{"product_id":"the-abortionists-daughter-isbn-9780307276414","title":"The Abortionist's Daughter","description":"Two weeks before Christmas, Diana Duprey, an outspoken abortion doctor, is found dead in her swimming pool. A national figure, Diana inspired passion and ignited tempers, but never more so than the day of her death. Her husband Frank, a longtime attorney in the DA’s office; her daughter Megan, a freshman in college; the Reverend Stephen O’Connell, founder of the town’s pro-life coalition: all of them quarreled with Diana that day and each one has something to lose in revealing the truth. Meanwhile the detective on the case struggles for the answers — and finds himself more intimately involved than he ever could have imagined.“A smart and powerful thriller.\" \u003cbr\u003e—Chris Bohjalian, author of \u003ci\u003eMidwives\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Arresting. . . . Astute. . . . Hyde is an author who should be with us for some time.” \u003cbr\u003e—Anita Shreve, \u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Darkly witty. . . . [\u003ci\u003eThe Abortionist’s Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e] accordions out into a suspense story and a comic noir, a novel of manners and an improbable romance. . . . Striking.” \u003cbr\u003e—Maureen Corrigan, \u003ci\u003eFresh Air\u003c\/i\u003e (NPR)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In keeping with the truly best writers, Hyde examines both sides of the issue, but offers only questions that probe deep into the secret hearts of readers everywhere. For answers, they will have to turn to themselves. . . . Compelling and timely. . . . A must-read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eElisabeth Hyde\u003c\/b\u003e was born and raised in New Hampshire, and briefly practiced law for the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C. In 1982, she took some time off to write her first novel, \u003ci\u003eHer Native Colors\u003c\/i\u003e, and never looked back. She has been awarded working scholarships to the Bread Loaf Writers Conference, teaches creative writing through artist-in-residence programs, and is also the author of \u003ci\u003eMonoosook Valley\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCrazy as Chocolate\u003c\/i\u003e. She lives in Colorado with her family.CHAPTER ONEThe problem was, Megan had just taken the second half of the ecstasy when  her father called with the news.Earlier that day, her roommate had bundled up and trudged out into a  raging Front Range blizzard to buy two green clover-shaped pills: one for  herself, and one for Megan, as a kind of pre-Christmas present. Natalie  had meant to wrap them up in a little box. But the day got a little  hectic, what with exams and all, so after dinner, when they were back in  their dorm room together, Natalie simply dug in her pocket and took out  the little pills and without any fanfare set them on the open page of  Megan’s biology text. “And don’t wuss,” she warned.Megan screwed up her face. The green pills reminded her of those pastel  dots you got when you were a kid, the kind you peel off a long strip of  paper. She didn’t have time for this tonight. She scooped up the pills and  put them into a clay pinch pot that sat in the back corner of her desk.  Lumpy and chipped, the pot looked as though someone had stuck his elbow  into a ball of clay. Which is exactly what Ben, her brother, had done,  eleven years ago. A major accomplishment, for Ben.But Natalie wouldn’t let the matter go, pointing out that they could start  with just half. And so instead of studying for her biology exam as  planned, Megan Thompson, pre-med freshman at the university, found herself  giving in to something larger and decidedly more fun that evening. Not  only that, but she gave in with no clue as to what had transpired earlier  that evening two miles west, in the two-story stucco house she’d grown up  in—the house that had been on the Home Tour three years in a row, the one  that backed up to Open Space, with the model solar heating panels and the  evaporative cooling system that kept the temperature inside a mere seventy-  five when outside it soared above a hundred. She had no suspicions, no  worries, no funny feelings that might have caused her to think twice, to  resist the temptation and opt out of what she knew from experience would  be another evening of all-night bliss. Forgetting about everything  else—her exam, the argument with her mother earlier that morning, that  last \u003ci\u003every\u003c\/i\u003e strange e-mail from Bill—Megan placed half the pill on her  tongue, washed it down with water, and waited.That was at eight o’clock.At eight-thirty they weren’t feeling much different.At quarter to nine Natalie wondered if they should take the other half.And it was right after they split the second pill that the phone rang.  