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Zusatztext 46787829 Informationen zum Autor GILLIAN FLYNN is the author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Gone Girl ; the New York Times bestseller Dark Places ! which was a New Yorker Reviewers’ Favorite! Weekend Today Top Summer Read! Publishers Weekly Best Book of 2009! and Chicago Tribune Favorite Fiction choice; and the Dagger Award winner Sharp Objects ! which was an Edgar® nominee for Best First Novel! a BookSense pick! and a Barnes & Noble Discover selection. Klappentext NOW AN HBO® LIMITED SERIES STARRING AMY ADAMS! NOMINATED FOR EIGHT EMMY AWARDS! INCLUDING OUTSTANDING LIMITED SERIES FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF GONE GIRL Fresh from a brief stay at a psych hospital! reporter Camille Preaker faces a troubling assignment: she must return to her tiny hometown to cover the murders of two preteen girls. For years! Camille has hardly spoken to her neurotic! hypochondriac mother or to the half-sister she barely knows: a beautiful thirteen-year-old with an eerie grip on the town. Now! installed in her old bedroom in her family's Victorian mansion! Camille finds herself identifying with the young victims-a bit too strongly. Dogged by her own demons! she must unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past if she wants to get the story-and survive this homecoming. Praise for Sharp Objects "Nasty! addictive reading."-Chicago Tribune "Skillful and disturbing."-Washington Post "Darkly original . . . [a] riveting tale."-People Chapter One My sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but the temperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, I grabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Spring in Chicago. In my gunny-covered cubicle I sat staring at the computer screen. My story for the day was a limp sort of evil. Four kids, ages two through six, were found locked in a room on the South Side with a couple of tuna sandwiches and a quart of milk. They'd been left three days, flurrying like chickens over the food and feces on the carpet. Their mother had wandered off for a suck on the pipe and just forgotten. Sometimes that's what happens. No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping. I'd seen the mother after the arrest: twenty-two-year-old Tammy Davis, blonde and fat, with pink rouge on her cheeks in two perfect circles the size of shot glasses. I could imagine her sitting on a shambled-down sofa, her lips on that metal, a sharp burst of smoke. Then all was fast floating, her kids way behind, as she shot back to junior high, when the boys still cared and she was the prettiest, a glossy-lipped thirteen-year-old who mouthed cinnamon sticks before she kissed. A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva. "Where are you on the story, kiddo?" There was a silver tack on my desk, point up. He pushed it lightly under a yellow thumbnail. "Near done." I had two inches of copy. I needed six. "Good. Fuck her, file it, and come to my office." "I can come now." "Fuck her, file it, then come to my office." "Fine. Ten minutes." I wanted my thumbtack back. He started out of my cubicle. His tie swayed down near his crotch. "Preaker?" "Yes, Curry?" "Fuck her." Frank Curry thinks I'm a soft touch. Might be because I'm a woman. Might be because I'm a soft touch. Curry's office is on the third floor. I'm sure he gets panicky-pissed every time he looks out the window and sees the trunk of a tree. Good editors don't see bark; they see leaves--if...
