{"product_id":"compulsion-isbn-9780345465283","title":"Compulsion","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe iconic thriller series that inspired the upcoming streaming show on Prime Video\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003ein development now!\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA tipsy young woman seeking aid on a desolate highway disappears into the inky black night. A retired schoolteacher is stabbed to death in broad daylight. Two women are butchered after closing time in a small-town beauty parlor. These and other bizarre acts of cruelty and psychopathology are linked only by the killer’s use of luxury vehicles and a baffling lack of motive. The ultimate whodunits, these crimes demand the attention of LAPD detective Milo Sturgis and his collaborator on the crime beat, psychologist Alex Delaware.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat begins with a solitary bloodstain in a stolen sedan quickly spirals outward in odd and unexpected directions, leading Delaware and Sturgis from the well-heeled center of L.A. society to its desperate edges; across the paths of commodities brokers and transvestite hookers; and as far away as New York City, where the search thaws out a long-cold case and exposes a grotesque homicidal crusade. The killer proves to be a fleeting shape-shifter, defying identification, leaving behind dazed witnesses and death–and compelling Alex and Milo to confront the true face of murderous madness.\u003cb\u003eJonathan Kellerman\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of more than three dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series, \u003ci\u003eThe Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club,\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eTwisted, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e True Detectives\u003c\/i\u003e. With his wife, bestselling novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored \u003ci\u003eDouble Homicide \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Capital Crimes\u003c\/i\u003e. With his son, bestselling novelist Jesse Kellerman, he co-authored the first book of a new series, \u003ci\u003eThe Golem of Hollywood\u003c\/i\u003e. He is also the author of two children’s books and numerous nonfiction works, including \u003ci\u003eSavage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty of Vintage Guitars\u003c\/i\u003e. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California, New Mexico, and New York.CHAPTER 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat loved breaking the rules. \u003ci\u003eDon’t talk to strangers. \u003c\/i\u003eShe’d talked to plenty of them tonight. Danced with a few, too. If you could call the way those losers moved dancing. The big, scary consequence: a stomped toe, courtesy of a loser in a red shirt. \u003ci\u003eDon’t go crazy mixing your drinks. \u003c\/i\u003eThen how did you account for Long Island Iced Tea, which was basically everything tossed together and the best buzz in the world? She’d had three tonight. Plus the tequila shots and the raspberry beer and the weed the guy in the retro bowling shirt had offered her. Not to mention... hard to remember. Whatever. \u003ci\u003eDon’t drink and drive. \u003c\/i\u003eYeah, great plan. What was she supposed to do tonight, let one of those \u003ci\u003elosers \u003c\/i\u003edrive her Mustang home? The \u003ci\u003eplan \u003c\/i\u003ewas Rianna would limit herself to two drinks and be the designated wheel-girl so Kat and Bethie could party. Only Bethie and Rianna hooked up with a couple fake-o blond guys in fake-o Brioni shirts. Brothers, some kind of surfboard business in Redondo. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe’re thinking maybe we’ll go party with Sean and Matt, giggle, giggle. If that’s cool with you, Kat.\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was she supposed to say? Stay with me, I’m the ultimate loser? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo here she was three, four a.m., staggering out of the Light My Fire, looking for her car. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGod, it was so dark, why the hell didn’t they have outside lights or something...? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe took three steps and one of her spike-heels caught on the asphalt and she stumbled, nearly twisting her ankle. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFighting for balance, she righted herself. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSaved by quick reflexes, Supergirl. Also all those dancing lessons she’d been forced into. Not that she’d ever admit it to Mother, giving her fuel for more I-told-you-so bullshit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother and her rules. No white after Labor Day. \u003ci\u003eThat \u003c\/i\u003emade sense in L.A. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat took two more steps and one of the spaghetti straps on her plum lamé top fell off her shoulder. She left it that way, liking the kiss of the night air on her bare skin. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeeling a little bit sexy, she flipped her hair, then remembered she’d had it cut, not much to flip. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer vision blurred–how many Long Islands had she polished off? Maybe four. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTaking a deep cleansing breath, she felt her head clear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen it clouded again. And cleared. Like shutters being opened and closed. Crazy, maybe that weed was messed up... where was the Mustang... she walked faster, tripped again, and Supergirl reflexes weren’t enough and she had to grab out for something–the side of a car... not hers, crappy little Honda or something... where was the \u003ci\u003eMustang\u003c\/i\u003e? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith only a few cars in the lot, it should’ve been easy to spot. But the darkness screwed everything up... losers who owned the Light My Fire too damn cheap to invest in some spots, like they weren’t making enough packing the bodies in, the bouncers and velvet ropes a big joke. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCheap bastards. Like all men. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eExcept Royal. Would you believe that, Mother finally lucking out big-time? Who knew the old girl had it in her? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat laughed out loud at the image. Something \u003ci\u003ein \u003c\/i\u003eMother. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot likely, Royal was in the bathroom every ten minutes. Didn’t that mean a screwed-up prostrate? \u003cbr\u003eShe lurched across the inky lot. The sky was so black she couldn’t even see the chain-link fence surrounding the lot, or the warehouses and storage lots that made up this crappy neighborhood. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe club’s Web site said it was in Brentwood. More like the hairy, stinky armpit of West L.A.... okay, there it was, her stupid Mustang. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe hurried toward the car, heels clacking against knobby asphalt. Each impact set off little echoes that reminded her of when she was seven and Mother forced her to take tap. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she finally got there, she groped in her purse for her keys, found them. Dropped them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe heard the rattle as they landed, but it was too dark to see where. Bending sharply, she teetered, braced herself with one hand to the ground, and searched with the other. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNowhere. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSquatting, she smelled something chemical–gasoline, like when you fill up your car and no matter how many times you wash your hands afterward you can’t get rid of the stink. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA fuel leak? That’s all she needed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSix thousand miles and the car was nothing but problems. She’d thought it was cool at first, but decided it was lame and stopped making payments. Hello, Re-po Man. Again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWe took care of the down payment, Katrina. All you had to do was remember on the fifteenth of each... \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere were the goddamn \u003ci\u003ekeys\u003c\/i\u003e! She scraped her knuckles on the ground. A fake nail popped off and that made her feel like crying. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAh, got it! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStruggling to her feet, she flicked the remote, dropped into the driver’s seat, started up the engine. The car balked, then kicked in and \u003ci\u003ehere we go Supergirl \u003c\/i\u003eshe was driving straight into the black night–oh, yeah, put on the headlights. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlowly, with a drunk’s exaggerated care, she coasted, missed the exit, backed up, passed through. Turning south onto Corinth Avenue, she made her way to Pico. The boulevard was totally empty and she turned onto it. Oversteered, ended up on the wrong side of the road, swerved and compensated, finally got the stupid car in the lane. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt Sepulveda, she hit a red light. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo cars at the intersection. No cops. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe ran it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSailing north, she felt free, like the whole city–the whole \u003ci\u003eworld \u003c\/i\u003ewas hers. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike someone had dropped a nuke and she was the last survivor. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWouldn’t \u003ci\u003ethat \u003c\/i\u003ebe cool, she could drive over to Beverly Hills, run a gazillion red lights, waltz into the Tiffany store on Rodeo and scoop up whatever she wanted. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA planet without people. She laughed. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe crossed Santa Monica and Wilshire and kept going until Sepulveda turned into the Pass. Off to her left was the 405, just a scatter of taillights. On the other side was hillside that bled into moonless sky. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo lights on in gazillion-dollar hill houses full of sleeping rich people. The same kind of idiots she had to deal with at La Femme. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWomen like Mother, pretending they weren’t shriveling or fat as pigs. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThinking about work made Kat tense up and she deep-breathed. That made her burp real loud and she cracked up, drove faster. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt this rate, she’d be over the hill and at her apartment real soon. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStupid little dump in Van Nuys, but she told everyone it was Sherman Oaks because it was on the border and who cared? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll of a sudden her eyes began to close and she had to shake herself awake. A hard shove down on the gas pedal and the car shot forward. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSaaiiiling.... You go, girl! \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeconds later, the Mustang sputtered, whined, stopped. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe managed to steer to the right, stop just off the road. Let the car sit for a sec and tried again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNothing but a whiny noise. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo more attempts, then five. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eShit! \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took a while to find the switch for the interior lights and when she brightened the car, her head hurt and she saw little yellow things dancing in front of her eyes. When they cleared, she looked at the gas gauge: \u003cb\u003eE \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eShit shit shit! \u003c\/i\u003eHow had that happened, she could swear– \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMother’s voice nagged at her. She put her hands over her ears and tried to think. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhere was the nearest gas station... nowhere, nothing for miles. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe punched the dashboard so hard it hurt her hands. Cried, sat back, drained. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRealizing she was exposed by the interior lights, she switched them off. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow what? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCall the Triple A! Why hadn’t she thought of that? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took what seemed like a long time to find her cell phone in her purse. Even longer to locate her Triple A card. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTapping out the toll-free number was hard because even with the phone light the numbers were teeny and her hands were shaky. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the operator answered, she read off her membership code. Had to do it twice because her eyes had blurred and it was hard to see what was a 3 and what was an 8. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe operator put her on hold, came back and said her membership had lapsed. Kat said, “No way.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Sorry, ma’am, but you haven’t been active for eighteen months.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s frickin’ impossible–” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry, ma’am, but–” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Like hell you are–” “Ma’am, there’s no reason to be–” “Like hell there isn’t.