Praise for J.T. Ellison’s debut novel

ALL THE PRETTY GIRLS

“A taut, striking debut. Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”

—John Connolly, New York Times bestselling author

“With this debut thriller, Ellison puts her mentoring by Lee Child to good use.”

—Library Journal

“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

“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying debut. All the Pretty Girls is a masterful thriller.”

—J. A. Konrath

“The book is taut, tense and suspenseful. The best part of All the Pretty Girls, though, is its breathless pace.”

—The Tennessean

“Southern readers will find All the Pretty Girls a thrilling ride through a well-known locale, and the rest of the country will get a closer view—and a different perspective—of Music City.”

—BookPage

“[A] first-rate, creepy, hold-your-breath story of suspense…

J.T. Ellison knows her stuff.”

—Robert Fate

“Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

—James O. Born

“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

“Relentlessly paced and intricately plotted—and it features a villain who will have readers looking over their shoulders, even in the daylight.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

“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.”

—Kristy Kiernan

“A gripping ride into the seemingly nonsensical world of a serial killer and the passionate urgency of those who try to stop him. Ellison’s characters…will stay with you long after you close the book.”

—Pari Noskin Taichert

“A fantastic debut… All the Pretty Girls is a spine-tingling thriller you will not want to miss!”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Ellison’s talent is evident not only in her ability to create nail-biting suspense, but also in her vivid characters. Well-written and smart, All the Pretty Girls could well put Ellison and Taylor Jackson on the track to become to Nashville what Laura Lippman and Tess Monaghan are to Baltimore.”

—Tasha Alexander

“J.T. Ellison’s fast-moving debut is as smooth as fine Kentucky bourbon.”

—Romance Reader at Heart

®

For Jay and Jeff: my ribs

And as always, for my Randy

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When you’re a writer, it never feels like enough to say thank-you to the people surrounding you day to day. We write the books, they make them into novels. I have several magicians I’d like to send my humble thanks: My extraordinary editor Linda McFall and the entire MIRA team, especially Adam Wilson, Heather Foy, Margaret Marbury and Dianne Moggy, and the brilliant artists who create these fabulous covers!

My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group. My independent publicist Tom Robinson, who is such a pleasure to work with and feeds me blueberry pie. Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department, a true friend and a great man. Bob Trice, Response Coordinator/CERT program manager/ESU

supervisor at the Nashville Office of Emergency Management, for giving me the tools to make the drowning scene work. Laura McPherson, who taught me good journalism rules, which I in turn gleefully broke.

Vince Tranchida, for the medical expertise. Pat Picciarelli, for giving me Long Island City and the bar across from the 108th precinct.

Tribe, for the Spanish bits.

The Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths—Janet, Mary, Rai, Cecelia, Peggy, Del Tinsley and my wonderful critique partner J.B. Thompson, who read, cheer, suggest, support and love. First reader Joan Huston for making all the difference, as she always does.

My darling Linda Whaley for babysitting on the rainy nights. My esteemed fellow authors Tasha Alexander, Brett Battles, Rob Gregory-Browne, Bill Cameron, Toni Causey, Gregg Olsen, Kristy Kiernan and Dave White, for constantly cheering me on and making me laugh.

My fellow Murderati bloggers, who keep me honest. Lee Child, for the always spot-on advice. John Connolly, for the music.

My parents, who always tell me I can do anything I put my mind to, and Jay and Jeff, the best brothers a girl could wish for. My parents gave me the spine, my brothers built the ribs. And my amazingly generous husband, who suffered through too many pizza nights and 2:00 a.m. loads of laundry to count. It just wouldn’t be any fun without you, baby. 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.

And now Snow White lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep, for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.

—The Brothers Grimm

Snow White

Prologue

Would the bastard ever call?

Smoke drifted from the ashtray where a fine Cohiba lay unattended. Several burned-out butts crowded the glass, competing for space. The man looked at his watch. Had it been done?

He smashed the lit cigar into the thick-cut crystal. It smoldered with the rest as he moved through his office. He went to the window, grimy panes lightly frosted with a thin layer of freezing condensation. It was cold early this year. With one gloved finger, he traced an X in the frost. He stared out into the night. Though nearly midnight, the skyline was bright and raucous. Some festival on the grounds of Cheekwood, good cheer, grand times. If he squinted, he could make out headlights flashing by as overpaid valets squired the vehicles around the curves of the Boulevard.

He tapped his fingers against the glass, wiping his drawing away with a swipe of leather. Turning, he surveyed the room. So empty. So dark. Ghosts lurked in the murky recesses. The shadows were growing, threaten

ing. Breath coming short, he snapped on the desk lamp. 12

J.T. Ellison

He gasped, drawing air into his lungs as deeply as he could, the panic stripped away by a fluorescent bulb. The light was feeble in the cavernous space, but it was illumi

nation. Some things never change. After all these years, still afraid of the dark.

The bare desk was smeared with ashes, empty except for the fine rosewood box, the ashtray and the now-silent telephone. The room, too, was spartan, the monotony bro

ken only by the simple desk, a high-back leather chair on wheels and three folding chairs. He opened the humidor and extracted another of the fortieth anniversary Cohibas. He followed the ritual—snipping off the tip, holding the lighter to the end, slowly twirling the cigar in the flame until the tobacco caught. He drew deeply, soothing smoke pouring into his lungs. There. That was better. The isolation was necessary. He didn’t like people seeing him this way. It was better if they perceived him as the strong, capable man he’d always been, not this crippled creature, this dark entity with gnarled hands and a bent back. How would that image strike fear?

Not long now. Fear would be his pale horse, ridden from the backs of red-lipped girls. His duplicates. His surrogates. His replacements.