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Thrift fashionista Dez Lane doesn't want to date Patrick Ruskin; she just wants to meet his mother, the editor-in-chief of Nouveau magazine. When he invites her to his family's big Easter reunion at their ancestral home, she's certain she can put up with his arrogance and fend off his advances long enough to ask Marie Caulfield-Ruskin for an internship someone with her pedigree could never nab through the regular submission route. But once all the family members are on the island and the ferry has departed, things take a dark turn.

A ruthless gang. A corrupt government. A detective in search of the truth. A vigilante with a few screws loose…okay, maybe more than a few. Alex Wagner didn’t come to Hampton looking for trouble—but it sure as hell found him the day he crossed paths with Randy. Randy isn’t your ordinary vigilante. He’s a lethally trained ex-intelligence operative on a mission from God—that is, according to him, anyway. By day, he goes undercover as a drifter in threadbare disguise. By night, he lurks in Hampton’s shadows, pursuing his own warped version of justice.

Meet Lance. Thirty-eight years old. Works a meaningless job. Still lives above his parents’ garage. By all accounts, a world-class loser. Save for one glaring exception: He has a million-dollar face. Lance has been mistaken eighty-seven times for the Oscar-winning movie star James Jansen, and for the last ten years, he’s saved his money and studied Jansen’s films, his moves, his idiosyncrasies—even the way he speaks. Now, after an unceremonious termination from his job, Lance has decided that the time has come to go after his dream of truly becoming Jansen.

Failed lawyer Robert Green has such a good plan: Crack three hundred safe-deposit boxes and sail off to South America with his brilliant, morally flexible sister, Penny. If it weren’t for the damned freezing rain. In the dying resort town of Granite Shores, cop Jack Biddle is self-appointed king—mostly of bad decisions. Between his family’s crumbling legacy, a wife who just joined the city council, and life-threatening gambling debts, Jack’s looking for a way out. Then he spots a van spinning off a mountain road into the valley below.

In this fiendishly original novel, Mark Leyner is a leather-blazer-wearing, Piranha 793-driving, narcotic-guzzling monster who has potential rivals eliminated by his bionically enhanced bodyguards, has his internal organs tattooed, and eavesdrops on the erotic fantasies of Victoria's Secret models–fantasies that naturally revolve around him.

Manya Miriam Mittelman has an uneasy relationship with her flesh, of which there is a bit too much by the standards of Columbia University circa 1992.

Sasha North has gone missing. Everyone says she's run away, but I know better. We've been best friends since we were teenagers, since Sasha swept into the neighbourhood and brought colour to my life. Until a brutal attack changed both our lives forever. I know what happened that night. I know who wants revenge. And if Sasha has been taken. I know I'm next.

Panicked by his own mortality, despondent over his many failings as a writer and a man, Dunne leaves his wife and their three-year old child for the solitude of a crummy apartment off the Vegas Strip. There he plans to write an account of the city as he finds it; the book he ends up writing is "a fiction which recalls time both real and imagined."

Maria Weston wants to be friends with me. Maybe that had been the problem all along: Maria Weston had wanted to be friends with me, but I let her down. She's been hovering at the edge of my consciousness for all of my adult life, although I've been good at keeping her out, just a blurred shadow in the corner of my eye, almost but not quite out of sight. Maria Weston wants to be friends. But Maria Weston has been dead for more than twenty-five years.

On 15th June 1994, Travis Green - husband, father, upstanding citizen - walked through the streets of Hartstead and killed eleven of his neighbours. The last victim was little Cassie Colman's father. As the twenty-fifth anniversary approaches, Cassie tries to forget the past - even as her mother struggles to remember it at all. Then, something hidden in her mother's belongings suggests the murders were not as random as everyone believes. Cassie can't stop herself digging up the past. But someone will do anything to keep it buried.

We arrived at a villa on the Amalfi Coast, ready to enjoy a sun-soaked weekend with our oldest friends - and one new face. By the end of the weekend, my husband is found dead. But how can I mourn him, when on the day of his funeral I discover he was having an affair? The only suspects are the women we went on holiday with. My oldest, closest friends. Do I really want to dig into my husband's secret? Do I really want to know who betrayed me?

Paige didn’t set out to be a stay-at-home mom, but when her husband’s screenwriting career took off right before they had a son with Down syndrome, the decision was made for her. Now, with their children nearly grown and unsure what's next, Paige writes a memoir about the challenges of raising a child with a disability. When a major actress-turned-producer shows up at her door eager to make her “inspiring” story into a movie, she’s shocked, excited, and a little terrified.

Spannung und Action treffen auf schwarzen Humor. Als in einem Falkennest auf dem Dach des Andechser Klosters die inneren Organe eines Mannes gefunden werden, ahnt Kriminalrat Madsen, dass ihn dieser Fall mit den dunkelsten Tiefen der menschlichen Psyche konfrontieren wird. Doch die Grenze zwischen Gut und Böse verschwimmt, denn das Opfer entpuppt sich als brutaler Vergewaltiger - und Madsen muss sich letztlich die Frage stellen, ob er wirklich auf der richtigen Seite kämpft.

عارف؟ من ييجي خمسة عشر عامًا كنت أقول لأصدقائي الحالمين بأن يصحوا من النوم على وجه حاكم أفضل، أو وجه حاكم آخر والسلام، "لن يسقط نظام مبارك إلا بعد أن تسقط أسناني"، وهذي أسناني قد سقطت، فاللهم لا اعتراض على حكمتك في توزيع الكالسيوم

When the Australian Mystery Writers’ Society invited me to their crime-writing festival aboard the Ghan, the famous train between Darwin and Adelaide, I was hoping for some inspiration for my second book. Fiction, this time: I needed a break from real people killing each other. Obviously, that didn’t pan out.

Everyone in my family has killed someone. Some of us, the high achievers, have killed more than once. I’m not trying to be dramatic, but it is the truth. Some of us are good, others are bad, and some just unfortunate. I’m Ernest Cunningham. Call me Ern or Ernie. I wish I’d killed whoever decided our family reunion should be at a ski resort, but it’s a little more complicated than that.

One wealth-obsessed man – who is also dead. One status-obsessed woman – who is the perfect accessory. Their four inheritance-obsessed children – each with a killer instinct. And a murder-obsessed outsider looking to expose them all. But there’s one thing money can’t buy… and that’s the truth.

"La scatola di cuoio vissuto era sistemata da sempre su un cassettone di legno massiccio nello studio di don Pantaleo, a San Clemente. Dal giorno di Natale del 1968 aveva colpito la fantasia di Antonio Forini, trentasei anni, magro, un po’ curvo, quasi calvo, lenti spesse da miope, strampalato, “un tipo che, fra centomila lire e un portachiavi di metallo, sceglie il portachiavi, senza pensarci due volte”". Un’insolita favola nera sull’invidia, l’avidità e i più bassi sentimenti umani.

When Edith and a select group of employees at Winked advertising agency are sent to Consequi, an elite three-day work retreat in the remote mountains, she sees an opportunity to impress her bosses and dodge an inevitable restructure. But this is no ordinary corporate retreat. Trapped together in the revamped convent, the threat of mass redundancy looming over them, their phones confiscated and the team-building activities becoming increasingly extreme, the 'work family's' cracks begin to widen–and Edith has a secret that threatens to make her the office outcast: the stinkbug.

L'umorismo, che in "Debito formativo" era puramente ludico e finalizzato alla narrazione, non poteva che trovare una connotazione amara e desolante, anche se il lettore non faticherà a trarre, anche da qui, un qualche motivo di isolata ilarità.