Thrillers & Suspense
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The Burning: A Novel
Things get personal for Deputy Coroner Clay Edison when a murder hits close to home in this riveting, emotional thriller from the bestselling father-son team who write "brilliant, page-turning fiction" (Stephen King).
A raging wildfire. A massive blackout. A wealthy man shot to death in his palatial hilltop home.
For Clay Edison, it's all in a day's work. As a deputy coroner, caring for the dead, he speaks for those who cannot speak for themselves. He prides himself on an unflinching commitment to the truth. Even when it gets him into trouble.
Then, while working the murder scene, Clay is horrified to discover a link to his brother, Luke. Horrified. But not surprised. Luke is fresh out of prison and struggling to stay on the straight and narrow.
And now he's gone AWOL.
The race is on for Clay to find him before anyone else can. Confronted with Luke's legacy of violence, Clay is forced to reckon with his own suspicions, resentments, and loyalties. Is his brother a killer? Or could he be the victim in all of this, too?
This is Jonathan and Jesse Kellerman at their most affecting and page-turning-a harrowing collision of family, revenge, and murder.
A raging wildfire. A massive blackout. A wealthy man shot to death in his palatial hilltop home.
For Clay Edison, it's all in a day's work. As a deputy coroner, caring for the dead, he speaks for those who cannot speak for themselves. He prides himself on an unflinching commitment to the truth. Even when it gets him into trouble.
Then, while working the murder scene, Clay is horrified to discover a link to his brother, Luke. Horrified. But not surprised. Luke is fresh out of prison and struggling to stay on the straight and narrow.
And now he's gone AWOL.
The race is on for Clay to find him before anyone else can. Confronted with Luke's legacy of violence, Clay is forced to reckon with his own suspicions, resentments, and loyalties. Is his brother a killer? Or could he be the victim in all of this, too?
This is Jonathan and Jesse Kellerman at their most affecting and page-turning-a harrowing collision of family, revenge, and murder.
Editorial Reviews
"This is another superb crime thriller from the prolific and talented father-and-son Kellermans. Set in the San Francisco Bay Area during one of the state's terrible wildfires, the story is . . . a riveting page-turner of a mystery with pulse-pounding action, and a compelling look at family dynamics and loyalty. The shock ending doesn't hurt, either."-Booklist (starred review)
"As always, the Kellermans guarantee that readers will turn pages rapidly to enjoy the complex characters and intricate plot turns. It's another winner for mystery readers."-Library Journal
"Intriguing . . . the bestselling Kellermans provide food for thought along with a tidy mystery."-Publishers Weekly
"As always, the Kellermans guarantee that readers will turn pages rapidly to enjoy the complex characters and intricate plot turns. It's another winner for mystery readers."-Library Journal
"Intriguing . . . the bestselling Kellermans provide food for thought along with a tidy mystery."-Publishers Weekly
Readers Top Reviews
John CarrollKindl
Mystery with plenty of suspense. The main characters were well developed, but had too many flaws. Many were pretty dysfunctional. A worthwhile read, but not my favorite murder mystery.
Paula J.John Carr
I've read all of the Clay Edison books and enjoyed every one. My only complaint is that it wasn't long enough! When the Kellerman name, whether it be Jonathan, Faye or Jesse, is on ANYTHING (even a grocery list!) you know you're going to have an outstanding read so I never want it to end. I live in California and I know the fires and the awful air quality and the rolling blackouts from the evil power companies so I could really feel myself living the things Clay was living. And I have an older sister like Clay's brother Luke who was always the family "problem" and got 90% of the attention from our parents. Half of me wanted Clay to just walk away and write (pun intended) his brother off and half of me wanted him to find him. I love the collaboration between father and son on these books on so many levels and I found the plot so suspenseful I stayed up until 3 a.m. to finish it. Can't wait for the next Clay Edison book!
KindleWilliam Stu
The story was confusing. It seemed many paths, but no real adherence to the main one. Then the ending was sudden. Not moved into, but arrived in an instant. There were many passages diverting but not explaining the theme.
NancyKindleWillia
I found it interesting and a continuation of the 3rd Clay Edison book. I have never read books 1 & 2 -I think I will go back and read them! This view of the coroners side of things is different.
