Her first novel, Topping from Below, was a cause celebre of erotic fiction. Now, in Panic Snap, Laura Reese once again crosses the boundary between pleasure and pain with a story of extreme sexual obsession and one family's terrible secret. The accused murderess in a sensational trial, Carly Tyler waits outside a California courtroom as a jury decides her fate: Is she the depraved Madame de Sade of the newspaper headlines or the innocent victim of one wealthy family's gothic past? Left for dead by the side of a road fifteen years earlier, she emerged from a coma with no memory and a face completely altered by the plastic surgery need to repair her injuries. Who is she and what happened to her? The trail leads her to a magnificent vineyard and its mysterious owner, James McGuane, a man of wealth and immense sexual charisma who holds the key to her past. But to unlock it, she must risk her life on a terrifying erotic journey that tears apart a dynasty and reveals the truth about an appalling murder. "Wickedly raunchy...suspenseful...charged with carnal energy." -- Publishers Weekly "Blurring the line between pleasure and pain, Reese wraps a wickedly raunchy tale of sexual obsession and sadomasochism inside a taut, suspenseful thriller...Her prowess in mixing erotica and mystery creates frissons of excitement." -- Publishers Weekly "[A] highly erotic novel...dangerous sexual appeal." -- Woman's Own "Fiendishly horny, unexpectedly affecting, this is an arresting first novel." -Mary Gaitskill "Devishly pornographic...comparison to Story of O> is well earned." -Publishers Weekly Laura Reese is the author of the critically acclaimed topping from Below. She lives in Davis, California. Panic Snap Before the VerdictI must not think about the verdict. I must NOT. But, of course, I do. I can think of nothing else. I keep looking at the clock, watching the time, wondering when the jury will reach a decision. I can see it there, up high, through that narrow slit of a window, plain as day. It's the old-fashioned kind, with a round face and big black numerals and a constantly moving red second hand, ticking off the time. No digital numbers flashing, not on this one. I look again. The red second hand continues its sweep, steady, unrelenting: five hours so far and still no verdict.Limping from my injuries, I pace back and forth, slowly, from the gray west wall to the locked door and then back again, a short distance, a few steps. The first hour or two wasn't so bad, not really. My lawyers came, gave me a few encouraging words, sat with me for a while. I could tell, despite their words, they had doubts about the outcome, but their presence reassured me. Now, alone, I pace and watch the clock, each hour more difficult than the one before. What do other people think about, I wonder, while they're waiting? What? Mostly, I'mjust scared, and I think about that. When I was first arrested, my lawyers assured me the case would be dismissed, it wouldn't even go to trial. They were wrong. My fate, my life, will be decided by a jury of twelve, but what I've learned, over the years, is that justice doesn't always prevail.I place my forehead against the wall, just to feel the coolness on my skin, the temperature stone cold and soothing, bringing slight relief to this face newly marred. I'm on the second floor of the courthouse building, a guard outside my door. It's a cell, really, but they call it the waiting room, a kind of holding tank for the soon-to-be-judged. Innocent, I go free; guilty, I stay.Two guards--I haven't seen them before--walk quickly past my locked door. They glance inside the window as they pass, wanting to catch a glimpse of me, curious to see the woman whose crime made headline news. A sharp tension cuts the air, something almost palpable, as prickly as stinging thorns. The guards wait, as do I, for the verdict. Everyone wants it over with.Placing both hands on the wall, I feel the cool texture of concrete against bare skin. My fingernails, once long and manicured, painted in reds and pinks, are gone now, chewed to the nubs. Earlier, for lunch, I ate an apple, the only food I could manage to eat. A trickle of juice, very sweet, dribbled down my chin. I didn't wipe it off. Instead, I leaned back against the cell wall, closed my eyes, savored that apple as if it was the first I'd ever tasted. I thought about a happier time, the time I realized I was in love, really in love. We took an afternoon off from the winery and went hiking in the mountains, the air fresh and smelling of rich humus and tree bark. He said I had such a carefree manner, my step blithe and springy, like a young girl on a clandestine adventure,that anyone, just by observation, could tell I thought nothing bad would happen that day. Carefree , blithe , and springy --not words usually applied to me. My hair was blond and clipped short, a style worn by tomboys or gamines, and that morning I wore scuffed tennis shoes and faded blue