{"product_id":"stolen-lives-isbn-9781616950675","title":"Stolen Lives","description":"\u003cb\u003eSouth African private investigator Jade de Jong finds herself in the sights of a would-be assassin when she uncovers a human trafficking ring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eWealthy Pamela Jordaan hires PI Jade de Jong as a bodyguard after her husband disappears, and Jade thinks this will be an easy way to earn some cash. But when a determined shooter nearly kills them both, Jade realizes that she has been drawn into a wicked game.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the same time, her relationship with police superintendent David Patel is on the rocks, and things only get more complicated when his son is kidnapped and his wife is blackmailed. It soon becomes clear that the kidnappings and the attack on Pamela are tied to a human trafficking ring that stretches from Johannesburg to London. | Praise for \u003ci\u003eStolen Lives\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With danger and mayhem at every turn—and Mackenzie provides plenty of twists—\u003ci\u003eStolen Lives\u003c\/i\u003e is a page turner of superior power.  Its shocking conclusion leaves the reader breathless—and eagerly awaiting the next installment in Jade’s life.”—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The second Jade de Jong novel by Jassy Mackenzie is every bit as vivid and violent as the first. Mackenzie’s turf is Johannesburg, in the new South Africa, but she has a much more jaded view than writers like Deon Meyer.... Mackenzie’s roots are in the grit and grime of noir fiction, but she gives the old style a twist all her own.”—\u003ci\u003eToronto Globe and Mail\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mackenzie offers insight into postapartheid South Africa, an area of the world unfamiliar to most U.S. mystery buffs. For those readers who like Sara Paretsky and Lynda La Plante and fans of international crime fiction.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, Starred Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Jassy Mackenzie’s followup to \u003ci\u003eRandom Violence \u003c\/i\u003edelivers on all fronts that matter: dextrous pacing, unflinching action, and stark, brave compassion in the clutch. South Africa comes alive on the page, but it’s no travel-guide version—the Jo’burg skyline and dusty shops, the embassy offices and dreary mine-dumps—even the pristine suburbs pulse with dark energy. Jade de Jong is a heroine to cherish: tough, passionate, and pocked with enough flaws to keep her interesting.\"—Sophie Littlefield, Anthony Award–winning author of \u003ci\u003eA Bad Day for Sorry\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gripping.... \u003ci\u003eStolen Lives\u003c\/i\u003e is as thought-provoking and socially conscious as it is suspenseful.... Without preaching, this book should cause readers to care, and perhaps even get involved in fighting the sex trafficking industry. A fascinating read with a strong heart.”—\u003ci\u003eForeWord Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Under Mackenzie’s deft hand, Jo’berg and Jade crackle with frenetic energy.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Jade's sophomore adventure (\u003ci\u003eRandom Violence\u003c\/i\u003e, 2010) provides a crackling pace and nonstop action ... Mackenzie's Johannesburg is as gritty and dangerous as noir L.A. or the drug meccas of South America.”—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eRandom Violence\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A hard edged first novel ... Even as Mackenzie captures Johannesburg’s ‘crazy boomtown energy,’ she doesn’t shy away from the rough stuff. None of which, it should be said, is quite rough enough to scare this remarkable new sleuth, whose future exploits should be worth watching.”—Marilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The heroic private investigator with a dark side is hardly a new concept, but Jassy Mackenzie makes one her own in her debut novel.... Mackenzie, who has lived in South Africa from an early age, plays her hand deftly, with a page turner of a story, intriguing characters—Jade is particularly memorable—and a wealth of South African color, including its appalling racial history. At once brutal and beautiful, \u003ci\u003eRandom Violence\u003c\/i\u003e leaves nothing to chance in hooking the reader.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStarred Review: “South African writer Mackenzie has created a strong female character with amazing resilience, unusual friends, and incredible luck. This gripping first entry in a new crime series set in postapartheid South Africa should please readers of Zoë Sharp and Suzanne Arruda. Fans of other South African crime fiction by Deon Meyer, Roger Smith, and Malla Nunn will also want to try.