One card said Death, another pictured a lightning-struck tower. These dreamlike images and their names meant nothing to him, but she knew what they meant: violence, an uncertain future, danger.

Harry Sterling has lost much in recent years: his brother, his marriage, his job, his self-esteem. A teaching post at a small college in northern Florida has given him an opportunity to reevaluate his life and reconnect with his teenage son. But Harry is above all a reporter, so when he stumbles upon a rumor about physicist Charles Ziegart--world-famous for a breakthrough discovery in electrical conductivity--he feels compelled to investigate. Could it be true that the highly respected scientist stole the credit for the "Ziegart Effect" from one of his students?

Harry's pursuit of the story leads him into extremely unlikely and colorful company--the notorious Purple Lady, the fortune teller Madame Dupree, and Miss Baby Thorpe. He also meets the intriguing if peculiar Maggie Roth, a short-order cook with an affinity for the woods, who has suffered terrible losses of her own.

As Harry uncovers more of Ziegart's secrets, he makes shocking connections between the ivory towers of academic power and the backwoods and sinkholes of north Florida. There are profound reasons why these secrets have been buried for so many years. Each startling new revelation increases the danger to Harry and those he cares about--until at last his investigation exacts a horrifying price.

Blending absorbing drama with powerful suspense, The Fortune Teller's Daughter is a smart, moving, compellingly imaginative tale. With luminous imagery and fluid prose, Lila Shaara weaves a seductive tale of deep secrets, intellectual intrigue, and electric emotion.

From the Hardcover edition.

The Devil

Depression; experience without understanding

Harry Sterling knew he was driving too fast. The narrow road was so black that the white stripe down the center was startling in the dark, bending and straightening as if it was belly dancing in the headlights. Harry had the steering wheel in a sweaty grip, matching the curves turn for turn, but he couldn't seem to get his right foot to lift up from the gas pedal. It seemed that no part of his body was responding to his wishes. His stomach threatened to eject its contents at any moment, which would be disastrous for both the interior of the car and his own survival. He was singing, loudly and atonally, "Carry On My Wayward Son," and nothing he could tell himself would make the singing stop. He was drunk, stinking, deadly drunk, and was horrifically aware of it with a tiny, sober part of himself, deep in his brain. It was the part that was trying to get his foot to lighten up on the gas, the part that was so very grateful for the independent intelligence of his hands.

Where am I going again? he asked that sober part for at least the third time. The sober part said, You're going to a fucking fortune teller. She's going to predict your future, you worthless, drunken bastard.

He didn't drink often, but when he did, terrible things happened. He couldn't stop at one, or even two. It always turned into six or eight or ten, no matter how hard that internal voice screamed at him, no matter how many sympathetic, disapproving looks he got from his companions, no matter how great his mortification from the waitress's rolling eyes or the contempt of other bar patrons. Most of the time he didn't even want liquor; he hated wine, and beer rarely called to him at all. But once in a while, something happened, some memory knocked him over or someone put a cocktail in his unresisting hand, bought a round, something, and then there he was, drowning in the pit of his own lack of self-control.

He had been to the Brew House only once before, at the beginning of the fall semester, his first at the university as a visiting professor. Most of the law students gathered there every Friday afternoon during the school year, along with a few of the younger professors. That Friday in September, he'd tried to keep it to one beer, but it turned into two, and then God knew how many. He'd managed to stagger out of the bar without doing anything too awful, although he'd woken up in his backyard wearing only his pants. He had felt as bad as it was possible to feel while still being alive, not only because of the hangover. The mosquitoes that lurked in the grass had feasted on him during the night. When he came to, his left eye refused to open, the numerous bites on his eyelid having caused it to swell to the size of a peach; the ones in his armpits prevented him from being able to fully lower his arms for two days.

That experience had been enough to keep him away from anything alcoholic for six months, until today, another Friday. His best student, a twenty-something second-year named Dan Polti, was going through an acrimonious divorce and wanted a sympathetic and divorced adult to talk to. Dan knew that Harry didn't usually drink, although he didn't know why. They'd sat for a while by themselves, Dan's head occasionally dropping into his hands as he talked while Harry sat helpless, trying to feel more sympathy than he actually did. Most of the other students were sitting at a long wooden table under one of the speakers that hung like huge tumors from the wall. The number of students at the long table had grown until privacy was no longer possible, and Dan had left. Harry had tried to leave as well, but Judd Lippman,...

 

"The Fortune Teller's Daughter is fresh and authentic, the plot complex and full of surprises. This compelling suspense novel has it all--mystery, romance, fascinating characters, and some very creepy moments."

 

"Gripping . . . The narrative is wonderfully suspenseful. . . . Fortune favors this entertaining read."

 

"Moving . . . the debut of an utterly original voice."

 

"Compelling . . . keeps you turning the pages."

 

Lila Shaara is the author of Every Secret Thing. She lives in western Pennsylvania with her family.

From the Hardcover...