Dark Matter: A Novel by Blake Crouch

By Blake Crouch

A mindbending, relentlessly superb mystery from the writer of the bestselling Wayward Pines trilogy

“Are you content along with your life?”

Those are the final phrases Jason Dessen hears sooner than the masked abductor knocks him subconscious.
Before he awakens to discover himself strapped to a gurney, surrounded via strangers in hazmat fits.
Before a guy Jason’s by no means met smiles down at him and says, “Welcome again, my friend.” 
In this global he’s woken as much as, Jason’s lifestyles isn't the one he is familiar with. His wife isn't really his spouse. His son was once by no means born. And Jason isn't really a typical university physics professor, yet a celebrated genius who has accomplished anything extraordinary. whatever impossible.
Is it this international or the opposite that’s the dream? or even if the house he recollects is genuine, how can Jason very likely make it again to the relatives he loves? The solutions lie in a trip extra wondrous and frightening than something he could’ve imagined—one that may strength him to confront the darkest components of himself while he battles a terrifying, doubtless unbeatable foe.
Dark Matter is a brilliantly plotted story that's straight away sweeping and intimate, mind-bendingly unusual and profoundly human—a relentlessly spectacular science-fiction mystery approximately offerings, paths now not taken, and the way a long way we’ll visit declare the lives we dream of.

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Sample text

You’re going to be scared, but you can make it yours. You can have everything you never had. I’m sorry I had to scare you earlier, but I had to get you here. I’m so sorry, Jason. ” I mouth the words, Who are you? Instead of responding, he reaches into his pocket and takes out a new syringe and a tiny glass ampoule filled with a clear liquid that in the moonlight shines like mercury. He uncaps the needle and draws the contents of the vial up into the syringe. As my eyelids slowly lower, I watch him slide the sleeve up his left arm and inject himself.

Beyond, a sprawling structure looms. The brick façade of the time-ravaged building is flanked by huge cylindrical tanks and a pair of hundred-foot smokestacks spearing the sky. ” I ask. ” I bring the car to a stop, shift out of gear, and punch off the engine. It becomes deathly silent. ” I ask again. ” A sharp blow to the side of my head sends me slumping into the steering wheel, stunned and wondering for a half second if this is what it feels like to be shot in the head. But no, he only hit me with his gun.

T. S. Eliot, “Burnt Norton” I love Thursday nights. They have a feel to them that’s outside of time. It’s our tradition, just the three of us—family night. My son, Charlie, is sitting at the table, drawing on a sketch pad. He’s almost fifteen. The kid grew two inches over the summer, and he’s as tall as I am now. ” He holds up the pad, shows me a mountain range that looks like something on another planet. I say, “Love that. ” “Class project. ” “Then get back to it, Mr. ” Standing happy and slightly drunk in my kitchen, I’m unaware that tonight is the end of all of this.

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