Thrillers & Suspense
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The Next Accident: An FBI Profiler Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A desperate manhunt ensues for a killer who preys upon his victims' minds-just before he claims their lives-in this blockbuster novel from #1 bestselling author Lisa Gardner.
What do you do when a killer targets the people you love the most? When he knows how to make them vulnerable? When he knows the same about you?
These are the questions that haunt FBI Special Agent Pierce Quincy. The police say his daughter's death was an accident. Quincy will risk everything to learn the truth-and there's only one person willing to help. Ex-cop Rainie Connor had once been paired professionally-and personally-with the brilliant FBI profiler. He helped her through the darkest days of her life.
Now it's time for Rainie to return the favor. But this killer is like none these two hard-boiled pros have ever encountered. This twisted psychopath has an insatiable hunger for revenge...and for fear. As the clock ticks down to one unspeakably intimate act of vengeance, the only way Rainie can unmask this killer is to step directly in his murderous path. She will become a murder waiting to happen. She will be . . . the next accident.
What do you do when a killer targets the people you love the most? When he knows how to make them vulnerable? When he knows the same about you?
These are the questions that haunt FBI Special Agent Pierce Quincy. The police say his daughter's death was an accident. Quincy will risk everything to learn the truth-and there's only one person willing to help. Ex-cop Rainie Connor had once been paired professionally-and personally-with the brilliant FBI profiler. He helped her through the darkest days of her life.
Now it's time for Rainie to return the favor. But this killer is like none these two hard-boiled pros have ever encountered. This twisted psychopath has an insatiable hunger for revenge...and for fear. As the clock ticks down to one unspeakably intimate act of vengeance, the only way Rainie can unmask this killer is to step directly in his murderous path. She will become a murder waiting to happen. She will be . . . the next accident.
Editorial Reviews
"One of the best thriller writers in the business."-Associated Press
"Just when you thought Lisa Gardner couldn't get any better . . . she does."-Lee Child
"Gardner keeps us guessing to the finale. She also keeps us on edge."-Los Angeles Times
"A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale that easily equals the best of Sue Grafton and Kathy Reichs."-The Providence Journal
"Harrowing . . . a fiendishly well-choreographed dance of death."-Booklist
"The suspense is constant!"-ThePlain Dealer
"Just when you thought Lisa Gardner couldn't get any better . . . she does."-Lee Child
"Gardner keeps us guessing to the finale. She also keeps us on edge."-Los Angeles Times
"A suspense-laden, twist-filled tale that easily equals the best of Sue Grafton and Kathy Reichs."-The Providence Journal
"Harrowing . . . a fiendishly well-choreographed dance of death."-Booklist
"The suspense is constant!"-ThePlain Dealer
Readers Top Reviews
Sandra Fulkersongina
I love Lisa Gardner's books. This one really holds your attention and has so many details. Usually I can guess the Bad guy, but this book really surprised me. Lots of twists and turns.
Susan
This is a great book. I love Lisa Gardner and she did not disappoint with this one.
bengi
Great series! I have enjoyed it immensely. I can hardly wait for the next in the series. I think l have found my favourite author
paula_k_98
This book scared the living daylights out of me. Not because it was full of graphic violence or gory scenes. It's the chilling suspense that just steadily creeps at you until you have to put it down and take a deep breath. Lisa Gardner has truly outdone herself in The Next Accident. The two lead characters from The Third Victim are brought back and we see how much and how little their relationship has developed. Pierce Quincy is still a special agent for the FBI and Rainie Conner is getting her life back together and opening up her own private investigating office. Quincy is confronted with a family tragedy when his oldest daughter who had seemly conquered a drinking problem is involved in a terrible accident that leaves her brain dead. When Quincy's ex-wife, Bethie agrees to take their daughter Amanda off life support you would think they would be able to get on with their lives. But for some reason Quincy can't believe the wreck was an accident. He goes to Rainie and hires her to investigate and perhaps open the door to continue their relationship. As Rainie begins to dig into the circumstances surrounding Amanda's wreck, she begins to unravel little details that don't make sense. Then Quincy begins to receive hundred of terrorizing calls from men that he has either put away in prison or from those who just plain hate the FBI. Someone has given out his personal phone number and address. In fact, someone is methodically assuming his identity and destroying his creditability. The killer is cunning and brilliant. He finds out everything about Quincy's life and those who are important to him. Then he selects his next victim. He stalks his victims learning every detail about their lives. He becomes whatever it is they desire. Unfortunately, what they desire often leads to death with the blame being laid at Quincy's feet. This is one nerve-racking book. The story line just flows, the suspense just keeps on building, and the characters are dynamic with well round emotions. If you love suspense, don't mind being scared, then this book should be right up your alley. I have to say, I love suspense and can usually figure out who the bad guys are by the middle of the book. Not this time. Ms. Gardner has written a fascinating tale of chilling suspense that had me guessing the entire time.
