Download Death Trap: Whatever Jessica wanted, Jessica got...even by M. William Phelps PDF

By M. William Phelps

ISBN-10: 0786032774

ISBN-13: 9780786032778

A chilling story of a sociopathic spouse and mom. . .compelling! --New York Times bestselling writer Harry N. MacLean

"Eye-opening. . . Phelps's writing reads like a secret novel." --Suspense Magazine

It begun while Alan Bates and his new spouse arrived at his ex's residence to choose up his daughters for a weekend stopover at. Then charred our bodies have been present in a burned-out motor vehicle on a lonely Georgia highway. . .and investigators pieced jointly a shattering tale of a vicious divorce, a spurned woman's sour rage, and a thirst for revenge that ended in merciless, unflinching homicide. Updating this gripping true-life mystery with stunning new information, M. William Phelps uncovers the chilly center of an unthinkable crime.

"One of America's most interesting true-crime writers." --Vincent Bugliosi

"Phelps is the Harlan Coben of real-life thrillers." --Allison Brennan

Includes sixteen Pages Of Dramatic Photos

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Extra resources for Death Trap: Whatever Jessica wanted, Jessica got...even murder

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Out! ’ The perplexed man looked at her, then at the other women, who were scowling menacingly, and left. For me it was a sobering moment. The girls were genuinely outraged. Had that man insisted on remaining, they would have not waited for the bouncer to arrive. The homo would have been clawed, kicked and bitten to pieces. I had seen prostitutes fight men. A sane man who has been around does not lightly pick a fight with a seasoned Sydney prostitute. I was now, though, regularly accused in the Children’s Court of stealing.

Would they ever turn that damn light off? ‘Darcy. ’ It was Billy Mears again, calling from his cell three doors along the row. God, is this happening to me? That long, grey beam was waiting in the next building. They hanged men from that beam. I had seen it a hundred times in the past few years. Now I was waiting for its rope to wrench my head from my shoulders when the trap door snapped open. Waiting. All of us who were condemned; those callous screws outside the cell; the priest; the police; Dick, my pop; my mother and brother, Tom.

I would tenaciously stick at some adversary who lived nearby or went to the Christian Brothers school I attended, until I beat him. I was not a bully but I certainly had plenty of scraps, usually with older, bigger kids who were bullies to other kids of about my age. Sometimes my Irish maternal grandfather, Patrick O’Connor, who lived with us, would quietly call me aside. ’ Then the dear old gent would tell me about some kid who had been cheeky to him in the street. ‘Go teach him a lesson, lad,’ Grandad urged, pressing a shilling into my hand.

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