Internationally acclaimed forensic anthropologist and New York Times bestselling author Kathy Reichs explores Stockholm syndrome—the psychology of a captive submitting to the ideology of a captor—in this mesmerizing new thriller. The bones of three young women are unearthed in the basement of a Montreal pizza parlor, and forensic anthropologist Tempe Brennan has unsolved murder on her mind as she examines the shallowly buried remains. Coming up against a homicide cop who is convinced the dead have been entombed on the site for centuries, Tempe perseveres, even as her own relationship with Detective Andrew Ryan is at a delicate turning point. In the lab, the clean, well-preserved bones offer few clues. But when carbon-14 dating confirms her hunch that these were recent deaths despite the antique buttons found near the bodies, Tempe finds herself drawn deep into a web of evil from which there may be no escape. Women have disappeared, never to return...and she may be next. Praise for Kathy Reichs "Reichs writes smart—no, make that brilliant—mysteries." —James Patterson “I love Kathy Reichs…Always scary, always suspenseful, and I always learn something.” —Lee Child, bestselling author of the Jack Reacher series “Nobody writes a more imaginative thriller than Kathy Reichs or crafts a better sentence.” —Clive Cussler, bestselling author of Night Probe and Sahara "Each book is better than the last." —Lisa Scottoline, bestselling author of Look Again “Kathy Reichs continues to be one of the most distinctive and talented writers in the genre.” —Sandra Brown, New York Times bestselling author of White Hot and Chill Factor "One of my favorite writers.” —Karin Slaughter, author of Pieces of Her and Pretty Girls "Kathy Reichs is expert at making science both scary and thrilling.” —Tess Gerritsen, bestselling author of Choose Me Kathy Reichs’s first novel Déjà Dead , published in 1997, won the Ellis Award for Best First Novel and was an international bestseller. Evil Bones is Reichs’s twenty-fourth novel featuring forensic anthropologist Temperance Brennan. Reichs was also a producer of Fox Television’s longest running scripted drama, Bones , which was based on her work and her novels. One of very few forensic anthropologists certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology, Reichs divides her time between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Charleston, South Carolina. Visit her at KathyReichs.com or follow her on X @KathyReichs, Instagram @KathyReichs, or Facebook @KathyReichsBooks. Monday Mourning 1 Monday, Monday . . . Can’t trust that day . . . AS THE TUNE PLAYED INSIDE MY HEAD, GUNFIRE exploded in the cramped underground space around me. My eyes flew up as muscle, bone, and guts splattered against rock just three feet from me. The mangled body seemed glued for a moment, then slid downward, leaving a smear of blood and hair. I felt warm droplets on my cheek, backhanded them with a gloved hand. Still squatting, I swiveled. “Assez!” Enough! Sergeant-détective Luc Claudel’s brows plunged into a V. He lowered but did not holster his nine-millimeter. “Rats. They are the devil’s spawn.” Claudel’s French was clipped and nasal, reflecting his upriver roots. “Throw rocks,” I snapped. “That bastard was big enough to throw them back.” Hours of squatting in the cold and damp on a December Monday in Montreal had taken a toll. My knees protested as I rose to a standing position. “Where is Charbonneau?” I asked, rotating one booted foot, then the other. “Questioning the owner. I wish him luck. Moron has the IQ of pea soup.” “The owner discovered this?” I flapped a hand at the ground behind me. “Non. Le plombier.” “What was a plumber doing in the cellar?” “Genius spotted a trapdoor beside the commode, decided to do some underground exploration to acquaint himself with the sewage pipes.” Remembering my own descent down the rickety staircase, I wondered why anyone would take the risk. “The bones were lying on the surface?” “Says he tripped on something sticking out of the ground. There.” Claudel cocked his chin at a shallow pit where the south wall met the dirt floor. “Pulled it loose. Showed the owner. Together they checked out the local library’s anatomy collection to see if the bone was human. Picked a book with nice color pictures since they probably can’t read.” I was about to ask a follow-up question when something clicked above us. Claudel and I looked up, expecting his partner. Instead of Charbonneau, we saw a scarecrow man in a knee-length sweater, baggy jeans, and dirty blue Nikes. Pigtails wormed from the lower edge of a red bandanna wrapped his head. The man was crouched in the doorway, pointing a throwaway Kodak in my direction. Claudel’s V narrowed and his parrot nose went a deeper red. “Tabarnac!” Two more clicks, then bandanna man scrabbled sideways. Holstering his weapon, Claudel grabbed the wooden railing.