Madeline and Wes Drake have invited two hundred of their closest friends and family to their sprawling horse ranch for the most anticipated event of the year: a “pistols and pearls” gender reveal party so sensational it is sure to make headlines. But the party descends into chaos when the celebratory explosive misfires, leaving one woman dead and a trail of secrets.
As the aftershocks of the bloody party ripple across the small town, Agent Jamie Saldano is brought on the scene to investigate. Battling his own demons from the past, Saldano unearths a web of deceit spun around the Drakes. The appearance of some unexpected houseguests only deepens the mystery. And as tensions mount, it becomes clear that the explosion wasn’t just an unlucky accident. But who was the target, and why? As the shadow of a killer looms, the happy parents-to-be must unravel the truth before it’s too late.
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It started with the cheerleaders. It ends with the football team.
PLOT SUMMARY:
It was the deaths of five cheerleaders that made the town of Sunnybrook infamous. Eleven years later, the girls’ killer has been brought to justice, and the town just wants to move on. By the time Hadley moves to Sunnybrook, though, the locals are more interested in the Tigers, the high school’s championship-winning football team. The Tigers are Sunnybrook’s homegrown heroes–something positive in a town with so much darkness in its past.
Hadley could care less about football, but shortly after she gets assigned to cover the team’s latest championship bid for the school newspaper, one of the Tigers is poisoned at a party, and almost immediately after, Hadley starts getting strange emails warning her to stay far away from the football team.
GRADE: C
REVIEW:
I was very excited to read a sequel to The Cheerleaders because at the time that I read it, I absolutely loved it and was so invested in the book. The Champions didn’t live up to the hype. I think the main issue was that there was no thriller aspect to it, but was more of a mystery and the mystery wasn’t that interesting. Not to mention that a murder didn’t even occur until 70% in the novel and by then all the football players have the same personalities that you really don’t care what would happen to them. That’s another issue with this book, is that the cast is very large and you can’t tell them apart aside from the major characters. And speaking of the main character, Hadley was the least interesting MC there could be, not to mention that she had a crush on one of the football players and when he went into a coma she had no real reaction to it (you’d think she would’ve been sorry about it). She was more interested in who was going to get editor in chief at her school newspaper than her crush being in the hospital. It was very odd. The chapters were also incredibly loooong.
The whole book just reinforced stereotypes of football players being awful people to young teens and how they can get away with anything because the whole town worships them. I was really hoping the novel would’ve gotten better at some point, but it never did.
This book can be read as a standalone novel so if you’ve read The Cheerleaders, you really don’t need to read this sequel, as it doesn’t add much to the first book’s plot, other than having cameos from some of their characters.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Delacorte Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Hanna is no stranger to dark thoughts: as a young child, she tried to murder her own mother. But that was more than sixteen years ago. And extensive therapy—and writing letters to her younger brother—has since curbed those nasty tendencies.
Now twenty-four, Hanna is living an outwardly normal life of domestic content. Married to real estate agent Jacob, she’s also stepmother to his teenage daughter Joelle. They live in a beautiful home, and Hanna loves her career as a phlebotomist—a job perfectly suited to her occasional need to hurt people.
But when Joelle begins to change in ways that don’t suit Hanna’s purposes, her carefully planned existence threatens to come apart. With life slipping out of her control, Hanna reverts to old habits, determined to manipulate the events and people around her. And the only thing worse than a baby sociopath is a fully grown one.
GRADE: B-
REVIEW:
This novel is the highly anticipated sequel to Baby Teeth. When we left Hanna at the end of the first book, she was sent to an institution for troubled girls – when we meet Hanna as an adult she’s a phlebtomist, where she uses her job as a means to exact pain whenever she feels stressed on her patients. One day she meets a widowed father with a young girl and soon she marries him and becomes a stepmother. Hanna lives a very structured and mundane life, but she’s happy, until her stepdaughter becomes pregnant. This event triggers her to the point that her past sociopathic tendencies reemerge. While I found this novel very fast paced and I did like adult Hanna a lot, I kind of expected more. What I mean is that child Hanna was way more deranged than adult Hanna, and I know that adult Hanna was trying to avoid ever having to go to prison, but I kind of wished that she would’ve been more dangerous if that makes sense? I did like how the novel ended – Hanna deserved to get rid of all those terrible people in her life.
If you read the first book you might like this sequel, although this book can be read as a standalone. I don’t know if this book was much of a thriller, so if you’re into thrillers where you’re worried about any of the characters dying, this isn’t that sort of thriller. I do enjoy Stage’s novels overall, but do feel that she fills her novels with too many mundane events and details that don’t really add to the story.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Thomas & Mercer for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Becoming the star is easier when the rest of your band is dead…
All drummer Vienna Taylor ever wanted was to make music. If that came with fame, she’d take it—as long as her best friend, guitarist Madison Pierce, was sharing the spotlight and singing lead. And with their new all-female pop rock band gaining traction, soon everyone would hear their songs…
Except, on the way to an event, the Bittersweet’s van careened off an icy mountain road during a blizzard—leaving one member dead and another severely injured.
