Private investigator, Fin, has built a successful career in reuniting families with their lost runaways. Fin’s latest case is sixteen-year-old Sarah who vanished at the same time her home was destroyed in a fire. Did Sarah do it?
Everyone Fin approaches – from classmates to the police – are unwilling to talk about the missing girl. Those who will talk to him are corroborating stories that can’t possibly be true. And now even his client appears to be holding out on him.
Fin is left with nothing to go on other than a photograph and a newspaper article.
As Fin pushes to discover what happened to Sarah he finds himself sucked into a sordid and unforgiving world of violence and sexual obsession. The price of finding Sarah may well be the exposure of his own painful past and the truths he has fought long and hard to suppress.
Don’t miss the heart-pounding first book in the Stuart Finlay thriller series. With fast-paced action, shocking plot twists, and compelling characters, Ripped Into is a must-read for fans of Harlan Coben, Robert Crais, and David Baldacci.
Private investigator, Fin, has built a successful career in reuniting families with their lost runaways. Fin’s latest case is sixteen-year-old Sarah who vanished at the same time her home was destroyed in a fire. Did Sarah do it?
Everyone Fin approaches – from classmates to the police – are unwilling to talk about the missing girl. Those who will talk to him are corroborating stories that can’t possibly be true. And now even his client appears to be holding out on him.
Fin is left with nothing to go on other than a photograph and a newspaper article.
As Fin pushes to discover what happened to Sarah he finds himself sucked into a sordid and unforgiving world of violence and sexual obsession. The price of finding Sarah may well be the exposure of his own painful past and the truths he has fought long and hard to suppress.
Don’t miss the heart-pounding first book in the Stuart Finlay thriller series. With fast-paced action, shocking plot twists, and compelling characters, Ripped Into is a must-read for fans of Harlan Coben, Robert Crais, and David Baldacci.
Almost ten in the morning, and Stuart Finlay had been up since noon the day before. Twice in the night, the woman he was protecting had woken from nightmares, in tears, certain the visions in her head were real. To reassure her, Fin had done additional tours of the premises, checking locks and windows, making sure her husband hadn’t found a way in, wasn’t in the house, not hiding in a cupboard, not about to throttle her, beat her, or rape her.
His relief had arrived late.
Fin was dead on his feet, but he couldn’t go home yet. George had summoned him, and now Fin’s phone was ringing again.
Standing by the lake, in the lush surroundings of Tilgate Park, with birds singing and wind stirring the trees, Fin’s heart sank when he saw his other client’s name on his mobile’s display.
James Harding called in the evening, every evening, wanting a progress report on the hunt for his missing daughter. He didn’t call at ten in the morning. But Fin had known this job wouldn’t end well. A girl like that, with a family like that, didn’t just run away.
He put the phone to his ear.
‘Our Emily was found last night.’ The words came out fast, as though if James didn’t say them straight away, he might not manage them at all. Then came the gut-wrenching sobs Fin had heard before and never got used to.
‘Do you have someone there with you?’ Fin asked.
James broke down.
Nothing Fin could say would help. James would never get to watch his daughter grow up, finish school, marry, or have kids of her own. He’d never hear her voice again, or her laugh. Fin couldn’t ease that loss, and it wasn’t his job to look for her killer. So, he listened to the man’s sobs until the call disconnected.
The water of the lake had an unnatural stillness to it, the reflection of the autumnal trees near perfect, but the sense of peace was gone. The Hardings were decent people and deserved better, but at least now they knew. They no longer wondered where their child was, what she was doing… or what was being done to her.
Emily Harding had been missing for fourteen days.
George was waiting, but Fin needed to know. Emily could have been hit by a passing motorist, her body lying unnoticed in a ditch for two weeks. Tragic, but it happened. It could be what had happened to Emily. Please, let that be it.
The police wouldn’t tell him anything, but Rishi Kumar worked in the coroner’s office, and Rishi was a mate from school. Fin dialled the number, his gaze travelling across the park. On a grassy clearing on the other side of the lake, two teenage boys played piggy-in-the-middle. The piggy, a younger kid, ran giggling between the teenagers, reaching for a tennis ball that was being thrown too high and too hard.
‘Kumar.’ Rishi answered on the second ring, which meant he was at his desk and should be able to talk.
