By Fern Michaels
Celebrate With The Sisterhood
Thanks to a presidential pardon, the Sisterhood can positioned their fugitive days at the back of them and resume their lives in peace. nonetheless, all of the ladies admit that in recent times issues are a bit too calm and peaceable. assembly up for the 1st time in months to have a good time Kathryn's birthday—in the town of Sin, no less—seems just like the excellent antidote.
But sooner than they could kick up their heels anything too monstrous to cross up is dropped into their laps. The time has come to house Enemy number 1, a/k/a Hank Jellicoe. sought after through the FBI, the CIA, and place of birth safeguard for starters, President Connor herself has run out of endurance with their loss of effects. merely the Sisterhood, with their specific mixture of guts, mind's eye, and neighbors everywhere are in a position to pulling off the impossible—of removing this monster and taking him out as soon as and for all...
Praise for Fern Michaels and her Sisterhood novels. . .
"Revenge is a dish top served with textile napkins and floral centerpieces. . .fast-paced. . .puts poetic justice first."—Publishers Weekly on Payback
"Delectable. . .deliver[s] revenge that's creatively speedy and candy, Michaels-style."
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Extra info for Deja Vu (The Sisterhood, Book 19)
Last spring, some people wandered across my neighbour’s field with their dog and killed three of his lambs. ’ ‘I’m sorry about that but…’ ‘And Rod Wilson, just over there, he used to send calves over to Ostend. They started with the picketing of the port at Goldswan Green. Couple of months ago, Rod’s barn was burned down. It’ll be somebody’s house next. ’ ‘All right, all right. You know what I’ll do? ’ ‘I did. I’ve bought Elm House on the other side of Lymne. Lumney. ’ ‘Did you now. We always like visitors from London.
Find me some bloody evidence. ’ Six In just a couple of weeks I had managed to construct a life for myself. I had a house and a garden. The house was old with large windows and a solid, four-square shape and stood on what must have been a quayside long ago. Now it looked forlornly across marshland to the sea, half a mile away. In the hectic few days after buying the house in November I had asked around in the estate agent and in the shop a couple of miles up the road in Lymne and found a child-minder.
She was surprised at herself, embarrassed almost. When she was a child, her uncle had led her through a slaughterhouse outside Fuenteobejuna and had smiled down at her as she refused to faint in the face of the blood and dismemberment and above all the steam rising from the cold stone floor. That was the smell she had remembered. It wasn’t a barn at all. There were splashes of blood across such a wide area, even on the ceiling, on the far wall, that Mr Mackenzie might have exploded. Mostly, though, it was in dark pools on his lap and on the sofa.
Deja Vu (The Sisterhood, Book 19) by Fern Michaels