{"product_id":"fall-from-grace-isbn-9780399562594","title":"Fall from Grace","description":"\u003cb\u003eInternational bestselling author Tim Weaver returns with his next David Raker mystery, a high-stakes search for a recently retired detective who vanishes from his own home\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e After decades of service, Leonard Franks has stepped down from the Metropolitan Police as a high-ranking detective in the Homicide and Serious Crime Command. He and his wife, Ellie, have retired to a farmhouse in the seclusion of the English countryside, far from the clamor of London. Everything goes just as they’ve imagined, until the night Leonard leaves the house to fetch firewood—and never returns. \u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003eWith the police investigation at a dead end nine months later, Leonard’s daughter, a detective herself, turns in desperation to David Raker, a missing persons investigator with a gift for finding the lost. But nothing can prepare Raker for what he's about to find—or for the devastating secret behind this disappearance. And by the time he realizes what it is, and how deep the lies go, he finds himself in serious danger—along with everyone he cares about.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Raker’s action-packed investigation takes readers on a richly atmospheric thrill ride, from the seedy backstreets of London and the stark quiet of the Devon countryside to the sinister hallways of an abandoned mental institution. In \u003ci\u003eFall from Grace\u003c\/i\u003e, Weaver has delivered another sharp, emotionally charged mystery that saves its most startling revelations for the final pages.“A genuine puzzle . . . Weaver’s shapely narrative plays fair with the grim facts, while maintaining a level of dread that properly suits the moody setting.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—Marilyn Stasio, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fantastic . . . Family secrets and past cases intertwine in Weaver’s intricate flashback-filled narrative in this twisty page-turner.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Cleveland Plain Dealer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reminiscent of Dennis Lehane’s \u003ci\u003eShutter Island\u003c\/i\u003e . . . With his assured voice and strong sense of place, Weaver rewards our patience.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Chicago Tribune\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An unforgettable book . . . Tim Weaver has set up readers to go on a very riveting quest and saves the best for last, with many astounding disclosures wrapped up in the end pages. For those who want a mind-boggling tale filled with action, adventure, mystery, and chills, this book is a must-read.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Suspense\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eFall from Grace \u003c\/i\u003ereads like a puzzle, and my brain worked overtime as each piece was revealed, but I still didn’t see the whole picture until the very end—a credit to Tim Weaver’s ability to craft a clever plot. . . . While packed with action and some last-minute surprises, this story’s greater strength lies in its understanding of relationships, and the harm that can happen when someone you once put on a pedestal finally takes a fall.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMystery Scene\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A deeply felt, un-put-downable thriller. . . . All the plotlines Weaver has launched do indeed fit together, and the monstrous pattern that emerges is as devastating as in any of Ross Macdonald’s nightmares.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Weaver continually keeps readers guessing while skillfully managing to tie together seemingly unrelated people and events. . . . \u003ci\u003eFall from Grace\u003c\/i\u003e will have readers clamoring for more.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Raker’s persistence uncovers some disturbing secrets and puts him in chillingly depicted peril. The bits we learn about why people go missing and what kinds of tracks they might leave are fascinating. An exciting puzzle, given added depth by Raker’s complicated character.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Affecting . . . As Raker presciently observes at the beginning of this dark journey, ‘Everyone wanted the truth until they got it.’”\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for Tim Weaver’s David Raker Mysteries\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Weaver’s books get better each time—tense, complex . . . written with flair as well as care.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—The Guardian\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Weaver has become one of this country’s most respected, bestselling crime writers, and he fully deserves to be. . . . Catch him at once.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Daily Mail\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Impressive . . . A lacerating investigation that takes readers into the furthest reaches of obsession. A dark, complex, and visceral read.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Financial Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Weaver knows how to construct a complex plot. . . . You will be kept guessing until the last few pages. David Raker has joined a select band of fictional characters whose return in a new book excites existing fans and collects new ones with every publication.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Crime Fiction Lover\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eTim Weaver\u003c\/b\u003e is the international bestselling author of a series of mysteries featuring private investigator David Raker. He made his American debut with \u003ci\u003eNever Coming Back\u003c\/i\u003e, which was selected for the Richard and Judy Book Club and nominated for a National Book Award in the UK, and in 2015 he was longlisted for the prestigious Dagger in the Library Award from the Crime Writers' Association. Weaver is also the host of the popular podcast \u003ci\u003eMissing\u003c\/i\u003e, about how people disappear and how investigators search for them. A former journalist and magazine editor, he now writes fiction full time and lives with his wife and daughter in Bath, England.