Get it by Wednesday, July 25
, Order by 12:00 PM Eastern and choose Expedited Shipping at checkout.
Same Day shipping in Manhattan. See Details
“Parks, in her debut novel, has clearly done her research and never disappoints when it comes to crisp dialogue, characterization, or surprising twists and turns.” —Publishers Weekly
A 19th-century conspiracy is about to be shattered by a 21st-century forensic artist.
In 1857, a wagon train in Utah was assaulted by a group of militant Mormons calling themselves the Avenging Angels. One hundred and forty people were murdered, including unarmed men, women, and children. The Mountain Meadows Massacre remains controversial to this day—but the truth may be written on the skulls of the victims.
When renowned forensic artist Gwen Marcey is recruited to reconstruct the faces of recently unearthed victims at Mountain Meadows, she isn’t expecting more than an interesting gig . . . and a break from her own hectic life.
But when Gwen stumbles on the ritualized murder of a young college student, her work on the massacre takes on a terrifying new aspect, and research quickly becomes a race against modern-day fundamentalist terror.
As evidence of a cover-up mounts—a cover-up spanning the entire history of the Mormon church—Gwen finds herself in the crosshairs of a secret society bent on fulfilling prophecy and revenging old wrongs.
Can a forensic artist reconstruct two centuries of suppressed history . . . before it repeats itself?
In A Cry from the Dust, Carrie Stuart Parks utilizes her own background as a celebrated, FBI-trained forensic artist to blend fact and fiction into a stunning mystery.
“Parks’ fast-paced and suspenseful debut novel is an entertaining addition to the inspirational genre. Her writing is polished, and the research behind the novel brings credibility to the story . . . An excellent book that is sure to put Carrie Stuart Parks on readers’ radar.” —RT Book Reviews, 4 stars
“Besides having a resourceful and likeable heroine, the book also features that rarest of characters: a villain you don’t see coming, but whom you hate with relish . . . A Cry from the Dust will keep you hoping, praying and guessing till the end.” —BookPage
“Renowned forensic artist Parks’s action-packed and compelling tale of suspense is haunting in its intensity. Well researched and written in an almost journalistic style, this emotionally charged story is recommended for fans of Ted Dekker, Mary Higgins Clark, and historical suspense.” —Library Journal
“Parks’s real-life career as a forensic artist lends remarkable authenticity to her enthralling novel, A Cry from the Dust. Her work is a fresh new voice in suspense, and I became an instant fan. Highly recommended!” —Colleen Coble, USA TODAY bestselling author of the Hope Beach Series and The View from Rainshadow Bay
About the Author
Carrie Stuart Parks is an ECPA Christy Award and multiple ACFW Carol and Inspy Award–winning author. An internationally known forensic artist, Carrie draws on her extensive experience with actual criminal investigations to write authentic, true-to-life fictional suspense. Carrie lives in Idaho and travels with her husband, Rick, across the US and Canada, teaching courses in forensic art to law enforcement professionals. She has won numerous awards for her fine art and is the author/illustrator of numerous books on drawing and painting. CarrieStuartParks.com, Facebook: CarrieStuartParksAuthor, Twitter: @CarrieParks.
Read an Excerpt
A Cry From The Dust
By Carrie Stuart Parks
Thomas NelsonCopyright © 2014 Carrie Stuart Parks
All rights reserved.
MOUNTAIN MEADOWS, UTAH, PRESENT DAY
"ARE THESE FROM THE THREE BODIES THEY DUG up?" The question came from my right.
The first of the early-afternoon tourists gathered just outside my roped-off work area. More people charged toward me, ignoring glass-fronted display cases holding historical articles and docents in navy jackets hovering nearby.
You can't beat disembodied heads on sculpting stands to draw a crowd.
The open, central structure of the Mountain Meadows Interpretative Center featured towering windows that overlooked the 1857 massacre site. The architect designed the round building to resemble the circled wagons of the murdered pioneers. Exhibits were below the windows or in freestanding showcases, allowing visitors an unobstructed view of the scenery, with directional lighting artfully spotlighting displays. In the center of the room was a rock cairn, representing the hastily dug mass grave where the US Army interred the slaughtered immigrants more than two years after the attack.
A woman in a lime-green blazer with the name of a tour group ushered silver-haired couples past the welcome banner to a tidy grouping on my left. Neatly dressed families with a smattering of dungaree-clad teens joined the spectators and advanced to my cluttered corner.
