NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “A superior crime novel.”— The Washington Post
WATCH WILL TRENT ON ABC
Ansley Park is one of Atlanta’s most upscale neighborhoods—but in one gleaming mansion, in a teenager’s lavish bedroom, a girl has been savagely murdered. And in the hallway, her mother stands amid shattered glass, having killed her daughter’s attacker with her bare hands. Detective Will Trent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is one of the first on the scene. Trent soon sees something that the Atlanta cops are missing, something in the trail of blood, in a matrix of forensic evidence, and in the eyes of the stunned mother.
When another teenage girl goes missing, Trent knows that this case, which started in the best of homes, is about to cut quick and deep through the ruins of perfect lives broken wide-open: where human demons emerge with a vengeance.
Review
“Heart-pounding . . . Slaughter brings the same raw energy and brutal violence that distinguishes her Grant County Series to this new series with chilling results, while Trent an Mitchell, a pair of complex and deeply flawed heroes, will leave fans clamoring for the next installment.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Startling twists . . . [The detectives’] quirky relationship—as much as the increasingly intriguing investigation—fuels this fun read.” — People
“A superior crime novel . . . [Slaughter is] fiercely focused and one of the most talented young crime novelists.” — The Washington Post
“ Fractured dazzles because it works on the level of both plot and character. . . . [And] the combination is unbeatable.” — Cleveland Plain-Dealer
“Unexpected twists and intriguing characters.” — Entertainment Weekly
Will Trent stared out the window of the car as he listened to his boss yell into her cell phone. Not that Amanda Wagner ever really raised her voice, but she had a certain edge to her tone that had caused more than one of her agents to burst into tears and walk off an active investigation—no mean feat considering the majority of her subordinates at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation were men.
“We’re at”—she craned her neck, squinting at the street sign—“the Prado and Seventeenth.” Amanda paused. “Perhaps you could look up the information on your computer?” She shook her head, obviously not liking what she was hearing.
Will tried, “Maybe we should keep driving around? We might find—”
Amanda covered her eyes with her hand. She whispered into the phone, “How long until the server is back up?” The answer caused her to breathe out a heavy, pronounced sigh.
Will indicated the screen dominating the middle of the wood-lined dashboard. The Lexus had more bells and whistles than a clown’s hat. “Don’t you have GPS?”
She dropped her hand, considering his question, then began fiddling with some knobs on the dashboard. The screen didn’t change, but the air-conditioning whirred higher. Will chuckled, and she cut him off with a nasty look, suggesting, “Maybe while we’re waiting for Caroline to find a street map, you can get the owner’s manual out of the glove box and read the directions for me.”
Will tried the latch, but it was locked. He thought this pretty much summed up his relationship with Amanda Wagner. She often sent him the way of locked doors and expected him to find his way around them. Will liked a good puzzle as much as the next man, but just once, it would have been nice to have Amanda hand him the key.
Or maybe not. Will had never been good at asking for help—especially from someone like Amanda, who seemed to keep a running list in her head of people who owed her favors.
He looked out the window as she berated her secretary for not keeping a street map on her person at all times. Will had been born and raised in Atlanta, but didn’t often find himself in Ansley Park. He knew that it was one of the city’s oldest and wealthiest neighborhoods, where over a century ago, lawyers, doctors and bankers had built their enviable estates so that future lawyers, doctors and bankers could live as they did—safely cloistered in the middle of one of the most violent metropolitan cities this side of the Mason-Dixon. The only thing that had changed over the years was that the black women pushing white babies in strollers were better compensated these days.
With its twisting turns and roundabouts, Ansley seemed designed to confuse, if not discourage, visitors. Most of the streets were tree-lined, broad avenues with the houses tucked up on hills to better look down on the world. Densely forested parks with walking trails and swing sets were everywhere. Some of the walkways were still the original cobblestone. Though all the homes were architecturally different, there was a certain uniformity to their crisply painted exteriors and professionally landscaped lawns. Will guessed this was because even a fixer-upper started at the one million mark. Unlike his own Poncey-Highland neighborhood, which was less than six miles from here, there were no rainbow-colored houses or methadone clinics in Ansley.
