From the acclaimed author of the “ripping good” (The New York Times) debut novel Three Graves Full comes a new thriller hailed as “superb…will entrance readers from page one. Sly, poignant, and beautifully written” (Library Journal, starred review).
Dee Aldrich rebelled against her off-center upbringing when she married the most conventional man she could imagine: Patrick, her college sweetheart. But now, years later, her marriage is falling apart and she’s starting to believe that her husband has his eye on a new life...a life without her, one way or another.
Haunted by memories of her late mother Annette, a former covert operations asset, Dee reaches back into her childhood to resurrect her mother’s lessons and the “spy games” they played together, in which Dee learned memory tricks and, most importantly, how and when to lie. But just as she begins determining the course of the future, she makes a discovery that will change her life: her mother left her a lot of money and her own husband seems to know more about it than Dee does. Now, before it’s too late, she must investigate her suspicions and untangle conspiracy from coincidence, using her mother’s advice to steer her through the blind spots. The trick, in the end, will be in deciding if a “normal life” is really what she wants at all.
With pulse-pounding prose and atmospheric settings, Monday’s Lie is a thriller that delivers more of the “Hitchcockian menace” (Peter Straub) that made Three Graves Full a critical hit. For fans of the Coen brothers or Gillian Flynn, this is a book you won’t want to miss.
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About the Author
Read an Excerpt
It’s Friday, but Monday’s lie made today what it is. I don’t quite recognize myself this afternoon. But no matter what happens today, at least I’ll always know it went down on a Friday.
I don’t know why I even think of things this way, but I always do. Milestones of varying weight have always been marked in my mind with the day of the week. I broke my wrist when Danny Gardner pulled my chair out from under me on a Tuesday in the second grade. When we were both just twenty-two years old, Patrick proposed to me on a Wednesday, which was weird. I had always thought those kinds of things happened only on Saturdays. My mother left for more than seven months in the middle of one Friday night, just after my thirteenth birthday. She came home on a Friday as well. And years later, she died on a Sunday.
Tabbing events with the day of the week is an utterly useless filing system, but my brain has always done it that way. I can’t seem to make it stop.
So even though today is Friday, Monday was the day to mark. On Monday I knew for certain that my marriage was—at the very least—over. And at the very most it was . . . Well, I’d soon find out.
I’m driving to a place I’ve never been, to talk to a man I’ve never met, and all of it to put an end to what I’ve almost worked out is wrong with my life.
• • •
My mother always said never to keep a man for more years than you could count on your fingers. Of course, that was a faster-paced game for her than for most people. She’d lost two of her fingers in completely separate escapades. Her long, abbreviated left hand and the mischief glittering in her eyes made the joke all the richer. Everyone’s scars are interesting, but my mother’s always hinted at epic.
She was the reincarnation of Errol Flynn, which meant that she would’ve had to steal his soul well before his death, but that would have been just like her. She wasn’t as beautiful as much as she was dashing, more pirate than princess, an excess of Robin Hood to put the breeches on Maid Marian. I know that she worked for the government at intervals.
Most people never knew a thing about my mother or her work and never realized the spectacular lack of specifics. She could talk all around it in lively stories without ever revealing a single thing about the true nature of her business. To this day, even I know very little of her global worth. But there was always something. Her gravity bent light like a neutron star. She breathed in the mundane and exhaled ozone. She baked cookies the other PTA mothers were reluctant to eat without being able to say exactly why.
Someone with the authority to do so called her away twice while we were growing up—the longest stretch being for that seven months when I was thirteen. But for the longest time she was mostly just our mother and was as competent at that as she was at everything else. If suburban ease chafed at all, she never let on, and for the majority of our growing up, it was just the three of us—my mother, my little brother, Simon, and me. Occasionally there was an extra jacket, leather or sometimes tweed, on the hall tree for a season, or a thick-banded diver’s watch next to her delicate bracelet one on the dresser.
Her men never left in tears. But they always left.
Mine, however, was still around, and I was fast running out of fingers to count the years on.
You can buy more advantage with audacity than you can with a million bucks. Hello, Mama. I can hear her in my mind’s ear now as clearly as if she were right beside me, as if she hasn’t been dead for more than three years. I spur down the gas pedal, launching my car down a road that matches an unfamiliar blue line scrolling out on the GPS screen toward Carlisle Inc., a company that, among other things, builds aluminum storage and warehouse facilities. It’s almost four o’clock, and if the workweek ends, so do my chances. I need to get there before they all go home.
