It should have been a night to remember, but Maura Isles can’t recall a thing.
Maura is at a party. A handsome man approaches. He’s charming and sophisticated. She flirts and drinks champagne. And then nothing. Total blackness. Nothing, that is, apart from these two facts: a man is dead and her address is found in his pocket . . .
[Gerritsen] has an imagination that allows her to conjure up depths of human behavior so dark and frightening that she makes Edgar Allan Poe and H. P. Lovecraft seem like goody-two-shoes
Suspense doesn’t get smarter than this. Not just recommended but mandatory