On the street, Will watched a jogger stop to stretch and surreptitiously check out Amanda’s Lexus. According to the news this morning, there was a code-red smog alert in effect, advising people not to breathe the outside air unless they absolutely had to. No one seemed to be taking that to heart, even as the temperature inched past the one hundred mark. Will had seen at least five joggers since they’d entered Ansley Park. All were women and all so far had fit the stereotype of the perky, perfect soccer mom with their Pilates-toned bodies and bouncy ponytails.
The Lexus was parked at the bottom of what seemed to be a popular hill, the street behind them lined with tall oaks that cast the pavement into shadow. All of the runners had slowed to look at the car. This wasn’t the type of neighborhood where a man and a woman could sit in a parked vehicle for very long without someone calling the police. Of course, this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where teenage girls were brutally raped and murdered in their own homes, either.
He glanced back at Amanda, who was holding the phone to her ear so tightly it looked as if she might snap the plastic in two. She was an attractive woman if you never heard her speak or had to work for her or sat in a car with her for any length of time. She had to be in her early sixties by now. When Will had first started at the GBI over ten years ago, Amanda’s hair had been more pepper than salt, but that had changed drastically over the last few months. He didn’t know if this was because of something in her personal life or an inability to get an appointment with her hairdresser, but she had lately begun showing her years.
Amanda started pressing buttons on the console again, obviously trying to work the GPS. The radio came on and she quickly turned it off again, but not before Will caught the opening notes of a swing band. She muttered something under her breath and pressed another button, which caused Will’s window to slide down. He felt a blast of hot air like someone had opened an oven door. In the side mirror, he saw a jogger at the top of the hill, the leaves on the dogwoods stirring in the breeze.
Amanda gave up on the electronics. “This is ridiculous. We’re the top investigatory arm in the state and we can’t even find the God damn crime scene.”
Will turned around, his seat belt straining against his shoulder as he looked up the hill.
Amanda asked, “What are you doing?”
“That way,” he said, pointing behind them. The limbs of the trees overhead were intertwined, casting the street in a dusklike darkness. There was no breeze this time of year, just relentless heat. What he had seen was not rustling leaves but the blue lights of a police cruiser bouncing off the shadows.
Amanda gave another heavy sigh as she put the car into gear and started a U-turn. Without warning, she slammed on the brakes, her arm shooting out in front of Will as if she could stop him from going through the windshield. A large white van blared its horn as it sped by, the driver shaking his fist, mouthing obscenities.
“Channel Five,” Will said, recognizing the local news station’s logo on the side of the van.
“They’re almost as late as we are,” Amanda commented, following the news van up the hill. She took a right, coming on a lone police cruiser blocking the next left. A smattering of reporters was already at the scene, representing all the local stations as well as CNN, which had their world headquarters a few miles up the road. A woman strangling the man who had killed her daughter would be big news in any part of the world, but the fact that the daughter was white, that the parents were wealthy and the family was one of the city’s most influential gave it an almost giddy, scandalous tinge. Somewhere in New York City, a Lifetime movie executive was drooling into her BlackBerry.
Amanda pulled out her badge and waved it at the cop as she rolled past the blockade. There were more police cruisers up ahead along with a couple of ambulances. The doors were open, the beds empty. Paramedics stood around smoking. The hunter green BMW X5 parked in front of the house seemed out of place among the emergency vehicles, but the gigantic SUV made Will wonder where the coroner’s van was. He wouldn’t be surprised if the medical examiner had gotten lost, too. Ansley was not a neighborhood well known to someone earning a civil servant’s salary.
Amanda put the car into reverse to parallel park between two of the cruisers. The park sensor controls started beeping as she tapped on the gas. “Don’t dawdle in there, Will. We’re not working this case unless we’re taking it over.”
Will had heard some variation on this same theme at least twice since they had left city hall. The dead girl’s grandfather, Hoyt Bentley, was a billionaire developer who had made his share of enemies over the years. Depending on who you talked to, Bentley was either a scion of the city or a crony from way back, the sort of moneyed crook who made things happen behind the scenes without ever getting his hands dirty. Whichever version of the man’s story was true, he had deep enough pockets to buy his share of political friends. Bentley had made one phone call to the governor, who had reached out to the director of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, who had in turn assigned Amanda the task of looking into the murder.
If the killing had any markings of a professional hit or hinted at something deeper than a simple assault and burglary gone wrong, then Amanda would make a phone call and snatch the case away from the Atlanta Police Department faster than a toddler taking back a favorite toy. If this was just a random, everyday tragedy, then she would probably leave the explanations to Will while she toodled back to city hall in her fancy car.
