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Someone was inside his home. This has nothing to do with strange coincidences. Facts present themselves as evidence, which are then catalogued and filed away for the case file labeled: Henry Richmond Pendel. He has lived in this Greenwich Village apartment for seven of the 12 years he has worked as a literary agent. Like the industry he reigns over as one of its most reputable and well-known agents and tastemakers, he knows where everything is, and knows when a room thought to be safe might have been tampered with. It could be a book on a shelf slightly askew, a volume swapped or swiped, the scent of another body, yet even as he scans his countless bookshelves, and checks every corner, he can’t help but think about who has been here. Even if he hasn’t, it’s only a matter of time. Alexander Moyer, where are you? A name, thought to be an email containing a query and eventual author rejection, has become something more. Much more. Pendel has received a steady stream of emails, communications that started off as professional yet over the last week or so, have become odder than Pendel would like to admit. The fact that Moyer has mentioned personal details, particularly the casual namedrop of the building he lives in, has caused more than a little suspicion. This could be an omen, a warning of things to come. He has been in contact with his lawyer. The proof he has isn’t much, but it’s something. But there will need to be more. A restraining order was mentioned, and it only goes so far. This isn’t the first time he’s been under threat of a bitter author, one hurt by his rejection, yet something about this is different. Last night he fell asleep at his desk. When he woke up, the mug that had been next to him was moved. A tense overview of every room revealed its new location, casually “left” next to the bathroom sink. Pendel shrugs it off, maybe just too preoccupied to remember that he brought it with him into the bathroom. No big deal. It’s in the arrangement of his bookshelves that reveals something definite, proof of something amiss. He notices an entire six-volume set of sci-fi classics, a gift from one of his clients, missing, a gap where they had been sat alphabetized among other genre offerings. He looks for them everywhere, already late to the office, a meeting likely missed. When he checks his inbox, perhaps expecting that familiar name—Moyer—instead he sees no new emails. He should have new emails. Every time he hits refresh, there should be new queries. There might not be a lot that an agent can count on, but they can definitely count on another flurry of queries aiming to overwhelm an inbox. How odd, he thinks. Instead of checking the router and discovering that it has been unplugged, seeing yet another piece of evidence, clearly tampered with, he stares at the shelves. Maybe he’s already letting it get to him. This private invasion, one dealt with in a manner that is so manipulative it’s difficult to understand if it’s real or all in his head. “Not like Hendrix is answering my emails anyway,” he says. Excerpt continues below cover reveal. Could it be that there is something more to this person, perhaps more than a mere querying author, someone he had known, someone from his past? What are the chances that Pendel has mishandled some aspect of their interactions? The chances are high, part of Pendel’s ironclad reputation being his cutthroat nature, complete with a temper that intimidates and often limits people’s willingness to negotiate. It’s all circumstantial, he decides, and proceeds to move on with his day. Maybe some of the morning might still be salvageable. The facts, they always rise to the top. An agent finds reason in every conversation, even if it means not getting the best deal. In those inceptive steps—shower, shave, what to wear—Pendel finds temporary solace in fantasy, a vacation, wipe the slate clean. Just leave all this stress behind for a little while. Maybe this Moyer will move on to the next agent, the next person to personalize. Nobody talks about all the stalkers that orbit a public figure. Maybe he should take matters into his own hands. Forget the lawyer and seek the help of authorities. This is another writer who has let the worst of this industry warp their mind. It could be that Moyer thinks it’s he who is preventing him from becoming a published author. Pendel, the one with absolute power. Say the word and they become a household literary name. That’s something he couldn’t give any client. Sure, he can set a path, but it’s up to the author to prove that they have what it takes to be a bestseller. They got to be willing to play. To play, you have to give up something. When he’s finished showering and is about to head out, he has no time to wait for the train, so he’ll have to call a car. Never mind the ride apps; Pendel prefers this car service. A relic of a different city, you still have to call them up. They pick you up in a black luxury vehicle, complete with a driver in a suit. Pendel walks into the back room where he left his phone on a charger. That’s when he sees it: the router unplugged. Once it’s powered back up, a quick reset and in minutes, his apartment’s internet connection restored, his inbox comes to life. After calling the car service, he emails his assistant. A note-to-self that gets lost minutes after he makes it: Tell Marina what happened. Also, make sure to show your appreciation for all that she does. What would Pendel do without his tireless assistant? He’s got a voicemail. While waiting in the lobby for his driver, he goes through the messages. They’re nothing at first. White noise. And then white noise becomes breath. Breath becomes heavy breathing. The heavy breathing becomes a hint of something far more malicious. Or maybe he’s just expecting Moyer’s call. It’s him. Pendel’s imagination is so livid and overactive it might as well be fact. Jump forward to the act two climax, where he is being manipulated by a psychopathic would-be author, complete with a list of demands and a false sense of power. The messages blend together. Some are from friends and acquaintances he has no intention of ever reciprocating. Let every bond wither away to nothing. Working so much, it’s easy to do. Pendel may even prefer his aloneness. It starts to get a little difficult to know when each voicemail was left and when—except for the one. It’s the one that further confirms that it’s not all his imagination. It was Alexander Moyer. It could only be Alexander Moyer. The message in plain went something like this: “Why do you have three copies of Infinite Jest? You know you’ve never read it.” Beep. It doesn’t seem like much, but it’s enough to send a message. But then the car pulls up and he is Henry Richmond Pendel, renowned literary agent at Cooper Willis Endeavor, late and lately worried about his client list. You see, he’s not used to selling, wheeling and dealing the best possible deal for his author list. He’s not used to this dry spell, nearly a month of nothing, every editor deferring just enough to remain professional yet clear enough that nobody’s finished reading any submission, and nobody is keen to make any big moves anytime soon. It’s alarming, a possible