Retribution, p.1Jilliane Hoffman
Table of Contents
C.J. Townsend 
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Tags: Suspense, Fiction
One rainy night in New York City, outstanding law student Chloe Larson wakes from a terrible nightmare. But it's not a nightmare - it's real. Not only is she savagely violated in her own bedroom, Chloe then has to deal with the horror of nobody being brought to justice.
Twelve years later a very different Chloe is forging a formidable reputation in the Miami Dade State Attorney's Office, as a vicious serial killer nicknamed Cupid terrorises Florida - tearing out his tortured victim's hearts while they're still conscious. When the police stop a driver on the McArthur Causeway and a mutilated corpse is found in his trunk, it seems the hunt for Cupid is finally over. But as Chloe begins the task of prosecuting the suspect, she soon realises that this case will be anything but easy. Because her past is about to force itself on her present - and the terror is only just beginning.
Sometimes there's a price to be paid for justice. And sometimes that price is awful. Revenge could cost Chloe her sanity. The truth could cost her her life.
THE PAST. THE PRESENT. THE TERROR.
About the Author
Jilliane Hoffman was an Assistiant State Attorney between 1992 and 1996. Until 2001 she was the regional advisor for the Florida Department of Law Enforcement advising special agents on complex investigations including narcotics, homicide and organised crime. She lives in Florida and Retribution is her first novel
‘An intensely readable tale of personal horror, thrills and vengeance guaranteed to follow in the bestselling footsteps of Patricia Cornwell, Kathy Reichs, Tess Gerritsen and Karin Slaughter. Strong, compelling stuff’ Guardian
‘A gripping, well-crafted suspense story… so sharp it has to be read in the shortest time possible. A belter of a book’ Sunday Express
‘You won’t be able to put this book down. Will keep you on the edge of your seat till the final moments’ Star Magazine
‘A genuine page-turner’ Sunday Telegraph
‘An outstanding debut from a writer who may turn out to be a female Grisham’ Independent on Sunday
‘As accurate as it is gripping. This remarkable debut really succeeds’ Bullit Magazine
‘Fast-paced and action-packed, this thriller was one of the best I’ve read for some time. In a word: absorbing’ Herald Sun
‘Jilliane Hoffman’s first effort at crime writing shows she has a very promising future. The bottom line: Chilling and Compelling’ NW Magazine
‘Decidedly unputdownable’ Woman and Home
‘A dream of a debut thriller’ Publishing News
‘A gripping read’ Best
For Rich, the love of my life
and the one who never doubted.
And for Amanda and Katarina,
who always believed.
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Michael Joseph 2003
Published in Penguin Books 2004
Copyright ©Jilliane Hoffman, 2003
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
June 1988 New York City
Chloe Larson was, as usual, in a mad and blinding rush. She had all of ten minutes to change into something suitable to wear to The Phantom of the Opera – currently sold out a year in advance and the hottest show on Broadway – put on a face, and catch the 6:52 P.M. train out of Bayside into the city, which was, in itself, a three-minute car ride from her apartment to the station. That left her with really only seven minutes. She whipped through her overstuffed closet that she had meant to clean out last winter, and quickly settled on a black crepe skirt and matching jacket with a pink camisole. Clutching one shoe in her hand, she muttered Michael’s name under her breath, while she frantically tossed aside shoe after shoe from the pile on the closet floor, at last finally finding the black patent-leather pump’s mate.
She hurried down the hall to the bathroom, pulling on her heels as she walked. It was not supposed to happen like this, she t
It was not supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to be more prepared.
She hurried through the courtyard to her car, her fingers rushing to put on the earrings she had grabbed off the nightstand in her room. From the second story above, she felt the eyes of her strange and reclusive neighbor upon her, moving over her from behind his living room window, as they did every day. Just watching as she made her way through the courtyard into the busy world and on with her life. She shook off the cold, uncomfortable feeling as quickly as it had come and climbed into her car. This was no time to think about Marvin. This was no time to think of the bar exam or bar review classes or study groups. It was time to think only of her answer to the question to end all questions that Michael was surely going to ask her tonight.
Three minutes. She had only three minutes, she thought, as she cheated the corner stop sign, barely making the light up on Northern Boulevard.
The deafening sound of the train whistle was upon her now as she ran up the platform stairs two at a time. The doors closed on her just as she waved a thank you to the conductor for waiting and made her way into the car. She sat back against the ripped red vinyl seat and caught her breath from that last run through the parking lot and up the stairs. The train pulled out of the Station, headed for Manhattan. She had barely made it.
Just relax and calm down now, Chloe, she told herself, looking at Queens as it passed her by in the fading light of day. Because tonight, after all, was going to be a very special night. Of that she was certain.
