Stranger in the Room (Keye Street Series #2)by Amanda Kyle Williams
Fresh from her debut, The Stranger You Seek—which Publishers Weekly called “an explosive, unpredictable, and psychologically complex thriller that turns crime fiction clichés inside out”—Amanda Kyle Williams delivers a second thrilling Keye Street novel, perfect for fans of Karin Slaughter and Patricia Cornwell.
That bullet was meant for you.
Summer is smoldering through Atlanta on Fourth of July weekend, as fireworks crack through the air and steam rises from the pavement on Peachtree. Private investigator and ex–FBI profiler Keye Street wants nothing more than a couple of quiet days alone with her boyfriend, Aaron—but, as usual, murder gets in the way.
I will find her.
A.P.D. Lieutenant Aaron Rauser is called to the disturbing scene of the strangling death of a thirteen-year-old boy. Meanwhile, Keye must deal with not one but two of her own investigations: In the hills of Creeklaw County, there’s a curious case involving chicken feed and a crematorium, and in Atlanta, Keye’s emotionally fragile cousin Miki is convinced she is being stalked. Given Miki’s history of drug abuse and mental problems, Keye is reluctant to accept her cousin’s tale of a threatening man inside her house late one night. But as a recovering alcoholic herself, Keye can’t exactly begrudge a woman her addictions—especially since Miki drives Keye to near-relapses at every turn. And yet, Miki is family, and Keye must help her—even if it means tempting her own demons.
I always find her.
All hell breaks loose when another murder—the apparent hanging of an elderly man—hits disturbingly close to home for Keye. And though the two victims have almost nothing in common, there are bizarre similarities between this case and that of Aaron’s strangled teen. Is there a single faceless predator, a calculating murderer targeting his prey at random? Only a skilled profiler like Keye Street can help the A.P.D. find him. With the threat of more deaths to come, Keye works on pure instinct alone—and soon realizes that a killer is circling ever closer to the people she loves the most.
Praise for Amanda Kyle Williams’s The Stranger You Seek
“An exceptionally smart and harrowing character-driven debut by a welcome new thriller writer.”—New York Times bestselling author Karin Slaughter
“A creepy, suspenseful, breathtaking ride . . . [Keye] Street is a unique and worthy addition to the rich tradition of damaged and tough private detectives.”—Associated Press
“[Williams] keeps the suspense taut and the humor snarky, with an ending that will have you slapping your foreheard over clues you missed.”—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“With its shocking triple-twist climax, this is the best private eye debut since Dennis Lehane’s A Drink Before the War.”—The Plain Dealer
“An explosive, unpredictable, and psychologically complex thriller.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A dark, gritty thriller, The Stranger You Seek is a sensational debut. Readers will relish this story’s many captivating, powerful, and compelling layers.”—New York Times bestselling author Julia Spencer-Fleming
“Keye Street remains the most interesting, cynically funny and smart series detective today. . . . The tension buzzes like cicadas on a hot Georgia night and the pace is relentless.”—Seattle Post-Intelligencer
“One of the most addictive new series heroines since Stephanie Plum.”—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“The best fictional female P.I. since Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.”—The Plain Dealer
“Keye Street immediately puts herself in the top echelon of suspense heroes. She’s a mess of fascinating contradictions—effortlessly brilliant on a case, totally inept in managing her own life. She is brutally funny and powerfully human—one of the most realistic protagonists in crime fiction that I’ve had the thrill to read.”—Tess Gerritsen, New York Times bestselling author of Last to Die
“There’s a new voice in Atlanta, and her name is Amanda Kyle Williams—captivating, powerful and compelling.”—Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author of One Was a Soldier
“Readers of this fast-paced thriller will be eager for the next Street tale.”—Publishers Weekly
Read an Excerpt
It was ten-thirty when I answered the phone, the Thursday night before Independence Day. Atlanta’s tree-lined neighborhoods flew flags in anticipation from front porches and garden stakes. Red, white, and blue ribbons decorated mailboxes. In town, the city’s diverse population celebrated July’s holiday weekend with food and art and music festivals, rooftop bars and ground-shaking fireworks displays.
“I need to see you,” my cousin, Miki, told me.
Oh boy. Miki, the daughter of my adoptive mother’s troubled sister, Florence. She’d lived on a houseboat in her own backyard when Jimmy and I were kids. I hadn’t seen Miki in a couple of months. She was probably embroiled in some drama. She might also be in real trouble. Miki had a flair for trouble.
