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Boston private detectives Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro are hired to find four-year-old Amanda McCready, abducted from her bed on a warm, summer night. They meet her stoned-out, strangely apathetic mother, her loving aunt and uncle, the mother's dangerous, drug-addled friends, and two cops who've found so many abused or dead children they may be too far over the edge to come back.
Despite enormous public attention, rabid news coverage, and dogged police work, the investigation repeatedly hits a brick wall. Led into a world of drug dealers, child molesters, and merciless executioners, Patrick and Angie are soon forced to face not only the horrors adults can perpetrate on innocents but also their own conflicted feelings about what is best, and worst, when it comes to raising children. And as the Indian summer fades and the autumn chill deepens, Amanda McCready stays gone, banished so completely that she seems never to have existed.
Then another child disappears. . . .
Dennis Lehane takes you into a world of triple crosses, elaborate lies, and shrouded motives, where the villains may be more moral than the victims, the missing should possibly stay missing, and those who go looking for them may not come back alive.
Settle in and turn off the phone. From its haunting opening to its shocking climax, Gone, Baby, Gone is certain to be one of the most thrilling, talked-about suspense novels you read this year.
Dennis Lehane is the author of Sacred; Darkness, Take My Hand, and A Drink Before the War which won the Shamus Award for Best First Novel presented by the Private Eye Writers of America, and was also a Boston Globe best-seller. Lehane was born and raised in Dorchester, Massachusetts, and still lives in the Boston area. He holds an M.F.A. in creative writing.
560 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published July 22, 1998




“In the middle of the journey of our life I found myself within a dark woods where the straight way was lost.” - Inferno, Dante
"Well, fine, my life's okay, but the world's still a pile of shit for most people. Even if my world is okay, the world is still a pile of evil shit.' You know?"
"Those who did remember probably shrugged off the chill of her memory, turned their heads down to the sports page or up toward the approaching bus. The world is a terrible place, they thought. Bad things happen every day. My bus is late."
“When I was young, I asked my priest how to get to heaven and still protect yourself from all the evil in the world. He told me what God told His children; 'You are sheep among wolves, be wise as the serpent, yet innocent as doves.'”This is by far the best installment in Dennis Lehane's great series following inner city Boston private detectives Patrick Kenzie and Angela Gennaro (with Darkness, Take My Hand being a close second). And the VERY BEST detective novel I've read so far. I know that's saying a lot but I don't say it lightly. Lehane always proves to be a master of plotting, and here, he not only takes a simple missing child mystery and turns it into something endlessly addictive and compelling, but he ends it well too. The final reveal and resolution came at me like a hard fist to the face, sending me reeling for days. It's ingenious and truly one of a kind, and left me to ponder even my own morality. When a novel in such a crowded and cliché-ridden field as the detective genre can leave you so affected, that book is truly something special. There are so many great moments in this book; the plot develops at a flawless pace, and every character is pitch-perfect and memorable. And I love the way the Patrick and Angie get so involved that the case affects them personally, taking over their lives, challenging everything they believe in. All of this helps to rank this book as one of the best novels in modern crime fiction, right up there on my list with Clockers, A Simple Plan, The 25th Hour, and the author's other masterwork, Mystic River.
Love like that? Hell. It seems so pure, it's damn near criminal.
The silence of the dead says, Goodbye.
The silence of the missing says, Find me.
We were slippery creatures, our impulses ruled by a variety of forces, many of them incomprehensible even to ourselves.
I moved over and she sat beside me. She took my face in her hands, but I couldn't meet her eyes, was sure that seeing the warmth and the love in them would make me feel more soiled, for some reason, more unhinged.
She kissed my forehead and then my eyelids, the tears drying on my face, brought my head down to her shoulder, and kissed the back of my neck.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"Nothing to say." I cleared my throat, wrapped my arms around her abdomen and lower back. I could hear her heart beating. She felt so good, so beautiful, so everything that was right in the world. And I still felt like dying."
At the end of an April day, after the sun has descended but before night has fallen, the city turns a hushed, unsettled gray. Another day has died, always more quickly than expected. Muted yellow or orange lights appear in window squares and shaft from car grilles, and the coming dark promises a deepening chill.