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat clicked off. \u003ci\u003eNow \u003c\/i\u003ewhat? Think, think, think–okay, plan B: Call Bethie’s cell and if that interrupted something, too frickin’ bad. The phone rang five times before Bethie’s voice mail kicked in. Kat hung up. Her phone went dead. Jabbing the \u003ci\u003ePower \u003c\/i\u003ebutton did nothing. That brought back a vague memory of something she’d neglected. Charging up before she went out tonight–how the \u003ci\u003ehell \u003c\/i\u003ehad she forgotten? Now her whole \u003ci\u003ebody \u003c\/i\u003ewas shaking and her chest was tight and she was sweating. She double-checked to make sure the car was locked. Maybe a highway patrol dude would come by. What if another car did?\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t talk to strangers. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was her choice, sleeping here all night?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe nearly fell asleep before the first car showed up, speeding toward her, headlights startling her. Big Range Rover; good. Kat waved out the window. Bastard sped right by. A couple of minutes later, headlights brightened her rearview and enlarged. This vehicle stopped right next to her. Crappy pickup, stuff piled in the back, under a tarp. The passenger window rolled down. Young Mexican guy. Another Mexican sat at the wheel. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey looked at her funny. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe passenger got out. Small and scruffy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat slid down low in her seat and when the Mexican came over and said something through the glass, she pretended he wasn’t there. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stood there, really freaking her out. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat kept making believe she was invisible and the Mexican finally returned to the pickup. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt took five minutes after the truck drove away before she was able to sit up and breathe normally. She’d wet her thong. Rolled it off her butt and down her legs and tossed it into the backseat. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSoon as the undies made contact, her luck turned. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA Bentley! \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScrew you, Range Rover! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBig, black, and glossy, that aggressive grille. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd slowing down! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh shit, what if it was Clive? \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEven if it \u003ci\u003ewas \u003c\/i\u003eClive, she could handle it, better than sleeping here all– \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the Bentley rolled to a halt, she opened the window, tried to get a look at who was inside. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe big black car idled, moved on. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDamn you, rich bastard! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe jumped out of the Mustang, waved frantically. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Bentley stopped. Backed up. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat tried to make herself look safe by shrugging and smiling and pointing to her car. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Bentley’s window lowered silently. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJust a driver inside. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot Clive, a woman! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThank you, God! \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat said, “Ma’am,” in the syrupy voice she used at La Femme. “Thank you so much for stopping I ran out of gas and if you could just take me somewhere where I could maybe find a–” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Certainly, dear,” said the woman. Throaty voice, like that actress Mother liked... Lauren Lauren... Hutton? No, Bacall. Lauren Bacall had rescued her! \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat approached the Bentley. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman smiled at her. Older than Mother, with silver hair, huge pearl earrings, classy makeup, a tweed suit, some sort of silk scarf, purple, looked expensive, draped over her shoulders in that casual way that came easy to the classy ones. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat Mother pretended to be. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ma’am, I really appreciate this,” said Kat, suddenly wanting this woman to \u003ci\u003ebe \u003c\/i\u003eher mother. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Get in, dear,” said the woman. “We’ll find you some petrol.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePetrol–\u003c\/i\u003ea Brit. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA frickin’ aristocrat in a frickin’ \u003ci\u003eBentley. \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat got in, beaming. What had started off as a shitty night was going to end up a cool story. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the Bentley glided away, Kat thanked the woman again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman nodded and switched on the stereo. Something classical–God what a sound system, it was like being in a concert hall. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If there’s any way I can repay you...” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That won’t be necessary, dear.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBig-framed woman, sturdy bejeweled hands. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat said, “Your car’s \u003ci\u003eincredible.\u003c\/i\u003e” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe woman smiled and turned up the volume. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKat sat back and closed her eyes. Thought of Rianna and Bethie with the fake-o shirts. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTelling \u003ci\u003ethis \u003c\/i\u003estory was going to be delicious. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Bentley cruised silently up the Pass. Cushy seats, alcohol, weed, and the adrenaline drop plunged Kat into sudden, nearly comatose sleep. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was snoring loudly when the car made a turn, climbed smoothly into the hills. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHeaded for a dark, cold place.#1 New York Times bestseller; Author of Bones","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304853819621,"sku":"NP9780345465283","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345465283.jpg?v=1767724012","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/compulsion-isbn-9780345465283","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}