{"product_id":"magic-hour-isbn-9780345522184","title":"Magic Hour","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Women\u003c\/i\u003e comes an incandescent story about the resilience of the human spirit, the triumph of hope, and the meaning of home.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the rugged Pacific Northwest lies the Olympic National Forest—nearly a million acres of impenetrable darkness and impossible beauty. From deep within this old growth forest, a six-year-old girl appears. Speechless and alone, she offers no clue as to her identity, no hint of her past.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHaving retreated to her western Washington hometown after a scandal left her career in ruins, child psychiatrist Dr. Julia Cates is determined to free the extraordinary little girl she calls Alice from a prison of unimaginable fear and isolation. To reach her, Julia must discover the truth about Alice’s past—although doing so requires help from Julia’s estranged sister, a local police officer. The shocking facts of Alice’s life test the limits of Julia’s faith and strength, even as she struggles to make a home for Alice—and for herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“One of [Kristin Hannah’s] most compelling and riveting novels.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Hannah has a nice ear for dialogue and a knack for getting the reader inside the characters’ heads.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Seattle Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eKristin Hannah \u003c\/b\u003eis the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of many acclaimed novels, including \u003ci\u003eThe Great Alone, The Nightingale, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003e Fly Away\u003c\/i\u003e. She and her husband live in the Pacific Northwest and Hawaii.ONE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It will all be over soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Julia Cates had lost count of the times she'd told herself   that very thing, but today--finally--it would be true. In a few hours   the world would know the truth about her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    If she made it downtown, that was. Unfortunately, the Pacific Coast   Highway looked more like a parking lot than a freeway. The hills   behind Malibu were on fire again; smoke hung above the rooftops and   turned the normally bright coastal air into a thick brown sludge. All   over town terrified babies woke in the middle of the night, crying   gray-black tears and gasping for breath. Even the surf seemed to have   slowed down, as if exhausted by the unseasonable heat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She maneuvered through the cranky, stop-and-go traffic, ignoring the   drivers who flipped her off and cut in front of her. It was expected;   in this most dangerous of seasons in Southern California, tempers   caught fire as easily as backyards. The heat made everyone edgy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Finally, she exited the freeway and drove to the courthouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Television vans were everywhere. Dozens of reporters huddled on the   courthouse steps, microphones and cameras at the ready, waiting for   the story to arrive. In Los Angeles it was becoming a daily event, it   seemed; legal proceedings as entertainment. Michael Jackson. Courtney   Love. Robert Blake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Julia turned a corner and drove to a side entrance, where her lawyers   were waiting for her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She parked on the street and got out of the car, expecting to move   forward confidently, but for a terrible second she couldn't move.   You're innocent, she reminded herself. They'll see that. The system   will work. She forced herself to take a step, then another. It felt   as if she were moving through invisible wires, fighting her way   uphill. When she made it to the group, it took everything she had to   smile, but one thing she knew: it looked real. Every psychiatrist   knew how to make a smile look genuine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Hello, Dr. Cates,\" said Frank Williams, the lead counsel on her   defense team. \"How are you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Let's go,\" she said, wondering if she was the only one who heard the   wobble in her voice. She hated that evidence of her fear. Today, of   all days, she needed to be strong, to show the world that she was the   doctor they'd thought she was, that she'd done nothing wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The team coiled protectively around her. She appreciated their   support. Although she was doing her best to appear professional and   confident, it was a fragile veneer. One wrong word could strip it all   away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    They pushed through the doors and walked into the courthouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Flashbulbs erupted in spasms of blue-white light. Cameras clicked;   tape rolled. Reporters surged forward, all yelling at once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Dr. Cates! How do you feel about what happened?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Why didn't you save those children?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Did you know about the gun?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Frank put an arm around Julia and pulled her against his side. She   pressed her face against his lapel and let herself be pulled along.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the courtroom, she took her place at the defendant's table. One by   one the team rallied around her. Behind her, in the first row of   gallery seating, several junior associates and paralegals took their   places.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She tried to ignore the racket behind her; the doors creaking open   and slamming shut, footsteps hurrying across the marble tiled floor,   whispered voices. Empty seats were filling up quickly; she knew it   without turning around. This courtroom was the Place to Be in Los   Angeles today, and since the judge had disallowed cameras in the   courtroom, journalists and artists were no doubt packed side by side   in the gallery, their pens ready.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the past year, they'd written an endless string of stories about   her. Photographers had snapped thousands of pictures of her--taking   out the trash, standing on her deck, coming and going from her   office. The least flattering shots always made the front page.