{"product_id":"the-other-people-isbn-9781984825018","title":"The Other People","description":"\u003cb\u003eA gripping thriller about a man’s quest for the daughter no one else believes is still alive, from the acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eThe Chalk Man\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Hiding Place\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eAn ID Book Club Selection • \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“C. J. Tudor is terrific. I can’t wait to see what she does next.”—Harlan Coben, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eQ: Why are you called the Other People?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eA: We are people just like you. People to whom terrible things have happened. We’ve found solace not in forgiveness or forgetting. But in helping each other find justice.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eDriving home one night, stuck behind a rusty old car, Gabe sees a little girl’s face appear in its rear window. She mouths one word: \u003ci\u003eDaddy\u003c\/i\u003e. It’s his five-year-old daughter, Izzy. He never sees her again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThree years later, Gabe spends his days and nights traveling up and down the highway, searching for the car that took his daughter, refusing to give up hope, even though most people believe she’s dead. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eWhen the car that he saw escape with his little girl is found abandoned with a body inside, Gabe must confront not just the day Izzy disappeared but the painful events from his past now dredged to the surface. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eQ: What sort of justice?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eA: That depends on the individual. But our ethos is a punishment that fits the crime.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFran and her daughter, Alice, also put in a lot of miles on the road. Not searching. Running. Because Fran knows what really happened to Gabe’s daughter. She knows who is responsible. And she knows what they will do if they ever catch up to her and Alice.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eQ: Can I request to have someone killed?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eA: If your Request is acceptable, and unless there are exceptional circumstances, we fulfill all Requests.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Eerie.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eMarilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Other People\u003c\/i\u003e will delight you with the same creepy atmosphere you expect. . . . At more than one point while reading, a person might be tempted to access the dark web and see if groups like this exist. Although who knows what might happen once they’ve got your data? Shudder. . . . What will keep readers engaged is the menace of the titular conceit and the authenticity of Gabe Forman’s grief, easily recognized even by those who [have] not experienced such hellacious loss.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eNPR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Other People\u003c\/i\u003e will keep you up all night, reading frantically and searching for answers. Warning: This fast-paced, engaging story is so spooky, you might need a nightlight.” \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eHelloGiggles\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hugely enjoyable and deliciously creepy . . . I was hooked from its gripping opening, all the way through its many twists and turns. You may think you’ve got it worked out, but C. J. Tudor is always several steps ahead. She is a brilliant storyteller.”\u003cb\u003e—Alex Michaelides, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Silent Patient\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Other People \u003c\/i\u003eis a creepy, intense novel that drew me right in and never let go. C. J. Tudor’s books keep getting better and better, and this one won’t let you stop reading until the very last page!”\u003cb\u003e—Samantha Downing, author of the international bestseller \u003ci\u003eMy Lovely Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “C. J. Tudor has done it again. . . . A mesmerizingly chilling and atmospheric page-turner.”\u003cb\u003e—JP Delaney, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Girl Before\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eThe Other People\u003c\/i\u003e is tight as a straitjacket, diabolically clever, and propulsive as a roller coaster. If you like twisty thrillers that leave you guessing till the very last page, this is a must-read.”\u003cb\u003e—Alma Katsu, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Hunger \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Deep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Like no book you’ve read before. It’s the definition of a nail-biting page-turner and sets the bar high for every other thriller this year. Tudor remains at the top of her game. Tightly plotted and utterly unpredictable, \u003ci\u003eThe Other People \u003c\/i\u003eproves that Tudor is the queen of the cliffhanger.”\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eJohn Marrs, internationally bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Passengers \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe One\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Chilling, moving, and disquieting, \u003ci\u003eThe Other People\u003c\/i\u003e proves C. J. Tudor is a force to be reckoned with. With nuanced characters and a satisfying, intricately braided slow-burn that builds to a heart-pounding finish, this novel gripped me, surprised me—and stuck with me long after the final page.”