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• Gone Girl Gillian Flynn

Chapter OneMy 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.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.A belly. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies.

His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.“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.“Near done.” I had three inches of copy. I needed ten.“Good.

Fuck her, file it, and come to my office.”“I can come now.”“Fuck her, file it, then come to my office.”“Fine. Ten minutes.” I wanted my thumbtack back.He started out of my cubicle. His tie swayed down near his crotch.“Preaker?”“Yes, Curry?”“Fuck her.”Frank Curry thinks I’m a soft touch. Might be because I’m a woman. Might be because I’m a soft touch.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. Aurora Springs, he ordered, pausing for a photo by a brand-new city sign.

Then he took his family and left. The daughter, now in her fifties and fine except for an occasional tingling in her arms, lives in Florida and returns every few years to take a photo by her namesake sign, just like Pop.I wrote the story on her last visit. Curry hated it, hates most slice-of-life pieces.

He got smashed off old Chambord while he read it, left his office smelling like raspberries. Curry gets drunk fairly quietly, but often.

It’s not the reason, though, that he has such a cozy view of the ground. That’s just yawing bad luck.I walked in and shut the door to his office, which isn’t how I’d ever imagined my editor’s office would look. I craved big oak panels, a window pane in the door—marked Chief—so the cub reporters could watch us rage over First Amendment rights. Curry’s office is bland and institutional, like the rest of the building. You could debate journalism or get a Pap smear.

No one cared.“Tell me about Wind Gap.” Curry held the tip of a ballpoint pen at his grizzled chin. I could picture the tiny prick of blue it would leave among the stubble.“It’s at the very bottom of Missouri, in the boot heel. Spitting distance from Tennessee and Arkansas,” I said, hustling for my facts. Curry loved to drill reporters on any topics he deemed pertinent—the number of murders in Chicago last year, the demographics for Cook County, or, for some reason, the story of my hometown, a topic I preferred to avoid. “It’s been around since before the Civil War,” I continued. “It’s near the Mississippi, so it was a port city at one point. Now its biggest business is hog butchering.

About two thousand people live there. Old money and trash.”“Which are you?”“I’m trash. From old money.” I smiled. He frowned.“And what the hell is going on?”I sat silent, cataloguing various disasters that might have befallen Wind Gap. It’s one of those crummy towns prone to misery: A bus collision or a twister.

An explosion at the silo or a toddler down a well. I was also sulking a bit. I’d hoped—as I always do when Curry calls me into his office—that he was going to compliment me on a recent piece, promote me to a better beat, hell, slide over a slip of paper with a 1 percent raise scrawled on it—but I was unprepared to chat about current events in Wind Gap.“Your mom’s still there, right, Preaker?”“Mom. Stepdad.” A half sister born when I was in college, her existence so unreal to me I often forgot her name. And then Marian, always long-gone Marian.“Well dammit, you ever talk to them?” Not since Christmas: a chilly, polite call after administering three bourbons. I’d worried my mother could smell it through the phone lines.“Not lately.”“Jesus Christ, Preaker, read the wires sometime.

I guess there was a murder last August? Little girl strangled?”I nodded like I knew. My mother was the only person in Wind Gap with whom I had even a limited connection, and she’d said nothing. Curious.“Now another one’s missing. Sounds like it might be a serial to me.

Drive down there and get me the story. Be there tomorrow morning.”No way. “We got horror stories here, Curry.”“Yeah, and we also got three competing papers with twice the staff and cash.” He ran a hand through his hair, which fell into frazzled spikes. “I’m sick of getting slammed out of news. This is our chance to break something. Big.”Curry believes with just the right story, we’d become the overnight paper of choice in Chicago, gain national credibility. Last year another paper, not us, sent a writer to his hometown somewhere in Texas after a group of teens drowned in the spring floods.

