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The Other People: The chilling and spine-tingling Sunday Times bestseller (English Edition) di [C. J. Tudor]

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The Other People: The chilling and spine-tingling Sunday Times bestseller (English Edition) Formato Kindle

4,3 su 5 stelle 3.193 voti

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Recensione

C. J. Tudor is terrific. I can't wait to see what she does nextHarlan Coben

C. J. Tudor has done it again. A mesmerizingly chilling and atmospheric page-turnerJ. P. Delaney, author of The Girl Before

Utterly magnificent. Such a beautifully weaved and satisfyingly complex tale, with just the right level of spookinessJames Oswald

Chilling and utterly gripping. Loved the twists and the well-drawn everyday details. A fantastic new book from the Queen of CreepyWill Dean, bestselling author of Red Snow

The Other People is a creepy, intense novel that drew me right in and never let go. C. J. Tudor's books keep getting better and better, and this one won't let you stop reading until the very last page!Samantha Downing, author of My Lovely Wife

Hugely enjoyable and deliciously creepy. I was hooked from its gripping opening, all the way through its many twists and turns.Ostensibly about a man searching for his missing daughter, it's a tale about loss, where nothing is quite as it seems; and, although you may think you've got it worked out, C. J. Tudor is always several steps ahead. A brilliant storyteller.Alex Michaelides, author of The Silent Patient

Her books have the ability to simultaneously make you unable to stop reading while wishing you could bury the book somewhere deep underground where it can't be found anymore. Compelling and hauntingSunday Express

An intense novel that gets right to the heart of what it means to love and to grieve. Intriguing, dramatic and heart-breakingWoman & Home

A father's desperate search for his vanished daughter provides the beating heart of this complex thriller, which is suffused with loss, longing and vengeance. Touches of the supernatural bring an extra dimension to the spine-tingling thrillsSunday Mirror

A darkly compelling tale of justice, revenge and the darkness lurking at the edges of everyday life - with an utterly propulsive plot that makes it very, very hard to put downT. M. Logan, bestselling author of The Holiday

C. J. Tudor is fast becoming one of my favourite authors. She has such a gift for storytelling. Couldn't turn the pages fast enoughFiona Cummins, author of The Rattle

C. J. Tudor's best novel to date. This tale of the lengths some people will go to to ease their grief was utterly emotionally believable while still treading at the edges of the worlds of Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Gripping and thoroughly entertaining. I can't wait to see what she does next ― Sarah Pinborough

It's rare to read something
so downright terrifying but C.J. Tudor manages it time and again. The Other People grabs you by the throat and keeps on squeezing till the very last page. Clever. Original. BrilliantChris Whitaker

FabulousPaul Burke, author of The Burning Men

I adored
The Other People. I was absolutely gripped from start to finish. Deliciously dark, with realistic characters that you simultaneously root for, then recoil fromCaz Frear

Excellent. A clever, tense and touching novelLiterary Review

Sets the bar high for every other thriller this yearJohn Marrs

Diabolically clever and propulsive as a rollercoaster. If you like twisty thrillers that leave you guessing till the very last page, this is a must-readAlma Katsu, author of The Hunger and The Deep

Another black fist of doom, smashing into the feeble world . . .
loved it!Max Wesolowski

Such intricate and enthralling storytelling. Evocative and creepyAmanda Reynolds

This book is chilling. It's the type of book you need to read with the lights on and the doors locked but it's so gripping you won't regret the mild night terrors ―
Yahoo! Style UK

C. J. Tudor has crafted an intense novel that gets right to the heart of what it means to love and to grieve . . .
Intriguing, dramatic and heartbreakingWoman & Home

A chilling psychological thriller, pulsing with atmosphere and plot twistsCandis

A well-crafted story that blends a mystery with some supernatural chills. You'll want to leave the light onBest

A chilling, atmospheric tale of justice, revenge, and the darkness lurking on the fringes of societyDaily Express

Vivid characterisation, lots of mystery as well as a twisting plot, it makes for a gripping page turnerNB Magazine

The chilling new novel by the bestselling author of The Chalk Man is an absolute page-turner. We'll just say the author isn't referred to as the 'Queen of Creepy' for nothingThat's Life

Complex thriller which is suffused with loss, longing and vengeance. Touches of the supernatural add to the spine-tingling thrillsThe People

A novel with a formidable emotional pullFinancial Times

C.J. Tudor is mastering the suspense/horror genre . . . It's quietly disconcerting, completely relatable and shows you that humans have a wonderfully dark sideWoman's Weekly

Kidnap mystery and horror suspense all rolled into one as a man is haunted by his abduction of his daughter while the woman who knows what happened is on the run for her life ―
Love it!