\u003cb\u003e—Andrea Bartz, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Lost Night\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eC. J. Tudor\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Drift, The Burning Girls, The Other People, The Hiding Place,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Chalk Man, \u003c\/i\u003ewhich won the International Thriller Writers Award for Best First Novel, the Barry Award, and the Strand Critics\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eAward for Best Debut Novel. Over the years she has worked as a copywriter, television presenter, voice-over artist, and dog walker. She is now thrilled to be able to write full-time, and doesn’t miss chasing wet dogs through muddy fields all that much. She lives in England with her partner and daughter.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMonday, April 11, 2016, M1 North\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe noticed the stickers first, surrounding the car’s rear window and lining the bumper:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHonk if you’re horny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDon’t follow me, I’m lost.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you drive like I do, you’d better believe in God.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHorn broken—watch for finger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eReal men love Jesus.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTalk about mixed messages. Although one thing did come through loud and clear: the driver was a dick. Gabe was willing to bet he wore slogan T-shirts and had a picture at work of a monkey with its hands over its head and the caption: You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was surprised the driver could see out of the back at all. On the other hand, at least he was providing reading material for people in traffic jams. Like the one they were currently stuck in. A long line of cars crawling through the M1 roadworks; it felt like they had started sometime in the last century and looked set to continue well into the next millennium.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabe sighed and tapped his fingers on the wheel, as though this could somehow hurry along the traffic, or summon a time machine. He was almost late. Not quite. Not yet. It was still within the bounds of possibility that he might make it home in time. But he wasn’t hopeful. In fact, hope had left him somewhere around Junction 19, along with all the drivers savvy enough to take their chances with their satnav and a country-lane diversion.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat was even more frustrating was that he had managed to leave on time today. He should easily have made it home by six thirty, so he could be there for dinner and Izzy’s bedtime, which he had promised—promised—Jenny that he would do tonight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just once a week. That’s all I ask. One night when we eat together, you read your daughter a bedtime story and we pretend we’re a normal, happy family.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat had hurt. She had meant it to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOf course, he could have pointed out that he was the one who had got Izzy ready for school that morning, as Jenny had had to rush out to see a client. He was the one who had soothed their daughter and applied Savlon to her chin when their temperamental rescue cat (the one Jenny had adopted) had scratched her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut he didn’t. Because they both knew it didn’t make up for all the missed times, the moments he hadn’t been there. Jenny was not an unreasonable woman. But when it came to family, she had a very definite line. If you crossed it, then it was a long time before she let you step back inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was one of the reasons he loved her: her fierce devotion to their daughter. Gabe’s own mum had been more devoted to cheap vodka, and he had never known his dad. Gabe had sworn that he would be different; that he would always be there for his little girl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd yet, here he was, stuck on the motorway, about to be late. Again. Jenny would not forgive him. Not this time. He didn’t want to dwell upon what that meant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe had tried to call her, but it had gone to voicemail. And now his phone had less than 1 percent battery, which meant it would die any minute and, typically, today of all days, he had left his charger at home. All he could do was sit, fighting the urge to press his foot on the accelerator and shove the rest of the traffic out of the way, tapping his fingers aggressively on the steering wheel, staring at bloody Sticker Man in front.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA lot of the stickers looked old. Faded and wrinkled. But then, the car itself looked ancient. An old Cortina, or something similar. It was sprayed that color that was so popular in the seventies: a sort of grubby gold. Moldy banana. Pollution sunset. Dying sun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDirty grey fumes puffed intermittently out of the wonky exhaust. The whole bumper was speckled with rust. He couldn’t see a manufacturer’s badge. It had probably fallen off, along with half of the number plate. Only the letters “T” and “N” and what could be part of a 6 or an 8 remained. He frowned. He was sure that wasn’t legal. The damn thing probably wasn’t even roadworthy, or insured, or driven by a qualified driver. Best not to get too close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was just considering changing lanes when the girl’s face appeared in the rear window, perfectly framed by the peeling stickers. She looked to be around five or six. Round-faced, pink-cheeked. Fine blonde hair pulled into two high pigtails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis first thought was that she should be strapped into a car seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis second thought was: Izzy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stared at him. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, revealing a tooth missing right in the front. He remembered wrapping it in a tissue and tucking it under her pillow for the tooth fairy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe mouthed: “Daddy!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen a hand reached back, grabbed her arm and yanked her down. Out of sight. Gone. Vanished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stared at the empty window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIzzy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eImpossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis daughter was at home, with her mum. Probably watching the Disney channel while Jenny cooked dinner. She couldn’t be in the back of a strange car, going God knows where, not even strapped into a car seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe stickers blocked his view of the driver. He could barely see the top of their head above Honk if you’re horny. Fuck that. He honked anyway. Then he flashed his lights. The car seemed to speed up a little. Ahead of him, the roadworks were ending, the 50mph signs replaced by the national speed limit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIzzy. He accelerated. It was a new Range Rover. It went like shit off the proverbial shovel. And yet the battered old rust bucket in front was pulling away from him. He pressed the pedal down harder. Watched the speedometer creep up past seventy, seventy-five, eighty-five. He was gaining, and then the car in front suddenly darted into the middle lane and overtook several cars. Gabe followed, swerving in front of an HGV. The horn’s blare almost deafened him. His heart felt like it might just burst right out of his chest, like bloody Alien.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe car in front was weaving dangerously in and out of the traffic. Gabe was hemmed in by a Ford Focus on one side and a Toyota in front. Shit. He glanced in his mirror, pulled into the slow lane then darted back in front of the Toyota. At the same time a Jeep pulled in from the fast lane, just missing his hood. He slammed on his brakes. The Jeep driver flashed his hazards and gave him the finger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Screw you, too, you fucking wanker!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe rust bucket was several cars in front now, still weaving, tail lights disappearing into the distance. He couldn’t keep up. It was too dangerous.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBesides, he tried to tell himself, he must be mistaken. Must be. It couldn’t have been Izzy. Impossible. Why on earth would she be in that car? He was tired, stressed. It was dark. It must be some other little girl who looked like Izzy. A lot like Izzy. A little girl who had the same blonde hair in pigtails, the same gap between her front teeth. A little girl who called him “Daddy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA sign flashed up ahead: services ½ mile. He could pull in, make a phone call, put his mind at rest. But he was already late; he should keep going. On the other hand, what was a few more minutes? The slip road was sliding past. Keep going? Pull over? Keep going? Pull over? Izzy. At the last minute, he yanked the wheel to the left, bumping over the white hazard lines and eliciting more horn beeps. He sped up the slip road and into the services.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabe hardly ever stopped at service stations. He found them depressing, full of miserable people who wanted to be somewhere else.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wasted precious minutes scuttling up and down, past the various food outlets, searching for a payphone, which he eventually found tucked away near the toilets. Just the one. No one used payphones any more. He wasted several more minutes looking for some change before he realized you could use a card. He extracted his debit card from his wallet, stuck it in and called home.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJenny never answered on the first ring. She was always busy, always doing something with Izzy. Sometimes she said she wished she had eight pairs of hands. He should be there more, he thought. He should help.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA woman’s voice. But not Jenny. Unfamiliar. Had he called the wrong number? He didn’t call it very often. Again, it was all cellphones. He checked the number on the payphone. Definitely their landline number.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello?” the voice said again. “Is that Mr. Forman?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes. This is Mr. Forman. Who the hell are you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My name is Detective Inspector Maddock.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA detective. In his house. Answering his phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where are you, Mr. Forman?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The M1. I mean, in the services. On my way back from work.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe was babbling. Like a guilty person. But then, he was guilty, wasn’t he? Of a lot of things.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You need to come home, Mr. Forman. Right away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why? What’s going on? What’s happened?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA long pause. A swollen, stifling silence. The sort of silence, he thought, that brims with unspoken words. Words that are about to completely fuck up your life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s about your wife . . . ​and your daughter.”Author of The Chalk Man","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303229542629,"sku":"NP9781984825018","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984825018.jpg?v=1767740832","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-other-people-isbn-9781984825018","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}