Opening Scenes: Prologue Vincennes, Indiana April 1888 The day she almost killed Henry, Ann faced the morning drenched in sweat. The bedsheets clung, and her head ached. Night had been a restless battle for sleep that never came. Rolling sideways, she studied the sunlight streaming through the window. Could it penetrate the baffling fog around her? Probably not. Shadows wrapped her like skin lately, muffling everything. She missed clear outlines. Sharp edges. Herself. At Bridget’s light knock, Ann tensed. She pulled herself upright against the headboard, trying to look like a woman ready for the day as the girl entered with a tray. “I thought toasted bread and egg would taste good this morning, ma’am, and there’s strawberry jam and honey. I love honey, but I don’t know if you prefer…” Bridget’s voice trailed off as she met Ann’s eyes, and Ann thought the girl flinched. Then she recovered, placing the tray on Ann’s lap and averting her gaze as she prattled on. “I know you’re tired. But when you’ve finished eating, Mr. Agnew said you should—he said I was to make sure you come downstairs today. I’ve given Henry and Grace breakfast and sent them to the garden to play, but the baby will need—" “Yes.” Why did every conversation require so much effort, so many words? Didn’t I just feed the baby? Ann passed a hand across her forehead, pushing back limp strands of hair, and tried hard to think like a mother. Soft taps on the door from Bridget waking her to nurse all bled together. Was it twice last night or not at all? She couldn’t remember. Why didn’t she know? The girl waited, studying her with an uneasy expression. “Go ahead downstairs.” Ann swept her hand toward the door, trying to infuse the words with authority. “I know you have chores. Bring the baby to me later.” She didn’t say when. The child would demand attention when it hungered for her. She had no control over its needs. His needs, she reminded herself. The baby was a person. Like her. Or perhaps--if he was lucky--not like her at all. Bridget pulled the door closed as she left, and Ann examined the toast. Eating it would be like chewing dust. Tastes, smells, colors, the simple daily motions of her life…she couldn’t summon them. She hadn’t felt anything but exhaustion for weeks. She glanced uneasily at the ceiling, where shadows gathered in the corners, swallowing the light like it was food. Soon they would finish eating the light. Then they would come for her. Tears blurred her eyes. The world was dimming, and she was powerless to stop it. Suddenly, she was five again, caught in the hallway as her father left her mother’s bedroom with a face set in stone and a biting command: “Stay away from this room, Annie. Do you hear? She doesn’t want to see anyone right now. Go play.” She had strained for a glimpse as he shut the door, but with the drapes drawn, all she could make out were dim shapes. How could her mother stand to lie in that gloom all day? Even a child knows living things need light and air. And mothers. She reached for the toast. Closing her teeth around a tiny corner, she tugged, letting it dissolve into a sticky paste on her tongue before swallowing. Another bite. Chew. Swallow. She fixed her eyes on the window instead of the shadows. She wouldn’t let them have her so easily. Her children were waiting. Chapter 1 One Year Earlier June 1887 Carriages clattered past the house on Sycamore Street, but in the peace of the back garden, Ann listened to Grace and Henry’s piping voices rise and fall over the sounds of birds and relaxed on the bench under the gnarled maple. Afternoon light pierced the leaves and dappled the lawn. She savored the scents of warm grass and damp earth, opening herself to the awe that often flooded her as she watched her children. They had made her a pilgrim to a holy place she had not known existed, somehow adding to her even as they took. She marveled at their power as her hand drifted to her stomach, settled there, resting. Henry was calling for Grace to help find his ball, which had disappeared into the bushes hugging the fence. Grace, distracted as always, squatted in that awkward crouch toddlers rested in with ease, face rapt as she examined a purple coneflower. Ann watched a bee float nearer in lazy spirals, restraining the urge to pull Grace to safety. Not interrupting joy was one of her few rules for mothering, one of the only things she felt sure of. Grace reached toward the flower, and before Ann could call out a warning, the bumblebee collided with her daughter’s tiny wrist. At Grace’s shocked cry, Ann moved without thinking, sinking to her knees in the grass to fold Grace into her arms. “Mamaaa!” Grace wailed, tears welling as pain replaced surprise. “Owww, Mama. Ow…hurt!” She waved her arm as Ann tried to examine the angry red lump. What did a good mother do for a bee sting? She felt the quick, familiar ache of loss for all the things she couldn’t ask, didn’t know. Never mind. She’d figure it out. “Shhh, Gracie. It’s all right, love.” She kissed the wispy brown hair, inhaling the sweet smell that always calmed her, and felt the child melt into her, sniffling and whimpering. “Let’s go make it better.” She hoisted Grace to her hip. “Henry, I’ll be right back,” she called. “I’m going to take care of your sister’s arm.” Henry’s reply was muffled as he rooted around under the forsythia. In the kitchen, she bathed Grace’s wrist in a basin of water cooled with chips from the ice box block. The red bump looked smaller already, and the promise of cake with supper had Grace smiling. Still, Ann heard the dark voice of uncertainty in her head. Should I have let her play in the flowers? She had no idea. All her life, she had excelled at banishing doubt; now it lived inside her like a guest that wouldn’t leave. Before Henry’s birth, she’d been different, flooded with confidence and boundless energy. She stitched piles of embroidered blankets and tiny nightgowns, spent hours canning and preserving, stocked the pantry and root cellar. The perfect wife and housekeeper, she made sure glass sparkled and furniture gleamed. Flowers from her garden brightened every room. When Edward got home from work each evening, she presented his supper and took her place at the table, shining with the certainty that she was extraordinary, a vessel carrying another life about to begin. In the last months of pregnancy, she sometimes lay awake at night, feeling the flutters and kicks inside her crescendo like rising music. Then Henry arrived, and her brightness tarnished. Motherhood delivered so many kinds of hurt: the ache between her legs that lasted weeks; heavy-headed fatigue from ragged nights of sleeping in bits and pieces; cries that pierced the house and made her feel inept; the endless tedium of diapering and laundering piles of reeking cloth soaked in human fluids. Becoming a mother swept her off-balance completely; she awoke each day to another battle to survive the raging rapids of its brutal requirements. Every light thing in her turned to stone. Edward brimmed with pride when he held their son, but he escaped to the railroad office each day. He had no idea of the lonely hours, the drudgery, the guilty fragments of uneasy rest she stole while the baby slept. He barely noticed the polished furniture, clean carpets, warm food presented to him on plates that would be washed and filled and washed again. Work without end. Ann fractured alone on the rocky shores of motherhood, and it took months to put herself back together. Just as she began to feel whole, Grace was born, and again she fought through waves of fatigue, hiding her growing despair that perhaps she was not meant to be a mother at all. The garden saved her. In the early days, she slipped outside while the babies slept, replenishing herself in brief snatched moments soaking up quiet and sunshine on the bench under the maple tree,. She began to love tending flowers and vegetables, silent things with few demands. In time, as the children grew, she worked in the garden or watched them as they played. She remembered all she had wanted as a child and gave it to them. She listened, shared their laughter, held them close, paid attention. Soon every simple moment with them shone bright, eclipsing the rest of her life. She kept house the best she could, swept dirt under carpets, and rushed to prepare supper in a panic when she realized how late the afternoon had gotten. She began to dread Edward’s arrival each evening. Last night had been typical. He wrapped the children in a hug as they ran to him and offered her a pleasant smile as he removed his coat. With Grace on his lap in the parlor, he listened to Henry narrate a battle with his toy soldiers while Ann set the table. During supper, she had begun to relax, letting her mind wander. He wiped bread crumbs from his sandy moustache and recounted a continued problem with train delays on one of the routes without pausing for her reaction. Sometimes his obliviousness to her was soothing. Then came his usual query. “And what have you done today?” She knew she should summon a light response, laugh that her tasks would sound dull to him, but instead her heart skipped beats as she searched for answers that would prove she was capable, the right wife, the right kind of mother. “I—I took up this rug and cleaned it.” She gestured to the floor. “And did all the ironing.” “And…?” He would wait with a polite smile. Expecting more. An inspector of accomplishments. Reminding her of things she had deemed unimportant until his eyes landed on them. “I filled the lamps in the parlor and polished them.” “That cannot have taken much time.” Did his smile falter? She wasn’t sure. He folded his napkin neatly as he persisted. “How did you pass the afternoon then?” “We…we spent most of it in the garden.” He raised a brow, questioning still, as she tried to explain. If only she could describe the moments for him, so he would see how precious they were. “Grace is trying to catch a butterfly.” Her face lit up as she thought of the little hands chasing a swallowtail through the flowers. “Tomorrow, we may try to fashion her a net from an old hat veil. Oh, and Henry is starting to catch the ball no matter how I toss it, You should see—" Edward interrupted her words. “Ann, they’re children. They don’t need you to play with them as if you were one too. Leave them to it, why don’t you? Henry is old enough to look after his sister, and I know you’ve plenty to do in here.” A broad wave of his arm inscribed the boundaries of her domain, her life. He offered a smile, as if it could temper the words, and she nodded, feeling the taste of something bitter in her mouth. END SAMPLE

.

.

