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“If you are looking for a compelling read that has a bucket full of tension, suspense, and love ‘who done it’ murder mysteries then this book is for you.”
~Goodreads Review

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“A gripping story from a bestselling author who makes juggling multiple series seem easy… Plenty of twists and turns in this page-turner.”
~ Yet another blogging mummy!

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“Another great thriller from Carolyn Arnold that keeps you reading well into the night.”
~ Goodreads Review

What We Bury is meeting with great reviews. Here’s an inside look at this bestselling book.

Taken from Chapter 1:

Madison headed across the lawn to the shed. The door was toward the rear of the building and next to a window. The handle had a keyhole. She gloved up and turned it. Unlocked. Had it been left that way or picked?

She stepped inside, immediately catching the stench of blood—something she didn’t have much tolerance for despite her chosen profession. She swallowed roughly, and her stomach tossed, but she pushed forward.

She took her phone from her coat pocket and activated the flashlight to get a better look. The window let some light in, but the space was still immersed in shadows.

The beam went over stacked patio furniture, as well as shovels and garden tools that leaned against the wall and were laid out on a shelving unit. There were a couple large containers for cushions and garden pots in various shapes and sizes.

Madison edged farther inside, following drips of blood, and rounded a lawnmower.

And there she was. Jane Doe. Late forties, possibly fifties. Blank stare, pool of blood— Madison gazed at it. She was getting better at handling messy scenes, and she tamped down her visceral reaction as best she could, but it didn’t help that she’d been battling with nausea lately anyhow.

She put a hand on her stomach, resembling, in a way, the dead woman, who had an arm cradled across her lower abdomen. Blood had seeped around her palms to the back of her hands and between her fingers. She’d been stabbed at least a few times, from the looks of it, each blow in the vicinity of her gut.

Doe’s dress, casual—blue jeans, a light jacket unzipped, a gray T-shirt, black-heeled boots. Her makeup was artfully applied, and given the macabre circumstances, she was rather beautiful even in death. Her hair was wet—like her clothing—and spread around her head like a halo on a folded blue tarp. She must have been caught in last night’s rain before seeking shelter from the storm. Aside from the tangible quality of death clinging to the air and the blood, it could almost be imagined that she’d slipped into the shed for a nap.

It was heartbreaking to think she’d died alone, bleeding, while rain beat against the metal roof. Had it hypnotized and soothed her as she drifted into darkness? Or had she fought for life?