INtrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Set the Record Straight by Hannah Bonam-Young, which is out now.

On the very first day of her dream job, Clara messed up. Her photography idol, and new boss, assumed that Clara would be bringing her girlfriend to their upcoming gallery opening, and Clara, in her nervousness, failed to correct her.

This is an issue for two reasons: Clara is single and is most definitely (probably) straight.

Evan was recently dumped by her fiancée for a shared co-worker and is still trying to figure out where it all went wrong. So when she finds out that the happy new couple will be hosting the staff holiday party, she is determined to find a date.

Together, these two lifelong friends hatch a plan to get through Clara’s gallery opening and Evan’s holiday party by pretending to date one another.

It should be easy . . . right?

But Evan quickly realizes that pretending to date her straight best friend, whom she’s had a crush on for half her life, maybe isn’t the best idea. Meanwhile, Clara surprises even herself as she begins developing real feelings for Evan. . . .

Will the two make it out of the holiday season as friends—or ring in the new year as something more?

EXCERPT

One
Clara

The rain ricochets off the sidewalk and raps on my umbrella, the sound like a drumline tapping on a single snare. There’s a distant honk, some nearby yelling, splashing of tires. All the sounds that remind me of how much I’ve missed Toronto. Five months away managed to simultaneously feel like five minutes and five years.

It’s bitterly cold today, but not even that can stop the smile on my face or the pep in my step as I walk toward the gallery. I switch the umbrella from one hand to the other, then back again, the anticipatory energy building up in my chest and expanding its way out in movement as it so often does.

I knew while finishing my graduate degree in the spring that Loretta Stole’s gallery, DebuTaunt, only hired one new candidate per year. I also knew that they only took applicants in the winter season following a successful fall run. And if it wasn’t so successful, they didn’t take them at all. But I refused to work anywhere else but for my idol and took the risk.

I had some other offers, sure. I impressed my professors, shook the right hands, and got the interviews lined up in case. I just wanted more. I wanted Loretta-a world-famous, high-concept photographer with an almost forty-year career that I envy.

And while most of my fellow graduates are now shooting weddings for their third Ashley and Brad of the month, reminding kids to remove their fingers from their noses, or posing models in a way that makes their bones sharper, I’m here.

My roommates, Leah and Jen, haven’t been shy about admitting they see this gig as a major downgrade, being that it’ll be mostly scheduling meetings and coffee runs, but I don’t agree. Not at all. Because watching this gallery operate, being a part of that, it’s one step closer to having the career I want. Loretta’s career, to be exact. And this exact job forty-odd years ago, working for her idol, is how Loretta Stole got her start. That’s probably why she has hundreds of applicants every year.

Call it prideful, because it is, but I knew I’d get it. I’m damn good at what I do, and this is what I’ve been working toward since my seventeenth birthday.

I had come downstairs to a stack of pancakes, a tender note from my mom—who’d left for her shift at the ER already—and a gift sitting next to my father’s plate: a neatly tied red ribbon around an emerald-green box. My first camera.

I ran outside immediately with it clasped in two fists. Time slowed as I brought it up to my eye, looked through the lens, and clicked the shutter without a single thought of composition, angle, or perspective.

But even still, I was flooded with pride when I looked at that small playback screen. It was a photo only I could have taken. Not because of skill, that would come later, but because I was the only one in that exact place at that exact time. The tree was blown by the wind in a way that it would never be again. A moment so entirely unique that it would have disappeared forever if not captured by a seventeen-year-old girl and her cheap, entry-level Canon.

Pure magic.

From the second I heard the first click, I was hooked. Enraptured by the idea of collecting unique moments in time. Hoarding stills, poses, and views only I was present for.

I went from Clara, the fairy-sized girl from the middle of nowhere set to attend school for nursing—like her mother and aunts all did—to Clara, the one who constantly had a camera around her neck.

Convincing my parents to let me apply for an undergrad in image arts wasn’t as hard as you may expect, considering they are both working—class, no—bullshit folks from farm country. I think they were just happy to see their only child finally passionate about something.

For most of my life prior to that point, I’d have considered my parents worried about me. I was one of the rare unicorn little girls who was diagnosed with ADHD early. Mostly because my mother fought every doctor that said I didn’t show the classic signs (aka, I didn’t have a penis) and won.

The medication kept me pretty listless. The doctors were aiming for me to be more go with the flow, but I landed somewhere around lazy river. My parents tried all sorts of things. Different motivators, medications, diets. But ultimately, I wasn’t a bad kid, and they eventually just learned to let me be. I did my homework most of the time, had a few friends, got decent grades, kept a clean room, and didn’t really talk back.

But they never stopped encouraging me to find something that ignited a fire in my belly. Like my mom with medicine and my dad with growing crops.

So when they, in perhaps a last-ditch effort, gave me yet another hobby that I could hyperfixate on for a week or two, then quickly drop, I doubt they were expecting it to stick. But it did, and they were thrilled.

My dad came home with a nicer camera three months later. My mom would set up bowls of fruit while packing her work lunch at four a.m. just because it gave me something new to photograph.

And when I turned eighteen, got into the university I wanted, and got off those meds—mostly because I kept forgetting to go to the pharmacy—the world opened up. It felt as if I had been wearing 2D glasses at a 3D movie.

Suddenly, my photography got better, I was happier, and—this could be unrelated—I finally got boobs.

Ten years and thirty thousand dollars in student loans later, here I am. Crossing the street toward the DebuTaunt Gallery. First day as the assistant to Loretta Stole. She was one of my third-year professors during my undergraduate degree, but my obsession with her started far earlier than that. Leah and Jen, who I live with now and met in that class, hated me at first. I wouldn’t (couldn’t) stop listing off Loretta’s many accolades to them and anyone else who would listen.

But the joke’s on Leah, Jen, and all those other students who called me, often affectionately, a kiss-ass. Because it paid off. I’m here.