In order to survive the frigid night, the rest took shelter in a nearby abandoned cabin. But Vienna’s dreams devolved into a terrifying nightmare as, one by one, her fellow band members met a gruesome end…and Madison simply vanished in the night.
What really happened to the Bittersweet? Did Vienna’s closest friend finally decide to take center stage on her own terms?
She doesn’t want to believe it.
But guilty people run.
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“Can you hear me?” A male face peers into mine. Midthirties, glasses, expressive eyebrows. Andy. Kind.
“Yes,” I say. There’s an overwhelming barrage of hot sensation, then click, it all evens out—light, sound, the air on my skin—settling like embers, then cooling.
I breathe in, feel my chest balloon, breathe out. Lift my hands to face level and flex my fingers, mapping how the smooth pale skin with its smattering of freckles shifts and ripples over my knuckle ridges.
I’m sitting. Dressed in what seems to be an evening gown. I register how tight the skirt is around my thighs. How beautifully the blue sequins catch in the ice-white light from above. Palms down, I skim the fabric, tickling the pads of my fingers as the sequins catch, lift, fall. It’s like wearing a party. I like it.
“Do you know who you are?” says Andy.
I look up and feel myself smile. He’s in baggy jeans, a gray T-shirt with a buffalo plaid shirt open over top and a pen hooked on the breast pocket. A dark five-o’clock shadow travels down his neck. His look screams sleepless nights.
“Of course,” I say. Everything is simply there, no effort, natural as breathing. “I’m Julia Walden.”
“Do you know where you are? What year it is?”
“We’re in LA. It’s January 2022 and Biden is President.” I tilt my head. “We’re in the middle of a pandemic.”
“Do you know what’s about to happen?”
I register, out of the corner of my eye, a boom mic operator to our deep left, but keep my attention on Andy.
“I’m about to compete on The Proposal.”
“God,” breathes Andy, putting a fist to his chest like my answers are slaying him. “You—you’re—” He crooks a finger at his lips.
“Here?” I suggest with a light laugh. Now I’m rubbing my arms, the rough skin at my elbows, allowing my hands to touch my own face, then wander up to my hair, long and loose. I fish it around my shoulder. It’s a fiery, sun-gleam red. I love it. I love everything about being Julia Walden.
“Real,” says Andy when he’s recovered his speech. “Working. Amazing. I kind of want to hug you?”
“You don’t have to ask.” I stand in my high heels, taller than Andy by nearly a head. His glasses collide with my shoulder as applause bursts around us. After a second, he hooks my hands in his and pulls back, eyes moist.
“Wow, Julia. Just wow.”
I scan our surroundings as flashes pop. We’re in a warehouse. To the right, large machines quietly rest. I note hydraulics, robotic arms, big sheets of pale, rubbery material. Skin, I realize, and my own skin seems to respond, tiny goose bumps racing up my arms.
It’s not a bad feeling, exactly. Just…unpleasant, like touching something wet that you thought would be dry.
To my left, a film crew makes a crescent shape. One hefty man shoulders an equally hefty camera, trained on me. I know without being told they’re here from The Proposal.
It’s a little strange to be having this intimate moment with Andy while everyone watches. Then again…that’s about to be my life. Fully on camera.
Andy claps his hands. “So. Ready to meet Josh?”
“I was born ready,” I say with a laugh. My eyes flicker up to the answering sound of laughter from the film crew. But while I did mean to be funny, I also mean it.
Andy pulls out a cell phone. “This is yours. Let’s break it in.” He leans into me and we smile for our first selfie.
“Should we post it to Insta?” he says. “Your handle just went live—we had to wait until the other contestants’ phones were taken away. Oh, and we can’t mention you’re on The Proposal yet—” But I reach for the phone.
“I got it.” My fingers navigate the screen easily. Also, wow— how does @TheRealJuliaWalden already have close to a million followers…and counting? I caption the picture the journey be-gins!!!, noting the tug of resistance within me as I put the phone down. I guess part of me wanted to watch the reactions roll in. Immediately I wall up this thought. I’m not here for everyone. Just one man.
Andy has pulled out a blue pen while I’ve been messing with the phone, and is nervously gnawing on the clicker end. Weirdly, I want to reassure him, It’ll be okay. You’ll see.
“Julia!” the producer calls out. “Could you introduce your-self? For our viewers?”
I look at the camera’s cold eye across the distance and imagine that I’m looking into the face of a friend who can’t wait to see me. I smile.
“Sure! I’m a Synth. My name is Julia. And I’m here to find love.”
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What seems to us as bitter trials are often blessings in disguise.
—Oscar Wilde
At Nice’s Côte d’Azur Airport, the pretty woman coming down the jetway looked like every other bleary-eyed traveler. Rumpled T-shirt over jeans with an indeterminate stain on the right thigh, hair shoved into a messy ponytail mussed from the headrest. A backpack was slung over her right shoulder, weighed down with items that weren’t technically hers but looked like they could be. She’d sorted through them on the seven-hour flight, just long enough to make the contents feel familiar.
