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The Witness Mass Market Paperback – January 28, 2014
Purchase options and add-ons
Daughter of a cold, controlling mother and an anonymous donor, studious, obedient Elizabeth Fitch finally let loose one night, drinking too much at a nightclub and allowing a strange man’s seductive Russian accent to lure her to a house on Lake Shore Drive.
Twelve years later, the woman now known as Abigail Lowery lives alone on the outskirts of a small town in the Ozarks. A freelance security systems designer, her own protection is supplemented by a fierce dog and an assortment of firearms. She keeps to herself, saying little, revealing nothing. Unfortunately, that seems to be the quickest way to get attention in a tiny southern town.
The mystery of Abigail Lowery and her sharp mind, secretive nature and unromantic viewpoint intrigues local police chief Brooks Gleason, on both a personal and professional level. And while he suspects that Abigail needs protection from something, Gleason is accustomed to two-bit troublemakers, not the powerful and dangerous men who are about to have him in their sights.
And Abigail Lowery, who has built a life based on security and self-control, is at risk of losing both.
- Print length496 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherBerkley
- Publication dateJanuary 28, 2014
- Dimensions4.13 x 1.06 x 6.75 inches
- ISBN-109780515151336
- ISBN-13978-0515151336
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Editorial Reviews
Review
Nora Roberts’s 200th Novel
“Roberts’ answer to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”—Kirkus Reviews
“Roberts is unrivaled, and her latest addictively readable novel is guaranteed to jangle readers’ nerves and keep them enthralled long past bedtime.”—Booklist (starred review)
“Taut, riveting drama that’s guaranteed to keep the adrenaline flowing. Another memorable page-turner from Roberts’s consistently remarkable pen.”—Library Journal
“One of Roberts's cleverest heroines yet, this intricately dramatic book only confirms that Roberts is a master of the genre.”—Publishers Weekly
“Legendary.”—Wall Street Journal
“Nora Roberts has done it again, proving once more that she is reigns supreme.”—thenewstribune.com
“Nora Roberts has done it again, proving once more that she reigns supreme.”—The Evening Sun (Hanover, NH)
“Romantic suspense fans can’t go wrong with this terrific blend of looming danger and unusual courtship. A really great read!”—RT Book Reviews
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
June 2000
Elizabeth Fitch's short-lived teenage rebellion began with L'Oréal Pure Black, a pair of scissors and a fake ID. It ended in blood.
For nearly the whole of her sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days she'd dutifully followed her mother's directives. Dr. Susan L. Fitch issued directives, not orders. Elizabeth had adhered to the schedules her mother created, ate the meals designed by her mother's nutritionist and prepared by her mother's cook, wore the clothes selected by her mother's personal shopper.
Dr. Susan L. Fitch dressed conservatively, as suited-in her opinion-her position as chief of surgery of Chicago's Silva Memorial Hospital. She expected, and directed, her daughter to do the same.
Elizabeth studied diligently, accepting and excelling in the academic programs her mother outlined. In the fall, she'd return to Harvard in pursuit of her medical degree. So she could become a doctor, like her mother-a surgeon, like her mother.
Elizabeth-never Liz or Lizzie or Beth-spoke fluent Spanish, French, Italian, passable Russian and rudimentary Japanese. She played both piano and violin. She'd traveled to Europe, to Africa. She could name all the bones, nerves and muscles in the human body and play Chopin's Piano Concerto-both Nos. 1 and 2, by rote.
She'd never been on a date or kissed a boy. She'd never roamed the mall with a pack of girls, attended a slumber party or giggled with friends over pizza or hot fudge sundaes.
She was, at sixteen years, eight months and twenty-one days, a product of her mother's meticulous and detailed agenda.
That was about to change.
She watched her mother pack. Susan, her rich brown hair already coiled in her signature French twist, neatly hung another suit in the organized garment bag, then checked off the printout with each day of the week's medical conference broken into subgroups. The printout included a spreadsheet listing every event, appointment, meeting and meal, scheduled with the selected outfit, with shoes, bag and accessories.
Designer suits; Italian shoes, of course, Elizabeth thought. One must wear good cuts, good cloth. But not one rich or bright color among the blacks, grays, taupes. She wondered how her mother could be so beautiful and deliberately wear the dull.
After two accelerated semesters of college, Elizabeth thought she'd begun-maybe-to develop her own fashion sense. She had, in fact, bought jeans and a hoodie and some chunky-heeled boots in Cambridge.
With cash, so the receipt wouldn't show up on her credit card bill, in case her mother or their accountant checked and questioned the items, which were currently hidden in her room.