Amanda put the gear into drive and inched forward. The gap between the beeps got furiously short as she edged closer to the police car. “If Bentley’s got someone mad enough to kill his granddaughter, this case goes to a whole new level.”
She sounded almost hopeful at the prospect. Will understood her excitement—breaking this kind of case would be yet another feather in Amanda’s cap—but Will hoped he never got to the point where he saw the death of a teenage girl as a career stepping-stone. Though he wasn’t sure what he should think of the dead man, either. He was a murderer, but he was also a victim. Considering Georgia’s pro–death penalty stance, did it really matter that he had been strangled here in Ansley Park rather than strapped to a gurney and given a lethal injection at Coastal State Prison?
Will opened the door before Amanda put the car into park. The hot air hit him like a punch to the gut, his lungs temporarily straining in his chest. Then the humidity took over, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to have tuberculosis. Still, he put on his suit jacket, covering the paddle holster clipped to the back of his belt. Not for the first time, Will questioned the sanity of wearing a three-piece suit in the middle of August.
Amanda seemed untouched by the heat as she joined Will. A group of uniformed policemen stood clustered at the bottom of the driveway, watching them walk across the street. Recognition dawned in their eyes, and Amanda warned Will, “I don’t have to tell you that you’re not exactly welcome by the Atlanta Police Department right now.”
“No,” Will agreed. One of the cops in the circle made a point of spitting on the ground as they passed by. Another one settled on a more subtle raised middle finger. Will plastered a smile on his face and gave the officers a big thumbs-up to let them all know there were no hard feelings.
From her first day in office, Atlanta’s mayor had pledged to weed out the corruption that ran unchecked during her predecessor’s reign. Over the last few years, she had been working closely with the GBI to open cases against the most blatant offenders. Amanda had graciously volunteered Will to go into the lions’ den. Six months ago, he had closed an investigation that had resulted in the firing of six Atlanta police detectives and forced the early retirement of one of the city’s highest-ranking officers. The cases were good—the cops were skimming cash off of narcotics busts—but nobody liked a stranger cleaning their house, and Will had not exactly made friends during the course of his investigation.
Amanda had gotten a promotion out of it. Will had been turned into a pariah.
He ignored the hissed “asshole” aimed at his back, trying to focus on the crime at hand as they walked up the curving driveway. The yard was brimming with all kinds of exotic-looking flowers that Will was hard-pressed to name. The house itself was enormous, stately columns holding up a second floor balcony, a winding set of granite stairs leading to the front doors. Except for the smattering of surly cops marring the scene, it was an impressive estate.
“Trent,” someone called, and he saw Detective Leo Donnelly making his way down the front steps. Leo was a short man, at least a full foot less than Will’s six-three. His gait had taken on an almost Columbo-like shuffle since they’d last worked together. The effect was that of an agitated monkey. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Will indicated the cameras, offering Leo the most believable explanation. Everybody knew the GBI would throw a baby into the Chattahoochee if it meant getting on the nightly news. He told the detective, “This is my boss, Dr. Wagner.”
“Hey,” Leo said, tossing her a nod before turning back to Will. “How’s Angie doing?”
“We’re engaged.” Will felt Amanda’s scrutiny focus on him with a cold intensity. He tried to deflect, indicating the open doorway with a nod of his head. “What’ve we got here?”
“A shitload of hate for you, my friend.” Leo took out a cigarette and lit it. “You better watch your back.”
Amanda asked, “Is the mother still inside?”
“First door on the left,” Leo answered. “My partner’s in there with her.”
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” Amanda dismissed Leo the way she might a servant. The look she gave Will wasn’t that much more pleasant.
Leo exhaled a line of smoke as he watched her go up the stairs. “Puts a chill on things, don’t she? Like fucking dry ice.”
