By R. D. Cane
After being lately cleared of homicide fees, the disgraced and out-of-work police detective Steve Nastos reluctantly groups together with his brash and equally disgraced legal professional Kevin Carscadden for a paycheck. Nastos—who outfitted his profession on channeling the shadowy instincts inside of him to seek risky predators—takes on a project to trace the whereabouts of Lindsay Bannerman, a afflicted teenager who's lacking from her filthy rich adoptive domestic. the path Nastos and his attorney decide up is one with a sadistic abuser at the different finish and plagued by lies, deceptions, and dead our bodies. Torn among spiteful former colleagues—detectives who continue Nastos belongs in legal for homicide—a spouse who desires her husband to ultimately unencumber himself from the darkness that fuels him, and the promise he made to a stranger to discover Lindsay, the quest is a race opposed to time initially vanishes without end into the darkish topic.
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Additional resources for Dark Matter (Steve Nastos, Book 2)
If I cry now, Petra told herself, I won't make it into work at all. Bloody stupid sleepwalking – where was I going? What was I thinking? She placed a pad of cotton wool on each heel, secured with Sellotape, slipped her feet into socks first stretched wide and then slid her feet into sandals. Sandals which she liked but which Rob referred to as ‘German lezzy abominations’. ‘If Rob could see me now,’ she muttered, giving her reflection a cursory glance before heading for the studio. ’ Eric felt a little sorry for Petra when he spied her at a distance limping along Hatton Garden.
Petra looked around her; there just was not the room for enough shelving to house that many books. And the walls were for those paintings of somewhere hot and faraway. At that moment, surrounded by decades of life and so much personal history, Petra deeply missed having grandparents of her own. She took Mrs McNeil's bony hand, with its calligraphy of veins and sinews and liver spots, in both of hers. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs McNeil,’ she said, looking intently into the lady's watercolour-pale eyes.
I did,’ said Arlo. ’ Arlo's Year Eight thought pretty much the same thing that afternoon. But they weren't complaining. He hadn't said a thing to them all lesson, just looked at them queerly, while Beethoven filled the room. The 5th piano concerto. “The Emperor”. And however much Arlo loved the music, just then he couldn't hear a note. And however much he loved his job, though he stood in front of his desk with his eyes trained on the twenty-two boys before him, he didn't much notice them at all.