Skirting Heresy: The Life and Times of Margery Kempe

Review "MacDonald’s prose is elegant and clear throughout in this engaging examination of the historical figure Margery Kempe." — Kirkus Reviews “A work of scholarship and the imagination.” — Bloomberg News “A fascinating work. The trials, pilgrimages, weeping, and relentless uproar that surrounded Kempe are all very much brought to life by MacDonald, a gifted writer and story-teller. All very believable, and even inspiring. If you want a very different summer read, quick and engaging, about someone important, about something important, you should pick up Skirting Heresy .” — National Review “Elizabeth MacDonald has done us a genuine service in recovering and translating into a modern, page-turning narrative this very unusual story of a world which was rent by conflicts very like those we face today.” — Aleteia "Elizabeth MacDonald vividly brings to life both the world of medieval England and even more impressively, the heroic Margery Kempe, whose insights and courage speak to the modern world. This book will absorb and enlighten you." — Steve Forbes , editor, Forbes magazine“Elizabeth MacDonald likely would hate being compared to a saint, but her writing here proves once again, her own inherent goodness. Few journalists reach such an understanding in life. Then again, few journalists come close to what my friend 'Lizzy' has done in life, and the subjects she tackles routinely in life.... Quite a book. Quite a subject. Quite an author.” — Neil Cavuto , host of Cavuto and Your World With Neil Cavuto "Elizabeth MacDonald is a gifted reporter — her ability to weave passion and truth together shines in Skirting Heresy . MacDonald’s account of Margery Kempe’s life is a compelling must-read story for religious readers and history buffs alike.” — Greta Van Susteren , host of On the Record with Greta Van Susteren “One of the best historical narratives I’ve read in a long time. Elizabeth MacDonald has skillfully delivered a gripping, bold new take on a captivating historical figure, Margery Kempe, a story that shows what was happening in Catholic England before Joan of Arc was executed.” — Larry Kudlow , anchor, CNBC “Elizabeth MacDonald’s story about Margery Kempe is an amazing historical perspective of a fascinating character that reads like a mystery you can’t put down, full of passion and intrigue. I loved learning more about Margery—a strong medieval woman of faith taking a stand for what she believed in against all odds.” — Gretchen Carlson , host of The Real Story with Gretchen Carlson "Elizabeth MacDonald portrays Kempe as a feminist before her time. Writing in a clear, no-nonsense style, MacDonald, a business reporter, weaves medieval history with material from Kempe's memoir, dictated in approximately 1436. This memoir, The Book of Margery Kempe , is considered the first English autobiography. That it was fashioned by a woman is another first. ...At this time, women were not allowed to preach the Gospel and couldn't travel without men. Yet Kempe managed to do both. She made several pilgrimages and traveled to the Holy Land. She chastised her neighbors' wrongdoings as well as that of town and church leaders. If she saw fault with the actions of mayors, priests and bishops, she let them know about it. She was never one to keep her thoughts to herself, and as seen in this entertaining biography, that was a good thing."— Diane Scharper , National Catholic Reporter An engrossing and important revival of a timeless life story, of an heroic woman, Margery Kempe. MacDonald, like her subject, is a truth teller in the modern sense, ever eager to shine a light on what needs to be known.”— RealClearMarkets About the Author Elizabeth MacDonald is an editor and on-air personality at the FOX Business Network as well as on FOX News and has won more than a dozen journalism awards. She has covered business news for two-and-a-half decades, including at the Wall Street Journal and as an editor at Forbes magazine, where she created the World’s Most Powerful Women annual ranking. MacDonald has spent time working with Mother Teresa’s community in Calcutta, volunteering at an AIDS clinic in Harlem, and engaged in other ministries of outreach in the New York metropolitan area.