Out the window I could see another surge of visitors scurry through the late-summer heat from the tour bus parked on the freshly paved lot.
A hint of sweat, deodorant, and aftershave replaced the odor of fresh paint and new carpeting. I double-checked to be sure the two finished, reconstructed skulls faced toward the vacationers. The clay sculptures rested on stands looking like high, three-legged, wooden stools with rotating tops. I'd nicknamed the three Larry, Moe, and Curly. Larry and Moe were complete, resting on shoulders made of wire covered with clay. Once I finished Curly, all three would be cast in bronze for permanent display.
The questions flew at me from all sides. "Who are they?"
"Are real skulls under that clay?"
"Doesn't it bother you to touch them?"
I opened my mouth, but before I could deliver the memorized greeting, the chunky director pushed through the visitors. "Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the Mountain Meadows Interpretative Center. I'm Bentley Evans, the director." He waited a moment for that important piece of information to sink in.
Most of the crowd ignored him and continued to pepper me with questions. "I thought all the bones were busted up."
"I heard Brigham Young was responsible."
That last comment got the attention of two young men in short-sleeved white shirts, black ties, and badges designating them as elders.
Elders? I studied their fresh, adolescent faces. I had older shoes in my closet.
"Ahem, yes, well," Mr. Evans continued. "This is Gwen Marcey, world-renowned forensic artist. She'll explain this project."
He turned toward me, tilted his head back, steepled his hands in front of his mouth, and raised his eyebrows.
His body language screamed arrogance.
A trickle of sweat ran down my back. I could have used a vote of confidence right about now. Sometimes I wished I didn't know so much about nonverbal communication. Remember why you're here. This could open the door to that new position for a regional, interagency forensic artist. It wasn't the title I wanted so much, but a steady paycheck—and the first step toward returning my life to normal. Whatever "normal" was now.
The crowd shifted and rustled like a hayfield stirred by the wind. A new set of tourists joined the throng, bunching together on my right and pushing against the hunter-green velvet ropes.
My heart pounded even faster as I placed the wire-tipped tool on the sculpting stand. Speaking in front of people had never fazed me, but it had been a year since I'd done a presentation. A year since my divorce. A year since I was diagnosed with cancer. Just keep thinking it's like riding a bicycle ...
"So, do you, like, always work on dead bodies?" A shaggy-haired young man in front of me ogled the display.
I breathed easier. A simple question. "Sometimes. These three"—I caught myself before calling them Larry, Moe, and Curly—"are historical cases, so I'm using plaster castings done by a company that specializes in reproductions. The real skulls were reburied with the bodies over there." I pointed to a small cemetery outside. "On forensic cases, I would use the real thing. I also work on court exhibits, crime scene sketching, and composites—"
"But isn't all that stuff done on computers now days?" A young girl snapped a photo of me with her iPhone.
"Well, you know the old saying, 'garbage in, garbage out.'"
"Huh?" She lowered the phone and scrunched her face.
"The idea that computers can replace artists is the same as computers replacing authors because of spell check. You need the knowledge. The computer is just the tool."
"So you still use a pencil?" The girl pointed at my head. "Is that why you have two behind your ear?" Several people chuckled.
"You bet." I self-consciously tugged one out and placed it on my stand. "Anyway, the National Park Service and Mountain Meadows Society hired me to reconstruct the faces of the only three bodies formally buried at the site and recovered intact." I took a deep breath and released it. Outside of the pencils, no one stared at my face or commented on my appearance. I picked up a chunk of clay and began to form an ear.
"Why only three?" one of the young missionaries asked.
Before I could frame my answer, a woman jammed a guidebook under his nose. "Didn't you read this?"
I stiffened. Her sarcastic tone reminded me of my ex-husband. I squeezed the clay ear into a shapeless blob.
"It says right here." She had everyone's rapt attention. "Most of the bodies were chopped up and left out to rot and be eaten by wild animals."
"Ahem, well ..." I cleared my throat. The director's voice echoed in my brain. "There might be people upset about the interpretive center. Mormons who don't believe it really happened, anti-Mormons looking for any excuse to bash the church, descendants of the survivors who think the whole event was buried as a cover-up, Native American activists who are angry that the Indians were blamed for the slaughter, you name it. The Mountain Meadows Massacre is a relatively unknown part of American history. We don't really know how visitors will react to learning about it for the first time. Just remember: remain neutral."
A man in Bermuda shorts standing next to her added, "It was the worst domestic terrorist attack in America."
