Forensic geologist Raleigh Harmon unravels mysteries in her hometown of Richmond where things are never quite what they seem. Raleigh's exemplary service in Seattle opened the door for her disciplinary transfer to be lifted, allowing her to return to her home FBI field office in Richmond, VA. A civil rights case turns out to be much more complex than anyone thought when Raleigh is forced to go undercover in a drug trafficking case. Things aren't any simpler at home. Raleigh's old friend DeMott wants her to find time for things outside of her FBI work: friendship and maybe something more. Raleigh will have to rely on her sharpest skills--and the faith that is slowly returning to her--to navigate her way through these clouds. *Starred Review* Someone in Richmond, Virginia’s elite historical neighbornood wants rap star RPM to leave their little slice of paradise, and they let him know by burning a cross in his yard. FBI agent Raleigh Harmon, a forensic geologist transferred back home from the Pacific Northwest, is tapped to investigate what seems to be a hate crime, but soon discovers it’s more than that. As Raleigh dedicates herself to solving this case, going undercover for a dangerous sting, her former boyfriend, DeMott Fielding, wants to rekindle their relationship. Pulled in too many ways by ostracism at work, DeMott’s renewed need for her (and her time), and her widowed mother’s increasingly worse mental condition, Raleigh is on the edge. Beautifully written with exquisite descriptions, Giorello’s mystery also features well-developed characters, such as a rapper who plays classical music on a cello to relax. The themes of redemption and faith rediscovered are subtly integrated into the story. This is the third title in journalist Giorello’s excellent Raleigh Harmon series, following The Stones Cry Out (2007) and The Rivers Run Dry (2009). Libraries will want all three. --Shelley Mosley The Clouds Roll Away A Raleigh Harmon Novel By Sibella Giorello Thomas Nelson Copyright © 2010 Sibella Giorello All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-59554-534-3 CHAPTER 1 Winter rode into Richmond on the chattering breath of the Atlantic. Each year the season blew itself into existence. The ancient elms crystallized and frost crocheted the birches into lace doilies. On this particular December morning, with a bright sun overhead, I drove out New Market Road past fields that glistened like crushed diamonds. For this moment, my hometown looked cryogenically frozen, preserved for future generations to discover Richmond's wide river, verdant soils, and the plantation lifestyle forged through generations—gone tragically, humanly awry. But the reverie was shattered by two elephants. Carved from white granite, they stood on either side of a black asphalt driveway with a steel sign naming the property: Rapland. The scene of the crime. I turned down the asphalt driveway. It was a long drive, rolling over fenced fields where satiny horses were grazing, their breath quick clouds that evaporated in the sun. At the other end, an old plantation house faced the James River. The historic clapboards were painted polo white, the copper cupola green from exposure. But pink stucco additions rose starkly on either side, modern additions with plate-glass windows that stared down on the historic middle and made it look priggish and stuffy, like a dusty repository for outdated books. A muscular man stepped from the guardhouse as my car came around the driveway's final curve. His thighs were wide and carried him in a twisting, muscle-bound stride. In his right hand he held an assault rifle. I stopped my car behind the gray Bentley parked in the driveway and reached under my blazer, placing my right hand on my Glock. With my left, I opened the car door six inches, preparing to use it as a shield if necessary. The man stood beside my car. He wore mirrored aviator sunglasses. In the reflection, I saw myself, my old white car, and the new pink additions to the house. "Agent Raleigh Harmon with the FBI," I said. "We got a call this morning." "I need to see the ID." My right hand remained on the Glock. I lifted my credentials with my left. He stared at the picture with the Bureau's blue-and-gold insignia and then flicked his chin, indicating I could put them away. "What're you carrying?" he asked. "Pardon?" "It's a .45, isn't it?" I gave him my official smile—the smile of an armed public servant. "The phone call we received this morning sounded urgent," I said. "We can get to that after we play show-and-tell." He popped gum between his white teeth, a brisk scent of spearmint filling the air. "If you're not carrying a .45, then it's a nine." "Nine millimeter?" "Yeah." "Wrong. It's a forty. The game's officially over. Who's in charge around here?" He strode back to the guardhouse, slid open the pocket door, and picked up the telephone. "The Feds are here," he said into the receiver. "And the G-man? It's a girl." The historic part of the house