{"title":"Crime Fiction Author D-F","description":"\u003cp\u003eCrime Fiction Books with Author surname D-F\u003c\/p\u003e","products":[{"product_id":"the-sleeping-doll-by-jeffery-deaver-33b","title":"The Sleeping Doll by Jeffery Deaver","description":"\u003cp\u003eWhen Special Agent Kathryn Dance -- a brilliant interrogator and kinesics expert with the California Bureau of Investigation -- is sent to question the convicted killer Daniel Son of Manson Pell as a suspect in a newly unearthed crime, she feels both trepidation and electrifying intrigue. Pell is serving a life sentence for the brutal murders of the wealthy Croyton family in Carmel years earlier -- a crime mirroring those perpetrated by Charles Manson in the 1960s. But Pell and his cult members were sloppy: Not only were they apprehended, they even left behind a survivor -- the youngest of the Croyton daughters, who, because she was in bed hidden by her toys that terrible night, was dubbed the Sleeping Doll. But the girl never spoke about that night, nor did the crime's mastermind. Indeed, Pell has long been both reticent and unrepentant about the crime. And so with the murderer transported from the Capitola superprison to an interrogation room in the Monterey County Courthouse, Dance sees an opportunity to pry a confession from him for the recent murder -- and to learn more about the depraved mind of this career criminal who considers himself a master of control, a dark Svengali, forcing people to do what they otherwise would never conceive of doing. In an electrifying psychological jousting match, Dance calls up all her skills as an interrogator and kinesics -- body language -- expert to get to the truth behind Daniel Pell. But when Dance's plan goes terribly wrong and Pell escapes, leaving behind a trail of dead and injured, she finds herself in charge of her first-ever manhunt. But far from simply fleeing, Pell turns on his pursuers --and other innocents -- for reasons Dance and her colleagues can't discern. As the idyllic Monterey Peninsula is paralyzed by the elusive killer, Dance turns to the past to find the truth about what Daniel Pell is really up to. She tracks down the now teenage Sleeping Doll to learn what really happened that night, and she arranges a reunion of three women who were in his cult at the time of the killings. 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And he's not about to let millionaire real-estate tycoon and community hero Roberto Morales slip out of a murder charge--not again. Morales is being retried for the rape and murder of his mistress, Mariah Dodge. Estrada knows he needs a miracle to nail a conviction. But his sweat, pain, and emotional investment lead him to a gut wrenching possibility: the man he is trying so hard to convict may, in fact, be innocent. His life and his career hanging in the balance, Estrada struggles toward the truth. 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While Finn and his uncle are digging up treasure left behind by Finn's archaeologist parents, now mysteriously missing, the crew is digging up very valuable dinosaur eggs. But digging too deeply can stir up trouble, not to mention a murder, or two, or three....\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Book Express","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":41809563582538,"sku":"214c","price":6.0,"currency_code":"NZD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0618\/9101\/8826\/files\/214c_1.jpg?v=1764168708"},{"product_id":"show-of-evil-by-william-diehl-214d","title":"Show of Evil by William Diehl","description":"\u003cp\u003eIt begins with a shocking, unsolved murder. 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The doorbell rings ... That is the end of Gabrielle's story, and the first chapter of this extraordinary novel by the world's best thriller writer Jeffery Deaver. The next chapter is the scene which came before, and what follows is the what happened before that. 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His boss Gerry Heffernan believes that the attractive Dane's disappearance is linked to a spate of brutal robberies, but is her disappearance linked to far older events?  Editorial Reviews  About the Author  Kate Ellis is the author of the Wesley Peterson Series and has twice been nominated for the Crime Writers' Association Short Story Dagger Award.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Book Express","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":41809649369162,"sku":"345q","price":9.0,"currency_code":"NZD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0618\/9101\/8826\/files\/345q_1.jpg?v=1764172266"},{"product_id":"the-princess-of-burundi-a-mystery-by-kjell-eriksson-527l","title":"The Princess of Burundi: A Mystery by Kjell Eriksson","description":"\u003cp\u003eWinner of the Swedish Crime Academy Award for Best Crime Novel, The Princess of Burundi introduces American readers to Kjell Eriksson--a crime writer who has quickly become an international sensation.  