I dropped the blob of clay. "Well, technically, the Oklahoma City bombing—"
"They blamed the Indians." The woman's voice went up an octave. She looked like a freeze-dried hippie from the sixties, complete with headband holding her long gray hair in place.
I wiped my clay-covered hands on my jeans. "After the—"
"Go ahead: say it." The woman wouldn't give up. "After the massacre."
A young man with a long chin, wearing a yellow CTR wristband and a button-down shirt, now waved a similar guidebook. "That's right. Over one hundred and forty innocent people—"
"Unarmed men, women, and children, brutally slaughtered!" finished a chunky woman spilling out over a too-revealing, sleeveless T-shirt stating as/so.
The protesters surged forward, crunching the blue plastic tarp protecting the carpeting from stray clumps of clay. I moved to the front of my display and tried to speak again. "The—"
A tiny woman in a plain, black dress adorned only with a silver pendant piped in. "The killers were Mormon fanatics calling themselves Avenging Angels."
The voices flew at me like wasps. An older woman with a cane stumbled slightly as Button Down shoved against her. I caught her arm before she could fall and glared at the man. He blinked at me, then slunk off, followed by several fellow agitators.
"Thank you," the woman said. "A most unfortunate individual. Why do you suppose they are so upset? The Mountain Meadows Massacre happened over a hundred and fifty years ago."
"People still fight over the Civil War. I guess anger and revenge don't have a time limit." I was tippy-toeing on the edge of neutrality. Bentley Edwards would have my hide. I glanced around for the man, finally spotting him overseeing the refreshments.
"How did you know what they looked like?" a man on my left asked. A new set of tourists now stood in front of me.
I moved closer to Curly. "Your skin and muscles are on top of your bones, so bones are the foundation. If you feel here"—I placed my finger on the outer edge of my eye socket—"the tissue is very thin and you can easily feel your skull. Here on your cheek"—I poked the spot—"it's very thick."
Half the listeners began touching their faces.
"I cut tissue-depth markers to precise lengths and glue them on the skull. Then I build up the clay." I was probably rubbing clay all over my face so I dropped my hand. "Any more questions?"
"How about the nose? How do you know what that will look like?"
"I measure the nasal spine." I placed my finger at the base of my nose and pushed upward. "You can feel the bottom of it here."
Several people poked at their noses.
"The tip of your nose is three times the length of your nasal spine, and on Caucasians, the width is five millimeters on each side of the nasal aperture."
"Any survivors?" asked a spiky-haired girl with black lipstick.
I nodded toward a nearby display. "Yes. The information about the survivors is over there. Seventeen children were spared, all under the age of eight."
"Why eight?" asked a young man wearing a North Idaho College T-shirt. Numerous other teens, all wearing similar shirts, surrounded him, though most appeared riveted by the electronic devices in their hands. The image of my fourteen-year-old daughter, Aynslee, swam into my mind, and I glanced at my watch. Her classes would be wrapping up for the day. Maybe today she'd talk to me on the phone. She'd refused since I'd sent her to the academy. My eyes burned and my nose threatened to start running.
"Ha!" The left-over hippie woman stepped from behind a post. "The Mormons figured they were too young to remember."
"For crying in a bucket, don't you have somewhere else to go?" I slammed a piece of clay into Curly's cheek. I sighed, then wrinkled my nose at her.
She stuck her tongue out at me.
Well, that was mature. I turned my back on the visitors and concentrated on smoothing the clay.
An overweight man wearing a Hawaiian shirt stretched the barrier around my work area inward, as if to physically intimidate me. I could now easily read the button he wore: No More Mormon Cover-Up!
"I suppose you're one of them," he whispered.
His stale beer breath made me gag. I glanced around. "No," I whispered back, pointing at my reconstructions. "I can't be one of them. They're made of plaster and clay." I checked around again. "They're not real, but I understand there's a huge government cover-up in Nevada. Area 51 ..."
The man reared back, mouth open, giving me one last whiff of bad breath, and waddled away.
I really needed to study the definition of neutral. And the grumpy protesters needed to go home and form a bowling league.
"Nice job," a male voice commented to my left.
I turned. Craig Harnisch, a deputy in my hometown of Ravalli County, Montana, stood next to me. I'd worked with him on numerous cases over the years. "Hey there, stranger! You're a few miles from home."
"Hey, back. I have family not far away in St. George. Thought I'd drop by and see what Ravalli County's favorite forensic artist was up to. Heard about the preview opening from my in-laws."