She'd felt like a different person wearing them, so different she'd walked straight into a McDonald's and ordered her first Big Mac with large fries and a chocolate shake.
The pleasure had been so huge, she'd had to go into the bathroom, close herself in a stall and cry a little.
The seeds of the rebellion had been planted that day, she supposed, or maybe they'd always been there, dormant, and the fat and salt had awakened them.
But she could feel them, actually feel them, sprouting in her belly now.
"Your plans changed, Mother. It doesn't follow that mine have to change with them."
Susan took a moment to precisely place a shoe bag in the Pullman, tucking it just so with her beautiful and clever surgeon's hands, the nails perfectly manicured. A French manicure, as always-no color there, either.
"Elizabeth." Her voice was as polished and calm as her wardrobe. "It took considerable effort to reschedule and have you admitted to the summer program this term. You'll complete the requirements for your admission into Harvard Medical School a full semester ahead of schedule."
Even the thought made Elizabeth's stomach hurt. "I was promised a three-week break, including this next week in New York."
"And sometimes promises must be broken. If I hadn't had this coming week off, I couldn't fill in for Dr. Dusecki at the conference."
"You could have said no."
"That would have been selfish and shortsighted." Susan brushed at the jacket she'd hung, stepped back to check her list. "You're certainly mature enough to understand the demands of work overtake pleasure and leisure."
"If I'm mature enough to understand that, why aren't I mature enough to make my own decisions? I want this break. I need it."
Susan barely spared her daughter a glance. "A girl of your age, physical condition and mental acumen hardly needs a break from her studies and activities. In addition, Mrs. Laine has already left for her two-week cruise, and I could hardly ask her to postpone her vacation. There's no one to fix your meals or tend to the house."
"I can fix my own meals and tend the house."
"Elizabeth." The tone managed to merge clipped with long-suffering. "It's settled."
"And I have no say in it? What about developing my independence, being responsible?"
"Independence comes in degrees, as does responsibility and freedom of choice. You still require guidance and direction. Now, I've e-mailed you an updated schedule for the coming week, and your packet with all the information on the program is on your desk. Be sure to thank Dr. Frisco personally for making room for you in the summer term."
As she spoke, Susan closed the garment bag, then her small Pullman. She stepped to her bureau to check her hair, her lipstick.
"You don't listen to anything I say."
In the mirror, Susan's gaze shifted to her daughter. The first time, Elizabeth thought, her mother had bothered to actually look at her since she'd come into the bedroom. "Of course I do. I heard everything you said, very clearly."
"Listening's different than hearing."
"That may be true, Elizabeth, but we've already had this discussion."
"It's not a discussion, it's a decree."
Susan's mouth tightened briefly, the only sign of annoyance. When she turned, her eyes were coolly, calmly blue. "I'm sorry you feel that way. As your mother, I must do what I believe best for you."
"What's best for me, in your opinion, is for me to do, be, say, think, act, want, become exactly what you decided for me before you inseminated yourself with precisely selected sperm."
She heard the rise of her own voice but couldn't control it, felt the hot sting of tears in her eyes but couldn't stop them. "I'm tired of being your experiment. I'm tired of having every minute of every day organized, orchestrated and choreographed to meet your expectations. I want to make my own choices, buy my own clothes, read books I want to read. I want to live my own life instead of yours."
Susan's eyebrows lifted in an expression of mild interest. "Well. Your attitude isn't surprising, given your age, but you've picked a very inconvenient time to be defiant and argumentative."
"Sorry. It wasn't on the schedule."
"Sarcasm's also typical, but it's unbecoming." Susan opened her briefcase, checked the contents. "We'll talk about all this when I get back. I'll make an appointment with Dr. Bristoe."
"I don't need therapy! I need a mother who listens, who gives a shit about how I feel."
"That kind of language only shows a lack of maturity and intellect."
Enraged, Elizabeth threw up her hands, spun in circles. If she couldn't be calm and rational like her mother, she'd be wild. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
"And repetition hardly enhances. You have the rest of the weekend to consider your behavior. Your meals are in the refrigerator or freezer, and labeled. Your pack list is on your desk. Report to Ms. Vee at the university at eight on Monday morning. Your participation in this program will ensure your place in HMS next fall. Now, take my garment bag downstairs, please. My car will be here any minute."
Oh, those seeds were sprouting, cracking that fallow ground and pushing painfully through. For the first time in her life, Elizabeth looked straight into her mother's eyes and said, "No."
She spun around, stomped away and slammed the door of her bedroom. She threw herself down on the bed, stared at the ceiling with tear-blurred eyes. And waited.