‘Hey, Rishi, it’s Fin. Did you work the Harding girl found last night?’
‘She one of yours?’ Rishi said, his voice low. Fin could imagine him hunched over, his head down, hands around his ears, elbows on his desk, the way he sat at school.
‘Yeah. Tell me, swift and painless, right?’ Fin started pacing. It helped to be on the move, as though he were doing something.
‘I’m not meant to—’
‘I know.’
‘You know the shit I could get in for this?’
‘Yep.’ Rishi told him. Every time.
‘I’ve only done the prelim.’
‘Hit by a car, right?’ Fin pushed through. ‘Hit by a car and left in a ditch.’
On the grassy area, Piggy now stood still between the two teenagers, his chin down, stomach sticking out, glancing up to watch the ball as it soared overhead, well out of reach. The teenagers were laughing. Cruelty was everywhere.
‘Rishi?’
‘Don’t do this to yourself, mate.’
Not the response Fin had been hoping for. He ran a thumb across his forehead and wished he had a cigarette clamped between his fingers. There were still two in the pack in his pocket, but they were bent and close to falling apart, and he’d stopped carrying his lighter three months ago. It had been five and a half months since his last puff, and yeah, the half month counted.
‘How bad?’ Fin asked.
‘It doesn’t get worse.’
‘Christ.’ Fin had seen photos from Emily’s birthday party last month, the golden thirteen suspended above her head. Her cheeks glowed with a smattering of freckles, her smile wide, and one of her pigtails hung lower than the other. She’d been learning the recorder, but her heart had been in the gymnastics team.
Fin stopped pacing and pressed the corner of the phone to his forehead.
‘How long you been working this one?’ Rishi asked.
Fin put the phone back to his ear. ‘Three days. I barely got my foot in the door, but she was a good kid.’
‘Estimates tell us she’s been dead four, so if it makes you feel any better—’
It didn’t.
‘—there’s nothing you could have done.’
Ten days. Whoever they were, they’d kept her alive for ten days.
‘Sorry, mate,’ Rishi said.
‘Want to come to George’s pub tonight?’ Fin closed his eyes against a sudden November gust that cut into his corneas like shards of glass. ‘Get drunk? It’s on me.’ Rishi was a lightweight. It would only take a couple of beers.
‘I thought you didn’t approve of such behaviour.’
‘I’ve learned to accept not all my friends share my high moral values.’ Fin was teetotal.
A soft chuckle. ‘I’ll pass. Honestly, mate, I just want to go home and cuddle my kids tonight.’
Good answer. ‘You’re going to get him, right? There’s some trace?’ Fluids. Fibres. To ask for specifics would be crossing a line, and Fin didn’t need the details.
‘They, unfortunately, but yeah, we’ll get them.’
‘Thanks,’ Fin said. ‘Love to Liz.’
‘Same to Gail.’
Fin hung up and checked his watch. George’s pub, The Blackberry Inn, was just around the corner, but the image of Emily at that damn birthday party wouldn’t melt away. Fin couldn’t walk around with that in his head. He didn’t want to face George like this. There’d be questions he was too tired to deflect. George loved him like a son, but that wouldn’t stop the wily Scot from using Fin’s exhaustion to his advantage if he felt there was something he should know.
Giving himself a moment to calm down, Fin turned his head back towards the lake and the kids playing there. Piggy was wiping tears away. He ran to an oak twenty feet away and sat among the brown, brittle leaves, his back against the trunk, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head resting on his forearms.
The two teenagers shouted something at each other. Now Piggy had given up, they’d lost interest in their game, and a younger child had learned what it felt like to live in this world. From his position under the oak tree, Piggy watched the older boys leave.
Everywhere Fin looked, there was a kid like Piggy, or a violent spouse, or a girl like Emily. Fin clenched his fists. He needed to see some good in the world again. An image of Gail, wrapped in his duvet with the sun shining on her uncontrollable ginger curls, fought its way to the front of his sleep-deprived mind.
The wind picked up, and Fin hunched against it as he left the park and turned on to Titmus Drive. He couldn’t put it off any longer. At least he’d get to the pub before the weather broke.
Shaking off the grim reality of Emily’s death, Fin knocked on the window, cupping his hands against the glass to see George behind the bar.
As the door opened, Fin plastered on his most winning smile. ‘Morning.’
No response. That wasn’t unusual.