"We actually open in a week and a half or so. A bunch of poo-bahs and folks with deep pockets wanted to see everything before the opening. Director Edwards figured the visitors wouldn't mind using temporary vending machines and Porta Potties to catch a preview of the new center. Thought it would bring extra publicity. Bet he didn't count on the protester cartel."
"I liked your snarky comeback," Craig said.
"It'll probably buy me a formal reprimand." I picked up a dab of clay. "I'm supposed to stick with the scripted answers."
A flat, slightly nasally female voice announced through the loudspeakers, "Refreshments are being served by the north wall." The ever-hungry teens drifted toward the offering of free food while the adults continued to admire the displays.
I noticed Button Down, Hippie Lady, Chunky Woman, and Black Dress all gathered around Beer Breath, listening intently. Their body language indicated he was their leader. "Craig, is there a chance these people"—I jerked my head at the group—"could be professional agitators?"
Craig turned to look in the same direction. "You think someone could be paying them to cause problems?"
"Yeah, I do. Director Edwards said resurrecting the past like this might stir up trouble. And, well, technically, there was a cover-up. Of sorts."
"What do you mean?"
I checked to be sure the director was out of earshot. "Back in 1999, a backhoe was digging some footings for a new monument and accidentally scooped up the remains of at least twenty-nine bodies. Under Utah law, it's a felony to rebury any human remains discovered on private land without a scientific study, so a forensic anthropologist started to examine some of the bones. She'd just started to report on the brutal attack"—I moved closer and lowered my voice—"and stated that white men, not the Paiute Indians, committed the massacre. But before the study was completed, the governor, a descendant of one of the Mountain Meadows killers, demanded the bones be reburied and all research stopped. The families were furious."
"Okay. What's your point?"
"Just look at the people causing the uproar." I nodded in their direction.
"I am. So?"
"So, Director Edwards mentioned the people who might be upset by this center: Mormons, anti-Mormons, Native Americans, and families related to those killed."
"That group is totally mismatched."
"And you can tell this because ...?"
"Look at them. The woman in the black dress is wearing a pendant with a sego lily, the symbol of the LDS Relief Society. And the man in the button-down shirt has a CTR—Choose the Right—wristband. That's the Mormon version of 'What Would Jesus Do?'"
"All you've proven is that you're observant, which I already knew."
"I'm not done. The guy in the Hawaiian shirt was drinking. Mormons don't drink. And the chunky lady's wearing a T-shirt with a shortened form of 'as above, so below,' a Wicca saying that everything is balanced. Except for that guidebook and Cover-Up buttons, they have nothing in common. They sound like they're reading from a script. And they just seem ... wrong."
"Ah, yes, your famous antenna." Craig's mouth twisted into a skeptical grin. "You're always analyzing. You let things get to you. Finish your work and hurry back home. I've got a cold case I want you to look at."
"Does Ravalli County finally have the money to pay me?"
"Are you kidding? You'll get your usual reserve deputy salary."
"It's a voluntary position."
"I need a paying job now. Child support doesn't stretch very far."
"Talk to the sheriff." He grinned. "In the meantime, I want to walk around a bit more."
Sure. See you.
A few families and the Cover-Up crowd returned and surrounded me. I looked again for the director and spotted him eating a piece of cake by the refreshment table. Maybe it was time I took a coffee break. I could slink out of sight and let someone else be neutral to the Cover-Up crew. And lose my job because I was hiding.
"What happened to the children?" A young woman hugged her baby tighter.
"I'll tell you what happened," a grizzle-haired man wearing biker gear answered. "The killers parceled them out to Mormon families and tried to get the government to pay 'em to get the kids back."
Excerpted from A Cry From The Dust by Carrie Stuart Parks. Copyright © 2014 Carrie Stuart Parks. Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
I flew this release in about a day. It feels a bit like Brandilyn Collins' Hidden Faces series with a cool historical twist. The pacing was really good and the writing intriguing. There were enough twists to keep me going -- and I couldn't anticipate them all. I love it when that happens! I commend it to you if you enjoy suspense novels with a flawed and believable protagonist. The supporting cast was interesting, and I'm already looking forward to the next book in the series.
It feels wrong to describe a murder mystery as fun to read, but this one is! I put some responsibilities on hold while I felt compelled to keep reading - I did not want to wait until later to find out what happened next - and then after that - and then after that, and that and . . . "Engrossed" is the correct adjective for me during this reading. Between surprises, twists and turns, and relating to the protaganist as she tries to hide those embarrassing hotflashes that happen at the most inopportune times, I thoroughly enjoyed this read and am grateful for the wild ride it took me on!
