Pasadena detective Nan Vining faces down her brutal attacker in the thrilling conclusion to Dianne Emley’s bestselling trilogy.
Investigating the ugly gang murder of a low-level snitch, Pasadena detective Nan Vining finds clues that link this attack to her own brutal assault two years ago. Despite stern warnings from her boss, Nan and her on-again/off-again flame Jim Kissick continue the investigation, searching for the vicious serial killer who nearly took Nan’s life. Hiding in plain sight, the psychopath adds to his macabre collection of trophies, attended to by his adoring, deranged brother. As he and Nan draw ever closer, both relish the chance for their final bloody showdown.
“An edge-of-your-seat plot…nicely developed characters and genuine suspense elevate this impressive crime debut.”–Kirkus Reviews on The First Cut
Montaña de Oro State Park Central California Coast Eight years ago
This was his chance to get it right. he was nervous but confident. This was good. No . . . great. Perfect. A fresh start. A new day. The first time had been a bloody mess. Of course, it counted. It had been everything--which was part of the problem. He'd been careless. He wouldn't do that again. Because he'd learned that killing is never as easy as you hope, but it's sooo worth taking the time and trouble to do it with style. Practice makes perfect. Here he was and here she was. Take two.
Looking up at California State Park Ranger Marilu Feathers, he let a smile tickle his lips and said, "Where there's smoke, there's fire."
He pulled one corner of his mouth higher than the other, crafting what was intended to be a rakish grin. She'd know that he knew it was a corny old saying, and that would show his mastery of the situation. While he was at it, he arched an eyebrow, aiming to look clever, disarming, maybe even handsome. He was rewarded. She smiled. She was flirting with him.
In no mood, Feathers smirked. It was Christmas Eve and this clown was about to make her late to dinner at her parents' house with her brother and his family. Her young niece and nephew wouldn't care, but her sister-in-law would find it an opportunity to remind single, childless, thirty-something Feathers about the importance of schedules for children.
She'd taken her horse instead of the Jeep to do one last patrol of the nearly deserted sandspit, ringing in the holiday and a well-earned break with a sunset gallop. And now this.
The stranger looked Feathers over with a measure of scrutiny and delight, as if examining a long-sought-after rare book found by chance at a yard sale. He had watched in awe from the moment she'd appeared with Gypsy, her big roan mare, from the pass-through between the dunes and had begun galloping across the sand. She scattered spindly-legged sandpipers and inky black cormorants feeding in the surf while brown pelicans and Western gulls circled above, the gulls calling, "Kuk, kuk, kuk."
He had known she'd take Gypsy from the stable behind the dunes, would go down the Jeep path onto the spit, and would turn right, toward the Rock. He had known exactly where to position himself. She often rode at sunset, when the sandspit was quiet, but not always. He'd spent disappointing hours, primed, waiting, only to return home unfulfilled. While frustrating, waiting taught him discipline, which he knew he sorely needed. Now, at last, his reward. His heart had thrilled with each beat of the horse's hooves upon the sand.
He felt his emotions running away with him and--just as Feathers had reined in her horse--he seized command of himself. His reward was near. His memories of this moment would keep it alive and fresh forever. All he had to do was hold on. Hold on.
Feathers pulled up her horse beside the makeshift barrier and managed an insincere "Good evening, sir," and then the admonishment. "You're in the snowy plover restricted habitat. You can't be here, let alone have a campfire."
He knew that. Who could miss the miles of yellow nylon rope on four-foot metal stakes marked with signs, some drawn by schoolchil?dren, "Share the beach!" "We love the snowy plover!" He thought the stupid bird deserved to go extinct, but he knew that if she could Ranger Feathers would sit on their nests--mere shallows in the sand, the lazy birds. He'd not only purposefully gone into the restricted habitat, he'd built a fire with driftwood. Brilliant. Did he know how to push her buttons, or what?
Standing near him now, she was a sight to behold, tall in...
Reviews
Lisa Gardner...
"Hurtles the reader down a razor's edge of suspense to the final shattering end."
Michael Connelly...
"A great read . . . The First Cut should immediately establish Dianne Emley in the front ranks of thriller writers."
Tucson Citizen...
"Emley is a writer to watch."
Mariah Stewart, author of Last Breath...
"Cut to the Quick's razor-sharp pacing and twisted plot kept me on the edge of my chair from the first page to the last."
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