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This e-short story collection from New York Times bestselling suspense author Jan Burke features a brand new Irene Kelly short story, “The Privileged,” plus three unforgettable stories from the print anthology Eighteen.
Before Frank Harriman and Irene Kelly got married, Frank was a rookie cop in Bakersfield, California. When he investigates one of the worst types of calls a policeman can get—a bad smell coming from a closed trailer on a hot day—Frank and his training officer are not surprised to find a dead body. But everyone is stunned when the corpse leads to the police chief’s downfall...
pulled the shoe out. Further digging led to no new revelations. Leila gathered the collection of objects and took them back to the house, where she cleaned them off as best she could. She poured a glass of red wine and sipped it thoughtfully while she took a long, hot bubble bath in her claw-foot bathtub. She climbed out when the water began to chill, and made her decision. “I appreciate your coming by on such short notice,” Leila said to her guest, as they reached the back patio. Alice Grayson
like a stupid question. The man was dead. Things don’t go too much more wrong, unless—” He’s not in some sort of eternal torment is he? I don’t believe it. That can’t be true.” The ghost made a frantic gesture to get me to stop talking, then looked up. “Are you looking in the direction David traveled?” He nodded. “Thank you,” I said. I found myself crying. I had felt in my heart that David, for all his weaknesses, was a good man, but it was nice to have confirmation. I suddenly felt a sense
pace, enjoying his air-conditioned ride. Frank didn’t want to let Bear see his misery, but eventually he wiped sweat off his forehead and pulled at his dampening uniform shirt, which adhered to his back and chest. He was starting to smell the sharp odor that had led to the call. Mrs. Erkstrom pointed to a fire-engine red mobile home with curving lines and small windows. “That’s the one,” she said. “Did he paint it that color?” “No, that’s original. Donnie said he got a good deal on it because
lights were still glaring on the field. The Nabbits had driven off to the store to buy more beer. The Avenger took the ice-cold water from the refrigerator and filled the trusty spray bottle. She knew she only had a few moments to act. She took her stance, steadied her weapon. Stream setting again. Squeezed the trigger. Her aim, perfected from practice on a certain Basset hound, was true. As the icy water hit each hot lightbulb, the bulbs went out with a satisfying pop and the Avenger returned to
was not more than eight years above her own; she hinted that Leila was out of shape, which was untrue. Leila was not the athlete that Marietta was, but she was no slouch. Sam had seemed a little displeased with Marietta’s lack of grace. And Leila knew that while Sam had been relieved and grateful that she had not fallen apart, Marietta had been hoping for a tantrum, a scene. Marietta, Leila had seen in a moment, was a bitch. Leila had smiled, certain that Sam would more than do his penance. He