Beach Music

From Publishers Weekly Booksellers and other vitally interested parties can quit holding their collective breath: Conroy has not lost his touch. His storytelling powers have not failed; neither has his poetic skill with words, nor his vivid imagination. His long-awaited sixth book sings with the familiar elegiac Southern cadences, his prose is sweepingly lyrical (if sometimes melodramatic), unabashedly sentimental (if sometimes indigestibly schmaltzy). The hero, Jack McCall, describes himself as a man on the run from his past: the suicide of his beloved wife; the destructive influence of his icy, manipulative mother and mean, bullying, alcoholic father; the betrayal of his youthful ideals, his faith in the Catholic Church, his boyhood friends. There is, of course, the familiar theme of dysfunctional families; in addition to the McCalls, two other family units vie for the dubious title of most messed-up. But Conroy has added a new element here, by dramatizing his conviction that the "unbearable wound" of Vietnam was our country's spiritual Holocaust. Conroy takes on these emotionally laden issues in chapters so direct and powerful that readers will be moved by his intimacy with the material, and perhaps astonished by his authority over it. Conroy meshes complex plot lines with ease. Jack, a food and travel writer, fled with his toddler daughter, Leah, to Rome in 1982 in the wake of his wife Shyla's suicidal jump from a bridge in Charleston, S.C., and her parents' subsequent lawsuit to deny him custody of Leah. He returns home some years later because his mother is dying of leukemia. In addition to becoming embroiled in family tension, he begins a slow process of reconciliation with Shyla's parents, who eventually tell him the stories of their respective Holocaust experiences; with his first love, Ledare Ashley, now a scriptwriter employed by their youthful chum, Mike Hess, to write a screenplay of their growing-up years; and with his parents and siblings. He witnesses the return to Waterford of another friend, Jordan Elliot, who has been presumed dead for 18 years after he was accused of murder during a protest against the Vietnam War, and who was betrayed by the fourth member of their boyhood clan, Capers Middleton, who is now running for governor of South Carolina. Though the book suffers from some florid digressions (a fish story that makes Jonah's adventure seem tame, a totally inappropriate shaggy-dog tale), it is always passionately sincere. Conroy's dark humor has its usual sardonic edge, and his characters' rat-a-tat repartee is laden with casual obscenities and jocular insults. As expected, the characters are larger than life-impossibly beautiful, romantic, witty; in particular, Jack's precocious daughter may seem too mature, sweet, graceful, poised and smart to be true. In the end, of course, as Jack understands that everybody in his life carries a tragic secret equal to the anguish he bears, he achieves healing in the very community, and the very South, he had been determined to leave forever. 750,000 first printing; Literary Guild and Doubleday Book Club main selection; author tour. Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist As is the case with so many likely best-sellers, the publisher of Pat Conroy's new novel did not distribute advance galleys to prepublication review media, ensuring that by the time you read this review, library patrons will already be clamoring for the opportunity to weep their way through another melodramatic extravaganza from the author of The Prince of Tides (1987). They won't be disappointed. Conroy evolves from the Margaret Mitchell school of southern writing, where everything must be Big--the smartest, most beautiful people on the planet living the biggest lives on the grandest sets and, of course, wracked by the greatest tragedies. It's all here in the story of Jack McCall of Waterford, South Carolina, his five brothers, drunken father, white-trash mother, and Holocaust-surviving in-laws. Nothing small happens in this book: the McCalls' story is played out against World War II, Auschwitz, the sixties, and, of course, the South in all its triumph and tragedy. Even the little moments are big in their way: the best cup of cappuccino, the most beautiful southern evening, the freshest shrimp, the most precocious kid. And yet, sneer as we will, we also must admit that Conroy plays the high-concept game as well as anyone. Like Mitchell, he builds narrative momentum that is impossible to resist, and he writes with a hammy eloquence that, while often infuriating, fits his subject matter perfectly. You won't stop reading, but you'll hate yourself in the morning. Bill Ott Review “Reading PAT CONROY is like watching Michelangelo paint the Sistine Chapel.”– Houston Chronicle “Astonishing . . . stunning . . . the range of passions and subjects that brings life to every page is almost endless.”– The Washington Post Book World “Blockbuster writing at its best.”– Los Angeles Times Book Review “PAT CONROY’S writing contains a virtue now rare in most contemporary fiction: passion.”– The Denver Post “Magnificent...beach music is clearly CONROY’S best.”– San Francisco Chronicle From the Trade Paperback edition. From the Publisher With the spectacular success of the unforgettable Prince Of Tides , Pat Conroy established himself as America's favorite storyteller, a writer whose anguished and painfully honest insights into families and the human heart emerge in richly lyrical prose and compulsively readable narratives. Now, in Beach Music , he tells of the dark memories that haunt families in a story that spans South Carolina and Rome and reaches back into the unutterable terrors of the Holocaust. Beach Music is about Jack McCall, an American living in Rome with his young daughter, trying to find peace after the recent trauma of his wife's suicide. But his solitude is disturbed by the appearance of his sister-in-law, who begs him to return home, and of two school friends, who want his help in tracking down another classmate who went underground as a Vietnam protester and never resurfaced. These requests launch Jack on a journey that encompasses the past and the present in both Europe and the American South and that leads him to shocking and ultimately liberating truths. Told with deep feeling and the unmistakable brand of Conroy humor, this powerful novel adds another masterpiece to the legendary list of classics that his body of works has become. From the Inside Flap Pat Conroy is without doubt America's favorite storyteller, a writer who portrays the anguished truth of the human heart and the painful secrets of families in richly lyrical prose and unforgettable narratives. Now, in Beach Music , he tells of the dark memories that haunt generations, in a story that spans South Carolina and Rome and reaches back into the unutterable terrors of the Holocaust. Beach Music is about Jack McCall, an American living in Rome with his young daughter, trying to find peace after the recent trauma of his wife's suicide. But his solitude is disturbed by the appearance of his sister-in-law, who begs him to return home, and of two school friends asking for his help in tracking down another classmate who went underground as a Vietnam protester and never resurfaced. These requests launch Jack on a journey that encompasses the past and the present in both Europe and the American South, and that leads him to shocking--and ultimately liberating--truths.Told with deep feeling and trademark Conroy humor, Beach Music is powerful and compulsively readable. It is another masterpiece in the legendary list of classics that his body of work has already become.PAT CONROY is the author of five previous books: The Boo , The Water Is Wide , The Great Santini , The Lords of Discipline , and The Prince of Tides , the last four of which were made into feature films. About the Author Pat Conroy is the bestselling author of The Water is Wide , The Great Santini , The Lords of Discipline , The Prince of Tides , and Beach Music . He lives in Fripp Island, South Carolina. From the Paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. In 1980, a year after my wife leapt to her death from the Silas Pearlman Bridge in Charleston, South Carolina, I moved to Italy to begin life anew, taking our small daughter with me.  Our sweet Leah was not quite two when my wife, Shyla, stopped her car on the highest point of the bridge and looked over, for the last time, the city she loved so well.  