This spellbinding new thriller opens when a young father fails to show up for supper on a snowy night just before Christmas. His is not the only sinister disappearance, and before the final breathtaking climax, a secret killer terrorizes an entire frightened town.  Despite being on maternity leave, Inspector Ann Lindell is determined to find John's murderer. The cruel cat-and-mouse game that follows leads Ann to a deadly confrontation with a treacherous killer. Ann must decide whether to take a huge risk that could result in many more dead bodies in the snow, including hers and that of her unborn child.  Editorial Reviews  Review  Riveting . . . The Princess of Burundi resembles the books of Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo, not to mention those of the modern master Henning Mankell. ?The Wall Street Journal  Stunning . . . haunting . . . can chill you to the bone. ?Marilyn Stasio, The New York Times  Terrific . . . subtly brilliant . . . compellingly suspenseful. ?San Francisco Chronicle  Reminiscent of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct series. Don't miss it. ?Library Journal (starred review)  Ingenious . . . a chillingly well-drawn psychotic. . . . Very satisfying. ?Los Angeles Times  A deeply insightful psychological thriller. ?Midwest Book Review  Suspenseful, intelligent, and perceptive . . . terrific. ?Publishers Weekly   About the Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil.  Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a focus on Swedish crime fiction. Her translations include several installments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and formats including biography, short stories, and screenplays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives in Saint Louis, Missouri.  About the Author KJELL ERIKSSON is the award-winning and internationally bestselling Swedish author of The Ann Lindell Mystery series. His debut won the Swedish Crime Academy award for Best First Novel and The Princess of Burundi later won for Best Crime Novel. Eriksson is also a gardener, and now living in Brazil.  Ebba Segerberg is a translator of Swedish literature with a focus on Swedish crime fiction. Her translations include several installments of the Wallander series by Henning Mankell and Let Me In by John Ajvide Lindqvist. She has worked in a variety of other genres and formats including biography, short stories, and screenplays. She holds a PhD in Swedish literature and film studies from the University of California at Berkeley, and currently lives in Saint Louis, Missouri.  Excerpt.   Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.  The Princess of Burundi  By Eriksson, Kjell  St. Martin's Minotaur Copyright  2007Eriksson, Kjell All right reserved. ISBN: 9780312327682 Chapter One The plate trembled, knocking over the glass. The milk flowed out over the waxed tablecloth like a white flower. Typical-we have almost no milk left, she thought. She quickly righted the glass and wiped up the milk with a dishrag. When is Dad coming home? She twirled around. Justus was leaning up against the doorpost. I don't know, she said, throwing the dishrag into the sink. What's for dinner? He had a book in his hand, his index finger tucked in to mark the page he was reading. She wanted to ask him what it was, but then she thought of something and walked over to the window. Stew, she said absently. She looked out at the parking lot. It had started to snow again. Maybe he was working. She knew he had talked to Micke. He always needed extra workers for his snow-removal crew, and it had been coming down for days now. John wasn't afraid of heights, either. Berit smiled at the memory of how he had climbed the drainpipe to her balcony long ago. It was only on the second floor, but still. He could have broken his neck if he had fallen. Just like his father, she thought, and her smile faded. She had been furious with him, but he had just laughed. Then he had scooped her up in a tight embrace, with a strength you would never have thought John's slender body was capable of. Later-clearly flattered-she liked to tell the story of his climb and his persistence. It was their earliest and most important shared memory. Snow removal. A small tractor drove across the parking lot and pushed even more snow up over the heavily laden bushes by the edge of the lot. Harry was the driver. She recognized him by his red cap. Harry was the one who had set Justus to work, giving him a summer job when no one else was hiring. Lawn mowing, clearing out trash, weeding. Justus complained, but he had been bursting with pride at his first paycheck. Berit's gaze followed the snowplow. Snow was falling thickly. The orange signal light revolved on the roof of the tractor. Darkness settled in over the buildings and the parking lot. The light was flung to the far corners of the grounds. Harry was certainly busy. How many hours had he had to work the past few days? This weather's going to send me to the Canary Islands, he had shouted to her the other day when they met outside the front door. He had leaned on his shovel and asked her about