Any second, any second, she told herself. Her mother would come in, demand an apology, demand obedience. And Elizabeth wouldn't give one, either.
They'd have a fight, an actual fight, with threats of punishment and consequences. Maybe they'd yell at each other. Maybe if they yelled, her mother would finally hear her.
And maybe, if they yelled, she could say all the things that had crept up inside her this past year. Things she thought now had been inside her forever.
She didn't want to be a doctor. She didn't want to spend every waking hour on a schedule or hide a stupid pair of jeans because they didn't fit her mother's dress code.
She wanted to have friends, not approved socialization appointments. She wanted to listen to the music girls her age listened to. She wanted to know what they whispered about and laughed about and talked about while she was shut out.
She didn't want to be a genius or a prodigy.
She wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be like everyone else.
She swiped at the tears, curled up, stared at the door.
Any second, she thought again. Any second now. Her mother had to be angry. She had to come in and assert authority. Had to.
"Please," Elizabeth murmured as seconds ticked into minutes. "Don't make me give in again. Please, please, don't make me give up."
Love me enough. Just this once.
But as the minutes dragged on, Elizabeth pushed herself off the bed. Patience, she knew, was her mother's greatest weapon. That, and the unyielding sense of being right, crushed all foes. And certainly her daughter was no match for it.
Defeated, she walked out of her room, toward her mother's.
The garment bag, the briefcase, the small, wheeled Pullman were gone. Even as she walked downstairs, she knew her mother had gone, too.
"She left me. She just left."
Alone, she looked around the pretty, tidy living room. Everything perfect-the fabrics, the colors, the art, the arrangement. The antiques passed down through generations of Fitches-all quiet elegance.
Empty.
Nothing had changed, she realized. And nothing would.
"So I will."
She didn't allow herself to think, to question or second-guess. Instead, she marched back up, snagged scissors from her study area.
In her bathroom, she studied her face in the mirror-coloring she'd gotten through paternity-auburn hair, thick like her mother's but without the soft, pretty wave. Her mother's high, sharp cheekbones, her biological father's-whoever he was-deep-set green eyes, pale skin, wide mouth.
Physically attractive, she thought, because that was DNA and her mother would tolerate no less. But not beautiful, not striking like Susan, no. And that, she supposed, had been a disappointment even her mother couldn't fix.
"Freak." Elizabeth pressed a hand to the mirror, hating what she saw in the glass. "You're a freak. But as of now, you're not a coward."
Taking a big breath, she yanked up a hunk of her shoulder-length hair and whacked it off.
With every snap of the scissors she felt empowered. Her hair, her choice. She let the shorn hanks fall on the floor. As she snipped and hacked, an image formed in her mind. Eyes narrowed, head angled, she slowed the clipping. It was just geometry, really, she decided-and physics. Action and reaction.
The weight-physical and metaphorical, she thought-just fell away. And the girl in the glass looked lighter. Her eyes seemed bigger, her face not so thin, not so drawn.
She looked . . . new, Elizabeth decided.
Carefully, she set the scissors down, and, realizing her breath was heaving in and out, made a conscious effort to slow it.
So short. Testing, she lifted a hand to her exposed neck, ears, then brushed them over the bangs she'd cut. Too even, she decided. She hunted up manicure scissors, tried her hand at styling.
Not bad. Not really good, she admitted, but different. That was the whole point. She looked, and felt, different.
But not finished.
Leaving the hair where it lay on the floor, she went into her bedroom, changed into her secret cache of clothes. She needed product-that's what the girls called it. Hair product. And makeup. And more clothes.
She needed the mall.
Riding on the thrill, she went into her mother's home office, took the spare car keys. And her heart hammered with excitement as she hurried to the garage. She got behind the wheel, shut her eyes a moment.
"Here we go," she said quietly, then hit the garage-door opener and backed out.
She got her ears pierced. It seemed a bold if mildly painful move, and suited the hair dye she’d taken from the shelf after a long, careful study and debate. She bought hair wax, as she’d seen one of the girls at college use it and thought she could duplicate the look. More or less.
She bought two hundred dollars' worth of makeup because she wasn't sure what was right.
Then she had to sit down because her knees shook. But she wasn't done, Elizabeth reminded herself, as she watched the packs of teenagers, groups of women, teams of families, wander by. She just needed to regroup.
She needed clothes, but she didn't have a plan, a list, an agenda. Impulse buying was exhilarating, and exhausting. The temper that had driven her this far left her with a dull headache, and her earlobes throbbed a little.