She had put on the emergency brake and opened the door of our car, then lifted herself up to the rail of the bridge with the delicacy and enigmatic grace that was always Shyla's catlike gift.  She was also quick-witted and funny, but she carried within her a dark side that she hid with bright allusions and an irony as finely wrought as lace.  She had so mastered the strategies of camouflage that her own history had seemed a series of well-placed mirrors that kept her hidden from herself.        It was nearly sunset and a tape of the Drifters' Greatest Hits poured out of the car's stereo.  She had recently had our car serviced and the gasoline tank was full.  She had paid all the bills and set up an appointment with Dr. Joseph for my teeth to be cleaned.  Even in her final moments, her instincts tended toward the orderly and the functional.  She had always prided herself in keeping her madness invisible and at bay; and when she could no longer fend off the voices that grew inside her, their evil set to chaos in a minor key, her breakdown enfolded upon her, like a tarpaulin pulled across that part of her brain where once there had been light.  Having served her time in mental hospitals, exhausted the wide range of pharmaceuticals, and submitted herself to the priestly rites of therapists of every theoretic persuasion, she was defenseless when the black music of her subconscious sounded its elegy for her time on earth.        On the rail, all eyewitnesses agreed, Shyla hesitated and looked out toward the sea and shipping lanes that cut past Fort Sumter, trying to compose herself for the last action of her life.  Her beauty had always been a disquieting thing about her and as the wind from the sea caught her black hair, lifting it like streamers behind her, no one could understand why anyone so lovely would want to take her own life.  But Shyla was tired of feeling ill-made and transitory and she wanted to set the flags of all her tomorrows at half-mast. Three days earlier, she had disappeared from our house in Ansonborough and only later did I discover that she had checked in to the Mills-Hyatt House to put her affairs in order.  After making appointments, writing schedules, letters, and notes that would allow our household to continue in its predictable harmony, she marked the mirror in her hotel room with an annulling X in bright red lipstick, paid her bill with cash, flirted with the doorman, and gave a large tip to the boy who brought her the car.  The staff at the hotel remarked on her cheerfulness and composure during her stay.        As Shyla steadied herself on the rail of the bridge a man approached her from behind, a man coming up from Florida, besotted with citrus and Disney World, and said in a low voice so as not to frighten the comely stranger on the bridge, "Are you okay, honey?"        She pirouetted slowly and faced him.  Then with tears streaming down her face, she stepped back, and with that step, changed the lives of her family forever. Her death surprised no one who loved her, yet none of us got over it completely.  Shyla was that rarest of suicides: no one held her responsible for the act itself; she was forgiven as instantly as she was missed and afterward she was deeply mourned.          For three days I joined the grim-faced crew of volunteers who searched for Shyla's remains.  Ceaselessly, we dragged the length and breadth of the harbor, enacting a grotesque form of braille as hoods felt their way along the mudflats and the pilings of the old bridge that connected Mount Pleasant and Sullivan's Island.  Two boys  were crabbing when they noticed her body moving toward them beside the marsh grass.        After her funeral, a sadness took over me that seemed permanent, and I lost myself in the details and technicalities connected to death in the South. Great sorrow still needs to be fed and I dealt with my disconsolate emptiness by feeding everyone who gathered around me to offer their support.  I felt as though I were providing sustenance for the entire army in the field who had come together to ease the malignant ache I felt every time Shyla's name was mentioned.  The word Shyla itself became a land mine.  That sweet-sounding word was merciless and I could not bear to hear it.          So I lost myself in the oils and condiments of my well-stocked kitchen.  I fatted up my friends and family, attempted complicated recipes I had always put off making, and even tried my hand at Asian cuisine for the first time.  With six gas burners ablaze, I turned out velvety soups and rib-sticking stews.  I alternated between cooking and weeping and I prayed for the repose of the soul of my sad, hurt wife.  I suffered, I grieved, I broke down, and I cooked fabulous meals for those who came to comfort me.        It was only a short time after we buried Shyla that her parents sued me for custody of my child, Leah, and their lawsuit brought me running back into the real world.  I spent a dispiriting year in court trying to prove my fitness as a father.  It was a time when I met a series of reptilian lawyers so unscrupulous that I would not have used their marrow to feed wild dogs or their wiry flesh to bait a crab pot.  Shyla's mother and father had gone crazy with grief and I learned much about the power of scapegoating by watching their quiet hatred of me as they grimaced though the testimony regarding my sanity, my finances, my reputation in the community, and my sexual life with their eldest child.          Though I have a whole range of faults that piqued the curiosity of the court, few who have ever seen me with my daughter have any doubts about my feelings for her.  I get weak at the knees at the very sight of her.  She is my certification, my boarding pass into the family of man, and whatever faith in the future I still retain.          But it was not my overriding love of Leah that won the day in court.  Before she took her final drive, Shyla had mailed me a letter that was part love letter and part apology for what she had done.  When my lawyer had me read that letter aloud to the court, it became clear to Shyla's parents and everyone present that laying her death at my feet was, at best, a miscarriage of justice.  Her letter was an act of extraordinary generosity written in the blackest hours of her life.  She blew it like a kiss toward me as a final gesture of a rare, exquisite sensibility.  Her letter saved Leah for me.  But the ferocity of that court battle left me exhausted, bitter, and raw around the edges.  It felt as though Shyla had died twice.          I answered my wife's leap from the bridge and the fierceness of that legal battle with a time of disorientation and sadness; and then with Italy.  Toward Europe, I looked for respite and hermitage, and the imminence of my secret flight from South Carolina again restored a fight spirit within me.  I had made a good living as a food and travel writer and running away had always been one of the things I did best.          The flight to Europe was my attempt to place the memory of both Shyla and South Carolina permanently in the past.  I hoped I would save my life and Leah's from the suffocation I was beginning to feel in the place where Shyla and I had come of age together.  For me, the South was carry-on baggage I could not shed no matter how many borders I crossed, but my daughter was still a child and I wanted her to grow into young womanhood as a European, blissfully unaware of that soft ruinous South that had killed her mother in one of its prettiest rivers.  My many duties as a father I took with great seriousness, but there was no law that I was aware of that insisted I raise Leah as a Southerner.  Certainly, the South had been a mixed blessing for me and I carried some grievous wounds into exile with me.  All the way across the Atlantic Leah slept in my lap and when she awoke, I began her transformation by teaching her to count in Italian.  And so in Rome we settled and began the long process of refusing to be Southern, even though my mother started a letter-writing campaign to coax me back home.  Her letters arrived every Friday: "A Southerner in Rome? A low country boy in Italy? Ridiculous.  You've always been restless, Jack, never knew how to be comfortable with your own kind.  But mark my words.  You'll be back soon.  The South's got a lot wrong with it.  But it's permanent press and it doesn't wash out."        Though my mother was onto something real, I stuck by my guns.  I would tell American tourists who questioned me about my accent that I no longer checked the scores of the Atlanta Braves in the Herald T... Read more