Justus. He always did. She turned and meant to say hello from Harry but Justus had already gone. What are you doing? she cried out into the apartment. Nothing, Justus yelled back. Berit assumed he was sitting in front of the computer. Ever since August, when John had dragged home the boxes, Justus had sat glued to the screen. The kid has to have a computer. He'll be left behind otherwise, John had said when she complained at the extravagance. How much did it cost? I got it cheap, he had told her, and quickly showed her the receipt from the electronics store when he caught her look. That accusing look, the one he knew so well. She looked around the kitchen but there was nothing else to be done. Dinner was ready. She went back to the window. He had said he would be back around four and it was close to six now. He usually called if he was delayed, but that had been mostly when he was doing a lot of overtime at the workshop. He had never liked to work late, but his boss, Sagge-Agne Sagander-had a way of asking that made it hard to say no. It always sounded as if the order in question were going to make or break the company. He had grown more quiet after he was fired. John had never been one to talk much, of course-Berit was the one who supplied the conversation-but he became even less talkative after he was let go. He had cheered up only this fall. Berit was convinced that it had to do with the fish, the new aquarium he had been talking about for years and that had become a reality at last. He had needed all that work with the fish tank, had spent a couple of weeks in September on it. Harry had given him a hand with the final assembly. He and Gunilla had come to the grand opening. Berit had thought it silly to inaugurate a fish tank but the party had been a success. Their closest neighbor, Stellan, had looked in, as had John's mom, and Lennart had been sober and cheerful. Stellan, who was normally quite reserved, had put an arm around Berit and said something about how cute she looked. John had just smiled, though he usually was sensitive about things like this, especially when he had had a drink or two. But there was no reason to be jealous of Stellan. Harry had finished clearing the parking lot. The flashing orange signal flung new cascades of light across the path to the laundry facilities and communal rooms. Snow removal. Berit had only a vague idea of what this task involved. Did they still climb up on the roof like in the old days? She could remember the bundled-up men from her childhood with their big shovels and ropes slung in great loops over their shoulders. She could even recall the warning signs they posted in the courtyard and on the street. Was he over at Lennart's? Brother Tuck, as John called him. She didn't like it. It reminded her of the bad old days. She never knew what to make of it: Lennart's loquacious self-assurance and John's pressed silence. Berit was only sixteen when the three of them met. First she got to know John, then Lennart. The brothers appeared inseparable. Lennart, tossing his long black hair off his face, unpredictable in his movements, always on the go, picking nervously, chattering. John, blond, thin-lipped, and with a gentleness about him that had immediately appealed to her. A scar across his left eye created an unexpected contrast with the pale skin in his slightly androgynous face. The scar was from a motorcycle accident. Lennart had been driving. Berit had been unable to understand how John and Lennart could be brothers. They were so different, both in appearance and in manner. Once she had gone so far as to ask Aina, their mother, about it. It had been toward the end of the crayfish party, but she had only smiled and joked about it. It didn't take long for Berit to figure out that the brothers didn't always make their money in traditional ways. John worked at the workshop off and on, but it seemed to Berit that this was more to keep up appearances, especially with regard to Albin, his father. John had a criminal bent. Not because he was evil or greedy, but simply because a conventional lifestyle didn't seem to be quite enough for him. It was something he had in common with many of the people around him, teenagers who appeared well adjusted on the surface but who drifted around the eastern parts of Uppsala most evenings and nights in anxious herds. They picked pockets, snatched purses, stole mopeds and cars, broke into basements, and smashed shopwindows as the spirit moved them. A few, like John and Lennart, were permanent fixtures. Others came and went, most of them dropping out after six months or a year. Some took classes at the Boland School in order to become painters, concrete workers, mechanics, or whatever other professions were open to working-class youths in the early seventies. Others took jobs straight out of middle school. None of them continued with more formal academic subjects at the high school level. They had neither the will nor the grades for that. Most of them lived at home with their parents, who were not always the ideal people to