{"product_id":"the-next-accident-isbn-9780553578690","title":"The Next Accident","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • A desperate manhunt ensues for a killer who preys upon his victims’ minds—just before he claims their lives—in this blockbuster novel from #1 bestselling author Lisa Gardner.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhat do you do when a killer targets the people you love the most? When he knows how to make them vulnerable? When he knows the same about you?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThese are the questions that haunt FBI Special Agent Pierce Quincy. The police say his daughter’s death was an accident. Quincy will risk everything to learn the truth—and there’s only one person willing to help. Ex-cop Rainie Conner had once been paired professionally—and personally—with the brilliant FBI profiler. He helped her through the darkest days of her life.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNow it’s time for Rainie to return the favor. But this killer is like none these two hard-boiled pros have ever encountered. This twisted psychopath has an insatiable hunger for revenge...and for fear. As the clock ticks down to one unspeakably intimate act of vengeance, the only way Rainie can unmask this killer is to step directly in his murderous path. She will become a murder waiting to happen. She will be . . . \u003ci\u003ethe next accident\u003c\/i\u003e.“One of the best thriller writers in the business.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Just when you thought Lisa Gardner couldn’t get any better . . . she does.”\u003cb\u003e—Lee Child\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Gardner keeps us guessing to the finale. She also keeps us on edge.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale that easily equals the best of Sue Grafton and Kathy Reichs.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Providence Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Harrowing . . . a fiendishly well-choreographed dance of death.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“The suspense is constant!”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003ePlain Dealer\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eLisa Gardner\u003c\/b\u003e is the #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of twenty suspense novels, including \u003ci\u003eThe Neighbor\u003c\/i\u003e, which won Thriller of the Year from the International Thriller Writers. An avid hiker, traveler, and cribbage player, she lives in the mountains of New Hampshire with her family.\u003ci\u003ePortland, Oregon\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eMonday afternoon, private investigator Lorraine Conner sat hunched  over her paper-swamped desk, punched a few more numbers into her old, cagey laptop,  then scowled at the results shown on the screen. She tried the numbers again, got  the same dismal results, and gave them the same dark look. The Quicken-generated  budget, however, refused to be intimidated.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eDamn file,\u003c\/i\u003e she thought. \u003ci\u003eDamn budget,  damn heat.\u003c\/i\u003e And damn circular fan that she’d purchased just last week and was already  refusing to work unless she whacked it twice in the head. She stopped now to give  it the requisite double-smack and was finally rewarded with a feeble breeze. Christ,  this weather was killing her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was three in the afternoon on Monday. Outside the  sun was shining, the heat about to crest for another record-breaking July day in  downtown Portland, Oregon. Technically speaking, Portland didn’t get as ridiculously  hot as the East Coast. Nor, in theory, did it get as humid as the South. These days,  unfortunately, the climate didn’t seem to realize that. Rainie had long since traded  in her T-shirt for a white tank top. It was now plastered to her skin, while her  elbows left rings of condensation on the one clear spot on her desk. If it got any  hotter, she was taking her laptop into the shower.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie’s loft offered central  air, but as part of her “belt-tightening” program, she was cooling her vast, one-room  condo the old-fashioned way — she’d opened the windows and turned on a small desk  fan. Unfortunately, that little matter of heat rising was conspiring against her.  The eighth-floor condo wasn’t magically getting any cooler, while the smog content  had increased tenfold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bad day for belt-tightening programs. Especially in Portland’ s trendy Pearl district, where iced coffee was served on practically every street  corner, and all the little cafés prided themselves on their gourmet ice cream. God  knows the majority of her upwardly mobile neighbors were probably sitting in Starbucks  right now, basking in air-conditioned glory while trying to choose between an iced  Chai or nonfat mocha latté.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not Rainie. No, the new and improved Lorraine Conner  was sitting in her trendy loft in this trendy little neighborhood, trying to decide  which was more important — money for the Laundromat, or a new carburetor for her  fifteen-year-old clunker. On the one hand, clean clothes always made a good impression  when meeting a new client. On the other hand, it didn’t do her any good to land new  cases if she had no means of carrying them out. Details, details.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She tried a fresh  round of numbers in her Quicken file. Showing a gross lack of imagination, the file  spit back the same red results. She sighed. Rainie had just passed the Oregon Board  of Investigator’s test to receive her license. In the good news department, this  meant she could start working for defense lawyers as a defense investigator, à la  Paul Drake to their Perry Mason. In the bad news department, the two-year license  cost her seven hundred bucks. Then came the hundred dollars for the standard five-thousand-dollar  bond to protect her against complaints. Finally, she got to fork over eight hundred  dollars for a million dollars in errors-and-omissions insurance, more CYA infrastructure.  