I was in my office late, catching up on the work I’d put off all week, a last-ditch effort to take a long weekend off. The air-conditioning was working overtime. Atlanta’s smoldering summer had dropped down around us like a burning building.
My name is Keye Street. I run a little detective agency in Atlanta called Corporate Intelligence & Investigations. And when I say “little,” I mean it’s just me and my red-eyed computer guy, Neil Donovan. And when I say “red-eyed,” I mean he probably smoked a joint with his scrambled eggs this morning. My background is in law enforcement, criminology, psychology, and, well, drinking. I was once a criminal investigative analyst in the Behavioral Analysis Unit (BAU) at the Bureau. But I set fire to that and to nearly everything else in my life back then. So this is what I do now. Detective work suits me.
“What’s up, Miki?” I asked. “You okay?”
“No,” said my lovely sandy-haired cousin. Put us side by side and we looked like the photograph and the negative. I’m a Chinese American recovering alcoholic with a southern accent, white parents, and a gay African American brother. Neil is convinced there’s a way to cash in on this—reaching minority status on so many levels. A government program, perhaps. But that’s what happens when you combine Neil’s Generation-Y sense of entitlement with his subversive stoner’s brain.
Neil handles most of the computer searches and I collect the human intelligence, which means I trail around behind certain folks, search their trash, take unwanted pictures of them, listen in on their conversations when I have the opportunity, and generally intrude on their private affairs. It’s all very glamorous. There’s a pile of Little Debbie wrappers and Starbucks cups in my car to prove it. Our client roster is mostly law firms and headhunting agencies, but we’ll work for anyone who wants the secrets swept out from under the rugs. Missing persons, surveillance, bond enforcement, and process serving keep the cash flowing when business slows to a crawl over the winter holidays. But when Atlanta starts to heat up and the glaring southern sun sets our bloodstreams ablaze, when the clothes get skimpy and overworked servers stagger out with trays of frosty pitchers at packed pavement cafés, my phone gets busy. The badly behaved fill my coffers. I’m fine with that. It buys the Krispy Kremes. Original glazed, warm—the current monkey on my back.
“Keye, I need to see you right away,” Miki insisted. “It’s serious.”
I rolled my neck a couple of times. Everything was always massively serious with Miki. I was tired. I’d served two subpoenas today; one of them meant following someone to work, bullying my way into her workplace, and tossing it at her before she could put her coffee down. I then dealt with the cluster-fuck they call a parking system near Fulton County’s courthouse, filed the paperwork for the attorney, left there, and picked up a bail jumper for Tyrone’s Quikbail in East Atlanta and delivered him to the police station. Also, my bitchy cat hadn’t had a shot of half-and-half in hours.
“Someone broke into my house, Keye. I don’t even want to be there right now.”
I grabbed my keys. “I’ll pick you up.” Miki’s Inman Park home was just a few blocks from my North Highland office.
“No. Meet me at Gabe’s. I need to be around people. And I need a drink.”
I picked up my ink pen and bit into it. I needed a friggin’ drink too.
“Keye, please,” Miki said, and I heard it for the first time—genuine fear in my cousin’s voice.
Nine minutes later I pulled into the small parking lot across the street from Gabe’s on Juniper. It was a fireplace bar and restaurant with plush seating and room to lounge, a cigar room, the kind of place that served single malt at exactly the right temperature. In spring and summer, the big deck that edged right up to the street with a view of Midtown’s crowded skyline cranked out gourmet tapas and stayed packed late into the evening. Runoff from the 14th Street Playhouse, the Alliance Theatre, Symphony Hall, and The Fox Theatre, all kept it brimming with hip clientele, multitaskers who can chat with you while conducting text conversations, updating their Facebook status, and Tweeting the wine list.
I saw a crowd in the parking lot as I searched for an empty spot for the Impala. Instinct told me Miki was at the heart of it. Miki always seemed to be putting on some kind of show. I’d never been out with her when she didn’t have an entourage, faithful followers to bask in her brilliant light. It was how she kept everyone at arm’s length while soaking up the adoration she craved.
I parked, took a ticket stub from the attendant, and headed that way. The knot of nicely clad humans loosened just enough for me to glimpse my cousin’s wispy figure at its center. As I moved closer, I smelled something burning and saw a small fire of twigs and leaves and something made of fabric. I stopped on the fringe.