prevent substance abuse, theft, and other illegal activities. They had enough of their own problems and often stood by, quite powerless to do anything to stop their offspring. They were awkward and embarrassed when dealing with the welfare workers, psychologists, and other social officials, confused by the bureaucratic language, their own inadequacies, and their intense sense of shame. If I hadn't had them, it would all have gone to hell, John had said once. It was only when he was getting regular work at the factory that he started to move away from life on the streets and the gangs. Regular work, a new sense of being appreciated, decent wages, and then Berit. Lennart delivered groceries by day and hung out at the pool hall in Sivia at night. John was there too. He was the better player of the two, though that hardly bothered Lennart, who spent most of his time on the flipper machines down below. That was where Berit met them. She had come with a girl named Anna-Lena, who was in love with a boy who frequented the place. She fell in love with John at first sight. He snuck around the pool table with the cue in his hand and played with intense concentration, something that appealed to Berit. He rarely said anything. His hands were slender. She studied his fingers splayed on the green mat, his gaze focused along the stick, serious. It was the seriousness she noticed. And eyelashes. His gaze, the intense gaze. She wasn't sure what made her start thinking about the pool hall. It had been years since she had been there. It was probably because she had been thinking about Brother Tuck, and about how John was probably with him. She didn't want to call. They were probably drinking. Sometimes John felt he had to have a real session with Lennart. It didn't happen very often nowadays, but when his mind was made up nothing could stop him. Not even Justus. The boy knew it, knew his father deep under the skin, and his protests were never particularly loud or long-lived. Once, when Justus was about twelve, John let himself be talked out of it and came home. Justus had called his uncle himself and demanded to speak to his father. Berit was not allowed to listen; Justus had locked himself in the bathroom with the portable phone. John came home after half an hour. Staggering, but he came home. It was as if these occasional evenings with his brother functioned as a temporary return to his former existence. These drinking sessions kept the brothers close. Berit had no idea what they talked about. Old times, their childhood in Almtuna, or something else? They didn't have much common ground. They cleaved to each other because of their shared past. Berit sometimes felt something akin to jealousy when confronted with this world that was largely foreign to her. Their childhood, the early years, appeared to be the only source of joy when they were talking. Even Lennart's voice, normally void of emotion, grew warm. And Berit stood outside all of this. Her life with John didn't count, or so it seemed to her. She entered his life when everything turned, when his childhood reached a definitive end. She wasn't there in the early, light-filled days, the happy years that would be remembered and retold. When is he coming? Soon, she replied, shouting. She was grateful that Justus was in his bedroom. He's probably clearing snow somewhere. I've never seen anything like it. She expected him to say something else, but he didn't. She wanted to hear his voice, but he didn't say anything. What is he doing, thinking? Did she dare leave the kitchen and go to his room? But the half-darkness of the kitchen was all she could handle. No light, no quick flickering characters on a computer screen, no questioning looks from Justus. Maybe you can help Harry, she shouted. Make a little extra. No response. He'll probably need some help with the basement stairs. I don't give a shit about his snow. Justus had suddenly reappeared in the doorway. It's not just his snow, Berit said gently. Justus snorted and stretched out a hand to the light switch. No, don't turn it on! She regretted it the instant she said it. It's just that it's cozy with a little darkness. I'll light some candles instead. She felt his gaze from the doorway. You should make a little money, she said. I don't need any. And Dad has money, anyway. Of course, but not a lot. You've been talking about buying a camera. Justus gave her a dismissive look. Was it a look of triumph? No harm in asking him, though, is there? she continued. Nag, nag, nag, he said and turned on his heel, in that way that only he could, and went back to his room. She heard him slam his door and the creaking of the bed when he threw himself on it. She walked back over to the window. Harry and his tractor had disappeared. A number of lights were on in the building across the way. She could see families around the dinner table. A bluish TV light flickered in a few others. A shadow moved next to the parking garages and she almost shouted with joy, but as she kept watching no John appeared. Had she only imagined it? If you