He wrote an elegiac but well-reported piece on the nature of water and regret, covered everything from the boys’ basketball team, which lost its three best players, to the local funeral home, which was desperately unskilled in cleaning up drowned corpses. The story won a Pulitzer.I still didn’t want to go. So much so, apparently, that I’d wrapped my hands around the arms of my chair, as if Curry might try to pry me out.

He sat and stared at me a few beats with his watery hazel eyes. He cleared his throat, looked at his photo of his wife, and smiled like he was a doctor about to break bad news. Curry loved to bark—it fit his old-school image of an editor—but he was also one of the most decent people I knew.“Look, kiddo, if you can’t do this, you can’t do it. But I think it might be good for you. Flush some stuff out. Get you back on your feet. It’s a damn good story—we need it.

You need it.”Curry had always backed me. He thought I’d be his best reporter, said I had a surprising mind. In my two years on the job I’d consistently fallen short of expectations. Sometimes strikingly. Now I could feel him across the desk, urging me to give him a little faith.

I nodded in what I hoped was a confident fashion.“I’ll go pack.” My hands left sweatprints on the chair.I had no pets to worry about, no plants to leave with a neighbor. Into a duffel bag, I tucked away enough clothes to last me five days, my own reassurance I’d be out of Wind Gap be. Fore week’s end. As I took a final glance around my place, it revealed itself to me in a rush. The apartment looked like a college kid’s: cheap, transitory, and mostly uninspired. I promised myself I’d invest in a decent sofa when I returned as a reward for the stunning story I was sure to dig up.On the table by the door sat a photo of a preteen me holding Marian at about age seven. We’re both laughing.

She has her eyes wide open in surprise, I have mine scrunched shut. I’m squeezing her into me, her short skinny legs dangling over my knees. I can’t remember the occasion or what we were laughing about. Over the years it’s become a pleasant mystery. I think I like not knowing.I take baths.

I can’t handle the spray, it gets my skin buzzing, like someone’s turned on a switch. So I wadded a flimsy motel towel over the grate in the shower floor, aimed the nozzle at the wall, and sat in the three inches of water that pooled in the stall. Someone else’s pubic hair floated by.I got out. No second towel, so I ran to my bed and blotted myself with the cheap spongy blanket. Then I drank warm bourbon and cursed the ice machine.Wind Gap is about eleven hours south of Chicago. Curry had graciously allowed me a budget for one night’s motel stay and breakfast in the morning, if I ate at a gas station. But once I got in town, I was staying at my mother’s.

That he decided for me. I already knew the reaction I’d get when I showed up at her door. A quick, shocked flustering, her hand to her hair, a mismatched hug that would leave me aimed slightly to one side. Talk of the messy house, which wouldn’t be. A query about length of stay packaged in niceties.“How long do we get to have you for, sweetness?” she’d say.

Which meant: “When do you leave?”It’s the politeness that I find most upsetting.I knew I should prepare my notes, jot down questions. Instead I drank more bourbon, then popped some aspirin, turned off the light.

Lulled by the wet purr of the air conditioner and the electric plinking of some video game next door, I fell asleep. I was only thirty miles outside my hometown, but I needed one last night away.In the morning I inhaled an old jelly doughnut and headed south, the temperature shooting up, the lush forest imposing on both sides.

This part of Missouri is ominously flat—miles of unmajestic trees broken only by the thin strip of highway I was on. The same scene repeating itself every two minutes.You can’t spot Wind Gap from a distance; its tallest building is only three stories. But after twenty minutes of driving, I knew it was coming: First a gas station popped up. A group of scraggly teenage boys sat out front, barechested and bored. Near an old pickup, a diapered toddler threw fistfuls of gravel in the air as his mother filled up the tank. Her hair was dyed gold, but her brown roots reached almost to her ears.

She yelled something to the boys I couldn’t make out as I passed. Soon after, the forest began to thin.