June 1988 New York City
The wind had picked up and the thick evergreen bushes that hid his motionless body from sight began to rustle and sway. Just to the west, lightning lit the sky, and jagged streaks of white and purple flashed behind the brilliant Manhattan skyline. There was little doubt that it was going to pour – and soon. Buried deep in the dark underbrush, his jaw clenched tight and his neck stiffened at the rumble of thunder. Wouldn’t that just put the icing on the cake, though? A thunderstorm while he sat out here waiting for that bitch to finally get home.
Crouched low under the thick mange of bushes that surrounded the apartment building there was no breeze, and the heat had become so stifling under the heavy clown mask that he could almost feel the flesh melting off his face. The smell of rotting leaves and moist dirt overwhelmed the evergreen, and he tried hard not to breathe in through his nose. Something small scurried by his ear, and he forced his mind to stop imagining the different kinds of vermin that might, right now, be crawling on his person, up his sleeves, in his work boots. He fingered the sharp, jagged blade anxiously with gloved fingertips.
There were no signs of life in the deserted courtyard. All was quiet, but for the sound of the wind blowing through the branches of the lumbering oak trees, and the constant hum and rattle of a dozen or more air conditioners, precariously suspended up above him from their windowsills. Thick, full hedges practically grew over the entire side of the building, and he knew that, even from the apartments above, he could still not be seen. The carpet of weeds and decaying leaves crunched softly under his weight as he pulled himself up and moved slowly through the bushes toward her window.
She had left her blinds open. The glow from the street-lamp filtered through the hedges, slicing dim ribbons of light across the bedroom. Inside, all was dark and still. Her bed was unmade and her closet door was open. Shoes – high heels, sandals, sneakers – lined the closet floor. Next to her television, a stuffed-bear collection was displayed on the crowded dresser. Dozens of black marble eyes glinted back at him in the amber slivers of light from the window. The red glow on her alarm clock read 12:33 A.M.
His eyes knew exactly where to look. They quickly scanned down the dresser, and he licked his dry lips. Colored bras and matching lacy panties lay tossed about in the open drawer.
His hand went to his jeans and he felt his hard-on rise back to life. His eyes moved fast to the rocking chair where she had hung her white lace nightie. He closed his eyes and stroked himself faster, recalling in his mind exactly how she had looked last night. Her firm, full tits bouncing up and down while she fucked her boyfriend in that see-through white nightie. Her head thrown back in ecstasy, and her curved, full mouth open wide with pleasure. She was a bad girl, leaving her blinds open. Very bad. His hand moved faster still. Now he envisioned how she would look with those long legs wrapped in nylon thigh-highs and strapped into a pair of the high heels from her closet. And his own hands, locked around their black spikes, hoisting her legs up, up, up in the air and then spreading them wide apart while she screamed. First in fear, and then in pleasure. Her blond mane fanned out under her head on the bed, her arms strapped tight to the headboard. The lacy crotch of her pretty pink panties and her thick blond bush, exposed right by his mouth. Yum-yum! He moaned loudly in his head and his breath hissed as it escaped through the tiny slit in the center of his contorted red smile. He stopped himself before he climaxed and opened his eyes again. Her bedroom door sat ajar, and he could see that the rest of the apartment was dark and empty. He sank back down to his spot under the evergreens. Sweat rolled down his face, and the latex suctioned fast to the skin. Thunder rumbled again, and he felt his cock slowly shrivel back down inside his pants.
She was supposed to have been home hours ago. Every single Wednesday night she’s home no later then 10:45 P.M. But tonight, tonight, of all nights, she’s late. He bit down hard on his lower lip, reopening the cut he had chewed on an hour earlier, tasting the salty blood that flooded his mouth. He fought back the almost overwhelming urge to scream.
Goddamn mother-fucking bitch! He could not help but be disappointed. He had been so excited, so thrilled, just counting off the minutes. At 10:45 she would walk right past him, only steps away, in her tight gym clothes. The lights would go on above him, and he would rise slowly to the window. She would purposely leave the blinds open, and he would watch. Watch as she pulled her sweaty T-shirt over her head and slid her tight shorts over her naked thighs. Watch as she would get herself ready for bed. Ready for him!
Like a giddy schoolboy on his first date, he had giggled to himself merrily in the bushes. How far will we go tonight, my dear? First base? Second? All the way? But those initial, exciting minutes had ticked by and here he still was, two hours later – squatting like a vagrant with unspeakable vermin crawling all over him, probably breeding in his ears. The anticipation that had fueled him, that had fed the fantasy, was now gone. His disappointment had slowly turned into anger, an anger that had grown more intense with each passing minute. He clenched his teeth hard and his breath hissed. No, siree, he was not excited anymore. He was not thrilled. He was beyond annoyed.
Retribution by Jilliane Hoffman / History & Fiction have rating 5 out of 5 / Based on50 votes