From the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Blood Moon, a classic thriller full of jarring, cinematic twists that will have you on the edge of your seat. When millionaire Paul Wheeler is brutally murdered, his family hires high-profile attorney Derek Mitchell to defend the victim’s nephew, Creighton. Though the police haven’t accused Creighton of the crime, Wheeler’s mistress, Julie Rutledge, a prime suspect herself, is convinced Creighton is the killer. Determined to expose his guilt, Julie is willing to risk everything—even Derek’s reputation—to prove her case. As Derek digs into the evidence, he discovers a chilling pattern rooted in Creighton’s obsession with infamous movie murders. With time running out, they must unravel the shocking truth before someone else becomes his next victim in a deadly reenactment of cinema’s goriest scenes. Who will be his unwilling costars? They won’t know until the final Smash Cut . "Brown delivers more than a few thrills and surprises in this taut, satisfying page-turner." -- "Booklist" "Most crime thrillers come from male authors. But with "Smash Cut", Sandra Brown shows that she's right up with the best of the boys.... [Brown's] dialogue snaps, crackles and pops, and her characters rise above cliche. "Smash Cut" deserves to be this summer's blockbuster thriller." -- "St. Louis Post-Dispatch" "Packed with surprises and the kind of propulsive plot for which Brown ("Smoke Screen", 2008, etc.) is justly famous, this effort will not disappoint her readers." -- "Kirkus" "This superlative romantic thriller from bestseller Brown ("Smoke Screen") features a particularly memorable villain, sociopath Creighton Wheeler, who's obsessed with re-enacting scenes from films like "Strangers on a Train" and "Frenzy".... Multiple smash cuts (abrupt scene shifts) lead to a wonderfully frenzied finish." -- "Publishers Weekly" (starred review) Sandra Brown is the author of seventy-three New York Times bestsellers. She has published over eighty novels and has upwards of eighty million copies of her books in print worldwide. Her work has been translated into thirty-five languages. Four books have been adapted for film. She lives in Texas. Smash Cut CHAPTER 1 CREIGHTON WHEELER STORMED ACROSS THE bluestone terrace, whipping off his sun visor and making a swipe at the sweat streaming down his face, then without breaking stride, angrily tossed the damp towel and visor onto a chaise. “This better be damn important. I was about to break his serve.” The housekeeper who’d summoned him from the tennis court was unfazed by his temper. “Don’t you take that tone with me. It’s your daddy wants to see you.” Her name was Ruby. Creighton didn’t know her last name and had never bothered to ask, although she’d been in the family’s employ since before he was born. Any time he got out of sorts with her, she reminded him that she’d wiped his butt and his nose, that both had been nasty, and that she hadn’t enjoyed doing either. It rankled to think of her being that familiar with his person, even when he was a baby. He brushed past her three-hundred-pound bulk and crossed the industrial-size kitchen to one of several refrigerators, yanking open the door. “Right now, he said.” Ignoring her, Creighton got a can of Coke from the Sub-Zero, ripped off the tab, and took a long drink. He rolled the cold can across his forehead. “Take one of these out to Scott.” “Your tennis coach’s legs ain’t broke.” She turned back to the counter and slapped her large hand on the hunk of beef she was preparing to go into the roasting pan. Something ought to be done about her sass, Creighton thought as he pushed through the swinging door and made his way toward the front of the house, where his father had a study. The door was ajar. He paused outside it, then knocked once on the doorjamb with his Coke can, nudged the door open, and strolled in, twirling the tennis racquet against his shoulder. He looked every inch the aristocrat called away from a session of healthy exercise. It was a role he was perfectly suited to play. Doug Wheeler was seated behind his desk, which was presidential in proportion but much more pretentious than anything inside the Oval Office. The desk was flanked by mahogany flagpoles, one for the Georgia state flag, the other for Old Glory. Ancestors glared from oil portraits hanging on opposite walls, which were paneled in stained cypress meant to last till the Second Coming. “Scott’s time is money, and the clock is ticking,” Creighton said. “I’m afraid this can’t wait. Please sit down.” Creighton took a seat in one of the cordovan leather chairs facing his father’s desk and propped his tennis racquet against it. “I didn’t know you were here. Weren’t you scheduled to play golf this afternoon?” He leaned forward and set his Coke can on the polished surface of the desk. Frowning, Doug placed a coaster beneath the can so it wouldn’t leave a moisture ring. “I dropped by here to ch