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStarred Review: “Set in contemporary South Africa, Mackenzie’s triumphant debut introduces PI Jade de Jong.... The plot has more than its fair share of nice twists, and Mackenzie does a superb job of making the reader care for her gutsy lead while offering a glimpse at life in South Africa after apartheid. Readers will wish Jade a long fictional career.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e | Jassy Mackenzie was born in Zimbabwe and moved to South Africa when she was eight years old. She is the author of four other Jade de Jong novels, \u003ci\u003eRandom Violence\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Fallen\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePale Horses\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eBad Seeds\u003c\/i\u003e, and she collaborated with James Patterson on the BookShot thriller \u003ci\u003ePrivate: Gold\u003c\/i\u003e. | \u003ci\u003eOctober 14\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            Detective Constable Edmonds saw the running man just a half second before the unmarked car she was travelling in hit him. A slightly built man, dark-skinned and dark-clad in a tight fitting jersey and a beanie. He burst out of the shadows behind a flyover and sprinted straight across the a 12, fists pumping, head bowed against the gusting rain, splashing through the puddles on the tarmac as if he were running for his life. \u003cbr\u003e            “Look out!” Edmonds shouted from the back seat, but Detective Sergeant Mackay, who was driving, had seen the man, too. \u003cbr\u003e            “Hang on, people.”\u003cbr\u003e            A shriek of brakes, and then the car reached the puddle of water that had pooled on the tarmac and went into a skid. Edmonds’ seatbelt yanked hard against her chest, squeezing the breath out of her in spite of the regulation Kevlar vest she was wearing under her jacket. She grabbed the seat in front of her, and a moment\u003cbr\u003elater her hand was squashed into the padded fabric by the larger, tougher palm of bulky Sergeant Richards, who was also bracing for the crash.\u003cbr\u003e            The car slewed sideways, and Mackay swore as he fought for control. Through the spattered windscreen Edmonds saw the running man look, too late, in their direction. He flung out a hand in defence, and Edmonds’ heart leapt into her mouth when she heard a loud metallic thunk that seemed to shake the car. The man stumbled heavily and went down, sprawling onto his side. But before Edmonds could even conceptualise the thought—is he hurt?—he got up again and set off at a shaky jog. He scrambled over the crash barrier on the opposite side of the road and disappeared from sight.\u003cbr\u003e            He didn’t so much as glance behind him.\u003cbr\u003e            The tyres regained their purchase on the road and Mackay slowed to a stop.\u003cbr\u003e            “Jesus,” Richards said. “What the hell was that all about?” Nobody answered. For a moment the only noise was the ticking of the hazard lights, which Mackay had activated, and the flick of the wipers. Water splashed up as a car drove by in the fast lane, the motorist oblivious to what had just occurred. Then Richards looked down and saw that his hand was covering Edmonds’. “Oh. Sorry,” he said, and removed it. \u003cbr\u003e            Mackay pulled over into the emergency lane, and two of the men climbed out and shone a flashlight into the darkness where the running man had vanished.\u003cbr\u003e            “He’s nowhere in sight. Must have gone into that park over there.” The detective who had been sharing the back seat with Edmonds and Richards climbed back in, and once again Edmonds found herself squashed, sardine-like, between the car door and the warm bulk of Richards’ thigh. \u003cbr\u003e            “He’s lucky you were wide awake.” The detective sitting next to Mackay shunted the passenger seat forward for the second time that trip, in an attempt to give Edmonds a couple of inches more leg room.\u003cbr\u003e            “Lucky anybody is at this hour,” Mackay said. “And that it’s so quiet tonight.” He let out a deep breath, then checked his mirrors and pulled onto the road again. \u003cbr\u003e            “But we hit him,” Edmonds said. She could hear the unsteadiness in her own voice as she spoke, and she hoped the other detectives would put it down to reaction after their near-accident, rather than nervousness about what lay ahead. “Do you think he’s all right?”