\u003cb\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e1978\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It took them an hour to get to the beach, a small,      horseshoe-shaped bay on the southern tip of the county. The father      had wanted to get there early, to avoid having to fight for a      space in the tiny parking lot, and because someone in their      village had told him that there were five spaces-tucked away      beneath the slant of a vast, ninety-foot rock face-that stayed in      the shade all day. When they arrived and saw there were two spaces      still empty, the father drummed out a victory beat on the wheel of      the Hillman Avenger and started whistling to himself. His wife, in      the passenger seat next to him, broke out into a smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I think we can safely say you're happy.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is it too early for an ice cream?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She rolled her eyes. \"We've only just had breakfast.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That was over an hour ago,\" he joked, and after he parked and      turned off the engine he looked over his shoulder, toward the      backseat. His son was up on his knees, fingers pressed to the      glass, looking out at the cove.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What do you think, my boy?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are there rocks to climb here, Dad?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His father laughed. \"Yes, son. There are rocks to climb.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The tide was on its way out, a swath of wrinkled beach left in its      wake. Beyond the blanket of sand was water as clear as glass, much      of it contained within the gentle arc of the cove, the rest out in      the channel, where the boy thought it looked like the world went      on forever. Excited now, he helped his dad take two deck chairs      and all the food down to the sand, then came back for his bucket      and spade, and made a break for the water's edge. Behind him, his      mother called after him, telling him not to wander off too far,      and he shouted back to her that he wouldn't. As the father set up,      the mother continued to watch the boy, a trail of his footprints      leading all the way down to the sea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's so grown up now,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's only eight, Marie.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know.\" She stopped, watching the boy dipping his toe into the      water. \"But don't you think the time's going so fast? I mean, it      seems like only yesterday the nurses were handing him to me for      the first time. Now look at him.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know. I don't mean he's not fine. I just mean . . . before we      know it, he'll be married, with his own kids. Maybe he won't even      stay in this area.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course he will.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There are no opportunities for him here, Tom.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What are you talking about? He'll take over the business.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He says he doesn't want it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He's only eight.\" He came up behind his wife and put his arms      around her waist. \"He doesn't know what he wants. When I was      eight, I wanted to be an astronaut.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I just don't want him to forget us.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He kissed his wife on the cheek. \"He won't forget his old mum.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the water's edge, the boy turned back to them and waved his      mother toward him. \"Mum!\" the boy shouted. \"Mum, come and look at      this!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"See?\" the boy's father said. \"I told you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled again, kissed her husband on the cheek and headed down      to where her son was standing in a foot of water, pointing to      something out beyond the edge of the cove. At first, as she      followed his line of sight, she couldn't tell what had got his      attention. But then it emerged, on its own out in the channel,      like a lonely, drifting ship.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The island.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She'd tried to forget how close they were to it here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What's the matter, sweetheart?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But she already knew. The island sat like a fin above the water, a      craggy sliver of land a quarter of a mile out to sea, awkward,      broken, ominous. Even from this distance, even as light bounced      off the water and the sun beat down, there remained something dark      about it; all the stories it had to tell, all the memories it      wished it could forget.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Instinctively, she put a hand on her son's shoulder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What is that place, Mum?\" the boy asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked out across the channel, unsure of how to respond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mum?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's . . . It's, uh . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What?