Meistverkauft in Krimis & Thriller
Hier sparen: Krimis & Thriller
- EUR 9,99Preistendenz: EUR 10,90
- EUR 9,50Preistendenz: EUR 10,16
- EUR 9,99Preistendenz: EUR 11,61
- EUR 3,49Preistendenz: EUR 5,91
- EUR 12,99Preistendenz: EUR 17,60
- EUR 11,00Preistendenz: EUR 11,17
- EUR 9,69Preistendenz: EUR 15,43
Über dieses Produkt
- KurzbeschreibungFlora Dane is a victim. <br>Seven years ago, carefree college student Flora was kidnapped while on spring break. For 472 days, Flora learned just how much one person can endure.<br>Flora Dane is a survivor.<br>Miraculously alive after her ordeal, Flora has spent the past five years reacquainting herself with the rhythms of normal life, working with her FBI victim advocate, Samuel Keynes. She has a mother who's never stopped loving her, a brother who is scared of the person she's become, and a bedroom wall covered with photos of other girls who've never made it home.<br>Flora Dane is reckless. <br>. . . or is she? When Boston detective D. D. Warren is called to the scene of a crime-a dead man and the bound, naked woman who killed him-she learns that Flora has tangled with three other suspects since her return to society. Is Flora a victim or a vigilante? And with her firsthand knowledge of criminal behavior, could she hold the key to rescuing a missing college student whose abduction has rocked Boston? When Flora herself disappears, D.D. realizes a far more sinister predator is out there. One who's determined that this time, Flora Dane will never escape. And now it is all up to D. D. Warren to find her.
- AutorLisa Gardner
- FormatGebundene Ausgabe
- Seiten416 Seiten
- Gewicht620 g
- LeseprobeChapter 1<br> These are the things I didn't know:<br> When you first wake up in a dark wooden box, you'll tell yourself this isn't happening. You'll push against the lid, of course. No surprise there. You'll beat at the sides with your fists, pummel your heels against the bottom. You'll bang your head, again and again, even though it hurts. And you'll scream. You'll scream and scream and scream. Snot will run from your nose. Tears will stream from your eyes. Until your screams grow rough, hiccuppy. Then, you'll hear sounds that are strange and sad and pathetic, and you'll understand the box, truly get, hey, I'm trapped in a dark wooden box, when you realize those sounds come from you.<br> Pine boxes aren't composed entirely of smooth surfaces. Air holes, for example, can be crudely drilled. When you run your finger around them, when you poke your fingertip into them, desperately seeking . . . something . . . you'll get splinters. You'll chew out the wooden shards best you can. Then you'll suck on your injured digit, lick the blood beading the tip, and make more hurt puppy dog sounds.<br>You're alone in the box. It's frightening. Overwhelming. Awful. Mostly because you don't yet understand how much you have to fear.<br>You'll get to know the box well, this home away from home. You'll wiggle against it with your shoulders to determine the width. You'll trace the length with your hands, attempt to bring up your feet. Not enough room to bend your knees. Not enough room to roll over. It's exactly your size. As if it's been made just for you. Your very own pine coffin, straining your lower back, bruising your shoulder blades, paining the back of your head.<br>One convenience: newspapers lining the bottom. You don't notice this detail in the beginning. Don't understand it once you do. Until the first time you wet yourself. Then spend days lying in your own filth. Like an animal, you'll think. Except most animals are treated better than this.<br> Your mouth will grow parched, your lips chapped. You'll start jamming your fingers into those air holes, ripping apart your own skin, just so you have something to taste, swallow, suck. You'll know yourself in a way you've never known yourself before. Broken down. Elemental. The stink of your own urine. The salt of your own blood.<br>But you still don't know anything yet.<br> When you finally hear footsteps, you won't believe it. You're delirious, you'll tell yourself. You're dreaming. You're a lost, pathetic waste of human skin. A stupid, stupid girl who should've known better and now just look at you. And yet, the sound of a metal lock jangling on the other side of the box wall, inches from your ear . . .<br> Maybe you cry again
Dieser Artikel gehört nicht auf diese Seite.
Vielen Dank. Wir kümmern uns darum.