Showing posts with label Karin Slaughter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karin Slaughter. Show all posts

August 25, 2018

Author Interview: Pieces of Her by Karin Slaughter

Pieces of Her
Author: Karin Slaughter
Genre: Mystery/Thriller
Release Date: August 21, 2018
Publisher: William Morrow

Description:

The #1 internationally bestselling author returns with a new novel in the vein of her New York Times bestsellers Pretty Girls and The Good Daughter—a story even more electrifying, provocative, and suspenseful than anything she’s written before.
What if the person you thought you knew best turns out to be someone you never knew at all...?

Andrea Cooper knows everything about her mother, Laura. She knows she’s spent her whole life in the small beachside town of Belle Isle; she knows she’s never wanted anything more than to live a quiet life as a pillar of the community; she knows she’s never kept a secret in her life. Because we all know our mothers, don’t we?

But all that changes when a trip to the mall explodes into violence and Andrea suddenly sees a completely different side to Laura. Because it turns out that before Laura was Laura, she was someone completely different. For nearly thirty years she’s been hiding from her previous identity, lying low in the hope that no one would ever find her. But now she’s been exposed, and nothing will ever be the same again.

The police want answers and Laura’s innocence is on the line, but she won’t speak to anyone, including her own daughter. Andrea is on a desperate journey following the breadcrumb trail of her mother’s past. And if she can’t uncover the secrets hidden there, there may be no future for either one of them...
 


EARLY PRAISE FOR PIECES OF HER:

"Slaughter’s eye for detail and truth is unmatched…I’d follow her anywhere.” —Gillian Flynn

"Her characters, plot, and pacing are unrivaled among thriller writers…” —Michael Connelly

"Karin Slaughter has – by far – the best name of all of us mystery novelists…” — James Patterson

“One of the boldest thriller writers working today.” — Tess Gerritsen

“A writer of extraordinary talents. Every Karin Slaughter novel is a cause for celebration.” — Kathy Reichs

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/36502041-pieces-of-her


What kind of research do you do for a book, and how much do you research before you start writing?

I research all the sex myself. The rest--it depends on what the story needs. For PIECES OF HER, there wasn’t a hell of a lot of questions for the experts. After doing this for a long time, I have a lot of knowledge of things the police do, or how investigations work, or clues or things like that that are in my head just from working on previous novels and talking to cops and forensics folks and that sort of thing. With the GOOD DAUGHTER, that opening—I talked to Georgian Bureau Investigation Agents who were on scene at school shootings. Even though it wasn’t told from a cop’s point of view, I wanted to know what the cops were thinking and how they would respond. I actually watched a GBI drill with all the agents from the state, where they took over an abandoned school and simulated an active shooter incident. Each agent had to go through and find the bad guy. Having witnessed the drills, I was pretty conversant with what the situation felt like, but there’s always stuff that surprise me that people who are on the other side of law enforcement never think about, like the fact that—I talk about this in the GOOD DAUGHTER—everybody shows up. They could be ATF, they could be training canines for the DEA, they all show up. They’re all there to help. And no one says where’s the jurisdiction, where’s the money coming from, or whatever. It’s just “tell us what to do” when a large-scale tragedy happens. I love writing about those “inside baseball” sorts of details. With PIECES OF HER, I talk about how even if you’re in Witness Protection, you can still go to prison. And just from a practical standpoint, Andy’s driving was something that I had to be very careful about. Andy’s navigating of half the country difficult for me because I suck at directions. I’m the kind of person who’s told to get on a train—I was in Rotterdam, told to get on a train to Antwerp, and I ended up in Germany. So, I’m not very good with directions at all. I just had to knuckle down with all that and think about how many days it would take and what it would feel like. Because I’ve been on trips like that (someone else was navigating), and I wanted to describe the sensations in a way that made sense. I was also mindful of my European readers, and how compact some of the countries are as compared to America. Taking a detail, like you could put all of England in Lake Michigan and it wouldn’t touch the sides, that kind of puts it in scale for people. But just the grueling hours and hours of being trapping in a car, and what that would look like on the interstate, I know intimately from long road trips. I wanted to capture that with Andy.

