Women's Fiction
![Michael Robotham - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_michael_robotham.jpg)
When You Are Mine: A Novel
From an author who Stephen King calls "an absolute master" comes a "heart-clutching psychological thriller" (People) about a young female police officer facing danger on all fronts-from a clever victim of abuse, skeptical colleagues on the force, and even her own father.
Philomena McCarthy is an ambitious police officer with the elite Metropolitan Police in London, responding to a domestic violence call. Tempe Brown is a bloodied young woman and the mistress of a decorated and intimidating London detective, Darren Goodall. Philomena and Tempe strike up a tentative friendship, determined to protect each other from Goodall, but something isn't quite right about the stories Tempe tells and the secrets she keeps. Yet the young officer is drawn into Tempe's world, unsure of what is real or invented. After a bungled break-in and an unsolved murder, Philomena finds herself trapped-with her career, her impending wedding, and her very survival in doubt.
Robotham's brilliant ability to render complex characters, both good and bad, keeps readers unsure of whom to trust, "maintain[ing] an air of excruciating suspense" (The Washington Post)-until the very last page.
Philomena McCarthy is an ambitious police officer with the elite Metropolitan Police in London, responding to a domestic violence call. Tempe Brown is a bloodied young woman and the mistress of a decorated and intimidating London detective, Darren Goodall. Philomena and Tempe strike up a tentative friendship, determined to protect each other from Goodall, but something isn't quite right about the stories Tempe tells and the secrets she keeps. Yet the young officer is drawn into Tempe's world, unsure of what is real or invented. After a bungled break-in and an unsolved murder, Philomena finds herself trapped-with her career, her impending wedding, and her very survival in doubt.
Robotham's brilliant ability to render complex characters, both good and bad, keeps readers unsure of whom to trust, "maintain[ing] an air of excruciating suspense" (The Washington Post)-until the very last page.
Editorial Reviews
PRAISE FOR WHEN YOU ARE MINE
"A heart-clutching psychological thriller." -People
"Robotham maintains an air of excruciating suspense in this plot-driven tale." -Katherine A. Powers, The Washington Post
"Excellent and totally entertaining. . . . No one does suspense better." -Stephen King
"[An] expertly paced first-person narrative. . . . Sidestepping all the clichés-the tough-girl humor is perfectly pitched and never overdone-the novel is as psychologically nuanced and emotionally engaging as it is suspenseful. . . . A flawless and compassionate psychological thriller." -Kirkus (starred review)
"An engaging first-person narrative with a surprise twist at the end." -Booklist
"A heart-clutching psychological thriller." -People
"Robotham maintains an air of excruciating suspense in this plot-driven tale." -Katherine A. Powers, The Washington Post
"Excellent and totally entertaining. . . . No one does suspense better." -Stephen King
"[An] expertly paced first-person narrative. . . . Sidestepping all the clichés-the tough-girl humor is perfectly pitched and never overdone-the novel is as psychologically nuanced and emotionally engaging as it is suspenseful. . . . A flawless and compassionate psychological thriller." -Kirkus (starred review)
"An engaging first-person narrative with a surprise twist at the end." -Booklist
Readers Top Reviews
KaffmattGrandad b
One of my favourite authors that I have no qualms about buying his books- particularly the Joe O’Loughlin series. Sometimes I’m swayed by my liking of his literature to give higher stars than may be fair. So, to be fair this time, I found the book rather disappointing and not up to the usual expected standard. The storyline is a little weak and the characters lack an interesting pull. That said, the book is worth a read and is better than many other highly recommended books of this genre.