The logical, sensible thing to do was go home, lie down for a while. Then plan, make that list of items to be purchased.
But that was the old Elizabeth. This one was just going to catch her breath.
The problem facing her now was that she wasn't precisely sure which store or stores she should go to. There were so many of them, and all the windows full of things. So she'd wander, watch for girls her age. She'd go where they went.
She gathered her bags, pushed to her feet-and bumped into someone.
"Excuse me," she began, then recognized the girl. "Oh. Julie."
"Yeah." The blonde with the sleek, perfect hair and melted-chocolate eyes gave Elizabeth a puzzled look. "Do I know you?"
"Probably not. We went to school together. I was student teacher in your Spanish class. Elizabeth Fitch."
"Elizabeth, sure. The brain trust." Julie narrowed her sulky eyes. "You look different."
"Oh. I . . ." Embarrassed now, Elizabeth lifted a hand to her hair. "I cut my hair."
"Cool. I thought you moved away or something."
"I went to college. I'm home for the summer."
"Oh, yeah, you graduated early. Weird."
"I suppose it is. Will you go to college this fall?"
"I'm supposed to go to Brown."
"That's a wonderful school."
"Okay. Well . . ."
Product details
- ASIN : 0515151335
- Publisher : Berkley; Reprint edition (January 28, 2014)
- Language : English
- Mass Market Paperback : 496 pages
- ISBN-10 : 9780515151336
- ISBN-13 : 978-0515151336
- Item Weight : 8.1 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.13 x 1.06 x 6.75 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #24,177 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #1,367 in Contemporary Women Fiction
- #2,658 in Romantic Suspense (Books)
- #9,641 in Contemporary Romance (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Nora Roberts is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than 200 novels, including Shelter in Place, Year One, Come Sundown, and many more. She is also the author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J.D. Robb. There are more than five hundred million copies of her books in print.
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"The barb in the arrow of childhood suffering is this: its intense loneliness, its intense ignorance."
- Olive Schreiner,
For me, Elizabeth Fitch is along the lines of Lisbeth Salander (TGWTDT). IQ off the charts, even though Lisbeth has to deal with her hardships, Elizabeth has her crosses to bear as well. That’s where the lines blur, yet their inner core of strength shine through, which puts them both in my top spot for female characters.
Liz’s rebellion starts at 16. Her mother has been dictating her life up until this point. Where she goes to school, what she wears, who she sees outside of school, what she eats. She’s cold and not a mother at all. To her mother, Liz is a science project, someone she can mold, and control. Elizabeth is having none of it. They have a fight, her mother is off to a convention and she expects Elizabeth to take pre-med classes, with her mother’s colleague. Elizabeth doesn’t want to go, she was promised time off and her mother wants to hear none of it. Her mom walks out (her usual silent treatment) and goes on her merry way. Elizabeth hops in her mothers car and heads to the mall to actually find herself. New clothes, shoes, makeup, hair. She wants to watch the other girls interact with each other, talk about boys. She wanted all the things her mother wouldn’t allow her to have, a normal childhood.
She meets up with Julie Masters by chance at the mall. Julie is a few years older than her, they went to school together, and wouldn’t it be Liz’s luck Julie just broke up with her boyfriend. They get to talking about going to clubs, but she doesn’t have ID. The two strike a deal. Julie helps Liz buy clothes, and makeup, and Liz would make them the fake Ids’.
Julie picks her up with a cab, and they are on their way to a happening club owned by Russian mobsters. Which Liz knows, because she’s researched the place. (Her mother wants her to be a Doctor, but Liz wants to work for the FBI in their cyber crimes department) I can’t stress enough that Liz has a seriously high IQ, photographic memory, and social awkwardness. I couldn’t help but think maybe she was on the Spectrum, but regardless she knows facts and she’s very literal.
They have drinks, dance, and catch the eye of Alexi and Ilya. The men wine and dine them, and decide they want to go back to Alexi’s house for some ‘fun’… Ilya gets called away at the last minute , Julie, Alexi, and Liz take off. This is where things go very, very, badly. Alexi has been stealing from Ilya’s father, was picked up by the police, and in the world of the Mafia, you’re a big fat liability. They send in their mechanics, and kill Alexi while Liz is outside regrouping from being sick from all the alcohol consumption, she watches the whole kill go down. Julie stumbles out of the bathroom while Alexi is lying on the floor dead, and they kill Julie as well. Ilya walks in and freaks out because the hit wasn’t suppose to take place until tomorrow night, knowing the girls were at the house. He also knows that Liz is somewhere on the property and she must die.
