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JODI PICOULT BOOK

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Jodi Picoult's books vary widely in theme but have a similar style. This list describes everything Picoult has written and is ordered by year. Jodi Lynn Picoult is an American writer. She was awarded the New England Bookseller Award for fiction in Currently approximately 14 million copies of her books are in print worldwide. Complete order of Jodi Picoult books in Publication Order and Chronological Order.


Jodi Picoult Book

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Jodi Picoult, American author of 24 novels. Her last 10 novels have debuted at # 1 on the New York Times bestseller list. This is Jodi Picoult at her best: tackling an emotional hot-button issue and . Limited signed copies are available at Target and Books-a-Million. Official site of Jodi Picoult, American author of 24 novels. Her last 8 novels have debuted at # 1 on the New York Times bestseller list.

It is estimated that there are 40 million books by Jodi Picoult in print —in 35 countries. Jodi Picoult is the 1 bestselling author of twenty-five novels including: Her last nine novels have debuted at number one on the New York Times bestseller list. A powerful and provocative new novel about ordinary lives that intersect during a heart-stopping crisis. Jodi Picoult —one of the most fearless writers of our time—tackles a complicated issue in this gripping and nuanced novel. How do we balance the rights of pregnant women with the rights of the unborn they carry? What does it mean to be a good parent?

I confess: While watching Avengers: Don't worry, this is definitely real. Refinery29's bold and groundbreaking 29Rooms is coming back in full force this year, and bringing our most buzzed.

What is the definition of a thriller, anyway? There are psychological thrillers, crime thrillers, spy thrillers, YA slashers about cheerleaders. LaTonya Yvette built a brand, not only around her lifestyle blog, but around herself.

Her first book Woman of Color — a collection of honest essays and. If you feel like the world is crumbling around you, take shelter in Casey McQuiston's exuberant debut novel. In an interview with Refinery29, McQuiston.

Let's be honest — there's never a wrong time to give someone a book. It's a simple way of saying, "I was thinking of you. Some call it navel-gazing. We call it too good to put down. As much as we adore fiction, a good memoir really has a huge emotional impact on the reader,. George glanced up as if he was surprised she would even ask that question.

She forced herself to meet his gaze.

Jodi Picoult · novels about family, relationships, love, & more

One of his eyes pulled the tiniest bit to the right, not so much that he looked weird, but enough that it was hard to focus on his face. She wondered if he had to consciously pick which view he took in. He rubbed his bandaged hand across his cheek. It made a rasping sound. It all happened so fast. One minute Janine Deguerre was a hostage, and the next she was in a medical tent, being checked over by EMTs. She looked around, trying to find Joy, but the other hostage with whom she had walked outside was nowhere to be seen.

She blinked at him as he waved a little flashlight back and forth in front of her face. She was shivering.

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Not because she was cold, but because she was in shock. The EMT wrapped a silver metallic blanket around her shoulders, the kind given to marathon runners at the finish. Well, maybe she had run a marathon, metaphorically. Certainly she had crossed a line.

The sun was low, making shadows come to life, so that it was hard to tell what was real and what was a trick of her eyes. Five minutes ago Janine had arguably been in the worst danger of her life, and yet it was here underneath a plastic tent surrounded by police and medical professionals that she felt isolated.

The mere act of walking past that threshold had put her back where she had started: She craned her neck, looking for Joy again. Maybe they had taken her to the hospital, like Dr. Or maybe Joy had said, as soon as Janine was out of earshot: Get that bitch away from me. A cop crouched down beside her. We need a statement. Janine panicked. Did they know about her?

Did she have to tell them? Was it like going to court, and swearing on a Bible?

Jodi Picoult Books

Or could she just be, for a little longer, someone who deserved sympathy? She nodded and got to her feet. She held her metallic blanket around her like an ermine cloak. A surge of reporters called to her, shouting questions that tangled together. The cop stepped between her and the media, a shield. He led her to a waiting police car. When the door closed, it was suffocatingly hot. She stared out the window as the policeman drove. They passed a billboard on the way to the station.