“Don’t lose it,” the Turkish man said when he hung it on her arm, and she hadn’t.
The jetway dumped her into the terminal, and she trailed behind a family of five, past gates stretched out like spider legs, along the wall of windows offering a blinding view of the sparkling Mediterranean, a turquoise so bright it burned her eyes. The backpack bounced against her shoulder bone, and her heart gave a quiet, little jingle.
She made it through passport control without issue, thanks to her careful selection of the agent behind the glass. A man, first and foremost. Not too old or too young, not too handsome. A five to her solid eight—or so she’d been told by more than one man. This one must have agreed because he stamped her passport with an appreciative nod. French men were like that. One smile from a woman out of their league, and they melted like a cream-filled bonbon.
She thanked him and slid her passport into her pocket.
In it were stamps to every country in Europe and the Americas, from her crisscrosses over every continent including Antarctica, from her detours to bask on the famous beaches of Asia, Australia, the South Seas. More than once, she’d had to renew the booklet long before it expired because she’d run out of empty spots for customs agents to stamp. She was particularly proud of that, and of how she could look any way you wanted her to look, be anyone you needed her to be. Today she was playing the role of American Tourist On A Budget.
At baggage claim, she slid the backpack down an aching shoulder and checked the time on her cell. Just under six hours for this little errand, plenty of time assuming she didn’t hit any unexpected roadblocks. If she didn’t get held up at customs, if the taxi line wasn’t too long, if traffic on the A8 wasn’t too awful, which it would be because getting in and out of Monte Carlo was always a nightmare at this time of year. If if if. If she missed the flight to London, she was screwed.
A buzzer sounded, and the baggage carousel rumbled to a slow spin.
At least she didn’t look any more miserable than the people milling around her, their faces long with jet lag. She caught snippets of conversation in foreign tongues, German, Italian, Arabic, French, and she didn’t need a translator to know they were bitching about the wait. The French were never in a hurry, and they were always striking about something. She wondered what it could be this time.
Thirty-eight eternal minutes later, the carousel spit out her suitcase. She hauled it from the band with a grunt, plopped the heavy backpack on top and followed the stream of tourists to the exit.
Walk with purpose. Look the customs agent in the eye. Smile, the fleeting kind with your lips closed, not too big or too cocky. Act breezy like you’ve got nothing to prove or to hide. By now she knew all the tricks.
The customs agent she was paired with was much too young for her liking, his limbs still lanky with the leftovers of puberty, which meant he had something to prove to the cluster of more senior agents lingering behind him. She ignored their watchful gazes, taking in his shiny forehead, the way it was dotted with pimples, and dammit, he was going to be a problem.
He held up a hand, the universal sign for halt. “Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”
Her fingers curled around the suitcase handle, clamping down. She gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I don’t speak French.”
That part was the truth, at least. She didn’t speak it, at least not well and not unless she absolutely had to. And her rudimentary French wasn’t necessary just yet.
But she understood him well enough, and she definitely knew that last word. He was asking if she had something to declare.
The agent gestured to her suitcase. “Please, may I take a look in your luggage?” His English was heavy with accent, his lips slick with spit, but at least he was polite about it.
She gave a pointed look at the exit a few feet away. On the other side of the motion-activated doors, a line of people leaned against a glass-and-steel railing, fists full of balloons and colorful bouquets. With her free hand, she wriggled her fingers in a wave, even though she didn’t know a single one of them.
She looked back at the agent with another smile. “Is that really necessary? My flight was delayed, and I’m kind of in a hurry. My friends out there have been waiting for hours.”
Calm. Reasonable. Not breaking the slightest sweat.
The skin of his forehead creased in a frown. “This means you have nothing to declare?”
“Only that a saleslady lied to my face about a dress I bought being wrinkle resistant.”
She laughed, but the agent’s face remained as stony as ever.
He beckoned her toward an area behind him, a short hallway lined with metal tables. “S’il vous plait. The second table.”
Still, she didn’t move. The doors slid open, and she flung another glance at the people lined up outside. So close yet so far.
As if he could read her mind, the agent took a calculated step to his left, standing between her and the exit. He swept an insistent arm through the air, giving her little choice. The cluster of agents were paying more attention now.
She huffed a sigh. Straightened her shoulders and gave her bag a hard tug. “Okay, but fair warning. I’m on the tail end of a three-week vacation here, which means everything in my suitcase is basically a giant pile of dirty laundry.”
Again, the truth. Miami to Atlanta to LA to Tokyo to Dubai to Nice, a blur of endless hours with crummy movies and soggy airplane food, of loud, smelly men who drank vodka for breakfast, of kids marching up and down the aisles while everybody else was trying to sleep. What she was wearing was the cleanest thing she had left, and she was still thousands of miles from home.
She let go of the handle, and the suitcase spun and wobbled, whacking the metal leg of the table with a hard clang. Let him lug the heavy thing onto the inspection table himself.
