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 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
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.