\" the boy said. \"What is it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then slowly, automatically, she brought him into her, pressing      him to her hip, and she said to her son, \"It's somewhere bad,      sweetheart. It's somewhere very bad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e2013\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The address I'd been given overlooked a railway switchyard in      Pimlico. Built from London stock brick, the two-story building was      a quarter of a mile south of Victoria station, almost on the banks      of the Thames. There was no signage on it and its windows were      dark, giving the impression it was empty. But it wasn't empty. As      I got closer, I could see the hardwood front door had been freshly      painted in a muted blue and a security camera was fixed to the      wall, its lens focused on the entrance. Embedded in a space next      to the door was a number pad with an intercom. I buzzed once and      waited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From where I was standing, the river was mostly obscured by the      rusting iron struts of a railway bridge, but in between I could      see a slow procession of sightseeing trips carving along the      water. This close to Christmas, the vessels all had fairy lights      winking in their windows, and some of the tourists—braving the      chill of winter—stood on the decks, wearing Santa hats. Otherwise,      there seemed a strange kind of hush to the morning, a grayness,      like the city had slipped into hibernation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A couple of seconds later, a ping came from the intercom and the      door bumped away from its frame. Inside was a short corridor with      a polished oak floor and a big arched window, light bleeding out      across the walls and ceiling. Everything was finished in the same      neutral off-white color except for two blue doors at the end and a      marble counter on the right. Behind it sat a smartly dressed woman      in her early twenties.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mr. Raker?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I nodded. \"Was that just a lucky guess?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled, reached under the counter and brought out a visitors'      ledger. \"I was told to expect you about this time,\" she said, and      laid a fountain pen on top. \"If you can just sign and date it,      I'll show you where you need to go.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I signed my name. \"It's December 12 today, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's right, sir.\" Once I was done, she gestured toward the      first blue door. \"Head through there to find our meeting rooms.      Yours is Dickens. When you've finished, feel free to use our      facilities. We have a bar in the basement and that second door      takes you into our restaurant. We serve food between twelve and      four, although you'll need to ensure your representative is with      you, as we only serve guests when they dine with a member.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Is there anything else, Mr. Raker?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"No, I think that's fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I headed through the first blue door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Another corridor revealed eight other doors, four on each side,      all closed, all with brass plates. Each was named after a British      writer, and Dickens was the fourth down on the left. As I      approached, I could hear the hum of conversation in one of the      rooms. The others were completely silent. At Dickens, I knocked      twice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Come in.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The meeting room was small but immaculate: more oak flooring,      chocolate-colored walls, a twelve-foot table, and floor-to-ceiling      windows that looked out over a pristine garden. Above it, I could      just make out the railway bridge, but otherwise it was easy to      forget that the building was surrounded by industry and roads.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Mr. Raker.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e DCI Melanie Craw got up from a seat at the head of the table, a      laptop and a closed file in front of her, and came around to greet      me. We shook hands, then she pushed the door shut and directed me      to the table. I took a seat, removing my jacket.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Would you like something to drink?\" she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Water would be fine. Thank you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Craw was in her early forties, slim, with a short, practical      haircut, and cool, unreadable eyes. No jewelry except for a      wedding band. Never skirts, only trousers, and always the same      subdued colors. She was stoic and steady, difficult to break down,      but she wasn't unfeeling. She had an understanding of people, of      what made them tick. We'd never had a working relationship, just a      caustic, often bitter series of confrontations, but I admired her      all the same. I couldn't honestly have said if the feeling was      mutual.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As she went to a cabinet in the far corner, where a jug of iced      water and some glasses were sitting on top, a brief, uncomfortable      silence settled between us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps it wasn't so surprising. I found missing people for a      living, and through my work had come into conflict with Craw when      she'd been the SIO on a case that had almost cost me my life. I'd      been stabbed in the chest and left to die in the shadows of a      cemetery by a man we'd both ended up trying to find. Through luck      or fate, or a little of both, I'd been discovered, spent a month      strapped to a hospital bed, and the next four recovering at the      old place my parents had left me in south Devon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Afterward, I'd wondered if I ever wanted to return to London.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In the end, I had, not only because the city was where most of my      work was, but because, once the physical pain was gone, the only      thing I had to face down were the memories of what had happened to      me—and those memories were all here. As Melanie Craw handed me a      glass of water, I imagined—eighteen months on—that she was      different as well. Things had changed for me. It seemed impossible      they hadn't changed for her too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Thanks for coming,\" she said. \"You found it okay, obviously.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It looks derelict from the road.