I’m looking for a man, or more generally for a blue sedan that has been menacing me in its mild insistence on turning up too often in my rearview mirror of late. If I find the car, I find the man. Then I find out what the hell is going on.
I let urgency trump my fear and let boldness chew my common sense to silence. If I can put a gag on anything that feels like wisdom, I’m hoping that all I’ll have left is courage.
The address I’ve entered puts my destination in an old industrial park out past the county line. I’ve never been out this way. It will take most of an hour to get there, and I think there’s a good chance my mother and I will talk in my head the whole way. It’s the conversation I always assumed she’d wanted, the one where I ask how I can be more like her. But in the answers I sense waiting for me over the ridge and the next one and the one after that, in the responses I’m assigning to her, I realize it’s not that at all. It never had been. She’d only wanted me to know her.
I couldn’t have the dates and times and places of so much of her life. Those were classified. But in her games and in her axioms, she’d been more candid with her soul than anyone else I’d ever known. She’d been so generous with who she really was that she is somehow still with me, even now, reminding me of what I learned from her and advising me on what I am about to do next.
• • •
I don’t believe my mother, Annette Vess, thought that mothering and training were the same thing exactly, but a blurred line stitched the two ideas into our security blankets from infancy. In the end, I did feel loved, but also more than a little automated.
It had been a game with her when we were little. She’d give us points for noticing things. We’d stand in the checkout line at the supermarket, and on the way to the car she might say, “Okay, Plucky and Sixes”—Simon was “Sixes” by virtue of his extraordinary penchant for rolling them in dice games—“heads up! We’re playing. Five points: What was the man two places behind us in line wearing?”
“A tan sweater,” I’d say.
“Black shoes with tassels,” Simon would crow.
“Five bonus points for each item in his basket you can name.”
“Vanilla ice cream.”
“Three cans of tuna. Do I get fifteen points for that one?”
Whoever had earned the most points at the end of whatever period she’d set would get signed out of school on some random afternoon for a trip to the ice-cream parlor or the zoo. She could keep an accurate scoreboard in her head for weeks.
As we grew older, the games advanced in their cunning. It was fun at the time, bonding the three of us together against an unnamed Them. But it was impossible to unlearn.
• • •
As for where the games came from and her hobby that was more like a mission to polish our instincts and reaction times, it all started with Paul Rowland. How she got snagged into this web in the first place was one of his favorite stories. Ultimately my mother made a career of, from all I could tell, nothing but sticky intrigue, knowing looks, and heavy, unfinished sentences between her and Paul. I remember hearing the story for the first time once when we had company over.
As usual, they were people I didn’t know and likely wouldn’t see again. My mother was unreadable, leaning back into the sofa cushions, watching Paul sidelong as he recounted to the group the first time he’d met her. Her eyes flashed onto mine. I was eight years old and all elbows and knees when it came to stealth. I’d crammed myself into a corner of the front hallway for its acoustics, half-turned away, miming devotion to my toys. I watched my mother measure the angle from Paul’s vantage point to my hideaway, but I had already calculated it. Even when he leaned in to tap the ash from his cigarette, I still fell outside his field of vision.
My mother tracked from my eyes to the doll in my hands, a ruin-haired thing I hadn’t touched in a year. We locked eyes again, but she drifted her attention to her guests with the pretense that she hadn’t really seen me. She let me stay, but more important, she made sure that I knew she’d let me stay. The transaction tingled at the base of my skull.
Paul was too beefy for me to consider nice looking. I had only just begun to check men for handsomeness, and at the time, it was always how they stacked up against my music teacher. Mr. Noakes was narrow, with longish, dark blond hair that swept his collar. He waved like seaweed in the ocean, eyes closed over a sweet, crooked smile, when he set us playing on our recorders, woodblocks, and maracas. I had decided I was one of his favorites since I’d scored a coveted assignment to the ranks of the new xylophones the school had just acquired to Mr. Noakes’s pride and delight.
Ever on the lookout to shrink Paul in my opinion, I saw him as the anti–Mr. Noakes: too thick even if he was nowhere near fat; too old-fashioned with dark, tightly trimmed hair held down with a sheen of styling wax; and I was sure that Paul would only ever sway in an earthquake. He was solid when he stood, feet planted in line with his broad shoulders, and he went just shy of clumping when he walked.