Natalie recognized the number on Caller ID. “It’s your mother again,” she  announced.When Megan didn’t reply, Natalie said, “I think you ought to straighten  things out. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she’ll buy you the plane  ticket. I’m answering it.” She picked up the phone, singing “Yell-\u003ci\u003elow\u003c\/i\u003e?”  before even bringing the phone to her ear.Seated cross-legged on her bed, Megan slumped against the wall. The reason  she didn’t want to talk to her mother was simple. That morning they’d  argued over whether or not Diana would buy Megan a ticket to Mexico for  spring break. Mean things were said—by both of them—and Megan shuddered  when she recalled how pleased she’d felt with that last wicked remark  about killing babies. Why did it make her feel so good to make her mother  feel so bad?Speaking of feelings, the drug was kicking in and she was beginning to  feel pretty good—so that when Natalie told her it wasn’t her mother but  rather her father on the phone, she felt a welcome surge of love and  affection.“That’s my dad,” she said fondly, “wanting to play the guy in the middle.  He’s always doing that, you know? Whenever Mom and I get into a fight,  there he is, Mr. Mediator. It wasn’t even a big fight,” she went on. “He  just wants everything perfect, since it isn’t with him and Mom. Freaks him  out to think that she and I—”“Take the fucking phone,” said Natalie.Megan took the phone and cradled it to her ear. “Hi, Dad.”“Sweetheart,” he began.“It wasn’t a major fight,” she told him. “Did she tell you? A bunch of  people are going to Mexico. I’ll pay for the ticket, I’ll pay for  everything. I didn’t mean to lay it all on Mom.” She heard her father  clear his throat but felt a rush of apology coming—not just for things  said earlier that day but for all the wrongs she had committed over the  course of her nineteen years.“I was rude,” she said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at her. Jesus, it’s  Christmas. What was I thinking? I hate it when I yell.”“Megan,” her father said.Megan stopped. There was something black and buggy in his voice that made  her heart skip. And it took her less than a second to realize why. It was  the voice he’d used ten years ago, when he’d called her at summer camp  with the news about Ben.“Megan,” he began.    —————Frank Thompson couldn’t tell if it was the reflection of pool water  bouncing off the windows, or the shriek of his daughter over the phone, or  the flapping sound of the sheet as the paramedics covered his wife that  made his legs begin to wobble and shake. All he knew was that the ground  beneath him was falling out from under, and he had to get down, fast, or  he was going to be sick.He squatted, set the phone on the slate floor that Diana had chosen when  she put in the pool, and covered his face with his hands. He listened to  the pool pump as it sucked and squirted from somewhere underground, and  breathed in the moist, chlorinated air that filled the solarium. A few  feet away a young woman in a police uniform was conferring with the  paramedics. Next to him lay Diana’s peach-colored bathrobe, along with a  pair of purple flip-flops with the darkened imprints of her heels.A shiver passed through him, and he turned his gaze to the water in the  pool, which continued to dance as though some ghost were out there  sculling in the middle. It was a small elevated pool, framed in by blond  birch panels—not much bigger than two hot tubs end to end, really, with a  motorized current that allowed Diana to swim nonstop without having to  turn. Although he hadn’t wanted to put the pool in, he’d later conceded to  one of his colleagues that it was a worthy investment, since it gave his  high-strung wife a chance to come home and mellow out. After twenty years  of marriage, he knew that a mellow Diana was a cohabitable Diana.Frank lifted his head, and a sparkle of light caught his eye from  underneath the ficus tree across the room. Broken glass, needly shards—and  Frank cringed as he recalled how earlier that afternoon he’d thrown the  glass across the room to get his wife’s attention. It was wrong of him, he  knew that. But after coming across the pictures online—pictures that no  father should have to imagine, let alone see—well, everyone has a breaking  point, and it was the way Diana was so oblivious to the problem at hand,  the way she assumed he was upset because she’d skipped out on lunch  earlier that day: he felt his shoulders clench, and the glass just flew.\u003ci\u003eThree clicks.