CHRISTOPHER BROOKMYRE EPUB

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A “hair-raising devilishly complicated mystery” from the Scottish crime master. “Don't even try to guess the outcome” (The New York Times Book Review). Christopher Brookmyre - [Jack Parlabane 07] - Black Widow (retail) (epub) - dokument [*.epub] BLACK WIDOW Also by Christopher Brookmyre Quite Ugly One. Want You Gone, EPUB eBook. Want You Gone EPUB. by Chris Brookmyre a UK issued credit card and all our eBooks (ePub and PDF) are DRM protected.


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It swerved on to my side of the road because of the curve, then swerved back again when I thought it was going to hit me. I jumped on the brakes because I got such a fright, and I looked in my rear-view. It swerved again like he was trying to get it back under control, but then it disappeared. I think it went off the road altogether. You've parked your car, that's good. If you can wait beside it but not in it.

I can't stay here. I've a ten-year-old at home alone. She woke up with a temperature and we had run out of Calpol. I told her I'd nip out to the garage for some. I said I'd only be away half an hour. My husband's on nights. Can you give me a wee bit more detail about where you are, then? Anything you might have passed that our drivers could look out for. It says Uidh Dubh viewpoint and picnic area half a mile.

The car disappeared just past the sign. I'm crossing the road now, in case I can see anything over the other side.

I think I can see tyre tracks on the grass. It slopes away after that, and it's too dark to see down the slope. Stay back from the edge. Our officers will look into it. I'm worried it might have gone into the river.

As I gaze from the dock and take in all the faces gazing back, I think of the opinions they have formed, the hateful things they have written and said. I think of how once it stung, but my skin has grown thicker over time, and I have worse things to endure now than mere words. They have to be respectful in their conduct within these walls: One of these days the vehicle is going to run over one of those reckless idiots' feet: It would be a valuable illustration of the risk-benefit equation pour encourager les autres.

To them, I am someone who ought to have been grateful for all that life apparently gifted me, not asked for more. I should have settled for what I was dealt, as it was generous enough in other people's estimation.

The actions I took in pursuit of my desires, to better my lot and to extricate myself from an intolerable situation, these were unforgivable, depraved. Society's judgement is always harsher upon a woman who has done grave deeds to get what she wants: It's a crime against society, a transgression of unwritten rules that are far more precious than those inscribed in law.

With this thought I glance across the room, and to my surprise feel a sorority even with the woman I came to regard as my enemy: In our own ways we both acted for the purest of reasons. Her I respect. Everyone else is merely white noise to me now. I do not expect anyone's sympathy. I do not seek forgiveness from people who have never been tested like I was.

I may be guilty, and I may be sentenced, but I will not be condemned: Nobody here can judge me until they know the whole truth. Until then, their opinions are no more than impotent angry words, and my, haven't those been in spate since this business first came to light. Just think how they were exercised by the revelation that this bitch murdered her husband. The tone was one of boiling anger, and at the heart of it all was one single rhetorical question: How dare she.

There's a thought: The coverage is coloured by sombre tones, its language muted and respectful. It's like they're reporting on a death from disease or calamitous mishap. Poor thing.

So tragic,' it seems to say. And like disease or disaster, the follow-up is about asking whether more could have been done. What signs were missed? What can we learn?

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By contrast there's a conspicuous shortage of victim-blaming when it's a husband who lies slain. He must have known what she might be capable of. There must have been indications that she was dangerous. I'm not condoning it, but surely he was aware of her triggers. There's no excusing what she did, but it wouldn't have happened unless he did something to provoke her. See, that's what chills them.

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They can just about handle a crime of passion, a moment of madness. But a clever, calculating woman who can plan something elaborate and deceitful is a far more galling prospect. I glance at the reporters in the gallery, poised to take their notes.

I think about what it looked like from their perspective. They saw a woman who found love when she was beginning to think it was too late. She had given the best of herself to her career, and had come to sorely doubt whether it was worth the price she paid. But then out of nowhere she met her Mr Right, and suddenly everything seemed possible.

Suddenly she got to have it all. A whirlwind romance, two ostensibly mismatched but surprisingly complementary personalities who found each other at just the right time: So much good fortune came her way, so much goodwill, and after that, so much sympathy.

The rom-com turned out to be a weepy. The singleton surgeon who found love late was left heartbroken after her husband of only six months lost his life when his car shot off the road and plunged into a freezing river. Let me tell you, once they've doled out tragedy points, you'd really better conform to their expectations, because the widow pedestal is a high one to fall from.

She denied them first a happy ever after and then a poignant end to a tale of doomed romance. She desecrated their church, and so she had to face their judgement. What else would they see? What else could they see?

Only one person looked closer, and he was my undoing. I know I'm not the first person to curse the day I heard the name Jack Parlabane, and I sincerely doubt I'll be the last. In my case I don't simply regret what he did to me.

I regret what I did to him too. I know that in the eyes of this court, I am an abomination, but I am not the monster I will be painted. I regard the police officers standing next to me. There are no cuffs on my wrists but I can still feel the cold steel like I can still feel the sting of humiliation that comes with wearing them.

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It clings to me every second I remain in the dock. There is a burning coal of moral opprobrium in the black pupil of every eye focused on me. As the trial proceeds, the court will hear how a driven woman acted out of the oldest and sincerest of motives: My crime and my actions will seem cold and heinous to everyone else because they can never know what I felt.

I think of all the anger and hate I have gone through since my arrest. It has taken time, but I have come to realise I must make my peace with what I have done. I need to take ownership of it. I need to forgive myself, because nobody else's forgiveness matters. In the end, regardless of how my actions are judged, I know that this is about love.

That's the paradigm you're offered as a little girl, the playtime template that's intended to shape your aspirations for future happiness. Sometimes the paradigm doesn't take, however. Sometimes the template is damaged.

Such was the case for me, Diana Jager. I had a doll's house when I was a child. I think it came from a relative, because it was old and wooden and hand-painted; nothing like the mass-produced moulded-plastic ones I saw in the big thick mail-order catalogue with its treasured and much-thumbed toy pages at the back. It had ivy picked out in oil on the outside, climbing the walls to the steeply pitched roof. It didn't look like any house in my neighbourhood but seemed to belong to an older, grander world, one that belonged in my parents' past rather than my own future.

The front swung open on hinges, revealing three storeys of also hand-painted rooms. But Sam learns what it is to be truly powerless when a stranger begins to blackmail her.

Meanwhile, reporter Jack Parlabane has finally got his career back on track, but his success has left him indebted to a volatile, criminal source.

Now that debt is being called in, and it could cost him everything. What would you be capable of? Thrown together by a vindictive and mysterious mutual enemy, Sam and Jack are about to discover they might be each other's only hope.

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Please note: Description From the award-winning, million-selling author of Black Widow comes a twist-filled story of secrets and lies. Who would you turn to? Information Format: EPUB Pages: Add to Basket Sign in to add to wishlist. Delivered to your inbox to transfer to your device. Is this the right eBook for my device?

How do I download this eBook? See help and FAQs pages.By Emily Brightwell. By contrast there's a conspicuous shortage of victim-blaming when it's a husband who lies slain.

EPUB Pages: Sometimes the paradigm doesn't take, however. She had given the best of herself to her career, and had come to sorely doubt whether it was worth the price she paid.