By G.M. Ford
Underneath the rotting floorboards of an deserted shed are human bones -- plenty of them -- the final issues a runaway rogue true-crime author and his photojournalist ex-lover anticipated to discover once they took look after from a vicious Wisconsin snowstorm. The grisly nightmare Frank Corso and Meg Dougherty have exposed is not anything they could flip a blind eye to. The hideous slaughter of a family members, undetected for fifteen years, needs to be avenged, because the hunt for a killer consists of Corso midway around the kingdom, and during a chilling heritage of violence, terror, and bloodshed. yet changing into an device of justice has made him a objective of a rage-driven maniac -- and it really is resulting in ashocking fact hidden in an remoted position the place demise lives ... and the place no legislations protects the blameless.
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That’s how the Dallas boys got a 50 G. M. ” She used her right hand to massage the back of her neck. ” “He’s digging my grave, Mr. ” “He’s sure as hell setting you up to fail. ” Corso watched as her eyes turned inward. She was silent for a moment. When she spoke it seemed as if her words had been rehearsed. “I’m too damn old to start over,” she said. “Richardson beats me in November . . I mean . . what in hell am I gonna do? Apply down at the Burger King? See if maybe I can’t get on with the Parks Department?
She looked over at Corso. ” she asked. Corso shook his head. “Not since I was a little kid,” he said. “Well then, you’ve got to understand . . towns like this are pretty much closed societies. People come and go, but nothing really changes. Most of the kids we send up to the university at Madison stay gone for a while. They meet mates, have children, move someplace else. They come back to Avalon on the holidays to show off the grandkids. And then later on they start coming back to see how their parents are getting along.
The undercarriage was a solid layer of dirty ice. The open door rocked slightly in the wind. She pulled Corso around the front, bent, and wiped the snow from the windshield with her bare hand. The truck’s windshield was completely iced over from the inside. No way of telling if anyone was there. “I can’t see anything,” she shouted above the locomotive wind. Corso pulled her back the way they’d come. He groped around on the undercarriage with his hands and then stepped back a pace and kicked at the ice.
A Blind Eye: A Novel by G.M. Ford