How do you select the names of your characters?

I like to look at names on my Facebook page. Queller, actually…. I watch Super Girl, and one of the producers on that show, her last name is Queller, and I was like, oh that’s a good name. The thing about names is, I really have to think about them, because if it’s an unusual name, or if it’s a memorable name, that’s generally my way of telling the reader, “Pay attention to this character.” Like, Queller is an interesting name, so I think that goes with the character and the family I’m talking about. Oliver’s not an unusual name. I’m very deliberate with that, and I feel like it’s important visually and mentally to help keep the reader anchored in the story. If everyone was named Smith or Jones, it would be really hard to follow. But I just got a query from my Danish translator, because Mike’s fake yard service is Knepper’s Knippers, and Knepper in Danish is a really nasty word (fucker). So we had to change it just for the Danish.

Who do you consider your literary heroes? Why?

Flannery O’Connor, Margaret Mitchell, Harper Lee. I have great respect for some contemporary non-southern writers. Lee Child is pretty amazing. He’s basically writing the same story—Reacher shows up in some strange place, kicks butt, makes things right--but each time it’s interesting. Each time he manages to say something new. There’s a formula, and sometimes people mean that in a negative way, but Lee knows what he’s doing, and to be able to consistently deliver a good story is laudable.

If you had to name one book that made you who you are today, what would it be?

There’s a book I read when I was a kid, it’s science fiction, called the Forever Formula. It’s about being able to transfer consciousness of older people into younger people. Like, an invasion of the body snatchers sort of thing. This was not a particularly clever or exciting story, but, if you read sci-fi when you’re a kid, it opens you up to all kinds of reading when you’re an adult. And I think every story, whether it’s A Tale of Two Cities or Gone With the Wind or Beowulf, there’s some element of fantasy. You’re making stuff up. Even if you’re writing about something real like Atlanta, my Atlanta is going to be very different than someone else’s. We bring our experiences and our imagination to the work. On the surface I’m writing about the same thing Michael Connelly writes. I’m writing about murder and cops, and ordinary people in horrible situations. But it’s our experience and our attention to what details we point out that make the story uniquely ours. So I think reading something like the Forever Formula—and to my memory that was my first time reading science fiction—I had no idea what genre I was reading but I loved it. I just picked it up because the cover had a brain on it. And I’m sure if I read it now I might think, God I was really stupid to love this book. But it did have a big influence on me, because it opened my mind to possibilities. But also, at an older age, Flannery O’Connor really changed my life. I grew up in a town where I was constantly being told to be more lady-like, to not horse around, to not let guys know if I was smarter than them. You know, to sit with my knees together and my back straight. The stories I was interested in weren’t stories a young lady should be interested in. And then I read Flannery O’Connor, and learned about her life as a writer, and how renowned and celebrated she was around the world for writing about these things, and I thought, “You lying F***rs!” She grew up in a small Southern town, and she’s writing about murderers and crime, and she’s being rewarded for it!

How did publishing your first book change your process of writing?

The biggest stress you have when you’re not published is that you’re not published. By my second book, I knew they were going to publish at least two. So that particular stress was taken off. But also, my first book was very successful—I was really fortunate—and there was a lot of unanticipated stress that came with success. I remember at the time a friend of mine gave me this interview with Dorothy Allison. She said the worst thing that can happen to a writer is to get published. And I think what she meant was, you realize it’s a business, and not many people want to accept that. They want to be zillionaires, but they think that once they write the book, it’s solely the publisher’s job to make the book successful. It’s never been that way in the history of publishing. I mean, Dickens toured. He performed his work for crowds. So did Poe. So did most every author you still read today. I think that to be successful is a great thing but it presents new challenges. For me, I was very lucky, because my publisher, Morrow, was bought by HarperCollins, and I’d written my first book, but they postponed my publication. So, I started to write my second book before the first book was out there. And that was a great gift, because I didn’t have that added stress. I mean I still had to work on the second book and edit it and all that stuff, but I had more confidence because I still felt like I was in that unpublished cave. Confidence is a tricky and elusive thing, but with writing, the more you write, the more confidence you feel about certain elements. With PIECES OF HER, there’s a sense of confidence that comes from writing so many books—"I know how to do this, I know how the story and plotting should work, I am confident in the structure so I can take risk in the narrative.” And also unfortunately I’m getting older. A woman in her thirties looks at life differently than a woman who’s not in her thirties anymore. I remember, with my third book, I did an event at the Washington Post with Mary Higgins Clark, and there were three people in my line to get their books sign, and two were there because they thought it was the bathroom, and Mary had 600 people in her line. She was so sweet, she bought one of my books. I was leaving after ten minutes, totally humiliated, and Mary pulled out her Prada bag and her wallet and said, “Let me buy one of your books!” She has always been such a kind, supportive lady. I remember once I saw all of her books stacked up, and I said, “Wow, one day I hope I can write half as many.” And Mary said, “There’s a down side. You have to get older to do it.” And now I get what she meant, and it sucks.