Because of Paul Rowland, for the entirety of my life I never met a mustache I liked.
“So I get to the door,” Paul said, “and there’s this skinny little girl with wet-noodle posture, droopy hair, and not a damned thing going on behind her eyes. So, I ask this kid, I say, ‘I’m with the Veterans of Foreign Wars membership committee, and I’m looking for Carl Cowling.’ And she says . . .” Paul laughed into his pause. “Go on, Annette. I can’t do the accent like you did.”
My mother let her face fall slack and somehow snuffed the lasers out of her eyes. “Uncle Carl ain’t here. I ain’t seen ’im in a coon’s age.”
I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles that such a sound could never have come from my mother, but it slid up and out of her throat with the casual music of mountain mine country, utterly natural and pleasant in the way that things can be only when they fit just right.
Paul sniffled over his mirth. “Oh, she played me, I tell you. She had me going with this story of how there’d been somebody else poking around for her uncle earlier that very same day, which, of course, got my radar buzzing. I mean, who the hell else was hot on Carl Cowling besides me? I had to know. I was half on my way to giving her my name, rank, and serial number while Cowling slipped out the back and right off into the sunset, while this one”—Paul cocked his thumb at my mother—“led me around by the nose.
“Then she finally drops the accent and the dim stare and right before my eyes turns all hard and real pretty like some damned magic trick and says, ‘Look, Carl lit out of here half a minute after you rang the bell, G-man. He said he’d give me five dollars if I kept you busy. He said you were a debt collector. Then you say you’re from the VFW. Nobody tells me anything.’
“?‘G-man? Why do you think I work for the government?’?” Paul said he’d asked her.
“?‘Well, you’re not a cop.’
“?‘I do. You asked me if the men who had already been here were cops. If you were a cop, you would know.’
Paul crowed with laughter ahead of his own, or, more accurately, my mother’s own, punch line. “This one, she just laughed at me. Right in my face, she did.
“?‘Bingo,’ she says. ‘And if I didn’t know that you weren’t a cop before, I surely know it now. Not necessarily. Jeez, mister. So that leaves mob or government, and pardon me for saying so, but you’re not dressed nice enough to be mob.’
“?‘You shouldn’t believe everything you see in the movies, kid.’
“?‘Words to live by, I’m sure. Thanks for the tip.’
“That’s what she says to me! ‘Thanks for the tip,’?” Paul wheezed.
“Anyway.” He swatted the air after catching up with his own amusement. “That whole Cowling business turned out not to be the leg up and big promotion I had hoped it would be, but discovering the smartest skirt this side of the Berlin Wall? That took all the sting right out of losing that little fish.”
“It only took you three more years to bring me into the fold,” my mother replied.
“It was worth the wait. Best damned liar I ever met.”
Later, when they had all left, I braved the subject that had kept my mind stuck in the afternoon’s eavesdropping. “Mama, why does Uncle Paul think it’s good to lie?”
The question dog-eared the moment in time. A thrill sped through me. I’d never asked her anything important before. I’d never pitted her against my private opinion of Paul.
She had always been open and matter-of-fact about everything, never fatigued by any endless volley of curiosity that my brother and I had pummeled her with. But this question seemed even bolder out loud than it had sounded in my head. It hung in the air between us, and for the first time I knew that pricking someone with a question could be more important than whatever answer they might come up with. For the first time, I knew I might have nudged her onto her back foot.
She watched me balance up the weight of the moment. “Five points for you, Plucky. That’s a very smart question.” She turned to the mirror and swiped a dollop of cold cream over each eye. It looked like white frosting going on, but darkened to gray sludge with each swirling pass of her fingertips. “You know how they say, ‘Honesty is the best policy’?”
She continued to massage her mascara into the cream. “If you’re still there, Plucky, I can’t hear your brains rattling. Speak up!” She laughed as she groped for a tissue.
“Yes, I’m here.” I slid the box of Kleenex under her searching hand and knew for sure that she wasn’t put off by my question. And then it was another first for me to find that, as relieved as I was that she wasn’t mad at me, I wasn’t entirely pleased at my inability to rattle her.
“Well, for a change, the great nameless, faceless they is absolutely right.” She wiped her eyes bright. What she lost in wattage without her makeup, she gained in youth. “Honesty is most certainly the best policy.”
Then she turned and took my hands. From the corner of my eye, I could see our profiles in the mirror, her bending down to me, the towel turban making her taller than ever.
