{"product_id":"chill-of-fear-isbn-9780553585995","title":"Chill of Fear","description":"Bestselling author Kay Hooper turns up the heat even as she chills  readers to the bone with a suspense novel that distills the essence of fear itself.  In this relentless thriller, two psychics put more than their lives on the line to  stop a killer darker and more evil than they could ever imagine. . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e FBI agent  Quentin Hayes always knew he had an unusual talent, even before he was recruited  by Noah Bishop for the controversial Special Crimes Unit. But, as gifted as he is,  for twenty years he’s been haunted by a heartbreaking unsolved murder that took place  at The Lodge, a secluded Victorian-era resort in Tennessee. Now he’s returned one  final time, determined to put the mystery to rest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana Brisco has come there hoping  to unlock the mystery of her troubled past. Instead, she is assailed by nightmares  and the vision of a child who vanished from The Lodge years ago. And an FBI agent  is trying to convince her that she isn’t crazy but that she has a rare gift, a gift  that could catch a killer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quentin knows that this is his last chance to solve a  case that has become a dangerous obsession. But can he persuade Diana to help him,  knowing what it could cost her? For something cold and dark and pure evil is stalking  the grounds of The Lodge. Something Diana may not survive. Something Quentin never  felt before: the chill of fear.\u003cb\u003eKay Hooper\u003c\/b\u003e, who has more than thirteen million copies of her books in print worldwide, has won numerous awards and high praise for her novels. She lives in North Carolina.\u003ci\u003eChapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Present day\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nightmares again?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana Brisco slipped her cold hands  into the front pockets of her smock and frowned at him. \"What makes you ask?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That.\"  He nodded at the canvas on its easel in front of her, a canvas with a dark background  and bright, harsh slashes of color in the foreground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She joined him in staring  at the canvas, and finally shrugged. \"No, no nightmares.\" For once, at least. \"Just  in a mood, I guess.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"A dark mood.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You told us to paint what we felt,\" she said  defensively. \"I did that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He smiled, the expression lending his already angelic  features such beauty that she unconsciously caught her breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yes, you did. And  quite powerfully. I'm not worried about your work, Diana. It's superb, as usual.  I'm concerned about you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She mentally shook off the almost mesmerizing effect of  his physical presence and ignored what she suspected was a pat-the-pupil-on-the-head  compliment, saying, \"I'm fine. I didn't sleep well, but not because of nightmares.  Just because . . .\" She shrugged again, unwilling to admit that she had been up half  the night staring through her bedroom window, out over the dark valley. She had spent  far too many nights that way since arriving in Leisure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Looking for . . . something.  God only knew what, because she certainly didn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gently, but also matter-of-factly,  he said, \"Even if this workshop was designed for self-expression rather than therapy,  I'd be offering the same advice, Diana. Once we're done here, get out of The Lodge  for a while. Go for a walk, or a ride, or a swim. Sit out in one of the gardens with  a book.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"In other words, stop thinking about myself so much.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stop \u003ci\u003ethinking.\u003c\/i\u003e For a while.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay. Sure. Thanks.\" Diana knew she sounded brusque and wanted to  apologize for it. He was only doing what he was supposed to do, after all, and probably  had no idea that she'd heard it all before. But before she could form the words,  he merely smiled and moved on to the next of his dozen or so \"students\" here in the  bright, open space of the hotel's conservatory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana kept her hands in the pockets  of the paint-stained smock and frowned at her painting. \u003ci\u003eSuperb\u003c\/i\u003e, huh? Yeah, right.  To her eye, it looked more like the finger painting of a highly untalented six-year-old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But, of course, quality was hardly the point. Talent was hardly the point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Figuring  out what was going on in her screwed-up mind was the point.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She took her gaze off  the painting and watched as Beau Rafferty moved among his students. An artist of  his caliber teaching this sort of workshop had struck her as extremely odd at first,  but after a week of classes she had come to realize that he had a genuine gift not  only for teaching, but also for reaching and helping troubled people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Other people,  at least. She could already see changes in most of the others participating in this  workshop. Strained faces had begun to relax, smiles had appeared to replace frowns  or haunted anxiety. She had even seen a few of them out enjoying some of the activities  The Lodge had to offer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But not Diana. Oh, no. Diana was still having nightmares  when she could sleep at all, she couldn't remember the last time she had felt relaxed,  and none of the myriad sports or recreational facilities here held the least appeal  for her. And despite Rafferty's undoubted genius and ability to teach, she didn't  believe that her rudimentary artistic skills had improved either.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In fact, this  whole thing was probably just one more waste of her time and her father's money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana looked back at her painting and hesitated for a moment before picking up her  brush and adding one small streak of scarlet near the lower left corner. That finished  it, she decided. She had no idea what it was or what it was supposed to represent  to her, but it was finished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She began cleaning her brushes automatically, trying  to concentrate on the task and not think.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But, of course, that was part of her problem,  the short attention span, these scattered, random thoughts and ideas flitting constantly  through her mind, usually so fast they left her confused and disoriented at least  half the time. Like bits and pieces of overheard conversations, the words and phrases  came and went almost continually.