Deep Winter: a Novel - Couverture rigide

Gailey, Samuel W.

 
9780399165962: Deep Winter: a Novel

Synopsis

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In the small town of Wyalusing in eastern Pennsylvania, a woman is found brutally murdered one winter night. Next to the body is Danny Bedford, a misunderstood man who suffered a tragic brain injury that left him with limited mental capabilities. Despite his simple life, his intimidating size has caused his neighbors to ostracize him out of fear of what he may do. So when the local bully-turned-deputy discovers Danny with the body, it’s obvious that Danny’s physical strength has finally become deadly. But in the long, freezing night that follows, the murder is only the first in a series of crimes that viciously upset the town order—an unstoppable chain of violence that appears to make Danny’s guilt undeniable.

With the threat of an approaching blizzard, the local sheriff and a state trooper work through the predawn hours to restore some semblance of order to Wyalusing. As they investigate one unspeakable incident after another, they discover an intricate web of lies revealing that not everything is quite what it seems.

With echoes of Scott Smith’s A Simple Plan and Tana French’s In the Woods, Samuel W. Gailey’s Deep Winter is a richly atmospheric and ingeniously plotted debut, surprising to the final page. It’s impossible to escape this bone-chilling story of deception, where the truth is uncertain and something sinister lurks just below the surface. . . .

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À propos de l?auteur

Samuel W. Gailey has written for 20th Century Fox, Showtime and Documentary magazine. He lives in southern California with his daughter and wife, author Ayn Carrillo Gailey.

Extrait. © Reproduit sur autorisation. Tous droits réservés.

Danny clutched a small wooden, hand-carved robin figurine in his large left hand. His hands were bigger than most—football player sized. But Danny didn’t play football or any other games that involved a ball because he wasn’t any good at stuff like that.

You’re too goddamn slow and too goddamn clumsy, Uncle Brett always said.

Danny’s long fingers wrapped tightly around the wood bird, cutting into his soft, sweaty palm hard enough to leave little crescent moon dimples. He gazed down at the figurine, turned it over a few times, touching the beak, the wings, the tail feathers, then placed it beside Mindy’s head, careful not to get any of her blood on the bird.

“Made this special for your birthday. Hope you like it.”

Mindy didn’t reply. She didn’t thank him for the special gift. She didn’t do anything but lay there in a growing puddle of her own blood.

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