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled, sitting down. \"I think that's why people like it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are you a member here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Through my husband. These sorts of places . . . I guess it's a      male thing. I don't really get it, but it's always made him happy.      I find it's useful for meetings like these.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Meetings like what?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded. \"I wanted to offer you some work.\" She saw the      surprise on my face, nodded again, as if to reassure me, and      pushed the file across the table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I glanced at it, then back at her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I want you to find someone.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was my turn to smile this time. I had a long and illustrious      history of making enemies at the Met, Craw among them, not      intentionally and not with any sense of enjoyment, but as a      by-product of what I did. In the end, I'd accepted it as      collateral damage. I didn't do this job to make friends, I did it      in order to bring home the missing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I can't see the Met signing off on this,\" I said to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well, you're right about that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So why am I here?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This isn't for the Met.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I studied her, instantly suspicious of her intentions. The idea of      Craw asking for my help—even as time dulled the memory of our last      encounter—seemed utterly perverse; the type of thing she'd have      refused to do even if someone had held a gun to her head. But      there was no movement in her face. No hint she wasn't serious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So I opened the file.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A man in his early sixties looked up at me, his picture stapled to      the front page of a missing-persons report. He was sitting on the      edge of a rock, somewhere on moorland, a vast green valley      sweeping into the distance behind him. It looked like the picture      had been cropped: along one edge was the outline of a second      person; along the bottom of the shot I could make out the curve of      a backpack. His name was Leonard Franks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd been missing since March 3.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was sixty-two, six foot one, had gray hair and blue eyes—but I      knew his physical description wouldn't be what got him found now.      Once people were removed from their routines, they changed      quickly: sometimes because they wanted to, sometimes because it      was forced on them. But mostly, this far on, they weren't making      any choices at all-because, by now, the majority of missing people      were decaying in a hole somewhere, waiting to be found. Even if I      gave the families I worked for the benefit of the doubt, and      started from the assumption the victim was alive, Franks had been      gone for nine months, and after that amount of time, a      disappearance was never about the way someone looked. It was about      the way they thought. Their exit. Their reasons for going.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Their final destination.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I looked at his address. \"He lived in Postbridge?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"About a mile north of it, yes.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was right in the heart of Dartmoor, about thirty-five miles      north of the village in which I'd grown up. And yet, as I returned      to his profile, I saw that he'd been born in London and spent his      entire life in the city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So he retired to Devon?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded again. \"Two years ago.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I started to leaf through the rest of the file and saw for the      first time that he'd been a police officer, retiring at sixty as      detective chief superintendent of the Homicide and Serious Crime      Command. It was a senior post, and he seemed to have been highly      rated. According to the file, he'd put in for retirement at      fifty-five, after thirty years of pensionable service, but had      been asked by the assistant commissioner to stay on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"How did he go missing?\" I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"He and his wife lived in this place, like an old hunting lodge,\"      Craw said, \"and there was a woodshed at the side of the building      and another for tools at the back. Not much else apart from that.      They were pretty isolated up there. Their nearest neighbors were      about a mile away, there was open moorland in all directions, and      it was so quiet you could hear a car making an approach five      minutes before it even came into view.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She looked across the table at the picture of Franks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Anyway, the two of them were sitting in front of the fire in the      late afternoon and it started to die out, so she asked him to get      some more logs. It was early March, still pretty cold then,      especially up on the moors. She went to put the kettle on and cut      them both a slice of cake, while he went out to the woodshed. He'd      done it a thousand times before; the woodshed was literally at the      end of the veranda, less than ten feet from the front door.\" She      stopped, looked at me. \"Except this time he never came back.\"","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304101269733,"sku":"NP9780399562594","price":22.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780399562594.jpg?v=1767726673","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/fall-from-grace-isbn-9780399562594","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}