2016, ISBN: 9780399155956

Hardcover

Ballantine Books. Very Good. 5.32 x 1 x 8.01 inches. Paperback. 2012. 331 pages. <br>NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER ? A deeply evocative sto ry of ambition and betrayal that captures the… More...

Ballantine Books. Very Good. 5.32 x 1 x 8.01 inches. Paperback. 2012. 331 pages. <br>NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER ? A deeply evocative sto ry of ambition and betrayal that captures the love affair between two unforgettable people, Ernest Hemingway and his wife Hadley-- from the author of Love and Ruin and the new novel When the Stars Go Dark, available now! A beautiful portrait of being in Paris in the glittering 1920s--as a wife and as one's own woman.--Ente rtainment Weekly NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY Peop le ? Chicago Tribune ? NPR ? The Philadelphia Inquirer ? Kirkus R eviews ? The Toronto Sun ? BookPage Chicago, 1920: Hadley Richar dson is a quiet twenty-eight-year-old who has all but given up on love and happiness--until she meets Ernest Hemingway. Following a whirlwind courtship and wedding, the pair set sail for Paris, w here they become the golden couple in a lively and volatile group --the fabled Lost Generation--that includes Gertrude Stein, Ezra Pound, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Though deeply in love, the Hemin gways are ill prepared for the hard-drinking, fast-living, and fr ee-loving life of Jazz Age Paris. As Ernest struggles to find the voice that will earn him a place in history and pours himself in to the novel that will become The Sun Also Rises, Hadley strives to hold on to her sense of self as her roles as wife, friend, and muse become more challenging. Eventually they find themselves fa cing the ultimate crisis of their marriage--a deception that will lead to the unraveling of everything they've fought so hard for. A heartbreaking portrayal of love and torn loyalty, The Paris W ife is all the more poignant because we know that, in the end, He mingway wrote that he would rather have died than fallen in love with anyone but Hadley. Editorial Reviews Review McLain smartl y explores Hadley's ambivalence about her role as supportive wife to a budding genius. . . . Women and book groups are going to ea t up this novel.--USA Today Written much in the style of Nancy H oran's Loving Frank . . . Paula McLain's fictional account of Hem ingway's first marriage beautifully captures the sense of despair and faint hope that pervaded the era and their marriage.--Associ ated Press Lyrical and exhilarating . . . McLain offers a raw an d fresh look at the prolific Hemingway. In this mesmerizing and h elluva-good-time novel, McLain inhabits Richardson's voice and gu ides us from Chicago--Richardson and Hemingway's initial stomping ground--to the place where their life together really begins: Pa ris.--Elle A beautiful portrait of being in Paris in the glitter ing 1920s--as a wife and as one's own woman.--Entertainment Weekl y [Paula] McLain has brought Hadley [Hemingway] to life in a nov el that begins in a rush of early love. . . . A moving portrait o f a woman slighted by history, a woman whose . . . story needed t o be told.--The Boston Globe The Paris Wife creates the kind of out-of-body reading experience that dedicated book lovers yearn f or, nearly as good as reading Hemingway for the first time--and i t doesn't get much better than that.--Minneapolis Star Tribune E xquisitely evocative . . . This absorbing, illuminating book give s us an intimate view of a sympathetic and perceptive woman, the striving writer she married, the glittering and wounding Paris ci rcle they were part of. . . . McLain reinvents the story of Hadle y and Ernest's romance with the lucid grace of a practiced poet.- -The Seattle Times A novel that's impossible to resist. It's all here, and it all feels real.--People About the Author Paula Mc Lain is the New York Times bestselling author of the novels Love and Ruin, Circling the Sun, The Paris Wife, and A Ticket to Ride, the memoir Like Family: Growing Up in Other People's Houses, and two collections of poetry. Her writing has appeared in The New Y ork Times, Good Housekeeping, O: The Oprah Magazine, Town & Count ry, The Guardian, The Huffington Post, and elsewhere. She lives i n Ohio with her family. About the Author Paula McLain is the New York Times bestselling author of the novels Love and Ruin, Circl ing the Sun, The Paris Wife, and A Ticket to Ride, the memoir Lik e Family: Growing Up in Other People's Houses, and two collection s of poetry. Her writing has appeared in The New York Times, Good Housekeeping, O: The Oprah Magazine, Town & Country, The Guardia n, The Huffington Post, and elsewhere. She lives in Ohio with her family. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved . ONE The very first thing he does is fix me with those wonderfu lly brown eyes and say, It's possible I'm too drunk to judge, but you might have something there. It's October 1920 and jazz is e verywhere. I don't know any jazz, so I'm playing Rachmaninoff. I can feel a flush beginning in my cheeks from the hard cider my de ar pal Kate Smith has stuffed down me so I'll relax. I'm getting there, second by second. It starts in my fingers, warm and loose, and moves along my nerves, rounding through me. I haven't been d runk in over a year--not since my mother fell seriously ill--and I've missed the way it comes with its own perfect glove of fog, s ettling snugly and beautifully over my brain. I don't want to thi nk and I don't want to feel, either, unless it's as simple as thi s beautiful boy's knee inches from mine. The knee is nearly enou gh on its own, but there's a whole package of a man attached, tal l and lean, with a lot of very dark hair and a dimple in his left cheek you could fall into. His friends call him Hemingstein, Oin bones, Bird, Nesto, Wemedge, anything they can dream up on the sp ot. He calls Kate Stut or Butstein (not very flattering!), and an other fellow Little Fever, and yet another Horney or the Great Ho rned Article. He seems to know everyone, and everyone seems to kn ow the same jokes and stories. They telegraph punch lines back an d forth in code, lightning fast and wisecracking. I can't keep up , but I don't mind really. Being near these happy strangers is li ke a powerful transfusion of good cheer. When Kate wanders over from the vicinity of the kitchen, he points his perfect chin at m e and says, What should we name our new friend? Hash, Kate says. Hashedad's better, he says. Hasovitch. And you're Bird? I ask. Wem, Kate says. I'm the fellow who thinks someone should be da ncing. He smiles with everything he's got, and in very short orde r, Kate's brother Kenley has kicked the living room carpet to one side and is manning the Victrola. We throw ourselves into it, da ncing our way through a stack of records. He's not a natural, but his arms and legs are free in their joints, and I can tell that he likes being in his body. He's not the least shy about moving i n on me either. In no time at all our hands are damp and clenched , our cheeks close enough that I can feel the very real heat of h im. And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Heming way? Who wants a Hemingway? Probably every girl between here and Michigan Avenue, I think, looking at my feet to keep from blushi ng. When I look up again, he has his brown eyes locked on me. We ll? What do you think? Should I toss it out? Maybe not just yet. You never know. A name like that could catch on, and where would you be if you'd ditched it? Good point. I'll take it under cons ideration. A slow number starts, and without asking, he reaches for