The Best American Mystery Stories 2013
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
A best-selling novelist and Edgar Award winner, Lisa Scottoline brings her mastery of the thriller genre as well as her wit and heart to this collection of the must-reads in mysteries.
do but break back in over summer vacation.” Harvey stares at the bottle in his hand. “Molly still asleep?” Will asks. “She was thirty seconds ago.” Lacy gives him a peck on the cheek. “I shouldn’t be long.” “Take a lot of pictures,” Will says. “I always do.” “And hey.” She turns at the door. He points to the front of her blouse, sleeveless yellow cotton with a rounded collar. She looks down, sees that it is buttoned incorrectly, one side of the shirt higher than the other. “Geez,” she
rounds left in a ten-round magazine under a loose floorboard beneath Oris Lamont’s single bed. His mama never saw the gun before. He looked at the little girl and those big eyes stared at the semiautomatic. “Is this your gun?” Savary asked the child. “That Oris gun.” Her mother pulled her away from the detective and glared at him. “You’re violating our rights, questioning a baby.” Savary gave the woman a cold smile. A crowd had gathered outside, kept back by two Sixth District patrol
“sturdy shoes and work pants,” and carry lunches, cigarettes, lipstick, and bus fare. They find a way to deal with the terrible grief when they lose a son or husband, and Dreyer describes the “quick stab of an envelope” when the dreaded Western Union telegrams are thrust into their shaking hands. The war has taken Peg’s dreams as well as her husband. She had dreamed of becoming a nurse, of wearing a white cap and a “gleaming white dress” and always looking “clean and bright,” but instead she has
just go crazy and invade the next town over for no reason, not like the Bushes invading Iraq whenever they want to feel tough.” George W. Bush was rattling the saber just then for what would be the 2003 invasion, just like his own father had back when I was in college. “It’s not the same, it’s just not the same.” I was tired, itching for a fight. “The government . . .” What? I thought to myself. The government doesn’t bully people? Doesn’t tax the hell out of them? Doesn’t dump toxic waste out
ever happened and could not have been predicted. I had assumed that he’d left. He’d lost interest in me and he’d left and I would not see him again, as sometimes—how often, I didn’t care to know—male interest in me, stimulated initially, mysteriously melted, evaporated and vanished. But there he was waiting for me, in no way that might intimidate me: just sitting on the stone bench at the foot of the steps, leafing through a library book he was about to slide into his backpack. Seeing the look