Hi everyone, My name is Kaeyllane, and I’m excited to submit my assignments for the Write to Pitch Conference Forum. Not Guilty is a novel that intertwines two storylines across two decades, exploring the resilience of an immigrant woman navigating both a fractured marriage and a broken system. Below are my responses to all seven assignments. I look forward to any feedback and appreciate the opportunity to share my work. Pre-event Assignments FIRST ASSIGNMENT: write your story statement. Bia Castro must navigate the treacherous waters of post-9/11 immigration policies, a deteriorating marriage, and her own sense of self-worth as she fights for legal residency in the United States. Caught between duty and desire, she must break free from an oppressive marriage, reclaim her independence, and fight for the right to call America home. SECOND ASSIGNMENT: in 200 words or less, sketch the antagonist or antagonistic force in your story. Keep in mind their goals, their background, and the ways they react to the world about them. Caio is Bia’s husband, a man who once seemed like her partner in building a life in the U.S., but who gradually becomes a force of control, manipulation, and stagnation. In Brazil, he was a trained nursing technician, ambitious despite limited opportunities. But in America, his lack of legal status and unwillingness to adapt slowly curdled into resentment, turning him into a passive yet suffocating presence in their small basement apartment on the foggy shores of Nantucket. While he insists he cannot work without papers, he has no issue with Bia toiling long hours as an undocumented dishwasher at The Gray Lady Tavern. Caio is not a villain in the traditional sense—he does not set out to destroy Bia, but he cannot bear to lose control of her. His insecurities fester into manipulation, subtly reinforcing the idea that Bia owes him for their sacrifices. His disapproval begins with sighs and silences but curdles into gaslighting and possessiveness as she seeks independence. Isolating himself in online escapism and pornography, he erodes their relationship until their home feels more like a trap than a refuge. Like the immigration system that keeps Bia in limbo, Caio demands patience and sacrifice while offering nothing in return. When she finally sees a way out, his resistance escalates into an explosive confrontation, forcing her to choose between guilt and freedom. THIRD ASSIGNMENT: create a breakout title (list several options, not more than three, and revisit to edit as needed). Not Guilty The Weight of Waiting No Further Questions FOURTH ASSIGNMENT: - Read this NWOE article on comparables then return here. Develop two smart comparables for your novel. This is a good opportunity to immerse yourself in your chosen genre. Who compares to you? And why? Comparable Titles for Not Guilty 1. The Warmth of Other Suns by Isabel Wilkerson Wilkerson’s nonfiction masterpiece explores the Great Migration of Black Americans, chronicling personal stories of those seeking a better life while navigating systemic racism and cultural displacement. While Not Guilty is fiction, it similarly centers on an immigrant’s struggle to find a place to belong in America while dealing with bureaucratic obstacles, identity crises, and personal hardship. Both books highlight the weight of waiting, longing, and sacrifice, showing how immigration—whether internal or international—reshapes lives. 2. A Woman Is No Man by Etaf Rum Rum’s novel follows three generations of Palestinian-American women trapped in a cycle of cultural expectation and oppression, much like Bia in Not Guilty. The protagonist struggles between duty to family and personal freedom, mirroring Bia’s dilemma with her toxic marriage and the pressures of remaining in a familiar yet suffocating life. Both books explore gaslighting, patriarchal constraints, and the quiet yet devastating ways women’s autonomy is suppressed—whether through familial obligation or an immigration system that keeps them in limbo. How Not Guilty Is Different: Unlike The Warmth of Other Suns, which is historical nonfiction, Not Guilty is a contemporary novel that focuses on post-9/11 immigration policies and the immediate consequences of living undocumented in America. It is also more personal and intimate, centering on one woman’s journey rather than a collective migration. Compared to A Woman Is No Man, Not Guilty has a different cultural backdrop—while both feature women fighting for independence, Bia’s story uniquely highlights the Brazilian immigrant experience, where economic pressures, bureaucratic stagnation, and cultural expectations collide in a deeply personal way. Not Guilty also intertwines legal obstacles with emotional ones, making the stakes of Bia’s escape not just about personal growth but her very right to exist in America legally. FIFTH ASSIGNMENT: write your own hook line (logline) with conflict and core wound following the format above. Though you may not have one now, keep in mind this is a great developmental tool. In other words, you best begin focusing on this if you're serious about commercial publication. Hook Line (Logline) for Not Guilty In the aftermath of 9/11, Bia, a hopeful Brazilian immigrant on the isolated shores of Nantucket, battles an increasingly hostile U.S. immigration system and a toxic marriage that threatens to consume her. Two decades later, now an immigrant rights advocate, she fights a new enemy—AI-driven surveillance at the U.S.-Mexico border—armed with the hard-won strength of a past that once tried to silence her. Core Wound and Primary Conflict Core Wound: Bia has spent her life waiting—waiting for a visa, waiting for her marriage to heal, waiting for the system to recognize her humanity. Fear of instability and the unknown keeps her trapped in both an immigration limbo and a toxic marriage, even as she yearns for agency over her own life. Primary Dramatic Conflict External Conflict: In 2001, Bia battles a post-9/11 immigration system that is increasingly built on fear and bureaucratic dead ends, forcing her to remain in a precarious, undocumented existence. Meanwhile, her marriage becomes its own prison, as her husband isolates and manipulates her. Secondary Conflict: In 2025, as an immigration advocate, Bia faces a new kind of injustice: an AI-driven border control system that labels human lives as risks based on unseen biases. As she works to expose the system’s flaws, she finds herself confronting the same questions she once asked herself: Who gets to belong? Who gets to be free? Internal Conflict: While Bia fights for others, she must also reckon with the ways in which she has never fully fought for herself. Her advocacy forces her to confront the truth—real freedom is not granted, it is taken. SIXTH ASSIGNMENT: sketch out the conditions for the inner conflict your protagonist will have. Why will they feel in turmoil? Conflicted? Anxious? Sketch out one hypothetical scenario in the story wherein this would be the case--consider the trigger and the reaction. Next, likewise sketch a hypothetical scenario for the "secondary conflict" involving the social environment. Will this involve family? Friends? Associates? What is the nature of it? Inner Conflict: Bia’s Struggle with Fear and Agency Conditions for Inner Conflict: Bia’s life has been shaped by waiting—waiting for legal status, waiting for her marriage to improve, waiting for external permission to take control of her life. Her fear of instability and the unknown has kept her trapped in limbo, both in her immigration status and in her toxic marriage. Even as she gains the power to help others, she struggles with the deep-seated belief that she is still powerless over her own life. The internal battle between passivity and agency is a defining force in her arc. Hypothetical Scenario: One night, after another exhausting shift at The Gray Lady Tavern, Bia lingers in the car outside her basement apartment. The island is quiet, the night air thick with the scent of salt and damp pavement. She could leave. Right now. She could walk to the docks, take the first ferry off Nantucket, and never come back. The thought is intoxicating. A fresh start. A life where she doesn’t have to answer to Caio’s moods, where she can breathe without feeling watched. But then reality sets in. Where would she go? The mainland is just a ferry ride away, but after that? She has no family here, no friends she can burden. Her visa status is still pending, her savings too thin. Would Caio look for her? Would he make her pay for leaving? Her hands tremble as she grips the steering wheel. She imagines stepping inside the apartment, pretending everything is fine, convincing herself—again—that she’ll leave when the time is right. She exhales, shoulders sinking under the weight of her own hesitation. Then she does what she always does—she goes inside. But as she climbs into bed the question lingers: What if she had just walked to the ferry? In 2025, Bia is now an advocate, standing before a crowd of reporters exposing the injustices of AI-driven surveillance at the U.S.-Mexico border. The system she fights against echoes the control that once ruled her life. But when a former client—someone she once helped—asks her if she is finally free from her own past, Bia hesitates. The world sees her as powerful now, yet inside, she still feels the ghost of that powerless girl from two decades ago. The realization is a gut-punch: Can she fight for others if she’s still trapped in her own fears? Secondary Conflict: Bia vs. the Social Environment Nature of the Social Conflict: Bia’s journey is deeply entangled in societal power structures—immigration policies, gender expectations, and AI-driven surveillance. But beyond these, her interpersonal relationships play a crucial role in her struggle. Her secondary conflict is with the immigrant community itself, where many believe survival means assimilation, silence, and submission to the system rather than challenging it. Hypothetical Scenario: While investigating Facility 17’s AI-driven immigration surveillance in 2025, Bia meets Alicia, a fellow immigrant who now works for the very system that once detained her. Alicia insists that AI is "just a tool" and that the real enemy is the broken human bureaucracy behind it. Bia, who has seen firsthand how these algorithms reinforce racial and cultural biases, clashes with Alicia’s pragmatic stance. The argument escalates when Alicia warns her: "You're making enemies, Bia. The system won’t change for you. It never does." Bia counters: "Then why do we let it bury us alive?" This confrontation forces Bia to reflect on her approach: Is she fighting smartly, or is her rage making her reckless? And what happens when people from her own community, who once supported her, now see her as a disruptor instead of a savior? FINAL ASSIGNMENT: sketch out your setting in detail. What makes it interesting enough, scene by scene, to allow for uniqueness and cinema in your narrative and story? Please don't simply repeat what you already have which may well be too quiet. You can change it. That's why you're here! Start now. Imagination is your best friend, and be aggressive with it. Setting Sketch for Not Guilty The settings