Loved the characters, the stories,setting. Looking forward to reading more.
You need to know something about this amazing author. She is authentic; a real life professional forensic artist and natural teacher who brings humour, humility, genuine kindness and the honest intentions for the best for everyone she meets in this life. Her imagination is boundless. She is a natural story teller. You will be held in rapt attention as you fly through the fast paced stories Carrie creates. The courageous best in all of us will be awakened and hook the reader from the first chapter on. In witnessing the strength of Gwen's character, we are all inspired to bettering ourselves and the world around us. This is a great and fun leap into the world of forensic art. I highly recommend this author's work.
Both history and mystery, the author puts it all together into the best I've read in sometime.
A Cry From The Dust is a fast paced suspense novel with a great deal of mysterious activities involving the traditions and secrecy practiced by cultish offshoots of the Mormon church. Gwen Marcey has gotten herself into some bizarre situations where she doesn't know who she can trust. Carrie Stuart Parks knows how to spin a spine-tingling, suspense-filled novel of unexpected developments. This is a book that is extremely difficult to put down. Just as you think you have things figured out there's a new twist to the plot to throw you off course. Characters are believable and strongly comprised. I highly recommend this unpredictable novel. Prepare yourself for a roller coaster ride!
Fabulous in every way!!!
To say this book is amazing would be an understatement. It is hard for me to believe that this was the first book penned by Ms. Parks. She wrote Gwen Marcey as such a super strong heroine that it was incredible. I didn’t want to believe the bad guy was the bad guy, but this story was so cleverly and uniquely written it was not only believable, but you could actually see as the story neared the end what a perfect choice for the bad person was in A Cry in the Dust. I’m ready for the second book in the Gwen Marcey Series.
I wish I could say I liked this book a lot, but I found it "Good" but not excellent. What I DID find great about the story was that the author created a heroine that didn't fit the typical beautiful young woman description. Instead Gwen Marcey was a woman who was just getting her strength back after going through grueling chemo--a double mastectomy, losing her hair, suffering chemo-induced menopause with hot flashes and all the indignities that come with getting through a tough battle with the disease. In addition, she is still struggling with the emotional pain following a painful divorce, has a daughter that's going through her own pain from the divorce and acting out. I really liked that she gave her lead character a lot of problems. I also liked the subject matter and it made me want to delve more into the Mountain Meadow Massacre. My only disappointment with the novel was in that some of the characters' motivations and behaviors didn't seem plausible. Her ex-husband agrees to upset his plans and make this long journey way out of his way??? And nobody, except Gwen, seemed too concerned that their lives were in jeopardy? Not real to me? Everyone seemed just too easy going about things.Not a bad read--just not a great one.
Riveting Suspense - Engaging Humor - Brilliant Writing I just spent an enjoyable three days stealing every excess moment to absorb Carrie Stuart Parks's debut novel. This story would make an EXCELLENT movie! Gwen Marcey has had it all:, success, failure, disease, dismal humiliation, and now murder and destruction following her. Her best friend, Beth, always says, "Everything happens for a reason," but how can there be any benefit in Gwen's sanity being questioned, her co-worker murdered, her work decimated? Not to mention the other dysfunctional elements of her life like her family and need for secure, paid employment. Gwen's job as a forensic artist places her at the site of an 140-year-old tragic massacre hugging the edges of Mormon history. Something she's doing—something she's recreating—is stirring up a hatred strong enough to kill. The ritualistic murders of a young college student and an aging security guard baffle her. Then terror sets in when she realizes she's been targeted. Is she going to be the next victim, or is something more sinister in the works? I loved this book. It just soared to the top of my all-time-best list! I'd like to say my favorite element is the main character. Usually, that's true, and Gwen was no exception. A pretty, quirky lady, near or at middle age with a fetish for caffeine, a huge dog, and a quick wit. She was hysterical even in the midst of the most intense moments. At one point she thinks, "They shouldn't mess with a divorced, menopausal, bald woman in a bad mood." Ha. Had me in full-belly laugh more than once! She's smart, skilled, and has a masterful memory. A Holmes with a heart, so to speak. But my favorite element was the plot in this novel. Non-stop suspense, increasing tension, mammoth stakes, disastrous repercussions. Just as I felt the relief of a completed issue, I'd near the end of the scene and get a new revelation. A shocker that would make me lower the book for a second and give a "Wow." This happened over and over throughout the story. In addition, for the first time in a long time, I was completely surprised by the ultimate revelation. Here, I thought I had the resolution well in hand. I had expectations of who and what and a twist. Only to find I was completely wrong. I mean totally! But I delighted in the error! The story was that much sweeter since I hadn't anticipated the ending! If you're a fan of suspense, don't miss this book! And did I mention that Frank Peretti, one of the pioneers of Christian suspense, worked with Carrie Stuart Parks as she developed A Cry from the Dust? I'm looking forward to the next Gwen Marcey suspense!