my waist and scoops me toward his body, which is even better up close. His chest is solid and so are his arms. I rest my hands on them lightly as he backs me around the room, past Kenley cran king the Victrola with glee, past Kate giving us a long, curious look. I close my eyes and lean into Ernest, smelling bourbon and soap, tobacco and damp cotton--and everything about this moment i s so sharp and lovely, I do something completely out of character and just let myself have it. TWO There's a song from that time by Nora Bayes called Make Believe, which might have been the mos t lilting and persuasive treatise on self-delusion I'd ever heard . Nora Bayes was beautiful, and she sang with a trembling voice t hat told you she knew things about love. When she advised you to throw off all the old pain and worry and heartache and smile--wel l, you believed she'd done this herself. It wasn't a suggestion b ut a prescription. The song must have been a favorite of Kenley's , too. He played it three times the night I arrived in Chicago, a nd each time I felt it speaking directly to me: Make believe you are glad when you're sorry. Sunshine will follow the rain. I'd h ad my share of rain. My mother's illness and death had weighed on me, but the years before had been heavy, too. I was only twenty- eight, and yet I'd been living like a spinster on the second floo r of my older sister Fonnie's house while she and her husband Rol and and their four dear beasts lived downstairs. I hadn't meant f or things to stay this way. I assumed I'd get married or find a c areer like my school friends. They were harried young mothers now , schoolteachers or secretaries or aspiring ad writers, like Kate . Whatever they were, they were living their lives, out there doi ng it, making their mistakes. Somehow I'd gotten stuck along the way--long before my mother's illness--and I didn't know how to fr ee myself exactly. Sometimes, after playing an hour of passable Chopin, I'd lie down on the carpet in front of the piano and star e at the ceiling, feeling whatever energy I'd had while playing l eave my body. It was terrible to feel so empty, as if I were noth ing. Why couldn't I be happy? And just what was happiness anyway? Could you fake it, as Nora Bayes insisted? Could you force it li ke a spring bulb in your kitchen, or rub up against it at a party in Chicago and catch it like a cold? Ernest Hemingway was still very much a stranger to me, but he seemed to do happiness all th e way up and through. There wasn't any fear in him that I could s ee, just intensity and aliveness. His eyes sparked all over every thing, all over me as he leaned back on his heel and spun me towa rd him. He tucked me fast against his chest, his breath warm on m y neck and hair. How long have you known Stut? he asked. We wen t to grade school together in St. Louis, at Mary Institute. What about you? You want my whole educational pedigree? It's not much . No, I laughed. Tell me about Kate. That would fill a book, an d I'm not sure I'm the fellow to write it. His voice was light, s till teasing, but he'd stopped smiling. What do you mean? Nothi ng, he said. The short and sweet part is our families both have s ummer cottages in Horton Bay. That's Michigan to a southerner lik e you. Funny that we both grew up with Kate. I was ten to her e ighteen. Let's just say I was happy to grow up alongside her. Wit h a nice view of the scenery. You had a crush, in other words. No, those are the right words, he said, then looked away. I'd ob viously touched some kind of nerve in him, and I didn't want to d o it again. I liked him smiling and laughing and loose. In fact, my response to him was so powerful that I already knew I would do a lot to keep him happy. I changed the subject fast. Are you fr om Chicago? Oak Park. That's right up the street. For a souther ner like me. Precisely. Well, you're a bang-up dancer, Oak Park . You too, St. Louis. The song ended and we parted to catch our breath. I moved to one side of Kenley's long living room while E rnest was quickly swallowed up by admirers--women, naturally. The y seemed awfully young and sure of themselves with their bobbed h air and brightly rouged cheeks. I was closer to a Victorian holdo ut than a flapper. My hair was still long, knotted at the nape of my neck, but it was a good rich auburn color, and though my dres s wasn't up to the minute, my figure made up for that, I thought. In fact, I'd been feeling very good about the way I looked the w hole time Ernest and I were dancing--he was so appreciative with those eyes!--but now that he was surrounded by vivacious women, m y confidence was waning. You seemed awfully friendly with Nesto, Kate said, appearing at my elbow. Maybe. Can I have the rest of that? I pointed to her drink. It's rather volcanic. She grimace d and passed it over. What is it? I put my face to the rim of th e glass, which was close enough. It smelled like rancid gasoline. Something homemade. Little Fever handed it to me in the kitchen . I'm not sure he didn't cook it up in his shoe. Over against a long row of windows, Ernest began parading back and forth in a da rk blue military cape someone had dug up. When he turned, the cap e lifted and flared dramatically. That's quite a costume, I said . He's a war hero, didn't he tell you? I shook my head. I'm su re he'll get to it eventually. Her face didn't give anything away , but her voice had an edge. He told me he used to pine for you. Really? There was the tone again. He's clearly over it now. I didn't know what had come between these two old friends, but what ever it was, it was obviously complicated and well under wraps. I let it drop. I like to think I'm the kind of girl who'll drink anything, I said, but maybe not from a shoe. Right. Let's hunt s omething up. She smiled and flashed her green eyes at me, and bec ame my Kate again, not grim at all, and off we went to get very d runk and very merry. I found myself watching for Ernest the rest of the night, waiting for him to appear and stir things up, but he didn't. He must have slipped away at some point. One by one ne arly everyone did, so that by 3:00 a.m. the party had been reduce d to dregs, with Little Fever as the tragic centerpiece. He was p assed out on the davenport with long dark wool socks stretched ov er his face and his hat perched on his crossed feet. To bed, to bed, Kate said with a yawn. Is that Shakespeare? I don't know. Is it? She hiccuped, and then laughed. I'm off to my own little h ovel now. Will you be all right here? Of course. Kenley's made u p a lovely room for me. I walked her to the door, and as she sidl ed into her coat, we made a date for lunch the next day. You'll have to tell me all about things at home. We haven't had a moment to talk about your mother. It must have been awful for you, poor creatch. Talking about it will only make me sad again, I said. But this is perfect. Thanks for begging me to come., Ballantine Books, 2012, 3, Harvest Books. Very Good. 5.51 x 0.75 x 8.5 inches. Paperback. 2003. 