Janine recognized it because she had helped raise money to erect it. It was a picture of two smiling, gummy-mouthed babies—one black, one white. Janine knew a lot of facts like that. She also knew how various religions and cultures looked at personhood. Catholics believed in life at conception. Muslims believed that the soul arrived forty-two nights after conception. Thomas Aquinas had said that abortion was homicide after forty days for a male embryo and eighty days for a female one.

Janine knew how to consciously steer away from those opinions in a discussion. How could the moment that life began differ so much, depending on the point of view? How could the law in Mississippi say that an embryo was a human being, but the law in Massachusetts disagreed? Soon it would be getting dark. Wren sat on the floor cross-legged, keeping an eye on George as he hunched forward on the couch, elbows balanced on his knees, and the gun held loosely in his right hand.

She tore open the last packet of Fig Newtons—all that was left of the basket of snacks taken from the recovery room. Her stomach growled. She used to be afraid of the dark. Sometimes she woke up crying in the middle of the night convinced she had seen something fanged and terrible sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her with its yellow eyes.

The vehemence of his words made her scoot back a few feet, but as she did, her leg brushed something cold and rigid. She knew right away what it was—who it was—and swallowed her scream. Wren willed herself to inch forward again, curling her arms around her bent knees.

Janine sat in the police station, across from the detective who was recording her statement, and lied. The rest that she had told him was true, and sounded like a horror film: Even now, looking down at her hands, she expected to see it. She found she could not remember in sequence. Instead of linked moments, there were only flashes: The shooter jerking his pistol at Janine, while Izzy stood next to him with a heap of supplies in her arms.

The phone ringing, as they all froze like mannequins. Janine felt like she was watching a movie, one she was obligated to sit through even though she had never wanted to see it. When she got to the part where the shooter smacked her with the gun, she left out why. It was a sin, too, but of a different degree.

Still, sometimes you lied to protect people. Sometimes you lied to protect yourself. She was crying as she spoke. The detective looked at her for a long moment. Suddenly the door opened, and a uniformed officer stuck his head inside. Behind him, Janine could see Allen—his florid cheeks and broad belly, the one that made him joke that he knew what it was like to be pregnant. Allen was the leader of the local Right to Life group.

She knew they prayed for every woman who walked through the doors of the Center. This, though, was different. Allen would not have been able to make peace with himself if anything had happened to her, because he had been the one to send her inside as a spy.

Maybe God had been listening, because she had been released. But so were Joy, and Izzy, and Dr. What kind of capricious God would roll the dice like that? The detective looked directly at Janine, as if to see whether she was okay with Allen calling the shots. She had done what he wanted from the moment she arrived in town, intent to serve his mission any way she could.

And she knew that he meant well. Janine started walking, still clutching her foil blanket around her shoulders. She just needed space, for a second. At the end of the hallway was another interrogation room, much like the one she had been in. What had been a mirror on the inside was, from this vantage point, a window.

Joy sat at a table with a female detective. Before she realized what she was doing, Janine was knocking at the window. The interrogation room door swung open, and a moment later a female detective looked at her. I wanted to see. In the hospital room, there was a piece of tape stuck to one of the slats of the air-conditioning vent overhead. Then they both saw it—the flicker of a heartbeat. The doctor took measurements and recorded them. He wiped the gel off her belly and pulled the drape down to cover her again.

Izzy struggled onto her elbows. Definitely takes after its mama. Izzy lay back on the gurney and slipped her hands underneath the scratchy blanket. She flattened them on her stomach. As soon as she had gotten outside the clinic, the EMTs had put her on a stretcher beside Dr. He would have none of it. Ward said to the young paramedic inspecting his tourniquet.

