This book was awful. I'm assuming this is one of Jodi Picoult's first books and she has grown as a writer since. It is a simplistic tale of physical abuse, which is maddening in itself because the real tales of abuse are so diverse and complicated. The wife is reduced to being seen as a glossy-eyed teeny bopper in love with an image of her very famous husband, no matter how much of a monster he is. She has no real substance to speak of. The husband/movie star is the only realistic character in the book, having narcissistic qualities that range from being terribly numb to any discomfort others feel around him to being deeply apologetic and promising never to do it again. The immediate connection and love between cop and victim is so predictable and pretentious, it was laughable. One of the worst books I've read in awhile.
I checked online with this ISBN number and according to the publisher this is the ABRIDGED version