“It’s her black gloves,” the woman next to me whispered reverently. Ah, the black gloves. No need to explain. Everyone in Miki’s life knew about the gloves. They had become a part of Miki’s depression rituals. I think we had all hoped at some point that wearing them would be expression enough of her misery to prevent her from hurting herself again. But the gloves had merely acted as a warning. Someone would find her in the bathtub, on the floor, in the bed, with her veins open and enough barbs in her system to give Keith Richards a run for his money.
I moved through the group and saw Miki standing over the smoldering pile. Someone handed her a champagne flute. She held up the glass dramatically as the last bit of fabric curled into the fire. A cheer went up as she drained her glass.
She spotted me and smiled, raised her voice. “I’ve turned the corner, Keye. The curtain has lifted.” And then she stepped out of the circle and walked away from her fans without so much as a word. She hugged me and whispered: “Be my date tonight. Protect me from the wolves.”
I laced my arm in hers, and we crossed Juniper to Gabe’s, maneuvered our way across the busy patio and went inside. The first whiff of tequila and lime wrapped its arms around me like an old friend. Most of the time now, I don’t even really want a drink. Not when I’m thinking. But when I’m reacting to some trigger—a smell, a certain glass, a social situation—my addict’s brain gets busy romancing the memories—the way that first drink of the day settles in on your stress, the way a good tawny port feels in your mouth and lingers on your lips after a meal. That’s when my sobriety feels fleeting. I felt prickly heat on the back of my neck. I needed to get back to AA. Not surprisingly, I’d made a mess out of that as well.
Miki was wearing a black dress that flared out above her knees, more Judy Jetson than Audrey Hepburn, and over-the-knee boots. She stood near me at the bar, searching my face. We must have looked like lovers, something Miki had already calculated, I was sure. And another way of keeping her flock at bay.
“Are you all right?” she asked, then went on without giving me time to answer. “Oh, right. The alcohol thing. What’s the big deal, anyway? I won’t let you get wasted. Just order a fucking drink.”
“That’s the worst idea I’ve heard all day.”
She reached into her bag and withdrew a tiny glass vial with a black cap. “I’ve got some coke. Would a line help?”
That’s my Miki, always thinking of others. “Probably not,” I answered, with more revulsion than I wanted to show her. We’d all been watching Miki’s self-medicated self-destruction for years. I felt really over it at the moment. I’d been down that road. We are always less tolerant of our own reflections, aren’t we?
I ordered grape juice and got the same smirk I’m usually subjected to when I order grape juice in a bar. They didn’t have it, of course. “Okay, how about a Diet Pepsi?” A couple of heads turned. Ordering Pepsi in a Coca-Cola town was an act of treason.
“We have Diet Coke,” the bartender told me.
I settled on club soda with a twist and Miki ordered an Absolut martini, extra-dirty. We found an empty couch with a coffee table in a back section off the main bar. The room was set up with lacquered cherrywood tables and chessboards. And though our long, hot summer was in full swing, the bar was air-conditioned to frosty cold so the gas fireplaces could warm it back up. I could see the bar from where we sat, mirrored and glimmering in the soft light. I looked at Miki and tried not to notice the marks on both her arms. The thick horizontal streaks of white scar tissue were a reminder of how desperate she’d been, and how utterly incapable she was of loving herself. There must have been eight or ten slashes on each arm. They seemed especially out of place on my porcelain-doll cousin. She’d just burned the long, black gloves that had covered those scars. Perhaps she was ready to look at them. It wasn’t the first time I’d been grateful the DNA that had poisoned Miki’s mental health and her mother’s, and perhaps even flirted with my adoptive mother’s happiness from time to time, was not surging through my own veins. Mother’s family had a history of quiet and hidden gloominess. Depression isn’t something one freely admits to down South. But Florence and Miki had blown the lid off the family secrets vault with their overt and sometimes public illness. Fortunately, someone had always managed to find Miki after she’d sliced herself up or swallowed a mountain of pills—a self-appointed watcher, a groupie, one of the countless men or women who flocked to her like hungry gulls. They couldn’t help themselves. A radiant, brilliant, dark, and emotionally unavailable woman is irresistible to the demons and obsessions of codependent fixers and masochists. Miki’s illness only sparked theirs.
“So what’s up with the gloves?” I wanted to know. We had leaned back, drinks in hand, legs crossed, facing each other.