George didn’t re-lock the door behind him.
They crossed the floor, manoeuvring between the sea of round tables that dotted the space between the booths on one side and the bar on the other. Fin’s boots sounded on the bare floorboards they’d restored the year after George had taken him in. Apart from George’s own questionable activities, the Scot ran a clean pub. It could get lively – Fin had bounced as well as bartended there – and George had brainwashed him with his incessant playing of rock music, but now the building was silent, as though daylight had sucked the vibrancy from the place.
‘Whit’s up?’ George had rolled up his sleeves, revealing tattoos obscured by thick arm hair. Fin had ink of his own now. For his sixteenth birthday, George had presented him with a design of a dragon that snaked across Fin’s back and curled up over his shoulder, its head resting on Fin’s chest. It had taken five arduous sittings, and Fin didn’t know how George had made the tattooist agree to the design on a sixteen-year-old kid, but every scar had been obscured by the time it was done.
‘You called me,’ Fin said.
‘I mean, with you. Whit’s up with you?’
The smile hadn’t been convincing. ‘It’s nothing.’ Fin didn’t want to talk about Emily Harding.
‘The wee lass?’ Somehow, George always knew.
‘Don’t make a big thing of this.’
‘No’ your fault, lad.’
‘I know,’ Fin said.
‘I mean it.’
‘I know. I get it.’
‘Take a few days off. Hell, take a week.’ It wasn’t a suggestion. George didn’t make suggestions. Idle chit-chat wasn’t his thing either. ‘You cannae work both nights and days.’ The Scot leaned forward, hands resting on the bar.
‘I’m fine.’ Before working as a bailiff, and then finding his way into process-serving and running his own private investigation agency, Fin had served four years in the British Army. That had taught him his limits. Yes, he was pushing them. His left eyelid kept flickering, and he’d been up twenty-two hours in a week where four hours a night had become the norm. Many people believed they could function well on that schedule. Fin was not one of them, but he’d made a commitment, and the shift work would only be for another couple of nights, three or four tops. Besides, he no longer had a missing girl to find during the day.
‘Aye, well you look like shit.’ George, always the smooth talker.
‘Thanks. You called me here for this?’
‘You’ve been worse again recently.’ George’s voice softened. ‘Are the nightmares back?’
‘No.’ Fin never spoke about his dreams, but George knew he had them. And he knew the cause.
‘What’s going on?’ the Scot said.
‘Nothing.’
No one glared like George. At six-one, Fin wasn’t short, but George towered over him, and the bulk made him a formidable figure. The glare could turn a man to stone.
‘It’s nothing,’ Fin repeated.
George folded his arms. They’d first met when George had found Fin unconscious behind the dumpster at the back of the pub and brought him into the flat. Fin had a bruise on his jaw, two cracked ribs, a broken wrist, and hadn’t eaten in four days, but he was scared, stubborn, and thirteen. He’d told George he was fine. George had the same expression on his face now as he had back then.
‘Come on, give me a break,’ Fin said.
No change. There was no getting around this, and all Fin could think about was the bed waiting for him at home. George took his responsibilities as Fin’s guardian seriously and would drag this out as long as it took. At twenty-nine, it could be argued that Fin didn’t need as much concern and protection from his father figure and best friend, but Fin rarely got a say in how George treated him. In fact, Fin didn’t get a say in anything to do with George. The Scot’s life before they’d met was a black hole. Questions about his past were deflected. The only thing George spoke about was his job experience. He’d claimed to have been a hairdresser, air steward, botanist, and Formula One driver. Fin suspected none of that was true.
‘I’m going to ask Gail to move in with me,’ Fin said.
George’s smile was soft, warm, but sad.
‘You don’t approve?’ That stung. He’d thought George would be pleased.
‘It’s no’ that.’
‘Then what’s that look for?’
‘You dinnae need tae prove yourself, lad. No’ tae her. No’ tae anyone.’ By anyone, Fin knew who George was referring to.
‘That’s not what this is about.’
‘Is it no’? Then why did I come down this morning tae a new client for you?’ George nodded across to the booth at the back, next to the window. ‘You’re already working all hours.’
The hairs on the back of Fin’s neck pricked up. In the booth, a man sat watching them, his gaze steady, intense, and not entirely patient. He looked to be early-forties, his jacket rumpled, and his black hair ruffled, as though he’d run his hands through it too many times that morning already.
