Introduction

"Glass weaves a taut web of suspicion, murder and revenge in this chilling tale."—Liv Constantine, internationally bestselling author of The Last Mrs. Parrish, on Someone's Listening

From the Edgar Award–nominated author of On a Quiet Street comes a shocking thriller about secrets…and the lengths some people will go to keep them.

Grace Holloway keeps to herself. Since narrowly escaping death at the hands of the man who kidnapped her, she’s thrown herself into the small inn she runs in Rock Harbor, Maine. It’s quiet, quaint and, in the off-season, completely isolated—the perfect place for Grace to keep her own secrets.

But Grace isn’t the only one with something to hide, and Rock Harbor isn’t just a sleepy vacation town. Someone is taking young women—girls who look an awful lot like Grace did when she was kidnapped so many years ago.

When a surge of disappearances brings the investigation to her door, Grace finds herself unwillingly at the center of it all and doing everything she can to keep her distance. Because Grace knows something…something that could change everything. And when the truth comes to light, getting justice for the vanished might be more than Grace can handle alone…

Other thrillers from Seraphina to keep you up all night:
On a Quiet Street
Such a Good Wife
Someone’s Listening

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Excerpt

Chapter One

A fist-sized lump of sour meat sits in a plastic bowl on the second to top stair. It must be midday because that’s when, for a short space of time, thin fingers of light steal through the slits around the root cellar door and cut through the darkness like razor thin laser beams. I open my eyes to take in the light while it’s here. I can make out the shape of mops and a cleaning bucket in the corner, some old paint cans on a rotted wooden shelf, the bowl on the stairs.

I know that after nightfall, a gloved hand will replace the meat with something else; apples, or cheese, or stale pastries. Sometimes I eat. Most of the time I can’t force myself up to the top of the stairs to retrieve whatever it is.

I make myself sit up, pushing my aching body from the dirt floor and onto an overturned milk crate. I blink, trying to adjust my eyes to the bit of light. I catch movement across the floor. Not human movement, but the twitch and vibration of tiny bodies moving together in one mass. There is a scratching, skittering of feet, and they disappear into the walls. A group of rats is called “mischief,” I remember. It was a question at pub trivia one night. The memory of it—of life outside of this place—makes me retch. I hang my head between my knees, but nothing comes out—only a dry heave and the sound of my breath in the silence.

When the light is gone, I lay back down and wait for night when the doors will open, and the bowl of food is replaced, and I’ll scream and beg to be let out, I’ll plead and wail and ask “why?” until my voice is hoarse and weak, but I won’t see a face or hear a voice. Sometimes I see the shadow of the hooded figure who comes, a silhouette against a moonlit backdrop crouching down to place the bottle of water and food on the stair, but never a face. My screaming does no good, and they are gone.

Chapter Two

Kira

It feels wrong to be here. The house is so silent that my ears ring. It’s getting cold, and all I think about—all I have thought about in days is whether she is somewhere warm. A soft rain taps at the window, and at 10:09 a.m. it feels like dusk; the sky dark, the house lit only by the gas fireplace. I pull on an oversized cardigan and pour myself a cup of coffee before sitting in front of my laptop at the kitchen table.

I click on her Facebook page and see her face bloom onto the screen. It’s the profile photo she updated the very night she disappeared—the same one that looks back at me from the stacks of missing persons fliers that fill the back seat of my car. I want to say she looks happy because I want to think of her happy on that last night. It’s a selfie taken in her car. Her eyeliner is dark and dramatic, like she was mimicking a YouTube makeup tutorial but didn’t get it quite right. She makes a peace sign with her fingers, her head tilted to the right. She’s smiling in the photo but it doesn’t reach her eyes. The caption above the post reads About to do something wild. What does that mean? If I knew the wild thing she was going to do, would it lead me to her? I bite at my cuticle and look around the dim room. A wine glass sits on the coffee table, a red circle congealed at the bottom where the last untouched sip evaporated over the almost five weeks I’ve been gone. I was drinking it the night we got the call, and then with shaky hands and forced calmness, we went into the bedroom and stuffed toothbrushes and sweaters, underwear and whatever we could remember was a necessity before rushing out the door and driving the three hours to Rock Harbor. The roads were wet, but we sped through red lights and sleepy residential streets until there were no more streetlights glistening off the rain-washed roads and we were on the black two-lane highway, on our way to her.