Will defended her automatically, in that sort of way that you defend a useless uncle or slutty sister when someone outside of the family attacks them. “Amanda is one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with.” --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Best-selling novelist Slaughter is most well known for her Grant County series, but here she follows up on the characters introduced in Triptych (2006). Will Trent, of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, needs a GPS system to find his way to the crime scene in Ansley Park, one of Atlanta’s oldest and wealthiest suburbs. Once on the scene, however, he is the only one to intuit the true specifics of the case, much to the irritation of the Atlanta PD. Suburban mom Emily Campano, returning home early, finds the severely beaten body of her teenage daughter, Emma, and instinctively attacks the seeming perpetrator, strangling him. Will soon discovers, however, that the dead teen is not Emma but her best friend. He is charged with heading up the investigation into Emma’s kidnapping and saddled with a partner from the Atlanta PD, an officer who has her own reasons for hating him. Possible motives and suspects abound as they home in on the girl’s posh private high school, a veritable cauldron that mixes cruel social climbing with sexual manipulation, among both the faculty and their pupils. As Will makes headway on the case, he must also struggle to compensate for his severe dyslexia, smooth the tensions with his new partner, and hide the emotional scars of a childhood spent in an orphanage. Slaughter brings breakneck pacing and emotional intensity to what could well be a series compelling enough to rival her Grant County novels. In addition, she ups the ante by starkly revealing the great emotional divide that separates those who have experienced severe trauma from those untouched by tragedy. --Joanne Wilkinson --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Inside Flap
A broken window. A bloody footprint. Just the beginning…
When Atlanta housewife Abigail Campano comes home unexpectedly one afternoon, she walks into a nightmare. A broken window, a bloody footprint on the stairs and, most devastating of all, the horrifying sight of her teenage daughter lying dead on the landing, a man standing over her with a bloody knife. The struggle which follows changes Abigail’s life forever.
When the local police make a misjudgement which not only threatens the investigation but places a young girl’s life in danger, the case is handed over to Special Agent Will Trent of the Criminal Apprehension Team – teamed with detective Faith Mitchell, a woman who resents him from their first meeting.
But in the relentless heat of a Georgia summer, Will and Faith realise that they must work together to find the brutal killer who has targeted one of Atlanta’s wealthiest, most privileged communities – before it’s too late…
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Back Cover
Praise for Karin Slaughter
'Criminally spectacular' OK!
'Without doubt an accomplished, compelling and complex tale, with page-turning power aplenty' Daily Express
'Expertly shifting back and forth in both time and point of view, Slaughter builds the suspense to a perfect crescendo ... a timely and unsettling read' Publishers Weekly
'Brilliantly chilling' heat
'Confirms her at the summit of the school of writers specialising in forensic medicine and terror' The Times
'It's beautifully paced, appropriately grisly, and terrifyingly plausible. Who says there's anything peaceful and quiet about small-town America' Time Out
'A great read ... crime fiction at its finest' Michael Connelly
'A fast-paced and unsettling story ... A compelling and fluid read' Daily Telegraph
'The writing is lean and mean, and the climax will blow you away' Independent
'Slaughter's plotting is relentless, piling on surprises and twists ... A good read that should come with a psychological health warning' Guardian
'A compelling, exciting read' Sunday Express
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Review
"Heart-pounding . . . Slaughter brings the same raw energy and brutal violence that distinguishes her Grant County Series (Beyond Reach, etc) to this new series with chilling results, while Trent an Mitchell, a pair of complex and deeply flawed heroes, will leave fans clamoring for the next installment."--"Publishers Weekly" (starred review)
"Startling twists . . . [The detectives'] quirky relationship--as much as the increasingly intriguing investigation--fuels this fun read."--"People"
"A superior crime novel . . . [Slaughter is] fiercely focused and one of the most talented young crime novelists."--"Washington Post
"
""Fractured" dazzles because it works on the level of both plot and character [and] the combination is unbeatable."--Cleveland" Plain-Dealer
"
"Unexpected twists and intriguing characters."--"Entertainment Weekly" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
About the Author
Karin Slaughter is the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Beyond Reach and A Faint Cold Fear, which was named an International Book of the Month selection; she contributed and edited Like a Charm. She is a native of Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel, to be published in 2010. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Description:
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • “A superior crime novel.”— The Washington Post
WATCH WILL TRENT ON ABC
Ansley Park is one of Atlanta’s most upscale neighborhoods—but in one gleaming mansion, in a teenager’s lavish bedroom, a girl has been savagely murdered. And in the hallway, her mother stands amid shattered glass, having killed her daughter’s attacker with her bare hands. Detective Will Trent of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is one of the first on the scene. Trent soon sees something that the Atlanta cops are missing, something in the trail of blood, in a matrix of forensic evidence, and in the eyes of the stunned mother.