walked down between the rows of garages you eventually came out by the garbage cans, but there was no one there. No John. Berit stared out into the darkness. Suddenly she glimpsed the figure again. She had seen someone for a moment, a man in green, but it wasn't John. Who was it? Why had he waited before emerging by the garbage cans? It occurred to her that maybe it was Harry's brother, who used to help him with the snow removal. No John. The short moment of relief was replaced by loneliness. The potatoes on the stove were still lukewarm. She turned the burner with the stew to its lowest setting. He'll be here soon, she told herself, and cupped her hands around the pot. She called Lennart at half past seven. He answered on the fifth ring and sounded sober. He hadn't heard from John in several days. He'll turn up, he said lightly, but she could hear the concern in his voice. Berit could imagine him restlessly shuffling back and forth in the hall. I'll make a couple of calls, he said. He's probably just having a few beers with someone. Berit hated him for those words. A few beers. She hung up. She called John's mother, but did not mention that he was more than a few hours late. She had called in the hope that he had looked in on her and been detained. They chatted for a while as Berit walked around the apartment. Lennart called at a quarter past eight. Why'd you hang up on me? he started, and she could hear that he had a few drinks in him. That's when she knew. Where can he be? Now her desperation broke out. Justus came out of his room. I'm hungry, he said. She gestured to him to calm down and finished talking to Lennart. Do you have any idea where Daddy can be? she asked. She knew she shouldn't be letting it get the upper hand, but the anxiety made her tremble. Justus made an awkward movement with his hand. I've no idea, but he'll be here soon, he said. Berit started to cry. Mom, he'll be here! Yes, he'll be back soon, she said and tried to smile, but it was mostly a grimace. I just get so worked up when he doesn't call and let me know. The potatoes are ruined. Can't we eat in the meantime? She was suddenly furious. Because she interpreted Justus's words as somehow disloyal, or because of an intimation that something terrible had happened? They sat down at the kitchen table. Harry and his tractor reappeared in the courtyard, and Berit was about to say something again about snow removal but stopped when she saw his face. The potatoes were pasty and the meat tender but lukewarm. Justus cleared the table in silence. She watched his mechanical movements. The jeans, which were two sizes too big, hung from his thin thighs and nonexistent butt. His fashion and music tastes had been changing lately, from a penchant for soft English pop, which Berit had often been able to appreciate, to a noisy, jerky rap music that sounded only discordant and angry to her ears. His taste in clothing had changed accordingly. She looked at the clock on the wall. Nine. Now she knew it would be late. Very late. Copyright   2006 by Kjell Eriksson. Translation   2006 by Ebba Segerberg. All rights reserved.  Continues... Excerpted from The Princess of Burundi by Eriksson, Kjell Copyright  2007 by Eriksson, Kjell. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Book Express","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":41809881432138,"sku":"527l","price":10.0,"currency_code":"NZD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0618\/9101\/8826\/files\/527l_1.jpg?v=1764179120"},{"product_id":"bad-things-happen-by-harry-dolan-harry-746f","title":"Bad Things Happen by Harry Dolan,Harry","description":"\u003cp\u003eDavid Loogan accepts the job of editor of crime magazine Gray Streets. what he doesn't realise is that the stories in Gray Streets tend to follow a simple formula: plans go wrong, bad things happen, people die. 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But when Claudia is found dead in a bathtub on the anniversary of their mother's suicide, Lily must return to New York to deal with the aftermath.  The situation shifts from tragic to baffling when the body at the morgue turns out to be a stranger's. The dead woman had been using Claudia's identity for months. The real Claudia had vanished, reappearing briefly on the day her impostor died. As Claudia transforms from victim to suspect in the eyes of the police, Lily becomes determined to find her before they do.  Is Claudia actually missing, or is she playing an elaborate con game? And who's responsible for the body that was found in the bathtub? An obsessive ex-lover? An emotionally disturbed young man with a rich and powerful father? Or Lily's own former fiancé, who turns out to be more deeply involved with Claudia than he admits?  As Lily searches for answers, a shadowy figure stalks her and the danger to her grows. Determined to learn the truth at any cost, she is unprepared for the terrible toll it will take on her and those she loves.  