What is your writing Kryptonite?

My bladder. But also, I guess it’s good because it makes me get up after sitting for so long. I’m pretty focused when I write. I really need time to think about plot and character or I’m not a very efficient writer. Normally I write very quickly, because I give a lot of thought to what I’m going to write, so by the time I sit down it’s really plotted out, and I feel very sure about where I’m going and what I want to do. And when I don’t have that sense of surety, then I can overwrite or make it boring, or it just doesn’t work, and I have to do it all over again because I’m not going to turn in crap. So not taking time is the kryptonite.

What does literary success look like to you?

To me, it means I get to write the stories I want to write. I’ve never been censored, my editor Kate Elton has always trusted me and believed in what I was doing. I think sometimes editors might publish a book they’re not actually excited about, and Kate is always excited about all kinds of books, whether it’s rereading Daphne du Maurier, or reading my stuff, or Eleanor Oliphant, or whatever. She loves popular fiction. And I think sometimes people don’t embrace what’s popular because they want people to think they’re smart so they say, “I only read Proust and listen to NPR,” which is bullshit because your brain would shrivel if that’s all you did. So success to me is basically, I get to write exactly what I want to write, and that’s given me the confidence to write things like PIECES OF HER, because it’s a little different, but I’ve always known that my publishers will support my choices. Not all writers can say that.

Karin Slaughter is one of the world’s most popular and acclaimed storytellers. Published in 120 countries with more than 35 million copies sold across the globe, her eighteen novels include the Grant County and Will Trent books, as well as the Edgar-nominated Cop Town and the instant New York Times bestselling novels Pretty Girls and The Good Daughter. Slaughter is the founder of the Save the Libraries project—a nonprofit organization established to support libraries and library programming. A native of Georgia, Karin Slaughter lives in Atlanta. Her standalone novels Pieces of Her, The Good Daughter and Cop Town are in development for film and television.







July 30, 2017

Last Breath Blog Tour: Excerpt + Giveaway

Tour July 24 - August 4, 2017

 

Last Breath by Karin SlaughterLast Breath (Good Daughter #0.5)
Author: Karin Slaughter
Genre: Thriller/Suspense

Publication Date: July 11, 2017
Published by: William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins
Number of Pages: 48
ISBN: 0062742159 (ISBN13: 9780062742155)
 

Synopsis:

Protecting someone always comes at a cost.

At the age of thirteen, Charlie Quinn's childhood came to an abrupt and devastating end. Two men, with a grudge against her lawyer father, broke into her home—and after that shocking night, Charlie's world was never the same.

Now a lawyer herself, Charlie has made it her mission to defend those with no one else to turn to. So when Flora Faulkner, a motherless teen, begs for help, Charlie is reminded of her own past, and is powerless to say no.

But honor-student Flora is in far deeper trouble than Charlie could ever have anticipated. Soon she must ask herself: How far should she go to protect her client? And can she truly believe everything she is being told?

