Louise Penny: death cold. Fatherly Cold Book Read Online Deadly Cold Read Online

ABC® publishing house

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Dedicated to my brother arc and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roselin and Charles,

who showed me what is

present courage. Namaste

Chapter first

If the Si de Poitier knew that she would be killed, then she would probably bought her husband to Rishar a gift for Christmas. Probably, she would even go to a holiday to school, where her daughter studied, - Miss Edwards, or the "ass of the" School ", how he loved to say Si, teasing his immense daughter. If CI knew that the end is close, it would be left at work, and did not spend time in the cheapest issue, which I could offer the Ric Hotel in Montreal. But she was known only about one end, located nearby, and he belonged to a man named Sol.

- So what do you think? Do you like?

She set a book on his white belly.

Sol has not for the first time looked at the book. For several last days Si-s every five minutes took this book from his huge handbag. At the business meetings, at dinner, during traveling in a taxi on the snow-covered streets of Montreal Si suddenly leaked and solemnly straightened, holding his creation in her hands, as if he had another world immaculate conception.

"I like the photo," said Sol, realizing that it insults her.

He made this picture himself. He knew that she was waiting and even asked him some kind of encouragement, but she was no longer wanted to iron her head. And he also asked himself how long can be near Si de Poitiers, not turning into it. Not in the physical sense, of course. She was forty-eight - a few years less than him. It was slim, flexible and in good shape, with incredibly white teeth and incredibly light hair. Touch her, it was like touching the ice bluff. This was a peculiar beauty and fragility, which seemed attractive to him. However, there was a danger. If the SI-SI is breaking, splits, then it will break it into the shreds.

But it was not in her appearance. Looking, as she caresses her book - with more tenderness than ever caressed him, he asked himself whether her inner ice was penetrated and he could be penetrated during sex, and whether he himself was free from the inside. He had no longer felt his heart.

In fifty-two, Sol Petrov just began to notice that his friends are no longer such brilliant, not so smart, not so slender, what were the ever. Honestly, most of them began to tire him. Yes, and they, communicating with him, happened, vowed eloquently. They fought fat, fished, became boring. And he suspected that the same transformations occur with him. He was not very worth it that women were now rarely looked at him, or that he began to think about whether the mountain skiing on running, or that the family doctor had appointed a prostate ultrasound. He could take it all. Worried and awakened Sola Petrova at two o'clock in the morning: the same voice that in childhood it was whispered to him, as if lions live under the bed, now she whispered confidently that people from him takes. Sol deeply breathed with dark night air, trying to convince himself that with difficulty holding back Zovki Visavi for dinner today was explained to drink wine, or Magret de Canard, or enveloping heat in the Montreal restaurant, where they were in their practical winter sweaters.

And the night voice continued to grumble, warning the Sola on the hazardous hazards. About an imminent catastrophe. The fact that he says too much, that he stopped being interesting, that people around him are often rolled out eyes. The fact that his interlocutors are looking at the watch, waiting for a convenient moment to leave it. About the eyes, driving a room in desperate search for a more entertaining company.

And therefore, he allowed Si to seduce him. Seduct and swallow, and thus, a lion from under the bed moved to bed. Sol began to suspect that this absorbed woman finally absorbed himself entirely, absorbed her husband and even his nightmare daughter, and now began to absorb him.

In her society, he has become cruel. He began to despise himself. But not with such a force, with what despised it.

"This is a brilliant book," said Si, ignoring it. - No, really. Who will refuse this? - She won a book in front of his face. - People just swallowing it. There are so many people with a frustrated psyche. - She really turned and stared through the window of their numbers to the building standing opposite the building, as if looking for "their" people. - I did it for them. "And she looked at the Sola widely opened, sincere eyes."

"Is she believed in it?" He asked himself.

He, of course, read her book. "Mustle anxiety" - so she called it, as well as a company created several years ago, and the name it sounded like a mockery over the SI, which was a real lump of nerves. Do not know the rest of the hands, constantly something smoothing and straightening. Short sharp answers, impatience, often turning into a flash of rage.

Although the Si de Poitiers had a serene, as if frozen appearance, hardly the word "calm" could have been associated with her.

She offered his book to everyone in a row, starting with the leading New York publishing houses and ending with postcards with postcards in the Saint-Polycarp in the highway between Toronto and Montreal.

They all responded to the refusal, immediately recognizing the helpless mixture of funny home-grown philosophies in the wrapper from unambiguous Buddhist and Hindu teachings, who, judging by the photo, eagerly eaten his children.

"What is there, to hell, the enlightenment," said Si-Solu in his Montreal office on that day when he received a pack of next failures. She broke them into a shredder and threw it on the floor: let the cleaner sweeps. - I tell you, we live in some revealed inside out of the world. People are cruel and insensitive, they live to deceive each other. Neither love nor compassion exists. But this, - she cut the air with her book, as if by a hammer from ancient myths aimed at a merciless anvil - it will teach people to be happy.

The words spoken by a low voice were saturated by malice. She decided to publish a book for their own money, and so that she came out before Christmas. And although in the book there were a lot of reasoning about the light, Solus seemed curious and filled with irony that this book was published in front of the winter solstice. Before the darkest day of the year.

- How, do you say, is the publisher called? - He could not resist. - Oh yeah, remembered. Nobody wanted to print it. Probably it was terrible. - He thought for a moment, not knowing whether to turn the knife in the wound or not. Oh well what to ceremony. - So what did you feel?

It seemed to him or would she really frowned?

But her silence continued eloquently, an impassive expression was frozen on his face. In total that I did not like Si, it simply did not exist. Including her husband and her daughter. Including all the unpleasant things, any criticism, any sharp words (if they were not told by it myself), any emotions. Sol knew that CI lives in his own world where she is ideal where she can hide their feelings and failures.

How much time is it necessary for this world to explode? Sol hoped that would be nearby and would see how it was happening. Nearby, but at a safe distance.

She said that people are cruel and insensitive. Cruel and insensitive. Not so long ago, he concluded a freelance contract with her as her photographer and a lover, and then it seemed to him that this world was a great place. Every morning he woke up early and started a new day in a new world, where there was nothing impossible, and he saw Montreal. He saw people smiling each other, ordering cappuccino in a cafe, buying fresh flowers or french long baton. He saw the children collect fallen chestnuts, tie the rope to them and play. He saw the elderly ladies walking along Maine.

He was not blind or stupid - he noticed homeless men and women, noticed beaten faces in bruises, talking about a long empty night and even a long time in front.

But in the depths of the soul, he believed that the world was a wonderful place. And his photos reflected this, they caught the light, shine, hope. And the shadow that inevitably challenged the light.

Ironically, this is exactly this quality and attracted the attention of CI and assigned it to the idea to offer him a contract. The article in the same journal, written in a typical Montreal style, spoke about him as a "cool" journalist, and Si always wanted to have only the best. That's why they always removed the number in Rice. A close terrible number on one of the lower floors without a view from the window and without charm, but still - "RIC". Even the shampoos and the C-Si stationery chose so as to confirm their reputation, and for the same reason she chose him, Sola. She used it all - and even his, Sola, - to prove something incomprehensible to people who did not care. After once, all this was thrown away. As her husband was discarded in the direction, as her daughter was ignored and ridiculed.

The world was a cruel and insensitive place.

And now Sol believed in it.

He hated Si de Poitiers.

Sol stood out of bed, leaving Si to look at her book, her true lover. He looked at her - she looked around in front of his eyes, he again acquired clarity. He tilted his head to the shoulder, thinking that, probably, he drank too much again. But her outline was again smeared again, and then again sharp, as if he looked through a prism on two different women: one - beautiful, glamorous, cheerful, and the other - a miserable painted blonde, a solid lump of nerves, tasted and rude. And dangerous.

