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9780312363949

Watch Me Die

by
  • ISBN13:

    9780312363949

  • ISBN10:

    031236394X

  • Format: Hardcover
  • Copyright: 2011-06-21
  • Publisher: St. Martin's Press
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Summary

Returning to the roots of her success, Spindler weaves a thrilling psychological drama with the story of a young woman driven by visions and fearsStained glass restoration artist Mira Gallier is on the verge of having it all--again. The love of a good man. Professional success. And finally, after years of pain at the loss of her husband to Hurricane Katrina, peace and emotional stability. But a new nightmare begins when a strange man called "The Preacher" attacks her, and a terrifying chain of events is set in motion: the Preacher is found dead, the first of seven windows Mira restored after Katrina is vandalized, and her house is broken into.As Mira's windows are targeted one-by-one, her personal life begins to shatter as well. She catches a glimpse of her dead husband in a crowd, then he's gone. She hears his voice on the phone, telling her something only he could know. She begins to doubt herself--and the man she's falling in love with. When Mira's assistant is brutally murdered, her nude body found posed in the dappled colored light of Mira's prize restoration, she becomes the focus of the police's investigation. As "evidence" against her mounts and with no one to turn to, Mira races to prove she's neither a murderer nor losing her grip on sanity.

Author Biography

New York Times bestselling author Erica Spindler has written many novels, including BreakneckBlood Vines, Bone Cold, In Silence and Last Known Victim. Her books are published in 25 countries. Raised in Rockford, Illinois, Spindler planned on becoming an artist, and earned visual arts degrees from Delta State University and the University of New Orleans. But one day in 1982, she picked up a romance novel and was immediately hooked. She soon tried to write her own romance, but it was when she leapt from romance to suspense that she found her true calling. Spindler has won the prestigious Daphne du Maurier Award for excellence, the Kiss of Death Award, and has been a three-time RITA Award Finalist. She lives just outside New Orleans, Louisiana, with her husband and two sons.

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE
 

New Orleans, Louisiana
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
1:48 A.M.

He had been alone so long. Among the living but not of them.
Until now.
Mary had come back for him. They’d been together all those many years ago, separated by his father’s will and the whole screwed-up, broken-down world.
But that was the past. She was again within his reach, and this time they would not be torn apart.
It had begun.
He climbed the stairs to his grandmother’s bedroom, treading softly, careful not to wake her. Moonlight crept around the edges of the closed drapes, creating bright knifelike slivers on the dark stairs.
He knew these steps so well he could climb them blind. How many hundreds of times had he carried up a tray of food or drink first for his mother, struck down while still so young, now for his grandmother?
He peeked in at her sleeping form. She lay in her bed, head propped up on pillows, coverlet tucked neatly around her. He wrinkled his nose at the smell—of age and illness. She’d become so frail over the past months. So thin, not much more than skin and bones. And weak. Hardly able to lift her head.
Unable to fight him off.
He frowned. Now, why had he thought that? He loved his grandmother; he owed her his life. When his mother had passed, she’d sacrificed everything to raise him. For these past twenty-two years, she had supported and guided him. She had believed in him. In who he was and who he was meant to be.
He shook his head, clearing it. He had told her about Mary’s return. They’d argued. She’d said terrible things about Mary. Ugly, hateful things. Each word had pierced his heart.
But in this, his love for Mary, he would not be swayed.
He crossed to the bed. The jagged moonlight fell across her torso and onto him. He lifted his hands into the light, spreading his fingers.
Blood staining his hands.
The blood of the lamb. Splattering on impact.
You’re troubled.
He blinked at the clearly spoken words. He looked behind him at the empty room, then down at his sleeping grandmother. “Who’s there?” he asked.
You know me. I am the one who’s always with you.
“Father,” he whispered, “is it you?”
Yes, my Son. What troubles you tonight? It has begun. You should rejoice and fear not, for through the Father the Son will be glorified!
“One of your Holy ones, Father. I had to. He came upon me so suddenly—”
A martyr. He will be remembered, sanctified for his role on this day of new beginning.
At his Father’s words, certainty washed over him. Renewed purpose and peace. “Yes, Father. It is indeed the day you foretold and the one I have awaited. I’m in your hands, Father.” He bowed his head. “I am your servant. Direct me.”
Leave the old one now. Remember, only one can stand beside you.
“Mary.”
Yes. Her moment is coming as well.
He eased one of the bed pillows from behind his grandmother’s head. He gazed down at her, drinking in her face, emotion swamping him. What would he do without her?
Tears stinging his eyes, he plumped the pillow and bent and carefully replaced it, cautious not to awaken her.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good night, Grandma. Sleep well.”

 
Copyright © 2011 by Erica Spindler

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Excerpts

CHAPTER ONE
 

New Orleans, Louisiana
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
1:48 A.M.

He had been alone so long. Among the living but not of them.
Until now.
Mary had come back for him. They’d been together all those many years ago, separated by his father’s will and the whole screwed-up, broken-down world.
But that was the past. She was again within his reach, and this time they would not be torn apart.
It had begun.
He climbed the stairs to his grandmother’s bedroom, treading softly, careful not to wake her. Moonlight crept around the edges of the closed drapes, creating bright knifelike slivers on the dark stairs.
He knew these steps so well he could climb them blind. How many hundreds of times had he carried up a tray of food or drink first for his mother, struck down while still so young, now for his grandmother?
He peeked in at her sleeping form. She lay in her bed, head propped up on pillows, coverlet tucked neatly around her. He wrinkled his nose at the smell—of age and illness. She’d become so frail over the past months. So thin, not much more than skin and bones. And weak. Hardly able to lift her head.
Unable to fight him off.
He frowned. Now, why had he thought that? He loved his grandmother; he owed her his life. When his mother had passed, she’d sacrificed everything to raise him. For these past twenty-two years, she had supported and guided him. She had believed in him. In who he was and who he was meant to be.
He shook his head, clearing it. He had told her about Mary’s return. They’d argued. She’d said terrible things about Mary. Ugly, hateful things. Each word had pierced his heart.
But in this, his love for Mary, he would not be swayed.
He crossed to the bed. The jagged moonlight fell across her torso and onto him. He lifted his hands into the light, spreading his fingers.
Blood staining his hands.
The blood of the lamb. Splattering on impact.
You’re troubled.
He blinked at the clearly spoken words. He looked behind him at the empty room, then down at his sleeping grandmother. “Who’s there?” he asked.
You know me. I am the one who’s always with you.
“Father,” he whispered, “is it you?”
Yes, my Son. What troubles you tonight? It has begun. You should rejoice and fear not, for through the Father the Son will be glorified!
“One of your Holy ones, Father. I had to. He came upon me so suddenly—”
A martyr. He will be remembered, sanctified for his role on this day of new beginning.
At his Father’s words, certainty washed over him. Renewed purpose and peace. “Yes, Father. It is indeed the day you foretold and the one I have awaited. I’m in your hands, Father.” He bowed his head. “I am your servant. Direct me.”
Leave the old one now. Remember, only one can stand beside you.
“Mary.”
Yes. Her moment is coming as well.
He eased one of the bed pillows from behind his grandmother’s head. He gazed down at her, drinking in her face, emotion swamping him. What would he do without her?
Tears stinging his eyes, he plumped the pillow and bent and carefully replaced it, cautious not to awaken her.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good night, Grandma. Sleep well.”

 
Copyright © 2011 by Erica Spindler

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