The Book Doctor by Britney King
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.8 MB
Britney King lives in Austin, Texas with her husband, children, two dogs, one ridiculous cat, and a partridge in a pear tree. When she’s not wrangling the things mentioned above, she writes psychological, domestic and romantic thrillers set in suburbia.
George is bitter. As he should be. Once a household name, George is dying to make a comeback, and death may be the only option left to get the public’s attention. Ask anyone, his life is unraveling at the seams. Meanwhile, his new apprentice is everything he is not.
The enigmatic man his publisher sends to help is young and ambitious, with looks that could kill, and possibly do.
When George discovers that his apprentice’s talent extends beyond fixing broken plots, that his winning formula may, in fact, be a result of making the crimes in his novels come to life, George has to ask himself how much he is willing to overlook to achieve mainstream success.
Perfectly paced, The Book Doctor is an electrifying psychological thriller about a life’s work, obsession, and the dangerous places ambition can take you. Full of enough tension and twists to make even the most seasoned suspense reader break out in a cold sweat, it keeps you guessing until the very last page.
Movement flashes in my peripheral vision. Glancing sideways, I see a uniformed officer taking long strides in my direction. In his left hand dangles crime scene tape.
When he reaches me, he offers a curt nod. “Can I help you?”
I realize he expects an answer, but all I can do is stare over his shoulder at the girl’s face. “Sir,” he says, clearing his throat. “You’re going to have to move along.”
“I’m—” I start to speak but can’t get the words out. I swear her mouth twitches upward. I once read about “body farms” where they study decomposition, so I know it’s possible. Bodies keep moving for up to a year after death. I’ve seen time-lapse footage. It’s really quite something. Swallowing hard, I nod toward the opposite end of the lot. “I’m trying to get to the pharmacy.”
He raises his hand to his brow as though to shield his eyes from the sun. He looks animatedly in the direction of the pharmacy and then back at me, stating the obvious with his body language. “Afraid that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.”
Widening his stance, he partially blocks my view of the woman. When I strain and stretch upward, he follows my gaze until we’re both looking at the body sprawled out on the pavement. A man stands over her, and a woman leans over his shoulder. He’s taking photographs and the female detective appears to be directing the shoot.
“Wait a second…” the officer says. “I know you. You’re—” He takes a step back, reaching his free hand toward his jawline and then leans forward. “You’re George Dawson. Author of—”
“Yes,” I say cutting him off. The average crime scene where murder is involved takes four to ten hours to clear. I don’t have time for this.
He scratches his chin. “Author of those Croft books.”
“No. That’s Jake Patterson.”
“Ah. Well, I saw the movie and—”
“Murdered?” I ask. Nodding toward the body, his eyes follow mine. Eventually, he looks back at me with mild amusement.
“It’s an active investigation,” he tells me. “Can’t say.”
“Right.” I turn on my heel and start to go, but my feet might as well be cemented to the asphalt. I contemplate making a run for it. At my age, I don’t think I could outrun him, but maybe if I cut out in a zig-zag pattern, maybe I can outmaneuver him.
What I don’t need is to get arrested. Or any other complications. As it is, if I don’t cut out of the meeting early, there won’t be enough time. Joni made it clear she can’t stay. If she doesn’t leave by 2:30 on the dot, she’ll be late to pick up her daughter. She warned me. It can’t happen again.
The other thing that can’t happen again is Eve going another night without her medication. It’s entirely possible one of us might not survive. “Say,” the officer smiles. He shoves a notebook at my chest. “Before you go…can I get your autograph?”
He removes a pen from his pocket. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” he says, handing over the pen. “Probably just one less junkie on the street.”
I scribble out Jake Patterson and head in the opposite direction.