in Not Guilty span across two decades, from 2001 to 2025, through two intertwining storylines that reflect the evolution of Bia’s journey from an undocumented immigrant to a fierce advocate for immigrant rights. The locations serve as more than just a backdrop; they actively shape her struggles, her resilience, and her ultimate transformation. New York City, 2001 – A Glimpse of Possibility Description: Bia arrives in the U.S. for the second time, staying briefly with her brother Nico and his partner Seb. The city’s towering skyline, the chaotic energy of Manhattan, and Nico’s favorite Brooklyn haunts momentarily make her feel like she belongs. Narrative Significance: This setting offers a false sense of security—a promising welcome before she is thrust into the stark realities of immigrant survival. Nantucket, Massachusetts (2001–2005) – The Island of Isolation Description: Nantucket, with its fog-laden harbor, cobblestone streets, and gray-shingled homes, becomes both a place of refuge and confinement. Key Locations: Basement Apartment – Small, damp, and dimly lit, reflecting Bia’s entrapment in both her marriage and immigration limbo. The Gray Lady Tavern – The restaurant kitchen, where she toils as a dishwasher, surrounded by clattering plates, steam, and the sharp orders of the chef, Russ. Work is relentless, yet it gives her a sense of independence. Millionaire Mansions – Bia and her friend Leia clean the grand homes of Nantucket’s elite, an ironic contrast to her own precarious existence. Jetties Beach & The Harbor – Places where Bia contemplates escape, the ever-present gray waves echoing her uncertainty. Narrative Significance: Nantucket, beautiful yet isolating, mirrors Bia’s own invisible status in America, setting the stage for her inner conflict—to endure or to fight back. Plymouth, Massachusetts (September 2001) – A Nation in Fear Description: Just days before 9/11, Bia and Caio visit Plymouth, tracing the historical footprints of the Pilgrims. They walk through Plymouth Rock, Mayflower II, and Wampanoag sites, reflecting on the contradictions of American history and immigration. Narrative Significance: When the attacks on the Twin Towers unfold, Bia is overwhelmed with worry for Nico and Seb, trapped in NYC. The national mood shifts overnight—fear breeds xenophobia. A man in a truck shouts, "Go home! You’re destroying my country!"—in the very land where European immigrants claimed a home centuries ago. This moment marks a pivotal shift—Bia realizes that America’s promise is conditional, and the system is designed to keep people like her out. Boston Immigration Office (2003) – The Breaking Point Description: A cold, impersonal waiting room, filled with other immigrants clutching documents, their futures uncertain. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, the tension palpable in every anxious breath. Narrative Significance: The immigration meeting pushes Bia to a breaking point. Her marriage is over, yet the system still ties her fate to Caio. This setting marks the beginning of her independence, even if the legal process remains an uphill battle. Ellis Island & Brooklyn Bridge, New York City (2005) – A Full-Circle Reckoning Description: With her green card finally secured, Bia returns to New York with Leia and Shelby, reuniting with Nico and Seb. This trip is a celebration, but also a moment of deep reflection. Key Locations: Ellis Island – She runs her fingers over the Immigrant Wall of Honor, feeling a visceral connection to those who came before her. Brooklyn Bridge – As she walks across, she sees two New Yorks—the one she first arrived in, and the one she stands in now. Narrative Significance: Bia finally owns her presence in America, standing where millions of immigrants before her took their first steps toward freedom and uncertainty. Unbeknownst to her, this trip also marks another quiet turning point—it is here that she first meets Dante Rios, a musician whose presence barely registers in the moment but will later become intertwined with her future. In 2025, she will be called Mrs. Rios, though her marriage to Dante is never detailed in the novel. Years later, he will stand beside her at the U.S.-Mexico border, as the person who chose to walk with her. Facility 17, U.S.-Mexico Border (2025) – The New Face of Injustice Description: A high-tech immigration detention center, where AI-driven algorithms determine the fate of asylum seekers before a human ever hears their case. Surveillance drones patrol overhead, scanning faces, analyzing "threat levels" in seconds. Narrative Significance: Bia, now an immigrant rights advocate, investigates the human cost of technology-powered exclusion. This setting is a reflection of her past struggles, now weaponized against a new generation of immigrants. Conclusion: Setting as a Mirror of Bia’s Transformation Each location in Not Guilty serves as a symbolic reflection of Bia’s journey. From the fog of Nantucket to the cold walls of immigration offices, from Ellis Island’s legacy to the AI-policed borders of the future, these settings are more than places—they are the battlegrounds where Bia reclaims her voice and her power. Thank you for your time and consideration. I appreciate the chance to participate in this forum and look forward to learning from everyone’s feedback.

Chapter 1 and first scene of Chapter 2. Introduces protagonist and setting, drops clues about antagonist, begins worldbuilding. CHAPTER 1 Noah fell asleep halfway through How the Jackalope Tricked El Chupacabra. Had I known it was more survival guide than picture book, I would have kept reading on my own. Instead, I pulled the blanket up to Noah’s chin and kissed him on the forehead, inhaling his fresh toddler scent. He clutched his new stuffed animals, jackalope on the right, chupacabra on the left. I think he picked the book from the museum gift shop knowing I would get him the matching animals. Something to replace his beloved zebra that had gone missing the month before. Or beezra, as he adorably called it. Not even five and he knew better than me when I couldn’t say no. I knocked on Amy’s door as I passed by. “Phone off by nine, lights off by ten.” “I know, Mom.” I put my hand on the knob, paused, then removed it. Part of our deal. “Good night, love you.” “Love you too.” I missed the goodnight hug and kiss, but now that she was in high school I was giving her more freedom to set her own rules and boundaries. At least I got some time with her after dinners and on the weekends. Snuggled in my own bed, I opened my case file for the next day. A picture of Jack Dixon, my client’s stalker, stared back at me. Noah’s face should have been the last one I saw before bed, but I knew if I didn't review the file, I'd spend half the night wondering what details I had missed. Little good it did me. I should have finished Noah's book. I should have reread all of his books. # My phone vibrated in Amy’s pattern as I pulled into the last rooftop spot. I didn’t have time to deal with the latest teen drama. She knew to text me if it was an emergency. I stepped out of my minivan. Live music drifted over from the Santa Fe Plaza. I answered the call just before it went to voice mail. “Amy, you know I’ve got a hearing, and you should be in class.” “It’s my lunch period, Mom.” “But we agreed, no more calls—” “When you stop for your tea, will you get me that book about Los Alamos I wanted?” I had to smile. She still had enough interest in my life to know my routines. I remembered my teen years well enough to know it wouldn’t last much longer. “I’ll look for it, but no promises. I’m already running late because of traffic.” “You won’t miss my game?” “No. This judge runs a tight schedule. But your dad will pick you up after he gets Noah from daycare, then—” “Thanks, bye!” “Love you.” She had already hung up. It had become a game for Amy. Could she end the call without sounding like she cut me off. At least she still said it at night. I pocketed my phone and squinted at the cobalt blue sky, typical of late New Mexico summers. A few monsoon clouds were building over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the east, but nothing that threatened the Plaza area. I left the windows cracked, grabbed my case file from the back, and locked up. The stairs dropped me off near the courtyard entrance to the Collected Works bookstore. I waved to the barista and tapped my watch. I had time for tea or books, but not both, and Amy came first. I found the book she wanted on the new releases table. My case file fell to the floor. Amy had told me the title, but not the authors. Strange Particles, by Drs. Javier Sanchez and Saul Cohen. I grabbed the top copy off the stack. Checked the index. Skimmed the first couple of chapters. No sign of my name. Good. My threat of a lawsuit had worked. But still. I’d spent the last twenty-five years trying to forget those men and their experiments. No way was that book coming anywhere near my house. I dropped it onto the table. I turned at the light touch of a hand on my shoulder. A young woman with black hair below her shoulders and wearing a black summer dress stood next to me. “Here, let me help you.” She lined the book up with the others, straightening the pile. “I— I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a mess.” “It’s okay.” She knelt, picked up my file, and handed it to me. “I had a similar reaction the first time I saw it.” “You— You know them?” I did not ordinarily trip over my words. “I am familiar with their work. Especially their early days.” Did she just wink at me? “Perhaps I can help you find something else?” “My daughter asked for it. Amy. But I can’t . . .” “How old?” “Fourteen.” “A difficult age. And a good one.” She leaned over the table, turning her back to me. Black feathers intertwined with her narrow braids. “How about this one?” I blinked and took the book from her. Ghost Stories of Northern New Mexico. The cover showed a pale woman with long black hair and a flowing white dress, standing in water up to her knees and crying. “Creepy, but I think she’ll like it.” “I suggest the cover story, before you head for home. Preferably while you wait for your hearing to start.” “How did you know—?” The woman had already turned away from me. I stared at the black fishnet stockings covering her calves, now at my eye level. Her black heels clicked on the floor as she walked away. I turned again at another touch on my shoulder. “Ma’am? Are you okay?” One of the clerks knelt next to me, a look of concern on her face. I sat on the floor next to the new releases table, my legs splayed out, my file scattered about me. I began sweeping it up. “I—I’m okay. Sorry for the mess. I’ve been getting these dizzy spells— Just in Santa Fe— Maybe the altitude?” Except it wasn’t much higher than my home in Albuquerque. And why was I rambling about my health to a stranger? “Do you need help? Can I get you anything?” “Really, it’s okay. I have a doctor’s appointment next week. I’m supposed to keep hydrated.” My hands encountered the book of ghost stories as I cleaned up my papers. Had the woman’s words been a threat? A warning? I handed the book to the clerk. “Just this?” “Of course.” She helped me to my feet. “I’ll have it at the