True score is 1, but I swore off hate-reading books.
I had no idea this author has written para-normal books, a genre I thoroughly detest whether your name is Heather Graham or Stephen King. In fact, she also writes romance novels. Eew. I have no idea how I happened upon this novel. The only reason that I didn’t put this down after about 50 pages was to see if the ending turned into something completely absurd, like when you can’t stop looking at a car wreck. I obviously wandered into a place where I don’t belong, but as a compulsive reader (and writer), I couldn’t stop myself.
The story begins with a jaw-dropping coincidence (and not jaw-dropping in a good way). She goes to the jewelry store to return a diamond her brother stole precisely when a robbery is in progress. Wow, she should skip the jewelry store and go to the horse track and put everything she has on the fourth race. I can forgive one whacky coincidence, even one so mind-numbingly improbable. But there are others.
Then it turns out that the two groups of thieves hang out at her bar in a city that probably has thousands of bars, a bar that is also known as a cop hang out.
This is from the robbery at the jewelry store:
He fired a shot as he walked; she felt the pistol’s kick shoot through her via his grip on her arm. The sound was deafening.
Yet, when the police wrap up the arrest, it turns out their guns were toys. A toy that is deafening and has a strong kick. Got it. And how do the police and FBI arrive within what couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes after the robbery began? Did they teleport? Is this a paranormal crime novel?
After she has returned the diamond that her brother stole (he has a bar, and he steals diamonds?), why is she so incredibly edgy and nervous? The diamond in question could never be traced back to her or her brother. She is a psychologist and she can’t pull off a harmless subterfuge? The reason she was making the switch with the diamond was because she felt she had a bit more sangfroid than her brother, yet is practically shitting herself even after the diamond is back to its rightful owner.
She just happens to be something of a criminal psychologist after only recently obtaining her bachelor’s degree which means precisely fuck all in clinical terms.
For a moment he got a good look at her face. Mid to late twenties, brilliant blue eyes, deep red hair, fine bone structure and porcelain skin.*
This is what happens when a romance author writes a crime novel.
WTF? Moments (just a few)
How do you push the wrong person in front of a moving train?
A copycat group of jewel thieves? Why are they copying anything? Like wearing masks and hoodies is so highly original they need to be copied.
The thieves beat an old ex-alcoholic from the bar almost to death (they thought he was dead) because they thought he may have overheard them? Just too stupid. Just like they want to kill the protagonist because she, too, may know something. But then it gets worse, the kill or try to kill people who have simply spoken to people they think may know something. This all happens in the middle of a police and FBI investigation when any normal criminal would be getting out of Dodge.
Are they a group of jewel thieves or are they a group of psychopathic maniacs who steal jewels? Why on earth would they try to kill her, or the old man at the bar? It makes zero sense. I mean, it is explained, but it makes no sense.
We do have plenty of cops around,” Declan agreed. Yet criminals plan crimes there, too. They should share a table.
She has a 24-houre FBI escort? They don’t do that.
Her FBI fuck buddy, or whatever the hell he is, sits in her bar in disguise and talks to her with some stupid accent and she doesn’t recognize him? It’s just an all-around stupid scenario.
*Here is a little side-note: you don’t have to be gorgeous or handsome to have sex. You don’t have to be a billionaire or even a lowly millionaire to have access to sex. Ugly fat poor people are capable of having terrific orgasms. So why do writers spend so much time describing how attractive people are? As a reader, I just feel that I need only enough of a physical description to carry the story, anything more is a waste of words. It reminds me of those Penthouse forum letters which began with things like, “She had the biggest boobs I ever seen.”