I'm very excited to be a part of Just One Bite by Jack Heath
Blog Tour! Thank you to Harlequin for my eARC and the blog tour
invite.
About the book:
Timothy Blake, ex-consultant for the FBI, now works in body disposal for a local crime lord. One night he stumbles across a body he wasn’t supposed to find and is forced to hide it. When the FBI calls Blake in to investigate a missing university professor, Blake recognizes him as the dead man in his freezer.
Then another man goes missing. And another.
There’s a serial killer in Houston, Texas, and Blake is running out of time to solve the case. His investigation takes him to a sex doll factory, a sprawling landfill in Louisiana and a secret cabin in the woods.
As they hunt the killer together, FBI agent Reese Thistle starts to warm to Blake—but she also gets closer and closer to discovering his terrible secret.
Can Blake uncover the killer without being exposed himself?
My thoughts:
This
is the second book in the Timothy Blake series. I haven’t read The Hangman yet,
but this book definitely made me want to go back and read Book 1 in this
series! I must admit I was skeptical at first since this story revolves around
a cannibal. However, I was truly surprised, in a good way! The story was very
intriguing and fast-paced, and for the skeptical like me, I can say there
wasn’t that much talk about cannibalism. Since Timothy Blake is a consultant
for the FBI, the book revolves around him and Thistle investigating a
disappearance.
I
actually ended up really loving Timothy Blake’s character and the dynamic
between him and the FBI agent, Thistle. I also really enjoyed that there were
multiple stories all mixed together, it really made me want to keep reading,
there was never a dull moment! I must admit though, this book is not for the
faint of hearts, there is some very very disturbing imagery, but very creative
and twisted nonetheless!
To
top it all off, the ending was crazy! I will be counting down the days until
the next book! Highly recommend!
My Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️.5
About the author:
First published as a teenager, Jack Heath is the award-winning author of more than twenty fiction titles for young adult and middle-grade readers. In the course of his research, Jack has toured morgues and prisons, performed as a street magician and traveled through eleven countries, including Russia. His previous day jobs—in which he met many interesting characters—include fry cook, music teacher, TV salesman, call center worker, and bookseller. He plays several musical instruments and lives on the land of the Ngunnawal people in Gunghalin, Australia.
Author:
Jack Heath
ISBN:
9781335952844
Publication
Date: June 4th, 2019
Publisher:
Hanover Square Press
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Links:
Social
Links:
Twitter: @JackHeathWriter
Instagram: @JackHeathWriter.
Facebook: @JackHeathWriter
Goodreads
Read an excerpt:
Read an excerpt:
CHAPTER
ONE
What
has a neck but no head?
If Charlie
Warner wants you dead, first she steals your shoes.
Not in person.
She has people all over Houston.
One of them is
James Tyrrell, a pudgy guy with Coke-bottle glasses and scar tissue on his arm
where the number 88 used to be. A coded white-supremacist tattoo—H is the
eighth letter of the alphabet. The 88 means
Heil Hitler. “I’m no Nazi,” I heard him say once. “But if you want to
survive Huntsville prison, you gotta pick a team.”
Tyrrell will
open your front door with a police-issue lock-release gun and go to your
bedroom wearing latex gloves and a hairnet. He’ll steal your most expensive
pair of shoes. Usually black, always shiny—the kind you might wear to a
funeral. He’ll take some socks, too, but won’t touch anything else on his way
out.
Two more guys
will drive a white van with stolen plates to wherever it is you work. Their
names are Jordan Francis and Theo Sariklis. They both have thick necks, square
jaws and crew cuts. It took me a while to tell them apart. Sariklis is the one
with the drooping eyelid and the Ramones shirt. He’s been working for Warner
longer than me. Francis is new—just moved here from San Jose, California. He’s
the one who cracks jokes. Even in winter he wears a wife-beater to show off his
biceps. He might go to the gym after killing you.
Francis will
park the van next to the driver’s side of your car. Sariklis will open the
sliding door on the side of the van and wait.
You’ll walk
out of the office and approach your car. When you go to open the door, Francis
will grab you and drag you into the van. It takes seconds. He’s had plenty of
practice—in San Jose he worked for one of the Sureño gangs. You won’t even have
time to scream before Francis shuts the van door.
You’ll know
who they work for. Warner doesn’t target bystanders. They’re here because you
stole from her, or lied to her, or informed on her. Or maybe you didn’t pay
your tab at one of her businesses. An underground casino, a bordello, a drug
den.
They’ll ask
you questions. The first few are a test; they already know the answers. If you
lie, Francis will hold you down, while Sariklis forces a water bottle into your
mouth and pinches your nose shut so it feels like drowning. They do it like
that because they’re still in the parking lot. There aren’t many quiet ways to
torture someone.
Just when it
feels like you’re gonna die, Sariklis will take the bottle out. You’ll throw
up. Then Sariklis will ask you some more questions. The real ones. Whatever
Warner needs to know. Who have you told?
What are their names? Where do they live? Show us the messages.
The final
question is always about the PIN for your bank account. You’ll answer that one
gladly. You’ll think it means they only want money. You’ll think they’re going
to let you go.
After you give
them your PIN, Sariklis will stick the bottle back in your mouth. This time he
won’t let up. He’ll drown you, right there in the parking lot. Three minutes
until your heart gives up, four until brain death.
Francis will
stay in the van with your body while Sariklis takes your car, your phone and
your wallet to an ATM. He’ll withdraw as much as he can, then drive to a
secluded stretch of beach in Galveston.
There he’ll
meet Tyrrell, who has your shoes. Sariklis will place your shoes side by side
on the sand, your wallet and keys tucked inside like frightened mice. Tyrrell
will do a factory reset on your phone, switch it off and hurl it into the sea.
They’ll abandon your car on the side of the road, within sight of the gray
ocean, and take Tyrrell’s car back to Warner’s office to give her the cash.
I’ve only been
to Warner’s office once, and I had a bag on my head for the whole journey. But
I was memorizing the turns, and counting the seconds. Afterward I got them to
drop me off someplace else, and I memorized that journey, too. Later I looked
at a map, and narrowed it down to four city blocks near Market Square Park.
They usually
take you on a Friday. If you live alone, you may not be reported missing until
Monday. The police will find your car and shoes around Wednesday. Some of them
will say you drowned accidentally while swimming. Others will suggest that it
was suicide. The shoes are too classy for a normal swim, they’ll say, and
there’s no towel. Plus, your bathing suit is still at your home.
Because of the
ATM withdrawal, still others will say that you faked your death. You did have
some powerful enemies, after all. Your missing phone lends credence to this
theory. But anyone who suspects Warner will be smart enough not to say so.
All this is
assuming you’re one of the lucky ones, and Warner doesn’t want the credit for
your death. Sometimes she kills someone to send a message. No stolen shoes, no
water bottle. The body turns up in dozens of pieces, each removed from a living
person.
Once upon a
time Warner’s men would have just thrown your body into the ocean. The water in
your lungs would make sense on the autopsy report. But the bruising around your
lips and wrists, plus the damage to your gums, might raise some eyebrows. Now
they have a better way.
While Sariklis
and Tyrrell bring the cash to Warner’s office, Francis will take the van onto
State Highway 12, alone. Your body will be in the back under a sheet, slowly
going cold. Francis will drive through the dark, watching the buildings
disappear and the trees get taller and taller.
Then he’ll see
a beat-up Toyota Corolla parked on the shoulder, miles from anywhere. He’ll
pull over. Despite what he’s seen and done, he’ll shudder before he gets out of
the car.
Then he’ll
slide open the van door, and give your body to me.
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