Carrie Stuart Parks in her new book, “A Cry from the Dust” Book One in the Gwen Marcey series published by Thomas Nelson introduces us to Gwen Marcey. From the back cover: In the shadow of the Mormon church, a 19th-century conspiracy is about to be shattered by a 21st-century forensic artist. In 1857, a wagon train in Utah was assaulted by a group of militant Mormons calling themselves the Avenging Angels. One hundred and forty people were murdered, including unarmed men, women, and children. The Mountain Meadows Massacre remains controversial to this day–but the truth may be written on the skulls of the victims. When renowned forensic artist Gwen Marcey is recruited to reconstruct the faces of recently unearthed victims at Mountain Meadows, she isn’t expecting more than an interesting gig . . . and a break from her own hectic life. But when Gwen stumbles on the ritualized murder of a young college student, her work on the massacre takes on a terrifying new aspect, and research quickly becomes a race against modern-day fundamentalist terror. As evidence of a cover-up mounts–a cover-up spanning the entire history of the Mormon church–Gwen finds herself in the crosshairs of a secret society bent on fulfilling prophecy and revenging old wrongs. Can a forensic artist reconstruct two centuries of suppressed history . . . before it repeats itself? In A Cry from the Dust, Carrie Stuart Parks utilizes her own background as a celebrated, FBI-trained forensic artist to blend fact and fiction into a stunning mystery. I think that one of the most difficult jobs out there is that involving forensics. I mean really you start out with practically nothing and you have to reconstruct faces or crime scenes. I suppose it takes a certain kind of individual to make this work. Certainly Gwen Marcey is one of those individuals. She starts out just trying to recreate what may have happened in 1857 and then gets pulled in to a contemporary murder which may connect to a secret society. This is hot stuff. “A Cry from the Dust” is a thriller, which simply means that Gwen is in grave danger from, practically, the beginning. Ms. Parks gives us a really complex mystery and sections of story that will chill you. “A Cry from the Dust” is full of twists and turns, with a few red herrings thrown in just to cause confusion. Gwen Marcey is warm and likable and we get engaged in her life. This is an exciting book, extremely well paced and suspenseful. I am so looking forward to more Gwen Marcey stories. Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book for free from Thomas Nelson. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255: “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”
After reading rave reviews about "A Cry from the Dust," I decided to give it a try. This debut novel by Carrie Stuart Parks is about a woman by the name of Gwen Marcey. Gwen, a forensic artist, is in the midst of trying to pick up her life again after battling cancer and a recent divorce which left her estranged from her daughter and penniless. In her desperation, she takes a job in Utah at The Mountain Meadows Interpretive Center where she is in charge of reconstructing faces from an 1857 massacre site; something the Mormon extremists known as the Avenging Angels have been held responsible for. The Center assigns Gwen the task of reconstructing three of the faces of survivors. As she nears the completion of her reconstructions, a woman visiting the center faints as she sees Gwen's work. Shortly after, Gwen discovers the body of this young woman at a nearby hotel. She turns out to be a young college student with a stolen identity. Given her expertise, she is called in as a forensic artist on the case. As the case proceeds, she quickly realizes the undeniable resemblance between one of her reconstructions and the death mask of Joseph Smith. By this point, she has become the next target of the remaining Avenging Angels who believe she is in possession of something iconic that was last in Smith's possession. As the story builds, Gwen must attempt to recount Mormon history, eventually leading her to a discovery of secret societies, angry people, and more bodies. In a race against time, she is forced to stop the next modern-day massacre. This was an incredibly well-crafted novel with some historical basis. Parks' ability to draw the reader in within the first few pages is remarkable, and I had a difficult time putting this book down. I loved that Gwen was a character based on the author, who also fought breast cancer, worked as a forensic artist, and owned a Great Pyrenees. This is probably why she was such a likable character. I would highly recommend this book, especially if you are into crime and mystery novels. Personally, it's finding a book like this every so often that reminds me how much I love to read and why.