into one of history’s most frightening memories. A novel that brings to life what these women and many others suffered. . . . I was moved to tears.” — San Francisco Book Review “[A] compelling first novel . . . This is a page-turner demonstrating the tests and triumphs civilians faced during war, complemented by Kelly’s vivid depiction of history and excellent characters.” — Publishers Weekly “Kelly vividly re-creates the world of Ravensbrück.” — Kirkus Reviews “Inspired by actual events and real people, Martha Hall Kelly has woven together the stories of three women during World War II that reveal the bravery, cowardice, and cruelty of those days. This is a part of history—women’s history—that should never be forgotten.” —Lisa See, New York Times bestselling author of China Dolls “This is the kind of book I wish I had the courage to write—a profound, unsettling, and thoroughly captivating look at sisterhood through the dark lens of the Holocaust. Lilac Girls is the best book I’ve read all year. It will haunt you.” —Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet “Rich with historical detail and riveting to the end, Lilac Girls weaves the lives of three astonishing women into a story of extraordinary moral power set against the harrowing backdrop of Europe in thrall to Nazi Germany. Martha Hall Kelly moves effortlessly across physical and ethical battlegrounds, across the trajectory of a doomed wartime romance, across the territory of the soul. I can’t remember the last time I read a novel that moved me so deeply.” —Beatriz Williams, New York Times bestselling author of A Hundred Summers and The Secret Life of Violet Grant Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1CarolineSeptember 1939If I’d known I was about to meet the man who’d shatter me like bone china on terra-cotta, I would have slept in. Instead, I roused our florist, Mr. Sitwell, from his bed to make a boutonnière. My first consulate gala was no time to stand on ceremony.I joined the riptide of the great unwashed moving up Fifth Avenue. Men in gray-felted fedoras pushed by me, the morning papers in their attachés bearing the last benign headlines of the decade. There was no storm gathering in the east that day, no portent of things to come. The only ominous sign from the direction of Europe was the scent of slack water wafting off the East River.As I neared our building at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-ninth Street, I felt Roger watching from the window above. He’d fired people for a lot less than being twenty minutes late, but the one time of year the New York elite opened their wallets and pretended they cared about France was no time for skimpy boutonnières.I turned at the corner, the morning sun alive in the gold-leaf letters chiseled in the cornerstone: la maison française. The French Building, home to the French Consulate, stood side by side with the British Empire Building, facing Fifth Avenue, part of Rockefeller Center, Junior Rockefeller’s new complex of granite and limestone. Many foreign consulates kept offices there then, resulting in a great stew of international diplomacy.“All the way to the back and face the front,” said Cuddy, our elevator operator.Mr. Rockefeller handpicked the elevator boys, screening for manners and good looks. Cuddy was heavy on the looks, though his hair was already salt-and-peppered, his body in a hurry to age.Cuddy fixed his gaze on the illuminated numbers above the doors. “You got a crowd up there today, Miss Ferriday. Pia said there’s two new boats in.”“Delightful,” I said.Cuddy brushed something off the sleeve of his navy-blue uniform jacket. “Another late one tonight?”For the fastest elevators in the world, ours still took forever. “I’ll be gone by five. Gala tonight.”I loved my job. Grandmother Woolsey had started the work tradition in our family, nursing soldiers on the battlefield at Gettysburg. But my volunteer post as head of family assistance for the French Consulate wasn’t work really. Loving all things French was simply genetic for me. My father may have been half-Irish, but his heart belonged to France. Plus, Mother had inherited an apartment in Paris, where we spent every August, so I felt at home there.The elevator stopped. Even through the closed doors, we could hear a terrific din of raised voices. A shiver ran through me.“Third floor,” Cuddy called out. “French Consulate. Watch your—”Once the doors parted, the noise overpowered all polite speech. The hallway outside our reception area was packed so tightly with people one could scarcely step through. Both the Normandie and the Ile de France, two of France’s premier ocean liners, had landed that morning in New York Harbor, packed with wealthy passengers fleeing the uncertainty in France. Once the all-clear horn signaled and they were free to disembark, the ships’ elite streamed to the consulate to iron out visa problems and other sticky issues.I squeezed into the smoky reception area, past ladies in Paris’s newest day dresses who stood gossiping in a lovely cloud of Arpège, the sea spray still in their hair. The people in this group were accustomed to being shadowed by a butler with a crystal ashtray and a champagne flute. Bellboys in scarlet jackets from the Normandie went toe-to-toe with their black-jacketed counterparts from the Ile de France. I wedged one shoulder through the crowd, toward our secretary’s desk at the back of the room, and my chiffon scarf snagged on the clasp of one ravishing creature’s pearls. As I worked to extract it, the intercom buzzed unanswered.Roger.I pressed on through, felt a pat on my behind, and turned to see a midshipman flash a plaquey smile.“Gardons nos mains pour nous-mêmes,” I said. Let’s keep our hands to ourselves.The boy raised his arm above the crowd and dangled his Normandie stateroom key. At least he wasn’t the over-sixty type I usually attracted.I made it to our secretary’s desk, where she sat, head down, typing.“Bonjour, Pia.”Roger’s cousin, a sloe-eyed boy of eighteen, was sitting on Pia’s desk, legs crossed. He held his cigarette in the air as he picked through a box of chocolates, Pia’s favorite breakfast. My inbox on her desk was already stacked with case folders.“Vraiment? What is so good about it?” she said, not lifting her head.Pia was much more than a secretary. We all wore many hats, and hers included signing in new clients and establishing a folder for each, typing up Roger’s considerable correspondence, and deciphering the massive flood of daily Morse-code pulses that was the lifeblood of our office.“Why is it so hot in here?” I said. “The phone is ringing, Pia.”She plucked a chocolate from the box. “It keeps doing that.”Pia attracted beaux as if she emitted a frequency only males could detect. She was attractive in a feral way, but I suspected her popularity was due in part to her tight sweaters.“Can you take some of my cases today, Pia?”“Roger says I can’t leave this chair.” She broke the shell of the chocolate’s underside with her manicured thumb, stalking the strawberry crèmes. “He also wants to see you right away, but I think the woman on the sofa slept in the hallway last night.” Pia flapped one half of a one-hundred-dollar bill at me. “And the fatty with the dogs says he’ll give you the other half if you take him first.” She nodded toward the well-fed older couple near my office door, each holding a brace of gray-muzzled dachshunds.Like Pia’s, my job description was wide-ranging. It included attending to the needs of French citizens here in New York—often families fallen on hard times—and overseeing my French Families Fund, a charity effort through which I sent comfort boxes to French orphans overseas. I’d just retired from an almost two-decade-long stint on Broadway, and this felt easy by comparison. It certainly involved less unpacking of trunks.My boss, Roger Fortier, appeared in his office doorway.“Caroline, I need you now. Bonnet’s canceled.”“You can’t be serious, Roger.” The news came like a punch. I’d secured the French foreign minister as our gala keynote speaker months before.“It’s not easy being the French foreign minister right now,” he called over his shoulder as he went back inside.I stepped into my office and flipped through the Wheeldex on my desk. Was Mother’s Buddhist-monk friend Ajahn Chah free that night?“Caroline—” Roger called. I grabbed my Wheeldex and hurried to his office, avoiding the couple with the dachshunds, who were trying their best to look tragic.“Why were you late this morning?” Roger asked. “Pia’s been here for two hours already.”As consul general, Roger Fortier ruled from the corner suite with its commanding view of Rockefeller Plaza and the Promenade Cafe. Normally the famous skating rink occupied that sunken spot, but the rink was closed for the summer, the space now filled with café tables and tuxedoed waiters rushing about with aprons to their ankles. Beyond, Paul Manship’s massive golden Prometheus fell to earth, holding his stolen fire aloft. Behind it, the RCA Building shot up seventy floors into the sapphire sky. Roger had a lot in common with the imposing male figure of Wisdom chiseled above the building’s entrance. The furrowed brow. The beard. The angry eyes.“I stopped for Bonnet’s boutonnière—”“Oh, that’s worth keeping half of France waiting.” Roger bit into a doughnut, and powdered sugar cascaded down his beard. Despite what might kindly be called a husky figure, he was never at a loss for female companions.His desk was heaped with folders, security documents, and dossiers on missing French citizens. According to the French Consulate Handbook, his job was “to assist French nationals in New York, in the event of theft, serious illness, or arrest and with issues related to birth certificates, adoption, and lost or stolen documents; to plan visits of French officials and fellow diplomats; and to assist with political difficulties and natural disasters.” The troubles in Europe provided plenty of work for us in all those categories, if you counted Hitler as a natural disaster.“I have cases to get back to, Roger—”He sent a manila folder skidding across the polished conference table. “Not only do we have no speaker; I was up half the night rewriting Bonnet’s speech. Had to sidestep Roosevelt letting France buy American planes.”“France should be able to buy all the planes they want.”“We’re raising money here, Caroline. It’s not the time to annoy the isolationists. Especially the rich ones.”“They don’t support France anyway.”“We don’t need any more bad press. Is the U.S. too cozy with France? Will that push Germany and Russia closer? I can barely finish a third course without being interrupted by a reporter. And we can’t mention the Rockefellers . . . Don’t want another call from Junior. Guess that’ll happen anyway now that Bonnet canceled.”“It’s a disaster, Roger.”“May need to scrap the whole thing.” Roger raked his long fingers through his hair, digging fresh trenches through the Brylcreem.“Refund forty thousand dollars? What about the French Families Fund? I’m already operating on fumes. Plus, we’ve paid for ten pounds of Waldorf salad—”“They call that salad?” Roger flipped through his contact cards, half of them illegible and littered with cross-outs. “It’s pathetique . . . just chopped apples and celery. And those soggy walnuts . . .”I scoured my Wheeldex in search of celebrity candidates. Mother and I knew Julia Marlowe, the famous actress, but she was touring Europe. “How about Peter Patout? Mother’s people have used him.”“The architect?”“Of the whole World’s Fair. They have that seven-foot robot.”“Boring,” he said, slapping his silver letter opener against his palm.I flipped to the L’s. “How about Captain Lehude?”“Of the Normandie? Are you serious? He’s paid to be dull.”“You can’t just discount every suggestion out of hand, Roger. How about Paul Rodierre? Betty says everyone’s talking about him.”Roger pursed his lips, always a good sign. “The actor? I saw his new play in previews. He’s good. Tall and attractive, if you go for that look. Fast metabolism, of course.”“At least we know he can memorize a script.”“He’s a bit of a loose cannon. And married too, so don’t get any ideas.”“I’m through with men, Roger,” I said. At thirty-seven, I’d resigned myself to singledom.“Not sure Rodierre’ll do it. See who you can get, but make sure they stick to the script. No Roosevelt—”“No Rockefellers,” I finished.Between cases, I called around to various last-minute possibilities, ending up with one option, Paul Rodierre. He was in New York appearing in a new American musical revue at the Broadhurst Theatre, The Streets of Paris, Carmen Miranda’s cyclonic Broadway debut.I phoned the William Morris Agency and was told they’d check and call me back. Ten minutes later, M. Rodierre’s agent told me the theater was dark that night and that, though his client did not own evening clothes, he was deeply honored by our request to host the gala that evening. He’d meet me at the Waldorf to discuss details. Our apartment on East Fiftieth Street was a stone’s throw from the Waldorf, so I rushed there to change into Mother’s black Chanel dress.I found M. Rodierre seated at a café table in the Waldorf’s Peacock Alley bar adjacent to the lobby as the two-ton bronze clock sounded its lovely Westminster Cathedral chime on the half hour. Gala guests in their finest filtered in, headed for the Grand Ballroom upstairs.“M. Rodierre?” I said.Roger was right about the attractive part. The first thing a person notices about Paul Rodierre, after the initial jolt of his physical beauty, is the remarkable smile.“How can I thank you for doing this so last minute, Monsieur?”He unfolded himself from his chair, presenting a build better suited to rowing crew on the Charles than playing Broadway. He attempted to kiss my cheek, but I extended my hand to him, and he shook it. It was nice to meet a man my height.“My pleasure,” he said.His attire was the issue: green trousers, an aubergine velvet sports jacket, brown suede shoes, and worst of all, a black shirt. Only priests and fascists wore black shirts. And gangsters, of course.“Do you want to change?” I resisted the urge to tidy his hair, which was long enough to pull back with a rubber band. “Shave perhaps?” According to his agent, M. Rodierre was a guest at the hotel, so his razor sat just a few stories overhead.“This is what I wear,” he said with a shrug. Typical actor. Why hadn’t I known better? The parade of guests en route to the ballroom was growing, the women stunning in their finery, every man in tails and patent leather oxfords or calf opera pumps.“This is my first gala,” I said. “The consulate’s one night to raise money. It’s white tie.” Would he fit into Father’s old tux? The inseam would be right, but it would be much too tight in the shoulders.“Are you always this, well, energized, Miss Ferriday?”“Well, here in New York, individuality is not always appreciated.” I handed him the stapled sheets. “I’m sure you’re eager to see the script.”He handed it back. “No, merci.”I pushed it back into his hands. “But the consul general himself wrote it.”“Tell me again why I’m doing this?”“It’s to benefit displaced French citizens all year and my French Families Fund. We help orphans back in France whose parents have been lost for any number of reasons. With all the uncertainty abroad, we’re one reliable source of clothes and food. Plus, the Rockefellers will be there tonight.”He paged through the speech. “They could write a check and avoid this whole thing.”“They’re among our kindest donors, but please don’t refer to them. Or President Roosevelt. Or the planes the U.S. sold France. Some of our guests tonight love France, of course, but would rather stay out of a war for now. Roger wants to avoid controversy.”“Dancing around things never feels authentic. The audience feels that.”“Can you just stick to the script, Monsieur?”“Worrying can lead to heart failure, Miss Ferriday.”I pulled the pin from the lily of the valley. “Here—a boutonnière for the guest of honor.”“Muguet?” M. Rodierre said. “Where did you find that this time of year?”“You can get anything in New York. Our florist forces it from pips.”I rested my palm against his lapel and dug the pin deep into the French velvet. Was that lovely fragrance from him or the flowers? Why didn’t American men smell like this, of tuberose and wood musk and—“You know lily of the valley is poisonous, right?” M. Rodierre said.“So don’t eat it. At least not until you’ve finished speaking. Or if the crowd turns on you.” --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author Martha Hall Kelly is a native New Englander now living in Atlanta, Georgia, where she’s writing the prequel to Lilac Girls . This is her first novel. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Killing Jesus: A History (Bill O'Reilly's Killing Series)