The Most Scenic Drives in America: 120 Spectacular Road Trips

The Girl on the Train: A Novel

Review “ The Girl on the Train has more fun with unreliable narration than any chiller since Gone Girl. . . . The Girl on the Train is liable to draw a large, bedazzled readership too. . . . The Girl on the Train is full of back-stabbing, none of it literal.”—Janet Maslin, The New York Times “ The Girl on the Train marries movie noir with novelistic trickery. . . hang on tight. You'll be surprised by what horrors lurk around the bend.”— USA Today “Like its train, the story blasts through the stagnation of these lives in suburban London and the reader cannot help but turn pages. . . . The welcome echoes of Rear Window throughout the story and its propulsive narrative make The Girl on the Train an absorbing read.”— The Boston Globe “[ The Girl on the Train ] pulls off a thriller's toughest trick: carefully assembling everything we think we know, until it reveals the one thing we didn't see coming."— Entertainment Weekly “ Gone Girl fans will devour this psychological thriller. . . . Hawkins’s debut ends with a twist that no one—least of all its victims—could have seen coming.”— People “Given the number of titles that are declared to be 'the next' of a bestseller . . . book fans have every right to be wary. But Paula Hawkins’ novel The Girl on the Train just might have earned the title of 'the next Gone Girl .”— Christian Science Monitor “Hawkins’s taut story roars along at the pace of, well, a high-speed train. …Hawkins delivers a smart, searing thriller that offers readers a 360-degree view of lust, love, marriage and divorce.”— Good Housekeeping “There’s nothing like a possible murder to take the humdrum out of your daily commute.”— Cosmopolitan "Paula Hawkins has come up with an ingenious slant on the currently fashionable amnesia thriller. . . . Hawkins juggles perspectives and timescales with great skill, and considerable suspense builds up along with empathy for an unusual central character."— The Guardian “Paula Hawkins deftly imbues her debut psychological thriller with inventive twists and a shocking denouement. … Hawkins delivers an original debut that keeps the exciting momentum of The Girl on the Train going until the last page.”— Denver Post “ The Girl on the Train, Hawkins’s first thriller, is well-written and ingeniously constructed.” – The Washington Post “The novel is at its best in the moment of maximum confusion, when neither the reader nor the narrators know what is occurring” – The Financial Times “This fresh take on Hitchcock’s Rear Window is getting raves and will likely be one of the biggest debuts of the year.”— Omaha World-Herald “Hawkins’s tale of love, regret, violence and forgetting is an engrossing psychological thriller with plenty of surprises. . . . The novel gets harder and harder to put down as the story screeches toward its unexpected ending.”— Minneapolis Star Tribune “A gripping, down-the-rabbit-hole thriller.”— Entertainment Weekly Hotlist “The Thriller So Engrossing, You'll Pray for Snow: Send in the blizzards, because nothing as mundane as work, school or walking the dog should distract you from this debut thriller. A natural fit for fans of Gone Girl-style unreliable narrators and twisty, fast-moving plots, The Girl on the Train will have you racing through the pages."—Oprah.com  “It's difficult to say too much more about the plot of The Girl on the Train ; like all thrillers, it's best for readers to dive in spoiler-free. This is a debut novel—Hawkins is a journalist by training—but it doesn't read like the work of someone new to suspense. The novel is perfectly paced, from its arresting beginning to its twist ending; it's not an easy book to put down. . . . . What really makes The Girl on the Train such a gripping novel is Hawkins' remarkable understanding of the limits of human knowledge, and the degree to which memory and imagination can become confused.”—NPR.org   “[L]ike Gone Girl , Hawkins's book is a highly addictive novel about a lonely divorcee who gets caught up in the disappearance of a woman whom she had been surreptitiously watching. And beyond the Gone Girl comparisons, this book has legs of its own.”—GQ.com  “Paula Hawkins’ thriller is a shocking ride.” –US Weekly “An ex-wife indulges her voyeuristic tendencies in Paula Hawkins’s film-ready The Girl on the Train. In the post- Gone Girl era, crimes of love aren’t determined by body counts or broken hearts, but by who controls the story line.” – Vogue “ The Girl on the Train [is] a harrowing new suspense novel…a complex and thoroughly chilling psychological thriller… The Girl on the Train is one of those books where you can’t wait — yet almost can’t bear — to turn the page. It’s a stunning novel of dread.” – New York Daily News “ The Girl on the Train by Paula Hawkins is a psychologically gripping debut that delivers.” – The Missourian “ The Girl on the Train is the kind of slippery, thrilling read that only comes around every few years (see Gone Girl ).” – BookPage “Hawkins, a former journalist, is a witty, sharp writer with a gift for creating complex female characters.” – Cleveland Plain Dealer “ The Girl on the Train is as tautly constructed as Gone Girl or A.S.A. Harrison's The Silent Wife , and has something more: a main character who is all screwed up but sympathetic nonetheless. Broken, but dear. . . . No matter how well it's written, a suspense novel can fall apart in the last pages, with an overly contrived or unbelievable ending. Here, The Girl on the Train shines, with its mystery resolved by a left-field plot twist that works, followed, surprisingly, by what you might call a happy ending.”— Newsday “I’m calling it now: The Girl on the Train is the next Gone Girl . Paula Hawkins’s highly anticipated debut novel is a dark, gripping thriller with the shocking ending you crave in a noir-ish mystery.” – Bustle “Rachel takes the same train into London every day, daydreaming about the lives of the occupants in the homes she passes. But when she sees something unsettling from her window one morning, it sets in motion a chilling series of events that make her question whom she can really trust.”— Woman’s Day “Hawkins’s debut novel is a tangle of unreliable narrators, but what will have readers talking is her deft handling of twists and turns and her eerily fine-tuned narrative. This is one creepy, dark thriller. . . . The book is smartly paced and delightfully complex. Just when it seems Hawkins is leading us one way, Rachel, Anna, or Megan change the game. Nothing can be taken for granted in The Girl on the Train , not even the account of the girl herself.”— Las Vegas Weekly "Psychologically astute debut . . . The surprise-packed narratives hurtle toward a stunning climax, horrifying as a train wreck and just as riveting."— Publishers Weekly (starred review) “[A] chilling, assured debut. . . . Even the most astute readers will be in for a shock as Hawkins slowly unspools the facts, exposing the harsh realities of love and obsession's inescapable links to violence.”— Kirkus (starred review)  “intricate, multilayered psychological suspense debut, from a staggered timeline and three distinct female narrators. Rachel, who is unabashed in her darker instincts, anchors the narrative. Readers will fear, pity, sympathize and root for her, though she's not always understandable or trustworthy. . . . En route to a terrorizing and twisted conclusion, all three women—and the men with whom they share their lives—are forced to dismantle their delusions about others and themselves, their choices and their respective relationships.”— Shelf Awareness "This month we're gearing up for Paula Hawkins's mystery The Girl on the Train . Its three narrators keep readers guessing as they try to suss out who's behind one character's shocking disappearance. Can you figure out who did it before they do?"— Martha Stewart Living “What a thriller!”— People Style Watch “Hawkins keeps the tension ratcheted high in this thoroughly engrossing tale of intersecting strangers and intimate betrayals. Kept me guessing until the very end.”—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times –bestselling author of the Detective D. D. Warren series  “I simply could not put it down.”—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times –bestselling author of the Rizzoli and Isles series  “Gripping, enthralling—a top-notch thriller and a compulsive read.”—S. J. Watson, New York Times –bestselling author of Before I Go to Sleep “Be ready to be spellbound, ready to become as obsessed. . . . The Girl on the Train is the kind of book you’ll want to press into the hands of everyone you know, just so they can share your obsession and you can relive it.”—Laura Kasischke, author of The Raising “What a group of characters, what a situation, what a book! It’s Alfred Hitchcock for a new generation and a new era.”—Terry Hayes, author of I Am Pilgrim “Artfully crafted and utterly riveting. The Girl on the Train ’s clever structure and expert pacing will keep you perched on the edge of your seat, but it’s Hawkins’s deft, empathetic characterization that will leave you pondering this harrowing, thought-provoking story about the power of memory and the danger of envy.”—Kimberly McCreight, New York Times –bestselling author of Reconstructing Amelia Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of the Month, January 2015: Intersecting, overlapping, not-quite-what-they-seem lives. Jealousies and betrayals and wounded hearts. A haunting unease that clutches and won’t let go. All this and more helps propel Paula Hawkins’s addictive debut into a new stratum of the psychological thriller genre. At times, I couldn’t help but think: Hitchcockian . From the opening line, the reader knows what they’re in for: “She’s buried beneath a silver birch tree, down towards the old train tracks…” But Hawkins teases out the mystery with a veteran’s finesse. The “girl on the train” is Rachel, who commutes into London and back each day, rolling past the backyard of a happy-looking couple she names Jess and Jason. Then one day Rachel sees “Jess” kissing another man. The day after that, Jess goes missing. The story is told from three character’s not-to-be-trusted perspectives: Rachel, who mourns the loss of her former life with the help of canned gin and tonics; Megan (aka Jess); and Anna, Rachel’s ex-husband’s wife, who happens to be Jess/Megan’s neighbor. Rachel’s voyeuristic yearning for the seemingly idyllic life of Jess and Jason lures her closer and closer to the investigation into Jess/Megan’s disappearance, and closer to a deeper understanding of who she really is. And who she isn’t. This is a book to be devoured. -Neal Thompson About the Author Paula Hawkins worked as a journalist for fifteen years before turning her hand to fiction. She lives in London. The Girl on the Train is her first thriller. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. RACHEL FRIDAY, JULY 5, 2013 MORNING There is a pile of clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth—a shirt, perhaps—jumbled up with something dirty white. It's probably rubbish, part of a load dumped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they're here often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I had an overactive imagination; Tom said that, too. I can't help it, I catch sight of these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is the other shoe and the feet that fitted into them.  