counter when you’re ready.” I went into the bathroom to straighten up. My hair didn’t need any attention—I’d worn it short since before high school so I wouldn’t have to mess with it. I brushed some dirt off my pant suit, trying to get back into my courtroom mindset. The clerk had the book waiting for me at the counter, along with a hot to-go cup. “Earl Gray. On the house. Luis said it’s your usual?” “Yes. Tell him thank you. And I’d like to pay for it.” “Sorry.” She handed back my credit card. “I already rang up the book.” I put the book in my file and pulled out a ten. “At least give him this tip?” “Of course.” I paused at the door, turned back to the clerk, then turned again and walked out. The woman in black could have been real. So long as I didn’t ask, didn’t have someone tell me I’d been alone at the table. I sipped my tea and pushed her out of my mind. # The Santa Fe River managed to make itself heard over the traffic as I hurried across the bridge. Usually dry near the end of summer, the late monsoon rains had kept it flowing. A man with scraggly, reddish-brown hair and a coat in matching colors, too heavy for the weather, walked along the riverbank below me. A coyote paced him on either side. I reached for my phone to snap a picture. “Hey!” He looked up, surprise written on his face. Another wave of dizziness hit. I fumbled my phone, almost losing it over the railing. When I looked back down, I saw only three coyotes, quickly lost to sight under the bridge. Maybe I needed to move up that doctor’s appointment. But at the moment, I needed to concentrate on my arguments, not worry about my health. Plus, the bookstore had put me behind schedule, and I still had to get through security. Judges were exempt from the checks, but we’re the ones who got sanctioned for being late. CHAPTER 2 I awoke to nearly complete darkness, rough carpet pressing against my cheek. As my eyes adjusted, the outlines of the minivan seats came into focus. How . . . ? I remembered the bridge, and the coyotes, and . . . nothing. What happened to my hearing? Had I blacked out from another dizzy spell? Amy would have been furious I’d missed her game. Ryan would have pretended he wasn’t. But by now they’d be sick with worry. I had to call them. When I sat up, long hair spilled about my face. I pulled on it. Real? A whimper escaped my lips. My heart racing, I scrabbled for my phone, finally finding under the seat. Dead. Same with my watch. How long had I been out? I climbed onto the back seat to get a look out the windows, trying to find a comfortable position despite the ache in my hips and the pressure from my bladder. A crescent moon glinted off the windshields of other cars parked in neat arrays around me. Beyond the roof parapets, the moonlight revealed the outlines of nearby buildings. The whole city had gone dark. Not even a candle. A thump against the van scared a yelp out of me. Darkness or the door hid the source of the noise. I reached for the locks, my hips and bladder protesting when I leaned forward, but I couldn’t remember if I needed to push the toggles forward or back. Another thump sounded on the roof, followed by dragging and scraping, like fingernails on a chalkboard. I dove for the front seat, twisting my knee against the center console. I turned the key back and forth. Nothing. Not even a click. None of the lights worked. My labored breathing and rapid heartbeat filled the minivan. I squeezed the wheel until my fingers hurt. Remembering a long-ago yoga class, I took a deep breath while I counted to four, held it for seven, let it out for eight. Repeat. My breathing slowed. The tightness in my chest eased. I nearly screamed at a knock on my window. I scrambled toward the other seat, but my seatbelt held me in. Stupid habit. “Fancy meeting you here, counselor,” said a nasally voice. Whoever it was jiggled the handle. I slammed my hand on the lock. Already down. He put his face against the glass. “Be a good girl and let me in.” I tried to make out his features in the dim moonlight. “Jack . . . Dixon? What are you doing here?” “We have unfinished business.” “Didn’t I get . . . restraining order . . .” I lowered my head to the steering wheel, pressing my fingers against my temples, trying to remember the hearing. My newly long hair fell over my hands. I looked back at Dixon, pulling my hair until it hurt. “What did you do to me?” Dixon smiled. “You really don’t remember.” He jiggled the handle again, then held a sheet of paper against the window. I couldn’t read it in the dark. “Let me in and I’ll tell you all about it.” A window broke nearby. Dixon looked toward the sound and pounded on my window. “Dammit, let me in!” A three-foot tall, softly glowing, mostly naked creature landed on the windshield, cracking the glass. I screamed.

Chapter 1 When had the future become the present and it the past? Erin St. Clair pondered this as she stared wide-eyed at her friend's gravid belly. If Erin blinked she would be right back there in that luxurious hotel room where they had plotted the future and decided they would have it all with or without the cooperation of a male counterpart. They had each other and that was enough. Ride or die was the pact they made while in a drunken stupor expressing their anger at the women who were disloyal to other women in their blind pursuit of success. Their bond had gotten Erin through medical school and residency and fellowship and had sustained Millie as she transitioned from a world-renowned researcher to a visionary CEO of a healthcare company. It had lasted until a year or so ago when Millie broke it. Millie had been a larger than life figure who became a mentor then grew into her closest confidant and her guiding light. Erin blinked once, then twice thinking it was an illusion born out of her most private and terrifying desires, which she knew were dangerous. She blinked a third time secretly hoping to find herself back then when they were on the cusp of realizing their dreams and the only thing that stood in their way were decisions. But no, the reality was that Millie was well into her third trimester, at least 35 weeks. And for Erin it was as if that inconvenient shadow called the past had reared its head, casting doubt on all of her past choices and discrediting her current convictions. Erin stared at her friend, standing there with a gravid belly and holding a bottle of wine. "You went through with it." It was a statement or a question. Erin didn't know which. She only wondered- when and how. She tried to fix her expression, not wanting to reveal the unsettling sensation growing inside. Millie had advised her many years ago to work on her poker face. Erin had. She would not show Millie how much her recent actions had hurt. Yes, Erin had a lot of questions, starting with why hadn't Millie told her? Sure, she had been away but there had been numerous opportunities to check in. An email, a text message or a phone call would have been nice. "It's wonderful to see you too, Dr. St. Clair and I come bearing a gift." Millie delivered the words in the kind yet acerbic tone she reserved for her unfocused trainees. She held up the bottle and said, "the best rosé ever." Time and pregnancy hadn't diminished the stature of Dr. Mildred Richards. She gave a closed lipped smile and opened her arms. "Come here, Doc Shorty." That did it. Hearing the pet name Millie had coined for her so many years ago warmed Erin's heart. She let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding, laughed, accepted the bottle and walked into Millie's embrace. They held each other for several seconds, Erin conscious of the bulge pressing into her chest and then the sharp kick. She laughed again, taking a step back to peer down at Millie's belly. The uneasy sensation now had a name and it was envy. Envy of Millie's impending motherhood and jealousy of the place the newborn would take in Millie's life. But there was something else too. As if sensing this, Millie, who stood a couple inches taller, wrapped her arm around Erin's shoulder and gave a squeeze. She kissed Erin on the side of the forehead saying, "I missed you, Lil Sis". She then pointed at the bottle. "You are going to love it and there's more to come. I've shipped you a case." The snatches of conversation, clinking of tableware and the inviting aroma wafting from the kitchen reminded Erin where they were. “Your table is ready," the hostess dressed in all black announced. She led them to a corner booth in the back. Erin watched as Millie removed her heavy wool coat, pushing it on to the seat before maneuvering into a comfortable position. By the time she had settled, Erin had placed the wine on the table and sat, noting the changes in her friend. She was more tanned than Erin recalled ever seeing and the trademark bright auburn hair was now dark, her natural color? The usual chic bob was replaced by longer, loose curls that framed a rounder face. Erin ran her fingers through her own short curls while taking in the new Millie. The manicured nails were short, neat but natural. The severe angles of her face were gone, replaced with a softness that Erin knew existed inside but one Millie had refused to show the world. But her hazel eyes, surrounded by dark circles, hinted at some degree of worry. "How long have you been back?" Erin asked, trying to sound like the professional she was and not like the kid who hadn't been invited to the party. "Let's start with you," Millie announced. "How has your first year as full faculty gone?" She took a sip of water, peering over the rim of her glass. Erin startled at the question, took a deep breath and replied. "Just as stressful as you described, but I think the elephant at our table needs to be addressed first." Erin had looked forward to sharing it all with Millie. The transition from residency to fellowship, the training at the CDC and the work she had done with the WHO. It had been thrilling and thought provoking and had given her so much insight to approaching the problems she had identified as her career focus, but not now. Millie owed her an explanation. Erin pointed her index finger at Millie's belly. "You disappear for over a year, I receive the occasional short cryptic email, a formal invitation to join the board of your company and then a phone call out of the blue demanding I meet you for dinner. Come on, Millie." Millie looked Erin directly in the face, gave a long tired sigh and then picked up the menu looking it over. "Shall we do as usual?" Erin resisted the urge to let out her own exasperated sigh but gave a long grin instead, pleased to perform this familiar ritual. Erin picked up the menu and looked it over carefully considering the options. She glanced at Millie and then back down at the menu. They were quiet until the waitress arrived, asking if they were ready to order. With dramatic flair, Erin said, "she will have a bowl of the clam chowder, followed by the pecan crusted salmon with grilled vegetables and your chocolate Oreo dessert." "And she will take the kale salad, followed by the crab cakes with pasta and the butterscotch bread pudding," Millie announced, handing the menus back to the waitress. The waitress gave them a curious stare before turning to