EBOOK
About
A murder-suicide leaves a young boy in a coma. Just another story on the six o'clock news. Just another casualty of an unhappy marriage. The cops have seen it all before. Just not in this neighbourhood ...
Dr. Leah Mallick had a life others could only covet. Beautiful, effortlessly intelligent, irresistibly charming, she stood at the centre of the nation's influence and power. So when Mallick and her husband are found dead with their cold fingers entwined and their hopelessly damaged son clinging to life, they leave behind a string of baffling questions — including who was victim and who was murderer.
Lieutenant Anne Shannon, harbouring her own secret knowledge of heartbreak, begins the investigation by asking what would drive a loving person to murder a spouse and a child. In the midst of the media storm surrounding the case, Shannon forms a reluctant partnership with Susan Shaw, a well-connected bureaucrat who knows more about Leah Mallick than she can afford to admit. As they piece together the shards of the Mallicks' broken life, the two women come to understand that their everyday world is ruled by the shadowy forces of big business, the medical industry, politics, and tabloid journalism. And they find themselves both pawns and players in a surprising endgame with life-or-death consequences.
Prologue
She was the sort of cat that people think of when they say they don't really like them. Named Emma by her owners and Shit Machine by the neighbours, she dominated the whole of her suburban Arcadia throughout the long night. One unrecognizable creature left in pieces under the spirea in the corner and, beneath the butterfly bush - the Buddleia davidii - a yellow songbird who'd never sing that particular song again. But the rain was almost here. And soon the can-opener in the kitchen would be whirring out its seeming unending supply of salmon bits and grain filler.
Emma slipped into the still-quiet house, enjoying as she did the familiar, even strokes from the plastic flaps in the all-weather door installed solely for her convenience. There was only an absence in the kitchen. No slippered feet showing yet. No flannel-covered legs to push against in an act of proprietary aggression that they chose to interpret as affection, while they mumbled on, unintelligibly. No whirring.
From a static standing position Emma leapt on to the sleekly smooth granite countertop beside the sink. Normally a forbidden area, she was prepared to vacate it if necessary, a split second ahead of any hand raised in her direction. Her peripheral vision described an arc of more than 210 degrees. But she sensed no threat in this place any more.
Dr. Leah Mallick had a life others could only covet. Beautiful, effortlessly intelligent, irresistibly charming, she stood at the centre of the nation's influence and power. So when Mallick and her husband are found dead with their cold fingers entwined and their hopelessly damaged son clinging to life, they leave behind a string of baffling questions — including who was victim and who was murderer.
Lieutenant Anne Shannon, harbouring her own secret knowledge of heartbreak, begins the investigation by asking what would drive a loving person to murder a spouse and a child. In the midst of the media storm surrounding the case, Shannon forms a reluctant partnership with Susan Shaw, a well-connected bureaucrat who knows more about Leah Mallick than she can afford to admit. As they piece together the shards of the Mallicks' broken life, the two women come to understand that their everyday world is ruled by the shadowy forces of big business, the medical industry, politics, and tabloid journalism. And they find themselves both pawns and players in a surprising endgame with life-or-death consequences.
Prologue
She was the sort of cat that people think of when they say they don't really like them. Named Emma by her owners and Shit Machine by the neighbours, she dominated the whole of her suburban Arcadia throughout the long night. One unrecognizable creature left in pieces under the spirea in the corner and, beneath the butterfly bush - the Buddleia davidii - a yellow songbird who'd never sing that particular song again. But the rain was almost here. And soon the can-opener in the kitchen would be whirring out its seeming unending supply of salmon bits and grain filler.
Emma slipped into the still-quiet house, enjoying as she did the familiar, even strokes from the plastic flaps in the all-weather door installed solely for her convenience. There was only an absence in the kitchen. No slippered feet showing yet. No flannel-covered legs to push against in an act of proprietary aggression that they chose to interpret as affection, while they mumbled on, unintelligibly. No whirring.
From a static standing position Emma leapt on to the sleekly smooth granite countertop beside the sink. Normally a forbidden area, she was prepared to vacate it if necessary, a split second ahead of any hand raised in her direction. Her peripheral vision described an arc of more than 210 degrees. But she sensed no threat in this place any more.