The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion, the little pile of clothes disappears from view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a brisk jogger's pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless irritation; the 8:04 slow train from Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of the most seasoned commuter. The journey is supposed to take fifty-four minutes, but it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling problems and never-ending engineering works. The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses and water towers, bridges and sheds, past modest Victorian houses, their backs turned squarely to the track.My head leaning against the carriage window, I watch these houses roll past me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others do not; even their owners probably don't see them from this perspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view into other lives, just for a moment. There's something comforting about the sight of strangers safe at home.Someone's phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful and upbeat song. They're slow to answer, it jingles on and on around me. I can feel my fellow commuters shift in their seats, rustle their newspapers, tap at their computers. The train lurches and sways around the bend, slowing as it approaches a red signal. I try not to look up, I try to read the free newspaper I was handed on my way into the station, but the words blur in front of my eyes, nothing holds my interest. In my head I can still see that little pile of clothes lying at the edge of the track, abandoned. EVENING The premixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip of the can as I bring it to my mouth and sip. Tangy and cold, the taste of my first-ever holiday with Tom, a fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In the mornings we'd swim the half mile to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the afternoons we'd sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin and tonics, watching swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic twenty-five-a-side games on the low-tide sands.I take another sip, and another; the can's already half empty, but it's OK, I have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. It's Friday, so I don't have to feel guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The fun starts here.It's going to be a lovely weekend, that's what they're telling us. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies. In the old days we might have driven to Corly Wood with a picnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying on a blanket in dappled sunlight, drinking wine. We might have barbecued out back with friends, or gone to the Rose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing with sun and alcohol as the afternoon went on, weaving home, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa. Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to play with, nothing to do. Living like this, the way I'm living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about, being flagrantly, aggressively happy. It's exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if you're not joining in. The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eight empty hours to fill. I lift the can to my mouth again, but there's not a drop left. MONDAY, JULY 8, 2013 MORNING It's a relief to be back on the 8:04. It's not that I can't wait to get into London to start my week—I don't particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth and back and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. I'd rather be here, looking out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else. There's a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I assume it must be faulty, in any case, because it's almost always red; we stop there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal, which it almost always does, I have a perfect view into my favourite trackside house: number fifteen. Number fifteen is much like the other houses along this stretch of track: a Victorian semi, two storeys high, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden that runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a few metres of no-man's-land before you get to the railway track. I know this house by heart. I know every brick, I know the colour of the curtains in the upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint is peeling off the bathroom window frame and that there are four tiles missing from a section of the roof over on the right-hand side. I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, Jason and Jess, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift terrace on top of the kitchen-extension roof. They are a perfect, golden couple. He is dark-haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. He has a great laugh. She is one of those tiny bird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blond hair cropped short. She has the bone structure to carry that kind of thing off, sharp cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw. While we're stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jess is often out there in the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I see her there, I feel as though she sees me, too, I feel as though she looks right back at me, and I want to wave. I'm too self-conscious. I don't see Jason quite so much, he's away a lot with work. But even if they're not there, I think about what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they've both got the day off and she's lying in bed while he makes breakfast, or maybe they've gone for a run together, because that's the sort of thing they do. (Tom and I used to run together on Sundays, me going at slightly above my normal pace, him at about half his, just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess is upstairs in the spare room, painting, or maybe they're in the shower together, her hands pressed against the tiles, his hands on her hips. EVENING Turning slightly towards the window, my back to the rest of the carriage, I open one of the little bottles of Chenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop at Euston. It's not cold, but it'll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the top back on and slip the bottle into my handbag. It's less acceptable to drink on the train on a Monday, unless you're drinking with company, which I am not.  There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to and fro. I recognize them and they probably recognize me. I don't know whether they see me, though, for what I really am. It's a glorious evening, warm but not too close, the sun starting its lazy descent, shadows lengthening and the light just beginning to burnish the trees with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason and Jess's place, they pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from this side of the track. If there's no train going in the opposite direction, and if we're travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on their terrace. If not—like today—I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his hands, the weight of them, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catch myself trying to remember the last time I had meaningful physical contact with another person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches. TUESDAY, JULY 9, 2013 MORNING The pile of clothes from last week is still there, and it looks dustier and more forlorn than it did a few days ago. I read somewhere that a train can rip the clothes right off you when it hits. It's not that unusual, death by train. Two to three hundred a year, they say, so at least one every couple of days. I'm not sure how many of those are accidental. I look carefully, as the train rolls slowly past, for blood on the clothes, but I can't see any. The train stops at the signal as usual. I can see Jess standing on the patio in front of the French doors. She's wearing a bright print dress, her feet are bare. She's looking over her shoulder, back into the house; she's probably talking to Jason, who'll be making breakfast. I keep my eyes fixed on Jess, on her home, as the train starts to inch forward. I don't want to see the other houses; I particularly don't want to see the one four doors down, the one that used to be mine. I lived at number twenty-three Blenheim Road for five years, blissfully happy and utterly wretched. I can't look at it now. That was my first home. Not my parents' place, not a flatshare with other students, my first home. I can't bear to look at it. Well, I can, I do, I want to, I don't want to, I try not to. Every day I tell myself not to look, and every day I look. I can't help myself, even though there is nothing I want to see there, even though anything I do see will hurt me. Even though I remember so clearly how it felt that time I looked up and noticed that the cream linen blind in the upstairs bedroom was gone, replaced by something in soft baby pink; even though I still remember the pain I felt when I saw Anna watering the rose-bushes near the fence, her T-shirt stretched tight over her bulging belly, and I bit my lip so hard, it bled. I close my eyes tightly and count to ten, fifteen, twenty. There, it's gone now, nothing to see. We roll into Witney station and out again, the train starting to pick up pace as suburbia melts into grimy North London, terraced houses replaced by tagged bridges and empty buildings with broken windows. The closer we get to Euston, the more anxious I feel; pressure builds; how will today be? There's a filthy, low-slung concrete building on the right-hand side of the track about five hundred metres before we get into Euston. On its side, someone has painted: LIFE IS NOT A PARAGRAPH . I think about the bundle of clothes on the side of the track and I feel as though my throat is closing up. Life is not a paragraph, and death is no parenthesis. EVENING The train I take in the evening, the 5:56, is slightly slower than the morning one—it takes one hour and one minute, a full seven minutes longer than the morning train despite not stopping at any extra stations. I don't mind, because just as I'm in no great hurry to get into London in the morning, I'm in no hurry to get back to Ashbury in the evening, either. Not just because it's Ashbury, although the place itself is bad enough, a 1960s new town, spreading like a tumour over the heart of Buckinghamshire. No better or worse than a dozen other towns like it, a centre filled with cafés and mobile-phone shops and branches of JD Sports, surrounded by a band of suburbia and beyond that the realm of the multiplex cinema and out-of-town Tesco. I live in a smart(ish), new(ish) block situated at the point where the commercial heart of the place starts to bleed into the residential outskirts, but it is not my home. My home is the Victorian semi on the tracks, the one I part-owned. In Ashbury I am not a homeowner, not even a tenant—I'm a lodger, occupant of the small second bedroom in Cathy's bland and inoffensive duplex, subject to her grace and favour. Cathy and I were friends at university. Half friends, really, we were never that close. She lived across the hall from me in my first year, and we were both doing the same course, so we were natural allies in those first few daunting weeks, before we met people with whom we had more in common. We didn't see much of each other after the first year and barely at all after college, except for the occasional wedding. But in my hour of need she happened to have a spare room going and it made sense. I was so sure that it would only be for a couple of months, six at the most, and I didn't know what else to do. I'd never lived by myself, I'd gone from parents to flatmates to Tom, I found the idea overwhelming, so I said yes. And that was nearly two years ago. It's not awful . Cathy's a nice person, in a forceful sort of way. She makes you notice her niceness. Her niceness is writ large, it is her defining quality and she needs it acknowledged, often, daily almost, which can be tiring. But it's not so bad, I can think of worse traits in a flatmate. No, it's not Cathy, it's not even Ashbury that bothers me most about my new situation (I still think of it as new, although it's been two years). It's the loss of control. In Cathy's flat I always feel like a guest at the very outer limit of her welcome. I feel it in the kitchen, where we jostle for space when cooking our evening meals. I feel it when I sit beside her on the sofa, the remote control firmly within her grasp. The only space that feels like mine is my tiny bedroom, into which a double bed and a desk have been crammed, with barely enough space to walk between them. It's comfortable enough, but it isn't a place you want to be, so instead I linger in the living room or at the kitchen table, ill at ease and powerless. I have lost control over everything, even the places in my head. WEDNESDAY, JULY 10, 2013 MORNING The heat is building. It's barely half past eight and already the day is close, the air heavy with moisture. I could wish for a storm, but the sky is an insolent blank, pale, watery blue. I wipe away