{"product_id":"the-thirst-isbn-9780804170222","title":"The Thirst","description":"\u003cb\u003e#1 INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER • \u003ci\u003eJo Nesbø’s Detective Hole\u003c\/i\u003e is coming soon to Netflix • In this \u003cb\u003eelectrifying thriller,\u003c\/b\u003e Inspector Harry Hole hunts down a serial murderer who targets his victims—on Tinder. \u003cb\u003e• Part of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling series.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe murder victim, a self-declared Tinder addict. The one solid clue—fragments of rust and paint in her wounds—leaves the investigating team baffled. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo days later, there’s a second murder: a woman of the same age, a Tinder user, an eerily similar scene. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chief of police knows there’s only one man for this case. But Harry Hole is no longer with the force. He promised the woman he loves, and he promised himself, that he’d never go back: not after his last case, which put the people closest to him in grave danger. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut there’s something about these murders that catches his attention, something in the details that the investigators have missed. For Harry, it’s like hearing “the voice of a man he was trying not to remember.” Now, despite his promises, despite everything he risks, Harry throws himself back into the hunt for a figure who haunts him, the monster who got away.“Jo Nesbø certainly has the magic touch when it comes to psycho serial killers.... Intricate plotting keeps the story shifting under our feet. Nesbø is a master at this narrative sleight of hand, and if you can stand the gory details and hang on during the switchback turns, the payoff is its own reward.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"[Nesbø is] the reigning king of Scandinavian crime fiction ... [\u003ci\u003eThe Thirst\u003c\/i\u003e is] a big-boned, Technicolor epic ... starting adagio and ending accelerando, but with the kind of close psychological character readings that distinguished his early work.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian \u003c\/i\u003e(London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It all starts with a Tinder date in a bar appropriately called Jealousy and ends with death on an ice-covered fjord. In between, \u003ci\u003eThe Thirst\u003c\/i\u003e is filled with horrific murder scenes intensely detailed enough to chill the blood in your veins.... You’ll want to sink your teeth into \u003ci\u003eThe Thirst\u003c\/i\u003e and not let go.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Fast moving ... stunning.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e (London)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Wading into dark and deranged territory ... an edgy and visceral read. [Nesbø] is a master of structure, style and no-pages wasted plotting.... In Nesbø’s consistently excellent Hole series, \u003ci\u003eThe Thirst \u003c\/i\u003emay well be the pinnacle.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003ePaste Quarterly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Jo Nesbø has ripped the throat out of the serial-killer genre. He’s exsanguinated it, soaking up every dark pleasure and wringing them out onto the page. There’s no need to ever read another one, Nesbø has so completely deconstructed the trope with a multi-dimensional novel that blurs lines among crime, psychological procedural and, yes, horror thrillers.... [Hole] survives in a literary landscape dreamt up by Stephen King or Edgar Allen Poe....  Brilliant ... Nesbø shows his true mastery ...  Nesbø’s plots are evocative of James Ellroy and Lee Child with crime layered upon crime.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eArizona Republic\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exceptional ... Nesbø depicts a heartbreakingly conflicted Harry, who both wants to forget the horrors he’s trying to prevent and knows he has to remember them in all their grim detail.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A gripping, way-scary crime novel.... This one will keep readers awake deep into the night.\"\u003cbr\u003e—Bill Ott, \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Explosive ... twists within twists within twists ... yet more evidence of why Scandinavian crime writers continue to dominate international bestseller lists.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eThe Thirst\u003c\/i\u003e] features thoroughly developed characters, an intricate plot, and suspenseful twists, all hallmarks of a master storyteller.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003ePraise for the work of Jo Nesbø:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nesbø writes like an angel. As in Lucifer.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Philadelphia Inquirer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nesbø explores the darkest criminal minds with grim delight and puts his killers where you least expect to find them.... His novels are maddeningly addictive.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Jo Nesbø is my new favorite thriller writer and Harry Hole is my new hero.”\u003cbr\u003e —Michael Connelly\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nesbø ... is a giant of the Scandinavian mystery.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Crime fiction’s most tortured and compelling hero. Alas, no armor exists strong enough to keep Harry from his demons, or the rest of us from Harry.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nesbø’s books have a serious, socially significant heft, as well as a confident (even cocky) narrative stride that is unmatched. These aren’t mere investigatory trifles to be enjoyed and forgotten; their unnerving horrors linger.