I passed a scribble of a strip mall with tanning beds, a gun shop, a drapery store. Then came a lonely cul-de-sac of old houses, meant to be part of a development that never happened. And finally, town proper.For no good reason, I held my breath as I passed the sign welcoming me to Wind Gap, the way kids do when they drive by cemeteries. It had been eight years since I’d been back, but the scenery was visceral. Head down that road, and I’d find the home of my grade-school piano teacher, a former nun whose breath smelled of eggs. That path led to a tiny park where I smoked my first cigarette on a sweaty summer day.

Take that boulevard, and I’d be on my way to Woodberry, and the hospital.I decided to head directly to the police station. It squatted at one end of Main Street, which is, true to its word, Wind Gap’s main street. On Main Street you will find a beauty parlor and a hardware store, a five-and-dime called Five-and-Dime, and a library twelve shelves deep. You’ll find a clothing store called Candy’s Casuals, in which you may buy jumpers, turtlenecks, and sweaters that have ducks and schoolhouses on them.

Most nice women in Wind Gap are teachers or mothers or work at places like Candy’s Casuals. In a few years you may find a Starbucks, which will bring the town what it yearns for: prepackaged, preapproved mainstream hipness. For now, though, there’s just a greasy spoon, which is run by a family whose name I can’t remember.Main Street was empty. No cars, no people. A dog loped down the sidewalk, with no owner calling after it.

All the lampposts were papered with yellow ribbons and grainy photocopies of a little girl. I parked and peeled off one of the notices, taped crookedly to a stop sign at a child’s height.

The sign was homemade, “Missing,” written at the top in bold letters that may have been filled in by Magic Marker. The photo showed a dark-eyed girl with a feral grin and too much hair for her head. The kind of girl who’d be described by teachers as a “handful.” I liked her.Natalie Jane KeeneAge: 10Missing since 5/11Last seen at Jacob J. Garrett Park, wearingblue-jean shorts, red striped T-shirtTips: 555-7377I hoped I’d walk into the police station and be informed that Natalie Jane was already found. No harm done. Seems she’d gotten lost or twisted an ankle in the woods or ran away and then thought better of it.

I would get in my car and drive back to Chicago and speak to no one.Turns out the streets were deserted because half the town was out searching the forest to the north. The station’s receptionist told me I could wait—Chief Bill Vickery would be returning for lunch soon. The waiting room had the false homey feel of a dentist’s office; I sat in an orange endchair and flipped through a Redbook. An air freshener plugged into a nearby outlet hissed out a plastic smell meant to remind me of country breezes. Thirty minutes later I’d gone through three magazines and was starting to feel ill from the scent.

When Vickery finally walked in, the receptionist nodded at me and whispered with eager disdain, “Media.”Vickery, a slim fellow in his early fifties, had already sweated through his uniform. His shirt clung to his chest, and his pants puckered out in back where an ass should have been.“Media?” He stared at me over looming bifocals. “What media?”“Chief Vickery, I’m Camille Preaker, with the Daily Post in Chicago.”“Chicago? Why are you here from Chicago?”“I’d like to speak with you about the little girls—Natalie Keene and the girl who was murdered last year.”“Jesus H. How’d you hear about this up there? Jesus Christ.”He looked at the receptionist, then back to me, as if we’d collaborated.

Then he motioned to me to follow. “Hold my calls, Ruth.”The receptionist rolled her eyes.Bill Vickery walked ahead of me down a wood-paneled hallway checked with cheap framed photos of trout and horses, then into his office, which had no window, which was in fact a tiny square lined with metal files.

He sat down, lit a cigarette. Didn’t offer me one.“I don’t want this to get out, Miss.

I have no intention of letting this get out.”“I’m afraid, Chief Vickery, that there’s not too much choice in the matter. Children are being targeted. The public should be aware.” It’s the line I’d been mouthing on the drive down. It directs fault to the gods.“What do you care? They’re not your kids, they’re Wind Gap kids.” He stood up, sat back down, rearranged some papers. “I bet I’m pretty safe to say Chicago never cared about Wind Gap kids before.” His voice cracked at the end. Vickery sucked on his cigarette, twisted a chunky gold pinky ring, blinked in quick succession.