“But they make it sound so simple. And the biggest, meanest trick in all the world is how complicated they have made things. They know, even as they say it, that the best policy doesn’t always get the job done. Honesty is like your best shoes.” This was especially relevant, as she well knew, because I kept trying to convince my mother to let me wear my white, patent leather Mary Janes with everything, most recently my bathing suit. “Your best shoes make you feel good and they make you look good, but there are some jobs that just aren’t suited to them.”
“Mama, do you lie to do your job?”
Not a ripple in her composure, she smiled into my eyes. “Sometimes.”
The sapling of my eight-year-old integrity quivered. “Do you lie to me?”
“Not ever if I can help it.”
“But they say you shouldn’t lie!”
“Ahhh. There they go again, huh?” My mother kissed the backs of my hands. “Tell me. Do they know your favorite color?”
I shook my head.
“Do they know that you like the side and bottom crusts cut off your sandwiches, but that you like me to leave the top one on?”
“Do they love you as much as I do?”
“Do they build the world you live in?”
Finally, a flinch from her; from somewhere deep in her eyes it shuddered and drew tears in its wake. “Two points for you, my darling, for stopping to think on that one.” But she did not tremble. Her hands were calm and she took my face between their warmth. She pressed her lips hard against my forehead. She hugged me to her, and the blue chenille smelled of Chanel No. 5. “You’re such a bright girl, Plucky,” she whispered into my hair.
She pulled back. “They do indeed build the world. So do listen when they say things. Hear what they say and weigh it carefully. But when you hear me, remember that I never told you not to lie, baby girl.” She checked to see that it had sunk in. “I’ll only warn you to hate it.”
Reading Group Guide
This reading group guide for Monday’s Lie includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Dee Aldrich and her brother, Simon, grew up with the trappings of a conventional suburban household. In reality, however, their childhood was anything but normal. Raised by a mother, Annette, who moonlighted as a covert operative for a clandestine government agency, Dee and Simon traded board games for spy games and endured Annette’s unexplained absences for weeks or months at a time.
As an adult, Dee rebelled against her unusual upbringing by marrying her cookie-cutter college boyfriend and settling for a stable office job. Later she is shocked to discover that her husband is not who he says he is, and that the normal life she’s so carefully constructed is starting to crumble. Now, years after her mother’s death, Dee finds herself relying on Annette’s lessons in investigation, deception, and—most importantly—survival.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. The book opens with the scene of Annette leaving for the Long Trip. How did the Long Trip change Dee and pave the way for Monday's Lie?
2. Dee recalls several of Annette’s aphorisms throughout the novel, from “You can buy more advantage with audacity than you can with a million bucks” (p. 9) to “Don’t be stupid. Under the guillotine, you’re only one hundred percent sure the blade has dropped when your severed head is staring back at its stump” (p. 187). Did any one in particular resonate with you, and why?
3. On page 16 Annette tells her children, “I never told you not to lie, baby girl. . . . I’ll only warn you to hate it.” The pervasiveness of deception is a major theme in Monday’s Lie; in fact, all of the characters could be considered liars. In your opinion, what does the novel say about lying? Is lying immoral, or is it a necessary evil?
4. Regarding the falling out with her sister, Annette tells her children, “The very worst regrets are the things you couldn’t have handled any other way” (p. 51). Do you agree with this statement? Have you ever regretted a decision that you would make again if given the chance?
5. Annette’s legacy is both a blessing and a curse for Dee. In what ways does Annette empower and/or inhibit her from beyond the grave? Discuss your favorite scene where Dee’s actions reflect her mother’s influence.
6. When Dee finds out about Angela shortly after Patrick discovers she’s still on birth control, Dee thinks, “I couldn’t tell which one of us was worse” (p. 97). At this point in the novel, who did you think was more forgivable? How would you weigh Dee’s transgression against Patrick’s?
7. Throughout the novel, Dee offers up several explanations for not wanting to get pregnant. Ultimately, Patrick tells her, “Deep down you know those pills weren’t even about me. You knew not to trust your own body with any more life” (p. 263). Do you agree with this statement? Why do you think Dee didn’t want to have a child?
8. How did your impression of Patrick evolve over the course of the novel? Were you surprised to discover that he had planned Dee’s murder? Why or why not?
