{"product_id":"cemetery-girl-isbn-9780451234674","title":"Cemetery Girl","description":"\u003cb\u003eA missing child is every parent's nightmare. What comes next is even worse in this riveting thriller from the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBring Her Home\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eLayover\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTom and Abby Stuart had everything: a perfect marriage, successful careers, and a beautiful twelve-year-old daughter, Caitlin. Then one day she vanished without a trace. For a while they grasped at every false hope and followed every empty lead, but the tragedy ended up changing their lives, overwhelming them with guilt and dread, and shattering their marriage.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFour years later, Caitlin is found alive—dirty and disheveled, yet preternaturally calm. She won’t discuss where she was or what happened. And when the police arrest a suspect connected to the disappearance, Caitlin refuses to testify, leaving the Stuarts with a choice: Let the man who may be responsible for destroying their lives walk away, or take matters into their own hands.  And when Tom decides to try to uncover the truth for himself, he finds that nothing that has happened yet can prepare him for what he is about to discover.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eCemetery Girl\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eCemetery Girl\u003c\/i\u003e grabbed me by the throat on page one and never let up. An intense, unrelenting powerhouse of a book, and the work of a master.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author John Lescroart\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An utterly compelling thriller...an absolutely riveting, absorbing read not to be missed.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Lisa Unger\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Trust me: you have never read a missing   persons story like this one....A fast, mean head trip of a thriller that   reads like a collaboration between Michael Connelly and the gothic fiction of   Joyce Carol Oates, \u003ci\u003eCemetery Girl\u003c\/i\u003e is one of those novels that you cannot shake after it's over.   A winner on every level.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Will Lavender\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“Cemetery Girl\u003c\/i\u003e is a smasher. It twists and turns and never lets go.”—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author   Jacquelyn Mitchard\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tense and terrifying journey that brims with emotional   authenticity. Bell manages not only to build suspense effectively but also   tell a story that goes way beyond simple thrills.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Disturbing, brilliantly engaging, and a must read for thriller fans.”\u003ci\u003e—Suspense Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eMore Praise for David Bell and His Novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“One of the brightest and best crime fiction writers of our time.”—\u003ci\u003eSuspense Magazine \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A natural storyteller and a superb writer.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Nelson DeMille \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Taut, intelligent, and intense suspense that is deeply human.”—#1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Mark Greaney \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bell is a brilliant craftsman as well as storyteller.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eDavid Bell\u003c\/b\u003e is a bestselling and award-winning author whose work has been translated into six languages. He’s currently an associate professor of English at Western Kentucky University in Bowling Green, Kentucky. He received an MA in creative writing from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and a PhD in American literature and creative writing from the University of Cincinnati. His novels include \u003ci\u003eBring Her Home\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSince She Went Away\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eSomebody I Used to Know\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Forgotten Girl\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eNever Come Back\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Hiding Place\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eCemetery Girl\u003c\/i\u003e.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Somehow, the dog knew he wasn't coming back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I picked up Frosty's leash and jiggled it while walking to the      door, but he didn't follow. Ordinarily, that sound made him jump      and run, his nails clacking against our hardwood floors, but this      time he slinked away, head down, eyes averted. I called his name,      but he ignored me. So I went to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frosty was a big dog, a yellow Lab, gentle and friendly and smart      enough to recognize something unusual in my voice, something that      told him this wasn't going to be a normal walk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I made a grab for his collar. Frosty tucked his head down against      his shoulder so I couldn't attach the leash. Up close, I smelled      the rich scent of his fur, felt his hot breath against my hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Frosty, no.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My frustration grew, and I gritted my teeth, felt the molars grind      against one another in the back of my mouth. Frosty ducked even      more. Without thinking, I brought my free hand up and gave him a      little swat on the snout. He surprised me by yelping, and I      immediately felt like a jerk, an indefensible son of a bitch. I'd      never hit him before, not even during training.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He cowered even more, but when I reached out again, he lifted his      head, allowing me to attach the leash to his collar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I straightened up, took a deep breath. I felt utterly ineffectual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's going on?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I turned. Abby stood in the kitchen doorway. Her hair was pulled      back in a ponytail and her eyes were wide as she considered me.      Even though it was Saturday, she wore a black skirt and striped      blouse. Her feet were bare. She used to dress down on weekends,      but now she dressed the same every day, as though she were about      to rush off to church because she probably was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Nothing,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I thought I heard the dog squeal.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He did. I hit him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her eyes narrowed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm getting rid of him,\" I said. \"Taking him to the pound.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh,\" she said. She raised her hand and placed it against her      chest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Isn't that what you want? You've been after me to do it for      almost a year.