The Washington Post
The Killer's Wifeby Bill Floyd
Six years after her courageous testimony helped put her husband on death row for a string of gruesome murders, Leigh Wren has almost succeeded in putting her past to rest. She has moved from the West Coast to North Carolina with her young son, adopting a new name and a new life. But the world that she has created for herself is shattered when the father of one of
Six years after her courageous testimony helped put her husband on death row for a string of gruesome murders, Leigh Wren has almost succeeded in putting her past to rest. She has moved from the West Coast to North Carolina with her young son, adopting a new name and a new life. But the world that she has created for herself is shattered when the father of one of her ex-husband's victims begins stalking her, then confronts her late one night. In the days that follow, he exposes Leigh, in newspapers and on television, to a startled North Carolina community. And just as her marriage to Randall Mosley, a man who became known to the world as a deviant serial killer, is brought back to light, a more deadly game of cat and mouse ensues.
A new killer has emerged, one whose methods are frighteningly similar to those used by Mosley, who is awaiting execution thousands of miles away. Leigh and her son appear to be in the assailant's scope, and it becomes clear that he is more than a copycat killer—his targets are all tied to Leigh's former life. With the clock ticking down and the victims of a new killer mounting, Leigh is forced to probe the darkest corridors of her past to protect her life and her son's. She must also confront her own feelings of responsibility: Leigh has always professed her ignorance, but how complicit was she in her husband's horrific murder spree, as it was taking place?
From a major new voice in suspense, The Killer's Wife is a story driven by psychological insight and harrowing revelations, asking how well you can ever really know the person sleeping beside you.
The Washington Post
Despite the intriguing premise of exploring a serial killer through the eyes of his wife, Floyd's debut falls short of its potential. Six years after Nina Mosley discovered evidence linking her husband, Randy, to a string of murders across the country, she's finally settling into a new life with their seven-year-old son, Hayden, in Cary, N.C. Now calling herself Leigh Wren, Nina hopes that she's heard the last of her ex-husband, who's on death row in California. But when the father of one of Randy's victims tracks her down and exposes her identity, Nina knows her troubles are far from over. As friends shun her, Nina struggles to come to terms with her past. When Hayden's life is suddenly put in jeopardy, Nina must revisit Randy's crimes and uncover who's continuing his killing spree before it's too late. Floyd shifts awkwardly between Nina's past life with Randy and her new life as Leigh, while his textbook portrayal of a serial killer offers nothing new for veteran thriller fans. (Mar.)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
After Leigh Wren's ex-husband, Randy, is convicted and sentenced to death for killing a dozen people in a ten-year spree, she relocates to a new town, changes her name, and lives an uneventful six years as a single mom to the couple's young son, Hayden. But when the vengeful father of one of Randy's victims locates her and publicly reveals her secrets, her picture-perfect life is shattered, her world, turned upside down. As Leigh struggles to keep their comfortable life intact, a copycat killer mimicking Randy's bizarre murders strikes too close to home. Newcomer Floyd has crafted a powerhouse thriller that plunges the reader into the intimate life of a serial killer as viewed from his wife's vantage point. Nail-biting flashbacks into Leigh's past with her dangerous husband and frightful glimpses into the psyche of a new killer keep the tension mounting. This is a book that grabs you and won't let go; highly recommended for all public libraries.
Mary Todd Chesnut
—Jacquelyn Mitchard, author of The Deep End of the Ocean and Still Summer
“Fresh plotting, high suspense, and great pacing combine to make The Killer’s Wife a book you can’t put down.”
—Iris Johansen, bestselling author of Stalemate
“Bill Floyd delivers a nuanced, sympathetic protagonist in the form of a killer’s unsuspecting spouse. Six years after her husband’s arrest, people still wonder: How much did she know? When did she know it? And most importantly, how could she have missed it? Vividly imagined and sharply drawn, Floyd’s debut presents a fresh take on an archetypal story. A welcome voice in a crowded genre.”
—John Hart, bestselling author of The King of Lies and Down River
“Riveting and original, The Killer’s Wife will force you to question how well you really know your friends and family. This stunning debut will keep you turning pages until the shocking conclusion.”