I wondered suddenly if he was going to cry.“You’re right. Probably not. Look, this isn’t going to be some sort of exploitive story. It’s important. If it makes you feel any better, I’m from Wind Gap.” There you go, Curry. I’m trying.He looked back at me.

Stared at my face.“What’s your name?”“Camille Preaker.”“How do I not know you?”“Never got in trouble, sir.” I offered a slight smile.“Your family’s. Preaker?”“My mother married out of her maiden name about twenty-five years ago.

Adora and Alan Crellin.”“Oh. Them I know.” Them everybody knew. Money was none too common in Wind Gap, not real money. “But I still don’t want you here, Miss Preaker. You do this story and from now on, people will only know us forthis.”“Maybe some publicity would help,” I offered. “It’s helped in other cases.”Vickery sat quiet for a second, pondering his paper-bag lunch crumpled at the corner of his desk. Smelled like bologna.

He murmured something about JonBenet and shit.“No thanks, Miss Preaker. And no comment.

Gone Girl Gillian Flynn

I have no comment on any ongoing investigations. You can quote me.”“Look, I have the right to be here. Let’s make this easy. You give me some information. Then I’ll stay out of your way for a while. I don’t want to make your job any harder.

But I need to do mine.” It was another little exchange I’d thought up somewhere near St. Louis.I left the police station with a photocopied map of Wind Gap, on which Chief Vickery had drawn a tiny X to mark where the murdered girl’s body was discovered last year.Ann Nash, age nine, was found on August 27 in Falls Creek, a bumpy, noisy waterway that ran through the middle of the North Woods. Since nightfall on the twenty-sixth, when she went missing, a search party had combed the forest.

But it was hunters who came across her just after 5 a.m. She’d been strangled close to midnight with a basic clothesline, looped twice around her neck.

Then dumped in the creek, which was low from the long summer drought. The clothesline had snagged on a massive rock, and she’d spent the night drifting along in the lazy stream. The burial was closed coffin.

This was all Vickery would give me. It took an hour of questions to get that much.From the pay phone at the library I dialed the number on the Missing poster.

An elderly female voice identified it as the Natalie Keene Hotline, but in the background I could hear a dishwasher churning. The woman informed me that so far as she knew, the search was still going in the North Woods. Those who wanted to help should report to the main access road and bring their own water. Record temperatures were expected.At the search site, four blonde girls sat stiffly on a picnic towel spread in the sun.

They pointed toward one of the trails and told me to walk until I found the group.“What are you doing here?” asked the prettiest. Her flushed face had the roundness of a girl barely in her teens and her hair was parted in ribbons, but her breasts, which she aimed proudly outward, were those of a grown woman. A lucky grown woman. She smiled as if she knew me, impossible since she’d have been a preschooler the last time I was in Wind Gap. She looked familiar, though.

Maybe the daughter of one of my old schoolmates. The age would be right if someone got knocked up straight out of high school. Not unlikely.“Just here to help,” I said.“Right,” she smirked, and dismissed me by turning all her interest to picking the polish off a toenail.I walked off the crunch of the hot gravel and into the forest, which only felt warmer. The air was jungle wet. Goldenrod and wild sumac bushes brushed my ankles, and fuzzy white cottonwood seeds floated everywhere, slipping into my mouth, sticking to my arms. When I was a kid we called them fairy dresses, I remembered suddenly.In the distance people were calling for Natalie, the three syllables rising and falling like song.

Another ten minutes of hard hiking and I spotted them: about four dozen people walking in long rows, sifting the brush in front of them with sticks.“Hello! Any news?” called out a beer-bellied man closest to me. I left the trail and threaded my way through the trees until I reached him.“Can I help out at all?” I wasn’t quite ready to whip out my notebook.“You can walk beside me here,” he said. “We can always use another person.