When another teenage girl goes missing, Trent knows that this case, which started in the best of homes, is about to cut quick and deep through the ruins of perfect lives broken wide-open: where human demons emerge with a vengeance.
Review
“Heart-pounding . . . Slaughter brings the same raw energy and brutal violence that distinguishes her Grant County Series to this new series with chilling results, while Trent an Mitchell, a pair of complex and deeply flawed heroes, will leave fans clamoring for the next installment.” — Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Startling twists . . . [The detectives’] quirky relationship—as much as the increasingly intriguing investigation—fuels this fun read.” — People
“A superior crime novel . . . [Slaughter is] fiercely focused and one of the most talented young crime novelists.” — The Washington Post
“ Fractured dazzles because it works on the level of both plot and character. . . . [And] the combination is unbeatable.” — Cleveland Plain-Dealer
“Unexpected twists and intriguing characters.” — Entertainment Weekly
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
Will Trent stared out the window of the car as he listened to his boss yell into her cell phone. Not that Amanda Wagner ever really raised her voice, but she had a certain edge to her tone that had caused more than one of her agents to burst into tears and walk off an active investigation—no mean feat considering the majority of her subordinates at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation were men.
“We’re at”—she craned her neck, squinting at the street sign—“the Prado and Seventeenth.” Amanda paused. “Perhaps you could look up the information on your computer?” She shook her head, obviously not liking what she was hearing.
Will tried, “Maybe we should keep driving around? We might find—”
Amanda covered her eyes with her hand. She whispered into the phone, “How long until the server is back up?” The answer caused her to breathe out a heavy, pronounced sigh.
Will indicated the screen dominating the middle of the wood-lined dashboard. The Lexus had more bells and whistles than a clown’s hat. “Don’t you have GPS?”
She dropped her hand, considering his question, then began fiddling with some knobs on the dashboard. The screen didn’t change, but the air-conditioning whirred higher. Will chuckled, and she cut him off with a nasty look, suggesting, “Maybe while we’re waiting for Caroline to find a street map, you can get the owner’s manual out of the glove box and read the directions for me.”
Will tried the latch, but it was locked. He thought this pretty much summed up his relationship with Amanda Wagner. She often sent him the way of locked doors and expected him to find his way around them. Will liked a good puzzle as much as the next man, but just once, it would have been nice to have Amanda hand him the key.
Or maybe not. Will had never been good at asking for help—especially from someone like Amanda, who seemed to keep a running list in her head of people who owed her favors.
He looked out the window as she berated her secretary for not keeping a street map on her person at all times. Will had been born and raised in Atlanta, but didn’t often find himself in Ansley Park. He knew that it was one of the city’s oldest and wealthiest neighborhoods, where over a century ago, lawyers, doctors and bankers had built their enviable estates so that future lawyers, doctors and bankers could live as they did—safely cloistered in the middle of one of the most violent metropolitan cities this side of the Mason-Dixon. The only thing that had changed over the years was that the black women pushing white babies in strollers were better compensated these days.
With its twisting turns and roundabouts, Ansley seemed designed to confuse, if not discourage, visitors. Most of the streets were tree-lined, broad avenues with the houses tucked up on hills to better look down on the world. Densely forested parks with walking trails and swing sets were everywhere. Some of the walkways were still the original cobblestone. Though all the homes were architecturally different, there was a certain uniformity to their crisply painted exteriors and professionally landscaped lawns. Will guessed this was because even a fixer-upper started at the one million mark. Unlike his own Poncey-Highland neighborhood, which was less than six miles from here, there were no rainbow-colored houses or methadone clinics in Ansley.
On the street, Will watched a jogger stop to stretch and surreptitiously check out Amanda’s Lexus. According to the news this morning, there was a code-red smog alert in effect, advising people not to breathe the outside air unless they absolutely had to. No one seemed to be taking that to heart, even as the temperature inched past the one hundred mark. Will had seen at least five joggers since they’d entered Ansley Park. All were women and all so far had fit the stereotype of the perky, perfect soccer mom with their Pilates-toned bodies and bouncy ponytails.
The Lexus was parked at the bottom of what seemed to be a popular hill, the street behind them lined with tall oaks that cast the pavement into shadow. All of the runners had slowed to look at the car. This wasn’t the type of neighborhood where a man and a woman could sit in a parked vehicle for very long without someone calling the police. Of course, this wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where teenage girls were brutally raped and murdered in their own homes, either.