—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author of Fear No Evil
“Not since Dennis Lehane’s A Drink Before the War have I read a debut novel with such mesmerizing power. . . . It’s a story that seizes you from the first page and draws you into the ordinary worlds of richly drawn characters, both sympathetic ones and extraordinarily creepy ones. . . . Grab this one and hang on for one hell of a scary ride.”
—James W. Hall, author of Magic City
“The Killer’s Wife hooked me from chapter one and kept me in suspense until the very end. A compelling, skillfully executed read.”
—Mary Jane Clark, New York Times bestselling author of Lights Out Tonight
“An irresistible look into the life and mind of a serial killer. Bill Floyd shows us a man with all the hallmarks of a real-life killer who also feels so familiar he could be your husband, father, or brother. An utterly haunting, unforgettable read.”
—Stephen G. Michaud, author of the bestselling book about Ted Bundy, The Only Living Witness (with Hugh Aynesworth), and Beyond Cruel
“Bill Floyd enters the mind of madness with a pen guided by angels.”
—Keith Ablow, M.D., author of Living the Truth
- St. Martin's Press
- Publication date:
- Sold by:
- NOOK Book
- Sales rank:
- File size:
- 238 KB
Read an Excerpt
Don’t I know you?”
I glanced up from the frozen foods case where I’d been considering the overabundance of packaged meals, narrowing down the choices according to Hayden’s likes and dislikes, to find an older gentleman staring at me with his eyebrows raised. A healthy-looking type of guy, robust. Full head of salt-and-pepper hair, probably in his mid-sixties, wearing a casual pullover and blue jeans.
Distant alarm bells.
It was late, nearing midnight on a Friday; my favorite time to do the weekly shopping, because usually I could avoid these types of run-ins. I was no fan of idle chitchat with my neighbors, or anyone else in particular, if I could help it. Tonight when I’d entered the Harris Teeter, the big glass doors sliding apart at my approach, whisper soft as the airlock on a spaceship, it was as though I had the place completely to myself. That clean, lonely, safe feeling, exclusive to public places when they are emptied of the public. Of course I wasn’t actually alone: the teenaged employees leaned drowsily in the checkout lanes, a couple of single men (second-shift types, nonprofessionals) wandered the beer aisle, trying to kill some time before returning home to their sofas. One of these guys was checking out my ass; I saw him staring after me in one of the parabolic mirrors that hang from the whitewashed girders in the warehouse-type ceiling. At my age, I could’ve taken it as flattery, but instead it made me feel exposed, so I pushed my cart a little faster. Most often, the clientele roaming the store at this time of night were all perfectly self-encapsulated, as unwilling to meet my eyes as I was to meet theirs. Which was exactly how I preferred it.
But now this older man was staring at my face, and his question wasn’t posed rudely. So I shook my head and said politely, “I don’t think so.”
“Leigh Wren?” he guessed.
I felt a measure of relief, and searched my memory for where I may have met him. He was familiar, wasn’t he? A stirring in those pools deep down below, a single blip that wouldn’t coalesce. My social engagements had been few and far between for longer than I liked to consider; mostly it was just me and Hayden and the office, and that was just fine, thank you, so I surmised that I must have met this man at some work-related function. I felt a moment’s guilt at not being able to place him. Although, to be honest, there was nothing in particular to distinguish him; his kind was ubiquitous in Cary. I could even envision his SUV in the parking lot, a Jesus fish on one side of his license plate and a Bush/Cheney campaign sticker on the other.
“That’s me,” I answered. “I’m sorry, you are?”
I extended my hand.
He took hold of it, and his eyes changed. They flared and flashed. He took a deep, tremulous breath and commenced: “My name is Charles Pritchett. I’ve never had to use any other name than my own, because I’ve never been ashamed of who I am. Your real name is Nina Mosley, and on November 18, 1997, your husband, Randall Roberts Mosley, killed my daughter, Carrie.”
The whole world telescoped. My hand went numb, as did all my other extremities, but I could feel the overt pressure Charles Pritchett was exerting, cracking my knuckles and pinching my fingers together. I tried to pull away, but he was holding on fast, his eyes like strobe lights now. He was shaking all over; I could see that he’d been rehearsing this very moment for a long, long time, and now that it was upon him he was having some sort of near-debilitating reaction, a galvanization that fired his every nerve. In his transport, he seemed capable of levitation; it was obvious that a Truly Meaningful Moment was upon Mr. Pritchett.