sign of things to come. Last time something like this happened, the trade publishing industry suffered massive layoffs and restructuring. The whole system changed, seemingly overnight. But he’s Henry Richmond Pendel, and he has no reason to be concerned, given his reputation and position. Still, it’s enough of a bother to let all this concern about a vengeful author get pushed, yet again, to the corners of his consciousness. Nearly forgotten, at least for now, Pendel gets in the car and is already drafting an email response to Marina, explaining his tardiness, offering a little white lie in hopes that this meeting he’s over a half hour late for is not yet lost. And when he tells her to say that “I’m willing to talk about the possibility of also selling audio rights,” he knows it’ll buy him more time, calming the editor in wait down long enough for him to get to the office. And just in case, Pendel adds a little something extra: “You can tell him, no matter what, we’ll make it happen.” It’s the least he can do. The editor agreed to meet at the agency office. Besides, an agent is only as good as their word. __________________________________ Copyright © 2025 Michael J. Seidlinger. Reproduced by arrangement with the Publisher. All rights reserved. View the full article

In Deanna Raybourn’s Killers of a Certain Age, four friends — and lethal assassins — need to outsmart the team now hunting them. Now, they’re back, out of retirement, in Kills Well with Others. This time, they’re tasked with rooting out a mole threatening to expose their identities. Here, Raybourn discusses her narrator and why we can’t get enough older sleuths. Elizabeth Held: What was it like to be to spend more time with these characters? Deanna Raybourn: It was a privilege, an absolute privilege. The characters are so much fun for me to spend time with. Because I’d already set them up in book one, Kills Well with Others gave me a chance to delve deeper into their relationships with each other and how they’re handling retirement. This book takes place two years into their retirement, and it gave me an opportunity to figure out what a new life looks like for them because they spent 40 years doing something that is not normal. They’re basically genteel psychopaths. What does normal look like when you’re not killing people for a living anymore? EH: I was surprised when I read it that they were able to retire, even a little bit. I wasn’t sure they’d really be able to give up their work. DR: I know, but the one thing I made clear in Killers of a Certain Age is they never killed for fun. They only ever kill when they are aimed in a particular direction. They were recruited as 20-year-olds with a lot of trauma by an organization that trained and focused them like little lasers. They have only ever gone after targets that were specifically vetted for them to go after. They don’t kill on the side. Billy, our main character, and our narrative voice, even says,“That’s tacky. You don’t kill for fun.” That’s what separates the pros from the amateurs. EH: Speaking of Billy, why did you choose her as the narrator? DR: I wanted to have an in with the quartet. I thought if we stayed on the outside, we wouldn’t have a close enough look at the interior landscape. I thought it would make it more immediate for me and more immediate for the readers. There’s an intimacy to that first-person viewpoint that I like, and Billy was the natural character for me to gravitate to. She does have a few things in common with me. She grew up in Texas. She is very much her own person. She’s not super sentimental. She does have a decent sense of self-awareness about her, but she also has blind spots where she doesn’t quite see herself for who she really is. I thought that would be such a fun thing to play with. EH: One of my favorite things about this series is the way the four lead characters use people’s expectations of older people against them. It’s similar to what we see in Richard Osman’s Thursday Murder Club books and the new “Matlock” reboot. Why do you think that’s resonating with people right now? DR: It’s a couple of different reasons. First, we are changing our idea of aging and our relationship to gaining. I was an ‘80s teen, so when The Golden Girls first debuted, you look at that those women and you think, ‘They’re all in their 70s.’ But Bea Arthur was 55. I’m going to be 57 in a couple of months, and my hair is not that color. I don’t dress like that. I go to Pilates twice a week. We are very different in our aging now than we were even 20 years ago. 40 years ago, my grandmother was younger than I am now, yet she read so old when I was a kid. It’s because as our life expectancy has extended, we have extended middle age. All of the actresses who were super hot, super gorgeous when I was a teenager —Jamie Lee Curtis, Diane Lane, Angela Bassett — are hitting 60 and they’re still super hot. That is not necessarily what we think when we think 60 years old but that’s who they are. Because we’re reframing the picture of aging, this is an opportunity for us to put those people front and center. And, not just in the type of things we had when I was a kid, were if you had a 60-year-old woman as the lead in the movie, it was going to be about her battle with breast cancer. Or all her kids have left for college, and she’s alone and sad. Or her husband left her, and she’s alone and sad. Or she’s just put her parents in a home, and she’s alone and sad. She was always alone and sad. Now, you’ve got a woman who’s 60 and she’s just living her best life. We’re starting to fill haps. I love that. When I was coming around to the idea of Killers of a Certain Age, I watched Superman with Diane Lane and Spider-Man with Marisa Tomei. They’re playing supporting characters, these kind of more nurturing, maternal roles. I want them to have capes. View the full article

Every summer my family goes camping at Sandbanks Provincial Park on the sandy shores of Lake Ontario. There is nothing we look forward to more than those hot summer days spent swimming, playing beach volleyball, hiking wooded trails, and playing charades by the campfire. We disconnect from our devices, from the world, and we reconnect with each other and nature. We go barefoot by day and star watch by night. It’s idyllic. But for thriller writers, the idyllic is also fertile ground for inspiration. We can’t help ourselves. We like nothing more than to mess with the sweet things in life, to rattle the familiar, to make the comfortable uncomfortable. And there’s something about camping that feels vulnerable. Campers are at the mercy of the elements, and there are no locked doors or security systems to keep us safe. Someone could easily disappear, suddenly plucked from their tent never to be seen again. It’s a gold mine for a thriller writer. And it’s exactly what kicks off my latest novel, Buried Road. A woman’s boyfriend goes missing on their annual summer camping trip to Sandbanks Provincial Park—yes, that very same park. Three years later, the woman returns to the scene of the crime with her daughter in tow when the camper he was driving is suddenly found. A trail of clues leads them to uncover dark secrets hidden in the shadows of a thriving tourist town in the