He glanced back at Amanda, who was holding the phone to her ear so tightly it looked as if she might snap the plastic in two. She was an attractive woman if you never heard her speak or had to work for her or sat in a car with her for any length of time. She had to be in her early sixties by now. When Will had first started at the GBI over ten years ago, Amanda’s hair had been more pepper than salt, but that had changed drastically over the last few months. He didn’t know if this was because of something in her personal life or an inability to get an appointment with her hairdresser, but she had lately begun showing her years.
Amanda started pressing buttons on the console again, obviously trying to work the GPS. The radio came on and she quickly turned it off again, but not before Will caught the opening notes of a swing band. She muttered something under her breath and pressed another button, which caused Will’s window to slide down. He felt a blast of hot air like someone had opened an oven door. In the side mirror, he saw a jogger at the top of the hill, the leaves on the dogwoods stirring in the breeze.
Amanda gave up on the electronics. “This is ridiculous. We’re the top investigatory arm in the state and we can’t even find the God damn crime scene.”
Will turned around, his seat belt straining against his shoulder as he looked up the hill.
Amanda asked, “What are you doing?”
“That way,” he said, pointing behind them. The limbs of the trees overhead were intertwined, casting the street in a dusklike darkness. There was no breeze this time of year, just relentless heat. What he had seen was not rustling leaves but the blue lights of a police cruiser bouncing off the shadows.
Amanda gave another heavy sigh as she put the car into gear and started a U-turn. Without warning, she slammed on the brakes, her arm shooting out in front of Will as if she could stop him from going through the windshield. A large white van blared its horn as it sped by, the driver shaking his fist, mouthing obscenities.
“Channel Five,” Will said, recognizing the local news station’s logo on the side of the van.
“They’re almost as late as we are,” Amanda commented, following the news van up the hill. She took a right, coming on a lone police cruiser blocking the next left. A smattering of reporters was already at the scene, representing all the local stations as well as CNN, which had their world headquarters a few miles up the road. A woman strangling the man who had killed her daughter would be big news in any part of the world, but the fact that the daughter was white, that the parents were wealthy and the family was one of the city’s most influential gave it an almost giddy, scandalous tinge. Somewhere in New York City, a Lifetime movie executive was drooling into her BlackBerry.
Amanda pulled out her badge and waved it at the cop as she rolled past the blockade. There were more police cruisers up ahead along with a couple of ambulances. The doors were open, the beds empty. Paramedics stood around smoking. The hunter green BMW X5 parked in front of the house seemed out of place among the emergency vehicles, but the gigantic SUV made Will wonder where the coroner’s van was. He wouldn’t be surprised if the medical examiner had gotten lost, too. Ansley was not a neighborhood well known to someone earning a civil servant’s salary.
Amanda put the car into reverse to parallel park between two of the cruisers. The park sensor controls started beeping as she tapped on the gas. “Don’t dawdle in there, Will. We’re not working this case unless we’re taking it over.”
Will had heard some variation on this same theme at least twice since they had left city hall. The dead girl’s grandfather, Hoyt Bentley, was a billionaire developer who had made his share of enemies over the years. Depending on who you talked to, Bentley was either a scion of the city or a crony from way back, the sort of moneyed crook who made things happen behind the scenes without ever getting his hands dirty. Whichever version of the man’s story was true, he had deep enough pockets to buy his share of political friends. Bentley had made one phone call to the governor, who had reached out to the director of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, who had in turn assigned Amanda the task of looking into the murder.
If the killing had any markings of a professional hit or hinted at something deeper than a simple assault and burglary gone wrong, then Amanda would make a phone call and snatch the case away from the Atlanta Police Department faster than a toddler taking back a favorite toy. If this was just a random, everyday tragedy, then she would probably leave the explanations to Will while she toodled back to city hall in her fancy car.
Amanda put the gear into drive and inched forward. The gap between the beeps got furiously short as she edged closer to the police car. “If Bentley’s got someone mad enough to kill his granddaughter, this case goes to a whole new level.”