Less ground to cover.” We walked silently for a few minutes, my partner occasionally pausing to clear his throat with a wet, rocky cough.“Sometimes I think we should just burn these woods,” he said abruptly. “Seems like nothing good ever happens in them.

You a friend of the Keenes?”“I’m a reporter actually. Chicago Daily Post.”“Mmmm. Well how ’bout that. You writing about all this?”A sudden wail shot through the trees, a girl’s scream: “Natalie!” My hands began sweating as we ran toward the cry. I saw figures tumbling toward us. A teenager with white-blonde hair pushed past us onto the trail, her face red and bundled. She was stumbling like a frantic drunk, yelling Natalie’s name at the sky.

An older man, maybe her father, caught up with her, wrapped her in his arms, and began walking her out of the forest.“They found her?” my friend called.

Author by: dailyBooksLanguange: enPublisher by:Format Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 49Total Download: 227File Size: 49,6 MbDescription: Gone Girl: by Gillian Flynn Conversation Starters A Brief Look Inside: Gone Girl, the latest novel from Gillian Flynn, tells a story of lies, manipulation, and revenge. The story follows Nick and Amy, a couple who are about to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. The pair falls on hard times when they both lose their jobs. They must move from their home in New York City to Nick's hometown of North Carthage, Missouri to live with his mother. Suddenly, on the morning of their fifth wedding anniversary, Amy mysteriously disappears.

Nick becomes the number one suspect in her disappearance. However, everything is not what it seems. Discovering our past a brief introduction to archaeology 5th edition. The reader quickly realizes that every story has two sides, including this one. Now, Nick must find a way to clear his name and find out what truly happened to his wife.

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn was highly praised by The New York Times, Publishers Weekly, People Magazine, and many other publications. The book was adapted into a film of the same title, which was released in October of 2014. EVERY GOOD BOOK CONTAINS A WORLD FAR DEEPER than the surface of its pages. The characters and their world come alive, and the characters and its world still live on. Conversation Starters is peppered with questions designed to bring us beneath the surface of the page and invite us into the world that lives on. These questions can be used to. Create Hours of Conversation:.

Foster a deeper understanding of the book. Promote an atmosphere of discussion for groups. Assist in the study of the book, either individually or corporately. Explore unseen realms of the book as never seen before Disclaimer: This book you are about to enjoy is an independent resource to supplement the original book, enhancing your experience of Gone Girl.

If you have not yet purchased a copy of the original book, please do before purchasing this unofficial Conversation Starters. Author by: Alex BrunkhorstLanguange: enPublisher by: MIRAFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 32Total Download: 517File Size: 50,8 MbDescription: 'Thrilling and illuminating.' —LA Times 'A hypnotic psychological thriller.' —People A chance encounter sparks an unrelenting web of lies in this new gripping and complex psychological thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl and the upcoming page-turner Don't You Cry, Mary Kubica She sees the teenage girl on the train platform, standing in the pouring rain, clutching an infant in her arms. She boards a train and is whisked away.

But she can't get the girl out of her head Heidi Wood has always been a charitable woman: she works for a nonprofit, takes in stray cats. Still, her husband and daughter are horrified when Heidi returns home one day with a young woman named Willow and her four-month-old baby in tow. Disheveled and apparently homeless, this girl could be a criminal—or worse. But despite her family's objections, Heidi invites Willow and the baby to take refuge in their home. Heidi spends the next few days helping Willow get back on her feet, but as clues into Willow's past begin to surface, Heidi is forced to decide how far she's willing to go to help a stranger. What starts as an act of kindness quickly spirals into a story far more twisted than anyone could have anticipated.

More Praise: 'Hypnotic and anything but predictable.' —Kirkus, starred review 'A superb psychological thrillerstunning.' —Publishers Weekly, starred review Read the New York Times bestselling novel that everyone is talking about, The Good Girl, by Mary Kubica!

