Four days after Abigail Browning's wedding, her life changed unimaginably: her husband was fatally shot along the rocky Mount Desert Island coast. Was it a random act of violence, or could someone have wanted Christopher dead? That's the question that has haunted Abigail, now a homicide detective, for the past seven years. Determined to find her husband's killer, she returns to the foggy Maine island after receiving an anonymous tip. Is it just another false lead, or can she finally prove that Chris was murdered? Owen Garrison, the search-and-rescue worker who located Chris too late to save him, still carries guilt from that fateful night. As he helps Abigail unravel the mystery, they learn that the layers of deceit and lies are even thicker than they could have imagined. Now it's up to Abigail and Owen to keep pushing for the truth—and stop a killer from striking again…. Readers have come to expect excellence from Neggers, and she delivers it here. The pairing of aristocratic spy Will with butt-kicking heroine Lizzie is inspired, and the multistrand plot is extremely absorbing. --Romantic Times BOOKreviews on THE MIST Carla Neggers is the New York Times bestselling author of the Sharpe and Donovan series featuring Boston-based FBI agents Emma Sharpe and Colin Donovan and the Swift River Valley series set in small-town New England. With many bestsellers to her credit, Carla and her husband divide their time between their hilltop home in Vermont, their kids' places in Boston and various inns, hotels and hideaways on their travels, frequently to Ireland. Learn more at CarlaNeggers.com. Abigail Browning squirted charcoal lighter fluid on the mound of papers she'd torn up and piled into her backyard grill. She had more pages to go. Another two spiral notebooks. She set her lighter fluid on the little wooden shelf next to the grill and picked up the top notebook from the plastic chair behind her. When she opened the cover, she tried not to look at her scrawled handwriting, as pained as the words she'd written, or at the stains of long-spent tears that had smeared the ink as she'd forced herself to recount the tragic story of her honeymoon. Each journal—there were fourteen, two for each year of loss—began with the same litany of facts, as if the re-telling itself might produce some new tidbit, some new insight she'd missed. It's the fourth day of my Maine honeymoon, and I'm napping on the couch in the front room of the cottage my husband inherited from his grandfather. Two loud noises awaken me. Tools clattering to the floor in the back room. A hammer. Perhaps a crowbar. I'm startled, but also amused, because I'd spent the morning helping Chris repair a leak. As I get up to investigate the noises, I think it must be an unwritten rule—newlyweds aren't supposed to fix leaks on their honeymoon. Abigail tore off that first page by itself and ripped it into quarters, setting them neatly atop her pile, the lighter fluid seeping into the cheap paper and old blue ink as if it were fresh tears. Last night's anonymous call had changed everything. She needed a cover story to explain her actions—what she planned to do next. She also needed clarity and objectivity. Seven years of journals. Seven years, she thought, of trying to restore her emotional life. I smell roses and ocean as I get up from the couch. A window must be open. Even now, at thirty-two, no longer a young bride, no longer a law student with a handsome FBI special agent husband, no longer inexperienced in matters of violent death, Abigail could feel herself walking into the back room, convinced the wind had knocked over tools she and Chris had left haphazardly that morning, when they gave up their leak-fixing to make love upstairs in their sun-filled bedroom. She noticed the slight tremble in her hands and swore under her breath, tensing her fingers as she tore more pages and set them atop her pile. There was no wind, and the grass—what there was of it in her postage stamp of a backyard—was damp from an overnight rain. Adequate conditions for burning, although she was in a tank top and shorts. If her bare skin got hit with sparks, it'd serve her right. As I step into the back room, I see not a cracked window but the door to the porch standing wide open, and for the first time I feel a jolt of real fear. I didn't leave the door open. "Chris?" I call my husband's name just as I hear the floor-boards creak behind me. Just as the blow comes to the back of my head. Her chest tightening, Abigail dropped the partially torn spiral notebook back onto the chair and quickly struck a wooden match, tossing it onto the pile of ripped pages. Flames shot two feet into the hot, still air. "Whoa, there. That's some fire you've got going." She looked up at Bob O'Reilly trotting down the last of the steps from his top-floor apartment in the triple-decker they and Scoop Wisdom—all three of them detectives with the Boston Police Department—had bought t