George’s pub wasn’t open for breakfast. This man shouldn’t be here, and Fin hadn’t been aware he was. That slip made him more than a little uncomfortable.
‘You need a break, lad,’ George said. ‘He was outside my door this morning. Says he has an appointment.’
Not true. Fin had studied hard and done what was needed to get his name in the Varsity book of investigators. This wasn’t a hobby for him. He was accredited. But he didn’t have an office, preferring to meet his clients here during George’s opening hours. He may have been tired lately, but he’d need to be delusional to make an appointment at this time of day.
‘Want a drink?’ George asked.
‘Thanks. How long has he been waiting?’
‘Twenty-five minutes. I would’ve sent him away had I no’ go’ in touch with you.’
George could always get in touch with him.
George handed him a Coke. Fin hoped the caffeine would keep him awake long enough for him to reach his bed. Taking a large gulp, he carried the glass over to the booth. Whatever it may say about him, he didn’t feel bad about the man not having a drink of his own.
‘Stuart Finlay. Mr…?’
‘Stanton. My name’s Stanton.’ The man sat forward in his seat, his eyes on Fin, his forearms resting on the table, hands clasped together, fingers interlaced.
‘Mr Stanton, I don’t remember agreeing to meet with you this morning.’
‘My daughter, Sarah, is missing.’
The image of Emily at her birthday party flashed through Fin’s mind. He wasn’t sure he could face another missing girl so soon.
Stanton laid out three photos on the table between them as though he were dealing tarot cards, and then aligned them. To the millimetre. Distress manifested in many ways.
‘When did you last see her?’ Fin asked, lowering himself into the booth.
‘It’s been a year.’
Oh man. Odds were not good with someone gone so long. ‘How old is she?’
‘Sixteen.’ Stanton’s eyes stayed on the photos.
‘Mr Stanton, my advice would be to trust the police with this. Their resources outmatch mine in every way imaginable.’ Word for word what he’d said to Linda and James Harding. Word for word what he said to every family with a missing kid. They never listened. Grief like that, the torment of not knowing what had happened to their child, tore at them, ripping them apart and leaving a vacuum for doubt and blame to pour right into the heart of the family.
Just like it had when Fin’s baby sister was kidnapped twenty-five years ago.
‘The police have given up,’ Stanton said. ‘I’ve spent the last year chasing sightings and rumours myself, but I’ve come up with nothing.’ His gaze remained fixed on the photos, his fingers nudging them into place.
‘Do you have any way to trace her phone, an app or—’
Stanton shook his head.
‘I imagine you’ve tried calling it.’
‘It’s disconnected.’
‘Has she been active on social media since she left?’ The girl could be a runaway and not an abduction. Fin wanted to cling to that possibility.
‘She wasn’t the type to bother with social media.’
Or she had a naïve father. In Fin’s experience, there was no type when it came to teenagers and social media.
Fin looked at the pictures but didn’t pick them up. The first was Sarah alone, in a typical school photo. With piercing blue eyes and shoulder-length brown hair, she sat side-on, her face turned towards the camera with a hesitant smile. The second photo was Stanton with the girl. Sarah’s expression was the same, so maybe that was just how she smiled, but it seemed strained. Stanton’s smile appeared genuine, and the man in front of him now looked like he hadn’t smiled like that in a long time. The third was a family shot – Stanton, a woman, presumably his wife, and the girl. Sarah was her mother’s daughter, the similarity between them striking. The background in the non-school photos was grass, trees, a fence – nothing to hint at where they’d been taken, or when.
‘Your wife?’ Fin asked, indicating the woman. Be polite, hear him out, get through the interview, refer him on, go home, sleep. It was a simple plan.
Stanton nodded. ‘Sarah’s mother.’
‘Were there any arguments or fights at home before Sarah left?’ Fin got out his notebook and pen.
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Did any of her friends disappear around the same time?’ They could have run off together.
‘No.’
‘What did Sarah take with her when she left? A favourite toy, diary, phone charger?’
‘I don’t know.’ Stanton’s gaze drifted off to the side and then up to the ceiling as though he were struggling to find the words. ‘Our house burned down that night.’ For the first time since Fin sat down, Stanton made solid eye contact.
‘Arson?’ Fin asked.