I fix the lapel of my beige trench coat, fold and tap my umbrella under the gallery’s awning, and take a deep breath. I encapsulate the moment as I normally would with my trusty Lumix S5, then push open the chic, two-story glass door toward my new beginning.

Excerpted from Set the Record Straight by Hannah Bonam-Young. Copyright © 2026 by Hannah Bonam-Young. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Engineering a Love Story by Kathleen Reidy, which releases on October 6th 2026.

It’s the year 2000—dot-coms, Bush v. Gore, and sky-high San Francisco rents. But while the country swoons with irrational exuberance, Chelsea Lefevre’s life is deflating faster than a tech bubble.

She’d had everything she thought she was supposed to want: a house on Boston’s North Shore, exquisite wedding china, a Waspy mother-in-law. A safe, steady marriage.

But after a mortifying slip-up, Chelsea finds herself heading into the 21st century alone. Her lifeboat? A new job advising tech execs, taken to escape the misogyny she endured as a software engineer—only to discover she has a surprising knack for spotting the next hot thing.

Determined just to stay afloat, Chelsea doesn’t have time to wonder if anything beyond safe and steady is possible.

Then, on a West Coast assignment, she meets Seth Murphy, a magnetic sales executive at one of the country’s hottest startups. Professional boundaries make him off-limits, but she can’t resist his pull. What begins as a secret, casual affair soon jeopardizes Chelsea’s career, her newfound independence—and her heart.

From Chapter 1

By the time I pull my car up the sloping rise of our drive, I’m ready to confess. From behind my steering wheel, I see Ash is in the garage, already in his skintight kit and fiddling with a road bike he’s about to ride. He turns at the sound of my engine switching off, and I lift my fingers from the wheel in greeting.

This will be the catalyst, finally. The shove that pushes us into the conversation I’m now certain we need to have.

I planned it all out on the plane, everything I want to say to him. I refused snacks and even ginger ale as I rehearsed this speech I’m about to deliver. There are the facts and then there is the fault, which is all mine.

Slowly, I open my car door and step out. From my trunk, I lift my suitcase, and then I rattle to a spot just outside our open garage door. Afternoon sun warms my back, and there’s more heat in the day than when I left. The air seems brighter. The lilac hedge we inherited when we bought this house a year ago has also popped, filling the breeze with a sweetness that makes me think the seasons changed too in the quick week I was away.

“Hey,” Ash calls from inside the garage, his voice as cheerful as the weather. “Welcome home.” Crossing to where Ash crouches with a wrench in his hand, I keep my gaze steady, attempting to avoid the familiarity all around me. There are Ash’s old bikes and his piles of gear. Boxes of oddball wedding gifts we haven’t in five years felt the need to unpack. Two plastic bins holding college memorabilia, each neatly labeled: Chelsea, Ash.

When I reach Ash, I perch on an overturned milk crate, far away, on the off chance he might lean to kiss me. And I’m aware of watching myself in this moment, when everything is about to change, but this person sitting next to me, this person it seems has always been sitting next to me, has no idea.

“Good trip?” Ash asks, his hands and attention still fixed on his bike.

I nod, pressing my palms into the thighs of my jeans, not daring to even utter our usual pleasantries. If I don’t speak immediately, my certainty might slip, this sureness that slid like a warm glove over my body in the past twelve hours.

I hadn’t expected to find clarity in Orlando—no one probably ever expects that. I was enthusiastic though, flying from Boston down to Florida last Sunday for my first trip to The Gilroy IT Symposium, an event known affectionately as only The Symp around the office. Everyone said The Symp wasn’t as glitzy this year. With the latest rout two week ago, the Nasdaq has lost more than half its value since the start of the year, the froth of the nineties finally overflowing. But not even the bursting of the dot-com bubble could deflate my new-girl energy. After six bewildering years struggling as a woman in the world of software engineering, I’m late to the news you can feel jazzed about something you’re being paid to do.

But at The Symp, I got carried away.

“I’m tired, though,” I say, unable to stop the truth from slipping out. “Listen, I need—”

“Are you sure it’s just the travel wearing you out?”

From my side view, I scrutinize Ash’s face, wondering if he somehow already knows. But his half smile tells me he’s speaking of something else entirely.

One morning back in January, Ash asked me to stop taking the pill. “We could get moving,” he said then, his eyes pointed down as he adjusted his tie. He wants several kids, to be a family like the one he grew up in, and I’ll turn thirty later this year. “It’s a new millennium,” he added. “Could be a milestone in more ways than one.”

What Ash doesn’t know is that when I left for Orlando last Sunday, I actually was late. But my cycle isn’t regular, I couldn’t be sure, and so I stayed quiet. I might want children … someday. And with Ash I’d have Kelsey children, who’d learn all the ways to act in the world—such a gift! I just haven’t felt ready to have those children quite yet.

Then my period arrived as soon as I checked into my floral, Floridian hotel room, and I was swamped by an unexpectedly strong wave of relief. It felt like a bonus, another month when I didn’t have to worry too much about those children, beautiful as they’d undoubtedly be in their tennis whites. After throwing my stained underpants into a seashell trash can under the sink, I left that hotel room buoyed, practically bouncing my way into The Symp.

And that’s when I first met Walter. I tumbled into him right there in the hotel hallway.

“No,” I say to Ash. “It’s not that.” Telling him about my pregnancy scare isn’t part of my plan. It would be cruel to dangle this in front of him if I’m only going to snatch it away.

Ash nods, not interrogating me about my period or anything else. But then Ash isn’t one to make a fuss. He loves his cycling, the world humming by amid a steady whir. Sometimes I think his warm, safe spot as the youngest child in the Kelsey family wore away all his rough edges and jagged bits. I’ve never seen Ash inflamed about anything—or anyone.

The plastic slats of the crate are sharp against my thighs as I lean forward, intending to speak. But the motion pushes my cell phone from my pocket, and the device, slim and silver, clatters on the cement floor. Ash looks at my phone.

“Tried to call you on that thing a couple of times this week,” he says.

