By Keith Ablow
Careworn through his personal mental scars, marvelous forensic psychiatrist, Dr. Frank Clevenger, has weathered the main severe twists of the human brain. Then he gets a irritating name from Nantucket's leader of Police. The five-month-old daughter of sought after billionaire, Darwin Bishop, has been came upon murdered in her crib. the most obvious suspect is Darwin's followed sociopathic son, Billy. Even Clevenger cannot fathom the cause in the back of the boy's homicide of an toddler. yet what's Billy rather working from? Does Darwin's attractive spouse Julia understand? If she does, she isn't really speaking. nor is the Bishop's different son who is harboring bad secrets and techniques of his personal. Falling for Julia is Clevenger's first mistake. Investigating the Bishops' twisted emotional panorama is his moment. it really is performed greater than simply draw him into the maze of a psychosexual kinfolk background. it is trapped him. As his personal demons upward thrust to the outside, he needs to play the last word brain online game to trap a killer-and make it out alive...
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The older Bishop boy, in white shorts and a white T-shirt, was already, at seventeen, close to six feet tall and broadly built, like his father. But where his father's gait was certain and aggressive, leading with his right shoulder like a running back, his son's was more tentative—shoulders turned inward, a slight bend in each knee, a momentary shuffle with each step. Julia Bishop, wearing a black pareo and white T-shirt, was a little shorter and slighter than I would have guessed from her photograph in the study.
I asked. "In a general way," Mossberg said. " I asked. " "He insists he had nothing to do with it," she said. "But you don't believe him," I said. "Well. . no. " I asked. Mossberg looked at me askance. "I hadn't heard anyone express doubt that Billy committed the crime. Mr. Bishop's wishes were for a secure setting where his son could be held—away from the glare of the media—until trial. " "Did Bishop say that? " "Very clearly," Mossberg said. "Am I missing something? " I took a deep breath, let it out.
I tried to imagine the emotions she might have experienced each time she buried a hypodermic needle in her flesh, soiling her insides. I didn't settle on rage or panic or even sadness. I thought she probably felt relief. Maybe even euphoria. For the moment, she could shed the pretense of normalcy. Her sham selfesteem and self-confidence could melt away, yielding to her real unconscious vision of herself as dirty and infected. Trash. Like someone finally allowed to drop her arms after holding them aloft for hours, she could give up the struggle to fend off her demons and, instead, let them spirit her away.