By Alice LaPlante
* An Indie subsequent Pick
* A LibraryReads Selection
* An Amazon top booklet of the Month (Mysteries & Thrillers)
* an everyday sweet top ebook of March
* one in all More Magazine’s "Five Thrillers to not learn After Dark"
When Dr. John Taylor turns up useless in a inn room, the neighborhood police discover adequate incriminating facts to suspect foul play. Detective Samantha Adams, whose Palo Alto beat often covers petty crimes, is innocently thrown right into a high-profile case that's extra complex than any she has confronted ahead of. A well known reconstructive doctor and a revered relations guy, Dr. Taylor was once liked and prominent. yet underneath his excellent façade used to be a hidden life—in truth, a number of lives. Dr. Taylor was once married to 3 very varied girls in 3 separate towns. because the conditions surrounding his dying emerge, Detective Adams unearths herself monitoring down a assassin via a tangled net of marital deception and revenge. New York Times bestselling writer Alice LaPlante’s haunting and intricate novel of relations secrets and techniques dissects—with scalpel-like agility—the intricacies of wish and dedication, belief and jealousy.
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Additional info for A Circle of Wives
How should I know? Maybe he only needed four left legs. Maybe . . I don’t know, I swear to God. ” I smiled and shook my head. To me it was so clear. “The thrill is gone, Deb. Something just isn’t right. It isn’t working. ” “Somebody should, don’t you think? ” She frowned. “So he’s done. ” I laughed. “Oh my God, no, Deb. Just the opposite. ” She stared hard. “Jesus. That’s what you think? ” “It’s just a hunch,” I said modestly. ” But I was sure I was not wrong. “We should be setting up a way to catch him when he does,” she said.
Aha, said Detective LaGuerta, lady genius. Somebody had interrupted the killer, surprised him, startled him so he did not ﬁnish the cut. He panicked when he was seen. And she directed all her effort at ﬁnding that witness. There was one small problem with LaGuerta’s theory of interruption. A tiny little thing, perhaps splitting hairs, but—the entire body had still been meticulously cleaned and wrapped, presumably after it had been cut up. And then it had been transported carefully to the Dumpster, apparently with enough time and focus for the killer to make no mistakes and leave no traces.
I folded the bag and placed it in the trash can beside my desk. There was work to do this morning, real ofﬁcial police lab work. I had a long report to type up, accompanying pictures to sort, evidence to ﬁle. It was routine stuff, a double homicide that would probably never go to trial, but I like to make sure that whatever I touch is well organized. Besides, this one had been interesting. The blood spatter had been very difﬁcult to read; between the arterial spurting, the multiple victims—obviously moving around—and the cast-off pattern from what had to be a chain saw, it had been almost impossible to ﬁnd an impact site.