“That part of my life is over.”
“You taking your meds?”
Miki shook her head. “I can’t live like that. I can’t do my life numb. I just can’t.”
Yeah sure. Coke and alcohol wasn’t numbing at all. She was probably on some manic tear with stimulants and booze and no meds. I wondered if the break-in was real, imagined, or outright fabrication. She must have read the concern on my face.
She leaned in close and whispered, “I think I’m following someone. I’m just not sure who.”
I stared at her blankly.
“Oh, come on, Keye. Lighten up. It’s a joke.”
Stress hormones began to jet-ski through my bloodstream. My eyes dropped to the martini. It was cloudy and cold. My saliva glands were working overtime. I didn’t want to be here. What’s the big deal, anyway? . . . Just order a fucking drink.
A busty brunette with an old-fashioned cigarette tray attached to her by a neck strap passed through and headed for the cigar room, where she’d clip ends and refill cognacs. Someone at the bar was licking salt and lemon and shooting tequila. I squeezed lime into my club soda and blinked up at Miki. Patience. Something had frightened her. She wanted to be here right now, and I needed to function in the real world, where people drink and want to talk to me in bars. I’m a PI, for Christ’s sake. Half my clients are drunks. The old tapes were playing, telling me this was hard, telling me I wanted a drink. I didn’t. Not ever. I reminded myself it wasn’t real. Just the mind stalking shadowy old corridors. I reeled myself in, knowing that each time I did that, each time I said no, new pathways were burned into me that might help avert the next crisis.
“I hired this trainer who uses alternative treatments as mood stabilizers to get people off meds,” Miki told me. “Exercise and supplements, acupuncture and diet. It’s working. I exercise my ass off. It releases some kind of chemical that keeps me healthy. You know I’ve been good for a while, right?”
By “good” she meant she hadn’t been institutionalized for cutting or overdosing in a couple of years. She took the vial out of her bag, filled the cap with white powder, glanced around the room before she lifted it to her nostril and inhaled.
“Cocaine and vodka part of the regimen?”
“So judgmental, Keye.” She swirled the martini glass gently, then sipped it. I smelled the olive juice. Her blue eyes lifted to mine. “It’s really disappointing.”
“You’re not the first bipolar patient to argue against meds.”
“I’m not a fucking patient!” Miki exploded. Heads turned. She set her martini down too hard. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “I’m family, Keye. I mean, what the fuck?”
“It was a valid question, Miki,” I shot back.
“I was a finalist last year, Keye, for a Pulitzer for feature photography. A goddamned Pulitzer. You ever notice how many World Photography Awards I have on my shelves? Some of us can manage our cravings just fine. How about you?”
I felt that knife twist in my gut. “I fought for my addiction too, Miki,” I replied evenly. “For a long time. It didn’t pay off.”
“Someone was in my house when I got home tonight. Can we just focus on that?”
“Tell me what happened,” I said calmly. I wanted the heat to dissipate a little.
She told me about fumbling with her keys at the door, then hearing something and knowing someone was inside the house. The combative demeanor began to peel away. Tears spilled out and ran down pale cheeks. She swiped them away and picked up her martini glass with a shaky hand. “I went to the window off the porch, and I saw him. Inside my house, Keye. He had walked from my front door to the window. And he just stood there looking at me. He made his hand into a pistol like this.” Miki raised her thumb and jutted out her forefinger. “And he squeezed the trigger.” Another tear trickled.
Meet the Author
Amanda Kyle Williams is the author of The Stranger You Seek. Williams is currently at work on the third Keye Street thriller, Don’t Talk to Strangers.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
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When Keye Street's cousin Miki needs help, Keye takes her in (albeit against her better judgement). Miki has been in self-destruct mode for most of her life. She's heard odd noises and feels she's been watched for a few years though all the 911 calls she's made has only resulted in the APD considering Miki a bit of a nutcase. Now there'd been a man. In her house! Miki saw him! Well, yes, she'd been out partying, drinking and, well, whatever - but she heard someone inside and saw his outline in the window! Keye has a friend in the APD and the second book in the Dr Keye Street (ex-FBI behavioral analyst turned PI and occasional police consultant)/Lt Aaron Rauser (APD major crimes) series. Along the way Keye works as a bail bond recovery agent and also takes a job investigating how dry cement mixed with a little chicken feed wound up in an urn (as opposed to a loved one's cremains) in Big Knob, Alabama. Readers of the first book in this series will dive right in. This also works well as a stand alone. There is enough background sprinkled in to flesh out the characters, it is done in a way that doesn't interfere with or slow down the story's progression. Readers are in for another wild ride as Keye pieces together a profile of a killer while dealing with her cousin, mother, the press, sobriety, a questionable crematorium, a few street thugs, Neil and Atlanta's summer weather. The only disappointment this book will bring is that there isn't a book three resting at the top of my 'read me next' pile. Enjoy the book. I won this book on Goodreads.
