Everywhere She Turns
Praise for Debra Webb’s
EVERYWHERE SHE TURNS
“
Everywhere She Turns
is romantic suspense at its best.”
—Erica Spindler,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Breakneck
TRACELESS
A
Cosmopolitan
“Red Hot Read” of the Month
“Skillfully managing a big cast, Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.”
—Fresh Fiction
“
Traceless
is a riveting entanglement of intrigue, secrets, and passions that had me racing to its breathless end. I loved this book!”
—
Karen Rose, author of
Die for Me
“
Traceless
is a well-crafted and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”
—
Heather Graham,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Dead Room
“The talented Webb has built a wide fan base that should be thrilled with her vengeful and chilling new tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Betrayal, secrets, lies and passion lead to murder in a small town . . .
Traceless
is a breathtaking romantic suspense that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn’t let up. Riveting.”
—New York Times
bestselling author Allison Brennan
MORE
. . .
NAMELESS
“A complex plot and an eerily compelling villain make this fast-paced chiller outstanding reading. Take a deep breath and enjoy!” ;
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
(4.5 stars)
FACELESS
“Webb’s tale reeks of corruption and deadly manipulation—an impressive brew!” ;
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“
Faceless
teased and taunted me until I stayed up all night reading, only to be stunned by the astounding ending. This is a blockbuster thriller screaming to be told in the movie theater, and I’d be the first person in line for a ticket. A perfect 10 you’re sure to enjoy!” ;
—Romance Reviews Today
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
DEBR A WEBB
Find Me
Faceless
Nameless
Traceless
SHE TURNS
Debra Webb
NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVERYWHERE SHE TURNS
Copyright © 2009 by Debra Webb.
Excerpt from
Anywhere She Runs
copyright © 2009 by Debra Webb.
Cover photographs:
Woman © Shirley Green
Background © Niall McDiarmid/Millennium Images
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-53296-2
EAN: 978-0-312-53296-3
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book was a joy to write, mainly because of three characters in particular, CJ Patterson, Suzanne Parker, and Candice Dobbins.
The character CJ Patterson was inspired by CJ Lyons, a dear friend of mine. The real CJ is not only a medical doctor but a fabulous author of medical thrillers. Be sure to look for her latest release—you will be wowed! Thank you, CJ, for loads and loads of awesome inspiration! And many hours of moral support!
Suzanne Parker and Candice Dobbins—you know who you are. These two characters leapt onto the pages of this story just as two wonderful friends did the same in my life. You give my world that extra spark. Endless fountains of encouragement and tireless cheerleaders. You are the best!
Ladies, this one is for you!
Huntsville, Alabama, is my home. I love living here—loved visiting as a child when I lived on a farm outside Scottsboro. In my opinion, Huntsville is one of the best places to live in the entire South! When I considered making Huntsville the setting of this story, it was an easy decision to go for it. However, in any work of suspense there must be bad guys and sometimes those bad guys must be in positions of power—particularly law enforcement. So please know that all such characters in this story are absolutely fictional. The Huntsville Police Department and Madison County Sheriff’s Department serve this community in an outstanding manner. The men and women wearing those uniforms have my utmost respect as do those in political positions and those who are a part of our medical community.
The mill village represented in this story was inspired by the very neighborhood where I live, but bear in mind that I have taken some creative liberties. My family and I are new to the village, but we feel at home already. This village was erected shortly after two of Huntsville’s first textile mills were built in 1898. The homes in the village housed the mill workers and their families. A school, medical clinic, general store, and community center were also built for this village. Unfortunately the mill was torn down in the 1980s, and things didn’t go so well for the village after that. Many of the lovely old homes fell into disrepair. The medical clinic and school closed. Crime rose
dramatically in the area, and things were just plain bad. But a few years ago, families started to purchase the homes and move into the village with the intent of revitalization. My family and I are proud to be a part of that renewal. We are slowly but surely restoring a one-hundred-and-ten-year-old home and doing our part for the community. The work is hard but immensely satisfying. While on the subject of restoration, I must mention that I have discovered a new community jewel—the Habitat Store! And priceless new friends and neighbors, Lisa and Greg Day.
As always, I must acknowledge my truly awesome partner in crime, my husband. He is my rock, my heart . . . my world. He is the reason my dreams continue to come true.
So, read on and enjoy! And don’t forget to visit my website,
www.debrawebb.com
Huntsville, Alabama
Saturday, July 31, 3:30
AM
Women
.
Bitches. Most every fucking one of them.
The world was about to be rid of one more stupid bitch.
All he had to do was catch her.
Mirth burst from his chest as she darted from the alley, plunging into the dark cover of the woods in a last-ditch effort to save herself.
Did she really think she could escape him that easily?
Stupid, stupid bitch.
Not in this life.
In this life, he was the killer. And she . . . well, she was the victim.
The only decision that remained was the manner of death.
Slice open her silky white throat?
No. Too clichéd.
The memorable mark of a truly magnificent killer was at its core quite simple:
originality
.
He allowed her a few precious seconds. Just enough to provide a fleeting glimmer of hope. Then he charged into the dark, dense woods, using the trampled underbrush she’d left in her wake as his path.
She should just face the one undeniable fact close enough for her to feel its hot brush on the nape of her fragile neck.
She was dead.
Within the hour her heart would slow to a complete stop. Heat would begin to seep from her flesh, and the final image captured on her retinas would fade to black.
His face would be that last image.
At that trauma-filled moment, when her brain released the massive dump of endorphins that gifted the dying with an eerie calm as their entire pathetic lives flashed like a bad movie trailer through their impotent minds, she would recognize her one fatal mistake.
She shouldn’t have gotten in the way.
Bravado, curiosity . . . whatever it was that had made her dare to step out of her place, it had been just another bad choice in a long line of bad choices littering an insignificant existence mere minutes from being over.
Even now, as he grew nearer and nearer, so shockingly near he could hear the humid air raging in and out of her desperate lungs . . . could feel the sheer terror throttling through her veins . . . she still couldn’t help herself.
She had to glance back. To see the truth that had been right in front of her for the duration of her short life.
He smiled.
This was going to be most satisfying.
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
10:30
PM
Dr. CJ Patterson fished in her purse for her keys as she neared her ancient Civic. In twenty-three minutes she would be home; five minutes after that she would be out of these scrubs and soaking in a tub full of hot, steamy water with an open bottle of chilled Saracco uncorked and parked within reach.