Erin. "What will she have to drink?" They both burst out laughing before asking for water. And with this, Erin relaxed having fallen back into the comfortable cadence that marked their friendship. "How did I do?" "Great selections but I was surprised by your choices. I wouldn't have ordered the first two in the past." "That's because I'm good." Erin raised her brows up and down for effect. As an Obstetrician/Gynecologist she understood the cravings of pregnant women and knew the Type A personality of Millie would translate into her making all the right pregnancy choices. The chowder was filling and tasty while the salmon provided the healthy fat needed for the baby's brain development. Finally, Millie's love for chocolate likely hadn't changed. "And that my dear Erin, is why you are my friend." Millie gave the widest smile of the night. That smile, rarely bestowed upon anyone along with Millie's reputation for being fierce and her obvious success was the reason Erin felt blessed to have Millie as her mentor and friend. They had first met on the Osler service at the Johns Hopkins Hospital when Erin was doing her internal medicine rotation. Erin's facile handling of an uppity resident had caught Millie's attention. A week later, Erin was surprised to receive an invitation to have lunch with the notorious and famous Professor Richards. "To address the elephant," Millie started, staring down at the cloth napkin she was fiddling with. "A lot has happened and I needed time to reflect." She paused, careful in selecting her words. Erin wanted to say 'no shit' but suppressed the urge, giving Millie the space she needed. In the past, Erin would have filled the quiet with a smart ass comment or pressed for a response but she had learned. Thanks to Millie. Millie had been one of only three people in her life who would give her the blunt criticism she needed to grow professionally. Others would simply ignore her or talk about her behind her back or not give her the opportunities presented to others. Erin had long stopped wondering if it was because she was that unapproachable or if this was the mark of systemic bias that worked against someone like her- a black southern woman from a disadvantaged background. Millie became her advantage, providing Erin with the inside knowledge many of her classmates grew up with. Erin sat back in the booth, crossed her hands in her lap and waited. "I'll explain about the baby later." Millie lifted her eyes and stared directly into Erin's. "I want you to turn down the offer from the Higher Health Commission." "What?" Erin asked in a voice much louder than intended. She had not expected this. And this was the one thing she had been the most excited about. When Millie proposed Erin join her board, Erin eagerly agreed. It was a chance to please Millie; an opportunity to prove herself worthy. Millie had done so much for Erin over the years and joining her on her board would be significant. Just as a graduation ceremony marked the transition from student to scholar this would symbolize Erin's professional adulthood. And it would be a big career booster. "Why?" Millie gave a long, soft sigh and the seconds seemed to extend to an eternity ripping at Erin's confidence. "The situation has become somewhat precarious." Erin let out an astonished laugh. "What do you mean? You know I can hold my own." "It's not that. It's complicated and you don't need to know the dirty details. But please know that as always I have your best interest at heart." Millie reached across the table to grab Erin's hand but before she could say anything more the waitress arrived with their first dish. After the server left, Erin took a bite of her salad and chewed, thinking about her next words. Once Millie made up her mind, there was usually no changing it. "I need to understand," Erin said. Millie blew on the spoon of soup not meeting Erin's eyes. She took a few bites before pushing the bowl away. "Despite what you think, I haven't always made the best choices. In the case of the HHC, some of this is coming back to bite me and I don't want you caught in the middle." She gave Erin a grim smile. "Millie, you need to stop trying to protect me. There is always some drama, some political jockeying. I need to learn how to deal with this and what better way than under your tutelage?" Erin shot her a devious grin. "This has the potential to be more contentious than usual and if not managed well could get ugly." She clinched her lips. "Ambition and power have a way of distorting even the well-intended," she mused. "I'm confident you will manage it just fine. You always have." Erin reminded Millie. "Besides, what was our promise?" "Ride or die," Millie said wistfully, pulling her bowl back to finish the chowder. Their main course arrived and they ate in reserved silence; Erin not wanting to push and Millie thinking. Erin recognized the furrow between her eyebrows, her sign of deep contemplation. She was tempted to ask details about the baby and the pregnancy. She wanted to ask what Millie was worried about and why she had disappeared so unexpectedly. Did it have something to do with the Higher Health Commission, Millie's brainchild that started off as a consultancy firm with the goal of healthcare advocacy, research and quality improvement. Millie was like the hummingbirds Erin had been fascinated with as a child playing in her aunt's garden in Mississippi-industrious, exotic, strong and elusive. Flitting around at unimaginable speeds, Millie achieved feats that defied the average human, garnering much love and hate. Millie darted from project to project, full of energy and determination. Her force of character and unusual drive resulted in her becoming the youngest professor at the school of medicine in Hopkin's history and a world renowned genetics researcher but this wasn't enough for Millie. Nothing ever was. She had a voracious appetite for life. She wanted to experience the ultimate. And while this might sound selfish, there was a deep caring side she concealed and she was most disturbed by the dysfunction of the health care system so she decided to do something about it. That was the way it was with her; once she decided there was no changing her mind. And so she established the HHC to change the current model of health care delivery. Her firm focused on eliminating inefficiencies and inequities in the system by deploying innovative approaches to rapidly deliver evidence based care while looking for opportunities to drive revenue. The HHC had become wildly successful earning contracts with huge health systems, the federal government and even foreign entities. This was something Erin wanted to be a part of, this was a venue through which she too could advance rapidly in academics while addressing the health issues she and Millie had strategically identified as the focus for her career. Erin would not let some human chaos scare her off. It also came with some extra cash which she could sorely use to pay off student loans. The dessert arrived and Millie seemed to come out of her sedate mood. She used her spoon to sample Erin's bread pudding first and Erin in turn sampled Millie's. She closed her eyes in pleasure and then looked at Erin giving her the most heartfelt smile. "I love you Erin just as you are. You've been like the little sister I never knew I needed." Erin flushed heavily at this unexpected compliment. She had always felt that Millie was more of a big sister but they rarely spoke of affections. It was through actions Erin had come to understand this and of course the nickname Lil Sis bestowed upon her sometime later in their relationship. "I know I've given you plenty of advice over the years but this is different. While I was gone, I thought about a lot of things and one of them was what I could tell you at this point in your career." She leaned forward, giving Erin an intense stare. "You don't need to mold yourself into anyone's image or follow the path prescribed for you. Define success for yourself because achieving the success defined by society is a hollow victory, a fleeting one and you won't be treated any differently for having done so. Find your own moral compass so you can sleep at night because nothing you have is secure. You are always at risk of losing it." Erin's mouth dropped slightly as the words reverberated through her mind. Millie had previously advised her to pick an important topic to develop a career around. She had never mentioned anything about passion or morality or even Erin's personal challenge of being a black woman in academic medicine. She contemplated Millie's words, a message she had received before from her aunt, from reading and from the one who's name she refused to call. She frowned looking at Millie now through a lens of concern. "What's with this new nugget of wisdom?" Erin teased, trying to make light of the moment. "I'm trying to be serious, Erin." Millie pointed her spoon, making her point. "Listen to your elders. The naïve ambitions of youth are just really delusions of grandeur. You think you can make a difference but the world soon beats this out of you, reminding you of your insignificance. Remember this when you make choices." "What is this, Millie's lifetime epiphany? You know you sound a bit dramatic." Erin scoffed. Millie shrugged her shoulders. “You know how much I love theatre and acting was my alternate career." Which was true. They shared a love of stories and fiction, having shared books, watched movies and gone to plays numerous times over the years. "I want you to think about what I said." A bit later they stood outside the restaurant, bundled in their coats, arms linked as they waited for Millie's driver and for the valet to bring Erin's car. The night had a brisk coldness though the sky was clear and the cleanness in the air hinted at snow. Erin took a deep breath and laid her head against Millie's shoulder. Despite everything she was happy to have her friend back and it was comforting to think that they would resume the rhythm of their previous friendship. It was reassuring to know that Erin's somebody had come home. In the periphery a dark SUV with tinted windows drove up slowly. Millie leaned down kissing the top of Erin's head, saying "let's talk tomorrow and I'll fill you in on everything else, including the baby." Erin turned to her, "promise"? Then her eyes were drawn to the vehicle and she watched as a back window rolled down slightly. Erin frowned, struck by the strangeness of the act. "Of course, silly. My car is here." Millie gave her a final hug and pulled her arm away turning towards the car with the back door being held open by the attendant. Erin turned back to Millie and things seemed to slow down at least that's how she would remember it. Millie gave another one of her rare, authentic smiles, letting Erin know that despite everything, their bond was still there. Erin basked in the warmth of it, feeling there was one person who truly cared about her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the SUV crawl forward and the window slid down further. A gloved hand protruded and it held something. Erin's brain couldn't process what she saw but then she heard it. "Bang, bang, bang." She saw smoke and she knew.

