A washed-out painter battling to forget her past. A profiler who needs all the help he can get. To get to know the artist, they'll have to face a killer's deadl

I'm not all that special, really. Or uncommon. I'm sure there are a lot of girls with old gypsy blood who see the dead, have killer cults hunting their family,

Art was my dearest friend. To draw was trouble and safety, adventure and freedom. In that four-cornered kingdom of paper, I lived as I pleased. This is the stor

London. A snowy December, 1888. Sherlock Holmes, 34, is languishing and back on cocaine after a disastrous Ripper investigation. Watson can neither comfort nor

North Carolina’s hills are a crazy quilt of old farmsteads and new beginnings, of locals, strangers, artists, and new age wanderers….Here Elizabeth Goodweat