\u003c\/i\u003eIt would seem that a man in Frank Thompson’s position, with over twenty  years’ experience as a prosecuting attorney, would know better than to  start tampering with things in a room with a dead person. A man in his  position would get out of that room and call his own attorney. But Frank  didn’t have his wits about him at the moment, certainly not his  professional wits, and all he could think was that broken glass would  convey the wrong impression about his marriage. (Though\u003ci\u003e lord\u003c\/i\u003e it felt good  to shatter a glass like that; the gratification was unmatched, like saying \u003ci\u003eshit\u003c\/i\u003e or \u003ci\u003efuck\u003c\/i\u003e in front of small children.)Rising stiffly, he walked over to a little poolside closet to get a broom  and dustpan. Nobody seemed to notice him; the patrol officer was on her  cell phone and the paramedics were conferring with each other. As if  making up for all the times during their marriage that he hadn’t cleaned  up after himself, he knelt down and swept up the ficus leaves and shards  of glass and emptied them into a wastebasket. He didn’t want people to  have the wrong impression.Outside, a blast of grainy snow pelted the sliding-glass doors. Now the  cop and the paramedics were kneeling beside Diana’s body.“That’s not good,” the cop said, glancing up. She was new on the force,  blond and blue-eyed like someone straight off a farm in Minnesota; but she  already had that bossy, black and white air that you find in cops, and  older siblings. “Did you know about this?”“Know about what?” asked Frank.“Come see,” said the cop. “If you get down, you can see better.”Reluctantly, Frank squatted. He hadn’t looked at Diana since the  paramedics had arrived. They held the sheet away from her head, and Frank,  who’d harbored the lay belief that maybe it was all a mistake, now forced  himself to look.For all the times he’d seen a dead body—and there were plenty, his having  been with the district attorney’s office for twenty-four years—nothing  could compare to this. His wife’s dark corkscrew curls fanned away from  her face, Medusa-like. Her skin was white and waxy, her lips the color of  plums. Her eyes stared up, flat and fishy. He looked away.“What concerns us is this,” the cop said, and she nodded to the younger of  the two paramedics, a man with a long straggly ponytail. Gently taking  Diana’s head in both hands, he turned it slightly and splayed the hair  above her ear.“Right there,” said the cop. “You see?”What he saw made him choke. The bruise was huge and ripe and living, a  fat, blue-gray slug in her tangled hair.“Any idea how this happened?” the cop asked Frank.Numbly Frank shook his head.“Well, it’s some bruise,” the cop said. “Hard to imagine what could have  made a bruise like that. And look at those knuckles.”Frank heard himself suggest that she’d perhaps fallen.“Maybe it’s that simple,” said the cop, “but I’m calling the   coroner.”Frank stared at the cop, and for the first time he recalled that on two  separate occasions he’d had her on the witness stand; both times she’d not  flinched when the defense attorney had implied she was a forgetful,  inattentive liar.“—crime scene from now on,” she added. “Frank, you need to have a seat.”“You mean you think this wasn’t an accident?”“Frank,” she said, “your wife is a national figure. There are a lot of  people out there who don’t like what she does.”“Could she have been swimming too fast?” the older paramedic asked. “Maybe  she swam into the edge of the pool.”“This is two-four-oh-five,” the cop was saying into her radio. “Where’s  Mark? I need backup \u003ci\u003enow.\u003c\/i\u003e”Frank just stared at the three of them.“Or maybe she tripped and hit her head and fell into the pool,” suggested  the paramedic.Frank couldn’t answer. It wasn’t sinking in. He looked at his wife’s face.  The night before, she’d been complaining about the frown lines between her  eyebrows; now her forehead was perfectly smooth and unlined. The night  before, she’d informed him that for the past five years she’d been  coloring her hair without his knowing; now for the first time he noticed  that, yes indeed, it was a shade darker.He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was, how young she looked, but the  words kept catching on little fishhooks in his throat. What had he said  earlier that afternoon? Something about photo ops and Ben? \u003ci\u003eThe great Dr.  Duprey\u003c\/i\u003e, he’d said. Now he cringed, recalling his words, and he bent down  and rested his cheek against hers, wanting to take back everything he’d  said that afternoon.He might as well have tried to take back his wedding vows.“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m so, so sorry.”","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300183363813,"sku":"NP9780307276414","price":13.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307276414.jpg?v=1767737990","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-abortionists-daughter-isbn-9780307276414","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}