About the Author BILL O'REILLY is a trailblazing TV journalist who has experienced unprecedented success on cable news and in writing eighteen national number-one bestselling nonfiction books. There are more than eighteen million books in the Killing series in print. He lives on Long Island.MARTIN DUGARD is the New York Times bestselling author of several books of history, among them the Killing series, Into Africa , and Taking Paris. He and his wife live in Southern California. --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Killing Jesus A History By Bill O'Reilly, Martin Dugard Henry Holt and Company Copyright © 2013 Bill O'Reilly and Martin DugardAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-0-8050-9854-9 Contents Title Page, Copyright Notice, Dedication, A Note to Readers, Book I: The World of Jesus, Book II: Behold the Man, Book III: If You Are the Son of God, Take Yourself Off This Cross, Afterword, Postscript, Notes, Sources, Acknowledgments, Illustration Credits, Index, About the Authors, Copyright, Also by Bill O'Reilly and Martin Dugard, CHAPTER 1 BETHLEHEM, JUDEA MARCH, 5 B.C. MORNING The child with thirty-six years to live is being hunted. Heavily armed soldiers from the capital city of Jerusalem are marching to this small town, intent on finding and killing the baby boy. They are a mixed-race group of foreign mercenaries from Greece, Gaul, and Syria. The child's name, unknown to them, is Jesus, and his only crime is that some believe he will be the next king of the Jewish people. The current monarch, a dying half-Jewish, half-Arab despot named Herod, is so intent on ensuring the baby's death that his army has been ordered to murder every male child under the age of two years in Bethlehem. None of the soldiers knows what the child's mother and father look like, or the precise location of his home, thus the need to kill every baby boy in the small town and surrounding area. This alone will guarantee the extermination of the potential king. It is springtime in Judea, the peak of lambing season. The rolling dirt road takes the army past thick groves of olive trees and shepherds tending their flocks. The soldiers' feet are clad in sandals, their legs are bare, and they wear the skirtlike pteruges to cover their loins. The young men sweat profusely beneath the plates of armor on their chests and the tinned bronze attic helmets that cover the tops of their heads and the sides of their faces. The soldiers are well aware of Herod's notorious cruelty and his penchant for killing anyone who would try to threaten his throne. But there is no moral debate about the right or wrong of slaughtering infants. Nor do the soldiers question whether they will have the nerve to rip a screaming child from his mother's arms and carry out the execution. When the time comes, they will follow orders and do their jobs — or risk being immediately killed for insubordination. The sword's blade is how they plan to dispatch the babies. All soldiers are armed with the Judean version of the razor-sharp pugio and gladius preferred by the Roman legions, and they wear their weapons attached to the waist. Their method of murder, however, will not be restricted to the dagger or sword. Should they wish, Herod's soldiers can also use a skull-crushing stone, hurl the baby boys off a cliff en masse, or just wrap their fists around the infants' windpipes and strangle them. The cause of death is not important. What matters most is one simple fact: king of the Jews or not, the infant must die. * * * Meanwhile, in Jerusalem, King Herod gazes out a palace window toward Bethlehem, anxiously awaiting confirmation of the slaughter. In the cobbled streets below him, the Roman-appointed king sees the crowded bazaars, where vendors sell everything from water and dates to tourist trinkets and roast lamb. The walled city of some eighty thousand residents packed into less than a single square mile is a crossroads of the eastern Mediterranean. With one sweep of his eyes, Herod can s --This text refers to the hardcover edition. Review “O'Reilly is the natural choice to narrate this work… he carries the work along and the audiobook is a good introduction to the Synoptic Gospels.” ― AudioFile Magazine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