Praise for C. J. Tudor -

CJ Tudor taps into those things that woke you up in the night when you were a kid and then stay with you when you're an adultRichard Armitage

Britain's
female Stephen KingDaily Mail

Some writers have it, and some don't.
C. J. Tudor has it big timeLee Child

A dark star is born ― A. J. Finn

An intense novel that gets right to the heart of what it means to love and grieveWoman

Wonderfully gripping and doubt-inducingWoman & Home --Questo testo si riferisce a un'edizione fuori stampa o non disponibile di questo titolo.

Estratto. © Riproduzione autorizzata. Diritti riservati.

1

Monday, April 11, 2016, M1 North

He noticed the stickers first, surrounding the car’s rear window and lining the bumper:

Honk if you’re horny.

Don’t follow me, I’m lost.

When you drive like I do, you’d better believe in God.

Horn broken—watch for finger.

Real men love Jesus.

Talk about mixed messages. Although one thing did come through loud and clear: the driver was a dick. Gabe was willing to bet he wore slogan T-shirts and had a picture at work of a monkey with its hands over its head and the caption: You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps.

He was surprised the driver could see out of the back at all. On the other hand, at least he was providing reading material for people in traffic jams. Like the one they were currently stuck in. A long line of cars crawling through the M1 roadworks; it felt like they had started sometime in the last century and looked set to continue well into the next millennium.

Gabe sighed and tapped his fingers on the wheel, as though this could somehow hurry along the traffic, or summon a time machine. He was almost late. Not quite. Not yet. It was still within the bounds of possibility that he might make it home in time. But he wasn’t hopeful. In fact, hope had left him somewhere around Junction 19, along with all the drivers savvy enough to take their chances with their satnav and a country-lane diversion.

What was even more frustrating was that he had managed to leave on time today. He should easily have made it home by six thirty, so he could be there for dinner and Izzy’s bedtime, which he had promised—promised—Jenny that he would do tonight.

“Just once a week. That’s all I ask. One night when we eat together, you read your daughter a bedtime story and we pretend we’re a normal, happy family.”

That had hurt. She had meant it to.

Of course, he could have pointed out that he was the one who had got Izzy ready for school that morning, as Jenny had had to rush out to see a client. He was the one who had soothed their daughter and applied Savlon to her chin when their temperamental rescue cat (the one Jenny had adopted) had scratched her.

But he didn’t. Because they both knew it didn’t make up for all the missed times, the moments he hadn’t been there. Jenny was not an unreasonable woman. But when it came to family, she had a very definite line. If you crossed it, then it was a long time before she let you step back inside.

It was one of the reasons he loved her: her fierce devotion to their daughter. Gabe’s own mum had been more devoted to cheap vodka, and he had never known his dad. Gabe had sworn that he would be different; that he would always be there for his little girl.

And yet, here he was, stuck on the motorway, about to be late. Again. Jenny would not forgive him. Not this time. He didn’t want to dwell upon what that meant.

He had tried to call her, but it had gone to voicemail. And now his phone had less than 1 percent battery, which meant it would die any minute and, typically, today of all days, he had left his charger at home. All he could do was sit, fighting the urge to press his foot on the accelerator and shove the rest of the traffic out of the way, tapping his fingers aggressively on the steering wheel, staring at bloody Sticker Man in front.

A lot of the stickers looked old. Faded and wrinkled. But then, the car itself looked ancient. An old Cortina, or something similar. It was sprayed that color that was so popular in the seventies: a sort of grubby gold. Moldy banana. Pollution sunset. Dying sun.

Dirty grey fumes puffed intermittently out of the wonky exhaust. The whole bumper was speckled with rust. He couldn’t see a manufacturer’s badge. It had probably fallen off, along with half of the number plate. Only the letters “T” and “N” and what could be part of a 6 or an 8 remained. He frowned. He was sure that wasn’t legal. The damn thing probably wasn’t even roadworthy, or insured, or driven by a qualified driver. Best not to get too close.

He was just considering changing lanes when the girl’s face appeared in the rear window, perfectly framed by the peeling stickers. She looked to be around five or six. Round-faced, pink-cheeked. Fine blonde hair pulled into two high pigtails.

His first thought was that she should be strapped into a car seat.

His second thought was: Izzy.

She stared at him. Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth, revealing a tooth missing right in the front. He remembered wrapping it in a tissue and tucking it under her pillow for the tooth fairy.

She mouthed: “Daddy!”