I reasoned all the way there. I wasn’t hysterical yet. Not then. Even though my stomach felt hollow and my knees buzzed with something electric, the feeling of missing a stair, a weakness like I might collapse even though I was sitting down, I had calmed myself with reason.

Her boyfriend reported her missing, but that could mean a lot of things. Ryan is a good kid and maybe he was just being overly cautious by reporting it. Maybe they fought and she was with a friend. Maybe she lost her phone and was headed back to Boston but couldn’t reach us. There were so many possibilities then. But all these weeks later, finding hope is like holding onto water. And then there—just sitting there is the glass I held when the world was still the right way round, and things made sense, and my baby girl was just staying with her boyfriend and working for the summer on the seaside. It seems impossible that the goddamn world has come to an end, and that glass still sits there like nothing happened.

I resist the urge to smash it. I take a deep breath and blow it out my cheeks, then look back to the laptop and click on the many now-familiar blog posts and missing persons sites I can update. Matt may have talked me into leaving Rock Harbor and coming back home, citing that we have done everything we can do there, but it doesn’t feel right, and I don’t know what else to do. “Try to get some rest” is all I am told, by Matt, the police, my father, but the notion of rest is absurd.

When I arrived home last night, I turned on the game show network to fill the silence, poured a glass of pinot, then thought better of it and dumped it down the sink, because what if she called from somewhere and needed me? I needed to stay alert and sober and near my phone at all times. I opted for ginger tea and flopped down sideways over the arm of the love seat, still with a coat and shoes on, my legs dangling over the side, and I stayed like that for a very long time.

In an attempt to keep my thoughts from going to dark places, I squeezed my eyes tight and remembered anything about her that came to mind. When she was seven and cut her Barbie’s hair off so it would look like Ellen DeGeneres; the one-eyed cat named Noodle that roamed the neighborhood, and how she got up early every morning to set out food and milk for it; her Beetlejuice Halloween costume when all her friends went as slutty cats; her chipping pink nail polish, and watermelon lip gloss, and impossibly glossy hair—anything I can capture when I reach out into the dark, grasping for bits of memory or images.

Last Fall when I came home and she had the kitchen covered in egg shells and white flour. I asked her why she was baking at 10:00 p.m., and she said it was because Chelsea Mulligan took her to a meditation course.

“Oh, I see,” I said, eyeing the scattering of mixing bowls and rolling pins.

“Yeah, and I’m, like, super bad at it, my mind was just wandering, but not like normal stuff. There was a poster with a monkey on it, which made me think of chimps, which made me think of Jane Goodall, which made me think that although I like her, I hate the name Jane, and that made me think of the name Jane Doe, which sounds kind of stupid, and doe reminded me of dough, which made me think of pizza, and then I couldn’t get pizza out of my head for the rest of the day.” She smiled like this was a perfectly normal thing to say.

“And here we are,” I said, dropping my bag onto a kitchen stool and shrugging off my coat. I pulled cans of stewed tomatoes out of the pantry to show her how to make sauce from scratch. We talked about meditation and Jane Goodall and nothing in particular while we chopped garlic and rolled out dough side by side, and at some point, no matter how hard I tried to stay with her, suspended in another time, a dreamless sleep took hold.

I woke up with an ache in my back from the odd position on the love seat. When I managed to get myself into a sitting position, it happened like it does every morning. Fresh, raw pain. I remember where I am, and what’s happened, and a guttural howl escaped my mouth, then I realized I was here, and it was worse—the crying until my gut ached and my face swelled.

Now, two hours later, I’m trying to pull myself together and be useful. As useful as I can be from so far away. Matt’s trying to be helpful, I know that—all the cups of tea and one-armed hugs around the shoulder and recited clichés filled with hopeful sentiments, but he can’t possibly understand. He was a thirty-eight-year-old bachelor when I met him—a construction foreman making good money but living like a college student, still playing beer pong at house parties and doing shots of Jäger, still living in an apartment with a futon for a bed and a room dedicated to video games—the toilet paper in its original package next to the toilet instead of on a holder, no decor on the beige walls. No pots or pans in the kitchen. My father said any man over thirty-five with no divorce or kids under his belt is a commitment-phobe or some sort of pervert who probably prefers little boys to middle-aged women. Of course, he was trying to be funny, but maybe I let the words fester because I feared a grain of truth behind them. Or maybe I didn’t like being referred to as a middle-aged woman. Regardless, I never forgot it.

