By Michael Hiebert
In Michael Hiebert’s haunting and strong novel, a long-ago tragedy echoes via small-town Alabama as one lady attempts to trace down a serial killer.
Detective Leah Teal is aware about lots of the secrets and techniques in her place of origin of Alvin, yet there are constantly surprises on hand. just like the day she concurs to take her daughter, Caroline, to determine a psychic for a examining. The psychic hones in on Leah as an alternative, hinting at a string of grotesque killings and insisting that she interfere to avoid extra deaths.
When you go searching for difficulty, you by no means understand how a lot you’ll locate. certain sufficient, the psychic’s scant clues lead Leah to a chilly case from six years in the past, whilst a tender girl used to be chanced on shot to loss of life, her eyelids sewn close. As Leah digs deeper into outdated records, a moment unsolved case surfaces with an identical grisly trend. whereas her smart younger son, Abe, observes from the sidelines, Leah races to avoid one other awful homicide, ignorant of simply how deep the roots of evil can go.
Taut, suspenseful, and wealthy in Southern surroundings, A Thorn one of the Lilies is a enchanting novel of loss and vengeance, and the lengths a few will visit out of loyalty and love.
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Additional info for A Thorn Among the Lilies (Alvin, Alabama, Book 3)
You and Werner coul dn’t both have dreamed it. ” Eve’s grin grew. ” I huffed. “First I said I didn’t want to talk about it. Then when I tried, Nick didn’t want to hear it. So first we avoided the subject and then we avoided each other. ” Eve waved a hand. ” “No, seriously, the FBI takes advantage of their special agents that way. ” “Still, on or off, you and Nick have always stayed friends. ” I sighed inwardly. ” Before my eyes, she turned into a member of gossip central. ” Once, after a lonely six-pack of Dos Equis.
So, perhaps—hopefully—if it pleased whatever deity controlled these things—possibly Buddha, and Yoda, too—my psychometric phase had passed. An unexpected whiff of chocolate hit me, a sign my mother’s spirit hovered, along with a clear vision of her laughing, and I sighed. Not a phase, then. In self-defense, I turned my attention from that tempting trunk to the problem at hand. Well, problems, plural: my intern for one, my psychic gift for another, and the ethical need to tell Nick, my FBI boy toy, about a kiss I shared with Werner, though, sewing circle oath, Werner and I were in a sleepinduced, half-unconscious state at the time.
My Out to Lunch sign and the click of the shop lock became an imperative to release my breath. I needed, at the very least, a thimbleful of control and a bit of downtime to sort some sticky issues, Nick being only one of several. I’d barely sat when the shop phone rang. ” “Give me Isobel,” demanded a chipmunk with attitude before he/she/it demonstrated, not quite beneath its breath, an impressive and varied case of potty mouth. The obscenities ended with the same demand they’d started with: “Give me Isobel,” delivered like Darth Vader on helium, or a squirrel on steroids; take your pick.