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Reporters had practically set up camp outside her condo, and although   she had never spoken to them, it didn't matter. The stories kept   coming. They reported on her small-town roots, her stellar education,   her pricey beachfront condo, her devastating breakup with Philip.   They even speculated that she'd recently become either anorexic or   addicted to liposuction. What they didn't report on was the only part   of her that mattered: her love of her job. She had been a lonely,   awkward child, and she remembered every nuance of that pain. Her own   youth had made her an exceptional psychiatrist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Of course, that bit of truth had never made it to press. Neither had   a list of all the children and adolescents she'd helped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A hush fell over the courtroom as Judge Carol Myerson took her seat   at the bench. She was a stern-looking woman with artificially bright   auburn hair and old-fashioned eyeglasses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The bailiff called out the case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Julia wished suddenly that she had asked someone to join her here   today, some friend or relative who would stand by her, maybe hold her   hand when it was over, but she'd always put work ahead of   socializing. It hadn't given her much time to devote to friends. Her   own therapist had often pointed out this lack in her life;   truthfully, until now, she'd never agreed with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Beside her, Frank stood. He was an imposing man, tall and almost   elegantly thin, with hair that was going from black to gray in   perfect order, sideburns first. She'd chosen him because of his   brilliant mind, but his demeanor was likely to matter more. Too often   in rooms like this it came down to form over substance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Your Honor,\" he began in a voice as soft and persuasive as any she'd   ever heard, \"the naming of Dr. Julia Cates as a defendant in this   lawsuit is absurd. Although the precise limits and boundaries of   confidentiality in psychiatric situations are often disputed, certain   precedents exist, namely Tarasoff v. Regents of University of   California. Dr. Cates had no knowledge of her patient's violent   tendencies and no information regarding specific threats to named   individuals. Indeed, no such specific knowledge is even alleged in   the complaint. Thus, we respectfully request that she be dismissed   from this lawsuit. Thank you.\" He sat down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At the plaintiff's table, a man in a jet-black suit stood up. \"Four   children are dead, Your Honor. They will never grow up, never leave   for college, never have children of their own. Dr. Cates was Amber   Zuniga's psychiatrist. For three years Dr. Cates spent two hours a   week with Amber, listening to her problems and prescribing   medications for her growing depression. Yet with all that intimacy,   we are now to believe that Dr. Cates didn't know that Amber was   becoming increasingly violent and depressed. That she had no warning   whatsoever that her patient would buy an automatic weapon and walk   into her church youth group meeting and start shooting.\" The lawyer   walked out from behind the table and stood in the middle of the   courtroom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Slowly, he turned to face Julia. It was the money shot; the one that   would be drawn by every artist in the courtroom and shown around the   world, \"She is the expert, Your Honor. She should have foreseen this   tragedy and prevented it by warning the victims or committing Ms.   Zuniga for residential treatment. If she didn't in fact know of Ms.   Zuniga's violent tendencies, she should have. Thus, we respectfully   seek to keep Dr. Cates as a named defendant in this case. It is a   matter of justice. The slain children's families deserve redress from   the person most likely to have foreseen and prevented the murder of   their children.\" He went back to the table and took his seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It isn't true,\" Julia whispered, knowing her voice couldn't be   heard. Still, she had to say it out loud. Amber had never even hinted   at violence. Every teenager battling depression said they hated the   kids in their school. That was light-years away from buying a gun and   opening fire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Why couldn't they all see that?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Judge Myerson read over the paperwork in front of her. Then she took   off her reading glasses and set them down on the hard wooden surface   of her bench.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The courtroom fell into silence. Julia knew that the journalists were   ready to write instantly. Outside, there were more of them standing   by, ready to run with two stories. Both headlines were already   written. All they needed was a sign from their colleagues inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The children's parents, huddled in the back rows in a mournful group,   were waiting to be assured that this tragedy could have been averted,   that someone in a position of authority could have kept their   children alive. They had sued everyone for wrongful death--the   police, the paramedics, the drug manufacturers, the medical doctors,   and the Zuniga family. The modern world no longer believed in   senseless tragedy. Bad things couldn't just happen to people; someone   had to pay. The victims' families hoped that this lawsuit would be   the answer, but Julia knew it would only give them something else to   think about for a while, perhaps distribute some of their pain. It   wouldn't alleviate it, though. The grief would outlive them all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The judge looked at the parents first. \"There is no doubt that what   happened on February nineteenth at the Baptist church in Silverwood   was a terrible tragedy. As a parent myself, I cannot fathom the world   in which you have lived for the past months. However, the question   before this court is whether Dr. Cates should remain a defendant in   this case.