{"product_id":"gone-isbn-9798217302499","title":"Gone:A Novel","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAlone\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Killing Hour \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a thriller that goes from heartbreaking to heartstopping in the blink of an  eye.…\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhen someone you love vanishes without a trace, how far would you go to get  them back?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eFor ex-FBI profiler Pierce Quincy, it’s the beginning of his worst nightmare:  a car abandoned on a desolate stretch of Oregon highway, engine running, purse on  the driver’s seat. And his estranged wife, Rainie Conner,\u003ci\u003e gone, \u003c\/i\u003eleaving no clue to  her fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDid one of the ghosts from Rainie’s troubled past finally catch up with  her? Or could her disappearance be the result of one of the cases they’d been working– a particularly vicious double homicide or the possible abuse of a deeply disturbed  child Rainie took too close to heart?  Together with his daughter, FBI agent Kimberly  Quincy, Pierce is battling the local authorities, racing against time, and frantically  searching for answers to all the questions he’s been afraid to ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One man knows  what happened that night. Adopting the alias of a killer caught eighty years before,  he has already contacted the press. His terms are clear: he wants money, he wants  power, he wants celebrity. And if he doesn’t get what he wants, Rainie will be gone  for good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eSometimes, no matter how much you love someone, it’s still not enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eAs  the clock winds down on a terrifying deadline, Pierce plunges headlong into the most  desperate hunt of his life, into the shattering search for a killer, a lethal truth,  and for the love of his life, who may forever be…gone. | \"Gardner keeps the suspense cranked high.\"--\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A terrifying woman-in-jeopardy plot.... Sympathetic characters, a strong sense of place and terrific plotting distinguish Gardner's new thriller.\"--\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gardner is hot to plot.\"-- \u003ci\u003eKirkus Review\u003c\/i\u003es\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Novels of Lisa Gardner:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eAlone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reading this book is akin to watching a gripping movie. You may want to fast-forward, but only because you can’t wait to see what happens next. Like all the best suspense novels, \u003ci\u003eAlone\u003c\/i\u003e will leave you shaken.”–\u003ci\u003ePeople \u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Killing Hour\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gardner keeps us guessing till the end.”–\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Survivors Club\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lip-biting suspense.”–\u003ci\u003ePeople \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Next Accident\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale that easily equals the best of Sue Grafton and Kathy Reichs.”–\u003ci\u003eProvidence Sunday Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Third Victim\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A suspenseful, curl-up winter read, this thriller teems with crisp, realistic dialogue and engaging characters.”–\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Perfect Husband\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A streamlined, bang-up addition to the oeuvre of Tami Hoag, Karen Robards, Elizabeth Powell and, these days, even Nora Roberts.”–\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e | LISA GARDNER is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003cb\u003eAlone\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Killing Hour\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Survivors Club\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Next Accident\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Other Daughter\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Third Victim\u003c\/b\u003e, and \u003cb\u003eThe Perfect Husband\u003c\/b\u003e. Living in New England with her husband, Anthony, Lisa is already at work on her next suspense novel. | \u003ci\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eTuesday, 12:24 a.m. PST\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e SHE IS DREAMING AGAIN. She doesn’t want to. She wrestles  with the sheets, tosses her head, tries to keep the dream version of herself from  walking up those stairs, from opening that door, from entering the gloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wakes  up stuffing the scream back into her throat, eyes bulging and still seeing things  she doesn’t want to see. Reality returns in slow degrees, as she registers the gray-washed  walls, the dark-eyed windows, the empty side of the bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She heads for the bathroom,  sticking her head under the faucet and gulping mouthfuls of lukewarm water. She can  still hear the rain thundering outside. It seems like it has been raining forever  this November, but maybe that’s only her state of mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She goes into the kitchen.  Note’s still on the table. Seven days later, she doesn’t read it anymore, but can’ t quite bring herself to throw it away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Refrigerator inventory time: yogurt, tuna  fish, pineapple, eggs. She grabs the eggs, then realizes they expired two weeks ago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Screw it, she goes back to bed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Same dream, same images, same visceral scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One a.m., she gets up for good. She showers, scrounges for clean clothes, then stares  at her gaunt reflection in the mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How do you spell fuckup? R-A-I-N-I-E.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She goes for a drive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eTuesday, 2:47 a.m. PST\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Baby's crying,” he mumbled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Wake  up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mmmm, honey, it’s your turn to get the kid.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Carl, for God’s sake. It’s  the phone, not the baby, and it’s for you. Snap out of it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Carlton Kincaid’s wife,  Tina, elbowed him in the ribs. Then she tossed him the phone and burrowed back under  the covers, pulling the down comforter over her mocha-colored head. Tina wasn’t a  middle-of-the-night sort of person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Unfortunately, neither was Kincaid. Sergeant  Detective, Major Crimes, Portland office of the Oregon State Police, he was supposed  to be prepared for these sort of calls. Sound intelligent. Commanding even. Kincaid  hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in nearly eight months now, however, and was feeling  it. He stared sulkily at the phone, and thought it had better be damn good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kincaid  sat up straight and attempted to sound chipper. “Hell-oh.”\u003cbr\u003e A trooper was on the other  end of the line. Had gotten called out by a local deputy to the scene of an abandoned  vehicle on the side of a rural road in Tillamook County. So far no sign of the owner  at the vehicle’s site or at the owner’s legal address.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kincaid had one question.  “Is the vehicle on public or private property?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dunno.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Well, figure it out,  ’cause if it’s private, we’re gonna need consent to search the grounds. You’ll also  need to contact the local DA for a warrant to search the vehicle. So get the DA rolling,  buckle up the scene, and I’ll be there in”–Kincaid glanced at his watch– “fifty-five  minutes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes, sir.