- What's this? - asked Sol.

From the basket with garbage, he removed the folder. Her appointment was obvious - the artist's portfolio. It was beautiful and carefully intertwined and printed on a special plump paper. Sol opened the portfolio - and his breath was intercepted.

Inside there was a series of works filled with light, like radiating radiance with magnificent paper. Sola has grated in his chest. The pictures showed the beautiful and at the same time a vulnerable world. But for the most part it was a world in which hope and consolation still existed. The artist clearly saw this world every day, lived in it. Like Sol, once lived in the world of light and hope.

Works seemed simple, but were actually very complex. Images and colors lay on one on another. To achieve the desired effect, it was probably spent a lot of hours and days.

Solose looked into one of these works. The majestic tree, inflaming heaven, as if rushed to the sun. The artist photographed him and somehow managed to convey the feeling of movement, but so that the viewer did not turn out to be disoriented. No, the work was elegant, soothing and, most importantly, strong. The tips of the branches seemed to dissolve or became fuzzy, as if even in their confidence and purposefulness, there was a tiny share of doubt. It was brilliantly.

All his thoughts about Si were forgotten. Sol climbed onto a tree, almost feeling his rude bark on his palms; He as if again sat on his knees at the grandfather and pressed against his unshaven face. How did the artist succeed?

Sol did not manage to disassemble the signature. He shifted the rest of the pages and felt a smile appeared on his frozen face, as his fierce heart soften.

Maybe if he managed to get rid of Si, he will return to his work and there will be such things.

He exhaled all the darkness that accumulated in it.

- So do you like? - Si-si pounded his book before him.

Chapter Second

Cree carefully put on a suit, trying not to break a white chiffon. Christmas holidays have already begun. She heard the guys from junior classes Sounded: "His cradle in the manger instead of the bed," although she was suspiciously heard the Cow. Doesn't it apply to her? Do they laugh all over it? She drove this thought and continued to dress, quietly singing himself under his breath.

- Who is it? - he ran away in a crowded noisy room Madame Latour, music teachers. - Who does it feel there?

Madame's face, resembling a bright bird, looked out from around the corner, behind which the crystal struck her strength to dress without any assistance. Cree instinctively tried to cover up the suit with the nudity of his semi-naked fourteen-year-old body. Of course it was impossible. Too big body and too little matter.

- Is you sang?

Cree stared at her, fearing to pronounce the word. Mother warned her about it. I warned that you can never sing in the public.

But today the journaling heart led her: she really broke out something like singing.

Madame Latour glanced a huge girl and felt that the lunch eaten by her approached the throat. These fat rollers, these creepy pits, underwear, disappearing in the folds of the body. Inexpressive face with wide eyes. The natural arch teacher, Monsieur Drappo, said that the cree the best in the classroom, but another teacher reported that in this trimester one of the topics they passed was "vitamins and minerals", and Cree probably swallowed the textbook.

Nevertheless, she participated in the holiday and was ready to show himself in all its glory, although for this it was necessary to try to very much.

- Hurry up. Soon you go out.

Madame Latour came out, without waiting for an answer. It was the first Christmas holiday, which was participating in the five years of study at the Women's School Miss Edwards. All past years, when the rest of the students prepared their costumes, she prepared unbearable apologies. No one tried to convince her. On the contrary, she was entrusted to work with lighting equipment, because she, as Madame Latour told, was a technical vein. And this meant that for all human emotions, her alkali was not. So, for all previous Christmas holidays, Cree watched alone from the darkness, looking at pretty, shining, talented girls who danced and sang songs about the Christmas miracle, bathing in the rays of light, provided by Cree.

But not this year.

She put on the costume and looked at himself in the mirror - a huge chiffon snowflake looked at her. Yes, she admitted to herself, it's not a snowflake, but a whole snowdrift, but still it was a suit, and besides excellent. Other girls helped their mother, but Cree had to do everything herself. To surprise mom, she told himself, trying to drown out another voice.