\u003cbr\u003e            Mackay nodded. “He’ll have a sore arm tomorrow, I should think. Nothing we can do about it now. I’ll write it up when I make the report.”\u003cbr\u003e            “Better hope you don’t have a dent in the bonnet, or you’ll be writing that up as well,” Richards observed, and all the men laughed. Another clicking of the indicator, and they turned right off the a 12, heading east towards Stratford.\u003cbr\u003e            In the three months since Edmonds had been promoted to the Human Trafficking team in Scotland Yard, she’d been surprised to discover that most of the operations they tackled did not take place in central London, but in the middle-class and respectable looking suburbs. Like the one where they were headed now.\u003cbr\u003eAs they drove down Templemills Lane, Edmonds stared at the tall wire fences and enormous crash barriers that lined the road. The headlights flickered over the stiff mesh, ghostly silver in the dark, as high and solid as a prison fence. But the area protected by the fences and barriers was no prison. It was the construction site\u003cbr\u003efor the 2012 London Olympics. \u003cbr\u003e            “That’s where they’re building the athletes’ village.” Richards pointed across her, to the left. “More than twelve thousand people will be living there. Not all of them will go back home again, if our last Olympics was anything to go by. They’ll stay in the UK and claim asylum. About a thousand, probably. Mostly from Iraq, Nigeria, Somalia, Zimbabwe.”\u003cbr\u003e            Edmonds peered into the darkness at the endless wire fence and the solid concrete barriers flashing past, but she found she couldn’t get the image of the man out of her head. Fists clenched, head bowed, seemingly oblivious to the fact he was running straight across a major arterial road.\u003cbr\u003e            Running towards something, or running away?\u003cbr\u003e            For a troubled moment, Edmonds wondered whether the near accident\u003cbr\u003ewith the man was a sign that the police operation tonight, her first-ever raid, was going to go wrong. Then she shook her head and told herself not to be so superstitious.\u003cbr\u003e            The crash barriers came to an end and, suddenly, they were in suburbia. Ranks of small, unremarkable-looking, semi-detached houses and flats, with shops and businesses lining the narrow high street.\u003cbr\u003e            “This is where you’ll find the kind of places we’re after,” Richards\u003cbr\u003ehad told her during her training. “Not in Soho and the West End. There, they work in pairs. One girl and one maid in one flat. That’s legal. But what you’ll find out here often isn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e            A police van was parked by the side of the road, waiting. Mackay flashed his lights at it as he passed, and it pulled out into the road behind them.\u003cbr\u003e            Peering through the rain, Edmonds made out a pub, a launderette, a fish and chip shop, and another business with a large sign written in lettering she couldn’t understand—Turkish, perhaps. All dark and locked up, because it was already after midnight.\u003cbr\u003e            The unmarked car slowed as the establishment they were here to raid came into sight. At street level, the place looked innocuous—a black-painted door with a small number six painted on it in white. Upstairs the windows were shaded by dark blinds and a sign hung, small and discreet, from a neat hook in the corner wall.\u003cbr\u003e            “Sauna? Yeah, right,” Richards remarked drily.\u003cbr\u003e            The police van following them pulled to a stop behind their car.\u003cbr\u003e            “Right, everybody,” Mackay said. “Let’s get this operation going.”\u003cbr\u003e            Heart pounding, Edmonds wrenched the door open and jumped out, slipping and almost falling on the wet, uneven pavement. Richards caught her arm.\u003cbr\u003e“C’mon love. Round the back.”\u003cbr\u003e            “Love”?\u003cbr\u003e            But there was no time to bristle at the word that Edmonds was sure, in any case, was unintentional. Time only to follow the plan which had been discussed in detail the previous day, to sprint round the back of the building with two of the uniformed officers and head for the fire exit.\u003cbr\u003e            She ran up the fire escape, the metal vibrating under her fleece lined boots.\u003cbr\u003e“Get in position.” Richards was behind her, already out of breath.\u003cbr\u003e            Ahead, a solid-looking grey door.\u003cbr\u003e            As she reached it, Edmonds saw the handle move. Someone was opening it from the inside.