maiyaleilaRockbid
I have read most of Michael robotham books. I have enjoyed them all. This was a waste of money. Boring tedious story. Not worth reading in my opinion
SharonmaiyaleilaR
I fell in love with Michael Robotham’s writing when I read The Secrets She Keeps and he became a must-read author for me with his next 2 books Good Girl, Bad Girl and When She Was Good. So I was very excited to read his latest book When You Are Mine, and I am happy to report that this book did not disappoint. Philomena (Phil) McCarthy is a police officer with the Metropolitan Police in London. She loves her job and has worked hard to overcome the obstacles in her way, mainly being a woman on the force, but also the fact that her estranged father and uncles are very powerful known criminals. Phil is engaged and her life is going very well at the moment, but that is all about to change when she responds to a domestic violence call. It is at the call that Phil encounters the victim, Tempe Brown, and her abuser, Darren Goodall, a married man who is also a decorated Scotland Yard detective. Phil has a scuffle with Goodall as she is trying to handcuff him. Phil also befriends Tempe Brown as she takes her to the hospital. It is these two encounters that are going to turn Phil’s life upside down and put her career and life in jeopardy. I loved everything about Phil. She is a woman trying to make it in a man’s world and every time she is pushed back, she pushes harder ahead. Phil goes out of her way to help Tempe and keep her safe from Goodall, even though she knows that trying to get Goodall to pay for his crimes will not sit well with the men in the department. It also doesn’t sit well with Goodall who uses his reputation to go after Phil. As Phil digs into Goodall’s life, she uncovers that not only has he been abusing Tempe Brown, but he has also been abusing his wife and children. But no matter what Phil does, she cannot get anything to stick to Goodall because he is being protected by others in the department. I loved how determined she was to bring Goodall down, though I did worry that instead of Goodall going down, it was going to be Phil instead. Phil’s friendship with Tempe starts off as a great bond between them, but then takes a dark and twisted turn. Tempe latched herself onto Phil and went to great lengths to try and please her, lengths that bordered the stalkerish line. Phil was fine with this at first, but the more she learned about Tempe’s past the more she started to try and distance herself from Tempe, though Tempe was having none of that. When a dead body turns up and Phil is suspected of the murder and Tempe is her only alibi, Phil has to turn to the one person she does not want to for help, her father. I really liked watching the father/daughter dynamic play out with Phil and her father as they try and overcome the past that pushed them apart and work on fixing their relationship. When You Are Mine had me hooked from the first to the last page. This book was full of tension and suspense and family drama, with...
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 1
Four Months Ago…
I was eleven years old when I saw my future. I was standing near the middle doors of a double-decker bus when a bomb exploded on the upper level, peeling off the roof like a giant had taken a tin opener to a can of peaches. One moment I was holding on to a pole, and the next I was flying through the air, seeing sky, then ground, then sky. A leg whipped past me. A stroller. A million shards of glass, each catching the sunlight.
I crashed to the pavement as debris and body parts fell around me. Looking up through the dust, I wondered what I'd been doing on a London sightseeing bus, which is what it looked like without a roof.
People were hurt. Dying. Dead. I spat grit from between my teeth and tried to remember who had been standing next to me. A tattooed girl with white earbuds under hacked purple hair. A mother with a toddler in a stroller. Two old ladies were in the side seat, arguing about the price of movie tickets. A guy with a hipster beard was carrying a guitar case decorated with stickers from around the world.
Normally I would have been at school at 9:47 in the morning, but I had a doctor's appointment with an ear, nose, and throat specialist who was going to tell me why I suffered from so many sinus infections. Apparently I have narrow nasal passages, which is probably genetic, but I haven't worked out who to blame.
As I lay on the street, a man's face appeared, hovering over me. He was talking but he made no sound. I read his lips.
"Are you bleeding?"
I looked at my school uniform. My blue-and-white-checked blouse was covered in blood. I didn't know if it was mine.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
He moved away.
Around me, shop-front windows had been shattered, covering the sidewalk and roadway with diamonds of glass. A pigeon lay nearby, blown out of the sky, or maybe it died of fright. Dust had settled, coating everything in a fine layer of gray soot. Later, when I saw myself in the mirror, I had white streaks under my eyes, the tracks of my tears.
As I sat in the gutter, I watched a young policewoman moving among the injured. Reassuring them. Comforting them. She put her arms around a child who had lost his mother. The same officer reached me and smiled. She had a round face and brilliantly white teeth and her hair was bundled up under her cap.
My ears had stopped ringing. Words spilled out of her mouth.
"What's your name, poppet?"
"Philomena."
"And your last name?"
"McCarthy."
"Are you by yourself, Philomena?"
"I have a doctor's appointment. I'm going to be late."
"He won't mind."
The police officer gave me a bottle of water so I could wash dirt from my mouth. "I'll be back soon," she said, and she continued moving among the wounded. She was like one of those characters you see in disaster movies who you know is going to be the hero from the moment they appear on-screen. Everything about her was calm and self-assured, sending a message that we would survive this. The city would survive. All was not lost.
Standing in front of the mirror, sixteen years later, I remember that officer and wish I had asked for her name. I often think about bumping into her again and thanking her for what she did. "I became a police officer because of you," I'd say. "You were my childhood hero."
I laugh at the thought and stare at my reflection. Then I pull a face which is supposed to reduce my chance of wrinkles but makes me look like I'm busting for the loo. My mother swears by these exercises and recommends them to all her clients at the beauty salon, most of them older women who are desperately clinging to their looks, while their husbands get to age gracefully or disgracefully, going to seed, without a care.