I tell him I kept forgetting the phone in my hotel room, avoiding his inherent question of why I never called him back. “I’m just not used to it yet,” I add.

Ash nods again, an easy acceptance I don’t deserve. His gaze shifts back to his bike.

“Listen,” I try again. “We have to—”

“I know,” he says, plucking a tire spoke. “I’m just headed for a quick one. Then we’ll go.”

I sit back. “Go?”

Over one arm, Ash tosses me an odd look. “Aren’t we driving up tonight? I told my folks to expect us, but late.”

“Right,” I say, startled into remembering that I booked the early return to Boston this morning so I’d arrive home with enough time for Ash and I to drive to his family’s place on Squam Lake tonight. Just a few weeks ago I arranged these details, so sure I was then of my plans for this weekend—and my life.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Engineering a Love Story’ by Kathleen Reidy appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Dark Messiah by Sara Z. Carson, which releases on October 20th 2026.

In 1975 San Francisco, 15-year-old Nell’s world has been ripped apart by her younger sister’s sudden, tragic death and her parents’ subsequent divorce. As her mother desperately reaches out for solace from any quarter—new hobbies, new philosophies, new relationships—a boyfriend leads her into the cult of a charismatic man known as Father. His message of peace and healing proves irresistible, and soon Nell and her mother join his mysterious Church of the People.

As they are drawn increasingly into the vortex of the Church, the community comes to consume their lives, and Nell’s concerns begin to build. She becomes enrolled in the school they operate, is intimidated into adopting their ways of dressing and acting, and is removed from her home.

At the same time, the dangers lurking in the cult’s shadows emerge: threats, physical abuse, and the sudden disappearances of members to Father’s new “utopian” community deep in the jungles of South America. When Nell is secreted there alongside their fellow followers, they come under Father’s power as never before—with horrific and devastating consequences.

By turns sensitive and shocking, powerful and poignant, Dark Messiah is a story of a girl becoming a woman as her life is stolen from her—and a mesmerizing debut from a new voice in contemporary fiction.

EXCERPT

The dinner service started at five o’clock. Hundreds of people streamed in, and we took places behind the warming trays, serving the food. Monica had instructed us to be generous, like the Sermon on the Mount, she said, referencing the loaves and the fishes. “There will always be enough food.”

There were so many small children, so many elderly people. I lost count of how many I served, how many times empty trays were swapped out for full ones.

I was so hungry that, on one of the many trips back to the kitchen, I grabbed an almost-neon-pink cookie off one of the trays; I took two bites before I realized it was chalky and anise-flavored and I threw it out. Even in my hunger, it was inedible and I wouldn’t be able to choke it down.

When everyone had been fed, we started cleaning up. I was distracted by my aching stomach, but I forced myself through as I walked up and down the rows, gathering used plates and cups, quickly filling a garbage bag, and then another, and then another. When everyone had been fed, we started cleaning up. I was distracted by my aching stomach, but I forced myself through as I walked up and down the rows, gathering used plates and cups, quickly filling a garbage bag, and then another, and then another.

People were sweeping, washing dishes, carrying newly cleaned platters and trays back to the buses. Leftovers were laid out in the disposable aluminum trays. We waited for all of the elderly members and younger kids from the Temple to eat before we got in line. My legs were shaking. There wasn’t much left—macaroni and cheese rinds, sliced white bread and scrapings of butter, abandoned green beans in oily water. I took two pieces of bread.

Mercifully, Lucille found me, her face still lit and joyful and betraying none of the exhaustion I felt.

“There’s a place upstairs we can watch from,” she said to me conspiratorially. “It’s quiet.”

She took me up to a balcony where some of the other members were seated in small clutches. Looking down in the darkness, we could see everything: The church was packed, the pews filled, people crowded onto the floors and leaned up against the walls.

A famous politician stood up at the pulpit. The buzzing crowd seemed to know they should silence themselves as he said into the microphone, his voice sonorous, “We’re going to start the show in a moment, so please, if you haven’t, take your seats.” As the room quieted, the political leader took on the role of a hype man.

“Let me present to you a man who, with his church, is changing the world. He is a combination of Reverend King, Angela Davis, and Albert Einstein … and he wants to make all of our lives better. He wants to show you the Lord, our God, and how the Lord operates through each of us from the moment we are born, and all you need to do is let him shine from within you. Because we have the power.”

He paused dramatically.

“I’d like you to show a warm welcome to the membership of the Temple of God’s Love Everlasting, who have already served you a delicious dinner. That’s the kind of meal the Temple offers each of its members, every day, and feeds to the neediest members of the San Francisco community. Please, get on your feet for the blessed man we call Dad.”

There was wild cheering, as there always was when he arrived on a scene. How did they know? I didn’t know that his visit had been hyped by flyers that had been handed out through the neighborhood and in the church over the past few weeks, and that a few attendees had been promised a few dollars for showing up to cheer.

He walked out, Jim McGuigan in front of him, his hand not-at-all-subtly resting over his coat near his waistband, showing he was armed (as he always was) with his Colt .45. Dad was in his usual sunglasses, dressed in an impeccable puce three-piece broad-lapeled suit with a wide, matching tie and a black dress shirt. He looked almost glamorous as he bounded up the altar to the podium, eventually raising his hands in the air to lower the volume of the crowd. But it had the opposite effect. The crowd was already on their feet and their clapping gradually merged into a thrumming unison, their expectations and energy massing as they anticipated his miracles. The Peace Train came out and sat carefully on either side of the broad set of stairs leading to the pulpit, a well-composed rainbow of our best-looking young people, all of them clad in casual, understated clothing. Mother had dictated for years that the youth choir never “put on airs” when doing outreach. They never dressed up fancily if they were visiting a neighborhood where Dad wanted to raise spirits rather than funds. When the event was a fundraiser, however, they would wear polished suits and dresses to warm the hearts of the checkwriters.