Razor-sharp and lightning-fast, this electrifying story from the #1 international bestselling author will leave you breathless. And be sure to read Karin Slaughter's extraordinary new novel The Good Daughter—available August 8, 2017.
Chapter One

“Come on now, Miss Charlie.” Dexter Black’s voice was scratchy over the jailhouse payphone. He was fifteen years her senior, but the “miss” was meant to convey respect for their respective positions. “I told you I’m’a take care of your bill soon as you get me outta this mess.”
Charlie Quinn rolled her eyes up so far in her head that she felt dizzy. She was standing outside a packed room of Girl Scouts at the YWCA. She should not have taken the call, but there were few worse things than being surrounded by a gaggle of teenage girls. “Dexter, you said the exact same thing the last time I got you out of trouble, and the minute you walked out of rehab, you spent all of your money on lottery tickets.”
“I could’a won, and then I would’a paid you out half. Not just what I owe you, Miss Charlie. Half.”
“That’s very generous, but half of nothing is nothing.” She waited for him to come up with another excuse, but all she heard was the distinct murmur of the North Georgia Men’s Detention Center. Bars being rattled. Expletives being shouted. Grown men crying. Guards telling them all to shut the hell up.
She said, “I’m not wasting my anytime cell-phone minutes on your silence.”
“I got something,” Dexter said. “Something gonna get me paid.”
“I hope it’s not anything you wouldn’t want the police to find out about on a recorded phone conversation from jail.” Charlie wiped sweat from her forehead. The hallway was like an oven. “Dexter, you owe me almost two thousand dollars. I can’t be your lawyer for free. I’ve got a mortgage and school loans and I’d like to be able to eat at a nice restaurant occasionally without worrying my credit card will be declined.”
“Miss Charlie,” Dexter repeated. “I see what you were doing there, reminding me about the phone being recorded, but what I’m saying is that I got something might be worth some money to the police.”
“You should get a good lawyer to represent you in the negotiations, because it’s not going to be me.”
“Wait, wait, don’t hang up,” Dexter pleaded. “I’m just remembering what you told me all them years ago when we first started. You remember that?”
Charlie’s eye roll was not as pronounced this time. Dexter had been her first client when she’d set up shop straight out of law school.
He said, “You told me that you passed up them big jobs in the city ’cause you wanted to help people.” He paused for effect. “Don’t you still wanna help people, Miss Charlie?”
She mumbled a few curses that the phone monitors at the jail would appreciate. “Carter Grail,” she said, offering him the name of another lawyer.
“That old drunk?” Dexter sounded picky for a man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. “Miss Charlie, please can you—”
“Don’t sign anything that you don’t understand.” Charlie flipped her phone closed and dropped it into her purse. A group of women in bike shorts walked past. The YWCA mid-morning crowd consisted of retirees and young mothers. She could hear a distant thump-thump-thump of heavy bass from an exercise class. The air smelled of chlorine from the indoor pool. Thunks from the tennis courts penetrated the double-paned windows.
Charlie leaned back against the wall. She replayed Dexter’s call in her head. He was in jail again. For meth again. He was probably thinking he could snitch on a fellow meth head, or a dealer, and make the charges go away. If he didn’t have a lawyer looking over the deal from the district attorney’s office, he would be better off holding his nuts and buying more lottery tickets.
She felt bad about his situation, but not as bad as she felt about the prospect of being late on her car payment.
The door to the rec room opened. Belinda Foster looked panicked. She was twenty-eight, the same age as Charlie, but with a toddler at home, a baby on the way and a husband she talked about as if he was another burdensome child. Taking over Girl Scout career day had not been Belinda’s stupidest mistake this summer, but it was in the top three.
“Charlie!” Belinda tugged at the trefoil scarf around her neck. “If you don’t get back in here, I’m gonna throw myself off the roof.”
“You’d only break your neck.”
Belinda pulled open the door and waited.
Charlie nudged around her friend’s very pregnant belly. Nothing had changed in the rec room since her ringing cell phone had given her respite from the crowd. All of the oxygen was being sucked up by twenty fresh-faced, giggling Girl Scouts ranging from the ages of fifteen to eighteen. Charlie tried not to shudder at the sight of them. She had a tiny smidge over a decade on most of the girls, but there was something familiar about each and every one of them.