There haven’t been red flags though, and he really is trying to be a calming presence right now, which is irritating for some reason. I guess because he doesn’t have kids of his own, so his well-meaning comments are often just infuriating. Things will not be okay, and she will not just turn up soon. I had to tell him to just stay in Rock Harbor a few days, pack up our stuff, clean my dad’s cabin we’ve been staying in, whatever you need to do, just anything to give me some time alone. Now I’m regretting it. Not the time alone, the leaving the last place she was seen—like I’ve abandoned her.

I look at her face on her Facebook page again, and I see something new. The night she disappeared I wrote a desperate post explaining what we knew at that point, which wasn’t much. I hoped one of her fifteen-hundred-odd friends, a few of whom I imagine she actually knew in real life, might be able to help. Since then, I update the post with all the facts, hoping they might trigger a friend to come forward with new information.

I explained that my father, Leo Everett, has a cabin on the lake in Rock Harbor and maybe folks know him. The rest of us frequent the cabin, and Brooke had been up there many weekends growing up, so even though she’s only lived there a couple of months this summer, full-time, folks might recognize her. I don’t add that she met Ryan Lambros on a family holiday a couple years ago because he spends his summers working at the docks and that’s why she begged us to let her spend the summer because I’m not supposed to talk about Ryan publicly anymore because he’s reported that I’m harassing him.

I also didn’t say that my response to her living with him her last summer before college, instead of at home with us, was over my dead body, and this was followed by weeks of slammed doors, silent treatments, and screaming matches. But in the end, she was eighteen and there was nothing I could do.

I messaged each and every one of the 1,536 Facebook friends directly, cut and paste, cut and paste over and over, the same anguished words: Can you help? Brooke is missing. This is her mother writing. After sending the first few dozen I learned that I needed to add, This is not a joke. This is really her mother, Kira Everett. She was last seen on Hemlock Lane in Rock Harbor around 10:00 p.m. Any information you have might help. Please let me know the last time you spoke to her.

Almost none of them even lived in Rock Harbor. They were school friends from Boston or friends of friends who just add one another to look popular for whatever reason I don’t understand. But I did it anyway in case there was a thread of a chance that it could help. Most people responded with promises of thoughts and prayers and no they haven’t seen her. It’s hard to tell if anyone besides Ryan is actually living in Rock Harbor. Many don’t have a current city listed on their page. There were only two girls I knew for sure lived there, Emmy Katz and Melinda Harris, and they were beside themselves at the news, but said Brooke was always working and they only hung out for drinks once or twice over the summer. They knew nothing.

There were close to six hundred responses to my post on Brooke’s page. Mostly the stupid little “I care” emoji, and a few dozen we love you Brooke and come back, Brooke, but nothing now for weeks. An entire human being can just be forgotten by everyone she knew it seems once the shock wears off and the news of her missing is old and new tragedies have taken her place.

But today there is a new reaction to my post. A “sad face” emoji and then… I watch the bubbles pop up as I read the words someone is typing a message. Celie Hewitt writes, Omg. I can’t believe this. So sad. I saw her that night too, crazy. We love you, Brooke! Please come back. I quickly click on messenger and scroll to find her name—see if she is one of the people who responded to my direct message weeks back. It shows that she never saw it. I write again now. Celie, Hi. Please respond. It says you saw Brooke the night she went missing!? Can we talk?

A ping sound as the little dot drops down showing she’s read my message. My heart leaps. Then nothing. The glowing green circle showing she’s online goes dark and there is radio silence on the other end. My hands tremble so violently I can barely hold the mouse to click on her profile. Shakily, I tap on her name and look through her profile page, not sure what I’m looking for. There’s not much to find. Her last post was almost two months ago. It’s a compilation of cat videos. One squashed into a tissue box, another purring under a running sink faucet, a few pawing unsuspecting dogs in the face. No caption. The more I scroll the more futile my search for something meaningful becomes. Just a handful of selfies, weeks apart, some motivational quote memes. A fit woman standing on a mountain at sunset with the word if it doesn’t challenge you, it won’t change you written across the crackly orange sky in the background. Some quotes about Jesus and forgiveness. Nothing very telling, nothing with Brooke. I look through her photos. Although they are sparse and relatively useless on the surface, I see clues—the sandwich board for Morty’s diner boasting butternut squash soup as a special peeks out of the corner of a photo with Celie holding a paper cup of hot chocolate in mittened hands with flushed cheeks. Avery Hill Lighthouse stands by itself in a photo taken at dusk, and the unmistakable fishing docks appear in many photos—a man, probably her father, poses alongside her, wearing waders and holding up a Northern Pike. She is in Rock Harbor. She knows something. I have to go.

