Read more
Zusatztext “[ The Rabbit Hunter ] confirms Kepler as a master of disturbing psychological crime novels” — Library Journal “Outstanding . . . Kepler has never been better at hiding key clues in plain sight.” — Publishers Weekly ( starred review) “[ The Rabbit Hunter ] holds strong appeal for American thriller fans, especially those of Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series.” — Booklist “ The Rabbit Hunter grips readers from the start and rarely lets up. Although a hefty 500-plus pages, the book unravels at a breakneck pace and almost seems custom-built for a big screen adventure. The Rabbit Hunter is a chase you’ll want to get in on.” — BookPage “Terrifying enough to give us nightmares—but in a good way.” — CrimeReads “Fast-paced and fluent . . . Sure to be a hit.” — Kirkus Reviews “Kepler continues to impress with The Rabbit Hunter , the next Joona Linna crime thriller … and nobody is thinking up better villains. Read this one with the light on.” — The Real Book Spy Informationen zum Autor LARS KEPLER is the pseudonym of the critically acclaimed husband-and-wife team Alexandra Coelho Ahndoril and Alexander Ahndoril. Their number one internationally bestselling novels has sold more than fifteen million copies in forty languages. The Ahndorils were both established writers before they adopted the pen name Lars Kepler and have each published several acclaimed novels. They live in Stockholm, Sweden. Translated by Neil Smith. Leseprobe 1 Late August Drizzle is falling from the dark sky. There’s no wind, and the illuminated drops form a misty dome that covers Djursholm. The city lights glow high above the rooftops. Beside the still waters of Germania Bay lies a sprawling villa. Inside, a young woman walks across the polished floor and Persian carpet as warily as an animal. Her name is Sofia Stefansson. Her anxiety makes her register tiny details about the room. There’s a black remote control on the arm of the sofa, its battery cover taped in place. There are water rings on the table. An old Band-Aid is stuck to the long fringe of the carpet. The floor creaks, as if someone was creeping through the rooms behind Sofia. There are splashes of mud from the wet stone path on her high heels and toned calves. Her legs are still muscular, even though she stopped playing soccer two years ago. Sofia keeps the pepper spray in her hand hidden from the man waiting for her. She keeps telling herself that she’s in control and she wants to be here. The man is standing by an armchair, watching her move with unabashed frankness. Sofia’s features are symmetrical, and she has a youthful plumpness in her cheeks. She is wearing a blue dress that shows off her bare shoulders. A row of small, fabric-covered buttons stretches from her neck down between her breasts. The little gold heart on her necklace bobs up and down at the base of her throat in time with her increased heart rate. She could say that she’s not feeling well, that she needs to go home. It would probably annoy him, but he’d accept it. The man is looking at her with a hunger that makes her stomach flutter in fear. She is seized by the feeling that she has met him before—could he have been a senior manager somewhere she worked, the father of a classmate a long time ago? Sofia stops a short distance away from him, smiles, and feels the rapid beat of her heart. She’s planning to keep her distance until she’s figured him out or the meaning behind his tone and gestures. His hands don’t look like they belong to a violent man: his nails are neatly trimmed, and his plain wedding ring is scratched from years of marriage. “Nice house,” she says, tucking a stray lock of hair away from her fac...