She stood with crossed arms and watched him spread her suitcase open on the table. She wasn’t lying about the laundry or that stupid dress, which currently looked like a crumpled paper bag. He picked through her dirty jeans and rumpled T-shirts, rifled through blouses and skirts. When he got to the wad of dirty underwear, he clapped the suitcase shut.
“See?” she said. “Just a bunch of dirty clothes.”
“And your other bag?”
The backpack dangling from her shoulder, an ugly Tumi knockoff. Her stomach dropped, but she made sure to hold his gaze.
“Nothing in here, either. No meat, no cheese, no forgotten fruit. I promise.”
She’d done that once, let an old apple sink to the bottom of her bag for a hyped-up beagle to sniff out, and she paid for it with a forty-five minute wait at a scorching Chilean airport. It was a mistake she wouldn’t make again.
“Madame, please. Do not make me ask you again.”
The little shit really said it. He really called her madame. This kid who was barely out of high school was making her feel old and decrepit, while in the same breath speaking to her like she was a child. His words were as infuriating as they were alarming. She hooked a thumb under the backpack’s strap, but she didn’t let it go.
And yet what choice did she have? She couldn’t run, not with those senior agents watching. Not with this pubescent kid and his long, grasshopper limbs. He’d catch her in a hot second.
She told herself there was nothing to find. That’s what the Turkish man had promised her with a wink and a smile, that nobody would ever know. He swore she’d cruise right on through customs. And she had, many, many times.
As she slid the backpack from her arm with another dramatic sigh, she hoped like hell he wasn’t lying. “Please hurry.”
The agent took the bag from her fingers and emptied it out on the table. He took out the paperback and crinkled magazines, the half-eaten bag of nuts with the Japanese label, the wallet and the zippered pouch stuffed with well-used cosmetics that had never once touched her face. He lined the items up, one after the other, until the contents formed a long, neat row on the shiny metal surface. The backpack hung in his hand, deflated and empty.
She lifted a brow: See?
But then he did something she wasn’t expecting. He turned the backpack upside down, just…upended the thing in the air. Crumbs rained onto the table. A faded receipt fluttered to the ground.
And there it was, a dull but discernible scraping sound, a sudden weight tugging at the muscles in his arm, like something inside the backpack shifted.
But nothing else fell out. There were no internal pockets.
“What was that?”
“What was what?” With a clanging heart, she pointed to the stuff on the table. “Can I put that back now? I really have to go.”
The agent stared at her through a long, weighted silence, like a held breath.
Hers.
He slapped the backpack to the table, and she cringed when he shoved a hand in deep, all the way up to his elbow. He felt around the sides and the bottom, sweeping his fingers around the cheap polyester lining. She saw when he made contact with the source of the noise by the way his face changed.
The muscles in her stomach tightened. “Excuse me, this is ridiculous. Give it back.”
The agent didn’t let go of the backpack. He reached in his other hand, and now there was another terrifying sound—of fabric, being ripped apart at the seams.
“Hey,” she said, lunging for the backpack.
He twisted, blocking her with his body.
A few breathless seconds later he pulled it out, a small, flat object that had been sewn into the backpack lining. Small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Almost like he’d been looking for it.
“What is this?” he said, holding it in the air between them.
“That’s a book.” It was the only thing she could think of to say, and it wasn’t just any book. It was a gold-illuminated manuscript by a revered fourteenth-century Persian poet, one of the earliest copies from the estate of an Islamic art collector who died in Germany last year. Like most of the items in his collection, this one did not technically belong to him.
“I can see it’s a book. Where did you get it?”
Her face went hot, and she had to steady herself on the metal table—the same one he was settling the book gently on top of. He turned the gold-leafed paper with careful fingers, and her mind whirled. Should she plead jet lag? Cry or pretend to faint?
“I’ve never seen it before in my life.”
This, finally, was the truth. Today was the first time she’d seen the book with her own eyes.
The agent looked up from the Arabic symbols on the page, and she didn’t miss the gotcha gleam in his eyes. The way his shiny forehead had gone even shinier now, a million new pinpricks of satisfied sweat. His gaze flitted over her shoulder, and she understood the gesture perfectly.
He was summoning backup.
She was wondering about French prison conditions.
His smile was like ice water on her skin. “Madame, I must insist you come with me.”
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When Case arrives at a run-down, ivy-covered house tucked deep in the West Texas woods, an ashy haze lingers in the air and the sky is tissue-paper pink. Her best friend Drea has been living here with a few classmates Case has never met, and Drea asked her to visit in a letter dated two weeks ago.
But now Drea is nowhere to be found.
Drea’s roommates can’t—or won’t—answer questions, leaving Case to search alone. She finds bits of Drea’s journal hidden in the tiles of the bathroom wall, in a beat-up cooler by the muddy river, wedged into the frame of her closet door. As Case pieces together Drea’s life in this strange house, the roommates’ behavior puts her increasingly on edge—and she’s not the only one. The animals nearby are lashing out, attacking each other, threatening the humans.