Another week, another batch of books for your TBR pile. Happy reading, folks. * Sarah Harman, All the Other Mothers Hate Me (Putnam) “Journalist Harman debuts with a funny, fast-paced blend of domestic thriller and social satire . . . Harman’s winning protagonist, page-turning plot, and delightfully irreverent tone will have readers clamoring for a sequel.” –Publishers Weekly Hayley Scrivenor, Girl Falling (Flatiron Books) “Twisty. . . culminating in a bombshell reveal. . . Scrivenor’s evocative sense of place and unerring aim for the emotional jugular keep the pages turning. . . Scrivenor delivers some gratifying jolts.” –Publishers Weekly Robert Littell, The Once and Future Spy (Soho) “An unusual, absorbing book that should keep you riveted . . . A searing look at the amorality of those who think the end is more important than the means.” –The New York Times Book Review Sara Blaedel, A Mother’s Love (Dutton) “Emotionally riveting, expertly plotted, and full of unexpected twists—Sara Blaedel is a masterful storyteller!” –Karin Slaughter Callie Kazumi, Claire, Darling (Bantam) “In this taut psychological thriller, one woman’s desperate quest for answers reveals just how far she’s willing to go for love—or revenge. I devoured this book . . . utterly engrossing!” –Liv Constantine Dennis Tafoya, Dope Thief (Minotaur) “An impressive debut by a writer savvy enough to understand that the way to a reader’s heart is often as not through flawed characters.” –Kirkus Reviews Nick Kolakowski, Where the Bones Lie (Datura) “Where the Bones Lie isn’t just Nick Kolakowski’s strongest novel yet, it’s a helluva page-turner, loaded with sinister humor, a twisty plot, and the kind of complicated characters readers deserve. Don’t miss this one.” –Alex Segura Juan Gómez-Jurado, White King (Minotaur) “The most gifted on-the-fly crime solvers in the history of thrillers.” –Bookpage Aggie Blum Thompson, You Deserve to Know (Forge) “Thompson initially creates a genial, sociable atmosphere that quickly turns dark, with steadily escalating tension, unexpected twists around every corner,revelations about how dark human nature can be, and an ending that is as shocking as it is shattering.” –Booklist Travis Mulhauser, The Trouble Up North (Grand Central) “Travis Mulhauser has written a gripping novel that explores the enduring bonds that both give us strength and tear us down. The Trouble Up North is a heart-wrenching tale of family secrets and turmoil written with a profound sense of place.” –Allen Eskens View the full article

The following is an excerpt from chapter one of "Clean." Darla, the protagonist, is experiencing a flashback as she cleans a client's house. She looked at the wall to the right side of the bed. Another secret panel hid there, protecting the Parson’s safe and family photo albums. Unlike those in bank robber movies, the safe wasn't anything special. Every so often, she’d peruse the photographs of long-dead Parson ancestors. Occasionally, Darla would find a new, crisply developed photo of the couple off on European adventures or relaxing Caribbean cruises. A life she would never know. Still, even hiding spots needed dusting. It'll be fine. They're not back till Friday. I'll get it tomorrow; got to hurry before I miss sunset, she thought as she approached the bed. The Parson’s bed was not a simple turn-down affair; it was a ceremony, a sacrament to the home. Once, she’d forgotten to make it. Darla remembered the sound of Silvia Parson shouting her name through the house. She remembered rushing into the room, sure she was about to be fired. “Does this bed look made, maid?” “No, ma’am.” The woman’s beady eyes had narrowed as she looked around the room. "How much are we paying you, dear?" Mrs. Parson asked as she walked around the bed. "Five dollars per cleaning for four cleanings per week,” Darla answered quickly. "And how much would it cost for daily cleaning? We expect to be here quite often with our office opening downtown. It might become a permanent move in a couple of years once we’re up and running. You’ll find my husband is fond of his dinner parties.” Silvia stopped, just inches away from her. “We wish to explore more of the culture here. You Carolinians are so simple, simple tastes and simple pleasures. Such a pleasant change from the hustle and bustle of D.C. So, how much for you to come here and clean every day?" Darla was floored as she ran the calculations in her head. "Every day, ma'am?" she asked. “Every day, dear.” “Um- that’s…” Silvia Parson interrupted. "Are you a religious woman, Darla?" "I was raised Catholic, but no longer practice ma'am." "Then you will take off Christmas and Easter. Do you require more?" "I visit a friend in Florida for a week each summer." A fraction of a wrinkle split between Mrs. Parson’s eyebrows, "Christmas, Easter, and one week in the summer. Is that all, dear?" “Oh! And my birthday.” Darla blurted. Mrs. Parson narrowed into slits. “Christmas, Easter, one week in summer, and your birthday, and when is your birthday, dear?” Her voice seemed to grow colder with every question. “The fourteenth of April, ma’am. My birthday will land on Easter in two years, so I’ll get one less day off that year.” Darla had memorized her birthdays against all future corresponding holidays. “An unfortunate pairing,” Mrs. Parson said coolly. “I don’t mind sharing my birthday with the big guy in the sky, ma’am,” Darla smiled; Mrs. Parson did not. “So-” The woman took a long breath and rattled off, “Christmas, Easter, your birthday unless the two coincide, and one week in summer. Do I have that correct?” The sentence sounded more like a deliberation than a question. Darla nodded. The woman took a step closer. She had known Mrs. Parson was short, but up this close, Darla stood a solid half-head taller. “And the price?” “Fifty dollars a week.” Darla held her breath. You blew it! That’s too high, way too high! Silvia shrugged, "How does eighty dollars a week sound? For all seven days. I know the demand for good help in this neighborhood. All these women here think their reputations can buy them whatever they want; I disagree. Think of this as your retainer. I’m asking that you prioritize this house; if I call, you come running. Eighty dollars a week." Darla was dumbfounded; that was almost triple any of her other clients. She blinked and had the mindfulness to close her mouth as she nodded. "Yes, ma'am. That sounds good. I'll get right to that bed," she said, raising her hand in the small space between them. "Yes. Please do, dear." The woman said, taking Darla’s hand. She remembered Mrs. Parson’s fingers being so cold, like wrinkly icicles. That conversation had been a high point in Darla's career. The steady cash flow had been going straight to her vehicle savings account, and she was getting close to her goal. Fluffing the final pillow, she placed it gingerly on the bed. Taking a step back, she examined the bedframe that towered above the mattress like a wooden ribcage. The entire bedroom had taken her twenty minutes-ish to complete. She picked up her rag and walked over to a handle protruding from the wall by the hall door. The laundry chute was another hidden favorite of Darla’s, and it saved her from countless trips to the basement washing machine. She pulled the handle, and the hatch fell open. A cool draft pushed its way up the shaft and felt good against her skin. She used the chute for more than just laundry, dropping everything from spent cleaning supplies to empty liquor bottles into the basket below. Darla dangled her torn cleaning rag over the chute and let go. She waited for the soft thwap. It never came. The breeze from the chute stopped blowing. The hair on her neck stood up as Darla squinted into the dark opening. Must’ve gotten stuck. Darla tip-toed forward and leaned into the chute. The drop was just as dark as the hallway. She saw nothing, no glow from the basement lights that were always on. Absolute, eye-pressing darkness. She leaned further, grasping the walls on either side. Something moved down the chute, shifting sideways in the dark. Darla jerked back. A crash came from the room behind her, and she screamed. Careening into the bedroom, Darla spun and flailed her arms against the invisible intruder. I’m dead; I’m gonna die!

I knew—because Mom was involved—that my first car-buying experience would be painful, but I couldn’t imagine how close it would come to killing me. Dad was a professor of mathematics at Boston University and probably never held a torque wrench in his life, whereas Mom grew up in Grandpa’s repair shop and could tune up an engine by the time she turned eight. Meaning there wasn’t any question who would “help” me pick out my twenty-first birthday gift. We set out in her shiny, hatteras blue Cadillac Seville on a Saturday morning in October. You would’ve thought Mom was going to the symphony, not a used car dealership. For her, every excursion was an excuse to dress up. She wore a light wool coat for the fall weather, a hat that was popular at the time—shaped like an upside down dog food bowl—and high heels. She pulled into Pro Ride on Washington Street first, but when the salesman gave her a sideways glance and asked where her husband was, we drove away. We went to Best Value Used Cars next but burned rubber on our way out after the salesman began explaining how the carburetor worked to Mom, who certainly hadn’t asked him. I was wishing I could have gone alone or even with Dad, who couldn’t tell a Chevy from a Datsun, when we sidled into the third place, Manny’s in Pembroke. I winced at Manny’s signature billboard with the slogan, “Prices that will blow your mind.” The artwork pictured seven or eight people from the neck up wearing shocked expressions, which wasn’t surprising given their heads were blown open at the top, with smoke and flames coming out of them. “Classy, Mom,” I said. “Hush.” “Can you ignore the salesman’s comments this time?” “I don’t trust any business that condescends to women,” she said. I sighed and followed her inside the showroom, where a young man who looked not much older than me approached. At first he reminded me of that Jehovah’s Witness guy who, when he came to our house the year before with a brochure, Mom slammed the door in his face. Like him, the salesman was clean-shaven, his hair was parted like he took a ruler to it, and he wore a suit and tie. In those days, not like now, there would’ve been a dress code on the job, especially if you were in sales. The slick outfit couldn’t hide that the salesman was a hunk as we used to say, with black hair, broad shoulders, and a mischievous smile that made me go all melty inside. Don’t say anything to demean women, I quietly prayed. “We’re looking for something reliable and reasonably priced for my daughter’s first car.” Mom gave him a fierce look that challenged him to question her qualifications as anyone’s car advisor. Thank god he didn’t. Instead, he introduced himself and offered us coffee. Unlike the previous two salesmen, he made polite conversation by complimenting Mom on the Seville and asking if I was in college. When I told him I had graduated, he asked what kind of work I would be looking for. I said something along the lines of, “I love art.” “He means a career, Viola,” Mom said. “She took computer classes. It will probably be a job related to that.” She made it clear she wasn’t interested in chitchat by leading us back outside. As we walked behind Mom, the salesman asked what kind of art I liked. “Murals are my favorite.” Remembering I had a photo of one I worked on in college, I pulled it out of my purse to show him. “That’s really powerful. You’re very talented.” His words caused a sort of glow to spread through me, though I understood he might just be buttering me up for the sale. “How big is it?” he asked. Mom’s disapproving glance silenced us and reminded the salesman to get back to business. “What kind of car are you looking for?” he said. I jumped in before Mom had a chance. “A VW Beetle.” I had spotted an adorable red one when we turned into the lot. Mom was aghast. “A Beetle?” Its shade had drawn my eye like a pyromaniac to flame. Crimson was the color of sunsets, roses, and revolution. It would perfectly encapsulate my image of myself as nature lover, artist, and nonconformist. Plus the car was small enough not to tax my parallel parking skills. “The red one is in terrific condition. Hardly any miles on it.” The salesman turned toward where it was parked. I matched his pace with enthusiasm, but now Mom trailed behind. A moment later she paused and said, “I’d like to take a look at this Dodge Dart.” I followed her gaze to a puke green car that strongly