The math nerds. The future English majors. The cheerleaders. The Plastics. The goths. The dorks. The freaks. The geeks. They all flashed the same smiles at each other, the kind that edged up at the corners of their mouths because, at any time, one of them could pull a proverbial knife: a haircut might look stupid, the wrong color nail polish could be on fingernails, the wrong shoes, the wrong tights, the wrong word and suddenly you were on the outside looking in.
Charlie could still recall what it felt like to be stuck in the purgatory of the outside. There was nothing more torturous, more lonely, than being iced out by a gaggle of teenage girls.
“Cake?” Belinda offered her a paper-thin slice of sheet cake.
“Hm,” was all Charlie could say. Her stomach felt queasy. She couldn’t stop her gaze from traveling around the sparsely furnished rec room. The girls were all young, thin and beautiful in a way that Charlie did not appreciate when she was among them. Short miniskirts. Tight T-shirts and blouses opened one button too many. They seemed so frighteningly confident. They flicked back their long, fake blonde hair as they laughed. They narrowed expertly made-up eyes as they listened to stories. Sashes were askew. Vests were unbuttoned. Some of these girls were in serious violation of the Girl Scout dress code.
Charlie said, “I can’t remember what we talked about when we were that age.”
“That the Culpepper girls were a bunch of bitches.”
Charlie winced at the name of her torturers. She took the plate from Belinda, but only to keep her hands occupied. “Why aren’t any of them asking me questions?”
“We never asked questions,” Belinda said, and Charlie felt instant regret that she had spurned all the career women who had spoken at her Girl Scout meetings. The speakers had all seemed so old. Charlie was not old. She still had her badge-filled sash in a closet somewhere at home. She was a kick-ass lawyer. She was married to an adorable guy. She was in the best shape of her life. These girls should think she was awesome. They should be inundating her with questions about how she got to be so cool instead of snickering in their little cliques, likely discussing how much pig’s blood to put in a bucket over Charlie’s head.
“I can’t believe their make-up,” Belinda said. “My mother almost scrubbed the eyes off my face when I tried to sneak out with mascara on.”
Charlie’s mother had been killed when she was thirteen, but she could recall many a lecture from Lenore, her father’s secretary, about the dangerous message sent by too-tight Jordache jeans.
Not that Lenore had been able to stop her.
Belinda said, “I’m not going to raise Layla like that.” She meant her three-year-old daughter, who had somehow turned out to be a thoughtful, angelic child despite her mother’s lifelong love of beer pong, tequila shooters, and unemployed guys who rode motorcycles. “These girls, they’re sweet, but they have no sense of shame. They think everything they do is okay. And don’t even get me started on the sex. The things they say in meetings.” She snorted, leaving out the best part. “We were never like that.”
Charlie had seen quite the opposite, especially when a Harley was involved. “I guess the point of feminism is that they have choices, not that they do exactly what we think they should do.”
“Well, maybe, but we’re still right and they’re still wrong.”
“Now you sound like a mother.” Charlie used her fork to cut off a section of chocolate frosting from the cake. It landed like paste on her tongue. She handed the plate back to Belinda. “I was terrified of disappointing my mom.”
Belinda finished the cake. “I was terrified of your mom, period.”
Charlie smiled, then she put her hand to her stomach as the frosting roiled around like driftwood in a tsunami.
“You okay?” Belinda asked.
Charlie held up her hand. The sickness came over her so suddenly that she couldn’t even ask where the bathroom was.
Belinda knew the look. “It’s down the hall on the—”
Charlie bolted out of the room. She kept her hand tight to her mouth as she tried doors. A closet. Another closet.
A fresh-faced Girl Scout was coming out of the last door she tried.
“Oh,” the teenager said, flinging up her hands, backing away.
Charlie ran into the closest stall and sloughed the contents of her stomach into the toilet. The force was so much that tears squeezed out of her eyes. She gripped the side of the bowl with both hands. She made grunting noises that she would be ashamed for any human being to hear.
But someone did hear.