That was the last she had seen of him. She wondered if he was in surgery; if he would keep the leg. She had a good feeling about it. She had grown up with a chronically unemployed father and a mother who struggled to take care of Izzy and her twin brothers, in a house so small that the three kids shared not just a room but a bed. Her mother would take them on a spare change hunt.

Occasionally they celebrated Colonial Week—when they used candles instead of electric lights. When Izzy thought about her life, there was such a clear break between then and now. Now, she lived with Parker in a house three times larger than her childhood home. They had met when he was in traction with a broken leg.

Their first date, he liked to say, had been a sponge bath. Parker had gone to Yale like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather.

He had grown up in Eastover, the snobbiest neighborhood in the whole state. He went to private schools and dressed in miniature blazers and ties even as a child. He summered. Even his job—a documentary filmmaker—was possible only because of his trust fund.

Izzy still ordered the cheapest thing on a menu if they ate out.

They might as well have come from different planets. How on earth were they supposed to raise a child together? Izzy wondered if now—finally—the fault line of her life would no longer be the first day she earned a paycheck.

The woman. Bex something? Izzy felt tears spring to her eyes. Thank God. The nurse shook her head. They sure had. She had been covered in Dr. She helped Izzy off the gurney and led her through the curtain to a single-person bathroom. Izzy shook her head. She closed the door and locked it, leaned against the wood.

Her teeth were chattering now. Her hair had long ago escaped its braid and was a hot red frizz around her face. The scrubs they had given her to replace the bloody ones she had been wearing when she was brought in were too big, and the top was slipping off one shoulder, like a really poor version of a sexy nurse fantasy.

Although she had washed off most of the blood that covered her arms and neck, she could see the spots she had missed. She scrubbed until her skin was raw and then walked back to her little cubicle. Hovering outside the curtain was a police officer. I was hoping you might be able to just give a short statement? She drew back the curtain and sat down on the gurney, her legs dangling.

Thibodeau scratched above his ear with his pen. But she only noticed that when she touched him, she finally stopped shaking. Maybe there was a way to stop worrying about what might drive them apart, and to focus on what bound them together.

Best Jodi Picoult Books

There were dozens of questions written across his features, and he stared into her eyes as if he were trying to find the answers. Or the truth. Maybe they were even, for once, the same. This was not how—or where—she had thought her day would end. But somehow, it was exactly where she needed to be. She took his hand and flattened it against her belly, smiling.

When one of the junior detectives brought the word that his older sister Bex was out of surgery, Hugh winged a silent thank-you to a God he had long ago stopped believing in. The part of his brain that had been worrying about her could go back to focusing on Wren, who was still in there with a murderer. He paced the command center from where he had made the call to give the shooter a few more minutes, in the hope he would make good on his promise to release all the hostages.

The question was, had he made a bad decision? A fatal one, for Wren? He released most of them. You go in there and we both know how this will end. What if George had agreed to release the hostages, planning all along to go back on his word? What if he wanted to go out in a blaze of bullets, and take Wren with him? Was this going to be his ultimate fuck-you to Hugh?

Quandt met his gaze. Hugh remained immobile, his arms crossed. The commander narrowed his eyes. And then I will do everything in my power to make sure she is safe. The minute Quandt walked away, Hugh picked up his cellphone and dialed the clinic number, the same one he had been using for hours now to speak to George. It rang and rang and rang. Pick up, Hugh thought. After eighteen rings, he was about to hang up.

He remembered when she was a toddler, and she had fallen. If Hugh looked upset, Wren would burst into tears. If he seemed unfazed, she picked herself up and kept going. Hugh curled his body around the phone, like he was whispering to a lover. You know that. Either I go to jail and rot there forever or they shoot me. You end this, and you get to do the right thing. Your daughter—hell, the whole world—will be watching, George. That was a threat.

That definitely sounded like a threat. Hugh glanced at the SWAT team commander. Quandt was staring at him from the corner of the tent.

He lifted his arm, pointed to his watch. What Hugh needed to do was offer a viable alternative, one that did not involve Wren, but let George still believe he was protected.