resembled whatever Grandma owned and sometimes drove through town at fifteen miles per hour. A flicker of apology flashed in the salesman’s expression before he shifted his attention to Mom. He must’ve been sure he’d lose his job if he didn’t follow the most likely source of payment. “The Dart received a perfect five-star rating from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration,” Mom said. “I like the Volkswagen better,” I said. “The Beetle has a good reputation for safety too,” the salesman hedged. Mom ordered me over to the Dart and insisted I look inside. The salesman opened the door and showed us its features. “Would you like to take it for a test drive?” “Yes,” Mom said. We took turns driving around the block, then Mom popped open the hood to examine the engine compartment. While she questioned the salesman about everything from gas mileage to when the tires were last rotated, I wandered over to stare at the red Bug. It had a soft gray cloth interior and a decal of a dove on the dashboard. Mom came from behind and put an arm around me. The salesman hung back, giving us privacy to discuss the purchase. “The Dart is in good condition and I managed to talk the price down,” Mom said. “I know you like the VW, but they have some issues. Poor safety features, limited crash protection… the engines aren’t very powerful, the car handles poorly at higher speeds, there are concerns about its electrical systems… and they have rust problems.” She pointed out a small section of rust behind the right rear fender. “I love the color,” was all I had. “Reminds me of the lollipops you always picked at the doctor’s office,” she said. Her statement had the intended effect of establishing who was the child here. I bowed to her sound reasoning and agreed to let her purchase the Dart. When we turned back to the salesman, he was staring at an older man in a plaid suit who gave him a come-back-here wave through the showroom window. “Can we go to the office now?” the salesman asked us. “I’d like to get a picture first. It will just take a moment.” Mom kept albums of photos marking first events, like when my brother and I took our first steps, ate solid food, said our first words, started school, and on and on. Since this was the first car buying event, it would be important to include the salesman. She positioned herself to the side to get the full length of the car in the photo, while the salesman and I were to stand by the driver’s door shaking hands on the deal. “Sorry about my mom,” I said under my breath. The moment could not have been more awkward, with me feeling ridiculous and him looking worried, watching the man in plaid come out the door and head toward us with furious steps. The rest is a blur. There was the vroom of an engine, and the sight of a car speeding toward us. The feel of myself being yanked to the side and landing briefly in the salesman’s arms. The sound of an explosion, the stench of burning oil. The confusion of police and EMTs arriving, directing us out of the way and arresting the driver who miraculously stumbled out of his fractured car. The flash of a photographer’s camera—not Mom’s this time—taking our pictures. My mother remained frozen across from me, her mouth open in an expression of horror. No doubt she was imagining what could’ve happened if I hadn’t been whisked out of the way. We learned later that the intended victim had been our salesman, who was also a manager despite his youth and had recently fired the driver of the car that nearly obliterated us. While we were on the lot, the ex-employee had called the dealership, threatening to kill his former manager. Police had been notified, and the older salesman had tried to wave our guy back into the showroom without jeopardizing the sale, naturally. The dealership offered to gift us another Dodge Dart, matching the one that was totaled in every way, right down to the puke green color. I tried to convince Mom the car was a bad omen—she fully believed in signs and omens—but she was so delighted over the prospect of a free car, she insisted the Dart actually saved our lives. Her explanation was that posing in front of it had allowed the salesman to be looking in the direction of the approaching murderous car. In exchange for their generosity, we had to sign a document pledging never to sue them for our having almost been killed on their lot. And for the next fifteen years, I owned a vehicle that gave me flashes of PTSD every time I climbed into it. I ask myself now, if I’d been more assertive and insisted on that funky, free-spirited Bug, would I still have ended up—at the age of sixty-three—questioning the entire trajectory of my life and wondering if there’s still time to start all over.

STORY STATEMENT shorter.docx

Prior to the birth of Grace, a young couple named Mary and Angelo met and fell in love during WWII, in a combated and destroyed tiny island of Gozo, Malta, which floats in the center of the Mediterranean, and is filled with mystical history and magic. During the war, Malta was one of the most central English colonies of destruction. To say it was decimated, is being kind. Everyone wanted this jewel in the sea, the most perfect entry point into Europe with Africa and the Middle east not being too far away. Once the devastating war was over, and Angelo was able to return back to the love of his life Mary from his time at sea while serving on war ships, he took her hand in marriage and the two began their life together. Severe poverty was their reality, but they believed their love could survive anything. The two found a small room to dwell in, over a small bakery that used their hot stone oven continuously, allowing for a very hot accommodation, but with options being limited with what little they had, they made due. Angelo would leave spontaneously and continuously to work on the ships for months, turning into years at a time, but Mary always waited for her husband and kept her spirits high, as much as she could with the help of her sisters. On Angelo’s last return home, short lived as it was, for three continuous nights the two made love, not being able to keep away from one another for a moment. They engulfed their selves in one another, their passion in spite of all reason was consuming and liberating. They lavished in it, taking very little time to bathe or eat, not wanting to waste a second apart. As long as they tried to delay the inevitable, of course like every good thing it came quickly to an end and once again, Mary was crying at the dock waving fervently at her husband as he sailed away into the distant sunset. As he waved back and yelled over the loud ship's engines, she heard him say that he promised to be back as soon as he could. Her tears ran quick and hard against her pale soft face and in that moment, she thought she would never stop crying until she sat with her sister Paula and confided that she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. Every visit was shorter and shorter and every time away at sea, became longer and longer. What was once two months, turned now to nearly a year. Angelo would send money back home to Mary, but it was taking longer to arrive and was less amounts each time, due to work shortages and less hours actually working. Paula promised to help and with that vow, slowly Mary’s solemness turned to joy. A month later, Mary began to feel ill at the most inopportune times. She was cleaning for some extra money now and doing errands as best she could for the bakery below her. At times she was permitted to assist in their baking tasks, once she learned the basics. Paula was a friend of the shop owner, and convinced her to let Mary work a few hours for extra pay, as a favor to her husband John who was influential in their village. As Mary quickly caught on, the shop owner began to give her more work. This job was great to keep her mind off of her agonizing broken heart, and her morale up. Mary enjoyed her time working in the bakery, until the smells out of nowhere, started to nauseate her. Every morning, her nausea became more and more intolerable, until her nausea turned into uncontrollable vomiting. One morning, without any notice, a smell of garlic bread spread throughout the bakery as Mary entered, and without a minute to react she turned her head instinctively, and began to vomit all over the freshly washed floor, angering the shop owner who fired her instantly. Depressed and ill, Mary ran to her sister Paula for guidance and care, as she was at a loss to where her illness came from, and why it was so persistent and not going away. As she ran to Paula’s home and banged on the door, with first glance at Mary’s white washed face, Paula knew without hesitation that her illness was morning sickness, and that Mary was pregnant. Sitting her down, giving her a cup of tea and what Mary determined was kindness, Paula shocked Mary with the truth that she was most likely expecting, and with that acknowledgment she quickly also added, as was she. The two sisters were both expecting at the same time, Paula’s second child and Mary’s first. Paula was five years older than Mary, but the two were married only two years apart. In shock, Mary’s only response was to get up and hug her sister as the tears ran down her face and leave, as at that time she craved her solace and her bed. The thought of having a baby alone terrified her to her core. Returning back to her small room, alone and afraid, Mary crawled into her bed and allowed herself to digest the new reality that at twenty-one years old, she would become a mother. At once, a feeling she never had felt before crept in and thoughts that scared her engulfed her. In that moment she realized, she did not want to be a mother. She did not want a child, let alone to raise a child by herself. Desperately, she looked around the room to see if she could make herself lose the baby and with that thought, she grabbed some liquor left by her husband that she had saved for him, and finished the bottle along with the last few aspirin pills she had on hand, hoping that she would poison her fetus and the baby would die. ************************************************************************************************ Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months. At seven months pregnant, the thoughts of that night still brought a tremor throughout her body, at the realization that she tried to murder her own baby. As she clung to her belly, she profusely apologized to her growing child, begging for forgiveness to both her baby and to God himself for saving her child from her immature reaction to the news of her pregnancy. Terrified of any repercussions, Mary always kept that secret to herself and never divulged those thoughts of murder that had been something that had never crossed her mind before, or maybe calling it murder is being dramatic, but at the time that is all Mary could relate to. These thoughts were triggers to her childhood trauma, but as the pregnancy continued, she pushed those traumas down and tried to continue with life and be optimistic especially since a larger than usual check had arrived from overseas, along with the news that her husband was enroute back to her, and would be home before the birth of his first child. This gave her hope that things would work out the way they were meant to. Mary realized, that this baby would save her marriage, this baby would be the reason that Angelo would always return back to her, and with that thought, protecting her unborn child was her priority. Paula had now delivered her child, a second daughter, disappointed and saddened by that realization as her own husband had demanded that she birth him a boy. He quickly dismissed her girls and divulged his time with mistresses and whisky; anything to be away from his wife, this a secret she kept to herself. One day during afternoon lunch, Mary had disclosed prior to Paula’s child being born, that if she would have a girl, she planned to name her Grace. Paula did not like the thought that Mary would give her child the name of their mother. Since her daughter was born first, she gave that name to her baby girl, assuming Mary would choose another name. Paula felt entitled and presumed the right to their mother’s name was her first choice, as she was the eldest child. ************************************************************************************************* On the week of her due date, Mary was elated when Angelo finally made it home in time to prepare for the birth, as he had promised. Paula, who had been her mentor and confident had been helping Mary prepare, all the while caring for her own little ones essentially alone. Her