#1 New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts presents a novel of redemption and suspense, as a woman haunted by the unsolved murder of her childhood friend returns to her small South Carolina hometown... Tory Bodeen grew up in a run-down house where her father ruled with an iron fist and a leather belt—and where her dreams and talents had no room to flourish. Her one escape was her neighbor Hope, whose friendship allowed Tory to be the child she wasn't allowed to be at home. Then Hope was brutally murdered, and everything fell apart. Now, as she returns to Progress with plans to settle in and open a stylish home-design shop, Tory is determined to find a measure of peace and free herself from the haunting visions of the past. As she forges a new bond with Cade Lavelle—Hope’s older brother and the heir to the family fortune—she isn’t sure whether the tragic loss they share will unite them or drive them apart. But she is willing to open her heart, just a little, and try. But living so close to those unhappy memories will be more difficult and frightening than Tory could ever have expected. Because Hope’s murderer is nearby as well... “Roberts may have achieved her personal best in this tense Southern gothic. As atmospheric and unsettling as a Tennessee Williams play...This is romantic drama at its best.”— Publishers Weekly  (starred review) “Roberts weaves a story like no one else, and if possible, she just gets better. Carolina Moon is exceptional—a must-read.”— Rocky Mountain News “ Carolina Moon builds a commendably brisk narrative energy and pace.”— Time “The marshlands of South Carolina make the perfect stage for Gothic drama. The monotonous drone of insects, the live oaks weeping with moss, the dark and mysterious marshes themselves, lend a romantic, menacing atmosphere to Nora Roberts’ story...Nobody does mystery-romance better.”— The Atlanta Journal and Constitution Nora Roberts  is the #1  New York Times  bestselling author of more than 200 novels. She is also the author of the bestselling In Death series written under the pen name J. D. Robb. There are more than 500 million copies of her books in print. 1 She woke in the body of a dead friend. She was eight, tall for her age, fragile of bone, delicate of feature. Her hair was the color of corn silk, and slid prettily down her narrow back. Her mother loved to brush it every night, one hundred strokes with the soft-bristled, silver-backed brush that sat on the graceful cherry-wood vanity. The child's body remembered this, felt this, each long, sustained beat with the brush and how it made her imagine herself a cat being petted. How the light slanted over the pin boxes and the bottles of crystal and cobalt, and struck the silver back of the brush as it flashed over her hair. She remembered the scent of the room, smelled it even now. Gardenia. Always gardenia for Mama. And in the mirror, by lamplight, she could see the pale oval of her face, so young, so pretty, with those thoughtful blue eyes and smooth skin. So alive. Her name was Hope. The windows and French doors were closed because it was high summer. Heat pressed its damp fingers against the glass, but inside the house the air was cool, and her cotton nightgown stayed so crisp it crackled when she moved. It was the heat she wanted, and the adventure, but she kept those thoughts inside as she kissed Mama good night. A dainty peck against a perfumed cheek. Mama had the hall runners taken up and rolled into the attic every June. Now the loblolly pine floors with their coating of paste wax felt slick and smooth under the young girl's bare feet as she wandered out, down the hall with its panels of bald cypress and paintings in thick frames of dull gold. Up the sharp, winding curves of the stairs to her father's study. There her father's scent. Smoke, leather, Old Spice, and bourbon. She loved this room, with its rounded walls and big, heavy chairs with leather the color of the port her papa sometimes drank after supper. Here the circling shelves were jammed full with books and treasures. She loved the man who sat behind the enormous desk with his cigar and his shot glass and his ledgers. The love was an ache of the heart in the woman inside the child, a shaft of longing and of envy for that uncomplicated and complete love. His voice boomed, his arms were strong and his stomach soft as he enveloped her in a hug that was so different from the gentle and restrained good-night kiss from Mama. There's my princess, going off to the kingdom of dreams. What will I dream about, Papa? Knights and white chargers and adventures over the sea. She giggled, but rested her head on his shoulder a bit longer than usual, humming a little in her throat like a purring kitten. Did she know? Somehow did she know she would never sit safe on his lap again? Back down the stairs, past Cade's room. Not his bedtime, not yet, because he was four years older and a boy and cou