Linda PfafflinNan
It’s a Kellerman book — of course, I would read it. Kellerman books might be mysteries, but not mind-numbing twisted stories or cozy mysteries. They are pure straight up entertainment. Like catching a rerun of CSI— you can comfortably ease into one at any time. This is the fourth Clay Edison book. I’ve read the others and I can’t say I remember the plots (I do remember Jesse Kellerman’s GOLEM series), but like Jonathan’s Alex Delaware books, Clay is solid literary friend. There is a reference to a previous plot in an earlier book in the series, but this can be read as a standalone. Anyway, regarding Clay, he’s a good guy. Someone you’d like to know. After 3 books, I trusted he’ll make the right decisions even when the plot makes it difficult for him. He did surprise me with some questionable actions in this book. But I know there will be a 5th Clay Edison —I’ll be reading it next autumn, too. The novel is set in Alameda County, CA and there’s a huge wildfire burning nearby — the power is out, everyone is sweaty, the sky is smoky and the air is acrid enough to taste. Clay is a coroner, so, of course, death is his business. You know there will be smells, but the constant reminder of the horrible climate makes every mentioned scent seem more vivid. The plot concerns Clay’s missing brother — someone he’s not close to, but Clay recognizes something at a murder scene that definitely ties his brother to a potential crime. Clay’s job gives him some peripheral police power, but not officially enough to go full detective. We then see how he’s trying to make sense of his brother’s involvement with the limits imposed on him. A solid 4 stars from me — exactly what I expected from a Kellerman book. My thanks to the publisher via NetGalley for allowing me to review this book in advance. Literary Pet Peeve Checklist: Green Eyes (only 2% of the real world, yet it seems like 90% of all fictional females): NO. I have no idea what any characters’ eye color was. Horticultural Faux Pas (plants out of season or growing zones, like daffodils in autumn or bougainvillea in Alaska): NO. A good description of California desert plants where they should be.
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
Monday. Nineteen hours in the dark.
The dead man lived up the hill. We could have walked, if the world wasn't ending and we didn't have to bring him back.
But it was and we did, so Harkless and I suited up and went out to the parking lot. As we exited the building a stunning fist of heat descended on us. The nearest wildfire was thirty miles away. Gritty sky and roaring air gave the illusion it was right over the ridge, climbing fast.
The apocalypse smells like a campfire and glimmers gold.
Through fierce raking wind we hurried to the body van, got in, and slammed the doors.
Above his respirator mask Harkless kept blinking. "God."
He pulled the mask down over his chin and wiped at the sweat ringing his lips. "You know where we're going?"
I nodded and started the van.
We climbed a steep, peaceful residential neighborhood crammed with split-level wood-frame ranch homes built in the late fifties. Long before anybody could imagine that million-acre fires, killing winds, and weeklong blackouts would become a season unto themselves. The houses weren't under direct threat, but tight spacing and a uniform color scheme made them look like rows of matchbooks ready to ignite.
No cars on the road. No children playing.
Wind pummeled the van, rocking it from side to side.
Scottish theme for street names: Aberdeen, Ayr, Dumfries, Inverness. Kilmarnock Court tapered south to a single potholed lane. Then large white painted letters issued a warning: begin private road. The paving beyond was fresher, darker, glassy.
In lieu of a guardhouse, a stern sign limited access to members of the Chabot Park Summit Homeowners' Association and their guests, forbidding parking, loitering, or hiking, and promising to tow.
I eased the van over a speed bump. The gurneys jounced and gave a cough.
Entering the development we passed through an invisible portal. The aesthetics changed as did the financial calculus. The guiding principle was no longer efficient rectangles but relaxed curves, the goal no longer maximizing units per acre but dollars per unit. Stately new-builds shied back behind stone walls and high hedges. Slate roofs replaced asphalt tile. The architectural styles were varied. You had the money; you got what you wanted.
Less a community than a series of fortresses.
"I had no idea this was here," Harkless said.
This: rich people. Here: less than two miles from the county morgue.
We banked through stands of eucalyptus and California live oak to reach a long driveway that sloped up and out of view. An ultramodern fence of black metal slats set between concrete pillars stretched at street level. Double gates lay open. Flanking them were two larger pillars, one of which sported a security camera.
An Oakland PD cruiser with nobody at the wheel blocked the path. We waited for someone to appear.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," Harkless said.
He leaned over and thumped the horn.
A uniform waddled out from behind a sycamore, tugging up his fly. "Sorry."
He signed us in and spoke into his shoulder. "Coroner's here."
The driveway was longer than I'd realized, switchbacking up through buckthorn, sagebrush, coffeeberry, manzanita-native species curated to simulate wildness. The effect was undone by drip tubes bulging through the ground cover like junkie veins. By the time we leveled out, we'd gained seventy feet of elevation.