I choke back a sob as I run past Brooke’s bedroom door and hurry down the hall. I kneel on my closet floor and shove the spilled contents of my suitcase back inside. I push my feet into red Wellies, and grab a parka on my way out the door. I should have never left. She’s there somewhere—I know she is.

At stoplights, I watch the windshield wipers push autumn leaves and drizzle across the glass. I ignore two calls from Matt, but I pick up on the third, working to keep the irritation at his intrusion of my thoughts out of my voice.

“Hey, you okay?” he starts before I can say anything.

“Yeah,” I start to say but the word gets stuck and I clear my throat and try again. “Fine. What’s up—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I just called to tell you I’m about to head back to Boston. I packed up the rest of the clothes and stuff you left in the bathroom, and…” He sounds almost cheerful about this.

“Why would you do that?” I snap.

“Uh…”

“Just—sorry, did you leave yet?”

“No, I was just about…”

“Leave my stuff, I’m on my way back.”

“But, Kir, I have to go back to work tomorrow, I can’t take any more time—wait, why are you coming back? You’ve been home one night. I thought we agreed…”

“I’m not asking you to stay. I know you have work, but I need to be there. I don’t wanna—I don’t need a big discussion about it right now, okay. I just need to be there. I shouldn’t need to explain it.” I feel my bottom lip quiver and my lower lids fill with tears.

“Okay,” he says softly, but I can hear the annoyance just under the surface.

“Just go home, and go to work, and I’ll call when I can,” I say and hang up before the gulping sobs can start, and before the argument about what’s best for me and my health and safety and all the rest of it starts again too.

Rock Harbor is not a big city like Boston of course, but it’s also not a small town where everyone knows one another either. It’s somewhere in the middle where the Celie Hewitts of the world might get lost in police questioning if nobody knew they were in contact. I mean, I’ve never heard of her. She never came forward and said she talked to Brooke that night—maybe offer a clue into her mood or frame of mind, something. Did the police talk to her? Did they know she saw Brooke that night?

Asking them will get me nowhere. I need to find her myself. They are careful with what they tell me—you’ll be the first to know when we know more is their go-to phrase now for every question I ask. Detectives Hendricks and Monohan glance at one another quite often in my presence—with a look that’s a mix of genuine empathy and something else…exasperation, I think. They don’t know what to do with my grief; they don’t want to be burdened with it, but I suppose that’s human nature even in their line of work.

I know Hendricks. Wesley. Wes, from back in high school. We shared a seat in the back of the school bus on a three-day field trip to Niagara Falls our senior year, and shared a kiss under a Mexican blanket on the long ride home. And here he is, a local detective. Never moved away, never married from what I can tell, and I wonder if he remembers our short time together, how we spent the early summer months after graduation under the sycamore tree near Bear Creek making out, telling one another we’d never leave until I packed my car for BU only weeks later for Fall semester.

I wanted to wait a year before college to stay with Wes. I would have if my parents hadn’t forced me to go. Should I have made her go straight to college instead of taking the year off? I was younger than Brooke is now back then, and I thought I was so in love.

It was a lifetime ago though, so maybe he’s forgotten. I wonder what he must think of me now, standing here in my position. All I know is that he is the only one who can help me.

I’m told I’m the only mother who has gone door to door for miles around, questioning friends and acquaintances, and even strangers like a door-to-door salesman rather than letting the police “do their job.” I can’t sit at home wringing my hands and waiting for phone calls that don’t come. I have to put fliers under every windshield and jam a foot into doors closing in my face, explaining that I’m not selling anything; I need to call Ryan over and over until the idiot tells me something useful; and I need to verbally abuse the useless detectives until they hang up on me. That is what I need to do because I just need answers. I need an answer for why she was last seen on Hemlock Lane. She promised she’d never go there. It was part of the agreement. I promised not to move into our family cabin three miles away from her and follow her everywhere she went, and show up at the apartment she was renting with Ryan every night with Scattergories and kettle corn. I would not sit in a back booth at the café where she was working and tell customers embarrassing anecdotes about her childhood until she was exhausted and mortified and forced to give up and come home. She, in turn, would follow a few simple rules: no booze, no drugs, no Hemlock Lane. Girls go missing from Hemlock Lane, especially after dark. Everyone knows that.