The Abduction of Mary Rose: 2nd Edition 2020

Review "...what a great story! Couldn't put it down... An exciting and suspenseful  ending wraps up this incredible novel." Lynn Demsky: Book Reporter About the Author Hovey is a writing instructor and novelist. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.

The Butterfly Garden (The Collector Book 1)

From the Publisher Sometimes a story is powerful enough—and horrifying enough—to instantly transfix us and forever change the way we look at a simple object. In The Silence of the Lambs , it’s the lotion in the basket. In this gruesome crime novel, it’s butterflies.  Maya, a fierce survivor, leads us through the aftermath of a brutal event as she recounts her tale to the FBI, but her story keeps us at the edges, letting the questions simmer, bubbling up small answers that beg new, bigger questions in their wake: How did Maya escape captivity? Did the other girls survive? What happened to the garden—and the Gardener?  Maya reveals a vivid dimension to the twisted puzzle and raises larger questions about her own motives. As the truth slowly emerges from a carefully constructed cocoon, author Dot Hutchison has us questioning whether this is a tale of terrible beauty or a beautiful tale of terror.  The frantic rustling of a butterfly’s wings against a collector’s net seems futile—but when many butterflies flock together, they become much harder to pin down. For us, this innocuous symbol of transformative beauty will forever be a perverse reminder of the Gardener, a depraved man with his magnificent, grotesque collection of butterflies. - Alison Dasho and JoVon Sotak, Editors About the Author Dot Hutchison is the author of A Wounded Name , a young adult novel based on Shakespeare’s Hamlet , and the adult thriller The Butterfly Garden . With past experience working at a Boy Scout camp, a craft store, a bookstore, and the Renaissance Faire (as a human combat chess piece), Hutchison prides herself on remaining delightfully in tune with her inner young adult. She loves thunderstorms, mythology, history, and movies that can and should be watched on repeat. For more information on her current projects, visit www.dothutchison.com or check her out on Tumblr (www.dothutchison.tumblr.com), Twitter (@DotHutchison), or Facebook (www.facebook.com/DotHutchison).

The Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The Good Thief's Guide to AmsterdamONE"I want you to steal something for me."It wasn't the first time I'd heard those words, though usually the person saying them liked to warm up to it first. Not the American. He got straight to the point, casual as you like. If I was a lesser writer, I'd tell you it set alarm bells ringing inside my head or that a chill ran down my spine. In truth, it just made me listen a little harder."You've made a mistake," I told him. "I'm a writer, not a burglar.""Some writer. I've been following your work. You're good."I smiled. "A hack with a pricey education, nothing more.""Oh sure, as a writer. But as a thief, now that's a different story. You've got talent, kid, and that ain't easy to find around here."Around here was Amsterdam. To be exact, around here was a dim-lit brown bar on a northern stretch of the Keizersgracht canal, a twenty minute stroll or a ten minute bicycle ride from my apartment. It was a cramped space, warmed more by the closeness of the walls than the fading embers in the fire across from our table. I'd been here before, though only in passing, and the name had meant nothing to me when the American suggested it as a meeting point. Now here I was again, a glass of Dutch beer in front of me and a tricky proposition beyond that.The American had contacted me through my website. Most suspense writers have a website nowadays and you can go there to find all kinds of information about me and my writing. There's a page for each of the burglar books I've written to date and a News section with details of any readings I'm involved in, as well as some personal stuff my fans might care to know, such as where I happento be living while I'm writing my latest novel. There's also a link that allows readers to e-mail me and that was how the American had been in touch. A job for you, he'd written. Name your price. Hear me out at Café de Brug. 10pm Thursday (tomorrow). I had no idea who the American was, of course, and far less reason to trust him, but then again, the lure of a new job was something I'd long since given up trying to fight. Because the truth, in case you haven't already guessed, is that I don't just write books about a career thief - I also happen to be one."This talent you're referring to," I said. "Supposing it did exist.""Supposing, I like that.""Well, just supposing, then, that I really do have this talent - I'm curious how you'd like me to use it."The American checked over my shoulder, towards the doorway, then over his own shoulder, towards the rear of the bar. When he was satisfied that his neck worked just fine and that nobody was eavesdropping on our conversation, he reached inside the front pouch of his windbreaker and removed a small object that he placed on the wooden table before me. The object, it turned out, was a monkey figurine, about the size of my thumb. The monkey was sat on his haunches, knees up around his chest, with his front paws covering his eyes and his mouth wide open, as if in shock at whatever it was he'd just seen inside the windbreaker."See no evil," I said, half to myself, and the American nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest.I picked up the monkey for a closer look. From the weight and the dry, gritty feel of it, I could tell the figurine had been rendered in plaster of Paris, which went some way to explaining why the finish was not very precise. The look of astonishment I'd read on the monkey's mouth could just as easily have been intended to show fear or even dumb joy by its maker. All things considered, it was hard to imagine it was worth more than a handful of pounds, or even dollars or euros for that matter."There are two more of these monkeys," the American said, not altogether surprising me. "One covering his ears, the other covering his mouth.""You don't say.""I want you to steal them."I tilted my head to one side. "Supposing I could ... obtain them for you. I'm not sure it would be worth my while."The American leaned towards me and cocked an eyebrow. "How much to make it worth your while?"I thought about a figure, then doubled it."Ten thousand euros.""You want it tonight?"I laughed. "But this is worthless," I said, tossing the figurine back to the American, who scrambled to catch it before it struck the table."Not to me, kid," he told me, carefully dusting the monkey down and then placing it back inside the pouch of his windbreaker. "What do you say?""I'll think about it. Another beer?"I stood and picked up our glasses without waiting for his answer and crossed to the bar, where a not unattractive blonde was filling some finger dishes with cashew nuts. She was tall and lean and tanned in that year-round Scandinavian way that never fails to make me feel impossibly English. You could tell she was used to fools like me hitting on her and when her eyes met my own, it was with a look that was like a ready apology."Twee pils astublieft," I managed, meanwhile holding up two fingers just in case the fact I was stood before a beer tap at a bar with two empty beer glasses left her in any doubt as to what I was aiming to buy."Of course," she said, in clipped English.She pushed her hair behind her ear, then took one of the glasses and began to fill it, and meanwhile I tried to think about something other than the freckles on her neck and ended up considering how the American had found out about me instead. It was intriguing, alright, because I was always careful to keep my thieving a secret, and that was one of the reasons I travelled around so much. The only person I talked about that side of my character with at all was back in London and here in Amsterdam I'd carried out just three jobs in the past four months, none of them the type of thefts to drawmuch attention. True, one of the jobs had been a commission, but the man who'd hired me was a Belgian who passed his instructions through a Parisian fence I happened to trust and it seemed unlikely the Belgian would have told the American about me, given we'd never actually met. So how had the American known to contact me? And why on earth did he want me to steal two worthless figurines?"Your beers," the blonde said, scraping the froth from the top of the half-pint glasses with a plastic spatula and placing them in front of me."That man," I said, indicating the American with a nod of my head. "Has he been in here before?""Yes. He is an American.""Does he come here a lot?"She pouted. "Many times, I think.""You know his name?""No," she said, shaking her head. "But he is polite, always tipping"Of course he was. I laid a few extra notes on the table and collected our beers.The American was in his late fifties, I guessed, though it was hard to gather much else about him. He had a thick head of grey hair, cut in a jagged, youthful style, and he looked relatively fit for his age. The windbreaker suited him, making him appear sporty, like the type of guy who enjoyed sailing in his spare time, and I had it in mind to pay attention to his hands and look for signs of rope chaffing when he pulled me out of my thoughts by saying, "You want to know my name, all you gotta do is ask. It's Michael.""Michael ...""You don't have to say it so slow.""I was waiting for your surname.""Now that could be a long wait. The monkeys," he went on, "are in two locations. It's important to me that you take them both. It's also important that you take them on the same night.""Two separate locations?""Uh huh.""In Amsterdam?""That's right. Two places, fifteen minutes apart by foot.""And these places are private dwellings?""Private dwellings," he echoed. "Jeez. One's an apartment and the other's a houseboat, alright? You don't have to worry about alarms and you don't have to worry about being disturbed because the night you do this, both places'll be empty.""How come?""Because the men that live in these two dwellings will be having dinner. Here. With me."I gave this some thought. I wasn't crazy about what I was hearing."Sounds complicated," I said. "Why don't you take the monkeys yourself? I can't imagine they'll be missed.""For one," he said, hitching an eyebrow, "the guy in the houseboat has a safe and he's kind of guarded about the combination. The other guy, he has an apartment in the Jordaan - it's on the top floor of a five storey building and he happens to have three door locks I know of.""But no alarms.""None.""You're sure?""Listen, you can't have an alarm on a houseboat - you get a storm or a barge goes by too fast, the movement of the canal water'll trigger it.""And the apartment?""Like I said, it's on the fifth floor. Way I see it, the guy figures he don't need no alarm.""These locks ...""Won't be a problem for you. Me, I don't have the keys or your talent, which is how come we're having this conversation.""Something else occurs to me," I said. "Supposing these two men value their figurines in the same way you do, well, what if they go home after your meal and notice the figurines are gone - they'll suspect you."He shook his head. "They trust me.""Maybe. But if they do suspect you and they come looking for you, well, you can see how my name is liable to crop up.""Not from these lips.""You say. But I don't like it.""Well try this for size - I don't plan on being any place they can find me. We meet at seven and we'll be done eating by ten - that gives you three hours to do your job, which I figure is plenty of time. The bar here closes at eleven and I have it in mind for you to meet me with the figurines at a half after ten. If all goes to schedule, I'll be out of Amsterdam before midnight. And I ain't coming back.""You're leaving the Netherlands?""Well now, there's no need for you to know that, is there?"I paused, tried something else."The timing's kind of tight. Say I can't get into this safe.""You'll get in.""Or I can't find the figurine in the apartment.""Guy keeps it under his pillow."I frowned. "He sleeps on it?""Sleeps with it for all I care. But you'll find it under his pillow."I backed away from him and looked about the room. The blonde was wiping down the bar with a damp cloth, her hair dancing around her face. The only other customers were three Dutch men drinking beer at a table near the front door. They were laughing and clapping one another on the back, grinning toothily as if life simply didn't get any better. Behind them, sheet rain blasted against the picture window, blurring the outline of the lighted canal bridge I could see on the other side of the glass. I sighed, and gave it to him straight."Listen," I said, "I'm going to have to say no. I don't know how you found me and that's part of the problem. The other thing is you want this done tomorrow night and that's a concern for me. I like to look around a job before I get inside of it and you're not giving me the time I need."The American laced his hands together on the table and tapped his thumbs against one another."Say we double your fee?""It's funny," I told him, "that just makes me more nervous. See, I have to think it's vital to you now, for whatever reason, that this thing is done tomorrow night. And the fact you'd pay me twentythousand makes me think there's twice the risk I'd considered in the first place.""Risk is a part of it. So's the reward.""It's still a no."The American grimaced, shook his head wearily. Then he reached inside the sleeve of his windbreaker and removed a square of paper. He hesitated for a moment, looking me in the eyes once more, before sliding the paper across to me."Kid, I'm gonna take a chance. These here are the addresses. I want you to keep them. Say tomorrow night comes around and it gets to seven o'clock and you change your mind.""That's not going to happen.""And you're confident about that. But why don't we leave ourselves open to the possibility that you just might reconsider your attitude? This way, you have the details you need and everything's in your control. You make the decision."I held his gaze, and, fool that I was, reached out and took the piece of paper."That's right, kid," he told me. "All I'm asking you to do is think about it."THE GOOD THIEF'S GUIDE TO AMSTERDAM. Copyright © 2007 by Chris Ewan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author CHRIS EWAN is a lawyer specializing in the film industry. The Good Thief's Guide to Amsterdam, his debut novel, was recommended as one of the "books for grownups" by the editors of Publishers Weekly and AARP The Magazine . He lives on the Isle of Man. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Publishers Weekly Starred Review. This impressive debut, a comic whodunit from British entertainment lawyer Ewan, owes much of its charm and success to its compelling antihero, Charles Howard. An established author of mysteries featuring a burglar-detective, Howard himself is a successful burglar. While finishing his latest novel in Amsterdam, Howard receives a cryptic invitation via his Web site and follows his curiosity to a meeting with a mysterious American who somehow knows of the author's secret profession. Howard initially declines the commission to steal two small plaster monkeys, but when he succeeds in his assignment, he finds his client has been brutally bludgeoned. After becoming a suspect, Howard scrambles to understand the link between the monkeys and a diamond heist over a decade earlier. The ease with which Ewan creates a memorable protagonist and pits him against a plausible and tricky killer will be the envy of many more established authors. The detection is first-rate, and Howard is a fresh, irreverent creation who will make readers eager for his next exploit. (Nov.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review “This [is an] impressive debut, a comic whodunit. . . . Howard is a fresh, irreverent creation who will make readers eager for his next exploit.” ― Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Charlie is agreeable company, producing that stream of witty patter that seems quintessentially British as he narrates his own skilled thievery and flights of quick thought . . . seeing the pieces fly together at the end without a single missing bit is pretty fun.” ― Houston Chronicle “Ewan's droll, funny, noirish style, cleverly drawn central character, and great descriptions of locale will make this a popular new series.” ― Library Journal --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