‘Yes.’
There was no delicate way to ask this, or if there was, Fin was too tired to think of it. ‘Do you think she did it?’ Most arsonists were male, but about half were under eighteen, and whether Stanton believed it possible of his daughter would tell Fin something about the family dynamic.
There was a flicker of something before Stanton said, ‘I’m willing to pay.’
Interesting response.
‘I’d need to speak with her friends.’ Fin wished he’d phrased that differently. Too much time had passed. There was little hope of finding the girl, and Fin wasn’t in the right place emotionally or mentally to take this on, but he knew he’d feel differently once he’d slept. Sarah was out there, lost, needing to come home. Fin was already struggling to say no.
‘It’s a waste of time,’ Stanton said.
‘It’s possible she’s with one of them.’ And they might be more willing to speak to someone who wasn’t the girl’s father.
Stanton shook his head. ‘She didn’t have any friends.’ He leaned back, his hand resting near the photos, his gaze back on them. ‘Or if she did, I don’t know who they were.’
A brave thing to admit, but it closed another viable avenue of investigation.
‘What about special interest groups, clubs, either attached to the school or independent?’
Stanton shook his head.
‘Had she ever talked about running away?’ Fin asked.
‘No.’
‘What about travel? Where did she like to go? Perhaps a favourite place she liked to think, a friend’s house, any clubs?’
‘Nowhere I know of,’ Stanton said.
‘OK. Where was she born?’
‘Here. Crawley.’
‘What about previous addresses? Can you give me a list?’
‘I’ll have to ask her mother for that.’
Interesting. ‘Are you and her mother separated?’
‘I should explain. Sarah is my stepdaughter. I think of her as my daughter.’
That could be something. ‘How long have you and her mother been together?’
‘Three years.’
Sarah was thirteen when they got together. Old enough to remember. ‘Could it be she went to find her biological father?’
‘I’m not sure she knows who that is.’
‘Then perhaps a previous stepfather. Could you get a list of all previous relationships?’
‘I can try.’
‘What about family? An aunt, uncle, cousins, grandparents.’
‘No. My wife’s an only child and her parents are dead.’
Fin’s notebook lay unopened on the table next to him.
‘Tell me what happened the day she disappeared,’ he said.
‘There’s not much to say. I came home to find the house on fire.’
Fin turned towards the window as a gust splattered the glass with rain. He hadn’t noticed how dark the inside of the pub had grown despite the early hour. Hopefully, Piggy had found his way home before the weather closed in.
‘What about that morning, before you went to work?’ Fin asked.
Another flicker of something. The smallest tightening around the lips and then, ‘It was just like every other day.’
That answer didn’t sit right. He’d need to come back to that.
‘I’m going to need to speak with her mother.’ It was unusual for only one parent to approach him, and typically the mother was more involved in a child’s life. It may be a stereotype, but it was a stereotype for a reason.
‘That’s not possible. My wife hasn’t taken this well.’
‘I can go to her,’ Fin said. ‘I can meet her wherever she’s most comfortable.’
A single shake of the head.
‘She might know more. Mothers and daughters, you know.’ Fin shrugged.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.’
Fin rested his elbow on the table and ran a thumb across his forehead. This man was giving him nothing. ‘What about school? Were there any problems? With other students or perhaps with a teacher?’
‘Sarah wasn’t the best pupil.’ Interesting that he’d chosen the word pupil over student, considering her age. ‘But there wasn’t anything especially going on.’
He’d need to come back to that later as well. If he accepted the job. He wanted to help, but the girl had been gone too long. The chances of finding her were slim and with the information he had, he wasn’t sure he could. Time to let the man down. ‘Mr Stanton—’
‘I don’t care about the fire or the house. I just want her home.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I’ll pay three times your usual rate.’
Fin leaned back as Stanton edged forward, his hands clasped together again.
‘You’re good at this,’ Stanton said. ‘I’ve asked around. You’ve found people before, even people who’ve been gone a long time.’
‘There are never guarantees.’
‘I know. I get that. But you’ll look. You’ve got a reputation, Mr Finlay. I know you’ll try.’ His voice broke on that last word.
Fin understood that desperation, that need to have the child back home. His sister had disappeared when he was four, and had never been found. Fin had grown up in a house consumed by her loss.
‘If you don’t take this job, someone else will,’ Stanton said.