336 pages. <br>Acclaimed by critics, Martha McPhee's debut Bright Angel Time established her as a dazzling new talent in American fiction; she fulfills her promise and breaks ambitious new ground with Gorgeous Lies. Charismatic therapist Anton Furey is dying, and the tribe he heads-his five children, his wife's three, and t heir uniting child, Alice-has returned to Chardin, the farm where they grew up and played out Anton's vision of communal living. T hey had been famous for being the new American blended family, th eir utopian lifestyle chronicled by film crews and reporters. But as Anton grows weaker, the hurts and betrayals of those years bo il to the surface, and the children find themselves reliving the knotty intimacies they share as they struggle to make their peace with Anton. With shimmering prose and an acutely observant eye, McPhee has created a portrait of an era and a family that explore s the limits, and obligations, of love. Editorial Reviews Revie w [McPhee]''s prose captures the Chardin mood: Elegant and airy, it seems to levitate even the grubbiest details. (Los Angeles Tim e Book Review) An unusually strong novel [that] explores the wil d frontier of domestic life. (O Magazine) McPhee is a sensuous s tylist. (Elle) It''s easy to see why the charismatic figures fro m BRIGHT ANGEL TIME would not loosen their grip on this author. ( Washington Post Book World) Gorgeous Lies is a lovely meditation on mortality . . . Brilliantly and convincingly done. (Larry McM urtry) When McPhee strikes the right rhythm, you don''t so much read her prose as live inside it. (Santa Fe New Mexican) I loved this book. Martha McPhee plainly ranks as one of our country''s best young writers. (Tim O'Brien author of THE THINGS THEY CARRIE D) McPhee brings sensitivity and insight to her account.... She is an immensely gifted novelist. (Albany Times-Union) Fine work: A moving portrait of a foolish, foul-hearted, but impossibly inn ocent man. (starred review Kirkus) Deftly depicts individuals de aling with old memories and new problems. (Dallas Morning News) About the Author Martha McPhee is the author of Bright Angel Time , a New York Times Notable book, and coauthor with Jenny and Laur a McPhee of Girls. She teaches at Hofstra University and lives i n New York City. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. CHAPTER ONE Promise THEY LOVED ANTON. Every single one of them. Alice most of all. She was his youngest. Eve loved him. She was his wife. Agnes loved him. She was his ex-wife. Lily love d him. She was his lover. They all loved him. The little beady-ey ed preacher woman, the woman who sold ducks, Eve's divorce lawyer who always had a different girl on his arm, the Strange couple f rom down the road. (That was their name, Strange, and they were s trange, with dramatic drawn-out English accents, though they were not English-he a poet and a banker, she an aging actress.) The F urey kids loved him, of course. He was their father. The Cooper g irls tried to hate him, but what they really wanted was for him t o love them. Love them big and wide and infinitely, like a father . The Cooper girls were not his children. Once, they had all liv ed at Chardin-all the children, that is. Long ago in the 1970s. I t was called Chardin for the Omega Point, and it was Anton's drea m that he could create a home that was a perfect meeting place of the human and the divine: a divine milieu, the setting for a pro found and mystical vision of God. Pierre Teilhard de Chardin was his preferred philosopher. He upset the Catholic Church, scaring its thinkers into thinking about his attempt to combine evolution ary theory and Christian theology in a seamless whole. Chardin s prawled on a hill, the highest point in Hunterdon County, New Jer sey, blessed with hundred-mile views and lapped by seas of green fields rolling into cornfields and forests with creeks slinking t hrough them. And up there, there was a lot of sky with all its st orms and sunshine. In the spring forsythia, magnolia, lilac, and dogwood bloomed. The house had been a hunter's cabin, added on to over the years by Anton and the architect so that wings extended from it, spokelike, sprouting glass rooms and lofts and decks. A t one end of the house an indoor swimming pool steamed like the m outh of a dragon, so fiercely you could not see but an inch in fr ont of you. Steam seeped through the cracks in the sliding doors so that that end of the house seemed alive. Anton, who was many t hings-a philosopher writing a treatise on love, a berry salesman, a dealer in Haitian art, a writer, a Gestalt therapist, a Texan- had wanted the indoor pool as a place to hold therapy sessions. The architect loved him. They had big dreams for what more they w ould do to Chardin. Dreams involving silos, Moorish courtyards, a barn, a tower on the barn, an office from which Anton could watc h the setting sun. On the roof of this office he would gather all his children and friends to read poetry in the dimming light. I need a small pool. Big enough to fit twenty-five people or so an d it needs to get pretty hot, Anton said to the architect upon fi rst meeting him. Standing in the architect's living room, he also asked for a whiskey though it wasn't noon. Outside, Anton's turq uoise Cadillac languished in the sun, filled with kids. Scotch, t he architect said, because he only had scotch. Slim and handsome, with a quiet voice and a tendency to stroke his bearded chin, he was a precise man with a tidy mind and a tidy house, and in his world people did not drink before six. On Anton's ring finger the architect noticed an enormous turquoise ring. In his world, as w ell, men did not wear rings. His name was Laurence-pronounced the French way. Anton drank down the scotch and then ushered Laurenc e into the back of the Cadillac while all the kids crammed up fro nt. Schoolbooks and boys' underwear were everywhere, and as Anton drove fast Laurence flopped this way, then that, picking the und erwear off of him. A pool, Anton said, looking at Laurence in the rearview mirror, for my therapy sessions. I believe in finding w ays to become un-self-conscious. And Laurence nodded and the kids carried on up front. Anton had one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the back of the seat. He piloted the car like a maste r, suave Texan that he was. The idea of un-self-consciousness flo ated like a party balloon in the back. Laurence hoped he'd get to this house alive. And he worried. He was a worrier. You could re ad it on his tightened face. I don't know, Laurence kept saying, distressed because an indoor pool was never as easy as it seemed, because his beautiful wife was having an affair, because he had four teenage boys and a floundering practice in a tidy little tow n. It'll be fine, Anton said into the rearview mirror-smooth Texa s accent. And just the way he said it, just the way Anton held hi m with his eyes, made Laurence feel possibility. As if Anton's ey es opened up for him and allowed him a visit inside, the mix of e nthusiasm and wickedness and faith therein beckoning Laurence, se ducing Laurence-as if Anton's dreams, sliding off his lips like t ruth, were large enough to save him, too. They became fast frien ds with their elaborate visions for Chardin. Before too long Anto n was inviting Laurence to rebirthing ceremonies on the front law n in which a person ready for rebirth crawled naked through a can al of arching bodies, teaching Laurence one more aspect of un-sel f-consciousness. The steam from the pool caused the ivy to thriv e. Ivy crept up the walls, nearly covering the house. It crept th rough some of the windows into some of the rooms, and though it l ooked beautiful, over the years it caused the walls to rot, the r oof to leak, the pipes to crack. Its roots snaked underground and around the sewage pipes, cracking them, too, and on thick July d ays the faint smell of waste wafted over the yard. It'll be all right, Anton promised. He promised that many times over the years -when the waste backed up into the basement bathroom and overflow ed onto the basement floor; when water dripped through the ceilin g from the roof onto Julia's pink bedspread; when, indeed, the de sign for an indoor pool proved more difficult than originally tho ught and the wall between the pool and Jane's room turned to past e and