Her phone records are the only reason I even know she was there. Her car was not there, so she got a ride. Ryan doesn’t seem to know anything, somehow. And now his parents have threatened a restraining order if I don’t stop calling their son, citing that he has said everything he knows and that I am just upsetting him further in his already delicate state.

I guess it’s not extremely suspect that he happened to leave town and go home, back to Maryland, at the close of the summer fishing season…just two weeks after Brooke went missing? Cops don’t seem to be too concerned. He’s been cleared. He was at Woody’s pub with friends. Lots of eye witnesses. Leaving in the fall was always his plan apparently, but I think he’s dodging my questions. There’s something he’s not saying, and I will keep calling him until they actually arrest me for it. Which could happen.

An hour outside of Rock Harbor, I pull off to pee at a greasy spoon called Margie’s. Inside, red vinyl stools line the counter where a crumpled man sits hunched over a slice of blueberry pie. A couple of truckers share a booth and stare out the window while they poke at what’s left of their breakfast samplers. an oily-faced waitress eyes me as I return from the bathroom with a look that tells me it’s for customers only. I sit at the counter that appears to be made out of yellow linoleum and order a black coffee. A Journey song plays over the speakers and the utter sadness of the place is overwhelming—all green carpet and wood paneling and a mirrored wall like it’s a Pilates studio. Who wants to watch themselves eat?

The waitress’s name tag reads Linda. She sets the coffee in front of me on a saucerful of overspill. I can smell how weak and stale it is without tasting it. She hefts her considerable girth onto a stool at the end of the bar and lights a cigarette.

The music is forcing my chest to tighten, and the stale coffee is making me nauseous. I push it away and take out my phone. I left the house in a hurry, with no plan on how to actually find Celie Hewitt, so I try and search for her further. Once Brooke went missing, I downloaded all the silly apps: Instagram, Twitter, and whatever the hell TikTok is. She was on a few of them, but no recent activity. I made the same appeal for help finding her across all these platforms and tried to learn how to use the ones I wasn’t familiar with.

I google Celie Hewitt because there’s nothing on Twitter or TikTok. When I search her name plus Rock Harbor, I find a few unhelpful things. She went on a mission trip to Guatemala with her church last month, her team won second place in a lacrosse game, and then a link to her Instagram page. I scroll through the images. In her most recent photo, she’s wearing a T-shirt that says Daughter of the King.

“Okay, we get it already. You’re all about Jesus,” I muttered. “What else do ya got?” A cappuccino with the foam made into the shape of a flower. Celie with a barista apron on, smiling for the camera and pointing at the espresso she’s pouring. Celie in front of…Coffee Corner, with the same apron on. My stomach flips. I leave a five-dollar bill on the counter and run to my car.

Social media is astounding. I had no idea how I’d start my search for this girl. I was just gonna start asking people and calling Ryan again until they arrested me, and…I don’t even know what, but there it is. She works at Coffee Corner with Brooke. And a clue. Brooke didn’t work the day she vanished. So there was a reason for Celie to be with her besides a work shift. Maybe nothing of consequence on the surface—a party they went to, or no, maybe youth group for all I know, after seeing the girl’s accounts, but since nobody knows where Brooke was and Celie Hewitt’s name was never brought to my attention, it’s something. It’s something.

I drive the hour trip in just forty-five minutes and go straight to Coffee Corner. An uninspired name for an equally uninspired place. Not one of the cozy spots that dot the coastal towns—the ones with their walls of books, beanbag chairs by the fireplace, and mismatched tables and chairs. This place is simply a square room with a sterile feel. A glass case of pastries and a depressing dining area with art on the wall that looks like it belongs in a Three’s Company episode or an 80s motel room.

I’d been here once to pick up Brooke after work one afternoon months ago, and then at least a half a dozen times since she went missing, asking questions and posting fliers. Of course, no one knows anything, but I’d never seen Celie. I guess she was on the mission trip last month. When I walk through the front door, a little Christmas bell hanging off the handle rings and the droopy acne-faced teen behind the counter turns and sees me. He looks around, probably searching for backup because he certainly knows who I am. I don’t recall his name, but I recall asking all of her coworkers the same questions in those dizzying few days after.

“Is Celie working?” I ask.