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The trooper hung up; Kincaid got moving. Kincaid had been  with the OSP for the past twelve years. He’d started as a trooper, spent some time  on a gang task force, then transferred to Major Crimes. Along the way, he’d acquired  a beautiful wife, a big black mutt, and as of eight months ago, a bouncing baby boy.  Life was going according to plan, if you included in that plan that neither he nor  his wife had slept or chewed their food in over half a year.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kids kept you hopping.  So did Major Crimes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He could hear the rain coming down in sheets off the roof.  What a bitch of a night to be pulled out of bed. He kept two changes of clothes in  the trunk of his take-home car. Night like this, that’d get him through the first  half hour. Shit. He looked back at the bed with a pang and wished it’d been the baby  crying after all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Moving on autopilot, he dug through the dresser and started pulling  on clothes. He was just buttoning up his shirt when his wife sighed and sat up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Bad one?” she whispered softly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t know. Abandoned vehicle over in Bakersville.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Baby, what’s that got to do with you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Driver’s-side door’s open, engine’s still  running, and purse is sitting in the passenger’s seat.”\u003cbr\u003e She frowned. “That’s weird.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yeah.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Baby, I hate the weird cases.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kincaid pulled on his sports coat, crossed  to his wife and planted a big one on her cheek. “Go back to sleep, honey. Love you.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eTuesday, 1:14 a.m. PST\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She can’t see a damn thing. Her wipers are on high speed,  flailing violently across her windshield. It makes no difference. The rain comes  and comes and comes. Bend in the road. She takes the turn a little too late and promptly  hydroplanes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She is breathing hard now. Hiccupping. Is she crying? It’s hard to  tell, but she’s grateful to be alone in the dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Easing off the gas, she steers  carefully back into the proper lane. There are advantages to being out this late  at night. No one else on the road to be punished by her mistakes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She knows where  she is going without ever telling herself. If she thought about it, then it would  be a conscious decision, which would underline the fact she has a problem. Far easier  to simply discover herself pulling into the parking lot of the Toasted Lab Tavern.  Half a dozen other vehicles are sprinkled across the graveled lot, mostly wide-cab  pickup trucks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The hard-core drinkers, she thinks. You have to be hard-core to be  out on a night like this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What is she doing here?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sits in her car, gripping  the steering wheel hard. She can feel herself starting to shake. Her mouth is filling  with saliva. She is already anticipating that first long, cold sip of beer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e For  one moment, she hangs on the precipice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Go home, Rainie. Go to bed, watch TV, read  a book. Do something, do anything but this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She is shaking harder, her entire body  convulsing as she hunches over the wheel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e If she goes home, she will fall asleep.  And if she falls asleep . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e DO NOT climb those stairs. DO NOT open that door.  DO NOT peer into the gloom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There is so much darkness inside of her. She wants to  be a real person. She wants to be strong, resolute, and sane. But mostly she feels  the darkness move inside her head. It started four months ago, the first few tendrils  fingering the corners of her mind. Now it consumes her. She has fallen into an abyss  and she can no longer see the light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie hears a noise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her head comes up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sees a large figure loom ahead suddenly in the pouring rain. She doesn’t scream.  She grabs her gun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The drunken cowboy lurches past, never knowing how close he came  to losing his ass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie sets her Glock back down in the passenger seat. She is  no longer trembling. She’s wide-eyed. Grim-faced. A stone-cold sort of crazy, which  is far, far worse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She puts her car into gear and heads back into the night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTuesday,  3:35 a.m. PST\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bakersville, Oregon, was a small coastal town smack dab in the middle  of Tillamook County. Nestled in the shadows of the towering coastal range inside  Tillamook County. It featured endless acres of verdant dairy farms, miles of rocky  beach, and from a detective’s point of view, a growing methamphetamine problem. Pretty  place to live if you were into honky-tonks and cheese. Not much else to do if you  weren’t, and didn’t the local kids know it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It should’ve taken Kincaid fifty minutes  to hit Bakersville. On a night like this, with zero visibility, slick mountain passes,  and driving sheets of rain, it took Kincaid an hour fifteen. He pulled onto the lit-up  site, breathing hard and already feeling behind the eight ball.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the good-news  department, the first responders had done their job. Three strategically placed spotlights  glared into the night, high-powered beams slicing through the ribbons of rain. Yellow  crime scene tape roped off a decent-sized perimeter, outside of which the vehicles  were starting to pile up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kincaid noted a deputy’s truck, then the sheriff’s, then  a slick black SUV with all the bells and whistles, which he figured belonged to the  Tillamook County DA. They would need more bodies if they decided to launch a full-scale  search, and they would need the forensic lab and Latent Prints to process the scene,  but those would be his calls to make.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An hour and forty minutes after the first  call out, they were still covering the basics: Did they, or did they not, have a  crime? Most taxpayers probably liked to think the police went into these situations  full bore. Notify the crime lab, bring in the National Guard, call in the choppers.  Yeah, well, those same taxpayers kept hacking away at the OSP’s budget, until Kincaid  now had three and a half detectives working for him instead of the original fourteen.  Real-world policing meant all decisions came attached to dollar signs. For better  or for worse, these days he was operating on the cheap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Kincaid pulled in behind  the monstrous black Chevy Tahoe and cut his engine. No way around it. He opened his  door and stepped out into the deluge. | #1 New York Times bestselling author","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48759459021029,"sku":"NP9798217302499","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9798217302499.jpg?v=1775598632","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/gone-isbn-9798217302499","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}