All I could think was, You mean my ex-husband.
But I couldn’t seem to activate my voice. My throat was locked down against what could only be a horrible scream waiting to surge free if I dared to open my mouth. My teeth ached. I felt sick and panicked, withdrawing at light speed, receding toward a blessed and familiar disconnect. The half-full grocery cart, with its neatly bagged bundles of fruit (green grapes because Hayden hated the purple ones, too seedy) and vacuum-sealed sliced meats and cheeses, the health-food bars for me and the sugary cereals for my son, was forgotten. I was still trying to get away from Pritchett, backing up and bumping into the cart, which turned on its wobbly squeaking wheel and lodged between my butt and the cold glass door of the freezer. Pritchett followed, still gripping my hand, still speaking in steadily rising tones.
“It took me a long time to find you, Nina, and quite a bit of money, too. You look so different than you did the last time I saw you, at the trial. Your hair’s a different color, and you’ve lost a lot of weight. Did you tint your hair so people wouldn’t recognize you? I suppose I can understand that, wanting to disassociate yourself from your past. But I don’t have that kind of luxury, you see,” he said, his summation spat from behind clenched teeth. “I live with my past every single day, in every single moment that my daughter’s not here. She’s gone. I know what the police said, how it was all your husband, but you were never cleared to my satisfaction, not by a long shot. That’s why I’m here now, Nina. I’ve come to expose you. I’m going to tear apart this tidy little fiction of a life you’ve made, and I’m going to show everyone what you are.”
“Excuse me, are you all right?”
Another voice intervened, and I looked around to find the ass-watcher standing there, a bug-eyed checkout boy slightly behind him, both of them regarding Pritchett and me with some concern. The checkout boy seemed electrically charged, looking for some excuse to get physical and jump Pritchett, his adolescent head likely swarming with some fantasy of sticking up for the little guy. Perhaps Pritchett reminded him of a dominating patriarch in his own history. The ass-watcher was much calmer, holding his olive green basket of single-serving items loosely, a resigned and ready tension that suggested he’d been in such confrontations before, and come out on the winning end. Maybe he was ex-military. Or maybe just a bar scrapper.
Pritchett finally released my hand, but he kept right on talking, directing his commentary now to the would-be interventionists. “You know who she is? Who her husband was? I bet you’d remember his name.” He jabbed a skinny finger at my face, his words coming in a barely checked avalanche. “Should we call the police, Nina? You want to report this ‘incident’? Because I’d love that. I’d relish the opportunity to alert the local authorities as to who’s been living in their midst for the past six years.”
The ass-watcher had had enough. He set his basket down on the floor and stepped between Pritchett and me. I was still backing up, but couldn’t tear my gaze away from the old man. Tears had sprung up in his eyes, the drear emotional weight he’d just jettisoned close to undoing him. The ass-watcher said, “I don’t know what your problem is, sir, but I think you should leave the lady be.”
The checkout boy called Pritchett a bully. Pritchett held up his hands, open palms outward, and backed off a few steps. In a steadier voice, he again suggested calling the cops. The overhead PA switched from a Commodores song to “Take on Me.” On some quiet, murmuring level, I understood that from then on, whenever I heard that trite synth melody, it would be as a soundtrack to this moment of schism.
Pritchett called after me: “Where is Hayden tonight, Nina? You should keep a closer eye on him. I didn’t keep a close enough watch over Carrie, and you know what happened to her. You know what he did to her.”
That was enough to finally get me turned around, to send me running away from him, slipping and regaining my footing as I fled down the aisle to the front of the store. The automatic doors didn’t open quite fast enough and I bumped into one of them. Tomorrow there would be a large bruise along that arm from the shoulder to the elbow. Right then I didn’t feel it; right then my hand was still throbbing from where Pritchett wouldn’t let me go.
I’d made some jokes when they built the shopping plaza directly abutting our development, sour wit along the lines of how much more convenient it was than the one five miles farther down the road. Tonight I thanked God it was so close. A left turn out of the parking lot, then the stop sign at the entrance into Kensington Arbor, which I blew through without even tapping the brakes. Then a right, hugging the curb so tight I heard the tires squealing. In less that four minutes from the time I left the grocery store, I was parking my Camry in front of the McPhersons’ house.