middle of summer’s high season. Thwarted at every turn, the mother-daughter duo is led ever closer to danger as they search for their missing loved one. Here are five haunting thrillers that kickstart when someone disappears on a camping trip, turning the happy into the horrifying faster than you can roast a marshmallow. One Step Too Far by Lisa Gardiner A bachelor party camping trip goes horribly wrong when the groom disappears. That’s the backdrop of Gardiner’s fast-paced thriller that brings back missing persons’ investigator, Frankie Elkin. Five years after Tim went missing, his family and friends gather for one last search of the woods. The story is full of unexpected twists and features a troop of complicated characters who gradually reveal more of themselves the deeper they hike. But the haunting wilderness setting isn’t the only scary thing they’ll encounter along the way. Something darker awaits. Tell Me What Really Happened by Chelsea Sedoti Sedoti’s YA thriller adopts a distinctive, well-crafted style, using first-person police interview transcripts to tell the gripping story of five high school friends who went camping one weekend in the woods near Salvation Creek. One of their friends disappeared and chapter by chapter, question after question, the teens testimony paints a vivid picture of what really happened—or at least what they say really happened. The novel’s unreliable narrator vibes keep you guessing until the very end. Cold Fear by Rick Mofina The second novel in Mofina’s Tom Reed series sees the oft-troubled reporter sent to cover the story of a young girl gone missing while camping with her family in Glacier National Park. An extensive search is launched, the police and FBI investigate, complex relationships begin to unravel as secrets come under threat and menace lurks nearby. With time running out for the young girl, this heart-pounding thriller feels ripped from the headlines—which Mofina deftly plays upon in his explorations of the roles of both the press and police. The Wild Coast by Lin Andersen A young woman’s body is found in a shallow grave along Scotland’s rugged west coast and Forensic scientist, Rhona MacLeod is tasked with examining the scene. She soon discovers that another woman has gone missing at a campsite nearby. It seems someone with sinister motives has come to wreak havoc on this the idyllic coastal camping destination. Creepy stick figures, missing girls, and breathtaking scenery abound as Andersen skillfully intertwines two seemingly unrelated mysteries into one riveting thriller. Sleeping Bear by Connor Sullivan Cassie is an army vet and young widow. She’s decided to get away before she starts her new job. Cue camping trip in the Alaskan wilderness. Cue disappearance without a trace. That’s the set up for Sullivan’s nail-biting thriller. When Cassie doesn’t turn up for work, her father finds out people go missing in that area all the time. He heads to Alaska to see for himself and to help with the investigation. But when Cassie wakes up in a remote Russian prison, it turns out this isn’t some hiker-lost-in-the-woods story, but instead, it’s a chilling, break-neck-paced cold war saga that never lets up. *** View the full article

Novelists don’t need all the facts. We’re illusionists, after all. A little misdirection, a little sleight of hand, and suddenly the trick becomes real. Reporters don’t have that luxury. They deal in facts—or at least, that’s what they want you to think. I should know. I fall for them every time. I like to talk. They like to listen. They press, I spill, and before I know it, I’ve laid all my cards on the table. One in particular still lingers in my mind. We didn’t last long, but I let him get further than most. A dimly lit dive bar. A plate of fries between us. Late winter, the windows fogged from the heat inside. His gaze cut through the red neon glow—not like a man picturing my pleated skirt on his floor, but like a detective studying a suspect, figuring out the angles. Every question was deliberate. My answers slipped past my defenses like smoke under a locked door. I let it happen. He told me all his tricks—how he’d corner his sources, how he’d make them talk, how he’d play his hand just right and make them think they were winning. He laid it all out like a confession. Maybe it was a warning. Maybe a test. I knew exactly how it worked. Should’ve seen it coming. But I still gave him everything he wanted. Like a real sucker. And I loved every minute. That’s why journalists make damn good detectives—but whether they’re heroes or villains depends on where their moral compass tilts. Some chase justice, some chase the byline, and some just like the game. When a Harlem torch singer goes missing in my debut Glitter in the Dark, the only woman on the case is Ginny Dugan, an advice columnist with bigger ambitions. She knows how to ask the right questions, press where it hurts, push past locked doors. That’s what reporters do best. But the deeper she goes, the more the story closes in around her—until the truth isn’t just something to expose, it’s something she has to survive. That’s what makes reporter sleuths so damn compelling. Sure, they can cut through the noise, break past the polished surface to find the dark, troubling secrets lurking underneath. But even more compelling is their weakness. Because no matter how sharp, how relentless, how cool they seem, there’s always something that cracks them open. Some stories cut too deep. Some truths cost more than they’re worth. And some don’t just leave a mark—they pull you under. If you love characters who push too far, ask the wrong questions, and end up paying the price, this list is for you. Keep reading for some of my favorite reporter sleuths, and drop your own in the comments. Sharp Objects by Gillian Flynn A decade after her little sister’s death, Camille Preaker has carved almost every inch of her body with words, a testament to the pain she’s never truly left behind. Now, working as a reporter in Chicago, she’s sent back to her hometown to cover the brutal murders of two young girls—both found with their teeth removed. Flynn’s gothic-noir masterpiece drips with unease, the kind that settles in your stomach and lingers long after the last page. Camille is a journalist, yes, but she’s also deeply compromised: haunted, unreliable, and dangerously susceptible to the very forces she’s investigating. As she navigates the small-town minefield of gossip, secrets, and her own nightmarish family dynamics, the case becomes as much about her own survival as it is about finding the killer. Her weapon of choice is language—words define her, consume her, both on the page and on her skin. If she can just find the right words, maybe she can make sense of the mess she’s drowning in. But the deeper she digs, the more the town—and her own past—seems poised to swallow her whole… The Horizontal Man by Helen Eustis At first glance, The Horizontal Man seems like a classic campus murder mystery: an English professor is found dead, and newspaper reporter Jack Donnely is on the scene, eager for a salacious scoop. But this is no ordinary detective novel. Instead, Eustis delivers a sharp, psychological noir where the mind games are as dangerous as the crime