By Grant Jerkins
A twisting debut novel of homicide and darkish family members secrets and techniques from a riveting new voice in crime fiction. A murdered lady. A grieving husband. And their son-a mentally handicapped grownup with a heritage of violent outbursts. an easy case. Or is it? Leo Hewitt, an Assistant DA as soon as blamed for atmosphere unfastened a infamous child-killer, is raring to redeem himself with this intimate and grisly crime. As he digs lower than the skin he discovers greater than he ever anticipated-including an emotionally disturbed spouse, a husband who'd do whatever to flee his disastrous marriage, and an accused younger guy without obvious technique of protection. yet with every one stunning new revelation, Leo is just led deeper and deeper into the darkness-an inescapable catch of blood bonds and twisted family members secrets and techniques.
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Extra resources for A Very Simple Crime
She took care of me in the same way she took care of my son. We took hotel rooms. Our relationship grew. It grew only because of familiarity. Love was not involved. For her, I was a diversion, a rich man who took her to nice places and gave her what she thought were extravagant gifts. For me, she was an unknown element. A link to my son, yes, and I confess to eroticizing her relationship with my son. She was our secret. A forbidden flower in a secret garden. She was ours together. For our relationship to seem to Violet to be a normal one, she expected it to grow in traditional ways.
I love you, too,” I say. It is my catechism to ward off evil. The office door opens. Grace stands in the doorway holding a carton of take-out food. I hang up the phone. ” “I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. ” After we’ve eaten, I walk Grace to her car in the underground parking lot. This late at night, the lot is mostly empty. Our footsteps sound lonely. Grace hooks her arm through mine. ” She tightens her grasp on my arm. “You should come over to my place. Have a drink. ” I don’t respond. I try to imagine what it would be like to enjoy the company of a sane woman.
Years pass and nothing changes. Occasionally I make gestures of fortitude, to gauge if her vehemence has lessened or if my weakness has improved. One day, I find her in Albert’s room. The room is still decorated with children’s furniture, finger paintings Scotch-taped to the wall. Rachel sits beside the bed in a rocking chair. An overflowing ashtray rests on the bedspread that is bright with cartoon figures. A cigarette smolders between her fingers, a glass of raw scotch nestled between her legs.