Look for Mary's latest complex and addictive tale of deceit and obsession, Don't You Cry. Order your copies today! Author by: Mary KubicaLanguange: enPublisher by: MIRAFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 62Total Download: 147File Size: 47,9 MbDescription: Anyone who is part of a book club is very familiar with this constant question: What should we read next? Whether your club wants to travel back in time to exotic locations, or prefers to wrestle with big issues in a contemporary setting, this sampler of ten extraordinary novels has something for every book club: The Good Girl by Mary Kubica, The Wonder of All Things by Jason Mott, Little Mercies by Heather Gudenkauf, Madame Picasso by Anne Girard, The Returned by Jason Mott, The Last Breath by Kimberly Belle, I'll Be Seeing You by Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan, Teatime for the Firefly by Shona Patel, The Sweetest Hallelujah by Elaine Hussey, and The Mourning Hours by Paula Treick DeBoard. Each excerpt is accompanied by a letter from the novel's editor explaining why the book is a perfect book club pick. There is also bonus material to enrich your discussions, including reading guides and author conversations.

So, read on, enjoy, find the perfect book and be the star of your book club. Author by: Jason MottLanguange: enPublisher by: HarlequinFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 74Total Download: 961File Size: 47,9 MbDescription: Anyone who is part of a book club is very familiar with this constant question: What should we read next? Whether your club wants to travel back in time to exotic locations, or prefers to wrestle with big issues in a contemporary setting, this sampler of six extraordinarynovels has something for every book club: The Returned by Jason Mott, I'll Be Seeing You by Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan, Teatime for the Firefly by Shona Patel, The Sweetest Hallelujah by Elaine Hussey, The Tulip Eaters by Antoinette van Heugten and The Mourning Hours by Paula Treick DeBoard. Each excerpt is accompanied by a letter from the novel's editor explaining why the book is a perfect book club pick.

There is also bonus material to enrich your discussions, including reading guides and author conversations. So, read on, enjoy, find the perfect book and be the star of your book club. Author by: Alafair BurkeLanguange: enPublisher by: HarperFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 96Total Download: 736File Size: 54,6 MbDescription: SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE His Scandal Her Secret From New York Times bestselling author Alafair Burke, a stunning domestic thriller in the vein of Behind Closed Doors and The Woman in Cabin 10—in which a woman must make the impossible choice between defending her husband and saving herself. When Angela met Jason Powell while catering a dinner party in East Hampton, she assumed their romance would be a short-lived fling, like so many relationships between locals and summer visitors. To her surprise, Jason, a brilliant economics professor at NYU, had other plans, and they married the following summer.

For Angela, the marriage turned out to be a chance to reboot her life. She and her son were finally able to move out of her mother’s home to Manhattan, where no one knew about her tragic past. Six years later, thanks to a bestselling book and a growing media career, Jason has become a cultural lightning rod, placing Angela near the spotlight she worked so carefully to avoid. When a college intern makes an accusation against Jason, and another woman, Kerry Lynch, comes forward with an even more troubling allegation, their perfect life begins to unravel. Jason insists he is innocent, and Angela believes him. But when Kerry disappears, Angela is forced to take a closer look—at both the man she married and the women she chose not to believe. This much-anticipated follow-up to Burke’s Edgar-nominated The Ex asks how far a wife will go to protect the man she loves: Will she stand by his side, even if he drags her down with him?