Dad continued to hold his hands up, beaming smugly, a smirk more than a smile, as he waited until the crowd began to quiet and took their seats. He placed his hands on either side of the podium, his charisma at a controlled intensity, poised for a nuclear reaction.

Everyone was still for a second before Dad started preaching.

“I want to start by talking about the King James Bible. King James wanted you enslaved.”

The crowd was rapt but still. Dad’s anti-Bible openings put him on a shaky tightrope.

“I want you to know about what is in your Bibles. We’ll leave with you this little booklet—” he held up a copy of a tract, “The Great Truth,” which he claimed to have written while unable to sleep after an assassination attempt while he was on a return visit to Indiana in October of 1968—“You can read for yourself. While we ask for a nominal fee to cover the cost of the mimeograph, we’ll give it to you for free. King James sent for the first of our people”—here was Dad showing how he identified with the almost entirely Black audience—“here. King James owned slaves. He killed slaves. He even murdered his own family. He was a drunk and he was a child molester. The king of England made himself a Bible to suit him, rather than following the true word of God.”

He hadn’t lost them. A few scattered, tentative amens came up from the crowd.

“In fact, it sounds an awful lot like something our leaders now would do—write themselves a set of rules, pretending it was the word of God, and saying, ‘This is what I follow.’ Think about old Ronnie Ray-gun demanding the blood of young protesters. Or Richard Nixon and Bob McNamara, somehow able to sleep at night after sending our children, our communities, to fight in their treasonous wars. You know how they sleep at night? They just choose the rules they like and think of themselves as holy men.”

This invited more sounds of agreement.

“Life would be simpler if we could simply trust and believe all of our leaders—whether it’s your minister or your president. But if I don’t tell you, then you’ll be lost. I want to tell you the story of one of our congregants. He didn’t know the truth, back in 1942, when they came”—here he knocked on the podium— “rappin’ on his mother’s door one night and yanked his mother out of her home. You know where he was? He was fighting for freedom in the war. His mother was a precious woman minding her own business, and they took her out. They put her in a truck and sent her to the desert of Colorado, where she spit her stomach out piece by piece with cancer, and they wouldn’t even give her an aspirin, claiming she was a spy. Her son was given a Purple Heart for his valor during the war, while his mother was imprisoned by our government.

“The government took away her land. She died before her son could see her again. Her son came to us broken, alcoholic, angry. We were able to have her body moved from Colorado to San Francisco, so now he can visit her grave. Now, he’s a proud member of our community.” He paused here. Utter silence. He had their attention. I wondered who he was talking about. I couldn’t remember seeing anyone Asian at our services, but the room was big. “If you don’t like the truth, that’s your problem. I am in the truth business. Your government will not protect you when times get tough; they will take from you, they will destroy you. The government is filled with King Jameses, with Ed Davises—”

The mention of the LAPD Chief of Police drew jeers and boos, a few people standing as they did so. “They will turn on you when you become inconvenient. And I am inconvenient, and that is why I am here.”

Now the anger turned into applause. “I am a reverend, I am a father, not just in the service of the Lord but to all of my congregants … what I am not is a fraud who preaches on Sunday and takes your money on Monday. Those of you who’ve gone to church your whole lives, have you ever asked, where is the money? Where is Black people’s money? It’s in these churches, it’s in your poisoned water, it’s in the shabby housing the government puts you into, it’s in the pockets of leaders who do not care about you.”

There was murmuring acceptance.

“That’s right! They’re gonna use the Bible against you on the last day, when they take you for your final ride, when they round you up …”

He took a deliberate long pause here.

“… because they said, ‘The book says obey those who rule.’ Now you know that’s not right. My white friends in the government back in San Francisco”—he laughed here, and everyone else did, too— “They say to me, ‘I saw Roots. I must apologize’—but they still expect obedience, for you to forgive them their trespasses without being angry.” He lowered his voice. “I am here to tell you these messages of silence, of obeying, of enduring cruelty—these messages must be reconsidered.”

It was uncanny how these strangers listened to him, hypnotized. How we all listened to him. I believed everything he was saying, too, this strange mix of unvarnished and reconsidered American history, of the wrongness of the Bible—even if he’d likely heard it from someone else rather than discovered it through his own divinity.

The amens during his pauses grew more confident but were not full-throated—he couldn’t yet be entirely trusted.

“The apostle Paul said anybody who prays to an unknown God is blasphemous. The God of King James is a God of hypocrisy who demands you endure evil blindly. You say, ‘Well, this is what we must learn to live with.’ But you don’t have to. You can find the true kingdom of God, you can find more than simply enduring the pain and the abuse, here on earth, amongst men. And we—all of us in the room—we can see it. We can touch it. It’s right here with us.”

Another pause.

“At least, that’s what Jesus had to say about it. But then again, he was just the Son.”

There was laughter.

“Jesus told us to build the kingdom of heaven on earth—on earth as it is in heaven, we say. Revelation tells us of a heaven on earth. Jesus said heaven is within you. Heaven is nigh. Where the spirit of God is, there’s liberty. When the spirit of God comes, he says, you will feed the hungry and clothe the naked and take in the stranger and release the prisoners. That is how God will judge us. Not whether you spoke in tongues or belonged to the Baptist Church or the Methodist Church or the Church of God. None of it means anything, my friends. You have to follow the spirit of God.”

He waited for the amens to die down. I realized I was clutching the railing so tightly my hands were cramped.

I wanted to hear more.

“I’d like to give you a sense of how the spirit of God, of Jesus, works through our younger members. They’re going to sing a few songs for you.”

The choir stood in unison, recognizing their cue. A stripped-down version of the band—drums, bass guitar, lead guitar—accompanied the Peace Train as they sang Sly and the Family Stone, then a tear-jerking rendition of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow.” I watched in amazement. They were so gifted.