Editorial Reviews  From Publishers Weekly In Davidson's razor sharp mystery debut, travel journalist Lily Moore, who's been living in Spain, rushes home to Manhattan's Lower East Side on learning that her younger sister, Claudia, a recovering heroin addict, has apparently drowned in her bathtub on the anniversary of their mother's suicide. The corpse in the morgue, however, is that of a stranger who'd been posing as Claudia for months. So where's Claudia? An increasingly frantic Lily launches her private investigation while NYPD detectives Norah Renfrew and hunky Brux Bruxton oversee the official one. As Lily dodges the amorous attentions of Martin Sklar, her wealthy ex-boyfriend, who she suspects might've had a secret affair with Claudia, she discovers Claudia's connection to a recently deceased pseudopsychologist who had a habit of getting too involved with his female patients. Davidson, herself a travel journalist (Frommer's Toronto 2010), offers a great portrait of sisterly love, despite a dysfunctional past, as well as a highly satisfying mystery.  Copyright   Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.  From Booklist Travel writer Lily Moore is called back to New York by news of the death of her younger sister, Claudia, but on arrival, she discovers that the body found in the bathtub of her apartment isn't Claudia's. (Lily had taken her heroin-addict sister in to save her from life on the streets, but she fled to Spain when living with Claudia became unbearable.) So who died in the apartment that Lily still pays for? Where is Claudia? And how are Claudia's close friend and onetime lover, wealthy Tariq Lawrence, and Lily's ex-fiancé, real-estate magnate Martin Sklar, involved? With the help of her best friend, Jesse, and a couple of sympathetic cops, Lily traces strands of a tangled web back to a shady rehab facility. Travel-journalist Davidson does a fine job with characterizations, gradually fleshing out the Moore sisters' backstory, and she keeps plot tangents under control to spin a tale of nonstop action with a nice final twist. An entertaining and promising crime-fiction debut, with the potential for a sequel. --Michele Leber  Review  [A] razor sharp mystery debut. . . . Davidson offers a great portrait of sisterly love, despite a dysfunctional past, as well as a highly satisfying mystery.--Publishers Weekly on The Damage Done  Hilary Davidson makes a stunning debut with The Damage Done. It's a smart crime novel, peopled with sinister characters and clever twists you won't see coming. Davidson grabs you by the throat with her opening, and doesn't let go till the end.--Linda Fairstein, New York Times bestselling author of Hell Gate and Lethal Legacy  Sinking us into the noir New York of Sara Gran and Charlie Huston, Hilary Davidson's lush novel The Damage Done delivers on all counts, offering both slow-burn suspense and creeping pathos. Taking the classic story of hero's quest to solve the riddle of a wayward sister, it's ultimately a tale of lost women, victims and victimizers, damaging and perilously damaged. A rich, haunting debut.--Megan Abbott, Edgar-winning author of Die a Little, Queenpin, and Bury Me Deep  The Damage Done is truly an astonishing read. Think Hitchcock writing for the hip Manhattan set and still, with a wondrous compassion that moves on nigh on every page. If Tess Gerritsen and Laura Lippman collaborated, you'd get a novel as fine as this. Terrific insights into the damaged sister's psyche and all the emotions therein, rendered in a prose that is a joy to read. Neil Young might have to rewrite the song. The novel is that startling and original.--Ken Bruen, bestselling author of London Boulevard and the Jack Taylor mysteries  A twisty, unsettling mystery which explores the nature of identity theft and identity itself. A provocative debut.--Jane Stanton Hitchcock, New York Times bestselling author of Mortal Friends, Social Crimes, and One Dangerous Lady  The Damage Done is a sleek, savvy mystery that kept me turning pages and trying to figure out the beautifully constructed plot. Hilary Davidson's debut is a memorable one.--Ed Gorman, award-winning author of The Poker Club and the Sam McMain series  A sharp debut. Smart, dark, and complex, this mystery will keep you turning pages deep into the night. Ms. Davidson's talent is toe-to-toe with the great Laura Lippman. My favorite new voice in crime fiction.--Allison Glasgow Robinson, Thuglit editor   About the Author Hilary Davidson won the Anthony Award for Best First Novel for The Damage Done. That book also earned a Crimespree Award and was a finalist for the Arthur Ellis and Macavity awards. Hilary's widely acclaimed short stories have been featured in publications from Ellery Queen to Thuglit, and in many anthologies. A Toronto-born travel journalist and the author of eighteen nonfiction books, she has lived in New York City since October 2001.  About the Author Hilary Davidson won the Anthony Award for Best First Novel for The Damage Done. That book also earned a Crimespree Award and was a finalist for the Arthur Ellis and Macavity awards. Hilary's widely acclaimed short stories have been featured in publications from Ellery Queen to Thuglit, and in many anthologies. A Toronto-born travel journalist and the author of eighteen nonfiction books, she has lived in New York City since October 2001.  