The Killing Woods

‘Something was draped across Dad’s outstretched arms. A deer? A fawn that was injured? It was sprawled and long-legged, something that had been caught in a poacher’s trap maybe. A mistake.’

“This taut, psychologically realistic murder mystery knits trauma, danger, tragedy and hope into one cohesive tale … A gripping, heartbreaking, emotionally substantial look at war wounds and the allure of danger.”

– Kirkus Starred Review (USA)
“An utterly absorbing psychological thriller, and one of the best books I’ve read this season.”

– Fiona Noble, The Bookseller
“Original and thrilling, this is another cracker from an author to watch.”

– The Sun
“The Killing Woods is a dark, disturbing thriller that pulls no punches … It cements Lucy Christopher’s reputation as one of the brightest rising stars of UK Young Adult fiction.”

– LOVEREADING4KIDS
“… exciting, very fast-paced and incredibly unpredictable, which has you wrapped around its little finger.”

– Guardian

Psychological Thriller

The Killing Woods is a fast-paced psychological thriller full of mystery and suspense. Ashlee is a teenage girl whose body is discovered one hot summer night by Emily and Damon – Ashlee’s enigmatic boyfriend.

Emily’s dad who is suffering from PTSD as a result of the disturbing things he witnessed as a combat soldier, is accused of murder. Emily is sure he’s innocent. So what did happen that night in the woods behind their house?

Determined to find out, she seeks out Damon. He knows the woods well so maybe he could help. But Damon’s got secrets of his own, secret games that are played in the dark.

Extract from The Killing Woods

Something was draped across Dad’s outstretched arms. A deer? A fawn that was injured? It was sprawled and long-legged, something that had been caught in a poacher’s trap maybe. A mistake.

So this is where Dad had been all this time, in the woods and cutting this creature free. I breathed out slowly, squinted at the mist that hovered around Dad like a ghost. I took my hand from my bedroom window, leaving the memory of my skin on the glass. Then I raced down the stairs, through the hall and into the kitchen out back. Throwing open the door to the garden, I waited for him there.

It was ages since Dad had brought back something injured, and he’d never brought back a deer, though I could remember helping him free a roe deer from a snare in the woods once. Back then his hands had moved quickly and gently, darting from the wire on the doe’s leg and then to her neck for a pulse, stroking her constantly.