Something bad happened in this house. Something that must be connected to Drea’s disappearance. And if she gets too close to the truth, Case just might be next.
GRADE: C
REVIEW:
I was truly anticipating reading this book because I absolutely adored Tigers, Not Daughters so much. Unfortunately, my reading experience with Clever Creatures of the Night wasn’t that good. It did start off promising – Case goes to visit her friend Drea only to find out that she’s not there. Did she go missing? Are her roommates responsible for her absence? The issue is that the book takes place during the course of one day. There’s only so much Case can do to find her friend in a place where they’re located in the middle of nowhere and there’s no cell signal. Initially, the mystery of what happened to her friend had me really invested. The problem is that this book has so much promise and truly could’ve been something amazing, instead we get a really underwhelming reason as to why Drea’s not around. The writing is beautiful, but for a book that was very short (around two hundred pages) it felt impossibly long.
The supporting characters needed to be more interesting to keep this book going for how long it did. Instead, they were rather dull and one-dimensional. This was such a letdown after reading Tigers, Not Daughters.
This book is good for readers who like slow-burn mysteries and literary thrillers. I wouldn’t even call this horror.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Algonquin Young Readers for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The human heart is deep and dark with many chambers. Things hide down there.
PLOT SUMMARY:
In a cottage overlooking the windswept Maine coast, Wilder Harlow has begun the last book he will ever write.
It is the story about the sun-drenched summer days of his youth in Whistler Bay, and the blood-stained path of the killer that stalked his small vacation town. About the terrible secret he and his companions, Nat and Harper, discovered entombed in the coves off the bay. And how the pact they swore that day echoed down the decades, forever shaping their lives.
But the more Wilder writes, the less he trusts himself and his memory. He starts to see things that can’t be real – notes hidden in the cabin, from an old friend now dead; a woman with dark hair drowning in the icy waters below, calling for help; entire chapters he doesn’t recall typing, appearing overnight. Who, or what, is haunting Wilder?
No longer able to trust his own eyes, Wilder begins to fear that this will not only be his last book, but the last thing he ever does.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
This novel is absolutely twisty and I love it! I don’t want to delve too much into the plot because I don’t want to spoil the fun for anyone else. But the novel begins with Wilder, who goes to spend a summer in his dead uncle’s home with his parents and there he meets two other teens his age, Harper and Nathaniel. They become instant friends and vow to see each other every summer thereafter. But their lives become upended when a man known as “The Dagger Man” is finally discovered by the police, in ways that the group of friends never thought possible.
I’ve read previous Ward novels and I’ve loved them all. I rushed through this novel in two days, unable to put it down – I had to know what was going on! If you love coming of age, mysteries, and twists upon twists, then this novel is for you!
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Tor Nightfire for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The mountain had existed long before there had been anyone around to name it, pushed up by the inevitable forces that made the Appalachian Range millions of years ago. Hulking, it stood with a peculiar formation at its apex, two peaks like a pair of horns, giving the mountain its eventual name of Devil’s Peak. The coal mine inside was abandoned long ago.
On the southern side of Devil’s Peak was the town of Wesley Falls, where there were no remnants of the mine except for the overgrown paths crisscrossing up to two entrances, ineffectually boarded up, partially hidden but available to anyone looking hard enough. Down the western side were the steeper paths, far more overgrown with vegetation, leading down to the abandoned town of Evansville. That side of the mountain and beyond grew strange because of the coal fire that had been burning underground for almost a century. The Bureau of Mines had managed to contain the fire to the western side of the mountain so that only Evansville suffered. Only Evansville had bouts of noxious gases, open cracks of brimstone in the roads, residents complaining of hot basements and well water. Over time they left town, leaving behind a ghost.
Unlike its unfortunate neighbor, Wesley Falls had avoided the mine fire and transitioned from a coal-mining town to something not unlike Pennsylvania suburbia. It was the sort of town where one of the billboards outside the Golden Praise megachurch proclaimed, “Wesley Falls: the BEST place to raise a family!” and most adults agreed with that assessment. The sort of place where the city council had voted against a bid to allow a McDonalds to open, arguing that it would “lead to the deterioration of the character of Wesley Falls.” This had less to do with concerns about childhood obesity or dense traffic than it did a desire to keep the town trapped in amber. The sort of town where the sheriff was the son of the previous sheriff.
Jia Kwon, stepping off a train at the station some miles away from Wesley Falls, looked around the crowded station for that son—the sheriff—now in his thirties, though she had trouble picturing this. Sheriff Zachary Springsteen had an air of formality that she couldn’t match up with the image of the boy she knew from high school, whom everyone called Blub. He was an inoffensive, nondescript kid who delivered papers via his clackety bike, who then grew to be the generic teen who stood in the back row of yearbook pictures. She had always been friendly with him, but never quite friends, starting from when she had transferred from St. Francis to the Wesley Falls public school system and Blub sat next to her in homeroom.
