conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Harry, Mara, Cold with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Color of Night'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first paragraph for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Color of Night
  Sherman is one of those quaint little villages that dot the Erie coastline of New York. It has a past that no one quite remembers, but the town hangs on like a tarnished lady who still wants to be noticed. Main Street is tied together by a string of brick buildings the color of industrially begrimed red.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: QYou took the boat—why don't you let me finish. You took the boat on the afternoon of June 6 to the campsite of Jenny Bingham on the Little Muskegon River, didn't you?
  QAfter three weeks of storing your boat on the Little Muskegon River, you thought you'd gotten away with it, didn't you?
  QAfter three—I didn't even talk about hiding the boat. I asked you, after three weeks you thought you had gotten rid of—gotten away with it, didn't you? No body surfaced, did it?
  ANo, I don't—I never thought that I ever did any murder, so why would I think that I had gotten away with it?
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: As the handcuffs snapped on her wrists, surely Rachel knew she was in the final hours of the death watch.
  She must have struggled powerfully as she walked down the hill, the overhanging trees like a corridor, to the waiting boat. In the boat sixty pounds of cement blocks were attached to long chains wrapped around her body, then padlocked tight. The final hours had turned into minutes.
  Like a person restrained on a gurney, Rachel could hardly move. Duct tape slapped over mouth and wound around her head. Her eyes bulged in terror with the struggle to breathe. A second strip of tape slapped over her eyes and wound around her forehead, forever tangling the light blonde hair. Only her nostrils were free of the tape. Now, in the night, total darkness, the only witness a monster.
  Did she stop struggling then, as the boat splashed into the water? When she was a little girl, her father taught her to pray. Was she praying then in the lonely silence, broken by the creak of oars?
  The blocks were probably thrown over first. She tumbled after them as the weight carried her down. This was the moment of pure panic. She knew, rationally, that to breathe was death. Then she knew physically, emotionally, that she could no longer hold her breath.