Author by: C. TudorLanguange: enPublisher by: Broadway BooksFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 67Total Download: 120File Size: 55,7 MbDescription: “I haven’t had a sleepless night due to a book for a long time. The Chalk Man changed that.” —Fiona Barton, New York Times bestselling author of The Widow “An assured debut that alternates between 1986 and 2016 with unpredictable twists. The Chalk Man fits well with other stories about troubled childhoods such as Stephen King’s novella ‘Stand by Me’ Tudor never misses a beat in showing each character as both a child and an adult while also exploring the foreboding environs of a small town.” - Associated Press A riveting and relentlessly compelling psychological suspense debut that weaves a mystery about a childhood game gone dangerously awry, and will keep readers guessing right up to the shocking ending In 1986, Eddie and his friends are just kids on the verge of adolescence. They spend their days biking around their sleepy English village and looking for any taste of excitement they can get. The chalk men are their secret code: little chalk stick figures they leave for one another as messages only they can understand.

But then a mysterious chalk man leads them right to a dismembered body, and nothing is ever the same. In 2016, Eddie is fully grown, and thinks he's put his past behind him. But then he gets a letter in the mail, containing a single chalk stick figure. When it turns out that his friends got the same message, they think it could be a prank.

Until one of them turns up dead. That's when Eddie realizes that saving himself means finally figuring out what really happened all those years ago. Expertly alternating between flashbacks and the present day, The Chalk Man is the very best kind of suspense novel, one where every character is wonderfully fleshed out and compelling, where every mystery has a satisfying payoff, and where the twists will shock even the savviest reader. Author by: dailyBooksLanguange: enPublisher by:Format Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 37Total Download: 794File Size: 46,9 MbDescription: You by Caroline Kepnes Conversation Starters A Brief Look Inside: You, the debut novel by Caroline Kepnes, is a story of mental unbalance, unrelenting passion, and social media. When Joe meets the aspiring author Guinevere Beck in the bookstore where he works, it’s obsession at first sight. He looks for her on the web and gathers the information he needs to meet her by “chance” at a Brooklyn bar. From there, Joe manages to take control of Beck’s life as the reader goes deeper and deeper into his stalker mind.

You is one of Suspense Magazine’s best books of 2014 and is being compared to Gone Girl, American Psycho, and Misery and was optioned by Showtime. EVERY GOOD BOOK CONTAINS A WORLD FAR DEEPER than the surface of its pages. The characters and their world come alive, and the characters and its world still live on. Conversation Starters is peppered with questions designed to bring us beneath the surface of the page and invite us into the world that lives on. These questions can be used to. Create Hours of Conversation:.

Foster a deeper understanding of the book. Promote an atmosphere of discussion for groups. Assist in the study of the book, either individually or corporately. Explore unseen realms of the book as never seen before Disclaimer: This book you are about to enjoy is an independent resource to supplement the original book, enhancingyour experience of You.

If you have not yet purchased a copy of the original book, please do before purchasing this unofficial Conversation Starters. Author by: Stephen KingLanguange: enPublisher by: Simon and SchusterFormat Available: PDF, ePub, MobiTotal Read: 26Total Download: 776File Size: 40,7 MbDescription: From international bestseller Stephen King, a classic story that engages our emotions on the most primal level, a fairy tale grimmer than Grimm but aglow with a girl’s indomitable spirit. What if the woods were full of them? And of course they were, the woods were full of everything you didn’t like, everything you were afraid of and instinctively loathed, everything that tried to overwhelm you with nasty, no-brain panic. The brochure promised a “moderate-to-difficult” six-mile hike on the Maine-New Hampshire branch of the Appalachian Trail, where nine-year-old Trisha McFarland was to spend Saturday with her older brother Pete and her recently divorced mother. When she wanders off to escape their constant bickering, then tries to catch up by attempting a shortcut through the woods, Trisha strays deeper into a wilderness full of peril and terror. Especially when night falls.

Trisha has only her wits for navigation, only her ingenuity as a defense against the elements, only her courage and faith to withstand her mounting fear. For solace she tunes her Walkman to broadcasts of Boston Red Sox games and the gritty performances of her hero, number thirty-six, relief pitcher Tom Gordon. And when her radio’s reception begins to fade, Trisha imagines that Tom Gordon is with her—her key to surviving an enemy known only by the slaughtered animals and mangled trees in its wake.