Dear daughter : [a novel] /

by Little, Elizabeth.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: New York, New York : Viking, [2014]Description: 365 pages ; 24 cm.ISBN: 9780670016389 :; 0670016381.Title notes: $26.95 10-2014 (db)Subject(s): Single women -- Fiction | Women prisoners -- Fiction | Judicial error -- Fiction | Mothers -- Crimes against -- Fiction | Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction | Mystery fiction | Mystery fictionSummary: "Former 'It Girl' Janie Jenkins is sly, stunning--and fresh out of prison. Ten years ago, at the height of her fame, she was incarcerated for the murder of her mother, a high-society beauty known for her good works and rich husbands. Now, released on a technicality, Janie makes herself over and goes undercover, determined to chase down the one lead she has on her mother's killer. The only problem? Janie doesn't know if she's the killer she's looking for"--Dust jacket flap.
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Item type Home library Collection Shelving location Call number Status Date due Barcode
Books Books Altadena Main Library
Adult Collection Adult Mystery M LIT Available 39270003810383

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

*  Winner of the Strand Critics Award for Best First Novel  *  Nominated for the Barry and Macavity Awards for Best First Novel    *  Longlisted for the CWA John Creasy (New Blood) Dagger Award<br> <br> "Quick-witted and fast-paced, this debut mystery should be a hit with Gone Girl fans." -- People magazine <br> <br> "This is an all-nighter . . . The best debut mystery I've read in a long time." --Tana French<br> <br> "A really gutsy, clever, energetic read, often unexpected, always entertaining. I loved Janie Jenkins's sassy voice and Elizabeth Little's too. In the world of crime novels,  Dear Daughter  is a breath of fresh air."  --Kate Atkinson,  New York Times  bestselling author of  Life After Life<br> <br> A sensational debut thriller featuring an unforgettable heroine who just might have murdered her mother <br>  <br> Former "It Girl" Janie Jenkins is sly, stunning, and fresh out of prison. Ten years ago, at the height of her fame, she was incarcerated for the murder of her mother, a high-society beauty known for her good works and rich husbands. Now, released on a technicality, Janie makes herself over and goes undercover, determined to chase down the one lead she has on her mother's killer. The only problem? Janie doesn't know if she's the killer she's looking for.<br> <br> Janie makes her way to an isolated South Dakota town whose mysteries rival her own. Enlisting the help of some new friends (and the town's wary police chief), Janie follows a series of clues--an old photograph, an abandoned house, a forgotten diary--and begins to piece together her mother's seemingly improbable connection to the town. When new evidence from Janie's own past surfaces, she's forced to consider the possibility that she and her mother were more alike than either of them would ever have imagined.<br> <br> As she digs tantalizingly deeper, and as suspicious locals begin to see through her increasingly fragile facade, Janie discovers that even the sleepiest towns hide sinister secrets--and will stop at nothing to guard them. On the run from the press, the police, and maybe even a murderer, Janie must choose between the anonymity she craves and the truth she so desperately needs.<br> <br> A gripping, electrifying debut novel with an ingenious and like-it-or-not sexy protagonist, Dear Daughter follows every twist and turn as Janie unravels the mystery of what happened the night her mother died--whatever the cost.

$26.95 10-2014 (db)

Subtitle from cover.

"Former 'It Girl' Janie Jenkins is sly, stunning--and fresh out of prison. Ten years ago, at the height of her fame, she was incarcerated for the murder of her mother, a high-society beauty known for her good works and rich husbands. Now, released on a technicality, Janie makes herself over and goes undercover, determined to chase down the one lead she has on her mother's killer. The only problem? Janie doesn't know if she's the killer she's looking for"--Dust jacket flap.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