Woman
I didn’t care for the first book of the FBI Profiler series but the 2nd and 3rd - pure Lisa at her best. I’m so fan girl it’s disgusting. Loved this book - on to buy the 4th!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Portland, Oregon
Monday afternoon, private investigator Lorraine Conner sat hunched over her paper-swamped desk, punched a few more numbers into her old, cagey laptop, then scowled at the results shown on the screen. She tried the numbers again, got the same dismal results, and gave them the same dark look. The Quicken-generated budget, however, refused to be intimidated.
Damn file, she thought. Damn budget, damn heat. And damn circular fan that she'd purchased just last week and was already refusing to work unless she whacked it twice in the head. She stopped now to give it the requisite double-smack and was finally rewarded with a feeble breeze. Christ, this weather was killing her.
It was three in the afternoon on Monday. Outside the sun was shining, the heat about to crest for another record-breaking July day in downtown Portland, Oregon. Technically speaking, Portland didn't get as ridiculously hot as the East Coast. Nor, in theory, did it get as humid as the South. These days, unfortunately, the climate didn't seem to realize that. Rainie had long since traded in her T-shirt for a white tank top. It was now plastered to her skin, while her elbows left rings of condensation on the one clear spot on her desk. If it got any hotter, she was taking her laptop into the shower.
Rainie's loft offered central air, but as part of her "belt-tightening" program, she was cooling her vast, one-room condo the old-fashioned way - she'd opened the windows and turned on a small desk fan. Unfortunately, that little matter of heat rising was conspiring against her. The eighth-floor condo wasn't magically getting any cooler, while the smog content had increased tenfold.
Bad day for belt-tightening programs. Especially in Portland' s trendy Pearl district, where iced coffee was served on practically every street corner, and all the little cafés prided themselves on their gourmet ice cream. God knows the majority of her upwardly mobile neighbors were probably sitting in Starbucks right now, basking in air-conditioned glory while trying to choose between an iced Chai or nonfat mocha latté.
Not Rainie. No, the new and improved Lorraine Conner was sitting in her trendy loft in this trendy little neighborhood, trying to decide which was more important - money for the Laundromat, or a new carburetor for her fifteen-year-old clunker. On the one hand, clean clothes always made a good impression when meeting a new client. On the other hand, it didn't do her any good to land new cases if she had no means of carrying them out. Details, details.
She tried a fresh round of numbers in her Quicken file. Showing a gross lack of imagination, the file spit back the same red results. She sighed. Rainie had just passed the Oregon Board of Investigator's test to receive her license. In the good news department, this meant she could start working for defense lawyers as a defense investigator, à la Paul Drake to their Perry Mason. In the bad news department, the two-year license cost her seven hundred bucks. Then came the hundred dollars for the standard five-thousand-dollar bond to protect her against complaints. Finally, she got to fork over eight hundred dollars for a million dollars in errors-and-omissions insurance, more CYA infrastructure. All in all, Conner Investigations was moving up - except she was now out sixteen hundred dollars and feeling the crunch.
"But I like eating," she tried to tell her computerized business records. They didn't seem to care.
A buzzer sounded. Rainie sat up, dragging a hand discouragingly through her hair, while she blinked twice in surprise. She wasn't expecting any clients today. She peered into the family room, where her TV was tuned in to the building's security cameras and now broadcasted the view from the main entrance. A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair stood patiently outside the locked front doors. As she watched, he buzzed her loft again. Then he glanced up at the camera.