\" She folded her hands on the desk. \"I am persuaded that as   a matter of law, Dr. Cates had no duty to warn or otherwise protect   the victims in this set of circumstances. I reach this conclusion for   several reasons. First, the facts do not assert and the plaintiffs do   not allege that Dr. Cates had any specific knowledge of identifiable   potential victims; second, the law does not impose a duty to warn   except to clearly identifiable victims; and finally, as a matter of   public policy, we must maintain the confidentiality of the   psychiatrist-patient relationship unless there is a specific,   identifiable threat which warrants the undermining of that   confidentiality. Dr. Cates, by her testimony and her records and   pursuant to the plaintiffs' own assertions, did not have a duty to   warn or otherwise protect the victims in this case. Thus, I am   dismissing her from the complaint, without prejudice.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The gallery went crazy. Before she knew it, Julia was on her feet and   enfolded in congratulatory hugs by her defense team. Behind her, she   could hear the journalists running for the doors and down the marble   hallway. \"She's out!\" someone yelled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Julia felt a wave of relief. Thank God.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Then she heard the children's parents crying behind her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"How can this be happening?\" one of them said loudly. \"She should have known.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Frank touched her arm. \"You should be smiling. We won.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She shot a quick glance at the parents, then looked away. Her   thoughts trailed off into the dark woods of regret. Were they right?   Should she have known?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"It wasn't your fault, and it's time you told people that. This is   your opportunity to speak up, to--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    A crowd of reporters swarmed them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Dr. Cates! What do you have to say to the parents who hold you responsible--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Will other parents trust you with their children--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Can you comment on the report that the Los Angeles District   Attorney's Office has taken your name off the roster of forensic   psychiatrists?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Frank stepped into the fray, reaching back for Julia's hand. \"My   client was just released from the lawsuit--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"On a technicality,\" someone yelled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    While they were focused on Frank, Julia slipped to the back of the   crowd and ran for the door. She knew Frank wanted her to make a   statement, but she didn't care. She didn't feel triumphant. All she   wanted was to be away from all this . . . to get back to real life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The Zunigas were standing in front of the door, blocking her path.   They were paler versions of the couple she'd once known. Grief had   stripped them of color and aged them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Mrs. Zuniga looked up at her through tears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"She loved both of you,\" Julia said softly, knowing it wasn't enough.   \"And you were good parents. Don't let anyone convince you otherwise.   Amber was ill. I wish--\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Don't,\" Mr. Zuniga said. \"Wishing hurts most of all.\" He put an arm   around his wife and drew her close to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Silence fell between them. Julia tried to think of more to say, but   all that was left was I'm sorry, which she'd said too many times to   count, and \"Good-bye.\" Holding her purse close, she eased around   them, then left the courthouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Outside, the world was brown and bleak. A thick layer of smoke   darkened the sky, obliterating the sun, matching her mood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She got into her car and drove away. As she merged into traffic, she   wondered if Frank had even noticed her absence. To him it was a game,   albeit with the biggest stakes, and as the day's winner, he would be   flying high. He would think about the victims and their families,   probably tonight in his den, after a few Dewar's over ice. He would   think about her, too, perhaps wonder what would become of a   psychiatrist who'd so profoundly compromised her reputation with   failure, but he wouldn't think about them all for long. He didn't   dare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She was going to have to put it behind her now, too. Tonight she'd   lay in her lonely bed, listening to the surf, thinking how much it   sounded like the beat of her heart, and she'd try again to get beyond   her grief and guilt. She had to figure out what clue she'd missed,   what sign she'd overlooked. It would hurt--remembering--but in the   end she'd be a better therapist for all this pain. And then, at seven   o'clock in the morning, she'd get dressed and go back to work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Helping people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    That was how she'd get through this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Girl crouches at the edge of the cave, watching water fall from the   sky. She wants to reach for one of the empty cans around her, maybe   lick the insides again, but she has done this too many times already.   The food is gone. It has been gone for more moons than she knows how   to keep track of. Behind her the wolves are restless, hungry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The sky grumbles and roars. The trees shake with fear, and still the   water drips down.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She falls asleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    She wakes suddenly and looks around, sniffing the air. There is a   strange scent in the darkness. It should frighten her, send her back   into the deep, black hole, but she can't quite move. Her stomach is   so tight and empty it hurts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The falling water isn't so angry now; it is more of a spitting. She   wishes she could see the sun.#1 New York Times Bestselling Author of The Nightingale","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302567661797,"sku":"NP9780345522184","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345522184.jpg?v=1767732076","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/magic-hour-isbn-9780345522184","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}