husband had been sleeping away and coming home on rare occasions only to drop off money and supplies, and to keep up the pretense of being happily married, in hopes his parents wouldn’t find out his misery of being married to a woman he detested. John feared that if his parents knew the truth about the status of his relationship, he would lose his ever-growing inheritance and allowance that allowed him to live a life of debauchery and of great wealth. His friendships were with the elite, servants waited on him and his friends in all kinds of pleasure. These men, most like John, lived double lives successfully and boastfully. They all had grand homes and were dignified in their village, and took pride in essentially running most of the essential businesses while most were in privilege posts in government as well, used to all their advantages. On the day that Grace was to be born, Paula was in great distress and her jealousy of watching Angelo doting on his wife while in labor, gave her feelings of hatred for her sister that even she couldn’t understand. It was clear as day though, Mary with what little she had, had more than Paula ever dreamed of having. Choosing to marry a man for stability and wealth, forfeited her the luxury of experiencing true love, and at that moment, this realization stabbed her chest with severity that she could never love her sister the same way again. Paula had to be honest with at least herself; if she really allowed herself to look back in time, she never loved Mary and was always jealous of her, and deep down only loved the fact that Mary was and always would be beneath her. Paula loved the feeling of superiority, she never loved Mary. Things always seemed to come easier to Mary then Paula, without sacrifices. This wasn’t fair. Mary needed to be punished and learn what it meant to earn her way in life. Paula at that moment recalled when a hungry and poor Mary came to her door, nearly nine months pregnant at dinner time, as Paula was making Rabbit stew, a Maltese delicacy, and the aromas that filled her kitchen were fragrant and mouthwatering. Mary upon entering the home, had a whiff of the smell of the stew and quickly ran to her sister’s kitchen, in hopes of having a taste as she hadn’t eaten all day and was exhausted from her cleaning duties. Paula saw Mary at her kitchen entrance, nearly salivating while walking towards her pot of stew. Paula pushed her away and said she was sorry, but there was just enough for her family and couldn’t spare a spoonful She asked Mary to leave at once, as she would be serving dinner for her husband who was finally home and her children. Truth be told, there was enough food to feed three families in that pot, but Paula refused to allow Mary a taste, in retrospect due to her underlying jealousy of the woman who was about to have everything in life that Paula would never have, the love of a man. As Mary graciously retreated out of the kitchen towards the door, she touched her throat to savor the final sweet smell of the stew and cried to herself as she ate the last piece of bread and cheese she had saved from breakfast, as that was all she could ration for the day to save money for the impending child’s birth. With one final yell, Paula was snapped back into her current reality, as she watched Mary push her baby out, and with a gasp, Angelo cried out, “IT’S A GIRL!” Paula was relieved that it was a girl and not a boy, because she knew John would have thrown that fact in her face, that her sister can birth a boy which meant something was obviously wrong with her. In that realization, Paula expected to see a disappointed look on Angelo’s face but was surprised to see tears of joy streaming down his face as he held his daughter and kissed his wife, while the nurse maid continued with pushing out the placenta from Mary’s womb, and stitched her up with no freezing. Mary whimpered in pain, containing her agony as the joy of that moment over powered it. She was the happiest she had ever felt with her husband and child by her side. They were now a family. A true bonded family; this was more than she could have dreamed of. She never wanted this feeling to fade. Paula sat away from the couple, giving them space to themselves, but also angered at the scene before her. The jealousy she had felt previously was nothing like the envy she felt now. This child was the root cause of it. This child could not be, she had to destroy her! Mary could not have the perfect life with a man who loved her and a child he loved. As her thoughts raged in her head, she was brought to a standstill when Angelo introduced the baby to Paula. “This is Grace. Grace Carmen Rose.” At a loss for words, she held the child and a feeling of hatred filled her heart as she looked at the baby’s perfectly round face and big brown eyes, in perfect health. She scoured to see if there were any impurities on the baby, and her eyes quickly fell on her throat area, where the signs of a birth mark that looked like the face of a rabbit was visible to the naked eye. That sight brought back the memory of the rabbit stew her sister had craved and she had denied, and it brought a devious smile across her devilish face which gave Angelo a startle. An uncomfortable feeling was at the pit of his stomach; his instinct was to grab his daughter away from Paula that instant, but he did not and instead watched intently her behavior, knowing something was definitely off. “Grace? That’s what I named my daughter, I thought maybe you would’ve selected another name, right Mary?” Mary looked back at her sister, confused. “Why would I select another name? I told you that was the name I was planning on giving my child, if I had a girl.” Paula tried to hide her seething anger; she forced a smile upon her rigid face, that always seem to wore an indented frown; she decided the best way to win this round was to kill her opponent with guilt. “Oh, I just thought since my child was named Grace, you would’ve picked something else, but I guess you couldn’t allow me the honor after all I’ve done for you...” Angelo, now upset at the manipulation and utter disrespect Paula showed towards his wife interrupted the discussion, and wouldn't allow his sister-in-law to take away their joy on this day for another second. He knew he had to keep his guard up with her going forward. “Her name is Grace, but thanks for coming, we’re good going forward. I’m back and have taken a leave for a while so we won’t bother you anymore, thank you again. We’re grateful for all your help.” Angelo pushed Paula out the door and closed it sharply behind her, as he rushed to his wife to console her obvious upset. The two agreed that they were a family now, and everyone else was just noise; others expectations were theirs to deal with and that was of no concern to them any longer. The baby was planned to be named Grace, and that’s the name she would have. Little did they know at that moment, what was set into motion, would become a curse that would be passed on for generations to come, as Paula behind the slammed door also declared her own vow. “This child will not be! I’ll have to figure out a strong enough herb to kill the baby. If Angelo thinks he’ll dictate to me, the nerve! He’ll pay the price so heavily; I’ll make sure, he’ll be forced to leave and never return back with my spells! Mary may have gotten lucky with this kid, but once I rid the world of her, I’ll ensure that my curses will leave Mary unable to have another child ever again! This I declare, and decree.” As hard as she tried, her declarations and decrees went unheard to whatever spirits she planned to evoke; nothing went as she had planned. Within the next 16 years, Mary had successfully birthed six children including a son, which Paula could never succeed in doing. Paula was only able to interfere with one pregnancy which ended in a miscarriage, before Mary’s second trimester a few short months after Grace’s birth. Every other pregnancy, Paula’s curses were less detrimental; not because of anything she was doing different, but because Mary’s strength fought off any entity after that loss. Her spirit was strong and her faith even stronger, relying on prayer to get her out of any situation. Several years after her twisted plot was set into motion, Paula’s chance of revenge finally fell right into her lap. Mary became untouchable, she was essentially a lost cause; but someone else was perfect prey, and that someone was Grace! More importantly, it was Grace’s descendants that would change the trajectory of everyone’s future, till death did them part and lest we forget, Paula put it all into motion.

You read that right. According to Emma Kantor at Publishers Weekly, the estate of Ellen Raskin, the Newbury Award-winning author of The Westing Game who died in 1984 at age 56, has been acquired by the group International Literary Properties. The organization has confirmed that there are two unpublished mystery novels in Raskin’s papers, another standalone puzzle mystery called A Murder for Macaroni and Cheese, and a sequel to the greatest children’s mystery novel of all time, The Westing Game. The agent for the Raskin estate, John Silbersack of the Best Agency, notes “We are not only three years shy of the 50th anniversary of The Westing Game, but also of the 100th anniversary of Ellen’s birth, so what better time to begin preparation for what we hope will be an extended celebration?” I agree with this sentiment wholeheartedly. Silbersack notes that the manuscripts are still technically unfinished, meaning the Estate is looking for collaborators to help polish them up. “…She had been working on—and had very nearly completed—a marvelous new story, very much in the vein of The Westing Game, titled A Murder for Macaroni and Cheese. Ellen’s practice was to rewrite and re-edit each prior chapter on the completion of a new chapter, so the earliest sections of the book were pored over time and again, while the very final chapters were more sketched out…. Ellen’s daughter, Susan, devoted herself to ‘solving’ the mystery and tying up all the loose ends, and the manuscript awaits a final polish and a worthy collaborator to bring it to a finale, which is at the top of our to-do list.” He added, regarding the Westing Game sequel, “Crafting a follow-up to one of the most beloved titles of all time is no small task. In conjunction with ILP, we’re currently in the process of bringing in another iconic middle grade author to work with us on this eagerly anticipated literary event. Watch this space!” We will watch it, indeed. I cannot overstate the significance of this find. As I wrote in October 2020, analyzing The Westing Game as a ghost story, …”In The New Yorker, Jia Tolentino wrote about how The Westing Game satirizes capitalism in America, analyzing the deceased figurehead in the vein of another (real) Wisconsin immigrant-turned-industrialist, John Michael Kohler, whose belief in the American Dream was his undoing. She also reads the novel as a commentary on the death of Howard Hughes, whose own passing in 1976 (the year Raskin began writing the novel) brought about a will contestation that shocked the nation, with a fraudulent heir making a play for a chunk of his fortune. “In 2018, Columbia University English professor and Co-Editor-in-Chief of Public Books Nicholas Dames analyzed another facet, writing for that publication about The Westing Game’s complex experiments with form—packed full of riddles and puzzles, it is a novel that you must play, a game that you must read. “But it’s so much more, too. It folds and unfolds its stories, rearranges the alliances and alignment of its sixteen main characters, rather like a Rubik’s Cube. Containing multitudes, it can become an entirely new thing, when looked at from a new angle. It is a murder mystery, a tribute to American labor history, a farcical indictment of capitalism, a book of riddles, a large-scale family drama, a bildungsroman, etc. And it is also, in its way, a ghost story. But not a kind of ghost story you’ve ever read before.” I first read The Westing Game late, in Middle School. I first heard of it in fifth grade, but never got around to reading it. I picked it up, a little older, because I was curious about what I had missed. And, it is not an overstatement to say that it changed my life. My sister and I read The Westing Game every year, and we still find things that we never noticed, clues we never found before. It is the eternal puzzle, an enormous, complex, joyful mystery. Even without a sequel, it continues on and on and on. But that doesn’t mean we won’t eagerly await the next installment, when it finally comes out. View the full article