Who Took My Shit is a story about a middle-aged white woman living in a quiet treed suburban subdivision in northwest Georgia. When we meet our main character, she is wandering through her split-level contemporary home aimlessly, from bedroom to bedroom, then downstairs, then up. She looks confused. More than that, she looks panicked.
The problem, it seems, is that her shit has gone missing.
What shit you ask?
The second good book in two months and a bottle of Biaxin, that's what!
You see, two months ago I was in the middle of a real hair-puller (that's like a page-turner for women) by Jeffrey Deaver, and I was on THE SECOND FROM THE LAST CHAPTER, do you understand me? That's where Deaver always inserts the final plot twist you weren't expecting even when you knew you should be expecting it, and he has this way of zigging when you zagged, and all of a sudden you're like Whoa--there he goes! And of course Lincoln Rhyme knew it all the time and there he comes with his criminologist knowledge and his bad self. HELL that Deaver can spin a yarn.
Anyway, I'm on THAT chapter, and the book disappears. I mean DIS-APPEARS. I mean where the hell did my book go? The same book I've had by my bedside for two weeks? I looked everywhere. I looked under the bed, on top of the bed, over the bed, behind the headboard, under tissues, inside the Kleenex box; I checked the bathroom, the kitchen, the living room, bodily orifices. Everywhere. And found nothing.
So I did the unthinkable. I went out and bought a second copy so I could finish it. That's just wrong.
So imagine my terror last night as I searched for my latest hair puller--The Stone Monkey--right where I had left it, on the night stand, and WTF IT IS GONE! It must have fallen. Nope. I must have taken it with me in the car. Nope. Maybe I left it next to the tub. Nope.
In case I haven't mentioned it, crime novels are my new cigarettes. That's right. I'm five months post-smoking, and instead of lighting up and getting sick, I dig into the twisted sickness of criminology and murder. Really, it's all somehow related.
But the point is: I need my books.
Jenna. It HAS to be Jenna. Wanting attention. That's it.
"Jenna, look, I need to ask you something and I want you to tell me TRUE, okay?" She sees I'm visibly shaking now, my God the piglets are running from The Ghost right now, and they just got made by the guy who rented them the apartment, so SHIT WHERE IS MY BOOK?! QUICK BEFORE THEY ALL DIE!
"No mom. I promise. Which one was it?" She spends the next 20 minutes looking for it with me, showing me any number of paperbacks that are NOT it. Finally, I believe her. Just barely. There was that little incident when she was 3 of taking my new box of checks from the bank and hiding it under her bed. But that was then. Right?
Then tonight, it's the bottle of Biaxin. It was on the dresser. It's gone. Same routine. I've checked cupboards and drawers. WHERE IS IT? We don't have a cat. I don't think we have a rat.
Okay maybe we have a rat--but one that reads and takes drugs? How likely is that?
The whole drama has become a household joke between the two of them and me... "Yah, just like I took the blue and white book, honey--ahahahahhhaaaa! Yah, where's the book, mommy? ha ha ha ha!"
Sure, everyone's laughing. Except me.
Were the heck is my shit and who took it?
I want answers!
I'm calling Alex Cross! That's right, I still have three Patterson books left to read. Ha!
In the mean time, if my Stone Monkey has slipped through the Internet wormhole and landed on your end table, could you please send it back?
Does Jeff know who took my shit???