The Chemistry of Death (Joe Tesla Series Book 3) Price:  Original price was: $8.71.Current price is: $0.00. (as of 05/24/2023 09:05 PST- Details)

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me…or can they?

In the third thrilling installment of this award winning series from New York Times bestseller Rebecca Cantrell, tortured genius Joe Tesla is on the trail of a sadistic serial killer who charms his victims into the bowels of the Manhattan subway system–and who holds the keys to Joe’s crippling condition. Can Joe stop the murderous rampage of this silver-tongued killer, or will he become the next victim?


Ziggy smiled when the woman’s designer shoes slipped on the train ties. Those shoes were at home in the expensive club where he’d picked her up, but they were worse than useless down here in the subway tunnels. He caught her ice-cold arm. He’d made sure she forgot her coat when they left the club, and he knew that he must feel warm to her, warm and safe. She would trust him. She let him steady her for a heartbeat before pulling away.

“Watch the third rail.” He pointed to the raised metal track that ran alongside the inside rail. “It’s dangerous.”

“I want to go back.” Her lower lip quivered, and she tucked it between even, white teeth. The drug was already affecting her. He’d given her a high dose because she hated the tunnels more than any other woman he’d brought down here.

“Put on more lipstick.” He held his breath, wondering if the drug had kicked in enough for her to comply. “You’ll feel better when you look better.”

She fumbled in her expensive purse and pulled out a hand mirror. She angled the mirror to catch the faint light. Her movements were clumsy but practiced.

Without looking, she pulled a shiny black tube from her purse. He knew the lipstick’s color even before she opened it.

Christian Dior 999. Classic red.

She pulled off the cap and twisted the base. He breathed in the lipstick’s heady perfume. The scent took him back to other lipsticks, other women, and how his mother had forced him to wear dresses and Christian Dior lipstick when he was a little boy, to punish him. He remembered how he had looked in the mirror in her high heels and long skirts, how the lipstick smelled on his own lips, the soapy taste of it.

He took a deep breath to ground himself back in this moment, this tunnel, this woman. He was in charge here. With a trembling hand, she slid the lipstick across her full lips. He wanted to touch the gleaming redness, and he clenched the slippery lining of his pockets to keep his hands from reaching for her. These lips weren’t for kissing.

She dropped the case back inside her purse and straightened slim shoulders. Her breasts pushed against the thin fabric of her dress. The sharp tang of vodka from her cosmopolitan obliterated the last traces of the lipstick’s delicate fragrance.

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