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eRichmond Times-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “In the crowded field of Scandinavian crime fiction, Nesbø’s books stand out.... Nesbø likes to rip plots up ... to play with the conventions of his genre.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “Harry Hole is fast becoming one of the planet’s favorite detectives. And his demons are almost as legendary as his observational and analytical skills.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Mirror \u003c\/i\u003e(UK)\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “[Nesbø is] the writer most likely to take the ice-cold crown in the critically acclaimed—and now bestselling—category of Nordic noir.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  JO NESBØ is a musician, songwriter, economist, and #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e best-selling author. He has won the Raymond Chandler Award for Lifetime Achievement as well as many other awards. His books have sold 55 million copies worldwide and have been translated into 50 languages. His Harry Hole novels include \u003ci\u003eThe Redeemer, The Snowman, The Leopard, Phantom, The Thirst, \u003c\/i\u003eand most recently \u003ci\u003eKnife, \u003c\/i\u003eand he is also the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Son, Headhunters, Macbeth, The Kingdom \u003c\/i\u003eand several children's books. He lives in Oslo. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePrologue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He stared into the white nothingness. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The way he had done for almost three years. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No one saw him, and he saw no one. Apart from each time the door opened and enough steam was sucked out for him to be able to glimpse a naked man for a brief moment before the door closed and everything was shrouded in fog. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The baths would be closing soon. He was alone. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He wrapped the white towelling bathrobe more tightly around him, got up from the wooden bench and walked out, past the empty swimming pool and into the changing room. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No trickling showers, no conversations in Turkish, no bare feet padding across the tiled floor. He looked at himself in the mirror. Ran a finger along the scar that was still visible after the last operation. It had taken him time to get used to his new face. His finger carried on down his throat, across his chest, and came to a halt at the start of the tattoo. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He removed the padlock from his locker, pulled on his trousers and put his coat on over the still damp bathrobe. Tied his shoelaces. He made sure he was definitely alone before going over to a locker with a coded padlock, one with a splash of blue paint on it. He turned the lock until it read 0999. Removed the lock and opened the door. Took a moment to admire the big, beautiful revolver that lay inside before taking hold of the red hilt and putting it in his coat pocket. Then he removed the envelope and opened it. A key. An address, and some more detailed information. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e There was one more thing in the locker. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Painted black, made of iron. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He held it up against the light with one hand, looking at the wrought ironwork with fascination. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He would have to clean it, scrub it, but he already felt aroused at the thought of using it. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Three years. Three years in a white nothingness, in a desert of empty days. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now it was time. Time he drank from the well of life again. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Time he returned. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Harry woke with a start. Stared out at the semi-darkness of the bedroom. It was \u003ci\u003ehim \u003c\/i\u003eagain, he was back, he was here. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Nightmare, darling?” The whispered voice by his side was warm and soothing. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He turned towards her. Her brown eyes studied his. And the apparition faded and disappeared. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I’m here,” Rakel said. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And here I am,” he said. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Who was it this time?” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “No one,” he lied, and touched her cheek. “Go back to sleep.” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Harry closed his eyes. Waited until he was sure she had closed hers before opening his again. He studied her face. He had seen him in a forest this time. Moorland, wreathed in white fog that swirled around them. He had raised his hand and pointed something towards Harry. He could just make out the demonic, tattooed face on his naked chest. Then the fog had grown thicker, and he was gone. Gone again. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “And here I am,” Harry Hole whispered. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eChapter One\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Elise walked down Thorvald Meyers gate, past plain four-storey buildings that had once housed the working classes in a poor part of a poor city, but where one square metre now cost as much as in London or Stockholm. September in Oslo. The darkness was back at last, and the drawn-out, annoyingly light summer nights were long gone, with all the hysterical, cheerful, stupid self-expression of summer. In September Oslo reverted to its true self: melancholic, reserved, efficient. A solid facade, but not without its dark corners and secrets. Much like her, apparently. She quickened her pace; there was rain in the air, mist, the spray when God sneezed, as one of her dates had put it in an attempt to be poetic. She was going to give up Tinder. Tomorrow. Enough was enough. Enough randy men whose way of looking at her made her feel like a whore when she met them in bars. Enough crazy psychopaths and stalkers who stuck like mud, sucking time, energy and security from her. Enough pathetic losers who made her feel like she was one of them. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They said Internet dating was the cool way to meet new people, that it was nothing to be ashamed of anymore, that everyone was doing it. But that wasn’t true. People met each other at work, in classrooms, through friends, at the gym, in cafes, on planes, buses, trains. They met each other the way they were supposed to meet each other, when they were relaxed, no pressure, and afterwards they could cling to the romantic illusion of innocence, purity and quirks of fate. She \u003ci\u003ewanted \u003c\/i\u003ethat illusion. She was going to delete her profile. She’d told herself that before, but this time it was definitely going to happen, that very night. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She crossed Sofienberggata and fished out the key to unlock the gate next to the greengrocer’s. She pushed the gate open and stepped into the darkness of the archway. And stopped dead. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e There were two of them. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It took a moment or two for her eyes to get used to the darkness, and for her to see what they were holding in their hands. Both men had undone their trousers and had their cocks out. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She jerked back. Didn’t look round, just prayed that there was no one standing behind her. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Fucksorry.” The combination of oath and apology was uttered by a young voice. Nineteen, twenty, Elise guessed. Not sober. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Duh,” the other one said, “you’re pissing all over my shoes!” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I was startled!” \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Elise pulled her coat more tightly around her and walked past the young men, who had turned back to face the wall again. “This isn’t a public toilet,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Sorry, we were desperate. It won’t happen again.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e …\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Ping. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A match on Tinder. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The triumphant sound your phone makes when someone you’ve already swiped right on swipes \u003ci\u003eyour \u003c\/i\u003epicture right as well. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Elise’s head was spinning, her heart was racing. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She knew it was the familiar response to the sound of Tinder’s matchmaking: increased heart rate as a consequence of excitement. That it released a whole load of happy chemicals that you could become addicted to. But that wasn’t why her heart was galloping. It was because the ping hadn’t come from \u003ci\u003eher \u003c\/i\u003ephone. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But the ping had rung out at the very moment she’d swiped right on a picture. The picture of a person who, according to Tinder, was less than a kilometre away from her. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She stared at the closed bedroom door. Swallowed. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The sound must have come from one of the neighbouring apartments. There were lots of single people living in the block, lots of potential Tinder users. And everything was quiet now, even on the floor below where the girls had been having a party when she went out earlier that evening. But there was only one way to get rid of imaginary monsters. By checking. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Elise got up from the sofa and walked the four steps over to the bedroom door. Hesitated. A couple of assault cases from work swirled through her head. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then she pulled herself together and opened the door. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e She found herself standing in the doorway gasping for air. Because there wasn’t any. None that she could breathe. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The light above the bed was switched on, and the first thing she saw was the soles of a pair of cowboy boots sticking off the end of the bed. Jeans and a pair of long legs, crossed. The man lying there was like the photograph, half in darkness, half out of focus. But he had unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his bare chest. And on his chest was a drawing or a tattoo of a face. That was what caught her eye now. The silently screaming face. As if it were held tight and was trying to pull free. Elise couldn’t bring herself to scream either.","brand":"Vintage Crime\/Black Lizard","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304633520357,"sku":"NP9780804170222","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780804170222.jpg?v=1767741839","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-thirst-isbn-9780804170222","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}