Reseña de Publisher's Weekly
Four-year-old Shana and her nearly one-year-old sister, Adeline, take two very different life paths after the death of their father, serial killer Harry Day, in Thriller Award-winner Gardner's absorbing seventh novel featuring Boston homicide detective D.D. Warren (after 2012's Catch Me). Shana heads to prison for life after killing a boy at age 14 and later murdering a fellow inmate as well as two corrections officers; Adeline, born with CIP (congenital insensitivity to pain), becomes a successful pain therapist. When a killer begins channeling Harry's gruesome murder technique, Warren, who has been referred to Adeline for treatment of a debilitating injury suffered on the job, investigates. As the three women interact with one another, Shana appears to know more than she should, Adeline reveals less than she should, and a nervy killer taunts Warren. Gardner repeatedly ratchets up the tension while the strange relationship between the two mismatched siblings leads to a deadly climax. Agent: Meg Ruley, Jane Rotrosen Agency. (Jan.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Kirkus Review
Recovering from a nasty fall down a flight of stairs, Detective D.D. Warren, of Boston Homicide, tangles with a pair of sisters who put her pain in a whole new perspective. Forty years ago, Harry Day, about to be arrested for killing eight prostitutes, got his wife to slit his wrists before the police closed in. He left behind two young daughters: Shana, a sociopath who followed so closely in her father's footsteps that she was jailed for life when she killed a neighborhood boy at age 14, and Adeline, not quite a year old when her father died, who's grown up cursed by an inability to feel physical pain. Naturally, Adeline went to medical school and became a psychiatrist specializing in pain management, and it's in that capacity that D.D. consults her after an accident at a blood-soaked crime scene leaves her with an impressive set of injuries. Christine Ryan, the victim who's been smothered and flayed by someone who left behind a bottle of champagne, a pair of fur-lined handcuffs and a long-stemmed rose, is followed distressingly quickly by a second victim, occupational therapist Regina Barnes. Even worse, the handiwork of the Rose Killer is gruesomely linked to the criminal careers of Harry Day, dead these 40 years, and his daughter Shana, who's been in the Massachusetts Correctional Institute for over 25 years. Alternating as usual between third-person chapters following D.D.'s investigation and first-person chapters dramatizing Adeline's point of view, Gardner (Touch Go, 2013, etc.) paints an indelible portrait of two troubled sisters so closely bound together by blood that they agree: "Blood is love." If you think Gardner pulled out all the stops in D.D.'s previous cases (Catch Me, 2012, etc.), you ain't seen nothing yet. Better fasten your seat belt for this roller-coaster ride through family hell.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Reseña de Booklist
*Starred Review* In Gardner's seventh Detective D. D. Warren thriller (following Catch Me, 2012), the Rose Killer is re-creating the crimes of Harry Day, a serial killer who kept the skin of his victims as a souvenir 153 vials of souvenirs. Day's legacy also includes two daughters. Shana distinguished herself at 14 as the youngest person in Massachusetts history to be tried for murder as an adult. A psychiatrist specializing in pain management, her sister, Adeline, was born with congenital insensitivity to pain. Detective Warren goes to see Adeline professionally, after she is injured at a crime scene. When she learns that Adeline is Harry Day's daughter, she asks her to help identify anyone who would have been influenced by her father. The obvious suspect is Shana. But how could a woman who has spent the last decade in solitary confinement be responsible for these vicious mutilations and murders? In this strong addition to the series, Gardner retains her place on thrillerdom's top tier. If they haven't already discovered her, fans of Tess Gerritsen, Alafair Burke, and Meg Gardiner would love an introduction. HIGH-DEMAND BACKSTORY: Gardner has a reserved seat on most best-seller lists, and she'll be claiming her spot once again.--Keefe, Karen Copyright 2010 Booklist
Library Journal Review
In veteran detective D.D. Warren's seventh outing (after Catch Me), crimes from three different decades surface along with two sisters' history of abuse, psychological quirks, and physical anomalies. Dr. Adeline Glen cannot feel pain because of a generic condition, while her sister, serial killer Shana Day, glories in causing it. As daughters of Harry Day, who tortured and killed dozens of women during the sisters' childhood, the sins of the father could give clues as to the identity of "The Rose Killer," who is stalking Boston in the present. It is those sisters who make this tale compelling as it is not clear if this is a copycat, revenge, homage, or manipulation by the incarcerated sibling. Kirsten Potter gives a solid performance, highlighted by clear shifts into character. Verdict Not for the faint of heart, this is recommended for adult audiences.-Joyce Kessel, Villa Maria Coll., Buffalo (c) Copyright 2014. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Extractos