Was the fact that she had chosen to keep in contact with this not-quite-friend after she moved away from Wesley Falls an accident? No—she knew that now. Blub had been the perfect person to report back town news over the years because he never suspected her interest was anything more than curiosity. Their exchanges over the years had been just enough for him to feel comfortable, or compelled enough, to make the phone call that had brought her here.
Jia paused to put her phone in her purse, pretending she did not notice any stares. No one looked twice at her in Philly, but here she stood out as the only Asian, drawing even more attention to herself because she had dyed her hair a shade of silvery gray with hints of lavender in it. It would only be worse when she got into town, but even as a kid she had been so used to being stared at that she just exaggerated her strangeness, opting for bright clothes rather than trying to blend in.
“Jia?” said an uncertain voice.
She turned her head and instantly recognized Blub, who stood with the gawky awkwardness of someone uncomfortable with his own height. “Blub!” she exclaimed, coming closer. She embraced him, her head only coming up to his midchest. “You’ve grown two feet!”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, smiling. “Want to ask me if I play basketball?” Their smiles felt hollow, she realized, because of the strangeness of the situation and everything they weren’t saying. “I appreciate you taking the time to come out here. I know you’re probably busy but…” He led her to his patrol car. “Sorry, you’ll have to ride in the back.”
“It’s no problem,” she murmured, surprised to see that he had brought someone along for the ride.
“This is Deputy Sheriff Henry,” Blub said, turning the car on. A smaller man whom she did not recognize half turned and nodded at her curtly, though Jia could see him looking at her in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the station. What on earth had Blub told him?
That once, in one of their email exchanges, when he complained about having to repair his roof, she made a joke about which team to bet on for the Super Bowl, and he did, and she had been right? That she had one too many stock tips that turned out to be good? That she inexplicably sent him a “You okay?” email at 8:16 a.m. on September eleventh, thirty minutes before American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center? There had been enough incidents as strange as these that when he called her last year asking for help, it felt like something clicking into place. Something that was supposed to happen. Over the years, she had started to feel comfortable with that clicking feeling, rather than being afraid of it. Last winter he had called her saying that Jane Merrick was missing from the old-folks home—she was prone to running— and she was outside in the freezing weather in only a nightgown, and they were worried about her. He did not say why he was asking her, a person who hadn’t lived in Wesley Falls for two decades, a person who neither knew nor liked Jane Merrick. She told him to look in the barn on the Dandriges’ property without providing an explanation of how she knew. She knew because she saw it. She knew because sometimes she could call up things when she wanted to, though not all the time, but this was still significantly better than when she was a kid and she couldn’t control when the visions hit her, or stop them, or even understand them.
And now, in the peak of summer heat, he had called again, saying that there was a missing person, could she help, friends were worried. She did not ask who because she felt something like the deepest note on a double bass vibrating, reverberating through her body. She saw herself walking, her white maxi dress—the one she was wearing right now—catching on brambles as she maneuvered her way down the overgrown path to the ghost town.
She had to go back to Wesley Falls. It was time.
“You all went to school together?” Deputy Sheriff Henry said when they pulled onto the highway.
“Yeah,” she said. “We didn’t overlap with you, did we?” Henry shook his head. “Blub and I go way back,” she said, meeting Blub’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll never get over the fact that people call you Blub,” Henry remarked. “How’d you get that name anyway? Were you chubby or something?”
“I don’t think there’s an origin story,” Blub said, looking like he wanted the subject to change.
“I remember!” Jia exclaimed. “It’s when you threw up in fourth grade.” She leaned forward, pressing against the grate that divided the car, addressing Henry directly. “It was during homeroom. He threw up on his pile of books. I remember because it was clear and ran down the sides like pancake syrup.”
Henry laughed and Blub flushed. “Jia, you can’t remember that because you weren’t there. You were at St. Francis in grade school!”
She stopped laughing abruptly. “I could have sworn I remember that happening!”
“Sometimes when enough people tell you a story, you start to remember it like you were there,” Henry mused.
Sometimes, Jia thought. But there were other people who could see things that had happened or would happen, even if they weren’t there.
As they drove down the highway and drew closer to Wesley Falls, the mood shifted to an anxious silence. Jia checked her phone for anything work related. She ran a small solar panel company called Green Solutions with her two best friends, both hyper-competent, both probably picking up on Jia’s strange tone when she said she had to go back home for a short trip. They probably thought that it had to do with the settling of her mother’s estate, and Jia, even though she was uncomfortable with lying, allowed them to believe this. When her mother had died, Jia had come to Wesley Falls to liquidate everything in The Gem Shop and sell the store itself to the least annoying bidder: a fifty-something-year-old former teacher who wanted to open a bakery. A significant part of the decision had been not that her baked items were good—they were—but something about her aggressive combinations of spices had seemed witchy, and, most importantly, she did not attend Golden Praise. Jia’s mother, Su-Jin, would have approved.
And now, with Blub turning off the highway, her heart felt torn in different directions. Wesley Falls wasn’t home, but it was, because it was where most of her memories of Su-Jin lived. As the car moved it felt as if they traveled through an invisible veil, something that felt uncomfortable in a way she could not put into words anyone else would understand, but was familiar and, she knew, strange. Strange like how she was strange.