The Red Rooster

From the Author Perhaps nothing else I've written has engrossed me like The Red Rooster. As I dove into the world of Occupied France, I found myself dreaming in French, imagining myself a zazou, hunted by fascists and Gestapo agents, and of course, thinking about gold coins.I found a challenge in writing my German characters. It was important that my Gestapo agent be a real character, not a cardboard cutout of imagined evil. What drives a man like Colonel Hoekman, how does he justify his behavior? And for Helmut and Alfonse, what price do they pay for their nation's descent into madness?And what did it mean to be living under occupation? After the war, the occupied people of Europe often crafted a heroic narrative, where they resisted the Nazis as partisans and guerrillas, but the truth is always more complex and interesting than the myth. People were not divided neatly into resistance and collaboration. Most simply tried to survive.Of course, as the tragedy of the zazous showed, there was no way to escape the war entirely. Sooner or later, you had to choose sides.Michael Wallace, 2011 From the Inside Flap This new historical thriller by top 20 Amazon bestseller Michael Wallace will be enjoyed by fans of Alan Furst and Ken Follett. From the Back Cover Praise for Michael Wallace's novels: Mighty and Strong "A chilling window into life in a polygamist Utah town, where prophets still walk and nobody sits and waits for the Second Coming. Wallace masterfully captures the desperation, hope, and triumph of the world of the Mighty and Strong." Jeffrey Anderson, National bestselling, International Thriller Award nominated author of Sleeper Cell. Praise for The Righteous "Deeply engrossing! Michael Wallace delivers the thinking man's thriller while establishing one of the freshest male leads in crime fiction--Jacob Christianson, an aspiring doctor and cult elder's favored son. Jacob's analytic nature has him questioning everything, including the nature of God and the sexist politics of polygamy." Lisa Gardner, Multiple New York Times bestselling author of Live to Tell About the Author MICHAEL WALLACE has trekked across the Sahara on a camel, ridden an elephant through a tiger preserve in Southeast Asia, eaten fried guinea pig, and been licked on the head by a skunk. In a previous stage of life he programmed nuclear war simulations, smuggled refugees out of a war zone, and milked cobras for their venom. He speaks Spanish and French and grew up in a religious community in the desert. His work has appeared in The Atlantic, Military History Magazine, and The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction and his novels include The Righteous, The Devil's Deep, and Mighty and Strong. Read more