Then a hand reached back, grabbed her arm and yanked her down. Out of sight. Gone. Vanished.

He stared at the empty window.

Izzy.

Impossible.

His daughter was at home, with her mum. Probably watching the Disney channel while Jenny cooked dinner. She couldn’t be in the back of a strange car, going God knows where, not even strapped into a car seat.

The stickers blocked his view of the driver. He could barely see the top of their head above Honk if you’re horny. Fuck that. He honked anyway. Then he flashed his lights. The car seemed to speed up a little. Ahead of him, the roadworks were ending, the 50mph signs replaced by the national speed limit.

Izzy. He accelerated. It was a new Range Rover. It went like shit off the proverbial shovel. And yet the battered old rust bucket in front was pulling away from him. He pressed the pedal down harder. Watched the speedometer creep up past seventy, seventy-five, eighty-five. He was gaining, and then the car in front suddenly darted into the middle lane and overtook several cars. Gabe followed, swerving in front of an HGV. The horn’s blare almost deafened him. His heart felt like it might just burst right out of his chest, like bloody Alien.

The car in front was weaving dangerously in and out of the traffic. Gabe was hemmed in by a Ford Focus on one side and a Toyota in front. Shit. He glanced in his mirror, pulled into the slow lane then darted back in front of the Toyota. At the same time a Jeep pulled in from the fast lane, just missing his hood. He slammed on his brakes. The Jeep driver flashed his hazards and gave him the finger.

“Screw you, too, you fucking wanker!”

The rust bucket was several cars in front now, still weaving, tail lights disappearing into the distance. He couldn’t keep up. It was too dangerous.

Besides, he tried to tell himself, he must be mistaken. Must be. It couldn’t have been Izzy. Impossible. Why on earth would she be in that car? He was tired, stressed. It was dark. It must be some other little girl who looked like Izzy. A lot like Izzy. A little girl who had the same blonde hair in pigtails, the same gap between her front teeth. A little girl who called him “Daddy.”

A sign flashed up ahead: services ½ mile. He could pull in, make a phone call, put his mind at rest. But he was already late; he should keep going. On the other hand, what was a few more minutes? The slip road was sliding past. Keep going? Pull over? Keep going? Pull over? Izzy. At the last minute, he yanked the wheel to the left, bumping over the white hazard lines and eliciting more horn beeps. He sped up the slip road and into the services.

Gabe hardly ever stopped at service stations. He found them depressing, full of miserable people who wanted to be somewhere else.

He wasted precious minutes scuttling up and down, past the various food outlets, searching for a payphone, which he eventually found tucked away near the toilets. Just the one. No one used payphones any more. He wasted several more minutes looking for some change before he realized you could use a card. He extracted his debit card from his wallet, stuck it in and called home.

Jenny never answered on the first ring. She was always busy, always doing something with Izzy. Sometimes she said she wished she had eight pairs of hands. He should be there more, he thought. He should help.

“Hello.”

A woman’s voice. But not Jenny. Unfamiliar. Had he called the wrong number? He didn’t call it very often. Again, it was all cellphones. He checked the number on the payphone. Definitely their landline number.

“Hello?” the voice said again. “Is that Mr. Forman?”

“Yes. This is Mr. Forman. Who the hell are you?”

“My name is Detective Inspector Maddock.”

A detective. In his house. Answering his phone.

“Where are you, Mr. Forman?”

“The M1. I mean, in the services. On my way back from work.”

He was babbling. Like a guilty person. But then, he was guilty, wasn’t he? Of a lot of things.

“You need to come home, Mr. Forman. Right away.”

“Why? What’s going on? What’s happened?”

A long pause. A swollen, stifling silence. The sort of silence, he thought, that brims with unspoken words. Words that are about to completely fuck up your life.

“It’s about your wife?.?.?.??and your daughter.”
--Questo testo si riferisce alla paperback edizione.

Dettagli prodotto

  • ASIN ‏ : ‎ B07NRY6VCL
  • Editore ‏ : ‎ Penguin; 1° edizione (23 gennaio 2020)
  • Lingua ‏ : ‎ Inglese
  • Dimensioni file ‏ : ‎ 3222 KB
  • Da testo a voce ‏ : ‎ Abilitato
  • Screen Reader ‏ : ‎ Supportato
  • Miglioramenti tipografici ‏ : ‎ Abilitato
  • X-Ray ‏ : ‎ Abilitato
  • Word Wise ‏ : ‎ Abilitato
  • Lunghezza stampa ‏ : ‎ 357 pagine
  • Recensioni dei clienti:
    4,3 su 5 stelle 3.193 voti

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