- EUR 4,20Kostenloser Versand
- Artikelzustand: Akzeptabel
- Verkauft von buchmarie
- Click & Collect
Alle Angebote für dieses Produkt
Über dieses Produkt
- KurzbeschreibungFROM THE No. 1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF GONE GIRL<br>Fresh from a brief stay at a psych hospital, reporter Camille Preaker faces a troubling assignment: she must return to her tiny hometown to cover the murders of two preteen girls. For years, Camille has hardly spoken to her neurotic, hypochondriac mother or to the half-sister she barely knows: a beautiful thirteen-year-old with an eerie grip on the town. Now, installed in her old bedroom in her family's Victorian mansion, Camille finds herself identifying with the young victims-a bit too strongly. Dogged by her own demons, she must unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past if she wants to get the story-and survive this homecoming.
- AutorGillian Flynn
- VerlagRandom House LCC US
- Seiten416 Seiten
- Gewicht197 g
- LeseprobeChapter One<br>My sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but the temperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, I grabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Spring in Chicago.<br>In my gunny-covered cubicle I sat staring at the computer screen. My story for the day was a limp sort of evil. Four kids, ages two through six, were found locked in a room on the South Side with a couple of tuna sandwiches and a quart of milk. They'd been left three days, flurrying like chickens over the food and feces on the carpet. Their mother had wandered off for a suck on the pipe and just forgotten. Sometimes that's what happens. No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping. I'd seen the mother after the arrest: twenty-two-year-old Tammy Davis, blonde and fat, with pink rouge on her cheeks in two perfect circles the size of shot glasses. I could imagine her sitting on a shambled-down sofa, her lips on that metal, a sharp burst of smoke. Then all was fast floating, her kids way behind, as she shot back to junior high, when the boys still cared and she was the prettiest, a glossy-lipped thirteen-year-old who mouthed cinnamon sticks before she kissed.<br>A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.<br>"Where are you on the story, kiddo?" There was a silver tack on my desk, point up. He pushed it lightly under a yellow thumbnail.<br>"Near done." I had two inches of copy. I needed six.<br>"Good. Fuck her, file it, and come to my office."<br>"I can come now."<br>"Fuck her, file it, then come to my office."<br>"Fine. Ten minutes." I wanted my thumbtack back.<br>He started out of my cubicle. His tie swayed down near his crotch.<br>"Preaker?"<br>"Yes, Curry?"<br>"Fuck her."<br>Frank Curry thinks I'm a soft touch. Might be because I'm a woman. Might be because I'm a soft touch.<br>Curry's office is on the third floor. I'm sure he gets panicky-pissed every time he looks out the window and sees the trunk of a tree. Good editors don't see bark; they see leaves--if they can even make out trees from up on the twentieth, thirtieth floor. But for the Daily Post, fourth-largest paper in Chicago, relegated to the suburbs, there's room to sprawl. Three floors will do, spreading relentlessly outward, like a spill, unnoticed among the carpet retailers and lamp shops. A corporate developer produced our township over three well-organized years--1961-64--then named it after his daughter, who'd suffered a serious equestrian accident a month before the job was finished
Hier sparen: Krimis & Thriller
Dieser Artikel gehört nicht auf diese Seite.
Vielen Dank. Wir kümmern uns darum.