<opt> <anon I1="BLANK" I2="BLANK">***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2014 by Elizabeth Little As soon as they processed my release, Noah and I hit the ground running. A change of clothes. A wig. An inconspicuous sedan. We doubled back once, twice, then drove south when we were headed east. In San Francisco we had a girl who looked like me board a plane to Hawaii. Oh, I thought I was so clever. But you probably already know that I'm not. I mean, come on, you didn't really think I was just going to disappear, did you? That I would skulk off and live in the shadows? That maybe I would find a distant island, a plastic surgeon, a white ceramic half mask and a Punjab lasso? Get real. But I never meant for it to come to this. There's attention and then there's attention , and sure, the latter gets you fame and money and free designer shoes, but I'm not Lindsay Lohan. I understand the concept of declining marginal returns. It was the not knowing--that's what I couldn't stand. That's why I'm here. Did you know that the more you remember, the more you expand your perception of personal time? No, really. There's, like, studies and shit. Even though we can't outrun death, if we muscle up our memories the race, at least, will seem a little longer. That is, we'll still die, but we'll have lived more. Kind of comforting, right? Unless, of course, you're me. Imagine how it would feel if, out of the blue, someone were to hand you a gold medal and tell you it was yours. Oh my god , you'd think. I am so super awesome! I won the Olympics. But, wait-what did I win? When did I win it? When did I train? Shouldn't my biceps be full-on Madonna? How could I possibly forget the defining moment of my life? And what does it mean that I did? Now imagine that instead of a gold medal you were given a murder conviction, and you'll have some sense of how it is for me. When I think back on the night my mother died, it's like trying to adjust a pair of rabbit ears to pick up a distant broadcast signal. Every so often something comes into focus, but mostly I just get the scrape­ sound of static, an impenetrable wall of snow. Sometimes there isn't even a picture. Sometimes there isn't even a TV. Maybe if I'd had a moment to stop and think that morning I might've had the chance to imprint a useful detail or two, but the police hustled me out of the house and into a cruiser and over to the station before I could even think to worry about what I was wearing, much less what I might have done. By lunchtime I was in an interview room picking dried blood out from under my fingernails while two detectives explained what they wanted me to write in my confession. Not that I blame them. I was always going to be the best story. Next was the trial, which didn't have anything to do with what I knew but rather with what other people had decided I knew, and soon enough I lost the ability to tell the difference between them. And now I 'm stuck with a mess of a memory, a hodgepodge of angry testimony, sanctimonious magazine profiles, made-for-TV movies-less linear narrative than True Hollywood Story highlight reel. I don't know what's mine anymore. And then there's the evidence. The only fingerprints in my mother 's room: mine. The only DNA under my mother's nails: probably mine. The only name written in blood next to my mother's body: definitely mine. (That's right. You probably didn't know that part, did you?) It 's hard enough to maintain your innocence when so many people are so sure you're not. It 's impossible when you're not sure of anything at all-other than the awful, inescapable fact that you hadn't particu­ larly liked your own mother. The uncertainty ate at me, maggots mashing the already-decaying corpse of my brain. And in jail, isolated from any real means of investigation, all I could do was wonder. I began to treat every action of every day like an omen, a crystal ball, a goat's intestines. How would a killer brush her teeth? How would a killer brush her hair? Would she take sugar in her coffee? Milk in her tea? Would she knot her shoelaces once? Twice? Totally kidding. Like they would have given me shoelaces. Of all the challenges of incarceration, this was perhaps the worst: I was a fundamentally rational creature reduced to rudimentary divination. I promised myself that if I ever got out I'd try to find out what really happened, to find out what I really was. I ignored the voice that said killing again was the only way I'd ever know for sure. < Messages N oa h C on t a c t Tuesday 5:14 PM Testing. Is the new phone working? Did you get this? (It's Noah.) W h a t the fuck is this It's called text messaging. I know what it is I just don't know why we're doing it I need to make sure I can reach you. W h a t people don't actually talk anymore Welcome to the future. Ca n I go back to jail now Adapt or die, Jane. :) Excerpted from Dear Daughter by Elizabeth Little All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.</anon> </opt>

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Library Journal Review

Jane Jenkins is a snarky celebutante, famous for being famous, until she is convicted of the murder of her wealthy socialite mother. After being released from prison on a technicality, Janie tracks down the one lead she has on the real killer and is startled by what she uncovers about her mother's past in small-town South Dakota. VERDICT Clever, original, and darkly witty, this mystery's many twists will keep you on your toes. Little has infused a compelling page-turner with well-aimed jabs at the current social media-driven culture. (LJ 6/15/14) © Copyright 2018. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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