Rainie couldn't help herself. Her breath caught. Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.
She ran a hand threw her newly shorn hair again. She was still getting used to the look, and the heat made it flip out like a dark, coppery dish mop. Then there was her tank top - old and sweat-soaked. Her denim shorts, ripped up, frayed, and hardly professional. She was just doing paperwork today, no need to dress up, and oh God had she put on deodorant this morning, because it was really hot in here and she could no longer tel...
Monday afternoon, private investigator Lorraine Conner sat hunched over her paper-swamped desk, punched a few more numbers into her old, cagey laptop, then scowled at the results shown on the screen. She tried the numbers again, got the same dismal results, and gave them the same dark look. The Quicken-generated budget, however, refused to be intimidated.
Damn file, she thought. Damn budget, damn heat. And damn circular fan that she'd purchased just last week and was already refusing to work unless she whacked it twice in the head. She stopped now to give it the requisite double-smack and was finally rewarded with a feeble breeze. Christ, this weather was killing her.
It was three in the afternoon on Monday. Outside the sun was shining, the heat about to crest for another record-breaking July day in downtown Portland, Oregon. Technically speaking, Portland didn't get as ridiculously hot as the East Coast. Nor, in theory, did it get as humid as the South. These days, unfortunately, the climate didn't seem to realize that. Rainie had long since traded in her T-shirt for a white tank top. It was now plastered to her skin, while her elbows left rings of condensation on the one clear spot on her desk. If it got any hotter, she was taking her laptop into the shower.
Rainie's loft offered central air, but as part of her "belt-tightening" program, she was cooling her vast, one-room condo the old-fashioned way - she'd opened the windows and turned on a small desk fan. Unfortunately, that little matter of heat rising was conspiring against her. The eighth-floor condo wasn't magically getting any cooler, while the smog content had increased tenfold.
Bad day for belt-tightening programs. Especially in Portland' s trendy Pearl district, where iced coffee was served on practically every street corner, and all the little cafés prided themselves on their gourmet ice cream. God knows the majority of her upwardly mobile neighbors were probably sitting in Starbucks right now, basking in air-conditioned glory while trying to choose between an iced Chai or nonfat mocha latté.
Not Rainie. No, the new and improved Lorraine Conner was sitting in her trendy loft in this trendy little neighborhood, trying to decide which was more important - money for the Laundromat, or a new carburetor for her fifteen-year-old clunker. On the one hand, clean clothes always made a good impression when meeting a new client. On the other hand, it didn't do her any good to land new cases if she had no means of carrying them out. Details, details.
She tried a fresh round of numbers in her Quicken file. Showing a gross lack of imagination, the file spit back the same red results. She sighed. Rainie had just passed the Oregon Board of Investigator's test to receive her license. In the good news department, this meant she could start working for defense lawyers as a defense investigator, à la Paul Drake to their Perry Mason. In the bad news department, the two-year license cost her seven hundred bucks. Then came the hundred dollars for the standard five-thousand-dollar bond to protect her against complaints. Finally, she got to fork over eight hundred dollars for a million dollars in errors-and-omissions insurance, more CYA infrastructure. All in all, Conner Investigations was moving up - except she was now out sixteen hundred dollars and feeling the crunch.
"But I like eating," she tried to tell her computerized business records. They didn't seem to care.
A buzzer sounded. Rainie sat up, dragging a hand discouragingly through her hair, while she blinked twice in surprise. She wasn't expecting any clients today. She peered into the family room, where her TV was tuned in to the building's security cameras and now broadcasted the view from the main entrance. A well-dressed man with salt-and-pepper hair stood patiently outside the locked front doors. As she watched, he buzzed her loft again. Then he glanced up at the camera.
Rainie couldn't help herself. Her breath caught. Maybe her heart even stopped. She looked at him, the last person she expected to see these days, and everything inside her went topsy-turvy.
She ran a hand threw her newly shorn hair again. She was still getting used to the look, and the heat made it flip out like a dark, coppery dish mop. Then there was her tank top - old and sweat-soaked. Her denim shorts, ripped up, frayed, and hardly professional. She was just doing paperwork today, no need to dress up, and oh God had she put on deodorant this morning, because it was really hot in here and she could no longer tel...