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, I do want that,\" she said. \"I thought you didn't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frosty sat at my feet, head down. Defeated. The refrigerator      cycled, made a low humming noise and then shut off. I shrugged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You keep saying we have to move on with our lives. Right? Turn      the page?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded, a little uncertain. Over the past couple of years,      Abby's face had rarely shown uncertainty. Her involvement with the      church made her seem certain all the time, as though nothing were      ever in doubt. Except for me. I knew she harbored doubts about me.      As a last resort, I was sacrificing the dog. A show of good faith      on my part. But I didn't think she'd let me go through with it. I      thought once she saw Frosty on his leash, ready to be led out the      door and to the pound, she'd stop me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tears stood in her eyes, and she took a deep breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I think we do need to do that, Tom.\" She sighed. \"With the      memorial service coming up, I think we can move on.\" She sighed      again, and it sounded more like a hiccup, almost a cry. \"I used to      love Frosty, but every time I look at him now, I think of Caitlin.      And I can't. I don't want to do it anymore.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're sure, Abby? Really? He's such a good dog.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She shook her head, tapped her foot against the floor. \"I'm sure,      Tom.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Fine.\" I tugged the leash, harder than I needed to, and Frosty      jerked to his feet. His paws clattered against the floor, slow and      methodical. Dead dog walking. \"Will you be here when I get back?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I have a meeting at church.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nodded, my hand on the doorknob of the back door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's funny,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What is, Tom? What's funny?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You say you can't stand to see Frosty because he reminds you of      Caitlin. I love having Frosty around for the same reason.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Tom. Don't.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I won't.\" I opened the door and stepped outside, leading the only      known witness to my daughter's abduction to his demise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didnÕt go straight to the pound. My guilt got the better of      me-guilt over FrostyÕs impending doom, guilt over the slap on the      nose, guilt over who knows how many things-so I drove a short      distance and stopped at the park. When I pulled into the lot,      Frosty perked up. His ears rose, his tail thumped against the      backseat, and he started panting, filling the enclosed car with      his musky dog breath. I found a spot in the shade and climbed out,      then opened the back door for Frosty. He jumped down, nose to the      ground, sniffing every square inch he came across, stopping only      to pee against a small tree. I took that opportunity to attach the      leash again and let Frosty lead me through the park.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Since it was a Saturday and late summer, the park was full of      activity. At the baseball diamond near the road, a boys' team      practiced, their aluminum bats pinging with every contact. Joggers      and speed walkers traced the running track, and I followed along      in their wakes, letting Frosty pull me off to the side every ten      feet while he inspected a fallen branch or a curious scent. I      tried to tell myself I was there for the dog, that he deserved to      spend his final moments on this earth doing the things he loved      the most: romping through the park, chasing butterflies, or      charging after squirrels. But it was a lie. Caitlin had      disappeared from that park four years ago, while walking Frosty,      and I found myself returning there, alone, again and again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The park occupied nearly two hundred acres just two blocks from      our house. To the east and south, new subdivisions with streets      named after variations on deer-Running Fawn, Leaping Hart-dotted      the landscape. The bricks of the houses were new and gleaming, the      streets smooth and unstained. As we walked, Frosty continued to      huff at the end of his leash, his tail bobbing like a metronome.      Forgiveness came quickly to him. My earlier transgression was      apparently forgotten, and I didn't have time to think about it      anyway. I knew that Frosty was leading me toward the edge of the      park where it bordered Oak Ridge, the oldest operational cemetery      inside the town's limits and the site of Caitlin's upcoming      memorial service and \"burial,\" which was scheduled for later in      the week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The neat rows of headstones and cleanly cropped grass came into      view. I must have slowed, because Frosty turned his head back to      look at me, one eyebrow cocked. I hadn't been to the park or the      cemetery in the weeks since Abby decided to hold the memorial      service and place a headstone in Caitlin's honor. She had been      receiving \"counseling\" from the pastor of her church-Pastor      Chris-and he apparently felt that four years was enough time to      grieve for a lost child. He'd managed to convince Abby it was time      to move on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I used to take some measure of comfort from cemeteries, even after      Caitlin disappeared. They assured me that even death could be      beautiful, that even after we are gone, some memory, some monument      to our lives could still exist and endure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My cell phone buzzed in my pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I jumped a little when the vibration started. Frosty turned his      head around, his tongue hanging out of his mouth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I dug the phone out of my pocket, expecting it to be Abby checking      in. I might have ignored it if it had been her, but the caller ID      told a different story. It was my brother. Actually, my half      brother, Buster. His given name is William, but he acquired his      nickname as a child when he managed to break everything he      touched.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I answered just before voice mail kicked in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's up, boss?\" he asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His voice possessed its usual hail-fellow-well-met cheer. Talking      to him on the phone was like conversing with a particularly      convincing telemarketer, one who could almost make you believe      your ship had come in and you'd be a fool to pass up the current      offer. Buster maintained this tone even though we hadn't spoken to      each other in close to six months. He'd moved an hour away the      year before, and our communication, which had always been      sporadic, slowed to a drip. We shared a mother-dead five years      earlier-but had different fathers. My dad died when I was four. My      mom remarried and had Buster.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I told him I was walking the dog.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Good, good.