itself. Chasing headlines over hard truths, Donnely initially manipulates a grieving student’s confession for the sake of selling papers. But his ambitions take a turn when he meets Kate Innes, a sharp-witted student editor who won’t let him get away with it. Kate is tough—cynical yet idealistic, more of a detective than the so-called journalist she finds herself teaming up with. And as Donnely is drawn to Kate, he finds himself pulled away from sensationalism and toward something resembling real justice. What makes The Horizontal Man stand out in the noir canon isn’t just its setting—an insular, neurotic university filled with academics teetering on the edge of mental collapse—but its ahead-of-its-time exploration of psychology and identity. There are two mysteries at play here: the murder itself, and the inner workings of a cast of characters whose desires, fears, and hidden selves threaten to destroy them all. Lady in the Lake by Laura Lippman Maddie Schwartz has spent the last two decades playing by the rules as a wife, a mother, a well-behaved woman who fit neatly into the expectations of 1960s Baltimore. But now, she wants something more. Something bigger. She wants a story. It starts with a missing girl who vanished without a trace. When Maddie’s intuition leads her to the child’s body, she sees her opening. The discovery earns her a foothold at The Star, and she reinvents herself as a reporter, chasing leads, pushing past locked doors, refusing to take no for an answer. But one story isn’t enough. Soon, she’s digging into the disappearance of Cleo Sherwood, a young Black woman whose murder barely made the papers. Maddie isn’t just looking for the truth—she’s trying to find her place in the world, rewriting the roles assigned to her by the life she left behind. Lippman’s kaleidoscopic noir unfolds like a newspaper—a shifting patchwork of voices, from Cleo’s grieving friends and family to the men who crossed paths with her, to Cleo herself, watching from beyond the grave as Maddie exposes secrets best left buried. This is a book about power. Who gets to ask the questions? Who deserves the answers? Whose story is Maddie really telling—and at what cost? Lippman builds a deeply researched, atmospheric portrait of 1960s Baltimore, steeped in its racial and gender politics, layered with ambition, guilt, and the uneasy truth that journalism doesn’t just report on the world—it changes it. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes not. The Jasmine Trade by Denise Hamilton The murder of Marina Lu looks like a robbery gone bad. A teenage girl found dead in her car, her bridal gowns still in the backseat, her diamond ring catching the last of the LA sun. But Los Angeles Times reporter Eve Diamond knows better. She follows the story into the world of “parachute kids”—wealthy Asian teenagers sent to America for education and opportunity, left behind in mansions while their parents run businesses overseas. Money doesn’t keep them safe. Neither does privilege. Marina had both, and she still wound up dead. Eve has a knack for spotting the cracks beneath the city’s surface. The deeper she digs, the darker the picture gets. What was Marina doing with a much older fiancé? Why won’t her father answer any questions? And why does the trail keep leading Eve into a far uglier subculture—where young women like Marina aren’t debutantes, but property? This is Los Angeles noir at its sharpest—a world of power and isolation, a neon-lit dream that rots from the inside out. Hamilton writes LA like she owns it, laying bare the places most people don’t want to see: the empty mansions, the late-night diners where secrets trade hands, and the rooms where silence is bought and paid for. The Mayor of Maxwell Street by Avery Cunningham Penelope “Nelly” Sawyer has spent the past year writing under a pseudonym, slipping into the streets of 1920s Chicago to report on the realities of life under Jim Crow for The Chicago Defender. But when her editor discovers her identity—a wealthy Black debutante making her entrance into high society—he doubts her abilities. To prove herself, she’s given an impossible assignment: uncover the identity of the Mayor of Maxwell Street, a shadowy figure lurking in Chicago’s vice-ridden underworld. This is an atmospheric historical noir that contrasts the gilded excess of affluent Black society with the dangers of the city’s underground. As a self-taught journalist, Nelly relies on sharp observation and pure instinct, even as the men in her life—her editor, her suitors, the powerful figures she investigates—try to box her into a role that suits them. But Nelly isn’t just chasing a story—she’s fighting to define herself before the world does it for her. The novel crackles with both danger and romance, as Nelly follows the trail of the elusive Mayor, navigating not just prejudice and corruption, but the flames of an attraction that could either unravel her or set her free. Like Nelly, Ginny Dugan is chasing more than just a story. She wants respect. Recognition. The chance to prove she’s more than what people expect. In Glitter in the Dark, she’s stuck writing fluff for Photoplay when she witnesses a kidnapping in a Harlem speakeasy. No one believes her. But she knows what she saw—and her pursuit of this story drags her from underworld hideouts to Broadway’s brightest lights, where every answer has a price. If you like your mysteries with a sharp-eyed journalist, a world that glitters on the surface but rots underneath, and a truth that won’t stay buried, Glitter in the Dark might be your next big scoop. ** View the full article

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Another week, another batch of books for your TBR pile. Happy reading, folks. * Robert Jackson Bennett, A Drop of Corruption (Del Rey) “Wonderfully clever and compulsively readable . . . another winning blend of fantasy and classic detection.” –Publishers Weekly Julia Bartz, The Last Session (Emily Bestler/Atria) “Dark and entertaining, THE LAST SESSION had me compulsively flipping pages. Julia Bartz’s latest thriller explores the allure of wellness cults, the nature of trauma and healing, and all of the ways in which therapy can go wrong. If you enjoyed THE WRITING RETREAT as much as I did, you will love Bartz’s latest as well!” –Lauren Ling Brown Bryan Gruley, Bitterfrost (Severn House) “Visceral, vivid, and suspenseful, Bitterfrost immerses readers in a chilly ― and chilling ― world of lost dreams and deadly feuds. I was instantly and completely engrossed. Masterfully done.” –Meg Gardiner Sara Foster, When She Was Gone (Blackstone) “Foster is back! When She Was Gone is a master class of suspense, an edge-of-your-seat story that kept me up all night.” –Dervla McTiernan Jordan LaHaye Fontenot, Home of the Happy (Mariner) “Simultaneously lurid and lyrical, gothic and graceful, surreal and serene. . . [Home of the Happy is] memoir, reportage, and investigative journalism, wrapped in a propulsive narrative that tells the tale of a family and a place across time.” –Country Roads Lise Olsen, The Scientist and the Serial Killer (Random House) “Lise Olsen is not only a masterful investigative reporter, she’s one hell of a storyteller. Her sentences are completely dramatic, her character descriptions spot on. I felt a pit in my stomach reading this book.” –Skip Hollandsworth Shalini Abeysekera, This Monster of Mine (Union Square) “A relentless and beautifully balanced romantasy/legal thriller, offering blood and hope in equal measures.” –Library Journal View the full article