The street was quiet, the homes large and fashionably expansive, all built close together, with minimal yard space between. Moisture in the night air collected in shiny rings around the streetlamps. The front porch light was on at the McPhersons’, but nothing looked askew from the outside. Then again, nothing ever looked askew in this neighborhood, this settlement of cookie-cutter single-family homes and town houses that had become our refuge. Our own place was three blocks over, a town house with a one-car garage and a nice patio out back where Hayden played. I didn’t often let him spend the night away from home, but he’d begged all week and I knew I had the midnight shopping to do, so I’d relented and allowed him to sleep over with his friend, Caleb. A burgundy Yukon was parked halfway on the sidewalk. It was Caleb’s mother’s “old” car; the garage space now undoubtedly reserved for the Escalade Doug McPherson bought his wife for Christmas.
I softly closed my car door and then slipped through the yard, glancing up and down the street to confirm that nothing looked out of place, although I wouldn’t have even begun to know how to tell if something did. I’d only been to this part of the neighborhood a few times. Hayden had a cell phone with him and I’d considered calling it even as I fled the scene at the grocery store, but I hated to wake everyone up if no one was in any actual danger. And although Charles Pritchett might have a bone to pick with me, surely he wouldn’t do something to my child. Surely that hadn’t been as overt a threat as I’d taken it to be. Surely he wouldn’t, not after what had been done to his own flesh and blood . . .
Where is Hayden tonight, Nina? You should keep a closer eye on him.
I looked up and down the street again. A few cars parked in driveways or along the street, but no silhouettes slouched behind the windshields, no one watched from darkened windows of the houses. The homes were crowded so close together they seemed like sentinels, or the walls of a labyrinth. I used to value such sensibilities, the idea that I’d found a fortress, but I’d always understood on some level that it could turn on me.
I simply was not ready for that to happen.
At the last moment, I decided against ringing the bell. The McPhersons already had their doubts about me, surely, but hopefully they were limited to wondering why I was single at my age and She’s so painfully reserved and Where’s the boy’s father? and the sorts of things I overheard and dismissed from any number of acquaintances on a fairly regular basis. I could handle the isolation from my peers; in fact, I’d grown to value it, but my son needed friends and I didn’t want to blow this for him. He was at the age where loneliness could become a preferred mode of coping, with alienation the next stop, and then by the time he was a teenager I’d have to search his closet to make sure he wasn’t stowing an assault rifle in there.
I wasn’t always prone to imagining the worst. It was a learned skill, a smart piece of involuntary conditioning.
Gabby McPherson gave me the short, house-proud tour the first time I brought Hayden over to play, but I was already familiar with the layout; I’d researched the floor plans to all the models when I was first looking into buying a place here. She didn’t do anything original with the interior; the furnishings and arrangement were straight out of Martha Stewart . . . five years ago. The living room where the boys were supposed to be setting up camp was around the side, and I stepped lightly through the yard until I could peek in the windows. God only knew what the next-door neighbors would make of me if they glanced out, but I could give a shit, really. I wouldn’t have objected if a police car came cruising up the street—I had thought of calling them right off, but was already hoping that maybe Pritchett got whatever satisfaction he needed from confronting me at the store and that now he would leave us alone. Not that I believed it. My heart was pumping too fast; I could feel my pulse in my neck and it was difficult to swallow.
I would admit a grudging admiration for Gabby’s taste in window dressing. She’d bought some fine, sheer drapes somewhere, but of course the boys forgot to close the blinds, so I could see right in. The living-room floor had been turned into a classic crash pad, sleeping bags unrolled on the carpet in front of the leather couch. Half-empty bowls of popcorn and soda cans crowded the coffee table. The plasma TV was on but no sound disturbed the windowpane, so I was guessing that either the volume was muted or else turned down low enough that it wouldn’t wake the adults upstairs. Caleb McPherson was lying off to the right, curled into a cashew, half-in and half-out of his sleeping bag, eyes closed. And there, sitting too close to the screen, propped up on his elbows: my baby boy. Hayden was being bad, watching some music video with twirling teens in skimpy clothes doing dance routines whose moves consisted of grinds and thrusts. I wouldn’t let him watch this sort of thing at home—he was only seven, for God’s sake—but I felt a wash of relief that he was all right, a physical sensation just like cold refreshing water poured over my head. A sob caught in my throat when I thought about how he’d stayed awake so he could view this trite, forbidden spectacle on MTV. He was only a boy, a regular, healthy boy.