\u003cbr\u003e            The door swung open and a middle-aged man hurried out. Tousled brown hair, furtive expression, busy buttoning his shirt over his paunch.\u003cbr\u003e            “’Scuse me, sir.” Edmonds stepped forward.\u003cbr\u003e            The man glanced up, then stopped in his tracks when he saw the two uniformed officers behind the plainclothes detectives.\u003cbr\u003e            “I’m not . . .” he said. He whipped his head from side to side, as if wondering whether turning and running would be a better option, but there was nowhere to go.\u003cbr\u003e            “Please accompany the officers down to the police vehicles, sir,” Edmonds said, aware that she sounded squeaky and not nearly as authoritative as she would have wished. “We need to ask you a few questions.”\u003cbr\u003e            Footsteps clanged on the fire escape as the two officers escorted the unhappy customer downstairs. Then a red-haired woman wearing a black jacket and a pair of dark, tight-fitting pants burst through the exit, almost knocking Edmonds off her feet. The policewoman grabbed at the railing for support.\u003cbr\u003e            The woman’s skin was sickly pale, a stark contrast to her crimson hair. She looked older than Edmonds had expected; in her fifties, perhaps. Too old to be a sex-worker? Edmonds had no idea. She smelled of stale cigarettes and perfume, the scent musky and heavy.\u003cbr\u003e            The woman was past Edmonds before she could recover her footing, but Richards, standing a few steps further down, managed to grab her by the arm.\u003cbr\u003e            “Let me go!” She struggled, shouting at Richards in accented tones, but he had a firm hold on her.\u003cbr\u003e            “Nobody’s going anywhere just yet, ma’am. Are you in charge here?”\u003cbr\u003e            “Me, no.” The woman raised her chin and stared at him fiercely. “I am nobody, nothing. Forget you saw me.”\u003cbr\u003e            “We can’t do that, I’m afraid,” Richards said, with heavy irony. “Who are you, then?”\u003cbr\u003e            Defiant silence. Then the woman snaked her head towards Richards, and for a bizarre moment Edmonds thought that she was going to kiss him. Before the big officer could stop her, she sank her teeth into the exposed strip of skin between the collar of his waterproof and his beanie.\u003cbr\u003e            Shouting in pain, Richards let go of her arm. He snatched at her head with both hands, grabbing her hair in an effort to pull her off him.\u003cbr\u003e            “Kick her!” Edmonds shouted, but in his panic, Richards seemed to have forgotten his basic self-defence training. Her stomach clenched. God, this was it. She’d have to take the woman down. Fumbling for the canister of pepper spray on her belt, she leapt forward, ready to tackle her, feeling the fire escape rattle as one of the officers below came running up again to assist.\u003cbr\u003e            Before Edmonds could act, the woman twisted away from Richards’ grasp, leaving long strands of hair dangling from his hands. Edmonds had a brief glimpse of her mouth, bloodstained lips curled back in a snarl, and her gut contracted again because she looked just like a vampire.\u003cbr\u003e            To her astonishment, the woman then hooked a leg over the handrail and jumped. Edmonds saw her red hair fly out behind her as she landed on the tarmac below on all fours, like a cat.\u003cbr\u003e            “Grab her,” Edmonds shouted, and the fire escape vibrated yet again as the officer on his way up did a hasty about-turn and made a hurried descent. Edmonds thumbed her radio on. “Escaping suspect,” she yelled. “Back entrance. Red-headed female. You copy?”\u003cbr\u003e            She glanced down again, just in time to see the woman dart into the shadows and disappear from sight. She was limping heavily, favouring her right ankle, which must have twisted when she landed. The radio crackled in reply. “We’ve got the two main streets cordoned off. She won’t get far. Over.”\u003cbr\u003e            Edmonds turned back to Richards. He was swearing, breathing hard, his fingers pressed to the wound on his neck. He took his hand away and stared down at the sticky smear of blood.\u003cbr\u003e            “Bitch!” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Bloody bitch. Can’t believe she did that. God knows what she’s given me.” \u003cbr\u003e            A strong gust of wind wailed eerily through the gaps in the fire escape’s supports. Blinking rain out of her eyes, Edmonds saw the woman emerge from the shadows, then bend and fumble under her trouser leg before she set off half-running, half-limping, towards the young constable standing by the parked police cars.