All in all, Conner Investigations was moving up — except she was now out sixteen  hundred dollars and feeling the crunch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But I like eating,” she tried to tell her  computerized business records. They didn’t seem to care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A buzzer sounded. Rainie  sat up, dragging a hand discouragingly through her hair, while she blinked twice  in surprise. She wasn’t expecting any clients today. She peered into the family room,  where her TV was tuned in to the building’s security cameras and now broadcasted  the view from the main entrance. A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair stood  patiently outside the locked front doors. As she watched, he buzzed her loft again.  Then he glanced up at the camera.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie couldn’t help herself. Her breath caught.  Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to  see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.\u003cbr\u003e She ran a hand threw  her newly shorn hair again. She was still getting used to the look, and the heat  made it flip out like a dark, coppery dish mop. Then there was her tank top — old  and sweat-soaked. Her denim shorts, ripped up, frayed, and hardly professional. She  was just doing paperwork today, no need to dress up, and oh God had she put on deodorant  this morning, because it was really hot in here and she could no longer tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Supervisory  Special Agent Pierce Quincy remained gazing up at the security camera, and even through  the grainy image, she could see the intent look in his deep blue eyes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie’s  scattered thoughts slowed. Her hand settled at the hollow of her throat. And she  studied Quincy, nearly eight months since she’d last seen him and six months since  even the phone calls had stopped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His eyes still crinkled in the corners. His forehead  still carried deep, furrowed lines. He had the hard, lean features of a man who spent  too much time dealing with death, and damn if she hadn’t liked that about him. Same  impeccably tailored suit. Same hard-to-read face. There was no one quite like SupSpAg  Quincy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pressed the ringer for a third time. He wasn’t going away. Once he made  up his mind about something, Quincy rarely let it go. Except her...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie shook  her head in disgust. She didn’t want to think that way. They’d tried, they’d failed.  Shit happened. Whatever Quincy wanted now, she doubted it was personal. She buzzed  him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eight floors later, he knocked at her front door. She’d had time for deodorant,  but nothing in the world could save her hair. She swung open the door, balanced one  hand on her denim-clad hip, and said, “Hey.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hello, Rainie.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She waited. The  pause drew out, and to her satisfaction, Quincy broke first.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was beginning to  worry that you were out on a case,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yeah well, even the good guys can’t be working all the time.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quincy raised a brow. His dry tone made her positively  nostalgic as he said, “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled in spite  of herself. Then she swung the door open a bit wider, and truly let him in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quincy  didn’t speak right away. He walked around her loft casually, but Rainie wasn’t fooled.  She’d blown the majority of her savings on the loft just four months ago and she  knew the kind of impression it made. The eleven-foot ceilings of a converted warehouse  space. The open, sunny layout with nothing but a kitchen counter and eight giant  support columns to came out four simple spaces: kitchen, bedroom, family room, and  study. The huge expanse of windows, filling an entire wall with the original 1925  paned glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The woman who had owned the condo before Rainie had finished the entranceway  with warm red brick and painted the living space with rustic shades of adobe and  tan. The result was the shabby chic look Rainie had read about it magazines, but  knew better than to try on her own. The loft had nearly bankrupted her, but the minute  she’d seen it, she couldn’t have gone without it. It was fashionable, it was upscale,  it was beautiful. And maybe if the new and improved Lorraine Conner lived in this  kind of place, she could be that kind of person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s nice,” Quincy said finally.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Rainie scrutinized his face. He seemed sincere. She grunted a reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I didn’t  know you did sponge painting,” Quincy commented.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t. The previous owner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Ahh,  she did a nice job. New hairdo?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I cut off the length and sold it to buy the loft,  of course.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You always were clever. Not organized, as I can tell by looking at  the desk, but clever.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Why are you here?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Quincy paused, then smiled grudgingly.  “I see you still know how to cut to the chase.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “And you still know how to dodge  a question.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Touché.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She arched a brow, signaling that too wasn’t an answer.  Then she propped up her hip on the edge of her desk, and knowing Quincy as well as  she did, she waited.","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301741121765,"sku":"NP9780553578690","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553578690.jpg?v=1742924961","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-next-accident-isbn-9780553578690","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}