Leaning closer to the mirror, I consider my face, which looks heart-shaped when I bundle my hair up into a topknot. I have gray eyes, a straight-edged nose, and an overly large bottom lip, which Henry likes to bite when we kiss. My eyebrows are like sisters rather than distant cousins because I refuse to let my mother near them with her tweezers and pencils.
I am working early today, with a shift starting at seven. Henry is still in bed. He looks like a little boy when he sleeps, his dark hair tousled and wild, and one arm draped across his eyes because he doesn't like to be woken by the bathroom light. Henry could sleep for England. He could have slept through the blitz. And he doesn't mind when I come in late and put my cold feet on his warm ones. That must be love.
I glance at my phone. It's not even six and already I have four voicemail messages, all of them from my stepmother, C...
Four Months Ago…
I was eleven years old when I saw my future. I was standing near the middle doors of a double-decker bus when a bomb exploded on the upper level, peeling off the roof like a giant had taken a tin opener to a can of peaches. One moment I was holding on to a pole, and the next I was flying through the air, seeing sky, then ground, then sky. A leg whipped past me. A stroller. A million shards of glass, each catching the sunlight.
I crashed to the pavement as debris and body parts fell around me. Looking up through the dust, I wondered what I'd been doing on a London sightseeing bus, which is what it looked like without a roof.
People were hurt. Dying. Dead. I spat grit from between my teeth and tried to remember who had been standing next to me. A tattooed girl with white earbuds under hacked purple hair. A mother with a toddler in a stroller. Two old ladies were in the side seat, arguing about the price of movie tickets. A guy with a hipster beard was carrying a guitar case decorated with stickers from around the world.
Normally I would have been at school at 9:47 in the morning, but I had a doctor's appointment with an ear, nose, and throat specialist who was going to tell me why I suffered from so many sinus infections. Apparently I have narrow nasal passages, which is probably genetic, but I haven't worked out who to blame.
As I lay on the street, a man's face appeared, hovering over me. He was talking but he made no sound. I read his lips.
"Are you bleeding?"
I looked at my school uniform. My blue-and-white-checked blouse was covered in blood. I didn't know if it was mine.
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Three."
He moved away.
Around me, shop-front windows had been shattered, covering the sidewalk and roadway with diamonds of glass. A pigeon lay nearby, blown out of the sky, or maybe it died of fright. Dust had settled, coating everything in a fine layer of gray soot. Later, when I saw myself in the mirror, I had white streaks under my eyes, the tracks of my tears.
As I sat in the gutter, I watched a young policewoman moving among the injured. Reassuring them. Comforting them. She put her arms around a child who had lost his mother. The same officer reached me and smiled. She had a round face and brilliantly white teeth and her hair was bundled up under her cap.
My ears had stopped ringing. Words spilled out of her mouth.
"What's your name, poppet?"
"Philomena."
"And your last name?"
"McCarthy."
"Are you by yourself, Philomena?"
"I have a doctor's appointment. I'm going to be late."
"He won't mind."
The police officer gave me a bottle of water so I could wash dirt from my mouth. "I'll be back soon," she said, and she continued moving among the wounded. She was like one of those characters you see in disaster movies who you know is going to be the hero from the moment they appear on-screen. Everything about her was calm and self-assured, sending a message that we would survive this. The city would survive. All was not lost.
Standing in front of the mirror, sixteen years later, I remember that officer and wish I had asked for her name. I often think about bumping into her again and thanking her for what she did. "I became a police officer because of you," I'd say. "You were my childhood hero."
I laugh at the thought and stare at my reflection. Then I pull a face which is supposed to reduce my chance of wrinkles but makes me look like I'm busting for the loo. My mother swears by these exercises and recommends them to all her clients at the beauty salon, most of them older women who are desperately clinging to their looks, while their husbands get to age gracefully or disgracefully, going to seed, without a care.
Leaning closer to the mirror, I consider my face, which looks heart-shaped when I bundle my hair up into a topknot. I have gray eyes, a straight-edged nose, and an overly large bottom lip, which Henry likes to bite when we kiss. My eyebrows are like sisters rather than distant cousins because I refuse to let my mother near them with her tweezers and pencils.
I am working early today, with a shift starting at seven. Henry is still in bed. He looks like a little boy when he sleeps, his dark hair tousled and wild, and one arm draped across his eyes because he doesn't like to be woken by the bathroom light. Henry could sleep for England. He could have slept through the blitz. And he doesn't mind when I come in late and put my cold feet on his warm ones. That must be love.
I glance at my phone. It's not even six and already I have four voicemail messages, all of them from my stepmother, C...