Dad stepped down from the lectern while they performed. Now he was standing closer to the crowd, on the floor, with a microphone. “How touched by God are these children?” he asked, leading another round of applause. “We find Christ in them. And we must find Christ in ourselves. There’s no God in the sky; there’s no Christ in the sky. Those white men in charge, driving those big Cadillacs, exploiting every one of us with their unsafe workplaces, empowering the establishment pigs to chase us and hunt us and shoot at us—they do all of this to suppress this country’s uncomfortable truth, which is: All these men care about is money. They don’t care about people. They don’t care about the future. They don’t care about you, or these children.”

He looked out into the crowd.

“Is Glenn Stanley’s mother here?”

There was murmuring before a tiny woman, wearing a black sheath and cat-eyeglasses—she looked impossibly frail in that moment, old in a way I’d never seen—stood tentatively.

“Give me your hands, Mrs. Stanley.”

The aisle found room for her to move to him. He took her hands, and then took her into his arms, in a long hug. The room transformed with sounds of crying.

“Ma’am,” he said, pulling back so he could hold the microphone to his mouth. “I am sorry for your loss. And I am sorry for what those men did to your son. And I want to apologize for their bad actions. Your son did not deserve to die.”

We were swallowed by the applause, the joy, the relief. Dad’s hug with her lasted a long moment, before Mother took over the embrace. Dad returned to the front of the church.

I had never seen anything like it.

“Here is my offer to every one of you: If you want to go to freedom, we’ll get you home to true freedom, with us, tonight. I don’t care if you haven’t got a dime to your name, we’ll put you on the bus. We’ll put clothes on your back. We’ll take you home with us. We do in every city we visit.”

I now understood what the empty bus was for. “We just … we just take people? Now?”

Lucille put her finger to her lips to shush me, and nodded. Jennifer had now joined us and grinned a little.

“We can promise you a better life, a more meaningful life. We’re the healthiest people and the freest people. Maybe tonight you’ve heard a little bit from my family about the land we’re calling Concordia, in the heart of one of the most beautiful countries you’ve ever seen, where, if you are lucky enough to go, you will be surrounded by the spirit of God. I got seniors down there building sidewalks. They’ve got a new life. We have to hold them down!”

Dad laughed loudly at this and so did everyone else. He’d told us a lot of things about Concordia, but none involved centenarians building sidewalks.

“I have men living great lives in our community who have been veritably raised from the dead, whose lives were in ruin. Henry, one of our older members, is a Black man who was arrested at the age of sixty because he was helping poor people. His Baptist church wouldn’t get him out of jail. But we got him out. I said, I’ll get him out in twenty minutes, because he is a good man. I got him out. And when I got him out he was healed, raised from the dead, from a life of vice. Had a broken leg. Now he walks freely.”

This was complete fiction, but I knew it didn’t matter. Henry could only walk with a cane on his best days, which were rare.

“Henry is so powerful. He lifts me clear up off the ground and hugs me, holds me in midair. And he’s nowhere near ready to stop. Henry’s only eighty now, so he’s practically a kid.” He laughed again, and his voice dropped to a more intimate tone.

“You may be asking yourself, ‘I’m not good-looking, I’m not bright, I have nothing to offer. What should I do?’ I’ll tell you what we do, how it makes us stronger together: We share. Our seniors can travel all over the United States in the buses we own. Any church could do what we do, but they don’t, because there’s too much money being siphoned off for the preachers.”

He nodded at the choir to start singing again, quietly, accompanied by an acoustic guitar. I was frozen. “Before we do anything, though, we’ve got to do some healing. I need to show you faith in action, the way our human faith, our togetherness at the Temple, has created moments of transcendence. How we have been able to rise above our mortality, accomplish things we could never do apart or alone. He took another step toward the audience, almost setting himself in the middle of the aisle between the front pews. “Just put your hand on your neighbor’s. And I’m telling you, you can have life. I can say a lot of things here tonight, but you come out and see how I live; you’ll see I practice what I preach. We’ll hold up the bus long enough for you to go home and get your little bit of things.”

The crowd stirred, as if there was deliberation.

“We need you to build our heaven on earth. And I want you to look, because you’ll go out and see a little bit of heaven. How much? Four hundred acres of community. Big, beautiful homes. A great big dining room. Two hundred different crops. Mineral streams. No impure air. Never gets too cold. Never gets too hot. I am talking about heaven on earth.”

He scanned the crowd, as if he was waiting for inspiration.

“As our hands are joined, may the spirit of revelation move each of you. If you don’t get your mind healed, all the healing in your body won’t do an ounce of good.”

He backed up suddenly.

“There’s no embarrassment, nothing to be ashamed of in the presence of God. I’m beginning to hear a revelation now.”

He looked at the children in the choir; they were gently swaying. “Please, keep on singing, my children.”

He pressed his right hand to his temple.

“Is there a Katherine Sawyer here? I am looking for Katherine Sawyer.”

A surprised-sounding woman called out, “Me?” She said it as if it were a question.

Dad stepped down the aisle and found her outstretched hand and guided her to step over two people blocking her exit from the pew.

“Did you have a doctor tell you there’s something wrong with your gut?” He stuck the microphone in her face.

She was barely audible, her whispered “yes” echoing over the audience.

Katherine’s cheeks were bright, and she wore a neat, shiny bobbed wig. Her figure was misshapen, making it uncomfortable to look at her, with ankles thicker than her calves, her wrists emerging in small swells from the cuffs of her dark blue blouse. She had a brilliant smile but sad eyes. Her desperate hope overwhelmed the room, choking us with anxiety.

“Ma’am, your radiance is hiding terrible pain. Is it not?”

She nodded, pressing herself into Dad as he put his arm around her, pulling her close.

“Tell me about your pain. It’s ulcers, no?” “Yes, sir.”

She looked uncomfortable as she stared around the room, the center of attention.

Dad motioned across the room with a broad wave of his arm. “Can we, brothers and sisters, my children, all raise our hands, and our voices, and our prayers in this moment on behalf of our sister Katheine and what she has endured, and ask the Lord to cast this pain out?”

Amens, applause, noise burst out around the room. It went on for a few moments until Dad suddenly roared into the microphone.