9. On page 146 Mason writes, “[F]or all the times we had spoken of our mother’s work, those were the only times I could remember Simon not seeming quite Simon-like to me. He had a wall around what he felt about her and how he regarded the off-center strangeness of our plain-picture upbringing.” How did you interpret this statement when you first read it, and what was your reaction when you found out that Simon was working with Paul? Were you surprised?
10. During her final showdown with Patrick, Dee thinks, “I am the only one who knows that neither of us has ever existed. Not the us we’ve shown to the world, or to each other” (p. 254). Who do you think the “real” Dee is? In what ways has she misrepresented her true self?
11. “Life is choices. And sometimes other people’s choices even more than your own” (p. 22). Annette’s statement in this early scene resonates throughout the novel. How do the choices of others impact the course of Dee’s life?
12. What do you think happens beyond the ending of the book? What do you want Dee to do?
13. Why do you think Mason chose the Napoléon quote for the novel’s epigraph? Has your interpretation of this quote changed now that you’ve finished the book? Do you think Monday’s Lie supports or disputes Napoléon’s words?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. Watch a movie about espionage and discuss the portrayal of that spy’s personal life in the film with that of Monday’s Lie. Which do you feel is more realistic?
2. Cast the film version of Monday’s Lie. Which actors would you want to play the main characters, and why?
3. Read Jamie Mason’s first book, Three Graves Full. Discuss which novel was your favorite, and why.
4. Find out more about Mason by following her on Facebook at facebook.com/JamieMason.writer, on Twitter at @Jamiemason , or by visiting her website at www.jamie-mason.com.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Given To Me For An Honest Review Monday's Lie by Jamie Mason is a must read. It will grab and hold you from page one then the pages will turn and turn and turn some more until the last page. The twists and turns keep you on your toes and you will wonder if you really read what you read. Dee had a very different upbringing than most children. Her mother was a spy and taught the kids the basics. Dee wanted a different life so she married her college boyfriend. Years later the marriage is basically over. Patrick doesn't want a divorce, he wants Dee dead. Will Dee discover what Parick is planning before it's too late? Will the ending be what you expect? This book is a real must read. You will not regret buying it, reading it and loving what you read. I gave it 5 stars but it clearly deserves many more than that. It would make a great gift and would look good on your bookshelf. I highly recommend it for everyone. I look for more of those great ones from Jamie Mason.
Monday's Lie by Jamie Mason A young woman is facing danger but her mother had trained her to handle everything with knowledge and foresight. Dee Aldrich wants to live a normal life, but it seems that things are just off the mark. She has been married fifteen years. No matter how assured she is that her life is normal she cannot bring herself to bear her husband children. She has always felt something was off but she could never put her finger on it. Everything seems to come to a head on Monday, or at least that is how her minds organize events by days of the week. She can remember so many things; she observes many things more than most people. Her mother played games, taught her children to pay attention, to find differences and to protect them. Despite how much she knows she does not know everything about her mysterious exotic mother. This book looks into the legacy of family, and how a young woman learns the extraordinary influence her mother had on her life. All that she was trained for, all that she knows protect her in this dynamic time. She is lost in the memories of her mother, and her childhood where she draws her strength. Its a look at how we see our self, and how the world sees us.
Monday’s Lie is suspenseful, but it’s more introspective than Ms. Mason's first book, and not funny, which I was hoping for. It juxtaposes Dee’s childhood with her mother against her present with her husband and brother (who is her best friend). After all, who else can understand her, but the man who grew up playing spy games with their mother, Annette? As Dee grew older, she realized Annette was not just an operative, but a very well-regarded one. Had I not expected a book with both suspense and laugh-out-loud humor, this would have been a great book. It did have some rather humorous parts as Dee came to the conclusion she was being pursued and used her mother’s spy-craft to turn the tables on her pursuer. It did suck me in and keep me burning through the pages.