But then it came: the feeling that arose every time she had gone home to visit her mother—the feeling that she shouldn’t be here. Except this time, it was worse. They had just arrived in Wesley Falls, passing Wiley’s Bar, which was on the outskirts of town. It was frequented by truckers stopping for a cheap burger and beer.
“That place is still here?” she murmured.
“They got karaoke now,” Blub offered.
“Please kill me,” Jia responded, trying to sound light. Blub laughed, then turned onto Throckmartin Lane. The street hadn’t changed in twenty years: it still housed Greenbriar Park, which everyone called “The Good Park,” and the larger homes where the wealthier families lived. Built before McMansions had hit this part of Pennsylvania, the houses differed in their architecture—some colonial, some farmhouse—but were all similar with their immaculate lawns, American flags, and WESLEY FALLS FOOTBALL signs.
Blub slowed to a stop, making eye contact with her in the rearview mirror. He was waiting for directions.
She gestured for him to turn onto Main Street, that old, curved road with the bottom half of the C drawn out like a jaw that had dropped wide open—it was impossible to drive anywhere in Wesley Falls without driving on Main Street at some point. They passed the police station, then the row of shops. Some of the mom-and-pop stores that lined Main Street had changed, but Wesley Falls still didn’t have a Target, a chain grocery store, or a reasonable place to buy clothes. Indeed, the best place to raise a family was apparently a place where you had to drive ten miles to the mall to get many of the things people wanted. She gazed at the bakery that used to be The Gem Shop. Spade’s Hardware was still there—her mother had had a grudging friendship with the owners. The candy shop had changed ownership but it was still a candy shop. They drove along the north side of town, by the lake and the Neskaseet River—called Chicken River by locals because of its proximity to and usage by the chicken processing plant at the north edge of town.
Wesley Falls and Evansville had both popped up in the 1800s, their economies at first built entirely around the Wesley coal mine, which resided inside Devil’s Peak. No matter how many times well-meaning adults attempted to close off the entrance of the mine, which had been abandoned in the 1930s when the coal ran out, high school kids always found their way in. Drawn to the allure of ghost stories, rumors that if you found the right path you could find the mine fire in Evansville, and the inevitable urban legends about the Heart.
Jia pointed and Blub turned onto the unpaved road that crossed the Neskaseet and wound up the side of Devil’s Peak to Evansville. From this elevation, she could see the entire tiny, abandoned town. The simple, squared-off eight shape of the town’s few roads, the dilapidated strip of larger buildings at the center, then the rectangles of homes, all identical because they had been provided by the mining company.
The road came to an end, trees and shrubbery blocking their passage. Blub put the car in Park, turning to face Jia. “Can’t drive farther.”
“Then we walk,” she said. She led the way, ignoring the looks from both men as she freed herself from prickly branches that caught onto her dress. Blub used his nightstick to whack away a tangle of vegetation, then Jia found a path that led down to the town.
It smelled like sulfur with a hint of cigar. Jia picked her way gingerly down the main road, which was buckled and cracked in places, then turned a corner behind the old church and stopped. There was someone in the road wearing a bright fuchsia shirt. She could only see the top half of the figure’s body. The lower part, from the stomach down, was trapped inside the road in what looked like a fresh sinkhole.
Jia knew without looking. Some part of her had known from the moment Blub called her. He needed help finding a missing person, but he hadn’t said who. This was the thing that had pulled her back, made her feel an insistent anxiety for the past few months.
Blub and Henry were running to the body, the latter yelling. When Jia finally approached, Blub was trying to get a pulse. She watched the two men huddle over the body, Henry almost making an attempt to pull her from the chasm before Blub stopped him. This could be a crime scene.
Blub sat back on his haunches. The fuchsia T-shirt was soaked with last night’s rain. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, tendrils stuck to the sides of her face. That face. Familiar but different. She’s still so pretty, Jia thought. Her mouth was open and a scratch stood out livid on her pale cheek. Her eyes were closed.
“It’s her,” Blub stated.
“Maddy Wesley,” Henry said, disturbed and awed.
“You knew that Maddy was the missing person? You didn’t tell me,” Jia said, trying to keep her voice stable.
Blub remained crouched, his elbows on his knees with his hands dangling down. “Didn’t think I needed to,” he stated, his voice devoid of the warmth it had had while in the car. He didn’t look at her as he examined the scene, and it occurred to Jia that he was actually the sheriff. Not Blub, the kid who threw up on his pile of books, but an actual agent of the law.
Jia edged backward, fearful that the road could break under her.
“You know her?” Henry asked.
His gaze made her self-conscious. Jia had never been a good liar. Much of the lying she had done that summer so many years ago had been by omission. She was working on a project. She was hanging out with Padma. These things had been true, but misleading.
“She was in our year,” Jia managed. “We all went to high school together.”
Blub’s eyes went from the body to Jia. “You weren’t friends, though, were you?” Maddy ran with the popular crowd, the Golden Praise crowd. Jia had been the opposite of that.