Defending Jacob: A Novel

Amazon.com Review Amazon Best Books of the Month, February 2012 : A fast, compelling, and compulsively readable courtroom drama, Defending Jacob tells the story of a district attorney's son who is accused of killing a classmate. As the father attempts to prove his son's innocence, Landay explores uncomfortable territory. Can a tendency toward violence be inherited? Is the capacity for murder a genetic disposition? The author, a former district attorney, gets the taut nuances just right, capturing the subtleties of a trial in a packed courtroom, where a small rustle or murmur can signify a lot. In the end Landay pulls off a clever plot device that doesn't reveal itself until the final pages. -- Neal Thompson Review “Gripping, emotional murder saga . . . The shocking ending will have readers pulling up their bedcovers to ward off the haunting chill.” — People “Landay turns out to be creating a clever blend of legal thriller and issue-oriented family implosion . . . nothing is predictable. All bets are off.” —Janet Maslin, The New York Times “William Landay makes bold use of his genuine storytelling gift, his amazing ability to craft believable dialogue, and, above all, his extraordinary understanding of what it means to be a husband and father to present us with an unforgettable tale of an ordinary marriage and family in crisis.” —Nicholas Sparks “A page-turning, stomach-clenching exploration of family.” —Chevy Stevens “A stunning novel that will be compared to classic courtroom thrillers like Presumed Innocent and Anatomy of a Murder .” —Phillip Margolin “So well-written, every character so movingly and convincingly drawn, the plot so utterly enthralling . . . Defending Jacob is absolutely stellar, first-rate fiction—human, sensitive, and gripping in the extreme.” —Lisa Unger “More than a terrific legal thrill ride, Defending Jacob is an unflinching appraisal of the darkest, most poignant consequences of the love that binds, and blinds, families. It’s one of those rare books that call for contemplation and insight along with every breathtaking surprise.” —Stephen White “Landay spins a tale of such complexity and emotion that you don’t even realize you’re spiraling deep into his world until he spits you out at his shocking, shattering conclusion.” —Carla Buckley “Sensational . . . one of the best books of the year.” —John Lutz “Brilliantly conceived . . . combines a harrowing family drama with riveting courtroom scenes that make readers feel they are actually witnessing the trial unfold.” —Stephen Frey “A carefully plotted and precisely written thriller about a family put to the ultimate test . . . Defending Jacob is bound to enthrall.” —Thomas H. Cook “Do you like a mystery with a good twist at the end?  How about one with the literary equivalent of skating’s triple axel? . . . Hang on for that shocking and yet believable ending—with a triple twist you won’t see coming.” — Portland Oregonian “Like John Grisham and Scott Turow, Landay is a lawyer with a solid grasp of how to use courtroom scenes to advance his jigsaw-puzzle story. . . . With a grabby premise and careful plotting, he keeps you turning the pages through the shocking gut-punch of an ending.” — Entertainment Weekly “[Landay] reaches a new level of excellence with this riveting, knock-your-socks-off legal thriller.  With its masterfully crafted characterizations and dialogue, emotional depth, and frightening implications, the novel rivals the best of Scott Turow and John Grisham.  Don’t miss it.” — Booklist (starred review) “Harrowing . . . This searing narrative proves the ancient Greek tragedians were right: the worst punishment is not death but living with what you—knowingly or unknowingly—have done.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Even with unexpected twists and turns, the two narratives interlock like the teeth of a zipper, building to a tough and unflinching finale.  This novel has major motion picture written all over it.” — The Boston Globe “ Defending Jacob is a novel that comes to you out of the blue and manages to keep you reading feverishly until the whole thing is completed. . . . Landay has written a stunning novel and it is one that should draw attention to the possibilities it raises.” — Huffington Post “The hype is justified. . . . Exceptionally serious, suspenseful, engrossing.” — The Washington Post From AudioFile About the Author WILLIAM LANDAY is the author of The Strangler , a Los Angeles Times Favorite Crime Book of the Year, and Mission Flats , winner of the Creasey Memorial Dagger Award for Best First Crime Novel and a Barry Award nominee. A former district attorney who holds degrees from Yale and Boston College of Law, he lives in Boston. --This text refers to the mp3_cd edition. From Booklist *Starred Review* A 14-year-old boy is stabbed to death in the park near his middle school in an upper-class Boston suburb, and Assistant District Attorney Andy Barber takes the case, despite the fact that his son, Jacob, was a classmate of the victim. But when the bloody fingerprint on the victim’s clothes turns out to be Jacob’s, Barber is off the case and out of his office, devoting himself solely to defending his son. Even Barber’s never-before-disclosed heritage as the son and grandson of violent men who killed becomes potential courtroom fodder, raising the question of a “murder gene.” Within the structure of a grand jury hearing a year after the murder, Landay gradually increases apprehension. As if peeling the layers of an onion, he raises personal and painful ethical issues pertaining to a parent’s responsibilities to a child, to a family, and to society at large. Landay’s two previous novels (Mission Flats, 2003; The Strangler, 2007) were award winners, but he reaches a new level of excellence in this riveting, knock-your-socks-off legal thriller. With its masterfully crafted characterizations and dialogue, emotional depth, and frightening implications, the novel rivals the best of Scott Turow and John Grisham. Don’t miss it. --Michele Leber --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1 | In the Grand Jury Mr. Logiudice: State your name, please.Witness: Andrew Barber.Mr. Logiudice: What do you do for work, Mr. Barber?Witness: I was an assistant district attorney in this county for 22 years.Mr. Logiudice: “Was.” What do you do for work now?Witness: I suppose you’d say I’m unemployed.In April 2008, Neal Logiudice finally subpoenaed me to appear before the grand jury. By then it was too late. Too late for his case, certainly, but also too late for Logiudice. His reputation was already damaged beyond repair, and his career along with it. A prosecutor can limp along with a damaged reputation for a while, but his colleagues will watch him like wolves and eventually he will be forced out, for the good of the pack. I have seen it many times: an ADA is irreplaceable one day, forgotten the next.I have always had a soft spot for Neal Logiudice (pronounced la-JOO-dis). He came to the DA’s office a dozen years before this, right out of law school. He was twenty-nine then, short, with thinning hair and a little potbelly. His mouth was overstuffed with teeth; he had to force it shut, like a full suitcase, which left him with a sour, pucker-mouthed expression. I used to get after him not to make this face in front of juries—nobody likes a scold—but he did it unconsciously. He would get up in front of the jury box shaking his head and pursing his lips like a schoolmarm or a priest, and in every juror there stirred a secret desire to vote against him. Inside the office, Logiudice was a bit of an operator and a kiss-ass. He got a lot of teasing. Other ADAs tooled on him endlessly, but he got it from everyone, even people who worked with the office at arm’s length—cops, clerks, secretaries, people who did not usually make their contempt for a prosecutor quite so obvious. They called him Milhouse, after a dweeby character on The Simpsons , and they came up with a thousand variations on his name: LoFoolish, LoDoofus, Sid Vicious, Judicious, on and on. But to me, Logiudice was okay. He was just innocent. With the best intentions, he smashed people’s lives and never lost a minute of sleep over it. He only went after bad guys, after all. That is the Prosecutor’s Fallacy—They are bad guys because I am prosecuting them—and Logiudice was not the first to be fooled by it, so I forgave him for being righteous. I even liked him. I rooted for him precisely because of his oddities, the unpronounceable name, the snaggled teeth—which any of his peers would have had straightened with expensive braces, paid for by Mummy and Daddy—even his naked ambition. I saw something in the guy. An air of sturdiness in the way he bore up under so much rejection, how he just took it and took it. He was obviously a working-class kid determined to get for himself what so many others had simply been handed. In that way, and only in that way, I suppose, he was just like me.Now, a dozen years after he arrived in the office, despite all his quirks, he had made it, or nearly made it. Neal Logiudice was First Assistant, the number two man in the Middlesex District Attorney’s Office, the DA’s right hand and chief trial attorney. He took over the job from me—this kid who once said to me, “Andy, you’re exactly what I want to be someday.” I should have seen it coming.In the grand jury room that morning, the jurors were in a sullen, defeated mood. They sat, thirty-odd men and women who had not been clever enough to find a way out of serving, all crammed into those school chairs with teardrop-shaped desks for chair arms. They understood their jobs well enough by now. Grand juries serve for months, and they figure out pretty quickly what the gig is all about: accuse, point your finger, name the wicked one.A grand jury proceeding is not a trial. There is no judge in the room and no defense lawyer. The prosecutor runs the show. It is an investigation and in theory a check on the prosecutor’s power, since the grand jury decides whether the prosecutor has enough evidence to haul a suspect into court for trial. If there is enough evidence, the grand jury grants the prosecutor an indictment, his ticket to Superior Court. If not, they return a “no bill” and the case is over before it begins. In practice, no bills are rare. Most grand juries indict. Why not? They only see one side of the case.But in this case, I suspect the jurors knew Logiudice did not have a case. Not today. The truth was not going to be found, not with evidence this stale and tainted, not after everything that had happened. It had been over a year already—over twelve months since the body of a fourteen-year-old boy was found in the woods with three stab wounds arranged in a line across the chest as if he’d been forked with a trident. But it was not the time, so much. It was everything else. Too late, and the grand jury knew it.I knew it too.Only Logiudice was undeterred. He pursed his lips in that odd way of his. He reviewed his notes on a yellow legal pad, considered his next question. He was doing just what I’d taught him. The voice in his head was mine: Never mind how weak your case is. Stick to the system. Play the game the same way it’s been played the last five-hundred-odd years, use the same gutter tactic that has always governed cross-examination—lure, trap, f**k.He said, “Do you recall when you first heard about the Rifkin boy’s murder?”“Yes.”“Describe it.”“I got a call, I think, first from CPAC—that’s the state police. Then two more came in right away, one from the Newton police, one from the duty DA. I may have the order wrong, but basically the phone started ringing off the hook.”“When was this?”“Thursday, April 12, 2007, around nine a.m., right after the body was discovered.”“Why were you called?”“I was the First Assistant. I was notified of every murder in the county. It was standard procedure.”“But you did not keep every case, did you? You did not personally investigate and try every homicide that came in?”“No, of course not. I didn’t have that kind of time. I kept very few homicides. Most I assigned to other ADAs.”“But this one you kept.”“Yes.”“Did you decide immediately that you were going to keep it for yourself, or did you only decide that later?”“I decided almost immediately.”“Why? Why did you want this case in particular?”“I had an understanding with the district attorney, Lynn Canavan: certain cases I would try personally.”“What sort of cases?”“High-priority cases.”“Why you?”“I was the senior trial lawyer in the office. She wanted to be sure that important cases were handled properly.”“Who decided if a case was high priority?”“Me, in the first instance. In consultation with the district attorney, of course, but things tend to move pretty fast at the beginning. There isn’t usually time for a meeting.”“So you decided the Rifkin murder was a high-priority case?”“Of course.”“Why?”“Because it involved the murder of a child. I think we also had an idea it might blow up, catch the media’s attention. It was that kind of case. It happened in a wealthy town, with a wealthy victim. We’d already had a few cases like that. At the beginning we did not know exactly what it was, either. In some ways it looked like a schoolhouse killing, a Columbine thing. Basically, we didn’t know what the hell it was, but it smelled like a big case. If it had turned out to be a smaller thing, I would have passed it off later, but in those first few hours I had to be sure everything was done right.”“Did you inform the district attorney that you had a conflict of interest?”“No.”“Why not?”“Because I didn’t have one.”“Wasn’t your son, Jacob, a classmate of the dead boy?”“Yes, but I didn’t know the victim. Jacob didn’t know him either, as far as I was aware. I’d never even heard the dead boy’s name.”“You did not know the kid. All right. But you did know that he and your son were in the same grade at the same middle school in the same town?”“Yes.”“And you still didn’t think you were conflicted out? You didn’t think your objectivity might be called into question?”“No. Of course not.”“Even in hindsight? You insist, you—Even in hindsight, you still don’t feel the circumstances gave even the appearance of a conflict?”“No, there was nothing improper about it. There was nothing even unusual about it. The fact that I lived in the town where the murder happened? That was a good thing. In smaller counties, the prosecutor often lives in the community where a crime happens, he often knows the people affected by it. So what? So he wants to catch the murderer even more? That’s not a conflict of interest. Look, the bottom line is, I have a conflict with all murderers. That’s my job. This was a horrible, horrible crime; it was my job to do something about it. I was determined to do just that.” --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review Praise for Defending Jacob “William Landay makes bold use of his genuine storytelling gift, his amazing ability to craft believable dialogue, and, above all, his extraordinary understanding of what it means to be a husband and father to present us with an unforgettable tale of an ordinary marriage and family in crisis. On the surface this novel reads like a first-rate thriller, but at its heart it’s a love story.  It’s the story of a man who adores his wife and child, but more than that, it’s a novel that describes the fine edge between love and madness, and the lies we sometimes tell ourselves. Landay has proven himself to be an extraordinary writer, and Defending Jacob is an amazing novel. Do yourself a favor and read it. It’s that good.”—Nicholas Sparks “ Defending Jacob is smart, sophisticated, and suspenseful—capturing both the complexity and stunning fragility of family life.”—Lee Child “Powerful . . . leaves you gasping breathlessly at each shocking revelation.”—Lisa Gardner “A page-turning, stomach-clenching exploration of family.”—Chevy Stevens “A stunning novel that will be compared to classic courtroom thrillers like Presumed Innocent and Anatomy of a Murder .”—Phillip Margolin “So well-written, every character so movingly and convincingly drawn, the plot so utterly enthralling . . . Defending Jacob is absolutely stellar, first-rate fiction—human, sensitive, and gripping in the extreme.”—Lisa Unger“More than a terrific legal thrill ride, Defending Jacob is an unflinching appraisal of the darkest, most poignant consequences of the love that binds, and blinds, families. It’s one of those rare books that call for contemplation and insight along with every breathtaking surprise.”—Stephen White “Landay spins a tale of such complexity and emotion that you don’t even realize you’re spiraling deep into his world until he spits you out at his shocking, shattering conclusion.”—Carla Buckley “Sensational . . . one of the best books of the year.”—John Lutz “A novel like this comes along maybe once a decade . . . a tour de force, a full-blooded legal thriller about a murder trial and the way it shatters a family. With its relentless suspense, its mesmerizing prose, and a shocking twist at the end, it’s every bit as good as Scott Turow’s great Presumed Innocent . But it’s also something more: an indelible domestic drama that calls to mind Ordinary People and We Need to Talk About Kevin . A spellbinding and unforgettable literary crime novel.”—Joseph Finder  “Powerful, disturbing, complex, and gripping, Defending Jacob is impossible to put down. William Landay is a stunning talent.”—Carla Neggers “Riveting, suspenseful, and emotionally searing.”—Linwood Barclay “Brilliantly conceived . . . combines a harrowing family drama with riveting courtroom scenes that make readers feel they are actually witnessing the trial unfold.”—Stephen Frey“A carefully plotted and precisely written thriller about a family put to the ultimate test . . . Defending Jacob is bound to enthrall.”—Thomas H. Cook“Harrowing . . . This searing narrative proves the ancient Greek tragedians were right: the worst punishment is not death but living with what you—knowingly or unknowingly—have done.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)“[Landay] reaches a new level of excellence with this riveting, knock-your-socks-off legal thriller.  With its masterfully crafted characterizations and dialogue, emotional depth, and frightening implications, the novel rivals the best of Scott Turow and John Grisham.  Don’t miss it.”  — Booklist (starred review)“Gripping, emotional murder saga….The shocking ending will have readers pulling up their bedcovers to ward off the haunting chill.”  — People Magazine (three of four stars) “Landay has written a legal thriller that’s comparable to classics such as Scott Turow’s Presumed Innocent….Tragic and shocking, Defending Jacob is sure to generate buzz.”  — Associated Press “Do you like a mystery with a good twist at the end?  How about one with the literary equivalent of skating’s triple axel?....Hang on for that shocking and yet believable ending—with a triple twist you won’t see coming.”  — Portland Oregonian “Like John Grisham and Scott Turow, Landay is a lawyer with a solid grasp of how to use courtroom scenes to advance his jigsaw-puzzle story….with a grabby premise and careful plotting, he keeps you turning the pages through the shocking gut-punch of an ending.”  — Entertainment Weekly “[Landay] reaches a new level of excellence with this riveting, knock-your-socks-off legal thriller.  With its masterfully crafted characterizations and dialogue, emotional depth, and frightening implications, the novel rivals the best of Scott Turow and John Grisham.  Don’t miss it.”  — Booklist (starred review)“Not since the novels of Scott Turow has a crime thriller—and thriller, though this too happens to be a literary legal thriller—shaken me by the throat like this.  It’s a stunning, shocking, emotionally harrowing ride in which the reader is plunged into a riveting but terrible murder trial and the heartbreaking implosion of a loving family.”  — Daily Mail “Even with unexpected twists and turns, the two narratives interlock like the teeth of a zipper, building to a tough and unflinching finale.  This novel has major motion picture written all over it.”  — The Boston Globe “Landay turns out to be creating a clever blend of legal thriller and issue-oriented family implosion…nothing is predictable.  All bets are off.”  —Janet Maslin, The New York Times “ Defending Jacob is a novel that comes to you out of the blue and manages to keep you reading feverishly until the whole thing is completed….Landay has written a stunning novel and it is one that should draw attention to the possibilities it raises.  In the next few weeks, Defending Jacob is the novel most readers are going to be discussing.”  — Huffington Post “The hype is justified…exceptionally serious, suspenseful, engrossing.”  — The Washington Post --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Elementary Statistics: Picturing the World (5th Edition)