She sounded almost hopeful at the prospect. Will understood her excitement—breaking this kind of case would be yet another feather in Amanda’s cap—but Will hoped he never got to the point where he saw the death of a teenage girl as a career stepping-stone. Though he wasn’t sure what he should think of the dead man, either. He was a murderer, but he was also a victim. Considering Georgia’s pro–death penalty stance, did it really matter that he had been strangled here in Ansley Park rather than strapped to a gurney and given a lethal injection at Coastal State Prison?
Will opened the door before Amanda put the car into park. The hot air hit him like a punch to the gut, his lungs temporarily straining in his chest. Then the humidity took over, and he wondered if this was what it felt like to have tuberculosis. Still, he put on his suit jacket, covering the paddle holster clipped to the back of his belt. Not for the first time, Will questioned the sanity of wearing a three-piece suit in the middle of August.
Amanda seemed untouched by the heat as she joined Will. A group of uniformed policemen stood clustered at the bottom of the driveway, watching them walk across the street. Recognition dawned in their eyes, and Amanda warned Will, “I don’t have to tell you that you’re not exactly welcome by the Atlanta Police Department right now.”
“No,” Will agreed. One of the cops in the circle made a point of spitting on the ground as they passed by. Another one settled on a more subtle raised middle finger. Will plastered a smile on his face and gave the officers a big thumbs-up to let them all know there were no hard feelings.
From her first day in office, Atlanta’s mayor had pledged to weed out the corruption that ran unchecked during her predecessor’s reign. Over the last few years, she had been working closely with the GBI to open cases against the most blatant offenders. Amanda had graciously volunteered Will to go into the lions’ den. Six months ago, he had closed an investigation that had resulted in the firing of six Atlanta police detectives and forced the early retirement of one of the city’s highest-ranking officers. The cases were good—the cops were skimming cash off of narcotics busts—but nobody liked a stranger cleaning their house, and Will had not exactly made friends during the course of his investigation.
Amanda had gotten a promotion out of it. Will had been turned into a pariah.
He ignored the hissed “asshole” aimed at his back, trying to focus on the crime at hand as they walked up the curving driveway. The yard was brimming with all kinds of exotic-looking flowers that Will was hard-pressed to name. The house itself was enormous, stately columns holding up a second floor balcony, a winding set of granite stairs leading to the front doors. Except for the smattering of surly cops marring the scene, it was an impressive estate.
“Trent,” someone called, and he saw Detective Leo Donnelly making his way down the front steps. Leo was a short man, at least a full foot less than Will’s six-three. His gait had taken on an almost Columbo-like shuffle since they’d last worked together. The effect was that of an agitated monkey. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Will indicated the cameras, offering Leo the most believable explanation. Everybody knew the GBI would throw a baby into the Chattahoochee if it meant getting on the nightly news. He told the detective, “This is my boss, Dr. Wagner.”
“Hey,” Leo said, tossing her a nod before turning back to Will. “How’s Angie doing?”
“We’re engaged.” Will felt Amanda’s scrutiny focus on him with a cold intensity. He tried to deflect, indicating the open doorway with a nod of his head. “What’ve we got here?”
“A shitload of hate for you, my friend.” Leo took out a cigarette and lit it. “You better watch your back.”
Amanda asked, “Is the mother still inside?”
“First door on the left,” Leo answered. “My partner’s in there with her.”
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me.” Amanda dismissed Leo the way she might a servant. The look she gave Will wasn’t that much more pleasant.
Leo exhaled a line of smoke as he watched her go up the stairs. “Puts a chill on things, don’t she? Like fucking dry ice.”
Will defended her automatically, in that sort of way that you defend a useless uncle or slutty sister when someone outside of the family attacks them. “Amanda is one of the best cops I’ve ever worked with.” --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
From Publishers Weekly
Murder, kidnapping, mistaken identity and deeply buried secrets make Slaughter's latest audiobook an emotional roller-coaster ride of mystery and suspense. Affluent Atlanta housewife Abigail Campano, arrives home to find a man standing over the corpse of a teenage girl she thinks is her daughter. She kills him in a blind rage, but learns later that he and the dead girl were friends of her daughter, who has been kidnapped. Georgia Bureau of Investigation agent Will Trent and APD detective Faith Mitchell are assigned to find Emma. Phil Gigante powerfully drives this suspenseful story forward with a sincere and nuanced reading. Moving easily between characters, he conveys each of their complex relationships and emotions, whether its the underlying tension from Trent and Mitchells forced partnership or Abigail's suffering over the loss of her child and the guilt over having killed an innocent man. A Delacorte hardcover (Reviews, May 12). (Aug.)