I’ve long been fascinated by darkly feminist novels, books that keep me riveted by—and sometimes rooting for—complicated characters who embrace moral grayness and revenge, or who simply do what must be done in impossible situation. Whether you see these characters as anti-heroines or just women trying to survive is a Rorschach test for where your true sympathies lie, making these books ripe for debate in book clubs and Reddit threads. And either way: who can deny the vicarious thrill of experiencing life through the fictional eyes of a woman who doesn’t care what’s expected of her; who breaks rules and takes charge of her destiny by any means possible, whether right or wrong? Adult fiction has been blessed with an abundance of darkly feminist thrillers, from Luckiest Girl Alive by Jessica Knoll to the more speculative Vox by Christina Dalcher and The Power by Naomi Alderman. But darkly feminist reads aren’t just for adults—and they don’t necessarily feature overtly polarizing questions or characters (like Gone Girl’s Amazing Amy). The darkness can be more subtle. The feminism can be a vibe. In the multifaceted world of YA specifically, I consider darkly feminist thrillers to be books that highlight feminist perspectives or themes without glossing over the darker side of life and its harsh realities. They incorporate aspects of traditional thrillers and crime novels, with a heroine unraveling a secret about her world (and those closest to her). They use layers and nuance to help make their point—and they often incorporate speculative elements, offering a wide scope of high-concept plots, imaginative settings, and fantasy to captivate readers. In my own young adult debut, Nothing Bad Happens Here, I explore nautical myths, seaside crime, wealth inequality, the joyful chaos of female friendships, and the depths of feminine rage as my heroine is forced to make some bold, hard choices in a world where there are no black-and-white answers. Daughters of Eve by Lois Duncan was my first darkly feminist read. I was in middle school when I picked it up, and it shocked me at the time. The teenagers in Duncan’s books have always struck me as grown-up women, their cares and responsibilities so much heavier than mine, but I was quickly drawn into the story of a group of teens under the spell of a charismatic teacher. When bad things started happening to one of the female characters—and when this close-knit group went to dangerous lengths to get well-deserved revenge—I felt uneasy and confused… and so intrigued that I couldn’t stop reading. The writing is urgent and intense, rivaled only by an ending delivered in a “where are they now” pastiche that haunts me decades later. Published in 1979 and banned at times for the themes depicted and alluded to, this novel feels like the matriarch to the film Promising Young Woman (featuring two of my favorite actors, Jennifer Coolidge and Molly Shannon!) or to Mindy McGinnis’ young adult novel, The Female of the Species. The Female of the Species begins with small-town protagonist Alex, who admits right up front that she knows how to kill someone—and that she doesn’t feel bad about it. A shocking and disturbing revelation, until the reader discovers the reason why. But this isn’t a celebration of teen vigilantism, no matter how well-deserved. Told in alternating viewpoints that explore Alex’s sister’s murder, this novel is violent and edgy . . . not for shock value, but in the service of telling a powerful story that doesn’t shy away from themes of anger, the legacy of crime, and the dangers of rape culture. This novel will leave readers reeling at its heart-pounding ending. On the surface, The Belles by Dhonielle Clayton is a completely different read: a YA fantasy that wraps the reader up in a lush narrative with stellar worldbuilding and romantic will-they-won’t-they subplots. Camellia Beauregard is a Belle, a young woman who’s chosen to wield the power of Beauty and who vies to become the Queen’s favorite in a cut-throat court. But dark secrets line the gilded halls of the palace, and Camellia will have to make a dangerous decision. Come for the tiny elephants and extravagant gowns, stay for the plot twists. But this page-turner is more than skin-deep: it’s bursting with themes of beauty and pain . . . and will leave readers thinking about the commodification of personal appearance, and how images can be used to manipulate (in ways that feel extremely relevant in a world awash in Sephora hauls, beauty filters, and plastic surgery). This skillful portrayal of a hierarchical, image-obsessed society is well worth sharing and discussing with the teen and adult readers in your lives. Another novel whose themes feel particularly timely is Needy Little Things by Chenelle Desamours. This speculative YA mystery/thriller features a teen with a unique, secret gift: Sariyah Bryant can actually hear what people need. But right after she helps a friend fulfill one of their needs, that friend disappears—and that’s not the first time someone close to her has gone missing. Facing the police and media’s lack of urgency in the case, Sariyah decides to investigate with only the help of her friends. As she tries to unravel the case, she’s also dealing with tough situations at home: her mother loses her job while her brother grapples with a serious illness, and Sariyah must make a fateful decision. This isn’t a story of revenge or rebellion, but it’s an unflinching look at the compromises and burdens young women face (in addition to dealing with themes of racism, injustice, and mental health). This riveting mystery will keep you turning the pages and reaching for a Kleenex. Sawkill Girls by Claire Legrand uses speculative and horror elements to tell a more overtly feminist story about a town where girls have disappeared for decades, their bodies never to be found. Rumors abound that they’ve been taken by a monster, an evil presence that belies the beauty of the island, and close friends Marion, Zoey, and Val are thrown into darkness and conflict when Marion’s sister Charlotte joins the ranks of the missing girls. This eerie novel blends thriller elements with the complexities of female friendship, love, and feminine rage as long-buried secrets and horrific truths are unearthed by three main characters facing both human and supernatural darkness. Readers will be drawn in by the atmospheric, twisting mysteries of the island of Sawkill and be heartened by themes of courage, inner strength, and solidarity. And, of course, there’s always Nancy Drew. Perhaps the plots are less dark, but this iconic “girl sleuth” is a feminist icon nonetheless. *** View the full article