Excerpt.   Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1  It was the bright yellow tape that finally convinced me my sister was dead. When the police had called me, I'd cried for her, but afterward a slender thread of suspicion had snaked into my brain and coiled itself around my thoughts. Claudia was deceitful, like every junkie has to be, but she also had a temper and hated to be ignored. I'd kept my distance from her since September; maybe being the butt of the world's worst practical joke was the price I would pay for four months of silence. That suspicion didn't deter me from getting on the first flight I could out of Barcelona, but it kept my heart beating at a relatively steady pace until I'd arrived in New York. Part of me believed that I would come home and find my sister waiting for me with her dark eyes and twisted smile, pleased with herself for tricking me back into her orbit.  Instead, I'd raced up the stairs of the Lower East Side tenement and found her door crisscrossed with yellow crime-scene tape. My hands shook as I peeled it off the right side of the door frame, leaving tendrils dangling like wilted vines. This was further than Claudia had ever gone for a joke. My old keys still turned the two locks. Then I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.  The smell wasn't anything like death. Instead, something sweetly floral made my nose twitch. The apartment had always been shortchanged on natural light, but there was enough to make out ghostly silhouettes of furniture. I brushed my hand against the wall and the overhead light flickered on. The living room was painted a robin's egg blue, just as I'd left it when I'd hastily moved out a year ago. One wall was lined with my rickety old bookcases; across from them was the small sofa I'd found on the street and reupholstered, back in the days before bedbugs had made New Yorkers leery of sidewalk finds. There was a walnut night table I'd found at a thrift shop, with a new television and DVD player on it. At the far end of the room, under the window, was an Art Deco desk I'd regretted leaving behind. There was an empty space in the center, with a bright pink rectangle in it. It wasn't until I was right in front of it that I realized it was an iPod. I wondered where my sister had come up with the money, and how she'd held back from pawning the gadgets when she was nauseated with the craving for a fix.  Claudia? I called out, my voice cracking on the last syllable. My voice was too loud in this empty room.  The floor was bare wood, cracked and splintered and crying out for refinishing. If the police had searched the apartment or taken any fingerprints, there weren't any traces I could see. It looks like your sister drowned in her bathtub at home, the police detective had told me on the phone. Her tone was warm, as if she were sure that the cold body was a suicide or an accident. I'd heard that same soothing score from the police when my mother died. They wouldn't bother with fingerprints in a case like that. I wondered if they'd straightened the place out, because Claudia thrived on chaos. Even when she came out of rehab, bursting with good intentions and energetic as a puppy, she left dirty plates and glasses around and deposited her worn clothing on the floor. There was a pile of magazines next to the sofa, Elle and Vogue and Travel \u0026amp; Leisure; Claudia often laughed at me for writing articles for them. Next to the TV was a stack of DVDs; Sex and the City was on top. Had she hidden them from me before? There was something darkly humorous about the fact she'd never kept her drug use a secret from me, but that her unspeakable shame was an indulgence in pop culture.  I set my purse on the sofa and turned to the bookcase. On it sat a framed snapshot of six-year-old Claudia and eight-year-old me hugging in front of a Christmas tree. I had an identical picture in my purse, ripped from a frame in my Barcelona apartment, an ocean away. One shelf above held a photo of our parents on their wedding day. Next to that was the painted porcelain rabbit that had been our father's last Christmas gift to Claudia. The pictures of my sister with her goth posse of art-school dropouts were gone. On the top shelf was a red card with a heart wrapped in a bow on the front. I picked it up.  Claudia, what will I do without you over the holidays? Only nine days until I see you again. I'll be counting the minutes. M  I set it back on the shelf, remembering a couple of Claudia's boyfriends who'd expressed their devotion through tattoos. Did the use of a single initial indicate a certain playfulness or a desire to hide his identity? I wondered if M knew about Claudia yet. I didn't want to track him down just to break his heart, but there wasn't much else I could do for my sister now.  