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From Booklist
Best-selling novelist Slaughter is most well known for her Grant County series, but here she follows up on the characters introduced in Triptych (2006). Will Trent, of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, needs a GPS system to find his way to the crime scene in Ansley Park, one of Atlanta’s oldest and wealthiest suburbs. Once on the scene, however, he is the only one to intuit the true specifics of the case, much to the irritation of the Atlanta PD. Suburban mom Emily Campano, returning home early, finds the severely beaten body of her teenage daughter, Emma, and instinctively attacks the seeming perpetrator, strangling him. Will soon discovers, however, that the dead teen is not Emma but her best friend. He is charged with heading up the investigation into Emma’s kidnapping and saddled with a partner from the Atlanta PD, an officer who has her own reasons for hating him. Possible motives and suspects abound as they home in on the girl’s posh private high school, a veritable cauldron that mixes cruel social climbing with sexual manipulation, among both the faculty and their pupils. As Will makes headway on the case, he must also struggle to compensate for his severe dyslexia, smooth the tensions with his new partner, and hide the emotional scars of a childhood spent in an orphanage. Slaughter brings breakneck pacing and emotional intensity to what could well be a series compelling enough to rival her Grant County novels. In addition, she ups the ante by starkly revealing the great emotional divide that separates those who have experienced severe trauma from those untouched by tragedy. --Joanne Wilkinson --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Inside Flap
A broken window. A bloody footprint. Just the beginning…
When Atlanta housewife Abigail Campano comes home unexpectedly one afternoon, she walks into a nightmare. A broken window, a bloody footprint on the stairs and, most devastating of all, the horrifying sight of her teenage daughter lying dead on the landing, a man standing over her with a bloody knife. The struggle which follows changes Abigail’s life forever.
When the local police make a misjudgement which not only threatens the investigation but places a young girl’s life in danger, the case is handed over to Special Agent Will Trent of the Criminal Apprehension Team – teamed with detective Faith Mitchell, a woman who resents him from their first meeting.
But in the relentless heat of a Georgia summer, Will and Faith realise that they must work together to find the brutal killer who has targeted one of Atlanta’s wealthiest, most privileged communities – before it’s too late…
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
From the Back Cover
Praise for Karin Slaughter
'Criminally spectacular' OK!
'Without doubt an accomplished, compelling and complex tale, with page-turning power aplenty' Daily Express
'Expertly shifting back and forth in both time and point of view, Slaughter builds the suspense to a perfect crescendo ... a timely and unsettling read' Publishers Weekly
'Brilliantly chilling' heat
'Confirms her at the summit of the school of writers specialising in forensic medicine and terror' The Times
'It's beautifully paced, appropriately grisly, and terrifyingly plausible. Who says there's anything peaceful and quiet about small-town America' Time Out
'A great read ... crime fiction at its finest' Michael Connelly
'A fast-paced and unsettling story ... A compelling and fluid read' Daily Telegraph
'The writing is lean and mean, and the climax will blow you away' Independent
'Slaughter's plotting is relentless, piling on surprises and twists ... A good read that should come with a psychological health warning' Guardian
'A compelling, exciting read' Sunday Express
--This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
Review
"Heart-pounding . . . Slaughter brings the same raw energy and brutal violence that distinguishes her Grant County Series (Beyond Reach, etc) to this new series with chilling results, while Trent an Mitchell, a pair of complex and deeply flawed heroes, will leave fans clamoring for the next installment."--"Publishers Weekly" (starred review)
"Startling twists . . . [The detectives'] quirky relationship--as much as the increasingly intriguing investigation--fuels this fun read."--"People"
"A superior crime novel . . . [Slaughter is] fiercely focused and one of the most talented young crime novelists."--"Washington Post
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""Fractured" dazzles because it works on the level of both plot and character [and] the combination is unbeatable."--Cleveland" Plain-Dealer
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"Unexpected twists and intriguing characters."--"Entertainment Weekly" --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition.
About the Author
Karin Slaughter is the New York Times bestselling author of eight novels, including Beyond Reach and A Faint Cold Fear, which was named an International Book of the Month selection; she contributed and edited Like a Charm. She is a native of Georgia, where she currently lives and is working on her next novel, to be published in 2010. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.