Fear Nothing

Informationen zum Autor Lisa Gardner Klappentext In #1 New York Times bestseller Lisa Gardner's latest pulse-pounding thriller, Detective D. D. Warren must face a new fear as a serial killer terrorizes Boston. My name is Dr. Adeline Glen. Due to a genetic condition, I can't feel pain. I never have. I never will. The last thing Boston Detective D. D. Warren remembers is walking the crime scene after dark. Then, a creaking floorboard, a low voice crooning in her ear. . . . She is later told she managed to discharge her weapon three times. All she knows is that she is seriously injured, unable to move her left arm, unable to return to work. My sister is Shana Day, a notorious murderer who first killed at fourteen. Incarcerated for thirty years, she has now murdered more people while in prison than she did as a free woman. Six weeks later, a second woman is discovered murdered in her own bed, her room containing the same calling cards from the first: a bottle of champagne and a single red rose. The only person who may have seen the killer: Detective D. D. Warren, who still can't lift her child, load her gun, or recall a single detail from the night that may have cost her everything. Our father was Harry Day, an infamous serial killer who buried young women beneath the floor of our home. He has been dead for forty years. Except the Rose Killer knows things about my father he shouldn't. My sister claims she can help catch him. I think just because I can't feel pain doesn't mean my family can't hurt me. D.D. may not be back on the job, but she is back on the hunt. Because the Rose Killer isn't just targeting lone women, he is targeting D.D. And D.D. knows there is only one way to take him down: Fear nothing. Leseprobe This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof. Copyright © 201 4 by Lisa Gardner, Inc. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . The body was gone, but not the smell. This kind of scene, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren knew, would hold the stench of blood for weeks, even months to come. The crime scene techs had removed the top mattress but still . . . Blood had a life of its own. Once freed from its human vessel, it could seep into dry wall, slip behind wooden trim, pool between floor boards. If the landlord ever wanted to rent this unit again, it would involve a total gut of the master bedroom. Not to mention the neighbors moving far, far away and never saying a word. Twenty-eight year old Tara Blythe used to have approximately 4.7 liters of blood pumping through her veins. Now, most of it stained this grim, shadowy space. I've come to talk with you again . . . The call had come in shortly after nine a.m. Good friend Midge Roberts had grown concerned when Tara hadn't answered the knocks on her front door or the texts to her cell phone. Tara was the responsible kind. Didn't oversleep, didn't run off with a cute bartender, didn't come down with the flu without providing a heads up to her best bud, who picked her up promptly at seven thirty each weekday morning for their commute to a local account­ing firm. Midge had contacted a few more friends. All agreed no one had heard from Tara since ten the night before. Midge gave into in­stinct, summoned the landlord. Who finally agreed to open the door. Then vomited all over the upstairs hall upon making the find. Midge hadn't come up the stairs. Midge had stood in the foyer of the narrow duplex, and, as she'd reported to D.D.'s squadmate Phil, she'd known. Just known. Probably, even from that distance, she'd caught the first unmistakable whiff of drying blood. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . Upon arrival, the scene had immediately struck D.D. with its marked contrasts. The young, female victim, sprawled spread eagle on her own bed, staring up ...

Auteur

Lisa Gardner

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In #1 New York Times bestseller Lisa Gardner’s latest pulse-pounding thriller, Detective D. D. Warren must face a new fear as a serial killer terrorizes Boston.

My name is Dr. Adeline Glen. Due to a genetic condition, I can’t feel pain. I never have. I never will.

The last thing Boston Detective D. D. Warren remembers is walking the crime scene after dark. Then, a creaking floorboard, a low voice crooning in her ear. . . . She is later told she managed to discharge her weapon three times. All she knows is that she is seriously injured, unable to move her left arm, unable to return to work.

My sister is Shana Day, a notorious murderer who first killed at fourteen. Incarcerated for thirty years, she has now murdered more people while in prison than she did as a free woman.

Six weeks later, a second woman is discovered murdered in her own bed, her room containing the same calling cards from the first: a bottle of champagne and a single red rose. The only person who may have seen the killer: Detective D. D. Warren, who still can’t lift her child, load her gun, or recall a single detail from the night that may have cost her everything.

Our father was Harry Day, an infamous serial killer who buried young women beneath the floor of our home. He has been dead for forty years. Except the Rose Killer knows things about my father he shouldn’t. My sister claims she can help catch him. I think just because I can’t feel pain doesn’t mean my family can’t hurt me.

D.D. may not be back on the job, but she is back on the hunt. Because the Rose Killer isn’t just targeting lone women, he is targeting D.D. And D.D. knows there is only one way to take him down:

Fear nothing.

Échantillon de lecture

*This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.* Copyright © 2014  by Lisa Gardner, Inc.  Hello darkness, my old friend . . . The body was gone, but not the smell. This kind of scene, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren knew, would hold the stench of blood for weeks, even months to come. The crime scene techs had removed the top mattress but still . . . Blood had a life of its own. Once freed from its human vessel, it could seep into dry wall, slip behind wooden trim, pool between floor boards. If the landlord ever wanted to rent this unit again, it would involve a total gut of the master bedroom. Not to mention the neighbors moving far, far away and never saying a word.

Twenty-eight year old Tara Blythe used to have approximately

4.7 liters of blood pumping through her veins. Now, most of it stained this grim, shadowy space.

I’ve come to talk with you again . . .

The call had come in shortly after nine a.m. Good friend Midge Roberts had grown concerned when Tara hadn’t answered the knocks on her front door or the texts to her cell phone. Tara was the responsible kind. Didn’t oversleep, didn’t run off with a cute bartender, didn’t come down with the flu without providing a heads up to her best bud, who picked her up promptly at seven thirty each weekday morning for their commute to a local account­ing firm.

Midge had contacted a few more friends. All agreed no one had heard from Tara since ten the night before. Midge gave into in­stinct, summoned the landlord.

Who finally agreed to open the door. Then vomited all over the upstairs hall upon making the find.

Midge hadn’t come up the stairs. Midge had stood in the foyer of the narrow duplex, and, as she’d reported to D.D.’s squadmate Phil, she’d known. Just known. Probably, even from that distance, she’d caught the first unmistakable whiff of drying blood.

Hello darkness, my old friend . . .

Upon arrival, the scene had immediately struck D.D. with its marked contrasts. The young, female victim, sprawled spread eagle on her own bed, staring up at the ceiling with sightless blue eyes. Pretty features nearly peaceful, shoulder-length brown hair pooling softly upon a stark white pillow.

Except then, from the neck do…