By Sarah Graves
Again within the day, Jacobia “Jake” Tiptree became gains dealing with the fortunes of Manhattan’s such a lot lucky. Then she fled the rat race for a stately outdated fixer-upper in easygoing Eastport, Maine. yet now a rat from a good darker nook of Jake’s previous has grew to become up…a killer with a blueprint for demolishing her new life.As a house fix fanatic, Jake understands that not anything lasts forever—not home windows or doorways, now not plaster or plumbing. and never strong fortune.After greater than 3 many years eluding justice, the guy who murdered her mom is eventually approximately to face trial—until he vanishes into skinny air. Jake has a poor foreboding of the place Ozzie Campbell will ensue subsequent. And whereas the neighborhood police leader is bound she’s overreacting, in truth a ways worse than even Jake’s worst fears.With her usually complete residence empty for a minimum of one other week, Jake has been looking ahead to the unaccustomed peace and quiet. Now her comfortable, well-loved domestic feels extra like a massive empty demise capture able to snap close. First a couple of out-of-towners basically now not in Eastport for holiday happen asking questions on her. And if she has any doubt they’re attached to Campbell, these doubts are erased whilst he calls her with a grim caution. yet precisely what Campbell wishes from her isn’t transparent, simply that he’ll cease at not anything to harm these closest to Jake. And his first sufferers are the main defenseless of all. unexpectedly Jake can’t support yet suppose that her house—and her life—has a ways too many home windows. And in anyone of them she may possibly see the face of her killer.
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Additional info for A Face at the Window (Home Repair Is Homicide Mysteries)
Jesus, he thought, having given up yearning so long ago that he barely recognized it. Then they were in the trees again and a different smell came in, like the Pine-Sol from the juvie home. Training school, they'd called it. Yeah, training to be a loser. Every kid in there had grown up to be a knucklehead. The luckiest ones ended up running errands for actual tough guys. Like me, he thought in a moment of bleak self-knowledge. An errand boy. But since the unlucky ones were either dead or in prison, he decided that maybe this little field trip with Marky wasn't so bad, after all.
Maybe the boat operators lived in the houses. Had wives and kids there, even. Anthony frowned. " Testing the idea. Sounding it out. They'd taught him to read, back in juvie. And they'd taken his tonsils out, after they got infected. That was the sum total of what he'd gotten out of the juvie experience. Well, that and an early warning system, a kind of alarm that rang deep in his head when things were going haywire. It was jangling now very loudly and unnervingly like the bell for a fire drill, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Passamaquoddy Bay, it was called, and on the far side of it was Canada. Anthony stared at the land, low and tree-covered, on the other side of the water, wondering if living over there felt any different than it did on this side. Better, maybe. "They sure get up early around here," he commented. Boats puttered offshore, cranelike contraptions jutting from the backs of them. Dragging something, though he couldn't see exactly what. Nets made of chain, it looked like, and on the opposite shore he could just make out small houses.