At three times the going rate, he was right about that.
‘Without access to her room, her mother, or her friends,’ Fin said, ‘all I can do is send out posters and follow up leads.’
‘I understand.’
No, he didn’t. ‘The chances of finding her—’
‘I don’t want to know. As long as you’ll look.’
‘I’ve got to be honest here. I don’t feel as though you’d be getting your money’s worth.’
‘I’m not only paying for your time.’
Fin clasped his hands together and waited.
‘I want your discretion as well. There was a fire, and my daughter ran. She might think she’s responsible. Maybe she is. Maybe she thinks she’s in trouble, I don’t know. So, if you find her, you can’t risk scaring her off. I need to be the one to tell her it’s all right, that we want her back home.’
The determination was there, the desperation sketchy, but that could have worn away over time. It was an exhausting emotion.
Fin looked through the photos, this time picking them up. A lot could have happened to Sarah in the time she’d been gone. Living on the streets, a lot would have happened to her. She might need to know she can come home.
‘What school did she go to?’ Fin asked.
‘Hazelwick.’
‘If she hadn’t run, she’d be in the sixth form now, right? First or second year?’
‘First.’
‘I’ll ask around, send out posters to shelters nationwide, post on chats, and follow up leads locally.’
Stanton nodded his agreement.
They exchanged phone numbers.
‘Please remember,’ Fin said, putting his phone away, ‘a year is a long time to be out there. It’s possible I won’t find her.’ Most hostels and shelters were good about circulating notices of missing people. If Sarah was living on the streets, the chances were good she’d needed a bed from time to time. It wasn’t hopeless, but Fin wanted to prepare Stanton for the worst. ‘I’ll need to keep this.’ Fin picked up the school photo.
Stanton handed over a fat envelope, gathered up the remaining pictures, and got up to leave as Fin looked inside. A newspaper clipping and cash. Lots of cash.
‘I didn’t have an appointment with you this morning,’ Fin said, turning in his seat. ‘How did you know to find me here?’
‘Like I said, I asked around.’ Stanton pulled open the pub door and left.
Fin pulled out the clipping and stuffed the envelope into his jacket pocket. Careful not to tear it, he unfolded the newspaper. The headline hit him like a blow to the gut.
‘Oh man.’ Fin covered his mouth with his hand. The money made more sense now.
Sarah’s image dominated the article with an inset photo of the destroyed home. The fire had raged through the house until nothing remained. A witness had seen Sarah fleeing the scene, and the police were hoping she could help them with their inquiries. The article didn’t say she was a suspect, but the headline was damning: Unknown Remains Discovered in Family Fire in bold font. According to the third paragraph, the body had been burned beyond recognition.
Ripped Into by Jack Chandler is a heart-pounding crime drama featuring Private Investigator Stuart Finlay (“Fin”). Fin specializes in tracking missing persons. Sixteen-year-old Sarah Matthews had been missing for a year. Sarah’s house burned to the ground, and she was seen running away. Did Sarah set the family home on fire? Why did she run? Her stepfather, Mr. Stanton, hires Fin to find her, but Sarah does not want to be found.
I counted 11 primary characters and a total of 27 characters in this story. That is a lot of people to keep track of! Normally, the maximum number of characters for a crime drama is 9. But it all seemed to work. All of these characters had a purpose, and they were all expertly woven together into an intricate web of suspense. The non-stop action relentlessly drove the story forward. My heart was pounding as I read the last few chapters.
The reader is constantly wondering if Sarah is a victim or a villain. Finding a runaway girl after she had been missing for a year was like looking for a needle in a haystack. But Fin tenaciously followed obscure leads and found her hiding in plain sight.
Even though Fin is the hero of the story, he has his flaws and shortcomings, which make him very likable. He had been abused by his alcoholic father and, as a result, he had an inbuilt defense system that helped him read people - everyone except his girlfriend, Gail. His awkward relationship with her was one of my favorite things about the story.
I love words and phrases that are unique to the United Kingdom, for example, “...each man was fifteen stone of intimidation and power.” I’m not sure what that means, but it is so beautiful.
There is nothing about this book that I didn’t like. I would highly recommend Ripped Into to anyone who enjoys an electrifying crime thriller. It is expertly written and flawlessly edited. I am giving this book a rating of 5 stars.