crumbled. It'll be all right, he promised when they couldn' t afford the taxes and the IRS threatened to foreclose on the hou se, when cops flew low over the cornfields in helicopters to dete rmine if grass was growing there. Grass as in pot, dope, weed, re efer, marijuana. Anton and the kids grew it back then, in the 197 0s, and the cops would fly in low to inspect the fields and Anton would shout to all the kids, The cops are coming! His beautiful, wicked grin lit up each one of them. They'd scramble out of the house, slithering into the fields to lay waste to the plants. The cops are coming, exhilaration in his voice and a thrill running through the kids because they knew that they would not get caught . It's just ditch weed anyway, one kid would say. The cops would come, would circle, that's true. The loud hum of the helicopters teasing the kids as they lay in the fields against the prickly hu sks and the corn silk. The wind from the helicopters blew over th eir backs. It'll be all right, Anton promised with all the autho rity of a Texas Ranger-his sideburns curling, his blue eyes squin ting, his Texas accent full. He was six generations Texas on his mama's side. The first oil well in Texas blew at Spindletop on Ja nuary 10, 1901, not far from the site of his great-great-granddad dy Beaumont's farm. Beaumont had been a French trapper, trapped a lligators in the bayous and swamps. In 1824 he sold his land to o ther trappers and farmers and they made the town of Beaumont to h onor him, and the town thrived, growing rich on rice and salt and soy and even blueberries and later crawfish from the Neches Rive r before it became an oil mecca. If only Beaumont hadn't sold the land, Anton would tell the kids, as if great wealth and fortune were just within their grasp. His great-granddaddy was a journali st for the Corsicana Star and one of the few men in Texas who was pro-Union during the Civil War. One hundred and twenty thousand men wore the gray coats and fought for the Confederacy. Just two thousand supported the Union, and most of them were forced to lea ve the state. But John Darling stayed and made his opinions known . No one was going to throw him out of Texas. It's the rich man's war and the poor man's fight, he wrote as boys were drafted to f ight while slave owners were not required to enlist. Anton's gran ddaddy was the first in their line to leave Texas. He drove off i n a convertible Pierce Arrow with the top down all the way to Hol lywood to become the pharmacist to the stars. He bought a movie m ogul's mansion and lived his life out there, leaving behind his C atholic-convert wife to die of a female disease and his young dau ghter, Emma Darling, Anton's mama, to be raised by Ursuline nuns. For the remainder of Darling's life he longed for Texas. Of Texa s Texans are proud. It remains in them, the essential ingredient of who they are. That's how it was for Anton, and for the Furey a nd Cooper kids. Texas became a mythic spot of identity and action , of high-stakes poker where little rich boys lost their daddy's Cadillacs in a game, a country of tall tales where people talked big and lived big and the laws of life elsewhere did not exist. On March 20, 1930, Anton was born in Corsicana; it was a cool spr ing morning, very early, very dark, and the air fragrant with fir st flowers. Winds from the east blew in quietly along with the Gr eat Depression, and Bonnie and Clyde were on the road robbing ban ks, already capturing many imaginations. But the real significanc e of this day is that it would later be discovered to be the true birth date of Christ. At Chardin, on this occasion, there would be a celebration: champagne and waltzing and the Serape rug rolle d back and toasts to Anton for sharing this with Christ, adding a ll the more to his power and allure. Anton, big large man that he was, loomed over all the kids-their leader, their guide. They lo ved him. Whatever the problem, he would say, We'll figure it out. Promise? the kids would ask. Promise like a ticket to somewhere fabulous, like an answer. Promise, rich beautiful word that it i s. Promise. The oath of God to Abraham. That their futures wou... ., Harvest Books, 2003, 3, Little, Brown Books for Young Readers. Very Good. 5.75 x 0.88 x 8.5 inches. Hardcover. 2007. 256 pages. <br>Certain to appeal to boys, Miracle Wimp takes read ers on an episodic journey that is sure to keep them laughing. Th e story follows Tom Mayo as he navigates his way through wood sho p, dating, driving, and the meat-headed Donkeys, bullies who are determined to make his life miserable. Filled with humorous detai ls and sardonic wit, Erik Kraft deftly portrays high school throu gh the eyes of a wise-cracking misfit. Editorial Reviews From B ooklist Tom Mayo chronicles a high-school year in which he makes and abandons friends, endures wood-shop class, copes with the bul lying Donkeys, and acquires a driver's license and a girlfriend. In short appropriately titled first-person entries, he perfectly captures the insecurity and self-consciousness of his age. Often humorous, these vignettes also show Tom's social growth. At first he is only vaguely aware that teasing Larry, a special-ed studen t, is wrong. But Tom is a decent kid at heart, and his response t o Larry's accidental death is to move away from the friends who m ade fun of the boy. Later Tom comes to recognize that picking on someone even lower in the social pecking order makes him no diffe rent from the Donkeys he hates. Tom's observations of the high-sc hool world's factions and the complex social dance called going o ut together ring true. Easy, engaging reading with a serious side . Illustrated with the author's sketches. Isaacs, Kathleen About the Author Erik P. Kraft is the award-winning author of the Lenn y & Mel books from Simon & Schuster. He lives in Williamsburg, NY , and when he's not writing children's books, he plays in a band and performs stand-up comedy. Check out his website at www.erikpk raft.com ., Little, Brown Books for Young Readers, 2007, 3, Delacorte Press. Very Good. 6.42 x 1.42 x 9.44 inches. Hardcover. 2016. 400 pages. <br>For readers of Game of Thrones and Marie Lu: Trave ler, the sequel to Seeker. Quin Kincaid is a Seeker. Her legacy i s an honor, an ancient role passed down for generations. But what she learned on her Oath night changed her world forever. Quin pl edged her life to deception. Her legacy as a Seeker is not noble but savage. Her father, a killer. Her uncle, a liar. Her mother, a casualty. And the boy she once loved is out for vengeance, with her family in his sights. Yet Quin is not alone. Shinobu, her ol dest companion, might now be the only person she can trust. The o nly one who wants answers as desperately as she does. But the dee per they dig into the past, the darker things become. There are l ong-vanished Seeker families, shadowy alliances, and something el se: a sinister plan begun generations ago, with the power to end the legacy forever. The past is close. And it will destroy them a ll. Praise for Traveler, book two in the Seeker series: An acti on-packed read with plenty of surprising turns. Readers of Kami G arcia, Tahereh Mafi, and Marie Lu will appreciate [Traveler].--Bo oklist Praise for Seeker, book one in the Seeker series: Katnis s and Tris would approve. --TeenVogue.com This book will not di sappoint. --USAToday.com Fans of Veronica Roth's Divergent, Mari e Lu's Legend, and Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games series: you r next obsession has arrived.--School Library Journal [A] genre- blending sci-fi, fantasy . . . [with] action-packed scenes.