The Third to Die : A Novel
Allison Brennan
On Sale Date: February 4, 2020
9780778309444, 0778309444
Hardcover
$26.99 USD, $33.50 CAD
Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
464 pages
About the Book:
New York Times bestselling
author and gifted storyteller Allison Brennan's new standalone
thriller features a troubled female police detective and an ambitious
FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a ticking-clock
investigation into a diabolical serial killer.
Brennan's novel will launch a
book-a-year series featuring a fabulous cast of recurring characters.
It’s the story of a troubled female police detective and an
ambitious FBI special agent who wind up at the center of a
ticking-clock investigation into a diabolical serial killer; and the
bond they forge in this crucible sets the stage for the future books
in the series.
Detective Kara Quinn is visiting her
hometown of Liberty Lake, Washington, after being placed on
administrative leave by the LAPD, when she comes upon the mutilated
body of a young nurse during an early morning jog. The manner of
death is clearly ritualistic; she calls it in. Meanwhile back in DC,
special agent in charge Mattias Costa is meticulously staffing his
newly-minted Mobile Response Team. One of his first recruits is the
brilliant FBI forensic psychologist Catherine Jones. When word
reaches Matt that the Washington state murder appears to be the work
of the Triple Killer--it will be the first case for the MRT. Jones
has done the only profile on this serial killer, but she is reluctant
to join the unit, still shaken by the death of her sister a year ago
under circumstances for which she holds herself responsible. But only
she holds the key to understanding the killer's obsessive
pattern--three murder victims, three deep slashes a piece, each three
days apart, each series beginning on a March 3rd--3/3, then a
three-year hiatus before he strikes again.
This time they have a chance to stop
him before he claims another victim strikes, but only if they can
figure out who he is and where is is hiding.
About the Author:
Allison Brennan is the New York
Times and USA Today bestselling and award-winning author
of three dozen thrillers and numerous short stories. She was
nominated for Best Paperback Original Thriller by International
Thriller Writers, has had multiple nominations and two Daphne du
Maurier Awards, and is a five-time RITA finalist for Best Romantic
Suspense. Allison believes life is too short to be bored, so she had
five kids. Allison and her family live in Arizona. Visit her at
allisonbrennan.com
Social Links:
Author website:
https://www.allisonbrennan.com/
Facebook: @AllisonBrennan
Twitter: @Allison_Brennan
Instagram: @abwrites
Buy Links:
IndieBound:
https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780778309444
Books-A-Million:
https://www.booksamillion.com/product/9780778309444
Google Play:
https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Allison_Brennan_The_Third_to_Die?id=0sWZDwAAQBAJ
REVIEW:
An unusual serial killer with a complicated pattern and an unknowable goal, a workaholic FBI SAC of a brand-new not yet fully constituted mobile unit, an undercover feisty LAPD officer, and a quiet Pacific Northwest community: the combination makes for a tense nonstop week as law enforcement mobilizes to stop the next killing, none realizing how close is the killer to completing his silent vendetta, never guessing his identity.
An unusual serial killer with a complicated pattern and an unknowable goal, a workaholic FBI SAC of a brand-new not yet fully constituted mobile unit, an undercover feisty LAPD officer, and a quiet Pacific Northwest community: the combination makes for a tense nonstop week as law enforcement mobilizes to stop the next killing, none realizing how close is the killer to completing his silent vendetta, never guessing his identity.
EXCERPT:
Wednesday, March 3
Liberty Lake, Washington
12:09 a.m.
Warm blood covered him.
His arms, up to his elbows, were slick with
it. His clothing splattered with it. The knife—the blade that had
taken his retribution—hung in his gloved hand by his side.
It was good. Very good.
He was almost done.
The killer stared at the blackness in front of
him, his mind as silent and dark as the night. The water lapped
gently at the banks of the lake. A faint swish swish swish as it
rolled up and back, up and back, in the lightest of breezes.
He breathed in cold air; he exhaled steam.
Calm. Focused.
