By April Smith
An electrifying new mystery that brings again the complicated, strong-willed, often-maverick FBI agent—Ana Grey—whom we first met within the author’s gorgeous debut novel, North of Montana.This time specified Agent gray is operating on a kidnapping case—a fifteen-year-old named Juliana has been kidnapped in Santa Monica. Grey’s counterpart within the Santa Monica Police division is Detective Andrew Berringer. They’ve labored jointly before—and they’ve been greater than simply operating jointly ever since.It’s Ana’s task “to recognize the sufferer as though she have been my very own flesh and blood.” but if Juliana turns up—traumatized right into a kingdom of overall and paralyzing terror—it turns into transparent that Ana has long gone too some distance: she is viewing her personal existence from the point of view of Juliana’s blasted emotional terrain. And in a second of ardour (Andrew has betrayed her) and panic (is it attainable that he additionally potential to hurt her?) Ana issues a gun at him and shoots.Now she is either felony investigator and felony as she breaks her bail contract to proceed monitoring the abductor, torn among her robust emotional reference to Juliana and the fraying connection she has to her personal good judgment and to the truths she is familiar with approximately Andrew—and approximately herself.Psychologically acute and unstoppably suspenseful—Good Morning, Killer is a searing, addictive learn.
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Extra resources for Good Morning, Killer
He shook his head. ” He inflated his lungs. “Air,” he said. “Air,” I agreed, and got into my car to the silent buzz of the Nextel cell phone on my belt. ” It was my supervisor, Rick Harding. ” Lost in an erotic delirium, I had forgotten to check the Nextel also. Two missed messages. “Underwater. ” “Tell me about it, the freeway was flooded, took an hour and a half to get in. We’ve got a kidnapping on the Westside. The police department requested our assistance. ” Next in line to be case agent.
In the kitchen the husband was half seated on a bar stool, talking on the phone. Lynn threw up her hands at the sight of him. “Ross. ” He held up an index finger, telling us to wait while he continued to talk, focused on the floor. ” Badging him. ” He lowered the receiver. ” I stayed cool. I did not engage his anger. ” “Oh, really? ” He had the body type where the fat goes to the shoulders, round and bulky on top, a waist pinched by a belt too tight for those fancy jeans, stocky powerful legs. Balding.
Unlocking his car. “Normally we don’t let Feds in here. ” But we paused, very close, under the umbrella. “I’m crazy about you, you know that,” he said. “Yeah, well, you drive me crazy. ” The rain drummed on our makeshift roof. In the frank light our faces were eager, ruddy, his high round cheeks shining like a choirboy’s. In those days it lifted me to be with him. It just lifted me, like a kite off the ground that wants to return to the same spot in the sky. His eyes half closed and I rose up and he leaned down to kiss me and we did and the umbrella tipped and rain went down our necks.