the sweat on my top lip. I wish I'd remembered to buy a bottle of water. I can't see Jason and Jess this morning, and my sense of disappointment is acute. Silly, I know. I scrutinize the house, but there's nothing to see. The curtains are open downstairs but the French doors are closed, sunlight reflecting off the glass. The sash window upstairs is closed, too. Jason may be away working. He's a doctor, I think, probably for one of those overseas organizations. He's constantly on call, a bag packed on top of the wardrobe; there's an earthquake in Iran or a tsunami in Asia and he drops everything, he grabs his bag and he's at Heathrow within a matter of hours, ready to fly out and save lives. Jess, with her bold prints and her Converse trainers and her beauty, her attitude, works in the fashion industry. Or perhaps in the music business, or in advertising—she might be a stylist or a photographer. She's a good painter, too, plenty of artistic flair. I can see her now, in the spare room upstairs, music blaring, window open, a brush in her hand, an enormous canvas leaning against the wall. She'll be there until midnight; Jason knows not to bother her when she's working. I can't really see her, of course. I don't know if she paints, or whether Jason has a great laugh, or whether Jess has beautiful cheek-bones. I can't see her bone structure from here and I've never heard Jason's voice. I've never seen them up close, they didn't live at that house when I lived down the road. They moved in after I left two years ago, I don't know when exactly. I suppose I started noticing them about a year ago, and gradually, as the months went past, they became important to me. I don't know their names, either, so I had to name them myself. Jason, because he's handsome in a British film star kind of way, not a Depp or a Pitt, but a Firth, or a Jason Isaacs. And Jess just goes with Jason, and it goes with her. It fits her, pretty and carefree as she is. They're a match, they're a set. They're happy, I can tell. They're what I used to be, they're Tom and me five years ago. They're what I lost, they're everything I want to be. EVENING My shirt, uncomfortably tight, buttons straining across my chest, is pit-stained, damp patches clammy beneath my arms. My eyes and throat itch. This evening I don't want the journey to stretch out; I long to get home, to undress and get into the shower, to be where no one can look at me. I look at the man in the seat opposite mine. He is about my age, early to midthirties, with dark hair, greying at the temples. Sallow skin. He's wearing a suit, but he's taken the jacket off and slung it on the seat next to him. He has a MacBook, paper-thin, open in front of him. He's a slow typist. He's wearing a silver watch with a large face on his right wrist—it looks expensive, a Breitling maybe. He's chewing the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he's nervous. Or just thinking deeply. Writing an important email to a colleague at the office in New York, or a carefully worded break-up message to his girlfriend. He looks up suddenly and meets my eye; his glance travels over me, over the little bottle of wine on the table in front of me. He looks away. There's something about the set of his mouth that suggests distaste. He finds me distasteful. I am not the girl I used to be. I am no longer desirable, I'm off-putting in some way. It's not just that I've put on weight, or that my face is puffy from the drinking and the lack of sleep; it's as if people can see the damage written all over me, can see it in my face, the way I hold myself, the way I move. One night last week, when I left my room to get myself a glass of water, I overheard Cathy talking to Damien, her boyfriend, in the living room. I stood in the hallway and listened. "She's lonely," Cathy was saying. "I really worry about her. It doesn't help, her being alone all the time." Then she said, "Isn't there someone from work, maybe, or the rugby club?" and Damien said, "For Rachel? Not being funny, Cath, but I'm not sure I know anyone that desperate." THURSDAY, JULY 11, 2013 MORNING I'm picking at the plaster on my forefinger. It's damp, it got wet when I was washing out my coffee mug this morning; it feels clammy, dirty, though it was clean on this morning. I don't want to take it off because the cut is deep. Cathy was out when I got home, so I went to the off-licence and bought two bottles of wine. I drank the first one and then I thought I'd take advantage of the fact that she was out and cook myself a steak, make a red-onion relish, have it with a green salad. A good, healthy meal. I sliced through the top of my finger while chopping the onions. I must have gone to the bathroom to clean it up and gone to lie down for a while and just forgotten all about it, because I woke up around ten and I could hear Cathy and Damien talking and he was saying how disgusting it was that I would leave the kitchen like that. Cathy came upstairs to see me, she knocked softly on my door and opened it a fraction. She cocked her head to one side and asked if I was OK. I apologized without being sure what I was apologizing for. She said it was all right, but would I mind cleaning up a bit? There was blood on the chopping board, the room smelled of raw meat, the steak was still sitting out on the countertop, turning grey. Damien didn't even say hello, he just shook his head when he saw me and went upstairs to Cathy's bedroom. After they'd both gone to bed I remembered that I hadn't drunk the second bottle, so I opened that. I sat on the sofa and watched television with the sound turned down really low so they wouldn't hear it. I can't remember what I was watching, but at some point I must have felt lonely, or happy, or something, because I wanted to talk to someone. The need for contact must have been over-whelming, and there was no one I could call except for Tom. There's no one I want to talk to except for Tom. The call log on my phone says I rang four times: at 11:02, 11:12, 11:54, 12:09. Judging from the length of the calls, I left two messages. He may even have picked up, but I don't remember talking to him. I remember leaving the first message; I think I just asked him to call me. That may be what I said in both of them, which isn't too bad.The train shudders to a standstill at the red signal and I look up. Jess is sitting on her patio, drinking a cup of coffee. She has her feet up against the table and her head back, sunning herself. Behind her, I think I can see a shadow, someone moving: Jason. I long to see him, to catch a glimpse of his handsome face. I want him to come outside, to stand behind her the way he does, to kiss the top of her head. He doesn't come out, and her head falls forward. There is something about the way she is moving today that seems different; she is heavier, weighed down. I will him to come out to her, but the train jolts and slogs forward and still there is no sign of him; she's alone. And now, without thinking, I find myself looking directly into my house, and I can't look away. The French doors are flung open, light streaming into the kitchen. I can't tell, I really can't, whether I'm seeing this or imagining it—is she there, at the sink, washing up? Is there a little girl sitting in one of those bouncy baby chairs up there on the kitchen table? I close my eyes and let the darkness grow and spread until it morphs from a feeling of sadness into something worse: a memory, a flashback. I didn't just ask him to call me back. I remember now, I was crying. I told him that I still loved him, that I always would. Please, Tom, please, I need to talk to you. I miss you . No no no no no no no. I have to accept it, there's no point trying to push it away. I'm going to feel terrible all day, it's going to come in waves—stronger then weaker then stronger again—that twist in the pit of my stomach, the anguish of shame, the heat coming to my face, my eyes squeezed tight as though I could make it all disappear. And I'll be telling myself all day, it's not the worst thing, is it? It's not the worst thing I've ever done, it's not as if I fell over in public, or yelled at a stranger in the street. It's not as if I humiliated my husband at a summer barbecue by shouting abuse at the wife of one of his friends. It's not as if we got into a fight one night at home and I went for him with a golf club, taking a chunk out of the plaster in the hallway outside the bedroom. It's not like going back to work after a three-hour lunch and staggering through the office, everyone looking, Martin Miles taking me to one side , I think you should probably go home, Rachel . I once read a book by a former alcoholic where she described giving oral sex to two different men, men she'd just met in a restaurant on a busy London high street. I read it and I thought, I'm not that bad. This is where the bar is set. EVENING I have been thinking about Jess all day, unable to focus on anything but what I saw this morning. What was it that made me think that something was wrong? I couldn't possibly see her expression at that distance, but I felt when I was looking at her that she was alone. More than alone—lonely. Perhaps she was—perhaps he's away, gone to one of those hot countries he jets off to to save lives. And she misses him, and she worries, although she knows he has to go. Of course she misses him, just as I do. He is kind and strong, everything a husband should be. And they are a partnership. I can see it, I know how they are. His strength, that protectiveness he radiates, it doesn't mean she's weak. She's strong in other ways; she makes intellectual leaps that leave him openmouthed in admiration. She can cut to the nub of a problem, dissect and analyse it in the time it takes other people to say good morning. At parties, he often holds her hand, even though they've been together years. They respect each other, they don't put each other down. I feel exhausted this evening. I am sober, stone-cold. Some days I feel so bad that I have to drink; some days I feel so bad that I can't. Today, the thought of alcohol turns my stomach. But sobriety on the evening train is a challenge, particularly now, in this heat. A film of sweat covers every inch of my skin, the inside of my mouth prickles, my eyes itch, mascara rubbed into their corners. My phone buzzes in my handbag, making me jump. Two girls sitting across the carriage look at me and then at each other, with a sly exchange of smiles. I don't know what they think of me, but I know it isn't good. My heart is pounding in my chest as I reach for the phone. I know this will be nothing good, either: it will be Cathy, perhaps, asking me ever so nicely to maybe give the booze a rest this evening? Or my mother, telling me that she'll be in London next week, she'll drop by the office, we can go for lunch. I look at the screen. It's Tom. I hesitate for just a second and then I answer it. "Rachel?" For the first five years I knew him, I was never Rachel, always Rach. Sometimes Shelley, because he knew I hated it and it made him laugh to watch me twitch with irritation and then giggle because I couldn't help but join in when he was laughing. "Rachel, it's me." His voice is leaden, he sounds worn out. "Listen, you have to stop this, OK?" I don't say anything. The train is slowing, and we are almost opposite the house, my old house. I want to say to him, Come outside, go and stand on the lawn. Let me see you. "Please, Rachel, you can't call me like this all the time. You've got to sort yourself out." There is a lump in my throat as hard as a pebble, smooth and obstinate. I cannot swallow. I cannot speak. "Rachel? Are you there? I know things aren't good with you, and I'm sorry for you, I really am, but . . . I can't help you, and these constant calls are really upsetting Anna. OK? I can't help you anymore. Go to AA or something. Please, Rachel. Go to an AA meeting after work today." I pull the filthy plaster off the end of my finger and look at the pale, wrinkled flesh beneath, dried blood caked at the edge of my fingernail. I press the thumbnail of my right hand into the centre of the cut and feel it open up, the pain sharp and hot. I catch my breath. Blood starts to ooze from the wound. The girls on the other side of the carriage are watching me, their faces blank. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Read more