The hilltop had been decapitated, smoothed, plumbed, and wired, then meticulously reassembled, stone by stone, shrub by shrub, like a monument to the vanquished. For all that, the house made no attempt to blend in: a towering stack of cantilevered glass boxes sandwiched between layers of whitewash.
The driveway broadened to a sprawling concrete motor court clogged with black-and-whites, an ambulance, the crime lab van. A wide concrete tributary slipped between the redwoods toward a mini-me guesthouse. To the west, the downslope had been buzz-cut. A clear day would give breathtaking views of the Bay, the city, all the bridges.
Lost, today, beneath a blanket of toxic haze.
Breathtaking, in a different sense.
We put on our masks and got out. Harkless hustled up the front steps. I follo...
Monday. Nineteen hours in the dark.
The dead man lived up the hill. We could have walked, if the world wasn't ending and we didn't have to bring him back.
But it was and we did, so Harkless and I suited up and went out to the parking lot. As we exited the building a stunning fist of heat descended on us. The nearest wildfire was thirty miles away. Gritty sky and roaring air gave the illusion it was right over the ridge, climbing fast.
The apocalypse smells like a campfire and glimmers gold.
Through fierce raking wind we hurried to the body van, got in, and slammed the doors.
Above his respirator mask Harkless kept blinking. "God."
He pulled the mask down over his chin and wiped at the sweat ringing his lips. "You know where we're going?"
I nodded and started the van.
We climbed a steep, peaceful residential neighborhood crammed with split-level wood-frame ranch homes built in the late fifties. Long before anybody could imagine that million-acre fires, killing winds, and weeklong blackouts would become a season unto themselves. The houses weren't under direct threat, but tight spacing and a uniform color scheme made them look like rows of matchbooks ready to ignite.
No cars on the road. No children playing.
Wind pummeled the van, rocking it from side to side.
Scottish theme for street names: Aberdeen, Ayr, Dumfries, Inverness. Kilmarnock Court tapered south to a single potholed lane. Then large white painted letters issued a warning: begin private road. The paving beyond was fresher, darker, glassy.
In lieu of a guardhouse, a stern sign limited access to members of the Chabot Park Summit Homeowners' Association and their guests, forbidding parking, loitering, or hiking, and promising to tow.
I eased the van over a speed bump. The gurneys jounced and gave a cough.
Entering the development we passed through an invisible portal. The aesthetics changed as did the financial calculus. The guiding principle was no longer efficient rectangles but relaxed curves, the goal no longer maximizing units per acre but dollars per unit. Stately new-builds shied back behind stone walls and high hedges. Slate roofs replaced asphalt tile. The architectural styles were varied. You had the money; you got what you wanted.
Less a community than a series of fortresses.
"I had no idea this was here," Harkless said.
This: rich people. Here: less than two miles from the county morgue.
We banked through stands of eucalyptus and California live oak to reach a long driveway that sloped up and out of view. An ultramodern fence of black metal slats set between concrete pillars stretched at street level. Double gates lay open. Flanking them were two larger pillars, one of which sported a security camera.
An Oakland PD cruiser with nobody at the wheel blocked the path. We waited for someone to appear.
"Rise and shine, sweetheart," Harkless said.
He leaned over and thumped the horn.
A uniform waddled out from behind a sycamore, tugging up his fly. "Sorry."
He signed us in and spoke into his shoulder. "Coroner's here."
The driveway was longer than I'd realized, switchbacking up through buckthorn, sagebrush, coffeeberry, manzanita-native species curated to simulate wildness. The effect was undone by drip tubes bulging through the ground cover like junkie veins. By the time we leveled out, we'd gained seventy feet of elevation.
The hilltop had been decapitated, smoothed, plumbed, and wired, then meticulously reassembled, stone by stone, shrub by shrub, like a monument to the vanquished. For all that, the house made no attempt to blend in: a towering stack of cantilevered glass boxes sandwiched between layers of whitewash.
The driveway broadened to a sprawling concrete motor court clogged with black-and-whites, an ambulance, the crime lab van. A wide concrete tributary slipped between the redwoods toward a mini-me guesthouse. To the west, the downslope had been buzz-cut. A clear day would give breathtaking views of the Bay, the city, all the bridges.
Lost, today, beneath a blanket of toxic haze.
Breathtaking, in a different sense.
We put on our masks and got out. Harkless hustled up the front steps. I follo...