Wandering through the short hallway, past the galley kitchen, I stopped in front of the bathroom door. It was closed, and the cold metal of the knob made my hand freeze. I didn't want to see the room where my sister had died. Nothing would get me to open that door. Letting go, I backed slowly into the bedroom. Here was a hint of the familiar shambles, at least. There were no overflowing ashtrays or used cotton balls, but an open suitcase on the bed was stuffed with clothing that was piled too high for the bag ever to close. A black dress flopped drunkenly over a chair, a pair of black pumps in the gutter beneath. The label on the dress caught my eye. Prada. Claudia, shopping at Prada? Not likely. Shoplifting at Prada was a possibility.  The clothes on the bed bore similar labels. Feeling slightly emboldened, I reached for the closet door. Inside, stacked like bricks in a crumbling wall, sat dozens of shoeboxes. Manolo Blahnik. Christian Louboutin. Jimmy Choo. How did anyone, even Claudia, steal that many shoes? I peeked inside a box and found a pair of black patent stilettos. The smooth red leather sole was virgin. Size nine? My sister and I were the same height, five foot six, and we wore a size seven shoe. She had stolen enough clothes from me over the years that I knew we were the same size, though when Claudia's heroin addiction spiraled out of control, as it always did before each stint in rehab, she vanished into the skeletal range. Had my sister been involved in some scam to fence designer shoes? I pulled down a couple of hangers from the densely packed clothing rack. Gucci. Michael Kors. More Prada. Everything would have fit Claudia, assuming she wasn't subsisting just on junk and tar.  I almost missed the brown cardboard box on the floor. The handwriting on it was flowing and feminine, and I wondered who was sending parcels to my little sister. I tore into the box before I realized it was from me. Before Christmas, I'd phoned in an order for an expensive, impossible-to-find perfume called Tabac Blond that my sister loved. The store had couriered over the box and Claudia had abandoned it in the closet, unopened. An odd sense of rejection made a lump in my throat and I shut the closet door.  As I sat on the edge of the bed, it felt as if the year since the apartment had been mine had multiplied into ten. I'd left it behind with almost everything I owned when I'd moved to Spain. Why had I been in such a rush? My own personal life was a shambles, but ... My eyes fell on a silver bracelet and I made a strangled sound. It looked almost innocent, sitting atop the scarred wood of the old dresser. I stood and grabbed it, then rolled it around in my hands. It was an inch-wide bangle with an interlacing Irish scrollwork pattern on its surface. The inscription read For Lily, With Love Always, Dad.  For a moment I thought I'd burst into tears. It wasn't awful enough that Claudia was dead; now I was reminded how much I hated her sometimes. The bracelet was the last Christmas present I ever had from my father. He'd even let me open it on Christmas Eve. We'll have to wrap it up tight again, he'd said, imagine the hell your mother will give me otherwise. Then he'd died that night and I'd treasured and guarded his gift. I'd worn it to sleep as a teenager, afraid my mother would sell it for brandy or gin. Eighteen months ago, when I'd allowed a very sick Claudia to move in with me, it went missing. My sister had hepatitis then, and her normally pale skin was flushed yellow with jaundice. You don't think I took it, do you? she'd said, the picture of frail innocence. Deep down, I'd always known she had. Even when she wasn't shooting heroin she needed cash to buy her more-than-state-allotted doses of methadone, which provided its own high. But I'd never suspected she would steal it just to take it away from me. Dropping onto the bed, I took deep breaths and tried to pull myself together. I hadn't thought I could be sadder or angrier or more miserable than I was when I found out my sister was dead, but I was wrong.  Excerpted from The Damage Done by Hilary Davidson. Copyright   2010 by Hilary Davidson. Published in October 2010 by Tom Doherty Associates Book. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Book Express","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":41811816284234,"sku":"1166j","price":8.0,"currency_code":"NZD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0618\/9101\/8826\/files\/1166j.jpg?v=1764200480"},{"product_id":"the-quarry-by-johan-theorin-marlaine-delargy-1167o","title":"The Quarry by Johan Theorin,Marlaine Delargy","description":"\u003cp\u003eAs the last snow melts on the Swedish island of Oland, Per Morner is preparing for his children's Easter visit. But his plans are disrupted when he receives a phone call from his estranged father, Jerry, begging for help. Per finds Jerry close to death in his blazing woodland studio. He's been stabbed, and two dead bodies are later discovered in the burnt-out building. The only suspect, Jerry's work partner, is confirmed as one of the dead. 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