Praise for J

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.T. Ellison’

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. Ellison’s

ALL

ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

THE PRETTY GIRLS

“J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.

Darkly compelling and thoroughly chilling, with rich characterization and a well-layered plot, All the Pretty Girls is everything a great crime thriller should be.”

—Allison Brennan, New Y rk Times

o

bestselling author

of Fear No Evil

“Taylor Jackson is a fresh portrayal of a cop with a serial killer to catch. Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

—James O. Born, author of Burn Zone

“An impressive debut that is rich not just in suspense but in the details. Fast-paced and creepily believable, Ellison’s novel proves that there is still room in the genre for new authors and new cops. There’s no novice showing in All the Pretty Girls. It’s all gritty, grisly and a great read.”

—M. J. Rose, internationally bestselling author of The Reincarnationist

”All the Pretty Girls is a spellbinding suspense novel and Tennessee has a new dark poet. J.T. Ellison’s fast-paced, clever plotting yields a page-turner par excellence. A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming, Edgar Award finalist and author of All Mortal Flesh

“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut. All the Pretty Girls is a masterful thriller, shockingly authentic and unputdownable. Fans of Sandford, Cornwell and Reichs will relish every page.”

—J. A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini

“A word of advice before you read J.T. Ellison’s brilliant debut, All the Pretty Girls: keep the lights on. With a masterful hand, Ellison delivers a villain to make you quail, pitted against the thriller world’s freshest new detective since Tess Gerritsen’s Jane Rizzoli. Complex and sharp-tongued, Taylor Jackson is destined to become an icon in crime fiction. With a deft command of the language and a refreshing respect for the delicate balance between killer, victim and detective, Ellison is an original worth keeping an eye on.”

—Kristy Kiernan, author of Catching Genius

“In J.T. Ellison’s impressive debut, we’re taken on a gripping ride into the seemingly nonsensical world of a serial killer and the passionate urgency of those who try to stop him. From the tragedy of missed potential in an ebbing life to the frustration of a crime unsolved, All the Pretty Girls spurs us to confront our own complicated humanity and to acknowledge what can rip us from its grasp. Ellison’s characters—whether major players or quiet students—

will stay with you long after you close the book.”

—Pari Noskin Taichert, two-time Agatha Award finalist and author of the Sasha Solomon mystery series

®

For Randy

and

my parents.

Love you more.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The process of writing All the Pretty Girls was without a doubt a group effort. There are many people who graciously gave their time and expertise to help me get the details straight. I would like to send my deepest thanks to the following:

My extraordinary editor Linda McFall, of MIRA Books, and all of the MIRA team, especially Margaret Marbury and Dianne Moggy. A very special thank-you to Tara Kelly for designing the perfect cover.

My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, for taking a chance on an unknown, and Holly Henderson Root, for all her help and editorial advice.

Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department was an invaluable resource for the law enforcement details in the book. Not only did he allow me to ride along with him, he read, edited, gave ideas and information, encouraged me to keep on track and was always there for a question, chat or dinner. In the process, he’s become a great friend and I am very thankful to have him on my side.

Officer Carl Stocks of the Metro Nashville Police Department took me on a midnight-shift ride-along that changed my life. He showed me that the horrors we write and read about are very real, and I have such great respect for his abilities and dedication to getting it done right.

The Metro Nashville Homicide Department gave me complete support, and continues to handle even the most mundane questions. Detective Mike Mann helped me understand the mind-set a homicide detective must have to keep sane, and shared his ghost stories. Dr. Michael Tabor, the Forensic Dentist for the state of Tennessee, was a font of detail and information, and my respect and awe for his efforts following the September 11 attacks is everlasting. Kris Rinearson of Forensic Medical and the Medical Examiner’s Office for Tennessee provided long-standing insights.

Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic license is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.

The support and encouragement of friends and family were vital for both motivation and sanity. Many thanks to the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Janet, Mary, Rai, Cecelia, Peggy, my Dutch uncle Del Tinsley and my wonderful critique partner J.B. Thompson. This story couldn’t have been told without your input! Joan Huston caught all the little errors, and a couple of big ones. Linda Whaley is there for me always.

John Sandford inspired me to write and Stuart Woods gave me the rules. John Connolly taught me about faith, grace and pitch-perfect prose. Lee Child, my ITW mentor, is just one big class act and M. J. Rose is always ready with a quip or a shoulder. Fellow authors Tasha Alexander, Brett Battles, Jason Pinter, Rob Gregory-Browne, Toni Causey, Kristy Kiernan and all the Killer Year folks have created a support net that is indispensable. My fellow Murderati bloggers keep me honest.

All my buddies at the Bellevue Post Office, who constantly cheer me on and treat every package with care. My amazing parents, who constantly remind me that I can do whatever I set my mind to, and my brothers, who’ve always stood behind me. Jade the cat listened attentively whenever I needed a sounding board and amazed me with her ability to park her butt on each page of the manuscript as it printed.

Finally, to Randy. Your love, fortitude, patience, indulgence, sacrifice and faith in me keep me going. You are the keeper of my soul.

One

“No. Please don’t.” She whispered the words, a divine prayer. “No. Please don’t.” There they were again, bubbles forming at her lips, the words slipping out as if greased from her tongue.

Even in death, Jessica Ann Porter was unfailingly polite. She wasn’t struggling, wasn’t crying, just pleading with those luminescent chocolate eyes, as eager to please as a puppy. He tried to shake off the thought. He’d had a puppy once. It had licked his hand and gleefully scampered about his feet, begging to be played with. It wasn’t his fault that the thing’s bones were so fragile, that the roughhousing meant for a boy and his dog forced a sliver of rib into the little creature’s heart. The light shone, then faded in the puppy’s eyes as it died in the grass in his backyard. That same light in Jessica’s eyes, her life leaching slowly from their cinnamon depths, died at this very moment. He noted the signs of death dispassionately. Blue lips, cyanotic. The hemorrhaging in the sclera of the 10

J.T. Ellison

eyes, pinpoint pricks of crimson. The body seemed to cool immediately, though he knew it would take some time for the heat to fully dissipate. The vivacious yet shy eighteen-year-old was now nothing more than a piece of meat, soon to be consigned back to the earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Blowfly to maggot. The life cycle complete once again.

He shook off the reverie. It was time to get to work. Glancing around, he spied his tool kit. He didn’t remember kicking it over, perhaps his memory was failing him. Had the girl actually struggled? He didn’t think so, but confusion sets in at the most important moments. He would have to consider that later, when he could give it his undivided thought. Only the radiant glow of her eyes at the moment of expiration remained for him now. He palmed the handsaw and lifted her limp hand. No, please don’t. Three little words, innocuous in their definitions. No great allegories, no ethical dilemmas. No, please don’t. The words echoed through his brain as he sawed, their rhythm spurring his own. No, please don’t. No, please don’t. Back and forth, back and forth. No, please don’t. Hear these words, and dream of hell. Two