I began writing about books for the New York Times in late 2023 and officially began my tenure as the horror fiction columnist for the New York Times Book Review in January on 2024. I love that gig with all my heart, but it often makes me miss something else I love with all my heart: crime fiction. Sure, I’m still reading crime (and noir, thrillers, mystery suspense, true crime, etc), but I’m not writing about what I read, and writing about what I read is what I’ve always done. Solution? Start a column to talk about crime fiction. The perfect place? CrimeReads, a place that has supported me from the start. Yeah, I’m happy to be here. Let’s talk about some new books. Steve Cavanagh, Witness 8 (Atria) While they are all different, there’s one thing that all Steve Cavanagh novels share: you start reading, you’re hooked. Witness 8, Cavanagh’s latest, is no different. In Witness 8, the eight entry in the Eddie Flynn Series, Eddie and the gang are back and trying to tackle a complex murder case that went down in one of the city’s most affluent neighborhoods. John Jackson is innocent, and Eddie knows it, but the truth is weaker than Jackson’s DNA on the murder weapon, which was found in his home. While Eddie works on getting to the bottom of the Jackson case, he must also stay busy keeping himself alive because some fine members of New York’s Finest want him dead, and they’ve put a bounty on his head. With the author’s knack for pacing, action, dialogue, and humor in full display here, Witness 8 is exactly the kind of gritty, funny, violent, carefully plotted narrative we’ve come to expect from Cavanagh while also being its own thing. The story is packed with tension and more questions than answers. Ruby, a character that quickly becomes half the heart of the story, is an intriguing character whose agenda drives the plot but also a vehicle through with Cavanagh explores identity and belonging in the world of the ultrawealthy. Reading an Eddie Flynn novel is never not fun, and Witness 8 is a blast even when Bloch’s not around. Jean Echenoz, Command Performance Translated by Mark Polizzotti (NYRB) Jean Echenoz’s Command Performance is an amazing novel. In terms of genre, it’s a sort of detective novel, but in the same way that a tomato is a fruit; sure, but it’s not the same. Gerard Fulmard lost his job as a former flight attendant under some bad circumstances and desperation pushed him to try his hand at being a private detective. It took a while to get his first case, and it quickly turned into a dangerous disaster. In the aftermath of that fiasco, Gerard starts working for a shady political splinter group. Once in, Gerard’s quick, bizarre journey inside the group will lead him to murder, amongst other things. There’s good weird and bad weird, and this novel is the really good kind. Echenoz’s prose is like a wild, unpredictable animal that’s also very colorful, so you read and enjoy it even if there at times when you’re not exactly sure what’s happening and wouldn’t dare a guess as to what comes next. Gerard is a strange man, the story starts with a bizarre catastrophe, and every character in the novel has a quirky biography and unique personality. That Echenoz weaves these elements into a satisfying read is a testament to his talents as a storyteller. Hannah Deitch, Killer Potential (William Morrow) Hannah Deitch’s Killer Potential is an impressive debut that shows its author has exactly that. Evie Gordon was on the path to greatness from early on. Smart child. Gifted. Talented. Good grades. Went to a great university. Then, life kicked her in the teeth with reality. Evie now makes a living as an SAT tutor rich kids in Los Angeles. She spends hours in fancy living rooms and posh kitchens and enjoys peeing in magazine-worthy bathrooms. Besides that, Evie’s life isn’t that exciting, and the bright future she was promised–all that upward social mobility her education would provide–is nowhere to be found. And then everything changes. Evie shows up to a tutoring session on a Sunday and finds an open door and a quiet house. A few minutes later, she discovers the bodies. And then a woman trapped in a closet and crying for help. After one more surprisingly violent encounter in the house, Evie and the odd, quiet woman she rescued are on the run, now not only scared and confused but also murder suspects with no clue about who the killer could be and nowhere to go. The first third of this novel is amazing and the voice is an electric, snarky marvel. The action, voice, violence, pace, tension, and the way Deitch manages the mysterious woman, her story, and the way she comes out of her shell are all great elements here. Unfortunately, the narrative loses its power halfway through as it switches into a sort of introspective love story that lacks the intensity of the start. I find it really cool when a novel gives me very specific things and I can connect with them immediately, and this novel did that. Like Evie–and like Deitch–I worked as a tutor for rich kids. In my case, it was in Austin. Deitch nails the awkwardness and the dynamics of that job perfectly and with the perfect amount of cynicism, which is a lot. Killer Potential is solid, faulty debut that explodes at first and then fizzles out, but it contains enough good stuff to make want to check out whatever Deitch does next, and that’s not something all debuts pull off. View the full article

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OLD OPENING SCENE: The water was rising fast, already reaching the tops of his boots. The courier clutched his leather satchel closer to his breast and pressed forward. His woolen coattails, pulled up and tied around his waist like a kitchen apron, were sodden. But that did not matter so long as the document he was carrying remained dry. It meant nothing to him, just a small packet of papers – only a few pages – folded and sealed with wax. He himself was not privileged to know its contents, but it had been emphasized to him that those contents had the power to salvage at least one life. The water flooding his boots was barely above freezing, fed by the upriver springtime snowmelt. He fought to ignore the numbness creeping up his legs and concentrated on the flickering of a lamp in a window and smoke curling from a kitchen chimney on the Pennsylvania side of the river. Surely that was the inn, where he was expected, where there would be a hot breakfast and maybe some dry clothes. He was so tired. And cold. He slipped once on a rock and fell to his knee, but the satchel remained dry. By the time he finally stepped from the frigid water, the first sun cast his shadow on the steep riverbank. He’d been careful not to be followed, but looked back one final time at the river he’d forded. He drew in a deep breath and rested for the first time since he’d plunged into the icy water in New Jersey. He heard a sharp crack behind him, and a dozen or so startled birds fluttered away in every direction. He caught barely a whiff of acrid smoke before the lead bullet entered his skull with such force that he staggered forward several steps before dropping to his knees and then falling face first into the river. The one with the rifle sprinted to the corpse and grabbed the satchel, securing it in an inner cloak pocket. Nimble fingers untied laces and worked buttons. Before long, the body had been stripped of its clothing. Coat, vest, shirt, and breeches were rolled into a threadbare shoulder sack. When everything was gathered up, the dead man’s killer retreated