I'm developing a slight infatuation for a woman named Jamie Mason. And, no, you can't have her, I saw her first. This might be the best novel I've read this year, and every last one of you bastards should go out and read it for yourselves. Why? You might ask. Well, if you're not just going to take me at my word and stop at third, then let's delve a little deeper, shall we. Each word felt as though it was handcrafted and mulled over for hours. If that's the case, then I'm probably going to cry a little, because that means I'm going to have to wait ten years until her next masterpiece, and in the meantime the market is going to be flooded with plenty of crap, unless she started her novel writing days at puberty, and in that case, I may only have to wait a couple more years while she gives her next work a bit more polish and shine and then ceremoniously flings it upon the world with much pomp and circumstance and even a few trumpets and trombones. And if that's indeed the case, I shall cry a little less. That's not enough, you say. You're all a bunch of heathens. Okay, there's more. She totally reinvented herself from her debut novel to this one. It's an entirely different tale filled with entirely different characters in an entirely different setting, and it ratcheted up the suspense with such subtlety and ease that I'd need a Venn diagram to plot it all out, and frankly, I just don't have the time for plot charts and graphs. But if that's your thing, then have at it, sister, I won't stop you. There is no sophomoric slump. No second novel blues. Instead, she's painted a world filled with orange and red. MONDAY'S LIE is better than her first by a country mile, and with THREE GRAVES FULL, she really showcased her writing chops, and offered up plenty of talent. But this time she took it to a whole nother level. She proved she's a novel slinging badass in her DKNY jeans. Ms. Mason, you have fair warning that I am now going to stalk your pretty ass. Not the kind that leads to being led away in handcuffs, but the kind that turns me into a lifelong, loyal reader, or as Stephen King says, "Constant reader." Where I shall pronounce from the mountaintop at all who I deem worthy to go out and procure a small piece of Jamie Mason for themselves at your nearest bookstore or online establishment. Trust me, you'll thank me later. I received this ARC for free at Bouchercon. Robert Downs Author of Falling Immortality and Graceful Immortality
What a terrific book! Twists & turns that I NEVER saw coming. I'm adding Jamie Mason to my "must read" list of authors!
Too much rambling. Ok story like but it went on and on. A little over 200 pages. I was unimpressed
Monday's Lie is a standalone thriller written by Jamie Mason. One thing that caught my eye while reading the synopsis for this book was Ms. Mason's reported delivery of "Hitchcockian menace". I grew up watching VHS recordings of Hitchcock movies weekly, if not daily. My mother loved his work, and I soon learned to appreciate his dark suspense as well. So when I saw his style referenced, I knew I had to read this book. I agree that Monday's Lie did carry a bit of a Hitchcock tone, but it manages to remain its very own style which I enjoyed. The female lead: Dee Aldrich grew up with a mother whose line of work closely resembled a 007 operative. I imagine all the real-life secret agents out there have a family somewhere, right? For Dee and her brother, chores and other daily tasks always included some kind of fun but subliminal lesson in observation, awareness, investigation, strategy, etc. I bet Dee had no idea that her mom's parenting style would come in handy one day. Monday's Lie spends the majority of its time with an emphasis on Dee remembering her mother and allowing the reader to view how her mother's parenting style and work impacted Dee throughout her life. Now, at present-day, Dee finds herself in a concerning situation that causes her to pause and question those around her. What is true? What is a lie? Are the people in her life really what she thinks them to be? Fortunately, Dee's spy school memories are resurfacing right when she needs them most. I thought Jamie Mason's writing was stunning in this novel. I immediately fell in love with the beauty of it and I began marking relevant quotes right away. I do want to note though that although Monday's Lie is marketed as a thriller, it spends about eighty percent of the book building up to the “thrilling” climax. In my opinion, it's more literary fiction meets quiet mystery until that point. But at the eighty percent mark...OMG, hold onto your seat!!! Overall, I very much enjoyed Monday's Lie. Like I said, the writing won me over, even in the midst of my ongoing questioning about the advertised genre and my wondering when Dee would figure out the main mystery (I was all but yelling at the book!). But if anything, that eighty percent mark made it all worth it. If you enjoy any of the genres mentioned in this review, then consider picking up this novel. My favorite quote: "But a story is a house, a home for something that happened. The truth lives there forever, along with its cousins, the half-truths, and also with everyone's servants, the lies. And no house has only one door. There's always another way in.”
This is the first book i have purchased on my nook that was not worth reading or the money i payed for it! My advice is pick another book because this one just drags on and on...... big waste of time!
I'm talking about Feb.17-2015.I'm sure you had to have known this when you wrote it that it would have people thinking what the F was that or you wouldn't have mentioned the bit about stalking.I must say l wouldn't be surprised if you have those intentions.I find you really creepy yet intriging.I have not bought the book and don't know if I will.There are only 3,well let me make that 2 because l don't know if I would call yours a review or not.Boy,what a way to start my day!!I know your ego must be off the charts right now.I don't think I've ever did a review about a reviewer.You sure blew me away!!