About the Author Ron Larson received his PhD in mathematics from the University of Colorado in 1970. At that time he accepted a position with Penn State University, and he currently holds the rank of professor of mathematics at the University. Dr. Larson is the lead author of more than two dozen mathematics textbooks that range from sixth grade through calculus levels. Betsy Farber received her Bachelor's degree in mathematics form Penn State University and Master's degree in mathematics from the College of New Jersey. Since 1976, she has been teaching all levels of mathematics at Bucks County Community College in Newton, Pennsylvania, where she currently holds the rank of professor. She is particularly interested in developing new ways to make statistics relevant and interesting to her students and has been teaching statistics in many different modes - with TI-83/84, with MINITAB, and by distance learning as well as in the traditional classroom.

Troubled Journey

About the Author Faith Cook was born in China, the daughter of OMF missionaries, and now lives in Derbyshire, England. She is married to Paul, who has served as a pastor to churches in Northallerton, Shepshed and Hull in England.

Orgullo y prejuicio (Clásicos de la literatura series) (Spanish Edition)


Interference

From School Library Journal Gr 9 Up—Kate Hamilton believes her family is leaving Washington, DC, for Texas because of a scandal with her ex-boyfriend and her father's failing Senate race. Once she arrives, she discovers that her parents haven't given up on politics; her father is running in a special election in the hometown he's not visited in years. Kate is obliged to make friends, finish her photo portfolio for college admissions, and figure out how to beat her ex for a coveted college recommendation, all while not causing any problems for the political race. She gets off on the wrong foot with Hunter, a local boy who helps out at her aunt's animal shelter. Sparks fly between them even when their tempers flare. Kate tries to help her new friend Anna Gomez (a well-rounded secondary character and the only person of color in the work's cast), and things don't go well. Maybe what Kate thinks of as helping is just interference. Major themes of politics and football tie the narrative together as the compelling protagonist navigates high school, boy problems, and life. The issues are realistic, and the character-driven plot will have strong appeal for many. The relationship between Kate and her parents is authentically difficult at times, though Honeyman manages to bring the family together without compromising the personalities of her characters. VERDICT A fun read with interesting themes likely to please most fans of realistic fiction.—Genevieve Feldman, San Francisco Public Library Review Praise for Interference : "I loved reading about Kate, who uses her street smarts and political know-how to go after what she knows is right. With its winning combination of football, politics, and a swoony small-town romance, this story stole my heart." -- Miranda Kenneally, author of Catching Jordan and Defending Taylor "If you've ever messed up big time and yearned to hit restart, you must read Interference . Kay Honeyman's big-hearted exploration of life after a scandal reveals the true meaning of love, forgiveness, and courage." -- Justina Chen, author of North of Beautiful and A Blind Spot for Boys "Kay Honeyman scores a touchdown with Interference , a fabulous read about new beginnings and family politics, freshly spun with humor, scandal, football, and a little romance." -- Elizabeth Eulberg, author of The Lonely Hearts Club and Better Off Friends "This light romance gives plenty of nods to Emma , including its flawed but well-intentioned protagonist, while taking a fresh approach to the story... Perfect for readers wanting an update of an Austen classic." -- Booklist "The character-driven plot will have strong appeal... A fun read with interesting themes likely to please most fans of realistic fiction." -- School Library Journal Praise for The Fire Horse Girl : *"First-time author Honeyman has researched the history of Angel Island and early twentieth century San Francisco carefully, yet the ultimate strength of this story is in her character Jade Moon. Her voice, authentic and consistent, transcends this historical fiction/adventure/love story to embrace every young woman who has ever searched for the real person hidden under the veneer of society's expectations." -- Booklist , starred review"Historical details create a strong sense of setting, and readers will recognize (well before Jade Moon does) that her inner fire is an asset, and that she's much more than the sign under which she was born." -- Publishers Weekly "In a defiant first-person voice, Jade Moon describes the desperate lives of Chinese immigrant women as she relies on her Fire Horse persona to save herself... Perilous, page-turning adventure in old Chinatown." -- Kirkus Reviews "Jade Moon is a complex heroine and this book offers fascinating discussion points for the themes of feminism, gender roles, and diversity. Adult fans of Amy Tan may also enjoy this thoughtful, well-crafted story." -- Voice of Youth Advocates From the Inside Flap I will not get involved.I will not get involved.I will not get involved... As a congressman's daughter in Washington, DC, Kate Hamilton always pushes to make things right. But when a scandal sends her family to Red Dirt, Texas, she decides to st From the Back Cover Advance Praise for Interference "I loved reading about Kate, who uses her street smarts and political know-how to go after what she knows is right. With its winning combination of football, politics, and a swoony small-town romance, this story stole my heart." -- Miranda Kenneally, author of Catching Jordan and Defending Taylor "If you've ever messed up big time and yearned to hit restart, you must read Interference . Kay Honeyman's big-hearted exploration of life after a scandal reveals the true meaning of love, forgiveness, and courage." -- Justina Chen, author of North of Beautiful and A Blind Spot for Boys "Kay Honeyman scores a touchdown with Interference , a fabulous read about new beginnings and family politics, freshly spun with humor, scandal, football, and a little romance." -- Elizabeth Eulberg, author of The Lonely Hearts Club and Better Off Friends About the Author Kay Honeyman grew up in Texas, where she followed football and politics with equal passion. Her first novel, The Fire Horse Girl , was nominated for three state awards. Kay now teaches language arts in Dallas, where she lives with her family. Please visit her website at www.kayhoneyman.com and follow her on Twitter at @kayhoneyman. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. "I don't know how to drive."He slammed on the brakes. "You're kidding, right?""My parents just never had time to teach me. We're always busy campaigning. And in D.C. we have this thing called public transportation."Hunter put the truck in park and got out."What are you doing?" I yelled through the open back window. "We're in the middle of the road. Get back in the car."He strolled to my door and pulled it open. "Move over.""Why?""I'm teaching you how to drive."I shook my head. "I can't.""Come on, you have to let me make up for being such an idiot," he said. I slumped against the seat and stared out the window. "No, you still don't get it. I'll hit something," I said. "Then people will find out that I hit something, and my dad will get furious, not because the car is wrecked, not because his insurance goes up, but because the talk shows will start asking him questions about teenage drivers. He'll be asked if texting on the road should be illegal, and as a father, does he support a curfew for teens. They won't ask about me, but it will be a barrage of questions that surround me, and he'll have to field every one. Then they'll start looking at Kyle Stone's driving record, which is probably perfect, and Dad will come home at the end of the day, and I'll get that look. The look you saw today." Hunter pointed out the front window. "What are you going to hit?" I looked across an empty desert to the horizon. The sky stretched for miles in front of me. It felt more part of the landscape than the sky in D.C., like you could touch it. "And if it helps," Hunter said, "Kyle drives like a blind monkey." Read more

