Now You See Her is a page-turning suspense/thriller novel by James Patterson. The protagonist is a great character, and the several twists and turns will keep the reader’s interest high.
Nina Bloom has a good life. She is a successful lawyer in New York City, she has a sixteen years old daughter Emma whom she loves and proud of. On the other hand she does have her memories that still haunt her, but nobody knows about them. Nobody knows what happened to her several years ago, in Key West. Back then, Nina had another perfect life in Florida, she was called Jeanine, she was young and beautiful. Celebrating her twenty-first birthday, she had a party with her college friends and caught her boyfriend and best friend red-handed in a bathroom. She, drunk and desperate, drove away in her boyfriend’s Camaro, and hit someone to death. A handsome police officer, Peter Fournier, helped her cover up the case, soon she became a wife of Fournier, and she got pregnant. However, she learned a terrible secret what made her run away. However, a certain Jump Killer found her, and she barely escapes with her life. Now, when an innocent man, Justin Harris, is accused of being the Jump Killer, she decides to break her silence. She convinces Harris’s lawyer Charlie Baylor to help her prove Harris’s innocence. Justin is sentenced to death within five days…
Now You See Her is an intriguing read and an enjoyable psychological thriller, despite of the light manners that gives the impression of „summer read” and „escapist literature”. Stephen King openly criticised James Patterson for his too informal writing manners, and righteously so. However, the great plotting and the novel’s twists and tension make up for that.
Patterson is mostly known for his Alex Cross thriller series, including Kiss the Girls. He is a number one New York Times best-selling author, he won, amongst others, Edgar Award and International Thriller of the Year award. According to The New York Times Magazine, he is the author who transformed book publishing. Patterson also founded PageTurner Awards, to donate money for those who inspire people to read more. What a good idea of him.
Chapters from the book:
"OK, Mom. You can open your eyes now."
I did.
My daughter, Emma, stood before me in our cozy Turtle Bay apartment in her sweet sixteen party dress. I took in her luminous skin and ebony hair above the sleeveless black silk and began to cry for the second time that day as my heart melted.
How had this magical, ethereal creature come out of me? She looked absolutely knockdown amazing.
"Really not bad," I said, catching tears in my palms.
It wasn't just how beautiful Emma was, of course. It was also that I was so proud of her. When she was 8, I encouraged her, as a lark, to take the test for Brearley, Manhattan's most prestigious girls' school. Not only did she get in, but she was offered an almost complete scholarship.
It had been so hard for her to fit in at the beginning, but with her charm and intelligence and strong will, she stuck it out and now was one of the most popular, beloved kids in the school.
I wasn't the only person who thought so, either. At a classmate's birthday party, she'd wowed the mom of one of her friends so much with her love of art history that the gazillionaire socialite MOMA board member insisted on pulling some strings in order to get Em into Brown. Not that Em would need the help.
I was practically going to have to get a home equity loan on our two-bedroom apartment in order to pay for tonight's 120-person party at the Blue Note down in the Village, but I didn't care. As a young, single mom, I had practically grown up with Em. She was my heart, and tonight was her night.
"Mom," Emma said, coming over and shaking me back and forth by my shoulders. "Lift up your right hand and solemnly swear that this will be the last time you will puddle this evening. I agreed to this only because you promised me you'd be Nina Bloom, très chic, ultrahip, cool mom. Hold it together."
I raised my right hand. "I do so solemnly swear to be a très chic, ultrahip, cool mom," I said.
"OK, then," she said, blowing a raspberry on my cheek. She whispered in my ear before she let go, "I love you, Mom, by the way."
"Actually, Emma, that isn't the only thing," I said, walking over to the entertainment unit. I turned on the TV and the ten-ton VCR that I'd dragged out of the storage bin when I came home from work. "You have another present."
I handed Emma the dusty black tape box that was on top of the VCR.
"TO EMMA," it said on the index card taped to its cover. "FROM DAD."
"What?" she said, her eyes suddenly about the size of manhole covers. "But I thought you said everything was lost in the fire when I was 3. All the tapes. All the pictures."
"Your dad put this in the safety deposit box right before he went into the hospital for the last time," I said. "I know how badly you've been dying to know who your dad was. I wanted to give this to you so many times. But Kevin had said he wanted you to get it today. I thought it would be best to honor his wishes."
I started out of the room.
"No, Mom. Where are you going? You have to stay and watch it with me."
I shook my head as I handed her the remote. I patted her cheek. "This is between you and your dad," I said.
"Hey, Em. It's me, daddy," a deep, warm, Irish-accented voice said as I left. "If you're watching this, it must mean you're a big girl now. Happy Sweet Sixteen, Emma."
I turned back as I was closing the door. Aidan Beck, the actor I'd hired and filmed with a vintage camcorder at the Hudson that afternoon, was smiling from the screen.
"There are a few things I want you to know about me and about my life, Em," he said in his brogue. "First and foremost is that I love you."
Down the hallway, I went into a large closet, otherwise known as a Manhattan home office, and shredded the script I'd written to fool my daughter. I sifted the confetti through my fingers and let out a breath as I heard Emma start to sob.
No wonder she was crying. Aidan Beck had performed the script impeccably. Especially the accent. I'd met and hired the young off-Broadway actor outside the SAG offices the week before.
As I sat there listening to my daughter crying in the next room, some part of me knew how cruel it was. It sucked having to be a Gen-X "Mommie Dearest."
It didn't matter. Emma was going to have a good life, a normal life. No matter what.
The ruse was elaborate, I knew, but when I spotted Emma's Google searches for Kevin Bloom on our home computer the week before, I knew I had to come up with something airtight.
Kevin Bloom was supposed to be Emma's idyllic, loving father who had died of cancer when she was 2. I'd told Emma that Kevin had been a romantic Irish cabdriver / budding playwright whom I'd met when I first came to the city. A man with no family, of whom all trace had been lost in a fire a year later.
The fact, of course, was that there was no Kevin Bloom. I wish there were more times than not, believe me. I could have really used a romantic Irish playwright in my hectic life.
The truth was, there wasn't even a Nina Bloom.
I made me up, too.
I had my reasons. They were good ones.
What I couldn't tell Emma was that nearly two decades ago and a thousand miles to the south, I got into some trouble. The worst kind. The kind where forever after, you always make sure your phone number is unlisted and never ever, ever stop looking over your shoulder.
It started on spring break, of all things. In the spring of 1992 in Key West, Florida, I guess you could say a foolish girl went wild.
And stayed wild.
That foolish girl was me.
My name was Jeanine.
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