The Agathas meets Thursday Murder Club in Amanda Sellet’s next YA novel, a cozy mystery with a splash of romance.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Flirting With Murder by Amanda Sellet, which releases on April 21st 2026.
Some people visit Florida for theme parks and beaches. High school junior Virginia Tillis is there for murder. Accidents, electrocution, tainted hand lotion: every victim meets a different end at her grandmother Lainey’s rococo pink condo. Such is life (and death) when you roll with a crew of theater retirees who roleplay murder mysteries from the comfort of their own home in a game they fondly call Killing Me Softly.
But this summer, fictional murder has given way to the very real death of the building’s beloved owner and his dramatic last testament has the vultures circling, from estranged relatives to sleazy property developers, dead set on getting the most from his will.
Adding to the tension for Virginia is the appearance of Felix, the cute guy she met at the airport who turns out to be the grandson of one of the condo’s residents. With his charm and musical theater chops, he’s the person Virginia most wants to beat at Killing Me Softly. That is, until the day they discover an actual dead body while playing the game, forcing them to work together to figure out whodunit.
In this comedic mystery about finding the Watson to your Holmes, Virginia and Felix must banter their way from rivals to co-detectives in time to save their eccentric grandparents from a shocking disruption to the community they’ve always loved.
From Flirting with Murder by Amanda Sellet. Copyright © 2026 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
A scream splits the air. Felix and I lock eyes for an instant before jumping out of our chairs and breaking into a run.
We’re neck and neck as we skid around the corner to the library. My brain immediately catalogues the details: Two glasses on the coffee table, both empty. Overturned lamp. The rhythmic hum of a record left spinning after the music has stopped. And, of course, the (mostly) limp form of Mrs. A, stretched out in front of the striped velvet armchair.
“I’ll check the body,” Felix volunteers, like he’s doing me a favor. Ha! As if I would fall for such a cheap trick.
A glance behind me confirms we’re still alone (apart from Mrs. A), because there are advantages to being fifty years younger than everyone else in the building.
“I’m on it,” I say, cutting him off as I cross the room to kneel in front of Mrs. A.
“Looks like she was strangled,” Felix observes, trying to see past me.
I reply with a noncommittal hmmm.
A silent game of chicken plays out, each of us shifting to block the other’s view while also avoiding physical contact—with the deceased or each other. He’s too far into my space (or possibly the other way around) but my character wouldn’t back down, so I don’t either.
“You can see the bruising.” He points over my shoulder to where Mrs. A has obligingly tilted her head back. We both pretend not to notice her throat move as she swallows. “Unless you think someone throttled her after she was dead?”
I meet his sarcasm with a tiny upward slant of the brows. “I guess you didn’t notice the powdery residue in her glass.” A beat, to let him verify the evidence. “Or the discoloration on her lips?”
Even in death, Mrs. A can’t resist helping me out by letting her mouth fall open to reveal that her tongue is also stained the deep purple of an eggplant.
Felix flinches, then tries to pass it off like he’s fighting a sneeze. “And I assume you saw the fabric in her hand?” he says, rallying. “Clearly ripped from the killer’s clothing during the struggle.”
“Obviously.” Had I observed that ragged strip of cloth before he mentioned it? Nope, but confessing is for suckers.
With a flourish, he pulls a tiny pad of paper from inside his jacket, like a magician conjuring a rabbit. “I’m going to take notes.”
“Go ahead.” After a pause, I add a pointed “Watson,” leaning on the word like it’s a stiletto I’m sliding into his chest.
“I’m not the Watson.” He gestures at his costume, like that lounge lizard jacket is a smoking gun.
“Trench coat.” I flap the lapel at him. We’re playing rock-paper-scissors, clothing edition. “It doesn’t get more detective than that.”
“Are you forgetting this?” he counters, smoothing the pad of his index finger over the strip of fake hair above his upper lip.
“I wish I could, but the image has been seared into my retinas.”
The low murmur of voices tells me we’re about to have company. Felix must be thinking the same thing because he’s looking around frantically, like the crime scene is one of those magic eye optical illusions and all he needs to solve it is the right perspective. Does he see the delicate sprinkle of dirt near the heel of Mrs. A’s sensible black flat? If only I could taunt him about it without tipping him off.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say as he stretches out a hand to grab the piece of fabric.
He frowns, clearly unsure whether it’s a legit objection or my attempt to throw him off the scent.
“Crime scene protocol,” I say primly.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” I force myself to hold eye contact. Whatever you call the darkest shade of brown that stops just shy of black, that’s the color of Felix’s irises.
“Listen.” He lowers his voice. “Why don’t we work together?”
“Ha! I see what you’re doing.”
“Oh yeah? Explain it to me.” His arms are crossed, like he’s waiting for me to fumble the bag.
“You’re trying to get a man on the inside, so you know when the heat is on.” A small gasp from Mrs. A’s direction tells me she knows what I’m talking about. Felix, on the other hand, looks like he just woke up.
“You lost me.”
“Classic murderer technique. Tamper with the evidence, plant a few false clues, set someone up to take the fall.”
“You think I did it? We were sitting together when it happened.”
“Really?” I cock my head as though summoning the faintest wisp of memory. “I didn’t notice.”
Mrs. A’s torso twitches, most likely holding in a laugh.
“Fine.” Felix extends his hand to me. “May the best detective win.”
“Good luck,” I say as we shake on it, hoping he hears the silent You’re going to need it. And I need him to be impressed with my skills in this arena, since I can’t cook or sing, and my hair is nowhere near as good as his.
“Well, well, well. What have we here?” At the sound of my grandmother’s voice, smoky and full of laughter, Felix and I spring apart. Belatedly it occurs to me that she’s talking about the body in front of us, not the hand-holding.
“These two are so cute together,” Mrs. A whispers through stained lips, propping herself up on an elbow. “Like salt and caramel.”
While I stare at the clock on the mantel, checking my time of death, Grandma Lainey presses a finger to her mouth, shushing her suddenly reanimated friend.
Mrs. A resumes her corpse pose.