Looking attentively, it was possible to see the tiny blood droplets on the matter: her chubby, embarrassing fingers fought with a needle and did not always cope with her. But she stopped and finished this costume. And then she suddenly visited a brilliant idea. The best for all of its fourteen-year-old life.

She knew that her mother had always read the light. Cree the whole life said that it was for all that we all struggle. Hence the name - enlightenment. That is why smart people They say both about people bright. Why do people make great discoveries? Because enlightenment is descending.

All this was so obvious.

And today, Cree will be depicting snowflake. The most white and bright, which you can imagine. And if adding it to this own shine? She went to the store, where all goods were worth a dollar, and for money that she left her mother, bought a bubble of sequin. She was even able to pass by a chocolate bar, although he stopped attempting before the showcase. Cree here for a month I was sitting on a diet and was sure that soon her mother would notice it.

With the help of glue, she caught sequins and now saw the results.

For the first time in life, I knew that she was beautiful. And she knew that in a few short moments her mother would think the same.

Clara Morrow looked through the injured windows of his living room on the village three pines. Then she leaned and began to scrape the ice glad. "Now that we have some money appeared," she thought, "it would probably be worthwhile to change the windows." Clara understood that it would be reasonable, but most of her solutions were difficult to call reasonable. But these decisions answered her lifestyle. And, looking at the snow world, which was three pines, she knew what she likes to look at this world through the fancy drawing of the frost, left by cold on the old glass.

Pulling hot chocolate, she looked at the residents wrapped in warm clothes, who walked under the undelapidly falling snow and welcome each other with her arms, and their words uttered by them were framed by the clouds of breathing, as if comic characters. Some were headed in Bistro Olivier to drink coffee with milk, others needed fresh bread or patisserie from Saray bakery. The store "Books Mirna, new and old" next to the bistro today was closed. Monsieur Belilyly cleared the porch from the snow and approaches to her store and waved Gabri, whose huge impressive figure moved through the village meadow from a small hotel at the corner. A public residents of the village would seem faceless, even dustless. During the Quebec winter, all people are similar to each other. Everyone is painted, covered in warm robes, huge masses of the goose fluff and "Tinsyulatu", which is why even slender seems complete, and full - fat men. Everyone looks equally. That's just hats in all different. Clara saw the bright green pompon on the hat Ruth - so he nodded with a multicolor hat Wayne, knitted Nellie by long autumn evenings. On the children of the Levek family, having driven the hockey puck on the frozen pond, were hats of all shades of blue; A little rose was so shaking in the gate grid that even Clara saw how her pale blue hat was trembling. But the brothers loved her, and therefore every time I rushing to the goal, they portrayed a fall and instead of a whisker hitting the goal just slipped into her on the ice, so the breakthrough ended with a funny landfill. It reminded Clare one of the lithographs from Curich End Ivza, to which she looked for hours in childhood, exhausted from the desire to step out the frame and be among the characters depicted.

Three pines were bitten by a snow blanket. Over the past few weeks, there was about a feet of snow, and all the old houses around the village meadow acquired the caps of the purest whiteness. Flushing flowed out of the pipes, as if houses had their own voices and breathing. Gate and wickets were decorated with christmas wreaths. In the evenings, quiet villages of Eastern cantons sparkled by Christmas decorations. Adults and children were preparing for a big holiday, and from this the whole village stood a quiet hum.

- Maybe her car does not start.

Clara Peter entered the room. Like his father, he looked like a top manager from the Thoutun 500 list. But he spent his days, touched over the easel, and his touched gray curly hair was often in oil paint, because he wrote out his abstract creations in painful details. They were bought for thousands of dollars collectors all over the world, but since he worked slowly, then a year was able to make one or two paintings, and therefore they were styled in eternal poverty. Until recently. Pictures of Clara, on which militant women's uterus and melting trees were depicted, have not yet gained their buyer.

"She will arrive," Clara said.