“Uh…Hi, Mrs. Everett. Uh…” He looks around again, unsure what he’s allowed to say to me, probably.

“No. She only works a couple mornings before school.”

“School? How old is she?”

“What do you…? I don’t know. She’s a senior at Edison?” he says like he’s asking me the question.

“So she lives here. With her parents probably then?”

“I don’t…” The boy has a monotone voice that makes me want to slap him. “Do you want to talk to Jeff…? I…” he trails off. Jeff is the manager, and no I do not want to talk to unhelpful fucking Jeff. I look at the kid’s apron for his embroidered name, Hunter. Of course, that’s his name.

“Hunter,” I say with forced calmness. “It’s a very simple question. If she’s not working, do you know where she is? You look like you’re probably a senior. Do you go to Edison?

“Junior,” he mumbles, “yeah.” His eyes dart to the door when the Christmas bell rings again and he’s saved by a customer. I wait. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye while the espresso machine hisses and sputters and he tries to make swirly shapes in the foam just like in the photo on Instagram, but his looks like someone spit on top rather than the signature flower I suppose it was intended to be.

When the customer leaves, he starts to wipe down the counter. I take the cloth from his hand and smile.

“Do you know where she lives?”

“I can’t—I’m not supposed to give out personal…” Before I know what I’m doing, I pull a fifty out of my bag and lay it on the counter. His eyes widen. He looks from the bill to me, and back to the bill.

“I just need to ask her a few questions. You obviously know I’m not out to harm anyone, so just… Do you know where she lives?”

“Sorta, but I mean…” I pull out another fifty. I don’t even know who I am right now, I feel like I’m in a mob movie all of a sudden, but I just don’t have time for this. I don’t want fucking Jeff coming out here and shutting the conversation down either. His mouth drops open, then…

“She’s going to the bonfire on the beach with everyone else tonight, like at dusk. I don’t know exactly where her house is, but you should be able to find her at Castle Beach. If she’s not there, her friends will know where she lives. That’s all I can really tell you.” I push the bills across the counter and give him a curt nod, then rush out to my car. I’m not sure why I’m rushing. I have a couple hours until dusk, but I head to Castle Beach anyway to wait.

Just a little while later around, 5:00 p.m., a few of the kids are setting up camping chairs and firewood down on the beach. The sky is still threatening more rain and it’s gray and misty out. I lean against a wooden post at the top of the dunes within sight of the sandy trail leading down to the cold beach, but not close enough to alarm any of them or looking like I’m spying. It gets dark by six o’clock-ish this time of year, and teenagers are late for everything, so I don’t know how long I’ll be waiting. I wished I’d bought a to-go cup of coffee from the coffee shop now as I pull the hood on my parka over my ears and ignore my rumbling stomach. All I care about is answers, clues, anything.

I watch a kid with sandy bangs and ripped up jeans carry a cooler of beers down the path to the fireside, take a beer out, and sit on top of the cooler. A girl in leggings and fuzzy boots runs over and hugs him overdramatically, squealing in the way that young people do that embarrasses older people to watch. Was I ever like that?

I wonder if these kids know Brooke. She wouldn’t be here right now at this bonfire party, she would have left for freshman year at BU already. These kids must still be in high school or locals at the community college. I watch a few more arrive, keeping my distance, and then I see her. I have memorized her face. Heart-shaped, prone to flushing, blond bobbed hair, little to no makeup. Always smiling. She’s with a short curvy girl and they walk arm in arm, practically skipping toward the dunes. She touches her head; I hear something about forgetting her hat. She waves her friend to go ahead and starts back to her car.

When the friend is running down the dunes to the beach, I call Celie’s name. She turns, a smile, her hair blowing across her face, she pushes the strands back against her head with one hand and looks to see where her name is coming from. I start to go to her. Her face falls when she sees me. She looks panicked and then…she runs.

She actually runs away from me. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

Questions from the publisher:


The story is told in multiple POV’s and in both first and third person. Why do you think the author decided to do this? Did it add or take away from the tension?

The author uses humor and writes eccentric characters like Vinny and Brady. How do you feel about the use of small bits of comic relief in a thriller?

Which of the three main characters did you connect with the most and why? Did you ever suspect any of them?

Who was your main suspect at the beginning? Who did you end up suspecting along the way?

How did the unknown POV’s revealed identity affect your reading of the book?

The three main characters have very different motivations. Do you think their actions at the end of the book were justified?

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