“Let the good Lord hear you!”

The noise crescendoed with foot stomping that shook the room.

Dad passed the microphone and its snaking cord to Jim, who was suddenly at his side. Dad raised both of his hands up and brought them down on Katherine’s head. It didn’t seem like he struck her, but he was intentional and forceful. Katherine crumpled to the ground.

I gasped. Everyone cheered. Dad took the microphone back. Jim locked his arms around her and pulled her up, her legs wavering as she regained her footing. “When you stand on your own again, your pain will be gone. Your ulcers will be healed.”

Katherine looked dazed, wavering, but suddenly threw her hands in the air, joyously yelling, “It’s gone! I’m saved! It’s gone!”

As the cheering continued, I curled into myself, uncomfortable. None of it made any sense but it was happening.

Later, Dr. Linc—Dick Lincoln, the church’s doctor—stepped in as Dad was laying hands on a familiar-looking woman with a grown-out, dishwater-blonde shag and a large mole on her cheek. I had met her. She said her name was Sally.

“Sally Jenkins … you have a darkness eating at you, correct?” “I do, I have a tumor in my lungs.”

She was so much shorter than Dad, she looked up at him with a hopeful smile.

Dad put his hands on her face, then on her throat, until she began coughing heavily, the noise increasingly repulsive as Dad moved the microphone closer to her mouth. The noise was almost unbearable as she produced something Dad caught in his hands. He held aloft in triumph a wad of purplish gore, which he wrapped in a handkerchief and handed to Dr. Linc, who looked at it carefully.

“Dr. Linc, is it a tumor?” Dad’s voice was garrulous.

“I’d have to look at it under a microscope, but it seems so,” he replied, a bit of mirth in his voice.

“Sister Sally Jenkins … you are cured!”

The audience went wild again, stomping and clapping away any questions about faith, at least for this evening.

Dad had won over another audience on this night with his folksy preaching about the hypocrisy of every other church and the most gregarious Temple members cajoling everyone.

At midnight, we got back on the buses, but we didn’t move. “When are we leaving?” I asked Jennifer, unable to suppress a yawn. “We all wait until everyone who is coming with us is here. We don’t want to leave anyone behind.”

Our buses sat in that lot, the refractory haze making total darkness impossible, until all of the carefully, lovingly dispatched members returned with total strangers carrying a few necessities—prescriptions; toothbrushes; photo albums; pilled, crocheted blankets; reading glasses; social security cards; and birth certificates. These strangers were now family.

It took less than two hours.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Dark Messiah’ by Sara Z. Carson appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Ava Reid takes a fantastic idea and imagines it in unexpected ways. This is really a rollercoaster of a book with surprises around every corner. You’ll be pulled in by the intrigue and backstabbing but you will stay because of the layered and interesting characters at the heart of the story.

In this book, the characters really shone for me. Klaudia, Julian, Giselle, and Nadiya feel distinctive and three-dimensional and I enjoyed moving between each of their perspectives. They all bring their own abilities to the table, but also shoulder their own secrets and traumas. These are deeply damaged teenagers forced to become weapons for their country. Their intellect is deadly but the situation they end up in might just cause the world to implode. I did have a particular love for Giselle’s ability, which is an eidetic memory. This is something so fascinating and I loved how Reid explored its uses and potential exploitation. It is a blessing and a curse, combined with a sharp mind and the way everyone makes assumptions about Giselle. In fact the story loves to play with expectations and go beneath the surface of the carefully constructed facade you may see at first.

Of course, this is fitting for a story often preoccupied with deceit and games within games. Not everything as it seems here. The primary story is very compelling within the walls of the shadowy and all-powerful Valeran Academy. A secret base that pushes its students to their limits and often forces them to attend to save themselves. The stakes are high but Reid pushes them even higher as this dangerous conspiracy starts to unfold. This is an alternative world where the paranoia and tension of the Cold War never ended. That heightened state of claustrophobia is palpable as this conflict continues to rage on in the background.

This is a fantastic book that takes me right back to the heyday of YA dystopian and I think might just usher in a renaissance. It is so cleverly put together, it really feels like a puzzle box for you to solve. There are so many layers to the story with the characters, the central mystery and the political machinations moving beneath it all. It is a refreshing take on the idea of gifted kids and speaks to the intense burnout and pressure. This is a pressure cooker like no other with the constant competition a microcosm of the warfare going on under the surface of the world. Reid weaves this in with political parallels to our own world and the increasingly polarised nature of society. Here, the truth shall come to light but the cost of it will not be light. I liked how Reid wove in these political elements, making the entire story feel like ripples in the water. These actions will have consequences, but who knows how far they may reach and what knock-on effects they will have. You feel like you’ve scratched the surface of this intense world and leaves plenty of room for an excellent sequel. Reid certainly leans towards this with a devastating and explosive ending that leaves you demanding answers immediately.

Winterveil is the whisper in the darkness, walking on a knife edge with intrigue, political moves and world-shattering revelations.

Winterveil is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, Waterstones, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore.

Will you be picking up Winterveil? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis

Bestselling author of A Study in Drowning and Fable for the End of the World Ava Reid is back with a thrilling new duology unlike anything you’ve read before.

It’s a game—until it’s war.

• A disgraced politician from a powerful American dynasty.
• A coldly brilliant strategist who will sacrifice anything to win.
• A former pageant queen with a talent that could change the world.
• An expert female soldier with an enigmatic past—and a dangerous secret.

In an alternate future where the Cold War still rages, four precocious teenage criminals with dark skills and darker secrets are offered a fresh start at a secret military academy. But instead of training to end the war, they find themselves on a mysterious mission that will test loyalties, forge romances, and maybe end the world as they know it.

The post Review: Winterveil by Ava Reid appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Dance in a Madhouse by Jess Wright, which releases on October 6th 2026.