This book was better than her first if that was possible. You can`t stop reading, I was up till 4am. Everytime you turn around some thing new comes up and you can`t put it down. I can`t wait for her next one
Stranger in the Room is a suspenseful crime novel and the first book I have read by this author. I really enjoyed reading this book as it was very entertaining and the characters felt real. The debut novel by this author was called The Stranger You Seek and this is where the reader is introduced to Keye Streets. I had not read the first book and I didn't really feel that off while reading the second book, there was a lot of mention to what had previously happened to Keye and Rauser so that you can get an idea of what the first book was about. Keye is a recovering alcoholic and she use to work for the FBI but now she is a Private Detective who sometimes helps the APD with cases because her boyfriend Rauser works there as a Lieutenant. You get the feeling that she is not really over what happened to her from the previous book, it was a big case and both her and Rauser were injured. She works with Neil her computer guy and they also take on a little work from Tyrone a bail bondsman. When her cousin Miki calls she really doesn't believer her when she said there was a man in her house. Miki has a really big drug and alcohol problem and it is hard for Keye's to be around her, but she also feels sorry for her. Then things get heated up and she finds out that Miki really does have someone after her and now that some is after Keyes too. Keye's is a strong character with flaws that people can relate too, its nice to have heroines with flaws, but yet still tough. Rauser sounds very handsome and caring. He is older than Keyes, as she teases him about it all the time. He has been a cop for a long time and though I am not sure how long they have been together (I advise reading the first book), they really seem to work well together. They are both emotionally stressed from the previous big case they worked on and they poor a lot of themselves into the cases they work on. Rauser is working on a case involving a teen age all star who was murdered and as things progress they find out that some how is teenage murder and Miki and the things happening with her are linked though it really seems odd. Rauser is very protective of Keyes you can tell her really cares a lot about her and you really just can't help but like him. All the characters in the book even the side characters like Neil and Tyrone are really likable. I am sure that if the author continues books with Keyes that we will get to know the side characters more and they will grow on me even more. The only thing that kept me from giving this book a five star was the fact that it really took me longer than I like to get into a novel. For me it took until they find the body in Miki's house for it to really grab my interest and from then on I was hooked. Because Keyes is a PI and helps Rauser there are a lot of different things going on and it has a lot of side cases that takes you away from the main case and it was okay but sometimes it just feels like to much detail and filler. I can't say I am totally in love with the cover but it does make it look suspenseful. Over all, I really enjoyed this book and will be on the look out for any more books from this author especial if they involve Keye and Rauser. If you are a crime fiction fan then I would suggest this book!
STRANGER IN THE ROOM is one in a mystery series involving Keye Street, PI. The main character at one time worked for the FBI in their behavioral analysis department, but thanks to her drinking, lost the position and is now working as a PI/bounty hunter in the deep south. At this point, Street is a recovering alcoholic with a big chip on her shoulder. If you like Jessie Stone, chances are you will enjoy this mystery series also. Keye is an American of Chinese descent living in Atlanta, Ga with a cat named White Trash. She is far from perfect and at times I just wanted to shake her and tell her to stop her whining and feeling sorry for herself. That is how well written this story is. It manages to capture the readers attention and keep them focused on the pages around them. Although the main focus begins with one serial killer, Keye ends up exposing two different serial murder cases. You never know what is happening until the end sneaks up on you. The author adequately describes the circumstances keeping the reader engaged and focused on where she wants him to be in the story. At one point, you are walking with Keye in the woods and you want to be anywhere except where you are at that moment. Another time, you find yourself laughing when she manages to capture a bail jumper and ends up on you tube. If you like Jessie Stone, definitely give this one a try.
I loved this book. It's a well written, intelligent mystery. The characters are flawed and feel real. I loved the first book in the series and thought this one was even better. I'm looking forward to the third in the series and will buy it as soon as it's released.