Murder: Above Top Secret

Review "MurderAbove Top Secret" could have only been written by one person and that isJ.L.Hodges.   He is the only one with the knowledge and willingnessto step forward and tell the tale of Donald C. Neil's murder. Neil, a divorcedfather of one worked for a NASA contracted firm in the late seventies.  Hehad also worked on other top-secret, government programs before his death.Although an odd sort, he by no means deserved his ending. J.L. Hodges was thelead investigator on the case for the Webster, Texas Police Department. Thedetective soon found out that there were others out there that did not want thetruth to be told. Hodgesleads the investigation methodically and in the best manner of experienceddetectives but is continually stymied by unknown agencies within the federalgovernment, as well as foreign spies and contract intelligence operators, evento the point of evidence being stolen and the body tampered with. In thiscurrent day of governmental overreach coming to light and daily reminders of thelies we have been told, this book is certainly timely, especially given thestate of divisiveness this country is experiencing. DonaldNeil deserves justice and has for decades. Read the book and get upset aboutthings done in the name of national secrecy. Richard D. Rowland,AuthorUnspoken Messages richarddrowlandbooks.com/ RichardD. Rowland is an accomplished author, and dedicated public servant. He is atwo-tour Vietnam War veteran, and served 28 years with the Kentucky StatePolice. He knows the rigors and disappointments of these types ofinvestigations that haunt detectives to the end of their lives. About the Author Many Men In One, is the title of this man, according to those who knowhim best. Jim has lived many parallel lives, and invested a half-century in high-risk public service assignments including that of a covertintelligence operator, a highly decorated detective, and a two-time lawenforcement officer of the year, licensed law enforcement instructor,licensed professional security instructor, a ground combat veteran ofthe Vietnam War, Inventor, and personal defense expert. Parallel to his tactical life, Jim grew up in Texas as a cowboy and horsetrainer and owned his own livestock business. He also founded and ran an invention design company, as well as a national tactical sales andtraining company. As a historian of the Vietnam War, and also cowboy and ranching history, he has appeared in numerous films and photoshoots and is a nationally respected public speaker.Now, Jim enjoys authoring books from these experiences and sharing stories with audiences from many corners of the world.

Duct Tape is Flammable: & Other Life Lessons from a Car Guy

American Wrench Makers 1830-1930

North American Wildlife: An Illustrated Guide to 2,000 Plants and Animals

Lila an Inquiry Into Morals

If I Were in the Circus: ...a rhyming picture book for children ages 0-6

Review "Sitting with my granddaughter and having her read it to me was such a wonderfultime for me!" - Midge"...the story and the vibrant artwork is perfect for classic bedtime and road tripadventures for all." - Nick S."I downloaded this for my 4 year old and she loved it!!!" - Amazon customer About the Author Barb Asselin is a college professor and best-selling author who is published in many different genres including education, law, real estate, writing, online business, golfing, crafting, parenting, internet marketing, entrepreneurship, baby sign language, fitness, office administration, children's fiction and children's non-fiction. She is an avid reader of many different genres and has been passionate about writing since grade school when she wrote her first short story about vampires. This was in the 1980s....way before Twilight! Barb has been creating and administering websites and social media accounts since 2006. She loves to learn and apply the latest traffic techniques and online sales strategies to see what works best. Her daughters call her a "computer geek" and she is OK with that. She loves to teach through her courses, books, and textbooks, and strives to make a connection with each student and reader. Barb lives in Canada with her husband, Mike, and two adorable daughters, Casey and Jamie. They enjoy music, skiing, golfing, running, and mixed martial arts. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

From Critical Thinking to Argument

About the Author Sylvan Barnet , professor of English and former director of writing at Tufts University, is the most prolific and consistently successful college English textbook author in the country. His several texts on writing and his numerous anthologies for introductory composition and literature courses have remained leaders in their field through many editions. Hugo Bedau , professor of philosophy at Tufts University, has served as chair of the philosophy department and chair of the universitys committee on College Writing. An internationally respected expert on the death penalty, and on moral, legal, and political philosophy, he has written or edited a number of books on these topics. He is the author of Thinking and Writing about Philosophy , Second Edition (Bedford/St. Martins).

Pro-Knot Outdoor Knots - Portable Waterproof Knot Book

Review Even if you already have a good knot book, the PROKNOT cards make a great field reference that is waterproof and nearly indestrucable! These cards are used for training by the US Departmant of Defense, Municipal Fire Departments, Boy Scout Troops, and Search and Rescue groups. Even arborist companies (for their tree climbers) use them! Being able to take these little cards out into the elements to refer to them when you need to know that knot is a real benefit. --From the PublisherEven if you already have a good knot book, the PROKNOT cards make a great field reference that is waterproof and nearly indestrucable! These cards are used for training by the US Departmant of Defense, Municipal Fire Departments, Boy Scout Troops, and Search and Rescue groups. Even arborist companies (for their tree climbers) use them! Being able to take these little cards out into the elements to refer to them when you need to know that knot is a real benefit. --From the PublisherPROKNOT summarizes essential outdoor knots on six plastic cards that weigh less than an ounce for the set. --Backpacker Magazine, September, 2000 From the Publisher Even if you already have a good knot book, the PROKNOT cards make a great field reference that is waterproof and nearly indestrucable! These cards are used for training by the US Departmant of Defense, Municipal Fire Departments, Boy Scout Troops, and Search and Rescue groups. Even arborist companies (for their tree climbers) use them! Being able to take these little cards out into the elements to refer to them when you need to know that knot is a real benefit. About the Author John Sherry has been illustrating knots and writing about knots for more than 25 years. His knot illustrations are used for training by the US Department of Defense, US Customs and Border Protection, municipal fire departments, scout troops, sailing schools, utility companies and many search and rescue organizations. He is president of Pro-Knot, a company that publishes waterproof plastic knot cards for boaters, campers, survivalists, fishermen and anyone that finds themselves with a rope in hand, and has sold over one million of the popular knot card sets. Sherry is a member of the International Guild of Knot Tyers and lives in Bend Oregon with his wife and daughter, where he enjoys fly fishing, hiking, camping and boating. Read more