Breakout star Erin Moriarty of " The Boys " shouts out her real-life super squad of actors. Watch now. A homicide detective is pushed to the brink of his moral and physical limits as he tangles with a ferociously skilled hired killer who specializes in torture and pain. All True American crimes, ripped from the headlines. A former CIA operative Cumming , who has since built a "normal" life as a gifted professor and writer, is pulled back into his old life when the NYPD needs his help to stop a serial killer on the loose.
Police hunting for a serial kidnapper are helped when a victim manages to escape for the first time. The rise and fall of former All-American football player and NFL star Aaron Hernandez, who was found guilty of murder in and sentenced to serve life in prison. Television adaptation of James Patterson's series of novels based on detective Michael Bennet. A New York detective investigates the death of his daughter who was murdered while on her honeymoon in London; he recruits the help of a Scandinavian journalist when other couples throughout Europe suffer a similar fate.
The series follows heroine Maxine Einstein Max for short , a year-old orphan genius living on the streets in New York City. While she doesn't know if they're for sure related, she often A ten-year-old girl tries to save Santa's workshop from a corporate takeover. Based on James Patterson's "SantaKid". Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet!
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GUILTY WIVES by James Patterson , David Ellis | Kirkus Reviews
Learn more More Like This. Boulez, the warden at JRF. Dark hair greased back. Immaculate three-piece suit, tie perfectly knotted.
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He looked like the politician he was. In America, Boulez would be a city councilman planning a run for Congress. In France, he was a prison warden waiting for his chance to move up in the Ministry of Justice. I looked around my cell, roughly the size of my walk-in closet back in the States, before we moved.
Mildew on the walls and ceiling.
Dark spots on the concrete floor, like oil stains in a garage—except these were the product of human, not vehicular, malfunction. He had a purpose for visiting me, and he was about to get to the point. Easier for us if you just confess. Most of the educated French spoke fluent English. He blinked his eyes in concentration. Then he grimaced. Either she killed herself or you poisoned her. Which was it, Abbie? His delight in saying these words to me was evident.
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We both knew that neither of those alternatives was true. But he was making it clear that one of them would be the official story. He was trying to get a rise out of me.
This guy should stay a prison warden forever. There was no better outlet for sadism.
I coughed again. Same result. I wiped my chin on my shoulder, not having my hands available to me. He stood a few feet away, just outside the reach of my legs should I kick out at him. None of the four of us had confessed at trial.
Boulez wanted to be the hero who secured my confession, a piece of red meat he could toss to the carnivorous international media—and to the French voters, when the time came. A third? We cannot imprison you beyond your natural life, now, can we?
But there are other ways to punish, Abbie. But everyone at JRF knew there were ways around that restriction. Ah, well. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. It popped open with a buzz. His eyes narrowed. Then his smile broadened.
With that, Boulez disappeared. The lighting, controlled from outside the cell, went out, plunging me into darkness. For thirty days. Or maybe forty-five. Or maybe it was the Champagne, already numbing my senses, coloring everything wonderful. Wonderful is what I had been promised. Wonderful is what all of us, for different reasons, needed. We needed to bathe ourselves in luxury. We needed a four-day dream.
Serena, seated across from me in the small cabin, raised her empty glass and tossed her long blond hair. And that, my friends, is the limit of my French. I looked around at my friends.
How did I get so lucky? Serena Schofield, the Amazon blonde—a former U. Olympic skier who placed fifth in the downhill at Lillehammer. Bryah Gordon, born in Johannesburg under the oppression of apartheid, the youngest of our clan at thirty-one and the smartest by far, our resident encyclopedia on topics large and trivial, a beauty in her own right with flawless coffee-colored skin and kinky African hair cropped at her chin. And Winnie Brookes, of course, the exotic Brit, the Diva, we called her, as breathtaking as any runway model working today, who, most of the time, seemed utterly oblivious to her beauty.
Then there was me. Abbie Elliot. For all the complaints I had about leaving the States and moving to Switzerland, all I had to do was look around at these women to find a silver lining. You got any countries we can invade? We got off the private jet—thank you, Serena—bathed in the rays of a welcoming, lowering sun.
None of us was poor by any stretch of the imagination, but Serena lapped us several times over. She was as sweet and down-to-earth as anyone I knew. But this weekend would be different. She had money, and she clearly planned on spending it. We followed Serena through a door that led out to a large landing pad—and a large, sleek, silver-and-gray helicopter. Her husband, Colton, was what you might call controlling if you were being polite. Money was no object, and Serena wanted us to live a fantasy for four days.
Once we were belted in, the helicopter lifted quickly, causing a minor rebellion in my stomach. But soon we were soaring over Monaco, and nothing else mattered but the sloping hills of the French Riviera, the blue expanse of the Mediterranean, dotted with yachts and sailboats heading back to port for the evening, and the pink-green sky, against which the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon.