By Catherine Coulter

FBI brokers Dillon Savich and Lacey Sherlock are again during this electrifying mystery from the number 1 long island Times-bestselling writer. Seven-year-old Autumn Backman has a present: she will be able to speak telepathically with others. no longer every person, brain you, yet with a pick out few with whom she stocks a distinct kinship. while Autumn and her mom, Joanna, take her father's ashes to be buried within the kin plot in Brickers Bowl, Georgia, the kid witnesses a frightening sight: her grandmother and uncles, burying a pile of lifeless our bodies in the midst of the evening. They head to Titusville, Virginia, to hunt assistance from an previous kin pal, yet Autumn senses they want help on a grand scale. utilizing her telepathic powers, Autumn calls a guy she'd noticeable merely on tv: FBI agent Dillon Savich. yet ahead of Savich and his spouse and companion, Agent Lacey Sherlock, can get at the scene, Autumn and Joanna flee, fearing the retribution of her uncle Blessed. an immense manhunt ensues, with Titusville Sheriff Ethan Merriweather racing to arrive the woman sooner than Blessed can get his palms on her. Blessed's received gigantic issues deliberate for Autumn and her present, and he will cease at not anything to strength her into his turning out to be military of exploited young ones. Savich, Sherlock, and Merriweather face their so much elusive foes to maintain Autumn out of harm's way-before it is too overdue.

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His cop antennae blasted red at the crackling lie, but he’d been well trained and kept his voice calm. “I see. I guess we’ll just have to shirt at the beginning, then. Talk to me, Mrs. ” Her head whipped up. ” He pulled the big paisley wing chair toward the bed and sat down. He said patiently, “You told me Autumn is ill, that she had to have one pill a day for a week. That leaves today and tomorrow. ” She shrugged. “I really don’t know. ” She looked over at him, met his eyes a moment. He saw despair and something more, something buried deep, something that scared the crap out of her.

His grandpa would have poked his arm and told him he was sounding like a long-haired poet again. His grandpa would have said it with a sort of Scottish lilt in his heavily accented voice, a spoken song, Ethan had always thought, one of his thick, white eyebrows arched higher than any eyebrow Ethan had ever seen. He’d practiced for hours in front of a mirror but never achieved his grandfather’s lift. He knew it was time to call it a day. Or a night. Where are you? Ethan’s cell screamed out “Blood on Your Hands,” a grinding death- metal rock ringtone that spiked his brain better than a double espresso.

There wasn’t a sound in the kitchen except for Ethan’s hard breathing and Autumn’s small gasps and hiccups. Joanna stared down at Ox, unmoving, watchful, her eyes narrowed, her foot up and ready to kick him again. A minute passed—more like a damned year, Ethan thought—be-fore he saw Ox open his eyes. He stared up at Ethan. Suddenly he didn’t look like a madman bent on murder, he looked very scared. Ethan wanted to shout with relief because now he saw Ox behind those eyes, saw Ox’s confusion. Ox—the Ox Ethan knew—was back.

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