About the Book
Title: In The Prison of Our Grief
Author: S.E. Amadis
Genre: Action Thriller
A harsh prison in England.
The grisly, tragic murder of three babies.
The
murderess is on the loose... And Carrie Anne's made friends with her.
Will
she be able to find out the truth in time? Or will she become this sadistic
murderess' next victim?
Once again, Carrie Anne
finds herself in the centre of another terrifying ordeal...
In this
exciting sequel to Patricia, we
follow seventeen-year-old Carrie Anne Houghton and her new comrades-in-arms in
a whirling, dizzying, action-packed adventure
that spans two continents, from the glitzy high-rises of New York City to the
lonely expanses of rural Canada to the glamour and colour of Mediterranean
tourist resorts.
Persecution, murder, lies and deceit. Traps,
stormy Gothic settings, abandoned mansions and secret passageways. All of this comes
to vivid life in the pages of In the
Prison of our Grief.
A gripping, fast-paced, action-packed thriller featuring a strong
female protagonist and a quirky male counterpart. This book can be read as a
standalone.
Author Bio
I could never write about a happy, conventional couple
living in a happy, conventional, suburban neighbourhood with two cars and one
and a half children, a dog and a pet bird, working at happy, conventional,
uneventful jobs.
My heroes and heroines have to walk through fire (or
rather, crawl through fire), get strangled, beaten, shot at, drowned, poisoned,
get caught in tornados or earthquakes or get attacked by mutant gnats. Or, they have to strangle, beat, shoot,
drown and poison other people.
A story with anything less than these dramatic,
hair-raising elements was always too boring for me to even consider telling.
I believe in magic. I believe that the world is full
of mystery, and that there are more things in heaven and earth than could ever
be dreamt of in our conventional, logic-based philosophies.
Outside of that, as a dry, mundane list of facts about
me, I’m a single parent from a village near Montreal, Canada, who now enjoys
the freaking great good fortune to live happily with my two sons on the
almost-tropical south coast of Spain, basking in summer eight months of the
year. Typical activities include running a marathon with the kids to school
every morning and cooking frequently for an Always Hungry teenaged son with
four stomachs.
Links
Twitter: @seramadis
Amazon author page, on:
or
You can purchase the book at:
or
Book Excerpt
I yelped, snatched my arm away from him instinctively.
The knife blade drove into the floorboards beside me and my captor burst into
crazed laughter.
“You do know
how they mutilated my sweet Agate,” he said, and a shudder of sadness trembled
through him. “Of course you do. God, I can’t stand to think of these things. I
don’t want to remember.”
He glared at me with fiery eyes.
“But for you
I will make that sacrifice. For you I
will remember. Just so you can pay.”
He passed the flat part of his blade along the wound
in my arm, flipping it first on one side, then the other, almost as if he were
cleaning it out on my grimy sleeve.
“I always wondered why you chose to cut her arm.” He
raised his gaze and stared deep into mine. “And why mutilate her?” He took a
deep breath. “If you wanted her dead, why didn’t you just kill her? Deal that
final blow in one merciful instant. Why did you torture her? Are you a sadist?
Do you get off inflicting pain on babies,
for shit’s sake?”
I blinked. I had no idea how to answer him. Deep
inside I was longing to defend myself, but horror made me mute.
“I-I didn’t do it,” I whispered in as loud a voice as
I could. My throat felt closed off and dry, and it was all I could do to force
out even the slightest sound. Tears welled from my eyes, poured out onto my
cheeks. “I didn’t do it,” I whispered again. “You’re making a mistake...”
Mr. Walsh froze, his calm gaze resting on me almost as
if he were a friend. He glanced down, at the knife in his hand, at my slender
wrist pulsating with terror and dread at every heartbeat. Tears streamed freely
down my face now. He reached out a finger and caught a tear on the tip of his
finger. Studied the droplet as if suddenly filled with compassion.
“Are these... tears of... remorse, because you’re sorry for what you did, Carola?” he hissed.
“Or... are you crying because... you’re scared of what I’m going to do to you?”
His face twisted up. “Do you think Agatha was scared of you, when you did
those... horrors... to her? Do you
think she cried, and screamed in vain for someone to come and save her? Do you
think she died filled with agony, believing at the very last moment of her life
that no one cared about her or loved her enough to come to her rescue?”
He drew the blade against my wound, pressing harder
this time. A thin spot of blood welled up, blended with the filth on my sleeve.
“Yes. You couldn’t cut through the bone, because that
blunt kitchen knife simply wasn’t up to the task. But you did cut her flesh all the way down to the bone. You tortured her.”
He posed the sharp edge of his knife over the wound in
my arm, studied the angle the way a butcher studies his prime cuts.
“And that’s exactly what I’m going to do to you...”