Philadelphia, 1905. A month ago, Owen Townsend was a medical intern primed for success. Now he is locked in Fairmount Lodge, an asylum where the public is invited to gawk at the patients. His fall was sudden: typhoid fever, delirium, an act of violence. Is Owen sane―a victim of a toxin no longer in his system? Or is he as psychotic as his doctor claims?

There are fires at Fairmount. Attacks that defy logic. Terror instead of treatment. Though others dismiss his concerns as paranoia, Owen soon realizes that someone wants him put away forever―or dead. To survive, he not only must navigate the labyrinth of the madhouse but also must recruit someone on the outside to his cause. Brumbaugh, a shrewd police inspector, is the man for the job―and Celeste, an enigmatic young opera singer who transfixes him after he saves her from suicide, might have the clues they need to solve the mystery. But if Owen is going to find a way to freedom, he’ll first have to decipher riddles from Celeste’s tortured past.

Set at the dawn of modern psychiatric treatment, Dance in a Madhouse is a thrilling testament to courage and resilience. Can Owen and Celeste overcome the odds against them? Are redemption and healing possible? The dances will tell.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

I didn’t know when I set off with Maude on that summer day that I was about to lose her and all the traces of success that had come my way.  My degrees from the Ivy League, even a father set to run for governor of New York, were next to worthless tokens where I was to go. Asylum, retreat, lodge—might as well call it a madhouse, for that word captures what it was. Fairmount Lodge would be my prison, a terminal sentence. Fairmount Lodge, where the marked ones are hidden away, their shame locked behind the tall gates.

Months would go by before they told me about the horror I wreaked on that day in Central Park and then forgot in the haze of brain fever. Snippets popped back, then slipped away before making any sense. But there were some things I knew without doubt. My family had abandoned me and would be relieved if I was never seen again.  People were being killed at Fairmount Lodge. And I was a target.

Paranoia, you might think. Owen Townsend is in the madhouse for good reasons. Keep him there.

I wonder myself. Was part of this story a phantasm? Or did every bit of it happen?

New York City, Late July, 1905

Maude and I were standing at the edge of the lake in Central Park when the first signs of my descent began. Something was wrong with my vision. The boats flickered like they were in a moving picture, jumping in quick volleys from frame to frame. Silvered mirrors reflected arcs of light from the water’s surface.  When I looked at the dock, the light became more intense, so bright I thought it might blind me. Wood changed to glass. Fractured crystals where the dock had been.

When I closed my eyes, trying to reset my senses, rivulets of mercury appeared. Red penumbras were ready to ignite. Then a crashing wave of nausea—a reminder of the deep-in-the-gut curse of the typhoid infection. The doctors had discharged me from Bellevue yesterday, said I was cured.

The typhoid had been hellish. Made me wonder if my brain was ruined. It killed Josh Winters, another intern on my service at the hospital. Were the fevers coming back? Were the toxins still in me? Poisoning my mind?

Shivers of fear ran through me. The nausea surged, and I had to struggle not to wretch. But I tried to beat down the fears. You survived. A few aftershocks, that’s all. 

The nausea began to subside as I talked myself down, used my medical learning to throttle the run-away fears. My fiancée was beside me. And I had a week to rest before going back to my internship at Columbia. Illusions. Be patient . . . They’ll go away.

I squeezed Maude’s hand and snapped my lids open again. Red and yellow boats were tied to the dock, just where they should be, ready to be rented. Four couples were on the water, rowing in the afternoon sun.

“What happened?” Maude asked. “I lost you for a while.”

“A little twitch,” I said. “Last of the typhoid. I’m okay now.”

I gestured for her to walk with me, away from the scene that had triggered the aberrations. Too much bright sun, I said to myself. A bit of photosensitivity. I had studied with the psychologist William James at Harvard and knew enough to understand these phenomena—not overreact. Of course, I wasn’t entirely well. My brain had been battered by the fevers. I needed more time to heal.

Maude put her arm in mine as we went down the grand boulevard in the shade of arched elms. “Being an intern almost took you,” she said. “It was those nights without sleep.  Weeks with no break. Three of you with typhoid after eating in that grimy cafeteria . . . One of you dead.”

She had a point. We were worn down after only a month of the internship. I’d had one night free all month to be with Maude. There were dozens of patients with typhoid on my wards. We’d washed our hands with carbolic soap. Used gowns when we could. It hadn’t been enough. But Maude couldn’t convince me to quit.

“You could leave your internship, and no one would blame you. Take the job my father offered. We could be married at Christmas.”

I glanced sideways at the folds of her white dress and blinked. But the little fires in the depths of the folds wouldn’t go away. Maude’s voice was full of static, like it was coming from a damaged Victrola. I had ventured out too soon.

“Wall Street instead of wasting away in medicine. No more weeks when I can’t see you. No waiting for three years till you finish at Columbia.”

My family would second her arguments. Doctoring was beneath their social standing, though they would never say so. Since I had caught typhoid on the crowded hospital ward, the pressure had escalated to choose a more suitable profession. No one but my professors understood my attraction to medicine.

More flames were licking from the folds in Maude’s dress, and the path was starting to shimmer with arcs of light—chimeras like I’d seen at the lake.

Without warning, a chilling vision flashed in front of me. I was a patient in the neurology ward at Mass General, my bed in the line of hopeless cases. Korsakoff’s Syndrome, terminal syphilis, decorticates. Shells of humans. No purpose left but to be a teaching case. The chief neurologist with his silver-headed cane came by with his troop of medical students. A curt nod, and they continued their rounds. I was a non-being.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Dance in a Madhouse’ by Jess Wright appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well we are delighted to be revealing the cover and an excerpt for You Made Me by Meredith Adamo!

Releasing on May 18th 2027, You Made Me is now available for preorder so read on to discover the cover by illustrator Kei-Ella Loewe and a peek at the start of the novel!

Sienna Benson doesn’t exist.

At least, that’s what her dream school says when they can’t verify her identity. But Sienna knows exactly who she is—and once upon a time, a quarter-million followers did, too. Her entire childhood was posted on My Little Mini, her mom’s old Instagram account, for anyone to see. How is that not proof enough that she’s real?

