By John Philpin
Sarah Sinclair used to be the fitting victim--she desired to die.
When a darkly enigmatic guy ways her within the small antiquarian e-book shop the place she works, Sarah is drawn right into a sluggish dance towards demise. A loss of life she could not cease no matter if she desired to. She is stalked, but blindly charmed. And whilst he kills her, seductively, silently, she smiles.
Sarah's ex-husband, police officer Robert Sinclair, is the 1st to discover her physique and he calls it in to the only officer who will comprehend: his ex-mistress Detective Lane Frank. As Lane struggles to stick with the more and more elusive path of clues, one other macabre path emerges--of our bodies, coldly, tauntingly abandoned.
As the FBI turns into concerned, Lane needs to struggle to maintain her carry at the case and her grip on Robert Sinclair, whose grief sinks him extra into an alcoholic haze of depression and desperation. As a calculating final lodge, Lane calls at the one guy who may also help her cease the killing, a forensic psychiatrist who had stepped too on the subject of the sting, crawled too deeply into the brain of evil. She calls a profiler who has dropped out of society, residing easily in a cabin within the woods far-off from the insanity that known as to him, threatened him. Lane calls her father.
As they interact, Lane and her father slowly craft a picture of a killer so outstanding he has murdered might be 1000s and not been stuck, so chilly that he can't relinquish his energy. With a tortuous path of names and faces, the killer has insulated himself from those that might repress him and his have to kill, a necessity rooted in a annoying, frightening adolescence.
And as Lane and her father develop towards discovering the killer, the sport turns into own among males on opposing facets of evil, males at the fringe of an abyss of insanity, from which there's just one escape--death.
From the Paperback edition.
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Extra info for The Prettiest Feathers
When I dropped her off, I told her that I would see her again. She thanked me, nodded, and smiled—but looked preoccupied. I half expected her to limp up the front steps. Sarah Everything fell into place. My car was in the shop for an oil change. I’d taken the train to work, so when John Wolf said he’d pick me up, it was perfect. I ran upstairs to the massage parlor and borrowed a blazer from Sheila, the woman who worked up there. She was reluctant to part with it—she’d just gotten it back from the cleaners—but when I explained about my date, she understood right away.
No. ” “I understand he had a lot of women,” she said. “Including Anaïs Nin. ” It was humor. Dry and flat and cerebral and funny. She moved into view in front of me, but was shrouded in the dust and the dim yellow light that filtered through the shade on the plate glass window. She was slender, of medium height, fit in an athletic sort of way—and wore a black skirt that touched her knees, a white blouse with all the buttons buttoned, and a pageboy hairdo. Late twenties, I guessed. What I could see of her face looked plain, almost austere.
Sarah asked as she got into my car. “Uptown,” I said. ” Fast Eddie’s may not be well known, but Eddie takes pride in his coffee and dessert menu. The name is derived from Eddie’s having seen The Hustler too many times. After settling down at the table Eddie had saved for us in a quiet corner, I recommended that Sarah try my favorite blend—half Colombian supreme, half French roast—with a piece of Eddie’s cheesecake. “But I haven’t had dinner,” she said. ” I asked. ” She laughed. I looked at her hairline, forehead, eyebrows, the bridge of her nose, her eyes, her mouth—so that her face would become a picture in my mind, one I could conjure up at any time.
The Prettiest Feathers by John Philpin