--Book list In this powerful beginning to a complex family saga . . . D ayton excels at creating memorable characters. --Publishers Weekl y Secrets, danger, and romance meet in this unforgettable epic f antasy. --Kami Garcia, #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Beautiful Creatures and author of Unbreakable A tightly woven, a ction-packed story of survival and adventure, Seeker is perfect f or fans of Game of Thrones. --Tahereh Mafi, author of the New Yor k Times bestselling Shatter Me series Editorial Reviews From Sc hool Library Journal Gr 9 Up--In this second installment of the t rilogy, the heroine, Quin Kincaid, a Seeker by birth, has just su rvived an epic battle with her ex-love John. Her refusal to surre nder his family's Athame, which would allow him to invoke revenge on those who have wronged his family, has completely destroyed t heir once loving relationship. Because of this, Quin realizes tha t she also has feelings for her longtime friend Shinobu. Together , they fight to unravel the truth behind why Seekers have been ki lling one another and hopefully bring justice to their fallen peo ple and rectify the injustices that have been going on for centur ies. Dayton reveals the answers to the many unanswered questions from the previous volume. Via flashbacks, Dayton explains how oth er important characters, such as John's mother, Catherine, took t he path they did. The author addresses realistic themes within th e work, such as Shinobu's drug addiction and Quin's abusive fathe r. Similar to Hunger Games in story line, this volume is, however , told from many characters' points of view, adding to its appeal . VERDICT For fans of fantasy who enjoy unraveling mysteries, act ion-packed fighting scenes, and interwoven plotlines.--Bernice La Porta, Susan E. Wagner High School, Staten Island, NY Review Pr aise for Traveler, book two in the Seeker series: An action-pack ed read with plenty of surprising turns. Readers of Kami Garcia, Tahereh Mafi, and Marie Lu will appreciate [Traveler].--Booklist Praise for Seeker, book one in the Seeker series: Katniss and T ris would approve. --TeenVogue.com This book will not disappoin t. --USAToday.com Fans of Veronica Roth's Divergent, Marie Lu's Legend, and Suzanne Collins's The Hunger Games series: your next obsession has arrived.--School Library Journal [A] genre-blendin g sci-fi, fantasy . . . [with] action-packed scenes.--Booklist I n this powerful beginning to a complex family saga . . . Dayton e xcels at creating memorable characters. --Publishers Weekly Secr ets, danger, and romance meet in this unforgettable epic fantasy. --Kami Garcia, #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Beautif ul Creatures and author of Unbreakable A tightly woven, action-p acked story of survival and adventure, Seeker is perfect for fans of Game of Thrones. --Tahereh Mafi, author of the New York Times bestselling Shatter Me series About the Author Arwen Elys Dayto n is the author of Stronger, Faster, and More Beautiful as well a s the Seeker series--Seeker, Traveler, and Disruptor and the e-no vella The Young Dread--and the science fiction thriller Resurrect ion. She spends months doing research for her stories. Her explor ations have taken her around the world to places like the Great P yramid of Giza, Hong Kong and its islands, the Baltic Sea, and ma ny ruined castles in Scotland. Arwen lives with her husband and t heir three children on the West Coast of the United States. You c an visit her at arwendayton.com and follow @arwenelysdayton on Tw itter and Instagram. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rig hts reserved. Chapter 1 Quin Shinobu? Quin asked when she saw him stirring. Are you awake? I think so, he answered slowly. Sh inobu MacBain's voice was thick and groggy, but he raised his hea d to look for her. It was the first time he'd moved in several ho urs, and Quin was relieved to see him conscious. She carefully t ucked the leather book she'd been clutching into her jacket pocke t and crossed the darkened hospital room to where Shinobu lay, in a bed that looked too short for someone so tall. Even in the di m light, she could make out the burns on both of his cheeks. They were mostly healed, and his head was now covered with a thick, e ven growth of dark red hair--but she was stuck with the memory of the singed and blood-caked hair the nurses hadshaved off when he was admitted for surgery. Hey, she said, crouching next to the bed. It's good to see you awake. He tried to smile, but it ended up as a grimace. It's good to be awake . . . except for every pa rt of my body hurting. Well, you don't do anything halfway, now, do you? she asked, letting her chin rest on the bed's railing. Y ou'll help me even if it means throwing yourself off a building, crashing an airship, and getting cut in half. You jumped off tha t building with me, he pointed out, his voice still thick with sl eep. We were tied together, so I didn't have a choice. She manag ed a smile, though the memory of that jump was terrifying. Shino bu had been in the London hospital for two weeks. He'd arrived cl ose to death--Quin had brought him by ambulance after their fight on Traveler and the airship's crash into Hyde Park. She'd been i n this room, walking restlessly and sitting and sleeping in its u ncomfortable chair, ever since. She had, in fact, turned seventee n several nights previously, while pacing between his bed and the window at midnight. Behind Shinobu, the hospital's monitors bee ped and whirred, glowing lights traveling across their screens in shifting patterns as they measured his vital signs. They were th e familiar backdrop of Quin's days. She lifted his shirt to look at the deep wound along the right side of his abdomen. The nearl y fatal gash he'd received from her father, Briac Kincaid, had he aled into a tender purple line, seven inches long. It had been se wn up so neatly, the doctors said the scar might disappear altoge ther, but at the moment the wound was still swollen and, judging from Shinobu's expression, terrifically painful whenever he moved . Aside from that injury and the burns on his face, he'd entered the hospital with a badly broken leg and several crushed ribs. T he doctors had bathed the wounds liberally with cellular reconstr uctors, which were forcing him to heal at an accelerated rate. Th ere was one drawback: the process was rather excruciating. Quin brushed her fingers over a lump beneath his skin near the sword w ound, and Shinobu caught her hand. Don't make it drug me, Quin. I want the doctor to take those things out. I'm sleeping too much . To help with the quick-mending wounds, he'd been implanted wit h painkiller reservoirs near his worst injuries. If the pain beca me too intense, or if he moved too vigorously, or if someone push ed on the reservoirs directly, they released a flood of drugs, wh ich usually knocked him out. That was why he'd been mostly uncons cious for the past two weeks. This brief conversation was already one of the longest periods awake he'd had in days, and Quin took it as a very good sign. The doctors had told her his recovery wo uld happen this way--slowly at first, and then accelerating unexp ectedly. You're refusing drugs now? she asked him archly. Shinob u had been on very friendly terms with illicit substances back in Hong Kong, a habit he'd only recently broken. You're full of sur prises tonight, Shinobu MacBain. He didn't laugh, probably becau se that would have hurt, but he pulled her closer with the hand t hat didn't have an IV running into it. Quin eased herself onto th e narrow bed, and hergaze instinctively swept the chamber. The ro om was large, but bare of furnishings except for the bed, the med ical machinery, and the chair