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No focus, that's what the doctors said. They were  sure she didn't have attention deficit disorder, despite having been medicated for  that at least twice in her life; no, all the doctors and all the tests had determined  that despite \"somewhat elevated\" levels of electrical activity, her problem wasn't  physical or chemical, wasn't something in her brain--but something in her mind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So far, none of them had been able to suggest a successful way of figuring out what  that \u003ci\u003esomething \u003c\/i\u003ewas. And just about every conceivable means had been tried. The traditional  couch and shrink. Hypnosis. Conscious regression, since no one had been able to hypnotize  her to attempt the unconscious variety. Group therapy. Massage therapy. Various other  kinds of therapy, both traditional and New Age. Including, now, painting, under the  tutelage of an honest-to-God artistic genius, in yet another attempt to tap in to  her inner Diana and ask what the hell was wrong with her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e One of her current doctors  had suggested she try this, and Diana could only wonder if he was getting kickbacks  for every referral.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her father had spared no expense in trying to help his troubled  only child, openly afraid that she might, as so many others had done, escape into  alcohol or drugs or, worse, give up and commit suicide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But Diana had never been  tempted by the chemical forgetfulness that could be found in \"recreational\" drugs.  In fact, she disliked losing control, a trait that only exacerbated her problem;  the harder she tried to concentrate and focus, the more scattered her thoughts became.  And the failure to control them, of course, depressed and disturbed her further,  though never to the point of contemplating suicide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana was no quitter. Which  was why she was here, trying yet another form of therapy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll see you all back  here tomorrow,\" Rafferty told his class, smiling, not offering a collective \"Good  work\" because he had instead offered that individually.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana removed her smock  and hung it on the hook at the side of the easel, and prepared to follow the others  out of the conservatory.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Diana?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She waited, a little surprised, as Rafferty approached  her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Take this.\" He held out a sketchpad and small box of watercolor pencils.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She accepted them, but with a frown. \"Why? Is this some kind of exercise?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's  a suggestion. Keep the pad close by, and when you start to feel upset or anxious  or restless, try drawing. Don't think about it, don't try to control what you draw,  just draw.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just let go and draw.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is like the inkblots, right?  You're going to look at my sketches and interpret them, go all Freudian and figure  out what's wrong with me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I won't even see them, unless you want to show them  to me. No, Diana, the sketches are just for you. They may help . . . clarify things  for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She wondered, not for the first time, just how much he really knew about  her and her demons, but didn't ask. Instead, she merely nodded. It was something  she hadn't tried, so why not? \"Okay, fine. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e See you tomorrow.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"See you tomorrow,  Diana.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She left the conservatory, going out into the gardens more because she didn't  want to return to her cottage than because the gardens were an enjoyment for her.  They were pretty, she supposed. Gorgeous, really, from the various themed gardens  already in bloom in mid-April to the striking greenhouse that held an amazing variety  of orchids.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But Diana walked through most of the charming scenery indifferently.  She followed a flagstone path because it was there, crossing the arched footbridge  over the man-enhanced stream holding numerous colorful koi and ending up in the supposedly  serene Zen Garden, with its manicured shrubs and trees and carefully placed rocks  and sand and statuary.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She sat down on a stone bench beside a weeping willow tree,  telling herself she wouldn't remain long because the afternoon was waning and it  got chilly this time of year as the sun dipped below the mountains. And then there  was the fog, which had an unsettling tendency to creep across this valley and settle  over The Lodge and its gardens so that finding one's way along the paths resembled  a trip through a damp and chilly maze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Diana definitely wasn't in the mood for that.  But she nevertheless sat there longer than she had planned, finally opening the box  of watercolor pencils and absently selecting one. They were already sharpened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She  opened the sketchpad and tried the pencil out just as absently, making yet another  attempt to ignore the jumbled thoughts crowding her mind and concentrate on only  one. Why she was having so much trouble sleeping here. It had been an issue now and  then in her life, but not recently, not until she had come to The Lodge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nightmares  had always been a problem for her, though still not regular occurrences, but since  coming to The Lodge they had gotten worse. More intense, more . . . terrifying. She'd  wake in the dark hours before dawn, gasping in panic yet unable to remember what  it was that had so frightened her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was less traumatic to stay awake. Just curl  up in the window seat in her bedroom, an afghan protecting her against the chill  of the glass, and stare out at the valley and the dark mountains that loomed above.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Looking for . . . something. Nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Waiting.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304408240357,"sku":"NP9780553585995","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553585995.jpg?v=1767723656","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/chill-of-fear-isbn-9780553585995","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}