Hard to find a really good story and plot. I liked it and I think you will too. New to this author but will be reading more. Kat
I absolutely love the characters in this book, especially Keye. Filled with humor and solving crimes. Quite a mix of emotions. Wish it never ended.
I am impresed with the story line and the characters. Well written and wee worth the time! Downside? There are only 3 books in this series right now!!!! Good stuff!
This is almost a good book, but fails in too many ways to enumerate. First of all, enough with the alcoholic detectives. So tired, so worn. No one at all cares about some disgraced former profiler's sobriety, and what kind of hick town do you think Atlanta is, that the media shouts out that question when first told about a serial killer? Ridiculous. That's another big problem with this book. I get that in the protagonist's head, everything is about her. This would certainly not be the case for the rest of the world, however, and the author doesn't seem to get how unimportant this chick would be to virtually everyone. Most impotant, however, is the pat way the author makes all Keye's wild guesses come absolutely true (profiling is not going to tell you someone definitely has a dog, for example), and always makes her the physical hero in every situation. Honey, you cannot make your heroine a very petite girl and expect us to believe she can flyaround dodging bullets and haul large men to safety. Sbe never actually NEEDS the backup she calls for, pulling a gun she wouldn't even be able to handle out and blowing much larger people away in the middle of a strugggle. Atlanta PD is completely extraneous here; none of them come up with any answers or fight the bad guy, it's all the short girl. And they embrace her help too. Riiiight.
well worth your time, especially if you've read the first in the series.
Kept me guessing all the way through
Off or never got on alcoholic or plain drunk drug taker or binge eater or shopper or dysfunctional family or psycho problems that clog up the story with their angst angst angst worse these are repeated as fill ins with every book color is one thing but am tired of case histories eccentric also goes a long way as a seasoning a pinch rather than a tablespoon give this a borrow not buy as is not a re read
There are a lot of good things to say about Amanda Kyle Williams' books. Her protagonist has depth, sense of humor and a good sense of personal irony and insight. The writing is crisp and engaging, and plot lines are interesting and well executed. My only complaint, and it isn't insignificant, is that I wish she had a better sense, as a white woman writing a person of color character, of racism and race politics. It just isn't okay, for instance, to make her character Keye Street apologize for her reaction to a full on southern racist who treats her with utter disrespect, as though this were some glib 'it takes two to tango' interaction. It was not. Nor is it okay to have her observe that everyone at a ball game is white and then dismiss a patronizing comment from her white boyfriend that he doesn't see race anymore because he's evolved past that, as just his "bad manners" which are more than made up for because he's so dreamy. Seriously? Ms. Williams is going to dig a little deeper to widen her understanding in this area, if as I read, she truly wants to be of support to her Asian-American niece as this young girl brokers her way through racist America. Because this kind of facile, 'we're all one' stuff is not going to be her experience, and this kind of attitude is a real unfortunate sour note in what is otherwise excellent writing.
First and foremost, the author really needs to re-think those super-snarky comments related to real-life people. Every time I came to one of them, I had to restrain my impulse to throw the book across the room. Presumably they’re meant to be funny, but they’re not . . . and they make her seem just plain mean. Keye Street is the central character in “Stranger in the Room.” She’s a flawed and occasionally-funny ex-FBI profiler, currently a private investigator who consults for the Atlanta police. The southern settings are exquisite, perfectly described and one of the highlights of the author’s writing. While I mostly liked the characters, they often had an unfortunate tendency to be one-dimensional and to behave in perfectly predictable ways. Miki wasn’t at all a sympathetic victim, making it difficult to care about the outcome of the story the author wanted to tell. It seemed to be a reasonable assumption that Keye would save the day in the end, but when she did just that, Miki’s response made her so unlikeable that I really didn’t care that she had been rescued. The recovering alcoholic descriptions got very old very fast, mostly because they seemed far too repetitive and just a bit too blatant. The author’s decision to include two major mystery/crime elements is rather baffling. Either one of them alone would have been perfect and the book would have been tighter if the author had chosen just one as her focus and then really delved into it. The mere fact that Keye was involved in both investigations was far too slim a connecting thread to make the two divergent stories dovetail in any meaningful way. The biggest problem I had with the book was that it was far too easy to set it aside in favor of reading something else; I simply didn’t care enough about any of the characters and the telling of the tale wasn’t compelling enough to keep me reading and involved in the story being told.