\u003cbr\u003e            Edmonds grabbed her radio again. Through the worsening downpour, she thought she had seen the gleam of a knife in her hand. \u003cbr\u003e            “Watch out! She’s armed!” she shouted, directing her voice into the radio and also towards the uniformed officer manning the cordon.\u003cbr\u003e            The officer didn’t hear her warning. He moved confidently forward to intercept the fleeing woman, obviously thinking, as Edmonds had done at first, that she was one of the trafficked victims trying to escape. There was a brief scuffle, and then he cried out and stumbled backwards, clutching at his stomach. In the bright beam of the police car’s headlights, Edmonds saw blood seeping through the young man’s fingers. Kevlar offered little protection against a sharp-bladed knife. Firearms were not commonly found in brothels, as there was always the risk that they could fall into the wrong hands. Because of this, the police didn’t carry guns during raids.\u003cbr\u003e            Right now, Edmonds wished she had a gun.\u003cbr\u003e            “Officer down!” she screamed into the radio, staring at the scene in horror. “Call an ambulance. We’ve got a man injured on the street.”\u003cbr\u003e            Another pair of high-beam headlights blazed in the darkness, and Edmonds saw a sleek black car speeding down the street towards them. It skidded to a stop a few metres away from the police blockade. For a moment the lights from one of the police cars shone directly through the windscreen, allowing Edmonds to glimpse the driver, a sunken-cheeked black man. Then the passenger door flew open, the red-headed woman dived inside, and water hissed from under the tyres as the car spun round in a tight U-turn and disappeared down the Leytonstone Road. \u003cbr\u003e            Two other officers sprinted over to the fallen man. “Shit!” Richards had wadded a tissue onto the wound in his neck and was also staring at the departing vehicle. “That was an Aston Martin. Looked like Salimovic’s car.”\u003cbr\u003e            “The brothel owner?” Edmonds’ eyes widened. She’d heard Mackay on the radio earlier, communicating with the team that had been on the way to his house to arrest him. Now it seemed that despite their careful planning and preparation,\u003cbr\u003ehe had managed to escape.\u003cbr\u003e            “Shit,” Richards said again, inspecting the wet and bloody tissue. “How do these bastards always know?”\u003cbr\u003e            “Well, it wasn’t Salimovic at the wheel,” Edmonds said. “I saw the driver. He was black.”\u003cbr\u003e            The radio crackled again and Richards jerked his thumb towards the door. “Don’t worry about what’s happening down there. They’ll sort it out. We’re going in now. Room-to-room search. Keep your pepper spray handy in case there’s trouble inside.” \u003cbr\u003e            Edmonds tripped over the ledge in the doorway and almost sprawled headlong into the corridor. Great going, girl, she thought. Look good in front of your superiors, why don’t you? She moved forward cautiously, glancing from side to side. It was gloomy in here, lit only by a couple of low-wattage bulbs. The walls were dirty and the floor was scuffed, the lino cracked and uneven. She caught another whiff of the unpleasantly musky perfume which she now realised hadn’t come from the escaping red-head, but from the interior of the brothel itself. Underlying that was the stench of old dirt and another pungent odour that Edmonds suddenly, shockingly, realised was the smell of sex. Pop music was coming from somewhere, piped through invisible speakers, but as she noticed it the sound was turned off. Now she could hear the voices of the officers at the front of the building.\u003cbr\u003e            “You three take the top floor.”\u003cbr\u003e            “Bag that price list, will you?”\u003cbr\u003e            “Christ, it stinks in here.”\u003cbr\u003e            “Oi! Where do you think you’re going, sir? Hey! Someone grab him.” Then there was the sound of running footsteps, followed by a brief scuffle.\u003cbr\u003e            She came to a closed door on her right. Aware of Richards behind her, she pushed it open. The room was gloomy; a purple lantern illuminated a single bed in the corner with a figure huddled on a stained mattress.\u003cbr\u003e            “Somebody here,” she called, hearing the quiver in her own voice as she approached the bed. A black girl lay there, eyes wide and terrified. She was on her\u003cbr\u003eside, her slender arms wrapped tightly around her legs, and Edmonds saw with a jolt that she was naked. She glanced around the room for something to cover her with, but there was nothing suitable in the small space. Nothing at all. \u003cbr\u003e            “Are you all right, miss?” Edmonds leaned forward. Now she could see the puffy swelling on the girl’s left cheek, where the dark skin was mottled even darker with bruising. She could also see the massive, crusted scabs on her lips. The girl flinched under Edmonds’ concerned gaze. The police officer breathed in deeply, suppressing her anger. Who had done this? The owner? A client? That middle-aged bastard who’d tried to wriggle out of the back entrance?