in which Quin had been living. Her eyes stopped on the large window above the chair.They were on a h igh floor of the hospital, and through the glass was a panoramic view of nighttime London. Hyde Park was visible in the distance, emergency lights still erected over the broken bulk of Traveler. Shinobu pushed his shoulder into hers on the bed, bringing her b ack to him. Her mind went to the journal in her pocket. Perhaps h e was awake enough to see it. He whispered, There are things to say, Quin, now that I'm awake. You kissed me on the ship. I thou ght you kissed me, she responded, teasing him lightly. I did, he whispered seriously. That kiss . . . she'd replayed it in her m ind hundreds of times. They'd kissed and held each other during t he nightmare, whirling crash of Traveler, and it had been right. They had been so close as children. They'd remained close during all of their Seeker training, even when John came to the estate a nd altered the dynamics of their lives. But it was not until they 'd met again in Hong Kong, changed and older, that she'd seen him for what he was--not just her oldest friend but the other half o f her. Is it too strange, the two of us? she asked before she co uld stop herself. She wasn't sure of her footing in this new and unfamiliar territory of intimacy. It's so strange, he replied im mediately. Quin didn't like that answer at all, but Shinobu drew her hand up to his chest before she could respond, kissed the pal m, and whispered, I've wanted to be with you for so long, and now here you are. The words and the weight of his hand filled her w ith warmth. But . . . all those girls from Corrickmore . . . she said. There had always been lots of girls in Shinobu's life. He'd never once given the impression he was waiting around for her. I expected those girls to make you jealous, but you never noticed , he told her. He didn't say it bitterly; he was simply opening h is heart. All you cared about was John. She responded softly, Yo u took care of me anyway. When John attacked the estate . . . and in Hong Kong . . . on Traveler . . . You're always taking care o f me. Because you're mine, he whispered back. She glanced at hi s face and saw a sleepy smile appearing. He moved her hand closer to his heart, held it there. She turned toward him on the bed, t hinking it might be time to kiss him again-- Ow! he gasped. Wha t happened? Did I-- It's--at your hip. Sorry! That's the athame . Quin scooted away from him and drew the stone dagger from its concealed location at her waistband, where it had just been crush ed into Shinobu's hip bone. Oh, there it is, he said, and he too k the ancient implement from her hands. I've been thinking about it a lot while I've been lying here half-asleep--or dreaming abou t it, maybe. The athame was about as long as her forearm and qui te dull despite its dagger shape. Its handgrip was made up of man y stacked circular dials, all of the same pale stone. This partic ular athame belonged to the Dreads. The Young Dread had handed it to Quin after the crash of Traveler, and it was somewhat differe nt from the other athames she and Shinobu had seen during their S eeker training, more delicate and also more complicated. Shinobu shifted the stone dagger's dials with practiced ease, his IV tub e bobbing as it trailed off his left hand. It has more dials, so you can get to more specific locations than you can with other at hames, don't you think? Quin nodded. She'd spent hours in the qu iet of the hospital room examining this athame. As on all athames , a series of symbols was carved on each dial. By rotating the di als, you could line up seemingly endless iterations of those symb ols. Each combination was a set of coordinates, a place a Seeker could go using the ancient tool. The additional dials on this par ticular dagger meant one could choose locations with much greater precision. During their fight on Traveler, the Dreads had used i t to enter the moving airship. It was a feat that would have been impossible with any other athame. None but the athame of the Dre ads could access a moving location. Watching Shinobu study the d agger so intently and rotate the dials so nimbly, Quin decided th at there was no reason to wait; he was alert enough to hear more. She pulled the leatherbook from her jacket and held it out to hi m. Is that . . . ? he asked. It arrived this afternoon. It was a copy of thejournal that had belonged to John's mother, Catheri ne. Quin had had the real journal with her when she and Shinobu h ad parachuted onto Traveler during that crazy night two weeks ago , but she'd lost it--or rather, John had found it and taken it du ring the frenzied confrontation on the airship. What Quin was ho lding was a copy--a copy she'd made back in Hong Kong weeks ago, before they came to London. Her mother, Fiona, had been with them on Traveler during the crash, and then in the hospital. Fiona ha d returned to Hong Kong a few days prior, and the first thing she 'd done upon arriving was send the copied journal to Quin. She'd even bound the pages in leather, turning them into a new journal in their own right, an accurate copy of Catherine's original in s ize and shape. Quin flipped throu, Delacorte Press, 2016, 2.75, HEINEMANN (REED). Very Good. 6.02 x 1.06 x 9.21 inches. Paperback. 2004. 400 pages. <br>Three skeletons are found in a Montreal basement. The building is old, and the homicide detective in charge dismiss es the remains as historic. Not his case. Not his concern. Forens ic anthropologist Dr Temperance Brennan is not so sure. Something about the bones of these three young women suggests a different message: murder. Soon she finds herself drawn ever deeper into a web of evil from which there may be no escape. Three women have d isappeared, never to return. Will Tempe be next? Editorial Revie ws From Publishers Weekly Forensic scientist Tempe Brennan isn't happy: it's freezing in Montreal, her detective boyfriend is giv ing her the cold shoulder and her macho colleagues won't take her seriously. When Reichs's heroine is called in to examine three s keletons discovered in the basement of a pizza parlor at the star t of the seventh installment in this popular series, her instinct s tell her a crime was recently committed. Chauvinistic homicide detective Luc Claudel doesn't agree, but Tempe forges ahead and s oon discovers that the victims are young women, probably teenager s killed sometime in the 1980s. Already feeling vulnerable becaus e she's left her beloved daughter, Katy, back home in North Carol ina, Tempe is further troubled by the indifference of formerly av id lover Andrew Ryan (another Montreal detective). Meanwhile, new developments lead Tempe and her reluctant colleagues to suspect a creepy former pawn store owner of serial kidnappings, torture a nd grisly murder. What's best about Reichs, and often unappreciat ed in reviews, is not the informative detail that she brings to T empe's forensic sleuthing, though that's certainly engrossing. It 's the same well-observed detail and incisive analysis applied to other aspects of the story. Tempe deconstructs Ryan's every evas ive gesture and casual comment and describes an ominously darkene d room, the glow from a UV light and an armada of snow plows with vivid precision. Here, as previously, readers will be as investe d in Tempe's life as in her case. Copyright ® Reed Business Info rmation, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. -- This text refers to the audio_download edition. Review You'll wa nt to keep turning the pages long after lights out to find out wh at happens next ... Reichs' real-life expertise gives her novels an authenticity that most other