into the darkness of the trees, leaving the naked corpse to whatever the birds, the beasts, and the weather might do to it. NEW OPENING SCENE (essentially the same scene with a change in POV): The chief virtue of the hunter is patience. The next is endurance. Whether stalking the prey or lying in wait, the important thing was to … wait. To reveal one’s presence too soon, to fire too early would mean to allow the prey to escape and the hunt to fail. This hunt had been a lie-in-wait. For three bitterly cold days, the hunter had sat perched on a lower limb of the still winter bare maple tree, waiting for the quarry to arrive. This was where he would have to come. This was where the river narrowed and grew shallow. The tide still affected the depth of the water so at low tide, one could walk across in water barely knee deep. And this was where the inn was – where the expected prey would find a warm meal and a comfortable bed. A small flock of birds fluttered and twittered from a tree at the water’s edge. Something was in the river, crossing the river, about to reach the shore. The hunter raised the rifle and peered down the long barrel. The hand that squeezed the trigger was calm and steady. The single, sharp crack tore the morning. A whiff of acrylic smoke _____, and the report’s echo reverberated up and down the river as if to announce that the deed was done. This deed was done. The unsuspecting quarry stopped in mid-step. The hunter could not read the man’s face because the face was now a mash of blood and flesh. But he imagined the expression would have been surprise. Surprise and horror. The dead man dropped to his knees and then fell forward into the shallow water. The echo of the one shot faded, and everything was once again silent. The hunter scrambled down from the tree and sprinted to the corpse. The satchel the man had been carrying held a small packet of papers folded and sealed with wax. These the hunter secured in an inner cloak pocket. Nimble fingers untied laces and worked buttons. Before long, the body had been stripped of its clothing. Coat, vest, shirt, and breeches were rolled into a threadbare shoulder sack. When everything was gathered up, the dead man’s killer retreated into the darkness of the trees, leaving the naked corpse to whatever the birds, the beasts, and the weather might do to it.

Welcome to “Wait, What?,” a recurring column in which we examine confusing or incoherent details in crime movies. I was watching the bank heist scene of The Dark Knight in preparation for writing this ranking of bank heists and I was struck by something. See, the Joker has a member of his clown-masked heist crew drive a stolen yellow school bus through the bank. It busts a giant hole in the wall. Then the Joker kills that guy, throws the money onto the bus, and drives it out of the large hole in the wall all the way to the the street, where he joins a convoy of other school busses (seemingly blending in with them) just as the cops rush by in the other direction, headed to the bank. My question is… how on earth does this happen so smoothly? The bus drives out of a hole in the bank, covered in rubble and dust and smashed up. Does the bus driver behind it not think it’s strange that a school bus covered in ash and debris has emerged from a large hole in the wall of a bank? Does that guy not radio it in? What about the other cars driving? Is no one like “that school bus dove out of a large hole in the bank; that looks suspicious” and try to grab the license plate number or something? Let’s go to the visual. (I made a gif.) See below: You see what I mean? Even if the police don’t see it literally drive out of the bank, how do they pay no attention a smashed up school bus with a cloudy stream of dirt and dust and rocks trailing it? Actually, this is a two-parter. 1.) How do the cops not notice this obviously-implicated school bus, and, 2.), even if they do notice it, how do they not think “this is a bit odd for a school bus”? To this last bit… how does no one report the completely busted and dirty school bus, as it continues to drive away? It’s a school bus! It famously carries children! It should be safe and structurally-intact, not wrecked and covered in pollution particles? So, are all the car drivers, police officers, and school bus drivers completely desensitized to school bus safety? Do they not think any kind of bus emerging from a hole in the wall of a bank is suspicious? There are just so many reasons for someone to call this in! Why has no one called this in?! I’m going to lie down. View the full article

As the great Jim Thompson said, “There is only one plot – things are not as they seem.” And it still holds as true today as it did for Jim, and even well before him. So who’s Jim Thompson? I hear some of you ask. (Hopefully not too many of you, because if that’s the case, we really may not be able to be friends.) In short, the greatest American writer of noir in the Twentieth Century. A bold claim, but one that even a cursory dalliance with his work will bear out. ‘Read Jim Thompson and take a tour of Hell’, the quote on the back cover of so many of his novels used to scream out. And that’s the truth. He wrote for the paperback original market, those small books that could fit into the back pocket of a pair of Levis, full of dangerous dames and hapless weak men, they were sold at newsstands and on spinner racks in drugstores. Thompson wrote about losers, men at the end of their tether, the downtrodden, the amoral and desperate, and the women who came into their orbit. Usually to take advantage of them, often terminally, and earned himself the soubriquet ‘The dime-store Dostoyevsky’. You probably know some of his novels, even it’s just from the film versions: THE GRIFTERS – a twisted oedipal tale of con artists and betrayal, THE KILLER INSIDE ME – a portrait of a serial killing sheriff of a small Texas town, or THE GETAWAY, in which a modern Bonnie and Clyde try to escape from the mob, killing their way, figuratively and literally, into Hell. And yes, the stories are all different, but the plot – things are not what they seem – is the same. At first when I read that I thought it was only applicable to a certain type of mystery novel and was quite dismissive of it. But I started to think about it more. And, as with so many things literary-related, old Jim was right. Drama, as theatre director Peter Brook once said, is conflict. And he’s right. No one wants to read a novel or see a play where people are happy and well-adjusted and nothing happens to disrupt their well-ordered lives. That’s boring. But what if their well-ordered lives are built on a lie? And a narrative wrecking ball is swung at them, exposing that lie? What then? Well, then you’ve got a story. You’ve got conflict. And you’ve got the one basic plot: Things are not what they seem. We see it mostly in crime fiction. In fact, crime fiction not only thrives on it, but is built around that maxim. That’s why detective stories are so popular. Now, your detectives can come in any stripe: hard-boiled, cosy, whatever. Even cats can solve crimes. The one thing they all have in common is not taking a situation at face value and seeing beyond that. Whatever carefully constructed facade has