Collected Stories (Vintage Classics)

Review All the stories Willa Cather wanted published in book form -- collected for the first time in one volume.A ruined beauty whose dignity has survived a lifetime of loss and disenchantment. A Czech immigrant who finds a paradoxical contentment on the harsh expanse of the Nebraska prairie. A solitary young painter spying raptly and guiltily on his exquisite neighbor. These are some of the lives that Willa Cather renders, with a fine balance of compassion and detachment, in these nineteen stories. Here are the landscapes that have awed readers of novels like O Pioneers! and Death Comes for the Archbishop , from frontier farms to the red rock canyons of the Southwest.Here are the great themes that Cather staked out like tracts of land: the plight of people hungry for beauty in a country that has no room for it; the mysterious arc of human lives; the ways in which the American frontier transformed the strangers who came to it, turning them imperceptibly into Americans. In these fictions, Cather displays her vast moral vision, her unerring sense of place, and her ability to find the one detail or episode that makes a closed life open wide in a single exhilarating moment.Vintage Classics are quality paperback editions of the world's greatest written works. They are durably bound and are printed exclusively on acid-free paper. From the Back Cover In these fictions, Cather displays her vast moral vision, her unerring sense of place, and her ability to find the one detail or episode that makes a closed life open wide in a single exhilarating moment. About the Author WILLA CATHER , author of twelve novels, including O Pioneers!, My Ántonia , and Death Comes for the Archbishop , was born in Virginia in 1873 but grew up in Nebraska, where many of her novels are set. She died in 1947 in New York City. Read more

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About the Author Since Laura Lippman’s debut, she has been recognized as a distinctive voice in mystery fiction and named one of the “essential” crime writers of the last 100 years. Stephen King called her “special, even extraordinary,” and Gillian Flynn wrote, “She is simply a brilliant novelist.” Her books have won most of the major awards in her field and been translated into more than twenty-five languages. She lives in Baltimore and New Orleans with her teenager.

A King So Cold: A Dark Fantasy Romance (Royals Book 1)

Review The romance in this book is seriously hot! - Christireadsalot THIS IS EVERYTHING I WANT IN A BOOK. It's passionate, it's wicked, it's sexy, it's intense, it's fast-paced, and heart-stopping and magical and creative and DOWN RIGHT ADDICTING. I'm so hungover right now. - Angie, Angie and Jessica's Dreamy Reads Incredible! Energetic, angsty, vengeful, and steamy. - Fifty Shades of D and J Without a doubt one of the best fantasy romances I've read in quite awhile. - K Ramjohn, Goodreads reviewer Ella's words are lyrical as they wrap around you and pull you into this world full of intrigue, lies, love, lust and power. I love fantasy reads and this one easily slid right up there with Sarah J. Maas for me. - Aundi, Musings of the Modern Belle This story was intense from the first chapter . It's dark, gritty, filthy and completely magical. - The Iron Tiara 5 captivating, sinfully delicious stars! WOW. This was my first time reading a fantasy romance novel and I was completely and utterly consumed. I am wrecked. This book was everything and so much more. A top read of 2020 hands down. - Katie's Kindle Addictions Absolutely enchanting . I did not want to put this down . - Anita, BookToRead I'm 100% OBSESSED with this book. After reading this I realized that the blurb is vague for a reason. I cannot tell you how many twists there are in this book! - Just Clay Reads Holy royals leaving me flushed . This book was HOT, right from the start. A perfect royal fantasy-complete with lust, power hungry characters and an EPIC romance of fairytale proportions. This story lives outside the box of any genre or trope. - Author Trilina Pucci One of the BEST books I've EVER read. It truly blew my mind!!!! Absolute perfection. - Michelle, Book Nerd This book was intoxicating and I plain and simply NEED MORE ! Ella has officially made me a fantasy romance fan or at least HER stories about fantasy romance. - Vivian, Goodreads reviewer From the very first page, you knew this was going to be a book that would be impossible to forget . I've read some really, really great books. A King So Cold is my favorite and top read of 2020 so far. - BCBooks This book is obsessive worthy. I never wanted to leave! - NativeHippiesBookObsession Love, friendship, heartbreak, redemption, loyalty and sacrifice. Omg I was on edge throughout the book, dying and contemplating what happens next. The angst is so damn real. It was killing me and those love scenes holy hotness whoa. This book consumed me from the very beginning. - Diksha, Goodreads reviewer 6 delicious stars! A King So Cold is by far my favorite Ella Fields book! Seductively intriguing, and utterly addictive. Ella trapped me in this sinfully dark world and I did not want to leave! - USA Today Bestselling Author, Cassandra Robbins Angst and suspense. Murder, revenge, Mayhem. Double-crossing. This is a book that I will never forget. - Jen, Dirty Bad Bloggers A page turner that sucks you in and doesn't want to let you go. This book is like devouring a bar of chocolate, impossible to put down! - USA Today Bestselling Author, T.L. Smith My mind is absolutely and completely BLOWN . I am in so much awe of how simply amazing this story is. This is Ella Fields at her finest, y'all. I am NOT kidding. - Annette, Book Nerd This is a fantasy romance unlike any I have ever read. Even if you aren't a fan of fantasy usually, Ella brings her signature angst and beauty to this world of anti-heroes and high stakes royal scheming. - USA Today bestselling author, Giana Darling


Broken Kingdom: Dark Enemies to Lovers Bully Romance (Corium University Book 3)

Review ★★★★★---"This trilogy was a wild ride from start to finish and the conclusion did not disappoint. " -Kat J ★★★★★---"One-click Broken Kingdom now and get ready to be pulled back into a dark world filled with magnetic characters and criminally addictive storylines that I couldn't quit even if I tried." -Made Me Blush Books ★★★★★---"The ending had me crying ugly tears! It was just so perfect! It was better than I ever expected." -Bek_lovestoread ★★★★★---"This is by far the best book I've read this year its kept grip from, every page, I turn right up to the end this series will always be my go to books over and over again as it so good." -Haz ★★★★★---"This series has been on crazy ride starting from hatred and ending up with two souls intwined forever." -Courtney ★★★★★---"I would love to give this book more than 5 stars!" -Coastie Mom

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Storm of Chaos and Shadows: A fae fantasy novel

Little Emmett: A Novel

From the Author Novels: The Writhing - Fleeing from certain death, a man stumbles upon a small town harboring nightmares even worse than he could imagine. The Writhing - Fleeing from certain death, a man stumbles upon a small town harboring nightmares even worse than he could imagine. Bathwater Blues - Each on the brink of self-destruction, four lost souls find themselves in the care of a strange man claiming to have answers to all their troubles. Bathwater Blues - Each on the brink of self-destruction, four lost souls find themselves in the care of a strange man claiming to have answers to all their troubles. By the Light of His Lantern -Cursed to spend eternity in a land of monsters and darkness, a young man must confront the truth of his past in order to save himself and find redemption. By the Light of His Lantern -Cursed to spend eternity in a land of monsters and darkness, a young man must confront the truth of his past in order to save himself and find redemption. Little Emmett - A dark, dystopian horror tale about one little boy's struggle for survival in a world unprepared for the true power he possesses. Little Emmett - A dark, dystopian horror tale about one little boy's struggle for survival in a world unprepared for the true power he possesses. Under the Wicked Moon - On a trip to visit their ailing grandmother, a family falls victim to ancient evils lurking in the Nevada desert. Under the Wicked Moon - On a trip to visit their ailing grandmother, a family falls victim to ancient evils lurking in the Nevada desert. Short Stories: The Final Babysitter - Offered a babysitting gig which seems too good to be true, a teenage girl finds herself in the throes of a disturbing family tradition. The Final Babysitter - Offered a babysitting gig which seems too good to be true, a teenage girl finds herself in the throes of a disturbing family tradition. About the Author Abe Moss has been writing horror stories for as long as he can remember, and hopes to never stop. He loves creature-features, psychologicalhorror, supernatural horror, cosmic horror, you name it. With each bookhe writes, he hopes to try something a little different. Thepossibilities are endless and that's what he really loves aboutstorytelling. He hopes you'll enjoy his stories, too!