crime novelists would kill for * Daily Express * With Kathy Reichs the reader knows they're in th e hands of an expert * Sunday Express * Reichs' seamless blending of fascinating science and dead-on psychological portrayals, not to mention a whirlwind of a plot, make [her novels] a must read * Jeffery Deaver * Brennan is a winner, and so is Reichs * Daily News * A truly impressive writer * We Love This Book * --This tex t refers to the audio_download edition. About the Author Kathy R eichs is vice president of the American Academy of Forensic Scien tists; a member of the RCMP National Police Services Advisory Cou ncil; forensic anthropologist to the province of Quebec; and a pr ofessor of forensic anthropology at the University of North Carol ina in Charlotte. Her first book, Deja Dead, catapulted her to fa me when it became a New York Times bestseller and won the 1997 El lis award for best first novel. She has written 15 bestselling Te mperance Brennan novels, the most recent include Bones Are Foreve r, Flash and Bones and 206 bones. --This text refers to the audio _download edition. From AudioFile The latest novel by Kathy Reic hs again features Tempe Brennan, forensic anthropologist for Nort h Carolina and Quebec--the same role Reichs occupies in real life . While the geography is unusual, Reichs's stories are interestin g, educational, well-written, and fun. In this title, Brennan dis covers the skeletons of three women in the basement of a pizzeria . Of course, it's Brennan's further digging that eventually uncov ers the murderer. Michelle Pawk has a soft but strong voice, whic h she uses effectively, changing her style as Brennan's emotions ebb and flow. Pawk is especially effective when Brennan reveals h er feelings about chauvinist detective Luc Claudel and Detective Andrew Ryan, whom Brennan adores, but whose actions leave her won dering if his feelings are reciprocal. D.J.S. ® AudioFile 2004, P ortland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine --This te xt refers to the audio_download edition. From Booklist In Montre al to testify as an expert witness in a murder trial, forensic an thropologist Dr. Temperance Brennan is called to the basement of a pizza parlor where three bodies have been found buried in shall ow graves. Her examination reveals that the victims, young women, were recently killed, and she convinces police to investigate th e deaths as murders. Puzzled when the bodies don't physically mat ch any of the missing-person reports from past years, Temperance delves deeper and uncovers a horrifying secret. Meanwhile, boyfri end troubles and a friend's marital woes add to Temperance's prob lems. Fans of Patricia Cornwell will relish the forensic detail-- determining the physical characteristics of the women from their skeletons, dating the remains, and performing tests to discover where the victims grew up and then spent the last years of their lives. A fast-paced and suspenseful mystery in a deservedly popul ar series. Sue O'Brien Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved --This text refers to the audio_download edit ion. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Ch apter 1 Monday, Monday... Can't trust that day... As the tune played inside my head, gunfire exploded in the cramped undergroun d space around me. My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts sp lattered against rock just three feet from me. The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward, leaving a smear o f blood and hair. I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved hand. Still squatting, I swiveled. Assez! En ough! Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel's brows plunged into a V. H e lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter. Rats. They ar e the devil's spawn. Claudel's French was clipped and nasal, refl ecting his upriver roots. Throw rocks, I snapped. That bastard was big enough to throw them back. Hours of squatting in the col d and damp on a December Monday in Montreal had taken a toll. My knees protested as I rose to a standing position. Where is Charb onneau? I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the other. Quest ioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea soup. The owner discovered this? I flapped a hand at the ground behind me. Non. Le plombier. What was a plumber doing in the cellar? Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipe s. Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I won dered why anyone would take the risk. The bones were lying on t he surface? Says he tripped on something sticking out of the gro und. There. Claudel cocked his chin at a shallow pit where the so uth wall met the dirt floor. Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. T ogether they checked out the local library's anatomy collection t o see if the bone was human. Picked a book with nice color pictur es since they probably can't read. I was about to ask a follow- up question when something clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner. Instead of Charbonneau, we saw a sca recrow man in a knee-length sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty blue Nikes. Pigtails wormed from the lower edge of a red bandanna wrap ped his head. The man was crouched in the doorway, pointing a th rowaway Kodak in my direction. Claudel's V narrowed and his parr ot nose went a deeper red. Tabernac! Two more clicks, then band anna man scrabbled sideways. Holstering his weapon, Claudel gra bbed the wooden railing. Until SIJ returns, throw rocks. SIJ -- Section d'Identité Judiciaire. The Quebec equivalent of Crime Sc ene Recovery. I watched Claudel's perfectly fitted buttocks disa ppear through the small rectangular opening. Though tempted, I pe gged not a single rock. Upstairs, muted voices, the clump of bo ots. Downstairs, just the hum of the generator for the portable l ights. Breath suspended, I listened to the shadows around me. No squeaking. No scratching. No scurrying feet. Quick scan. N o beady eyes. No naked, scaly tails. The little buggers were pr obably regrouping for another offensive. Though I disagreed with Claudel's approach to the problem, I was with him on one thing: I could do without the rodents. Satisfied that I was alone for t he moment, I refocused on the moldy crate at my feet. Dr. Energy' s Power Tonic. Dead tired? Dr. Energy's makes your bones want to get up and dance. Not these bones, Doc. I gazed at the crate' s grisly contents. Though most of the skeleton remained caked, d irt had been brushed from some bones. Their outer surfaces looked chestnut under the harsh illumination of the portable lights. A clavicle. Ribs. A pelvis. A human skull. Damn. Though I'd s aid it a half dozen times, reiteration couldn't hurt. I'd come fr om Charlotte to Montreal a day early to prepare for court on Tues day. A man had been accused of killing and dismembering his wife. I'd be testifying on the saw mark analysis I'd done on her skele ton. It was complicated material and I'd wanted to review my case file. Instead, I was freezing my ass digging up the basement of a pizza parlor. Pierre LaManche had visited my office early thi s morning. I'd recognized the look, correctly guessed what was co ming as soon as I saw him. Bones had been found in the cellar o f a pizza-by-the-slice joint, my boss had told me. The owner had called the police. The police had called the coroner. The coroner had called the medicolegal lab. LaManche wanted me to check it out. Today? S'il vous plaît. I'm on the stand tomorrow. The P étit trial? I nodded. The remains are probably those of animals , LaManche said in his precise, Parisian French. It should not ta ke you