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ABOUT NECESSARY DEEDS: Matt Connell, a formerly successful literary agent who’ s been in prison for four years for a crime of passion— homicide by strangulation after learning his wife slept with a friend— receives an early release from Sing Sing to join an FBI undercover investigation of multiple murders in Manhattan. Killings continue to mount as Matt does his best to calm his “ Ferrari brain” — a condition in which his mind accelerates wildly into negative thoughts and worst-case scenarios— even as he falls in love with a suspect, then discovers disturbing truths about his past and hers. When he finds his own life in danger, can he stand up for the Bureau’ s heralded principles of Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity? Not to mention genuine love?
ABOUT MARK WISH: Mark Wish’s previous novels have been praised by Daniel Woodrell, Delia Ephron, Salman Rushdie, Rebecca Makkai, Ben Fountain, Anne Serling, the Chicago Tribune, and the Los Angeles Times. His short fiction has won a Pushcart Prize and appeared in more than 125 print venues including BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES. A renowned book doctor for thirty years, he now edits and publishes COOLEST AMERICAN STORIES, whose inaugural volume went to a third printing.
“What makes Necessary Deeds so irresistible and addictive is that it’s a devilishly inventive murder mystery presented in the finest of sentences and filtered through a mind wonderfully beset at every turn by the dark truths of human desire, ambition, envy, and jealousy—but most of all by love itself. If Mark Wish’s life imitates his art, his gift for storytelling might just get him
murdered. But not before his next book deal, please. In any case, Necessary Deeds is a necessary read.”
—TIM JOHNSTON, New York Times bestselling author of Descent
“By turns tense and tender, Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds delivers a high-stakes noir and a taut tale of jealousy, murder, and redemption.”
—LAURA MCHUGH, internationally bestselling author of The Weight of Blood
“Necessary Deeds is a tight, tense thriller that explores some of the darkest, twistiest workings of the human mind. Mark Wish asks the question: Who can you trust if you can’t trust yourself?”
— LOU BERNEY, winner of Edgar, Hammet, Anthony, Dagger, and ALA Awards, author of November Road
“Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds hits the sweet spot: sly, sharp, and satirical. Highly entertaining!”
—ALAN ORLOFF, Anthony, Agatha, Derringer, and two-time Thriller Award Winning author
“Smart and gripping, nuanced and wryly observed, Necessary Deeds is unputdownable, and Wish is clearly a writer at the top of his game. A phenomenal thriller that will leave you breathless.”
—TISH COHEN, author of The Summer We Lost Her
“Bursting at the seams with voice and tension, Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds reads like the literary lovechild of Bellow, Chandler and Robert Bolaño. This is a literary page-turner, full of life and poetry. A novel to be devoured, then savored.”
—DANIEL TORDAY, two-time winner of the National Jewish Book Award, author of The Last Flight of Poxl West
“In Necessary Deeds’ Matt Connell, Mark Wish has created a diabolically compelling anti-hero—a literary agent with both romance and murder in his heart. As soon as I read the first few lines of this novel, I was all the way in—Wish portrays the high-stakes New York City literary world and the conflicted soul of Connell with humor, pathos, and supreme suspense.”
—Grace Paley Prize Winner CHRISTINE SNEED, author of Little Known Facts
“Smart, exceptionally told, and a pleasure to read, this mystery by Mark Wish is complemented by dialogue brimming with emotional insights, whether about the foreboding passion between a man and a woman, or the rage of a wounded husband. Necessary Deeds is the kind of book you read in a rush but remember long after.’
—E. A. AYMAR, bestselling author of No Home for Killers
“I was hooked by the first sentence—one of the best I’ve read—and followed Mark Wish’s tale on and on. Wish knows how to tell a story, and in Necessary Deeds, he has given us a varied, surprising, and irresistibly engaging one.”
—Pulitzer Prize winner TIM PAGE, author of Parallel Play
“Necessary Deeds is a captivating, spiraling story that doesn’t let up off the throttle. When it was over, I found myself wanting—no, needing—that speed again. Wish has created a stunning narrative with so much drive and power. Any reader would love this.”
—PEN Award winner MORGAN TALTY, national bestselling author of Night of the Living Rez
“Necessary Deeds is a rarity: A murder mystery that keeps you guessing until the very end, and most important, is a lot of fun. Mark Wish has written a witty page-turner that’s necessary reading.”
—LELAND CHEUK, author of No Good Very Bad Asian
“Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds is a deliciously gleeful send-up of the New York literary world, a wildly satirical removal of the veil over High Art. Most notably, it’s a genuine whodunnit: Who is murdering the Talented Writers in the city (with their outsized advances)? Intertwined throughout is a noir love story and humor, but also a clear-eyed gaze at what has happened to notions of Integrity, Literature…and Fame. The twist at the end took me by surprise while making perfect wicked sense.”
—Drue Heinz Literature Prize winner KATHERINE VAZ, author of Fado and Other Stories
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The Inkblotters 