***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof.*** Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Gardner, Inc. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . The body was gone, but not the smell. This kind of scene, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren knew, would hold the stench of blood for weeks, even months to come. The crime scene techs had removed the top mattress but still . . . Blood had a life of its own. Once freed from its human vessel, it could seep into dry wall, slip behind wooden trim, pool between floor boards. If the landlord ever wanted to rent this unit again, it would involve a total gut of the master bedroom. Not to mention the neighbors moving far, far away and never saying a word. Twenty-eight year old Tara Blythe used to have approximately 4.7 liters of blood pumping through her veins. Now, most of it stained this grim, shadowy space. I've come to talk with you again . . . The call had come in shortly after nine a.m. Good friend Midge Roberts had grown concerned when Tara hadn't answered the knocks on her front door or the texts to her cell phone. Tara was the responsible kind. Didn't oversleep, didn't run off with a cute bartender, didn't come down with the flu without providing a heads up to her best bud, who picked her up promptly at seven thirty each weekday morning for their commute to a local accounting firm. Midge had contacted a few more friends. All agreed no one had heard from Tara since ten the night before. Midge gave into instinct, summoned the landlord. Who finally agreed to open the door. Then vomited all over the upstairs hall upon making the find. Midge hadn't come up the stairs. Midge had stood in the foyer of the narrow duplex, and, as she'd reported to D.D.'s squadmate Phil, she'd known. Just known. Probably, even from that distance, she'd caught the first unmistakable whiff of drying blood. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . Upon arrival, the scene had immediately struck D.D. with its marked contrasts. The young, female victim, sprawled spread eagle on her own bed, staring up at the ceiling with sightless blue eyes. Pretty features nearly peaceful, shoulder-length brown hair pooling softly upon a stark white pillow. Except then, from the neck down . . . Skin, peeled off in thin, curling ribbons. D.D. had heard of such things. At eleven this morning, she got to see them first hand. A young woman, flayed in her own bed. With a bottle of champagne on her nightstand, and a single red rose placed across her bloody abdomen. I've come to talk with you again . . . Next to the bottle of champagne, Phil had discovered a pair of handcuffs. The kind purchased in high end sex shops and fur-lined for a willing partner's comfort. Taking in the cuffs, the sparkling wine, the red rose . . . Lovers tryst gone awry, Phil had theorized. Or, given the level of violence, a jilted boyfriend's final act of vengeance. Tara had broken up with some sorry sucker, and last night, sorry sucker had returned to prove once and for all who was in charge. But D.D. hadn't been on board. Yes there were handcuffs, but not on the victim's wrists. Yes there was uncorked champagne, but not a single glass for drinking. Finally, sure, there was the rose, but not in a florist's wrap for gifting. The scene felt too . . . deliberate to her. Not a crime of passion or a falling out between consenting adults. But a carefully staged production that involved months, years, maybe even a lifetime of careful planning and consideration. In D.D.'s opinion, they weren't just looking at a crime scene. They were looking at a killer's deepest, darkest fantasy. And while this might be the first scene they were investigating, a homicide this heavily ritualized was probably not the last. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . D.D.'s squad, the crime techs techs, the ME's office, not to mention of a plethora of other investigators had spent six hours working the scene. They'd documented, dusted, diagramed, and discussed until the sun had set, dinner commute was on, and stomachs were growling, not to mention tempers flaring. As lead detective D.D. had finally sent everyone home with orders to refresh, then regroup. Tomorrow was another day, when they could search federal databases for other homicides matching this description, while building the profiles of their victim and killer. Plenty to do, many angles to investigate. Now get some rest. Everyone had listened. Except, of course, D.D. It was nearly ten o'clock now. She should be returning home. Kissing her husband hello. Checking in on her three-year old son, already tucked into bed at this late hour. Working on her own good night's sleep. But she couldn't do it. Some instinct--question? Insight?