Peter looked at his wife his blue friendly eyes: in her once dark Voloch Began to break through gray, although she has not yet been fifty. The figure of it began to gain fat in the waist and hips, and Clara began to strove that it would be time for her to resume visit the fitness class Madeleine. Peter was experienced enough to not answer the question whether she really was.

- Are you sure that I can not go? He asked more of politeness than from the actual desire to squeeze into a mouse mouse mirgin and shake on Ughab to the city itself.

- Of course you can not. I buy christmas gifts. And then, the car does not have enough space for a peaceful, me, you and gifts. We would have to leave you in Montreal.

A tiny machine arrived to an open gate, and a huge black woman came out of it. It was probably the most beloved of Clara part of trips with peaceful - to watch how she sits into the car and coming out of it. Clara was absolutely sure that Mirna is larger than its car. In the summer, a whole crowd was going to see how she squeezed inside and at the same time her dress was lying up to the waist itself. But Mirna just laughed. In winter, everything was still funnier, because Mirna wore a brightly pink park, which almost twice increased it in size.

"I'm from the islands, baby," she said somehow. - I'm cold".

"You're from Montreal Island," said Clara.

"True," Mirna agreed with laughter. - Only with his southern outskirts. I like winter. This is the only time of year when I have pink skin. What do you say? Could I get away? "

"Get off for whom?"

"For white?"

"Do you need it?"

Mirna looked at the best girlfriend suddenly a fair eyes and smiled: "No. Nevermind". It seems that she was satisfied and even a little surprised by his own answer.

And now the Quebec winter has again turned the peace in white woman With a chubby pink face. In several layers of bright scarves and a scarlet cap with orange pompon, she hardly squinted on the cleaned path to their home.

Soon they will be in Montreal. Ride everything is nothing - less than one and a half hours even in the snow. Clara was looking forward to the day of shopping, but the most important thing on her trip, at her any trip to Montreal was her mystery. Her secret pleasure.

Clara died from the desire to watch the "Nosnilvi" showcase. This famous Montreal Store had the most magical showcase in the world. In mid-November, huge windows were dark, they were closed with paper. And then the impatient expectation began when the veil was taken from this festive miracle. When Clara was a child, this showcase was interested in it more than a parade of Santa Claus. And it was worth it to know that dark paper was finally removed, as she rushed to the city center straight to the magic shop window.

So she. Clara rushed to the showcase from all his legs, but stopped in such a place where the showcase itself had not yet been visible. She closed her eyes, took herself in his hands, took a step forward and opened his eyes. And saw her. Village Clara. The place where she will leave when disappointment and increasing cruelty will become a nemogue with a sensitive little girl. Winter Lee, in the summer, she had only to close his eyes, and she turned out to be where the bears dance, the ducks skate, and the frogs in Victorian costumes stand with rods on the bridge. At night, when the scar of Walled, snort and scraper claws under the floor of her bedroom, she closed her little firmly blue eyes And the effort of the will was transferred to the magic shop window and the village, where the ghoul will never find it, because the entrance is wary there.

And then in her life something wonderful was happening - there is no wonderful. She fell in love with Peter Morrow and agreed to postpone the seizure of New York for the future. Instead, she agreed to move to his beloved tiny village to the south of Montreal. Clara did not know this area - she was a city maiden, but her love to Peter was so strong that she did not hesitate for a minute.

And so it happened: twenty six years ago, the intelligent and cynical graduate of the art college came out of their little "Volkswagen" and began to cry.

Peter brought Clara to the enchanted village of her childhood. In the village, about which she forgot, when he grew up and imbued with the importance of his adulthood. Ultimately, it turned out that the Christmas showcase "Vially" is real and called three pines. They bought a small house at the village meadow and began to lead a life in it much more magical than ever in her most bold dreams.