“Ma’am?” the teenager asked, which somehow made everything worse, because Charlie was not old enough to be called ma’am. “Ma’am, are you okay?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, thank you. You can go away.” Charlie bit her lip so that she wouldn’t curse the helpful little creature like a dog. She searched for her purse. It was outside the stall. Her wallet had fallen out, her keys, a pack of gum, loose change. The strap dragged across the greasy-looking tile floor like a tail. She started to reach out for it, but gave up when her stomach clenched. All she could do was sit on the filthy bathroom floor, gather her hair up off her neck, and pray that her troubles would be confined to one end of her body.
“Ma’am?” the girl repeated.
Charlie desperately wanted to tell her to get the hell out, but couldn’t risk opening her mouth. She waited, eyes closed, listening to the silence, begging her ears to pick out the sound of the door closing as the girl left.
Instead, the faucet was turned on. Water ran into the sink. Paper towels were pulled from the dispenser.
Charlie opened her eyes. She flushed the toilet. Why on earth was she so ill?
It couldn’t be the cake. Charlie was lactose intolerant, but Belinda would never make anything from scratch. Canned frosting was 99 percent chemicals, usually not enough to send her over the edge. Was it the happy chicken from General Ho’s she’d had for supper last night? The egg roll she’d sneaked out of the fridge before going to bed? The luncheon meat she’d scarfed down before her morning run? The breakfast burrito fiesta she’d gotten at Taco Bell on the way to the Y?
Jesus, she ate like a sixteen-year-old boy.
The faucet turned off.
Charlie should have at least opened the stall door, but a quick survey of the damage changed her mind. Her navy skirt was hiked up. Pantyhose ripped. There were splatters on her white silk blouse that would likely never come out. Worst of all, she had scuffed the toe of her new shoe, a navy high-heel Lenore had helped her pick out for court.
“Ma’am?” the teen said. She was holding a wet paper towel under the stall door.
“Thank you,” Charlie managed. She pressed the cool towel to the back of her neck and closed her eyes again. Was this a stomach bug?
“Ma’am, I can get you something to drink,” the girl offered.
Charlie almost threw up again at the thought of Belinda’s cough-mediciney punch. If the girl was not going to leave, she might as well be put to use. “There’s some change in my wallet. Do you mind getting a ginger ale from the machine?”
The girl knelt down on the floor. Charlie saw the familiar khaki-colored sash with badges sewn all over it. Customer Loyalty. Business Planning. Marketing. Financial Literacy. Top Seller. Apparently, she knew how to move some cookies.
Charlie said, “The bills are in the side.”
The girl opened her wallet. Charlie’s driver’s license was in the clear plastic part. “I thought your last name was Quinn?”
“It is. At work. That’s my married name.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Four and a half years.”
“My gran says it takes five years before you hate them.”
Charlie could not imagine ever hating her husband. She also couldn’t imagine keeping up her end of this under-stall conversation. The urge to puke again was tickling at the back of her throat.
“Your dad is Rusty Quinn,” the girl said, which meant that she has been in town for more than ten minutes. Charlie’s father had a reputation in Pikeville because of the clients he defended—convenience store robbers, drug dealers, murderers and assorted felons. How people in town viewed Rusty generally depended on whether or not they or a family member ever needed his services.
The girl said, “I heard he helps people.”
“He does.” Charlie did not like how the words echoed back to Dexter’s reminder that she had turned down hundreds of thousands of dollars a year in the city so that she could work for people who really needed her. If there was one guiding ethos in Charlie’s life, it was that she was not going to be like her father.
“I bet he’s expensive.” The girl asked, “Are you expensive? I mean, when you help people?”
Charlie put her hand to her mouth again. How could she ask this teenager to please get her some ginger ale without screaming at her?
“I enjoyed your speech,” the girl said. “My mom was killed in a car accident when I was little.”
Charlie waited for context, but there was none. The girl slid a dollar bill out of Charlie’s wallet and finally, thankfully, left.