Hugh looked at the captain. There was no way Quandt would go for this. It was too risky. Hugh would lose his job—maybe his life—but his daughter would be safe.

There was really no choice. Bex was dead. She turned her head a fraction to the left and saw the IV pole, the saline dripping into her. The light overhead was fluorescent. Her throat tightened as she thought about Wren and about Hugh.

Was her niece all right? She imagined Wren, knee bent, drawing on the white lip of her sneaker. She pictured Hugh leaning over her in the ambulance. That was how Bex saw the world, in images. Had she re-created it in her studio, she would call it Reckoning. The background would be the color of a bruise.

Bex had installations with collectors as far away as Chicago and California. Her works were the size of a wall. If you stood at a distance you might see a feminine hand on a pregnant belly. A baby reaching for a mobile overhead.

A woman in the throes of labor. If you stepped closer, you saw that the portrait was made of hundreds of used, multicolored Post-it notes, carefully shellacked into place on a grid. Both her subject—parenthood—and her medium—discarded to -do lists and disposable reminders—were fleeting. But her transformation of that heartbeat, that particular second, rendered it timeless. She had been famous for a brief moment ten years ago when The New York Times included her in a piece on up-and-coming artists for the record, she never up and went anywhere, after that.

The reporter had asked: But Bex had never needed marriage or children. She had Hugh. She had Wren. Sometimes they were running away from where they had been. Yes, please, Bex thought. But they are both currently in the middle of a hostage standoff.

If only it were that simple to rescue Wren. Hugh always had a plan. He was the one she called when the toilets in her house all stopped working at once, like a cosmic plot. He trapped the skunk that had taken up residence under her ancient Mini Cooper. He ran toward the scream of a burglar alarm, when everyone else was fleeing. There was nothing that rattled him, no challenge too daunting. She suddenly remembered him, fifteen or sixteen, riveted by a comic book and completely ignoring her.

Only when Bex grabbed it from him did he look up. Damn, Hugh had said, one syllable with equal parts shock, respect, and sadness. They killed off Superman. On every local channel there was a live report about the Center.

Bex stared at the screen, at the orange Creamsicle stucco of the building, the ribbons of police tape blocking it off. So she closed her eyes and sketched him in her imagination. He was silhouetted by the sun, and he was larger than life. Bex could still remember the first time she realized that Hugh was taller than she was.

She had been in the kitchen, making dinner, and had dragged a chair toward the cabinet so that she could reach the dried basil on the highest shelf. From behind her, Hugh had just plucked it off its rack.

In that moment, Bex realized everything was different. Hugh had grown up, and somehow she had gone from taking care of him to becoming the one who was being taken care of. Bex had watched him jog up the stairs to his room.

And then, soon after, she had watched him go to college, fall in love, move into his own home. Hugh hung up the phone. He wants a hostage? He can have me. The two men stopped, staring at each other, a standoff.

Finally, Hugh glanced away. But I do. Quandt took a deep breath. He turned away, calling over two of his men and pointing to the roof of a building across the street and a spot on top of the clinic. As they strategized, Hugh walked back underneath the tent. He saw the young detective who had brought him news of Bex.

I need you to give a note to her. The detective nodded, waiting while Hugh sat down at his makeshift desk. He picked up a pen and ripped a page off his legal pad. The one who had nearly died today only because she had been trying to help his own daughter? Leaving Time with bonus novella Larger Than Life: A Novel Oct 14, Get it by Tuesday, Jun 04 Only 1 left in stock - order soon. Nineteen Minutes: A novel Mar 5, Only 1 left in stock - order soon.

The Storyteller Feb 26, House Rules: A Novel Mar 24, Plain Truth: A Novel May 1, My Sister's Keeper: A Novel Apr 6, Perfect Match May 3, Vanishing Acts Mar 15, The Pact: A Love Story Nov 5, Change of Heart: More Information. Anything else? Provide feedback about this page. Back to top.

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