A few minutes later, sitting in the warm car, Clara unzipped the park and stared at the window on the snow-covered neighborhood. This christmas was special for reasons at the same time terrible and wonderful. Her dear girlfriend and neighbor Jane Neil was killed by a little over a year ago, after which it turned out that she taught Clara all her money. In the previous Christmas Clara felt too guilty to spend them. It seemed to her that was indecent to be winning from Jane's death.

Mirna looked at her girlfriend, wandering his thoughts around the same topic - the death of Dear Jane Neal and the Council, that she, Mirna, gave Clare after the murder of Jane. Give advice was for peace with the usual. Previously, she worked as a psychotherapist in Montreal, she worked until she understood that her customers did not want to recover at all. They only needed pills and assurances that they were not to blame for their fault.

And Mirna threw it all. She downloaded her little red car with books and clothes and, leaving the island of Montreal, headed across the bridge to the south, towards the border with states. I decided to sit on Florida Bearing and think what to do next.

But the fate and feeling of hunger intervened. Mirna slowly drove on the picturesque country roads, enjoying landscapes, and suddenly, in just an hour, her appetite was spiked. In the dirt road, she passed through the top of the hill and saw the village hidden between hills and forests. The village appeared so unexpectedly that the surprised Mirna stopped the car and came out. Standing in the late spring, and the sun was typing power. From under the old stone mill, I was knocked out a stream and rushed to the white church, the loud of the lining, and then silent along the village. The village itself had the form of a circle, from which in four directions were grounded roads. In the center there was a village meadow, old houses were standing around, some of which were built on Quebec manner - with steep metal roofs and narrow bedrooms upstairs. Other buildings were truncated and had broad open verandas. At least one house was built of a tumka - a stone pulled out from the surrounding fields with pioneers, saved from the upcoming uncommon winter.

The pond and three majestic pines, in charge of heaven, saw in Mirna meadow.

Mirna pulled out his Quebec card. A few minutes later, neatly folded her and leaned surprised to the car. Villages on the map was not. The map showed items that have disappeared many decades ago. Showed tiny fishing villages, even all settlements from two houses and chapels.

But this village was absent on the map.

Mirna looked at the locals: someone worked in the garden, someone walked dogs, someone sat on the bench at the pond and read. Probably, this village was a kind of brigadoon. It was every hundred years and only those who needed to see her. But Mirna was still hesitated. No, there must be sure that she needs. She was ready to turn around and head to Williamsburg, which was on the map, but at the last moment decided to risk.

In three pines found everything she needed.

Here they sold croissants and coffee with milk. Here they sold steaks with Potato and New York Times. There were a bakery, a bistro, a small hotel, a department store. Peace, calm and laughter reigned here. Here were the great sorrow and the great sadness and the ability to take both the other and be content with it. There were friendship and kindness here.

And here it was discovered empty room under the store with housing at the top. All this was waiting. Waiting for her.

And Mirna settled here forever.

In an hour with a small Mirna, moved from the world of discontent to the world of satisfaction. And it happened six years ago. And now she sold her friends old and new books and shared banal tips.

"Yes, God forgot, you either wander up, or get out of the pot," she gave such a advice to Clare. - Jane has died several months ago. You helped find her killer. You probably know: Jane would be upset by learning that you do not have fun from the money she left you. It was necessary to leave them to me. - Mirna in a feigned bewilder shook her head. - I would know what to do with them. Install the aircraft to Jamaica, there to put a good book to some kind of good book ... "

"Well yes. Everyone has its own purpose. Rastaman, let's say, good when hardening. But with a book in a hardcover, it is better not to have done. "

Clara laughed. They both loved books in solid binding. Not for the content, but for the cover. The book in hardcover is inconvenient to keep in hand, especially in bed.

"Unlike Rastaman," Mirna said.

So Mirna convinced his girlfriend to accept the death of Jane and start spending money, which was going to make Clara on this day. Finally, the rear seat will be filled with heavy multi-colored paper bags with a floculate handles and relief names of stores like "Holt Renfru" or "Wise". Not one yellow plastic package from the dollar-frame. Although Clara is secret and enthusiastically with this store.