Liz gets away, calls the police, goes through the story, FBI gets involved, they put her into protective custody and s*** gets doubly bad. Ilya’s father has a far reach; which means he has police, US Marshalls, and FBI in his pocket. The bad Marshalls set things into motion to kill Liz, which happens to be on her 17th birthday. She has formed deep emotional ties to her watchers, Terry and John. They treat her like a person, truly care about her, and she gobbles it up because she has never had these emotions or ties. Marshal Keegan, and Cosgrove show up to take over and ambush, John, and Terry, killing them both. As Marshal John Barrow lay dying he gives Liz his back-up gun and tells her to run. Out the window she goes and as she’s making her escape in a bad storm the house explodes behind her.
Liz has been on the run ever since. We move on to Brook’s part of the story which takes us to a little town in the Ozarks. Brooks is the Sheriff of the town and he is intrigued with the newcomer that stays to herself. He noses around a bit, like any good cop and forms a relationship with Liz, who is now going by the name Abigail. This is where the story goes from fantastic to blow me away. This book is all about character. The ending is absolutely fantastic. I thought it was going to go one way and she blew me away with the outcome. I’ve read a lot of Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb books over the years, but this book, is by far one of her best books period.
Favorite Quotes:
“You… prevaricated so he’d feel some sympathy toward me and less curiosity about the cameras, the gun and so on.” “ I like ’pervaricated.’ It’s an important word, and classier than ’lied.’”
“I’ve never been romantic, not before you. But you make me want moonlight, and wildflowers and whispers in the dark.”
Written in 2012, “The Witness” is one of the best romance/thriller novels in recent years.
The plot begins in Chicago, where 16-year-old prodigy, Elizabeth Finch is struggling to separate from her domineering mother. Mom goes out of town and Elizabeth decides to party. Big mistake. Elizabeth’s friend gets picked up by a gangster and things spiral out of control. Elizabeth witnesses a mob murder and enters the witness protection program. The bad guys come after her and Elizabeth flees.
Twelve years later, Elizabeth, now known as Abigail Lowery, is living in a small Ozark community, Bickford, Arkansas. A beautiful recluse, Abigail draws the attention of hunky police chief Brooks Gleason. She wants to stay aloof but can’t.
“The Witness” has a straightforward plot. It begins with the horrendous event in Chicago. Then the scene shifts to Bickford and the Abigail/Brooks romance. The novel concludes with the resolution of Abigail/Elizabeth’s problem: she and Brooks figure out how to deal with the bad guys who are after her.
The characterization of Abigail/Elizabeth makes “The Witness” a classic romance/thriller. She’s probably too intelligent, but we don’t care because she is believably damaged and then healed by Brooks.
But, first of all, the woman has published hundreds of novels, but only written about 20. I'm convinced she keeps plot, body, personality types in a closet, strictly labeled by trope. I could forgive her that. But she's also horribly sexist. She's incorrigible. with it.
In this one, the heroine is (I'm assuming) somewhere on the spectrum. She's very very smart. She has lived by her wits for many many years and yet. When confronted by a flirtatious, nosy small town sheriff, she just can't hold her own. She's survived all those years by keeping her distance, but has no clue how to handle an incredibly presumptuous nosey parker. Please. Added to that, his attention is cloying and, as I said, presumptuous. I would have kept him at the gate and made him get a warrant, if he could come up with a reasonable suspicion of any crime. But her? No, she folds like a wet blanket. This must be said. Roberts does not draw strong heroines on her canvas. She draws brittle, macho ones. Her self-plagiarism tosses the same character tropes in along with her plot tropes. There's the quirkly mother. Slutty villager. Best friend who owns a 5 star (ALWAYS a 5 star) hotel. And here, there's the hero, who barges his way into her life in a way that would have me calling his supervisor. And keeping him away from my computers.
So I started this with my pet peeve about Roberts. But with all that, it has to be said she writes an entertaining tale (and I can just always wish she would cut the crap with the sexism). She's got great one liners, and often springs them on you. I like that. In her most recent books, she brings interesting subjects into it, like how one goes about surviving being targeted by the mob. But always, I end up mad that she can't seem to leave the 70s and 80s behind and make her women actual adults who can rule without being (somewhere deep deep inside, mind you) extremely fragile.
Top reviews from other countries
Very well written..Another great book of hers is " Identity " a must read!
Nora Robert’s never fails to deliver.
the characters were fabolous, even though I felt like Brooks moved too quick and sometimes went too far with his advances toward Liz.
what makes the book even better is, if you read it with Booth's and Bones' voices - hilarious and loveable.