There was nothing to do in the ensuing silence but see if she could stand. Charlie had fortuitously ended up in the handicapped stall. She gripped the metal rails and shakily pulled herself up to standing. She spat into the toilet a few times before flushing it again. When she opened the stall door, the mirror greeted her with a pale, sickly-looking woman in a $120 puke-spotted silk blouse. Her dark hair looked wild. Her lips had a bluish tint.
Charlie lifted her hair, holding it in a ponytail. She turned on the sink and slurped water into her mouth. She caught her reflection again as she leaned down to spit.
Her mother’s eyes looked back at her. Her mother’s arched eyebrow.
What’s going on in that mind of yours, Charlie?
Charlie had heard this question at least three or four times a week back when her mother was alive. She would be sitting in the kitchen doing her homework, or on the floor of her room trying to do some kind of craft project, and her mother would sit opposite her and ask the same question that she always asked.
What is going on in your mind?
It was not contrived to be a conversation starter. Her mother was a scientist and a scholar. She had never been one for idle chitchat. She was genuinely curious about what thoughts filled her thirteen-year-old daughter’s head.
Until Charlie had met her husband, no one else had ever expressed such genuine interest.
The door opened. The girl was back with a ginger ale. She was pretty, though not conventionally so. She did not seem to fit in with her perfectly coifed peers. Her dark hair was long and straight, pinned back with a silver clip on one side. She was young-looking, probably fifteen, but her face was absent of make-up. Her crisp green Girl Scout T-shirt was tucked into her faded jeans, which Charlie felt was unfair because in her day they had been forced to wear scratchy white button-up shirts and khaki skirts with knee socks.
Charlie did not know which felt worse, that she had thrown up or that she had just employed the phrase, “in her day.”
“I’ll put the change in your wallet,” the girl offered.
“Thank you.” Charlie drank some of the ginger ale while the girl neatly repacked the contents of her purse.
The girl said, “Those stains on your blouse will come out with a mixture of a tablespoon of ammonia, a quart of warm water and a half a teaspoon of detergent. You soak it in a bowl.”
“Thank you again.” Charlie wasn’t sure she wanted to soak anything she owned in ammonia, but judging by the badges on the sash, the girl knew what she was talking about. “How long have you been in Girl Scouts?”
“I got my start as a Brownie. My mom signed me up. I thought it was lame, but you learn lots of things, like business skills.”
“My mom signed me up, too.” Charlie had never thought it was lame. She had loved all the projects and the camping trips and especially eating the cookies she had made her parents buy. “What’s your name?”
“Flora Faulkner,” she said. “My mom named me Florabama, because I was born on the state line, but I go by Flora.”
Charlie smiled, but only because she knew that she was going to laugh about this later with her husband. “There are worse things that you could be called.”
Flora looked down at her hands. “A lot of the girls are pretty good at thinking of mean things.”
Clearly, this was some kind of opening, but Charlie was at a loss for words. She combed back through her knowledge of after-school specials. All she could remember was that movie of the week where Ted Danson is married to Glenn Close and she finds out that he’s molesting their teenage daughter but she’s been cold in bed so it’s probably her fault so they all go to therapy and learn to live with it.
“Miss Quinn?” Flora put Charlie’s purse on the counter. “Do you want me to get you some crackers?”
“No, I’m
Excerpt from Last Breath by Karin Slaughter. Copyright © 2017 by Karin Slaughter. Reproduced with permission from HarperCollins. All rights reserved.

Karin SlaughterKarin Slaughter is one of the world’s most popular and acclaimed storytellers. Published in 36 languages, with more than 35 million copies sold across the globe, her sixteen novels include the Grant County and Will Trent books, as well as the Edgar-nominated Cop Town and the instant New York Times bestselling novel Pretty Girls. A native of Georgia, Karin currently lives in Atlanta. Her Will Trent series, Grant County series, and standalone novel Cop Town are all in development for film and television.

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Tour Participants:

 
This is a Rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Karin Slaughter and William Morrow. There will be 3 winners of one (1) ebook copy of Last Breath by Karin Slaughter! The giveaway begins on July 24 and runs through August 8, 2017.

 

Get More Great Reads at Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tours