long. Where? I reached for a tablet. LaManche read the address from a paper in his hand. Rue Ste-Catherine, a few blocks east of Centre-ville. CUM turf. Claudel. The thought of wo rking with Claudel had triggered the morning's first damn. There are some small-town departments around the island city of Montre al, but the two main players in law enforcement are the SQ and th e CUM. La Sûreté du Québec is the provincial force. The SQ rules in the boonies, and in towns lacking municipal departments. The P olice de la Communauté Urbaine de Montréal, or CUM, are the city cops. The island belongs to the CUM. Luc Claudel and Michel Cha rbonneau are detectives with the Major Crimes Division of the CUM . As forensic anthropologist for the province of Quebec, I've wor ked with both over the years. With Charbonneau, the experience is always a pleasure. With his partner, the experience is always an experience. Though a good cop, Luc Claudel has the patience of a firecracker, the sensitivity of Vlad the Impaler, and a persiste nt skepticism as to the value of forensic anthropology.ar Snappy dresser, though. Dr. Energy's crate had already been loaded wit h loose bones when I'd arrived in the basement two hours earlier. Though Claudel had yet to provide many details, I assumed the bo ne collecting had been done by the owner, perhaps with the assist ance of the hapless plumber. My job had been to determine if the remains were human. They were. That finding had generated the m orning's second damn. My next task had been to determine whether anyone else lay in repose beneath the surface of the cellar. I'd started with three exploratory techniques. Side lighting the fl oor with a flashlight beam had shown depressions in the dirt. Pro bing had located resistance below each depression, suggesting the presence of subsurface objects. Test trenching had produced huma n bones. Bad news for a leisurely review of the Pétit file. Whe n I'd rendered my opinion, Claudel and Charbonneau had contribute d to damns three through five. A few quebecois expletives had bee n added for emphasis. SIJ had been called. The crime scene unit routine had begun. Lights had been set up. Pictures had been take n. While Claudel and Charbonneau questioned the owner and his ass istant, a ground penetrating radar unit had been dragged around t he cellar. The GPR showed subsurface disturbances beginning four inches down in each depression. Otherwise, the basement was clean . Claudel and his semiautomatic manned rat patrol while the SIJ techs took a break and I laid out two simple four-square grids. I was attaching the last string to the last stake when Claudel enj oyed his Rambo moment with the rats. Now what? Wait for the SIJ techs to return? Right. Using SIJ equipment, I shot prints an d video. Then I rubbed circulation into my hands, replaced my glo ves, folded into a squat, and began troweling soil from square 1- A. As I dug, I felt the usual crime scene rush. The quickened se nses. The intense curiosity. What if it's nothing? What if it's s omething? The anxiety. What if I smash a critically important s ection to hell? I thought of other excavations. Other deaths. A wannabe saint in a burned-out church. A decapitated teen at a bik er crib. Bullet-riddled dopers in a streamside grave. I don't k now how long I'd been digging when the SIJ team returned, the tal ler of the two carrying a Styrofoam cup. I searched my memory for his name. Root. Racine. Tall and thin like a root. The mnemoni c worked. René Racine. New guy. We'd processed a handful of scen es. His shorter counterpart was Pierre Gilbert. I'd known him a d ecade. Sipping tepid coffee, I explained what I'd done in their absence. Then I asked Gilbert to film and haul dirt, Racine to sc reen. Back to the grid. When I'd taken square 1-A down three in ches, I moved on to 1-B. Then 1-C and 1-D. Nothing but dirt. OK. The GPR showed a discrepancy beginning four inches below the surface. I kept digging. My fingers and toes numbed. My bone m arrow chilled. I lost track of time. Gilbert carried buckets of dirt from my grid to the screen. Racine sifted. Now and then Gilb, HEINEMANN (REED), 2004, 3, NY: Putnam, 2009. Reprint. Hardcover_boards. Collectible - Fine/Near Fine. 5.75"x8.5" 374 pgs. Black boards w/gold foil letters on spine. Spine straight binding tight, pages clean and bright. Not x-library, unclipped, & unmarked. Secure shipping in box w/tracking #. GIFT QUALITY. When the newly promoted captain of the NYPSD and his wife return a day early from their vacation, they were looking forward to spending time with their bright and vivacious sixteen-year-old daughter who had stayed behind. Not even their worst nightmares could have prepared them for the crime scene that awaited them instead. Brutally murdered in her bedroom, Deena's body showed signs of trauma that horrified even the toughest of cops; including our own Lieutenant Eve Dallas, who was specifically requested by the captain to investigate. When the evidence starts to pile up, Dallas and her team think they are about to arrest their perpetrator; little do they know yet that someone has gone to great lengths to tease and taunt them by using a variety of identities. Overconfidence can lead to careless mistakes. But for Dallas, one mistake might be all she needs to bring justice., Putnam, 2009, 4.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780399155956

Hardcover

New York : G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2009. 1st Edition. Hard Cover/Cloth Spine. As New/New. Type: Book 2009/1st Edition/1st Printing/Unclipped Dustjacket/374 Pages. This novel is part of … More...

New York : G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2009. 1st Edition. Hard Cover/Cloth Spine. As New/New. Type: Book 2009/1st Edition/1st Printing/Unclipped Dustjacket/374 Pages. This novel is part of the "Eve Dallas" mystery series. The newly promoted captain of the NYPSD and his wife return from vacation to find their 16 year old daughter murdered in her bedroom. Eve Dallas investigates. When the evidence starts to pile up, dallas and her team think they are about to make an arrest. Little do they know that someone has gone to great lengths to tease & torment them, using a variety of identities. The former owner's name is at the upper FEP., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2009, 5.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780399155956

Putnam Adult, 2009-11-03. Hardcover. Very Good. Has moderate shelf and/or corner wear. Great used condition. A portion of your purchase of this book will be donated to non-profit or… More...

Putnam Adult, 2009-11-03. Hardcover. Very Good. Has moderate shelf and/or corner wear. Great used condition. A portion of your purchase of this book will be donated to non-profit organizations.Over 1,000,000 satisfied customers since 1997! Choose expedited shipping (if available) for much faster delivery. Delivery confirmation on all US orders., Putnam Adult, 2009-11-03, 3<

ISBN: 9780399155956

Putnam Adult. Hardcover. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex libra… More...

Putnam Adult. Hardcover. GOOD. Spine creases, wear to binding and pages from reading. May contain limited notes, underlining or highlighting that does affect the text. Possible ex library copy, will have the markings and stickers associated from the library. Accessories such as CD, codes, toys, may not be included., Putnam Adult, 2.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780399155956

Putnam Adult, 2009-11-03 Cover Scratched. See our Terms of Sale for a detailed description of condition notes. Hardcover. Used - Very Good., Putnam Adult, 2009-11-03 Cover Scratched. See, 3