He turned his head toward the window and I ducked down quickly. I made my way in a crouch back to the car, feeling ashamed and spotlighted, even though I know he hadn’t seen me and there was seemingly no one else awake all down the silent street.
I locked my car doors and stayed right where I was. In the rearview, I caught sight of myself and made a severe assessment: I looked crazed. My light brown hair, usually tidy and shoulder-length, curled slightly at the ends in the more-or-less current style for a suburban mom nearing middle age, was mussed and frazzled. My smooth skin, which I considered my best feature, looked pale and drawn in the streetlight’s harsh glow. And the eyes, the subdued emerald eyes that my girlfriends had always openly admired but which to me seemed too wounded, too vulnerable, an invitation to men telling them I was pliant, willing; now they seemed stark lifeless marbles wide with anxiety. It struck me that, for all the self-examination I did every morning in the bathroom mirror, brushing my teeth and drying my hair and applying my makeup, I rarely looked myself in those eyes. Even though I should have earned it by now, should have forgiven myself long ago. Then again, Pritchett obviously hadn’t. I wondered if there were others who were still roiling inside, who’d never made peace in all the days since Randy had interrupted what should have been the normal, decent courses of their lives.
Deep breaths, I told myself. I wouldn’t rouse the McPherson household; I wouldn’t make any untoward scene. But damned if I was going to let the house out of my sight tonight. If there was one thing I’d paid so dearly to acquire, it was a sense of diligence.
Over the past six years, there had been times, I admit, when I would briefly forget who we really were. Hours, days, even as long as a week sometimes, when I just let go and believed that I really was Leigh Wren, and not Nina Leigh Mosley née Sarbaines. At times I let it slip completely from my mind that my name was ever anything but what it was now and that I’d had it legally changed after what happened with my ex-husband.
But such comfort never lasted long. Something always reminded me: a spree of atrocity on the evening news, a conversation at work, a legal nicety of some sort. And as soon as I remembered, as soon as I came back to the sharp, alert state that was now my default setting, I never felt any sense of relief that I’d been able to let go for a while, to put the past where it belonged. Instead I felt irresponsible, childish, and stupid. I felt selfish that I could have let Hayden down.
Charles Pritchett. He must have known where we lived. Must have known and must’ve waited for his chance to confront me, savoring it, my God that meant he was serious. That meant he wouldn’t have gotten nearly enough satisfaction from scaring the shit out of me at the store; he had obviously undertaken a Project. Men of his sort charted their lives as a series of Projects, and mine had likely been a long time in the planning.
That realization, along with all its implications, made my head spin. I didn’t have the luxury to get foggy, so I started jotting down notes on the little pad I kept in the glove box. Meaningless shit, I could barely even see what I was writing in the silver glow from the streetlights, but I needed something to do with my hands. I wrote random dates. I scribbled words and free associations. If I bothered to look at them later, I knew I wouldn’t be able to decipher them. I crumpled the notes and tossed them on the floorboard.
I remembered Pritchett now, vaguely. He was wealthy, the one surname on the victims’ list that the average person might have known by reputation for something other than having had a family member killed by Randy. He’d been the one to call press conferences before the trial, and there were rumors he’d even hired a PR firm to deal with the media on his behalf. I couldn’t seem to recall his actually being in the courtroom, but that didn’t mean much either; the most I’d retained from that ordeal were images: a few words other people said to me, some of the questions the prosecutors and the defense asked. I couldn’t clearly remember my responses, although I was sure they were set down somewhere in the public record. In my own mind, the recollections from that time had been locked into a sealed vault and buried beneath layer upon layer, year upon year, of careful blockade. Back then, the prosecutors, having secured my unconditional cooperation, shielded me from the worst of the pretrial publicity, and I’d moved back in with Mom before the trial got under way, so I was out of state for much of the media circus that preceded it.