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The Ritual: A Dark College Romance

Review "Oh. Em. Gee. That was flipping insane, and I got to tell you, I loved every second of it!" Behind Closed Door Book Review "Oh. Em. Gee. That was flipping insane, and I got to tell you, I loved every second of it!" Behind Closed Door Book Review "First word amazing, The Ritual has to be one of my favorite reads of 2021." Elizabeth Clinton. Goodreads reviewer "First word amazing, The Ritual has to be one of my favorite reads of 2021." Elizabeth Clinton. Goodreads reviewer "Unpredictable. Original. Thrilling. Steamy. Mind blowing. Shantel is a genius and continues to shine with The Ritual." The Lushy Reader "Unpredictable. Original. Thrilling. Steamy. Mind blowing. Shantel is a genius and continues to shine with The Ritual." The Lushy Reader "This book is Shantel Tessier at her best! I promise you once you start, you won't want to put this book down!" Rita. Goodreads reviewer "This book is Shantel Tessier at her best! I promise you once you start, you won't want to put this book down!" Rita. Goodreads reviewer "The Ritual is unlike anything I have read this year and easily, quite possibly, my favorite of 2021. Shantel outdoes herself again!!!!" Beth Kazmierczak. Goodreads reviewer "The Ritual is unlike anything I have read this year and easily, quite possibly, my favorite of 2021. Shantel outdoes herself again!!!!" Beth Kazmierczak. Goodreads reviewer "Crazy intense. Insanely addictive. Dark and twisted. Everything I freaking love with some boundary pushing triggers in a dark college romance." The Smutbrarians "Crazy intense. Insanely addictive. Dark and twisted. Everything I freaking love with some boundary pushing triggers in a dark college romance." The Smutbrarians

Dukes of Ruin (Dark College Bully Romance): Royals of Forsyth University Book 4

MONSTERS UNDER MY BED: A Monster Romance (Bogeymen Book 1)

Once Bitten, Twice Turned: A Fantasy Novel (The Hybrid Theory Book 1)

Storm of Blood and Vengeance: A fae fantasy novel (Storm of Chaos and Shadows Book 2)

About the Author C.L. Briar is a graduate of San Diego State University. In her spare time, she likes to participate in impromptu dance parties with her two little girls, and to look for nice bugs in the backyard, when the weather allows. She lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, two daughters, and dog. The family welcomed a third little girl to their crazy tribe in early 2022. --This text refers to the paperback edition.

Faith: Hollywood & Vine Deluxe Edition (Faith, 1)

A Room of Their Own

From the Author "A Room of Their Own" was born in a time of crisis. A time when the pains of the past took painful hold of me. We wrote the book together during our therapy sessions, and it helped us to take a step back and look at things from a new perspective. We found ourselves writing each in our own homes for many hours until Dani and Rotem were born, two characters whose special bond helped them both to heal and grow. The book is filled with love for people and animals, a love that has the power to heal. Slowly, the book began to form, and we realized that we had a story that begged to be told. Dani is a fragile but powerful character, she is passive but also determined and passionate. She is a character born out of Hila's broken heart, which healed and grew strong together with her. Rotem is a strong and sensitive woman, who gives but demands, has compassion but does not give in. Rotem's vulnerability meets Dani's and together they build a room of their own from which they can embark into the world stronger. The book shows which parts of therapy are helpful, what breaks us apart and what has the power to piece us back together and bring growth out of trauma. It demonstrates the link between sexual abuse at the hands of someone from the family, suicidal tendencies and eating disorders. It highlights how a constructive patient-therapist relationship is built. This book was written in two voices - Rakefet wrote the part of the therapist, Rotem Golan, while Hila told the story of the patient, Dani Friedman. About the Author As a child, Rakefet Yarden wanted to be a writer or a tourist guide. Today she is a therapist and a writer - pretty close to her dreams. She lives in Israel in the Golan Heights - a peaceful place to raise her 3 beautiful daughters and her handsome dog."A Room of Their Own" was written together with one of her patients during a session, but it is not a true story. Hila Kreimer Dan-Ber raises two girls, 17 horses and 20 dogs in a farm located in the west part of the Golan Heights, close to the Sea of Galilee. She founded the farm with her husband, and together they run a special center for therapeutic horse riding.

Drop Dead Queen: Dark Enemies to Lovers Bully Romance (Corium University Book 2)

Review ★★★★★---"I ugly cried... bad. It was not a good look. But an excellent read!" -ARC Review ★★★★★---"Not only did the entirety of Drop Dead Queen blow me away but the ENDING. Oh. My. Gosh. The ending almost had me throwing my kindle, screaming WHAT THE FAWK. It was intense and worth staying with the story. Absolutely cannot wait until the next one." -Shelby B ★★★★★---"I inhaled this book in 24 hours it was so good." -Brittany ★★★★★---"Quinton is thee best villian alpha-hole hero ever!!" ★★★★★---"The continuation to Aspen and Quinton story was explosive and mind blowing. I was completely drawn back into their world. I loved every dark twisted and steamy moment of this book!" ★★★★★---Maddeningly mind-reeling with every page until it blows you away to bits!"

Lifeline

Review "By far the MOST INTENSE AND CAPTIVATING BOOK I HAVE READ so far. This book left me speechless, it literally broke my heart, and a lot of tears were shed." ~ Sazidah, GR Reviewer. "Heartbreaking, gut-wrenching, and absolutely incredible, Lifeline is such an impactful read. 10 STARS !!!" ~ Stital. " EDGE OF THE SEAT Action packed with all the swoony feels, emotional ride!" ~ Cushin Violeta's Bookish Realm. "Michelle Heard broke me so many times in Lifeline that I have lost count. This dark, edgy romantic suspense kept me on the edge, and I have lost all sense of time and place while reading. GRIPPING. HEART POUNDING. SENSATIONAL. I feel emotionally drained, yet I cannot push you enough to read this book ." ~ PP's Bookshelf. "Be warned, this book is not for the faint of heart! But if you stick it out, I promise it will be ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS YOU HAVE EVER READ . That's what this story is... a book that will destroy you, rebuild you, and still leave you begging for more. I wish I could give this book more than 5 stars- it is a must-read!" ~ LivingLovingReading.

Nevada Real Estate Exam Prep (Preparation Guide)

Poison Princess Free Preview Edition: (The First 17 Chapters) (The Arcana Chronicles Book 1)

About the Author Kresley Cole is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Immortals After Dark paranormal series and the young adult Arcana Chronicles. Her books have been translated into over twenty foreign languages, garnered three RITA awards, and consistently appear on the bestseller lists in the US and abroad. Before becoming a writer, Cole was a world-ranked athlete, coach, and graduate student. She has traveled over much of the world and draws from those experiences to create her memorable characters and settings. She lives in Florida with her family and “far too many animals,” and spends any free time traveling. You can learn more about her and her work at KresleyCole.com or Facebook.com/KresleyCole. Sign up for Kresley’s email newsletter to receive the latest book release updates, as well as info about contests and giveaways (KresleyCole.com/Newsletter).

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