Sleep No More [Paperback]

'Greg Iles is a phenomenal writer' (Independent on Sunday on DEAD SLEEP )

'A thriller that really thrills, a shocker that really shocks' (Stephen King )

'This one bounds along keeping you turning the pages long after sleep beckons' (Independent on Sunday on DEAD SLEEP )

'Terrifying' (The Mirror )

'Iles is a master storyteller' (Bolton Evening News )

'Fast-paced and action-packed' (Irish Independent ) --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

'This one bounds along keeping you turning the pages long after sleep beckons' - Independent on Sunday about Dead Sleep 'Greg Iles is a phenomenal writer' - Independent on Sunday on DEAD SLEEP

'A thriller that really thrills, a shocker that really shocks' --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

'Iles is a master storyteller' --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

'This one bounds along keeping you turning the pages long after sleep beckons' --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

'Greg Iles is a phenomenal writer' --This text refers to an alternate Paperback edition.

John Waters is a successful petroleum geologist with the perfect family. Then one day his world is turned inside out by a single word spoken from the lips of the stunning Eve Sumner. One solitary word that takes him back a decade to another woman and the most passionate of affairs. Mallory Gray-Candler was the quintessential Southern Belle. But her captivating beauty and intelligence hid a dark side that John Waters couldn't handle. Hilary loved John with a deep seething passion that threatened to destroy them both, and despite his infatuation he ended their affair. Sometime later her body was raped and murdered on a New Orleans pier. When John and Eve meet two days later at a cocktail party her parting gesture is a slight squeeze of his hand and the words "You weren't wrong about what I said, it's me John." His blood runs cold. How does Eve Sumner know so many secrets about his past with Mallory Gray-Candler? Was their first meeting cleverly orchestrated or simply fete.

Greg Iles is the internationally bestselling author of four earlier highly acclaimed thrillers, Spandau Phoenix, Black Cross, Mortal Fear and The Quiet Game. He lives with his family in Mississippi, USA.

Eve Sumner appeared on the first day of fall. Not the official first day – there was nothing official about Eve – but the first day the air turned cool, blowing through John Waters’s shirt as though it weren’t there. It was chilly enough for a jacket, but he didn’t want one because it had been so hot for so damn long, because the air tasted like metal and his blood was up, quickened by the change in temperature and the drop in pressure on his skin, like a change in altitude. His steps were lighter, the wind carrying him forward, and deep within his chest something stirred the way the bucks were stirring in the deep woods and the high leaves were pulling at their branches. Soon those bucks would be stalked through the oaks and shot, and those leaves would be burning in piles, but on that day all remained unresolved, poised in a great ballet of expectation, an indrawn breath. And borne on the first prescient breeze of exhalation came Eve Sumner.
She stood on the far sideline of the soccer field, too far away for Waters to really see her. He first saw her the way the other fathers did, a silhouette that caught his eye: symmetry and curves and a mane of dark hair that made the mothers on both sides of the soccer field irrationally angry. But he hadn’t time to notice more than that. He was coaching his daughter’s team. Seven-year-old Annelise raced along the sea of grass with her eye on the ball, throwing herself between eight-year-old boys nearly twice her size. Waters trotted along behind the pack, encouraging the stragglers and reminding the precocious ones which direction to kick the ball. He ran lightly for his age and size – a year past forty, an inch over six feet – and he pivoted quickly enough to ensure soreness in the morning. But it was a soreness that he liked, that reminded him he was still alive and kicking. He felt pride following Annelise down the field; last year his daughter was a shy little girl, afraid to get close to the ball; this year, with her father’s coaching, she had found new confidence. He sensed that even now, so young, she was learning lessons that would serve her well in the future.
"Out of bounds!" he called. "Blue’s ball."
As the opposing team put the ball inbounds, Waters felt the pressure of eyes like fingers on his skin. He was being watched, and not only by the kids and their parents. Glancing toward the opposite sideline, he looked directly into the eyes of the darkhaired woman. They were deep and as dark as her hair, serene and supremely focused. He quickly averted his own, but an indelible after image floated in his mind: dusky, knowing eyes that knew the
souls of men. The opposing coach was keeping time for the tied game, and Waters knew there was precious little left. Brandon Davis, his star eight-year-old, had the ball on his toe and was controlling it well, threading it through the mass of opponents. Waters sprinted to catch up. Annelise was close behind Brandon, trying to get into position to receive a pass as they neared the goal. Girls thought more about passing than boys; the boys just wanted to score. But Annelise did the right thing all the same, flanking out to the right as Brandon took a vicious shot at the net. The ball ricocheted off the goalie’s shins, right back to Brandon. He was about to kick again when he sensed Annelise to his right and scooped the ball into her path, marking himself as that rarest of boys, one who understands deferred gratification. Annelise was almost too surprised by this unselfishness to react, but at the last moment she kicked the ball past the goalie into the net.
A whoop went up from the near sideline, and Waters heard his wife’s voice leading the din. He knew he shouldn’t show favoritism, but he couldn’t help running forward and hugging Annelise to his chest.
"I got one, Daddy!" she cried, her eyes shining with pride and surprise. "I scored!"
"You sure did."
"Brandon passed it to me!"
"He sure did."
Sensing Brandon behind him, Waters reached back and grabbed the boy’s hand and lifted it skyward along with Annelise’s, showing everyone that it was a shared effort.
"Okay, de-fense!" he shouted.
His team raced back to get into position, but the opposing coach blew his whistle, ending the game with a flat, half-articulated note. The parents of Waters’s team streamed onto the field, congratulating the children and their coach, talking happily among themselves. Waters’s wife, Lily, trundled forward with the ice chest containing the postgame treats: POWERade and Oreos. As she planted the Igloo on the ground and removed the lid, a small tornado whirled around her, snatching bottles and blue bags from her hands. Lily smiled up from the chaos, silently conveying her pride in Annelise as male hands slapped Waters’s back. Lily’s eyes were cornflower blue, her hair burnished gold and hanging to her shoulders. In moments like this, she looked as she had in high school, running cross-country and beating all comers. The warmth of real happiness welled in Waters at the center of this collage of flushed faces, grass stains, skinned knees, and little Jimmy O’Brien’s broken tooth, which had been lost during the second quarter and was now being passed around like an artifact of a historic battle.