Peter sat at the window at the window and looked outside, encouraging himself to do something constructive. Go to the studio, sit down for Easel. Suddenly he noticed that on one of the windows in the frost, there was a clever in the form of a heart. He smiled and looked through the heart on the street: three pines were engaged in supersatura. Then he looked up at Mahine of the old house on a hill. Old house Hadley. The temperature on the street began to fall, and in his eyes the heart began to delay the glacier again.

Rastaman is a follower of the religious movement of the Rastafarianism, which emerged on Jamaica. The basis of rastafarianism is the love of neighbor and the refusal of Western society. Rastamans consider the God of Emperor Ethiopia High Selessy I, carry dredis and smoke cannabis.

The novel "Deadly Cold" continues the series of investigations of the brilliant senior inspector Arman Hamash - a new character created by the pen Louise Penny, the world's only five-time laureate of Agatha Agatha Award.

In the village, three pines, which south of Montreal, an incredible murder occurred. The death of Cecilia de Poitiers on the snow-covered surface of the frozen lake, where she, together with other fans, watched the match on Curlling, and the murder tool was the metal chair connected to the current source. Someone thoroughly thought out and planned the murder, without leaving the victim of the slightest chance. The senior inspector of Arman Hamamas from Quebec Police is infrequently faced with such a sophisticated and cruel criminal. But what did this woman deserve such a terrible death?

On our site you can download the book "Deadly Cold" Penny Louise for free and without registration in FB2, RTF, EPUB, PDF, TXT format, read the book online or buy a book in the online store.

Louise Penny

Mortal cold

ABC® publishing house

Dedicated to my brother arc and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roselin and Charles,

who showed me what is

present courage. Namaste

Chapter first

- So what do you think? Do you like?

She set a book on his white belly.

Sol has not for the first time looked at the book. Over the past few days, Si-si every five minutes took this book from his huge handbag. At the business meetings, at dinner, during traveling in a taxi on the snow-covered Montreal streets Si Si suddenly leaked and solemnly straightened, holding his creation in his hands, as if he had another immaculate conception.

"I like the photo," said Sol, realizing that it insults her.

In her society, he has become cruel. He began to despise himself. But not with such a force, with what despised it.

"Is she believed in it?" He asked himself.

Although the Si de Poitiers had a serene, as if frozen appearance, hardly the word "calm" could have been associated with her.

It seemed to him or would she really frowned?

How much time is it necessary for this world to explode? Sol hoped that would be nearby and would see how it was happening. Nearby, but at a safe distance.

He was not blind or stupid - he noticed homeless men and women, noticed beaten faces in bruises, talking about a long empty night and even a long time in front.

P. 1 of 94.

ABC® publishing house

Dedicated to my brother arc and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roselin and Charles,

who showed me what is

present courage. Namaste

Chapter first

- So what do you think? Do you like?

She set a book on his white belly.

"I like the photo," said Sol, realizing that it insults her.

In her society, he has become cruel. He began to despise himself. But not with such a force, with what despised it.

"Is she believed in it?" He asked himself.

Although the Si de Poitiers had a serene, as if frozen appearance, hardly the word "calm" could have been associated with her.

ABC® publishing house

Dedicated to my brother arc and his family -

Mary, Brian, Roselin and Charles,

who showed me what is

present courage. Namaste

Chapter first

- So what do you think? Do you like?

She set a book on his white belly.

"I like the photo," said Sol, realizing that it insults her.

In her society, he has become cruel. He began to despise himself. But not with such a force, with what despised it.

"Is she believed in it?" He asked himself.

Although the Si de Poitiers had a serene, as if frozen appearance, hardly the word "calm" could have been associated with her.

It seemed to him or would she really frowned?

Louise Penny: death cold. Fatherly Cold Book Read Online Deadly Cold Read Online

Chapter first

Chapter Second

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Last

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