been erected is demolished by them in their pursuit of the truth. Because (all together now) things are not as they seem. Spy and espionage stories are the same. In fact, it’s inherent in their nature even more so that crime novels. Their whole existence is built on lies and fabrication, on illusion. No one trusts any one. No one knows any one. It’s a fascinating genre to explore. And I’m not just saying that because my next novel takes place in that genre. Every decent spy story asks us questions about who we are, who we think we are, how we see ourselves, how we’re perceived by others. And, of course, who we really are. If we can be known at all, that is. The very specific area of this I want to look at is the twist. Yes, I know it’s a hoary old staple of the genre, often dismissed by some critics (and readers too) but in all honesty, pulling of a major twist is an art in itself. Remember Clarice Starling in THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS? She’s been sent on some wild goose chase, doing menial work, tracking dead ends, while Jack Shepherd leads a SWAT team to take down Buffalo Bill at the address they have for him? Except – twist! He’s behind the door Clarice knocks on! I actually gasped out loud when I read that. And watching the same scene in a cinema, I can attest the audience did as well. The fact that I’ve nicked that twist for my own books a few times is neither here nor there. I’m not proud. In fact, some of the greatest films of the last few decades have proved this point perfectly. Take, for instance, THE USUAL SUSPECTS. Surely we all know the story now, don’t we? Verbal Kint, the lone survivor of a shoot out, is brought in for questioning. A small, unimposing man with a limp, he starts telling the burly Detective Kujan the story of what happened, including the whereabouts of the master criminal Keyser Soze. And we follow the film as that story unfolds. And it is a story. Because Verbal has made the whole thing up from looking at things on the board behind Kujan and from other things in his office. In possibly its most memorable sequence, Kim walks free from the station and the camera remains trained on his limping feet as they gradually give way to a non-limping gait, then a stride. Back in the office Kujan, looking around, realises what’s just happened and that he let master criminal Keyser Soze, escape from his grasp. The film makes the viewer question what they’re being told and what they’re being shown. It sets up its premise as being real and invites us in and then, by the end, that’s all been upended and we realise that we, the audience along with Kujan, have been conned. And the thing is, unlike Kujan, we don’t mind. Because while we’ve been told what amounts to pack of lies, we’ve been right royally entertained in the process and all we can do at marvel at how we were willingly sucked in. I love this kind of storytelling. Where there’s a narrative rug pull and you realise nothing you’ve been told and everything you’ve invested in, is true. It’s THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM writ in massive, illuminated letters that can be seen from space. It’s also the hardest kind of thing to write. Or at least it’s one of the hardest things to write properly. Anyone can stick a cheap twist in a narrative that no one could see coming and hope the reader or viewer is surprised by it. That’s just hack work. To make a twist of the USUAL SUSPECTS variety work, a proper, brilliant, game-changer of a twist, it has to appear organically from the narrative and not leave the audience feeling conned or short-changed. Another great example of this is another movie from around the same time (there must have been something in the zeitgeist). THE SIXTH SENSE. I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by telling you the twist of a twenty six year old film when I say, Bruce Willis was a ghost all along! And if I have ruined it for you, I sincerely apologise. But here’s the thing. The twist in that film is so great that even knowing what’s coming, you can still watch it again and be entertained. Not in the same way, obviously, because you can only experience that shock once. But in another way. A knowing way. Because the film plays so straight and uses the twist so well that it stands up to repeated viewing. In fact it encourages it: watch it again knowing what’s going on and it makes perfect sense. And it holds up. Because events we assumed were playing straight the first time (for instance, when we first see Willis sitting with the boy’s mother in separate armchairs we assume they’re just not talking, but then on a second viewing we realise she’s siting there alone with her grief) are then, in the audience’s understanding, even though nothing specially has changed on the screen, experienced from a different, more knowing, narrative perspective. This is what I mean when I said earlier that the twist must arise organically from the material. It should be earned. And if it isn’t, the audience, the readers, will hate the writer for it and think they’ve been made a fool of. Which leads us to possibly the best example of this: SHUTTER ISLAND. Both the novel and the film. I read there novel knowing nothing of the twist or indeed what it was about. I ignored the reviews – deliberately – and went in as cold as I could. The least I knew the better. And it worked. God, did it work. I was completely sold. I believed Teddy Daniels was an FBI agent investigating a patient’s disappearance on Shutter Island. Why wouldn’t I? And when the twist came I felt like I’d been slammed into a wall. In a good way, obviously. Consequently I went into the film knowing what was going to happen and, like with a rewatch of THE SIXTH SENSE, it played it straight. Possibly too straight: No one could be fooled by this, I thought, could they? Course they could. I was. William Hjortsborg’s occult private eye novel, FALLING ANGEL, concerns a private eye searching for a missing crooner at the behest of a mysterious client. Of course – twist! He’s been hunting for himself all along and the mysterious client is the Devil, who he’s sold his soul to. Memorably made into a film, ANGEL HEART, by Alan Parker, Mickey Rourke looks damaged, lost and impossibly handsome in that. There’s no indication of the fey Ernest Borgnine lookalike he would eventually transform himself into. Which I guess leads us back to me. My new novel, THE OTHER PEOPLE, under my new name CB Everett, is about to be released. If you like the kind of books and films I’ve been talking about here, chances are you’ll like my novel too. It starts with ten strangers having been invited for dinner in a mysterious old, dark house. In order to leave they have to solve the mystery of a missing young woman. But there is also a murderer in the house with them – or could it be one of them? – picking them off one by one . . . Sounds like an old story? Maybe. Think you’ve heard that before? Read it before? Seen it before? Yeah. No. You haven’t. Remember, there’s thirty two ways to tell a story, and, like Jim Thompson, I’ve used all of them. But there’s only one plot. It’s the best one ever, and that’s the one I’ve used here. Things are not what they seem . . . *** View the full article