J.T. Ellison - All the Pretty Girls

“J.T. Ellison’s debut novel rocks.

Darkly compelling and thoroughly chilling, with rich

characterisation and a well-layered plot, All the Pretty

Girls is everything a great crime thriller should be.”

—Allison Brennann,

New York Times best selling author of Fear No Evil

“Taylor Jackson is a fresh portrayal of a cop with a serial

killer to catch. Creepy thrills from start to finish.”

—James O. Born, author of Burn Zone

“An impressive debut that is rich not just in suspense but

in the details. It’s all gritty, grisly and a great read.”

—M.J. Rose, international bestselling author of

The Reincarnationist

“All the Pretty Girls is a spellbinding suspense novel and

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, Edgar Award finalist

and author of All Mortal Flesh

“Ellison hits the ground running with an electrifying

debut. All the Pretty Girls is a masterful thriller, shockingly

authentic and unputdownable. Fans of Sandford,

Cornwell and Reichs will relish every page.”

—J.A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini

www.mirabooks.co.uk

J.T. ELLISONis a thriller writer based in Nashville, Tennessee. Her short stories have appeared in Demolition magazine, Flashing in the Gutters, Mouth Full of Bullets and Spinetingler magazine. All the Pretty Girls is her first novel in the Taylor Jackson series. She is a weekly columnist at Murderati.com and is a founding member of Killer Year. Visit JTEllison.com for more information.

Upcoming novels in the

Taylor Jackson series

14

JUDAS KISS

For Randy and my parents. Love you more.

The process of writing All the Pretty Girls was without a doubt a group effort. There are many people who graciously gave their time and expertise to help me get the details straight. I would like to send my deepest thanks to the following:

My extraordinary editor, Linda McFall of MIRA Books, and all of the MIRA team, especially Margaret Marbury and Dianne Moggy. A very special thank-you to Tara Kelly for designing the perfect cover.

My incredible agent Scott Miller, of Trident Media Group, for taking a chance on a unknown, and Holly Henderson Root, for all her help and editorial advice.

Detective David Achord of the Metro Nashville Homicide Department was an invaluable resource for the law enforcement details in the book. Not only did he allow me to ride along with him, he read, edited, gave ideas and information, encouraged me to keep on track and was always there for a question, chat or dinner. In the process, he’s become a great friend and I am very thankful to have him on my side.

Officer Carl Stocks of the Metro Nashville Police Department took me on a midnight-shift ride-along that changed my life. He showed me that the horrors we write and read about are very real and I have great respect for his abilities and dedication to getting it right.

The Metro Nashville Homicide Department gave me complete support and continues to handle even the most mundane questions. Detective Mike Mann helped me understand the mind-set a homicide detective must have to keep sane and shared in ghost stories. Dr Michael Tabor, the Forensic Dentist for the state of Tennessee, was a font of detail and information and my respect and awe for his efforts following the September 11 attacks is everlasting. Kris Rinearson of Forensic Medical and the Medical Examiner’s Officer for Tennessee provided long-standing insights.

Nashville is a wonderful city to write about. Though I try my best to keep things accurate, poetic licence is sometimes needed. All mistakes, exaggerations, opinions and interpretations are mine alone.

The support and encouragement of friends and family were vital for both motivation and sanity. Many thanks to the Bodacious Music City Wordsmiths – Janet, Mary, Rai, Cecelia, Peggy, my Dutch uncle Del Tinsley and my wonderful critique partner, J.B. Thompson. This story couldn’t have been told without your input! Joan Huston caught all the little errors and a couple of big ones. Linda Whaley is there for me always.

John Sandford inspired me to write and Stuart Woods gave me the rules. John Connolly taught me about faith, grace and pitch-prefect prose. Lee Childs, my ITW mentor, is just one big class act and M.J. Rose is always ready with a quip or a shoulder. Fellow authors Tasha Alexander, Brett Battles, Jason Pinter, Rob Gregory-Browne, Toni Causey, Kristy Kiernan and all the Killer Year folks have created a support net that is indispensable. My fellow Murderati bloggers keep me honest.

All my buddies at the Bellevue Post Office, who constantly cheer me on and treat every package with care.

My amazing parents, who constantly remind me that I can do whatever I set my mind to, and my brothers, who’ve always stood behind me. Jade the cat listened attentively whenever I needed a sounding board and amazed me with her ability to park her butt on each page of the manuscript as it printed.

Finally, to Randy. Your love, fortitude, patience, indulgence, sacrifice and faith in me keep me going. You are the keeper of my soul.

“No. Please don’t.” She whispered the words, a divine prayer. “No. Please don’t.” There they were again, bubbles forming at her lips, the words slipping out as if greased from her tongue.

Even in death, Jessica Ann Porter was unfailingly polite. She wasn’t struggling, wasn’t crying, just pleading with those luminescent chocolate eyes, as eager to please as a puppy. He tried to shake off the thought. He’d had a puppy once. It had licked his hand and gleefully scampered about his feet, begging to be played with. It wasn’t his fault that the thing’s bones were so fragile, that the roughhousing meant for a boy and his dog forced a sliver of rib into the little creature’s heart. The light shone, then faded in the puppy’s eyes as it died in the grass in his backyard. That same light in Jessica’s eyes, her life leaching slowly from their cinnamon depths, died at this very moment.

He noted the signs of death dispassionately. Blue lips, cyanotic. The hemorrhaging in the sclera of the eyes, pinpoint pricks of crimson. The body seemed to cool immediately, though he knew it would take some time for the heat to fully dissipate. The vivacious yet shy eighteen-year-old was now nothing more than a piece of meat, soon to be consigned back to the earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Blowfly to maggot. The life cycle complete once again.

He shook off the reverie. It was time to get to work. Glancing around, he spied his tool kit. He didn’t remember kicking it over, perhaps his memory was failing him. Had the girl actually struggled? He didn’t think so, but confusion sets in at the most important moments. He would have to consider that later, when he could give it his undivided thought. Only the radiant glow of her eyes at the moment of expiration remained for him now. He palmed the handsaw and lifted her limp hand.

No, please don’t. Three little words, innocuous in their definitions. No great allegories, no ethical dilemmas. No, please don’t. The words echoed through his brain as he sawed, their rhythm spurring his own. No, please don’t. No, please don’t. Back and forth, back and forth.