--had driven her back to this tragic space in this too quiet duplex. For most of the day, she and her fellow detectives had stood here and debated what they saw. Now, she stood with the lights out, in the middle of a blood-scented room, and waited for what she could feel. I've come to talk with you again . . . Tara Blythe had already been dead before the killer had made his first cut. That much they could tell from the lack of anguish stamped into her pale face. The victim had died relatively easily. Then, most likely as her heart emitted a final few pumps, the killer had delivered his first downward slash across her right flank. Meaning murder hadn't been about the victim's pain, but about. . . Presentation? Staging? The ritual itself? A killer with a compulsion to skin. Maybe started with small animals or family pets, then, when that still wasn't enough, the fantasy refused to abate . . . The ME would check for hesitation marks, if determining jagged edges was even possible given the mounds of thin, curling skin. Check for vaginal bruising, swab for semen. But once again, D.D. had nagging sense of discomfort. Those elements were the things a criminal investigator could see. And deep inside, D.D. already suspected that was the wrong track. Indulging, in fact, in exactly what the killer wanted them to do. Why stage things just so, if not to manipulate your audience into seeing exactly what you wanted them to see? Then it came to her. The thought she'd had in the back of her head. The first and foremost question worth pursuing and the reason she now stood in the dark, her vision deliberately obscured: Why set a scene? A sound. The duplex's front door, easing carefully open? A creak of the stair riser as a heavy foot found the first step? The groan of a floorboard just down the hall? A sound. She heard a sound and that quickly, Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren realized something she should've figured out fifteen minutes ago. That song, the tune she'd been humming by Simon and Garfunkel without really even being aware of it . . . That song wasn't coming from solely inside her head. Someone else was singing it, too. Softly. Outside the bedroom. From elsewhere in the dead woman's apartment. Hello darkness, my old friend . . . D.D.'s hand shot to her sidearm, unsnapping the shoulder holster, drawing her Sig Saur. She whirled, dropping into a crouch as her gaze scanned the shadows for sign of an intruder. No shifts in the blackness, no shadows settling into the shape of a human form. But then, she heard it again. I've come to talk to you again . . . Quickly, she crept from the bedroom into the darkened hall, leading with her weapon. The narrow corridor didn't offer any overhead lights. Just more shadows caused by the light from neighbors' apartments casting through the duplex's uncovered windows. A wash of lighter and darker shades of gray dancing across the hardwood floor. But she knew this house, D.D. reminded herself, easing carefully forward. She'd already tread this hall, judiciously avoiding the pools of vomit, while noticing every pertinent detail . . . She reached the top of the stair case, still looking side to side, then peering down, into the pool of inky black that marked the landing below. The humming had disappeared. Worse than the singing was the total silence. Then suddenly, a voice, whispering in the same lilting tone: "Detective D.D. Warren, my old friend . . ." D.D. halted. Her gaze ping-ponged reflexively, trying to determine the location of the voice as it continued, slow and mocking: "I've come to talk with you again . . ." She got it then. Felt her own blood turn to ice as the full implication sank in. Why do you stage a scene? Because you're looking for an audience. Or maybe, one audience member in particular. Detective D.D. Warren. Darkness, my old friend. Still holding her drawn Sig Sauer, she reached belatedly for her cell. Just as a fresh noise registered directly behind her. She spun. Eyes widening. But where, how . . . The hulking figure, looming out of the shadows: "Hello, Detective . . ." Instinctively, D.D. stepped back. Except she'd forgotten about the top of the staircase. Her left foot, searching for traction, found only open space . . . No! Her cell, clattering down. Her Sig Sauer, coming up. Trying belatedly to lean forward, regain her balance. And then . . . The shadow moving. Herself falling. Just like that. Down, down, down. At the last second, D.D. squeezed the trigger. An instinctive act of self-preservation. Boom, boom, boom. Though even she knew, it was too little, too late Her head connected with the hard wood landing. A crack. A shooting pain. And then the sound of silence . . . Excerpted from Fear Nothing by Lisa Gardner All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.