\u003cbr\u003e            “Who hurt you?”\u003cbr\u003e            No reply. She whispered something in an almost inaudible voice, but it wasn’t in a language that Edmonds could understand.           \u003cbr\u003e            “I don’t know if she speaks any English,” Edmonds said aloud. She reached out and gently took the black girl’s hand in her own cold, damp one.\u003cbr\u003e            “Are you all right?” she asked again.\u003cbr\u003e            The girl looked up at Edmonds in silence, her eyes full of tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOctober 25\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e            They came for him at night.\u003cbr\u003e            Eleven p.m. on a summer evening and Terence was in bed, propped up on his black continental pillow, fiddling around with something on his laptop. She was watching \u003ci\u003eIdols \u003c\/i\u003eon the big-screen TV, lying naked on the bedcovers, her hair spread over the pillow, listening to some teenager butchering a Mango Groove song. Then, a noise. Loud, hard, frightening, cutting right through the hum of the laptop’s fan and the screech of the South African \u003ci\u003eIdols \u003c\/i\u003econtestant’s high notes.\u003cbr\u003eHe snapped his laptop shut and sat bolt upright. She raised her head from the pillow and stared at the window, as if she could somehow see all the way through it and down to the dark garden below.\u003cbr\u003e            “What was that?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e            “Don’t know.” He pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed. “Turn the TV down, will you?”\u003cbr\u003e            He pushed back the curtain and peered out of the window. She felt around for the remote, nearly knocking the bedside lamp over. Where on earth was it? She fumbled in the folds of the duvet, checked under the pillow. Her heart was pounding, her hands trembling. What had made that noise? It was impossible that\u003cbr\u003eanything could be banging outside like that. But it hadn’t sounded like a banging noise in any case. It had sounded like . . .\u003cbr\u003e            … like somebody knocking hard on the front door.      \u003cbr\u003e            Which was even more impossible, because they were the only people on the property. It was well secured, as all the homes in this wealthy Jo’burg neighbourhood were, surrounded by a high wall and a five-thousand-volt electric fence.\u003cbr\u003e            She glanced across the bed. There it was, of course. On his table. It had gravitated to the man’s side, as remotes invariably do. She stretched across, grabbed it and stabbed the mute button with nail-breaking force.\u003cbr\u003e            The teen’s quavering voice cut off mid-wail. “Can’t see a thing,” Terence muttered, turning away from the window.\u003cbr\u003e            Then they heard the noise again. It sounded louder in the silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e            Bam\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ebam\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ebam\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e            “Shit,” he said. He hurried to the cupboard, flung it open, rummaged among the clothes.\u003cbr\u003e            “What is it?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e            “How the hell should I know?” He pulled on a black t-shirt and grabbed his jeans. Searching through the cupboard once more, he took out a small silver gun. He did something to it that made a metallic, ratcheting noise.\u003cbr\u003e            She sat up and stared at him, wide-eyed, clutching the duvet and worrying it between her fingers. He turned around and regarded her coldly, as if she were a complete stranger, as if they hadn’t been making love earlier that evening and sharing a jacuzzi an hour ago.\u003cbr\u003e            “Put on some clothes,” he snapped.\u003cbr\u003e            Suddenly her","brand":"Soho Crime","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48338549113061,"sku":"NP9781616950675","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616950675.jpg?v=1769572643","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/stolen-lives-isbn-9781616950675","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}