\" He cleared his throat. I heard someone talk in the      background on his end of the line. It sounded like a woman. \"I      wanted to tell you I'm coming to town this week.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What for?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"For the funeral,\" he said. \"Or whatever the hell it is that      Abby's doing. I know you didn't invite me, and you might not even      want me to come, but Abby called. She said she wanted all of the      family there, and since you don't have much-I mean, I'm pretty      much it these days. Right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's not that I didn't want you to come,\" I said. Frosty and I      stood alongside the cemetery and I could see the area where      Caitlin's marker would go up in a few days. \"I just thought you      wouldn't want to come because-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Because it's so fucked-up.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I hesitated. \"Yeah, because of that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's she going to do, bury an empty coffin? How do you have a      funeral for someone who might not be dead?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We didn't buy a coffin.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But you bought a plot and a headstone?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frosty tugged on the leash, indicating he wanted to move on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jesus. Is this because of that wackadoodle church she belongs to?      What's it called?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I regretted ever answering the phone. \"Christ's Community Church.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's original,\" he said. \"Aren't they all Christ's churches?      Remember when people belonged to actual churches? You know,      Baptists, Methodists, Presbyterians. I hate hearing about these      anything-goes religions, you know? Just put up a warehouse and a      coffee bar and let them come in and feel good about themselves.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I didn't know you were so easily offended.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stupidity pisses me off. That herd mentality. How much is it      costing you to buy this cenotaph and plot? A couple thousand      bucks?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frosty pulled against the leash again, and I tugged back, trying      to keep him still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Buy what?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A cenotaph. That's what they call it when you put up a marker and      there's no body under it. A cenotaph. You're not the only one who      knows the big words, professor.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Look, I have to go. The dog's done his business.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll call you when I get to town. Okay?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sure. But don't feel obligated-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I do feel obligated,\" he said. His voice dripped with sincerity,      and I wanted to believe him. I really did. \"For you, anything.      Just let me know. I'll be by your side.\" \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Frosty and I faced the choice of going around the track again,      something we almost never did, or getting in the car and      completing my mission. Frosty pulled a little in the direction of      the car, but I pulled harder, and we entered the cemetery      together.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew they didn't want pets in there, digging up flowers and      shitting and pissing on the graves. But Frosty's tank was pretty      well emptied, and I preferred to face the prospect of an accident      in the cemetery over delivering him to the pound.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We walked down the road that cut through the center of the      cemetery, then turned right and headed toward the back. I      recognized the names on the larger headstones, the same names that      adorned the buildings and parks throughout town. Potter.      Hardcastle. Greenwood. Cooper. They didn't skimp on death, these      founding families and innovative educators, these city councilmen      and spiritual leaders. Not only did they have elaborate      headstones, beautifully engraved and clean as the day they were      cut, but they paid for life-sized guardians to watch over the      graves. Vigilant Virgin Marys and winged angels, Christ with his      eyes cast to heaven as though begging for intercession. While the      stone we'd picked out for Caitlin didn't approach those lofty      heights, it wasn't cheap either. Buster was right-we'd spent too      much money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I read the signs posted at knee level and found section B; then I      worked my way up until I came to the number. Despite the presence      of the sleeping and buried dead, it was a beautiful day. The      temperature climbed toward eighty, and only a few high, puffy      clouds disrupted the blue of the sky. In the distance, somewhere,      a lawn mower engine churned, but I couldn't see where it was, and      when I looked around the cemetery, I found myself alone. The      walkers and joggers kept up their work in the park, so I just      listened to Frosty's panting breath and rattling collar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's just a little detour, boy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Most of the cemetery was full, the stones nestled close together      so that it didn't appear there was any room left for new burials.      I kept my eyes peeled for a small open place, a last remaining      plot that we purchased only to-hopefully-never fill. My eyes      wandered over husbands buried with their wives, the headstones a      monument to eternal love and union. I saw children buried near      their parents. Veterans of wars, their stones decorated with      small, fluttering flags. And then I thought I saw Caitlin's name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was a brief glimpse, something caught out of the corner of my      eye, and I just as quickly dismissed it, assuming that my eyes and      mind, in their haste to find a closer connection to my daughter,      simply imagined her name. But as I came closer, I saw it again,      chiseled into a large rectangular headstone. It was really there.      caitlin ann stuart. daughter. friend. angel. 1992-2004.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The stone didn't belong there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Abby had told me it wouldn't be placed until days after the      service, that when we stood at the grave on Wednesday for the      memorial, we'd just be facing a small area of green grass. No      earth would be churned, no stone in place. And I took comfort in      that scenario because it seemed less permanent somehow, less final      than what Abby had intended. I convinced myself that the ceremony      would bear no real relation to my daughter, that we were there      remembering some other kid or maybe even some person I never knew.      A stranger, the faceless, nameless victim of a distant tragedy.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301819830501,"sku":"NP9780451234674","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451234674.jpg?v=1767723523","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/cemetery-girl-isbn-9780451234674","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}