A fast-paced, intense psychological thriller from an international bestselling author-- Rear Window meets The Silent Wife . Bailey has it all. At least, she had it all--a job she loved as a high-powered investigator in a top Miami law firm, a gorgeous condo in a stylish downtown high rise, a handsome boyfriend, a sizeable inheritance. A seemingly idyllic life. But that was before a brutal attack left her feeling insecure about her entire world. And with her attacker still on the loose and the police at a loss for clues, she can't shake off the feeling that someone is watching her, monitoring her every move. Even after her half-sister, Claire, and Claire's sassy teenage daughter, Jade, move into her apartment to care for her, their presence does little to ease her overwhelming anxiety. Plagued by nightmares, she begins spying on her neighbours through high-powered binoculars, becoming obsessed with the new tenants in the building across from hers. But the strange things she sees only deepen her fears. Is it all in her head? Is her growing paranoia just a symptom of trauma? Or is it possible that someone is really watching?

National Bestseller

"A page-turning ride." —Kirkus Reviews

"For more than 40 years now, Joy Fielding has been churning out blood-curdling bestsellers with staggering consistency. Her latest and 25th novel―Someone Is Watching―contains many of the Fielding signatures: a strong female heroine, an unknown evil-doer and a mystery that will keep you reading well past lights-out."
―The Globe and Mail

Autorentext
JOY FIELDING is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Charley's Web, Heartstopper, Mad River Road, See Jane Run, and other acclaimed novels. Someone Is Watching is Joy's twenty-fifth novel. She divides her time between Toronto and Palm Beach, Florida. Visit her website at www.JoyFielding.com.

Leseprobe
This is what I remember: the warm night air, darkness as soft and inviting as a cashmere shawl, a gentle breeze brushing flirtatiously across the tops of the sweet-smelling shrubs in which I’m hiding, their coral flowers now folded in on themselves, closed to the dark. I’m vaguely aware of their faint aroma as I peer through my binoculars into Sara McAllister’s third-floor window, my knees aching from squatting so long in the same position, my toes cramping. It’s closing in on midnight, I’ve been here for hours, and irritability is curling around my consciousness like a hungry boa constrictor. I’m thinking that if I don’t see something—anything—soon, I’m going to call it a night.

That’s when I hear it—the snap of a twig, perhaps, although I’m not certain, that signals someone behind me. I turn to look, but it’s already too late. A gloved hand quickly covers my mouth, blocking my screams. I taste leather—old, stale, earthy. And then, those hands, seemingly everywhere, on my shoulders, in my hair, snapping the binoculars from my fingers, as fists slam into my stomach and against the side of my head, causing the world around me to blur and the ground to give way beneath my feet. A pillowcase is pulled roughly over my face. I can’t breathe, and I panic. Keep your wits about you, I tell myself in an effort to regain my equilibrium and hold my growing terror at bay. Keep track of everything that’s happening.

Except that everything is happening too fast. Even before the pillowcase is pulled into place, the white cotton overwhelming the blackness of the night, I see nothing but a vague shape. A man, certainly, but whether he is young or old, fat or thin, black or brown or white, I have no idea. Has the man I’ve been waiting for been waiting for me? Did he spot me hiding in the bushes and simply bide his time?