BONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Jonathan Kellerman's Guilt.
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
At a party for a controversial Los Angeles sex therapist, Alex Delaware encounters a face from his own past—Sharon Ransom, an exquisite, alluring lover who left him abruptly more than a decade earlier. Sharon now hints that she desperately needs help, but Alex evades her. The next day she is dead, an apparent suicide.
“A complex and haunting story of tangled personalities, deeply buried family secrets, and of violence lying thinly under the surface . . . hits the reader right between the eyes.”— Los Angeles Times Book Review
Driven by guilt and sadness, Alex plunges into the maze of Sharon’s life—a journey that will take him through the pleasure palaces of California’s ultrarich, into the alleyways of the mind, where childhood terrors still hold sway.
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|Title of eBook: Silent Partner||Series: Alex Delaware, , #4|
|Release Date: 05-20-2003|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Ballantine Books|
This eBook download is available in the following formats:
|Parent title||Silent Partner|
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I’ve always hated parties and, under normal circumstances, never would have attended the one on Saturday.
But my life was a mess. I relaxed my standards. And stepped into a nightmare.
Thursday morning I was the good doctor, focusing on my patients, determined not to let my own garbage get in the way of work.
I kept my eye on the boy.
He hadn’t yet gotten to the part where he tore the heads off the dolls. I watched him pick up the toy cars again and advance them toward each other in inevitable collision.
The ringing concussion of metal against metal blocked out the whine of the video camera before dying. He tossed the cars aside as if they burned his fingers. One of them flipped over and rocked on its roof like a trapped turtle. He poked at it, then looked up at me, seeking permission.
I nodded and he snatched up the cars. Turning them over in his hands, he examined the shiny undercarriages, spun the wheels, simulated the sounds of revving engines.
“Voom voom. Cah.”
A little over two, big and husky for his age, with the kind of fluid coordination that foretold athletic heroism. Blond hair, pug features, raisin-colored eyes that made me think of snowmen, an amber splash of freckles across nose and chubby cheeks.
A Norman Rockwell kid: the kind of son any red-blooded American father would be proud of.
His father’s blood was a rusty stain on the central divider somewhere along the Ventura Freeway.
In six sessions, it was as close as he’d come to speaking. I wondered about it, wondered about a certain dullness in the eyes.