"Maeve Kerrigan [is] a fascinating and plausible character…What she has is persistence, integrity and emotional intelligence, and a very deft way of insinuating herself into a reader's affections."― The Irish Independent (UK) Vast wealth offers London defense attorney Philip Kennford a lot of things: a gorgeous house with a pool in the backyard, connections in the top echelons of society, a wardrobe worthy of Milan runways. But his money doesn't provide a happy marriage, or good relationships with his twin daughters…and it does nothing to protect his family when someone brutally murders his wife and daughter in their own home. When Detective Constable Maeve Kerrigan arrives at the scene, the two survivors―Philip and his second favorite daughter, Lydia―both claim to have seen nothing, but it's clear right away that this is an unhappy family accustomed to keeping secrets. Maeve soon finds herself entangled in a case with a thousand leads that all seem to point nowhere, and it doesn't help that her boss, whom she trusts more than almost anyone, is starting to make decisions that Maeve finds questionable at best. In The Last Girl , Jane Casey once again demonstrates her ability to write vivid, three-dimensional characters and spin a gripping, unpredictable mystery. “[A] dramatic, expertly crafted thriller.” ― Entertainment Weekly (Must List) on The Reckoning “Casey has succeeded in writing another impossible-to-put-down thriller with surprising plot twists and well-developed, intriguing characters.” ― Library Journal (starred) on The Reckoning “Genuinely suspenseful and extremely well-written . . . The Reckoning will keep readers turning the pages long into the night and pushing the book on friends the next day.” ― RT Book Reviews (4½ stars, Top Pick) on The Reckoning JANE CASEY is the author of the Maeve Kerrigan novels ( Let the Dead Speak , After the Fire ) and the Jess Tennant Mysteries ( Hide and Seek , Bet Your Life ). A graduate of Oxford she also has received a M. Phil from Trinity College, Dublin. Born and raised in Dublin, she lives in London where she works as an editor. Chapter One “The only thing I know about Wimbledon is the tennis.” Derwent drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. I stared at the map. “What do you need to know? It’s an expensive place to live. Smart. Out of your price range. Not the sort of place we usually fetch up. Still two miles away at a rough estimate, and God knows how long that’s going to take.” “Lights are changing, Kerrigan. I’m going to go on straight.” “No, don’t do that.” Straight ahead of us was a queue of cars that stretched to infinity, or at least the A3. I turned the map around, desperately searching for the right road. “Left. Turn left.” “I’m in the wrong lane.” The car surged forward, going straight into the one-way system from hell. “Should have decided sooner.” “I don’t know why you sound so smug. We’re both going to be stuck in the same traffic.” “Yeah, but it’s your fault. So I can enjoy myself by blaming you.” “It’s not my fault that you broke your satnav.” The ice in my voice did nothing to cool the temperature in the car; I could feel sweat trickling down my back and shifted in my seat. The windows were down but the air was stagnant, hot even though the sun had set hours earlier. August in London, and the weather was at its worst. “Since we’re stationary, do you mind putting the air conditioning on?” “Waste of petrol. Someone’s got to think of the environment.” He stuck his head out of his window and sniffed enthusiastically. “Fresh air is better for you.” A hundred exhausts belched fumes in front of us. “This air is not fresh.” “Nor are my socks,” Derwent admitted, sticking a finger down the side of his shoe and proving his point with a waft of sweaty-foot smell. My nose wrinkled and I turned my face away, not caring that he found it funny. “Why is there so much traffic at this time of night anyway?” “Need you ask? Roadworks. It goes down to one lane from three. We should never have come this way.” Derwent inched forward although the car in front hadn’t moved. “Almost midnight. What were you planning to do this evening?” I had hoped for an early night, but I knew better than to say anything that hinted at bed. The DI was as quick to go after innuendo as a terrier barreling down a rat hole. “Nothing much. You?” “Nothing you want to hear about, I imagine.” A sidelong glance. “Your loss.” “I doubt that.” I knew very little of his private life, but that was precisely as much as I wanted to know about it. I just wished he felt the same way about me. “What about your boyfriend?” “What about him?” “Is he at home?” “He’s working.” And that’s all I’m saying, so move on. “You’re probably pleased to have something to do. Gets you out of the house, doesn’t it?” Thank God. Work talk. “It sounds like an interesting case.” “It sounds like a domestic.” Derwent rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked at it, then wipe