As the sounds and chill penetrated his
subconscious, he moved into action. Staying here with the body would
be foolish, even in the middle of the night.
He placed the knife carefully on a waist-high
boulder, then removed his clothes. Jacket. Sweater. Undershirt. He
stuffed them into a plastic bag. Took off his shoes. Socks. Pants.
Boxers. Added them to the bag. He stood naked except for his gloves.
He tied the top of the plastic, then picked up
the knife again and stabbed the bag multiple times. With strength
that belied his lean frame, he threw the knife into the water. He
couldn’t see where it fell; he barely heard the plunk.
Then he placed the bag in the lake and pushed
it under, holding it beneath the surface to let the frigid water seep
in. When the bag was saturated, he pulled it out and spun himself
around as if he were throwing a shot put. He let go and the bag flew,
hitting the water with a loud splash.
Even if the police found it—which he doubted
they would— the water would destroy any evidence. He’d bought the
clothes and shoes, even his underwear, at a discount store in another
city, at another time. He’d never worn them before tonight.
Though he didn’t want DNA evidence in the
system, it didn’t scare him if the police found something. He
didn’t have a record. He’d killed before, many times, and not one
person had spoken to him. He was smart—smarter than the cops, and
certainly smarter than the victims he’d carefully selected.
Still, he must be cautious. Meticulous. Being
smart meant that he couldn’t assume anything. What did his old man
use to say?
Assume makes an ass out of you and me…
The killer scowled. He wasn’t doing any of
this for his old man, though his father would get the retribution he
deserved. He was doing this for himself. His own
retribution. He was this close to finishing the elaborate plan
he’d conceived years ago.
He could scarcely wait until six days from now,
March 9, when his revenge would be complete.
He was saving the guiltiest of them for last.
Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased.
Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many
wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man
said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told
him these people were fools?
Still, he hoped his old man would be pleased.
Hadn’t he done what his father was too weak to do? Righted the many
wrongs that had been done to them. How many times had the old man
said these people should suffer? How many times had his father told
him these people were fools?
Yet his father just let it happen and did
nothing about it! Nothing! Because he was weak. He was weak
and pathetic and cruel.
Breathe. Focus. All in good time.
All in good time.
The killer took another, smaller plastic bag
from his backpack. He removed his wet gloves, put them inside, added
a good-sized rock, tied the bag, then threw it into the lake.
Still naked, he shivered in the cold, still
air. He wasn’t done.
Do it quick.
He walked into the lake, the water colder than
ice. Still, he took several steps forward, his feet sinking into the
rough muck at the bottom. When his knees were submersed, he did a
shallow dive. His chest scraped a rock, but he was too numb to feel
pain. He broke through the surface with a loud scream. He couldn’t
breathe; he couldn’t think. His heart pounded in his chest, aching
from the icy water.
But he was alive. He was fucking alive!
He went under once more, rubbed his hands
briskly over his arms and face in case any blood remained. He would
take a hot shower when he returned home, use soap and a towel to
remove anything the lake left behind. But for now, this would do.
Twenty seconds in the water was almost too
long. He bolted out, coughed, his body shaking so hard he could
scarcely think. But he had planned everything well and operated on
autopilot.
He pulled a towel from his backpack and dried
off as best he could. Stepped into new sweatpants, sweatshirt, and
shoes. Pulled on a new pair of gloves. There might be blood on the
ATV, but it wasn’t his blood, so he wasn’t concerned.
He took a moment to stare back at the dark,
still lake. Then he took one final look at the body splayed faceup.
He felt nothing, because she was nothing. Unimportant. Simply a small
pawn in a much bigger game. A pawn easily sacrificed.
He hoped his old man would be proud of his
work, but he would probably just criticize his son’s process. He’d
complain about how he did the job, then open another bottle of booze.
He hoped his father was burning in hell.
He jumped on the ATV and rode into the night.
Excerpted
from The
Third to Die by
Allison Brennan, Copyright ©
2020 by Allison Brennan. Published by MIRA Books.
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