My main memory wasn’t of the old man himself, but of his appearances on TV, pointing his finger at the camera and finding it difficult to control his emotion, which anyone could understand, given the circumstances. How could I have forgotten? Why didn’t I recognize him when he approached me, why didn’t his name come immediately to mind? I remembered many of the victims’ names, probably most of them. I remembered one boy who’d survived by hiding in a guest room while the rest of his family was slaughtered. After court, on the day he’d testified, I’d spoken to this sole survivor and found him broken, confused, nearly catatonic with guilt that he lived on while his loved ones had perished. Just another casualty along with all the other ones who’d lost their friends and family members to Randy’s terrible compulsions. The majority of them hadn’t attended the trial, and no one publicly criticized them for it. By the time things got that far, all their sons and daughters and mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and spouses were long past help. By then it was Randy’s circus, the last display to which his rotting mind could fully tend, the public revelation of what he really always had been inside. My partner. My mate.
Randy’s festival of blood had lasted a decade at least, and probably much longer. I was there for most of it, and didn’t have a single clue. Poor, ignorant Nina, sleeping with the Beast and caught completely unaware, even if some called me an enabler, even if at one point early on I’d been suspected of actually participating in the show, in Randy’s foul harvest.
I swore, then and now: I didn’t know, I couldn’t have.
All these arguments, I’d never really had them aloud, never really been in the position to defend, and their logic had long rung hollow to my own ears. Of course there were clues. Of course I turned a willfully oblivious eye.
I kept watch there, in the car, all night. All was quiet, except for the dull echo of my heart.
Copyright © 2008 by Bill Floyd. All rights reserved.
Meet the Author
Bill Floyd lives in Morrisville, North Carolina, with his wife, Amy. He is a graduate of Appalachian State University. The Killer's Wife is his debut novel.
Bill Floyd lives in Morrisville, North Carolina, with his wife, Amy. A graduate of Appalachian State University, he is the author of The Killer's Wife.
and post it to your social network
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
See all customer reviews >
When will the new breed of thriller writers wake up and realize that "first person" narratives rarely work. THE KILLER's WIFE is no exception. Where is the thrill or the fear when the protaginist must survive to complete the story? Floyd's debut gives us a story with with no twists or turns. Just utter predictability. And he fails in producing any semblance of real courtroom drama. If this author intends on incorporating more courtroom drama in any future attempts he should find some time to observe a trial. Lawyers do not turn to juries and offer commentaries after witnesses answer questions. That is called summation and it comes at the end of a trial. Can't recommend this book to anyone for any reason.
Well-writen and cleverly plotted, this book provides a searing look at a twisted mind and the way it affected multiple lives. Gruesome with little warmth.
I think it was a great book to read and realy liked the way he wrote it.It realy makes you think it is about the real serial killers who fool every one til they get caught
This book was a thrill ride. I finished it in 1 day! It was that good!! Can't wait for the next book!
The Killer's Wife is Bill Floyd's debut novel, just thinking about the book gives me shivers up my spine. It was a great piece of work and I would recommend it to anyone who loves great thrillers. I think my only problem with the book was that the author didn't really comprehend how women talk and think, since the book is told by the killer's wife his adaptation of her speaking and thinking is a little off and by that I mean the way he wrote her she sounded more like a man to me. But I find a lot of male authors also have this problem. But this is his first novel and I still give it 4 stars out of 5. It was terrific.
Six years have passed since Nina Mosley found proof that her husband, Randy, was a nationwide serial killer. After he was convicted in California and put on death row, she quietly divorced him and moved to the coast with their preadolescent son, Hayden. She changed her name to Leigh Wren and settled in Cary, North Carolina.------------ Things seem fine for Nina and Hayden until an angry father of a victim finds her in Cary and informs everyone that she is the wife of a killing demon who sired her son. Friends reject her as if she and Hayden killed all these people they hold her culpable for not recognizing the monster she was married to. However, everything changes again when mousey cringing Nina becomes the mouse that roared when someone tries to kill Hayden.-------------- THE KILLER¿S WIFE provides an interesting spin on the serial killer thriller as the focus is on the wife and son of the sociopath. The story line is at its best when the focus is on Leigh, who was avoiding the limelight trying to make a safe life for her and Hayden only to have that destroyed by another victim. The reaction of her friends is priceless and her look back to her married day (though at times intrusive due to much frequency) adds to understanding her as she wonders how she missed the signs. When the plot switches to Nina amateur sleuth it adds tension, but loses the uniqueness of a deep character study into other victims of a serial killer.----------------- Harriet Klausner