But then a mysterious letter sends her mom running off into the night. Her mom doesn’t return, but the letters keep coming. Letters written by someone named Mallory. Letters that tell a story Sienna’s heard before, about nine schoolgirls who went missing in the wilderness, and only four made it out alive. Letters, Sienna realizes, about her mother.

As Sienna searches for her missing mom, she must confront the truth of who her mother is and what she’s done—not just all those years ago, but with My Little Mini. And if her mother truly is the monster everyone says she is, what does that make Sienna?

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Meredith Adamo is the critically acclaimed and award-winning author of Not Like Other Girls (April 2024) and the forthcoming You Made Me (May 2027). Not Like Other Girls was the recipient of the 2025 William C. Morris YA Debut Award and the Southern Book Prize for Young Readers, and it was also selected for the Chicago Public Library Best of the Best, BookPage Best Young Adult Books of 2024, ALA Rise: A Feminist Book Project List, Kids’ Indie Next List, and the May 2024 Target YA Book Club, among other accolades.

Meredith is currently based in North Carolina, but she’s originally from Rochester, New York, which is her favorite place on the planet. Her non-writing interests include collecting vintage bakeware, crocheting the ugliest blankets you’ve ever seen, and grocery shopping. ​

The post Exclusive Cover Reveal: You Made Me by Meredith Adamo appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Evie Walters Takes the Wheel by Kathleen Fox, which releases on October 6th 2026.

Evie Walters has lived most of her seventy-one years according to others’ expectations. But on the day of her husband’s funeral, she receives an anonymous delivery: an egret orchid. The same flower a Montana ranch hand once gave her decades ago—Novel Daniels, the boy who thought she could do anything.

So now, she does.

Defying her children’s plans to move her into a retirement home, Evie buys a camper van and leaves life in North Carolina abruptly behind. Accompanied by her devoted rescue dog, she heads west to find her cowboy, befriending an unlikely cast of characters along the way. Free-spirited young vanlifers, roadside waitresses, eccentric billionaires, and kindhearted widowers all show Evie a side of life worth living.

But Evie’s drive toward the future takes her back to the past, to memories of the family ranch and childhood dreams. Now, with a second chance as open as the road before her, there’s no telling who Evie Walters will become.

EXCERPT

“It can’t be,” she whispered into the flower.

And like she did for all questions these days, Evie googled it.

Her screen filled with images of one orchid after another, articles on orchids, and experts on orchids. After tapping a dozen images of the same feathery flower, Evie was certain of one thing: it was an egret orchid. Pecteilis radiata. Gorgeous species of terrestrial orchid native to China, Japan, Korea, and Russia. Leaves number up to seven. Flowers in July. Petals jut out and up like wings.

What greenhouse had gotten it to bloom so early in the year? The pit in Evie’s stomach grew. She lifted the orchid and tugged at the moss-lined pot, careful not to damage a stem.

“Mom, are you okay?” Tess asked, taking the flowerpot from Evie’s hands and placing it back on the buffet.

“Of . . . of course. I was just seeing if it . . . it . . . was real.” Why did I say that? “

I can see why. It doesn’t look like it’s from this world. Those petals are a phoenix rising.” Tess ran her fingers over one of the few unopened buds.

“You shouldn’t touch it. Your fingers can leave oils on the petals that can cause a virus.” The warning flowed right out of Evie’s mouth.

Tess’s eyes widened. “Wow, Mom, I didn’t know you knew anything about flowers.”

“I-I don’t. I’m probably just recalling one of those nature programs your dad started watching after he got sick.”

“I never thought Dad’s nature vibe extended beyond the greens of a golf course!”

As much as the family teased her, Tess’s insight was always spot on.

“I’m going to miss him,” Tess said, her voice cracking.

“He loved you kids so much.”

They stared at the orchid for a moment, each in their own memory. Evie forced hers far back into the corners of her mind.

“Hey, we’re getting ready to take off, but I wanted to make sure—like absolutely sure—that you’re cool with being here by yourself tonight. I can totally crash and chill with you. We could bird-watch, order pizza, and do the Netflix thing.” Tess reached for Evie’s hand. “But I also totally respect your need for space and personal boundaries, so I can support you from afar if that’s better.”

Evie held in a smile, wondering in what woo-woo workshop Tess had learned such terminology.

“I could use a little solo time tonight. I suspect I’ll be fast asleep before dark,” Evie assured Tess as she walked her toward the door.

Tess’s deep hug swallowed Evie up. “I love you, Mom. I’ll check in on you in the morning.”

Wells and Melony and their families followed behind Tess with their goodbyes. Mel stepped aside and glanced back at the kitchen.

“Remember, your kitchen window is still open, and turn on the house alarm once we’ve left.”

Evie never turned on that alarm, but she nodded like she would.

Melony was every bit Royce’s daughter, down to the same determina tion that pressed her mouth together into a disapproving line.

Grabbing her car keys from inside her bag, Melony handed them to her daughter. “Shea, go start the car. Music at a minimum, please.”

Evie grinned. “She reminds me of you at her age.”

“Mom, I was a far more responsible driver. Why these kids don’t crash daily is beyond me. Texting, music, seat dancing, putting on makeup.”

How quickly Melony had forgotten her own youth. Or maybe, Evie thought, we simply choose what we want to remember.

As the sunlight began to fade, Evie held in the last bit of emotion until she heard the caterers’ van back out of the driveway, then she let out a heavy sigh.

The house was quiet. Silence echoed loudly living alone. She hadn’t adjusted to it yet.

On her way upstairs, the egret orchid drew her in. She closed her eyes and traced the silhouette of its petals in her mind, recalling the first time she’d ever seen such a flower. The Montana moonlight and—she shook away the memory, ashamed it had surfaced on the day she’d buried her husband.

In her bedroom, she unknotted the gray scarf and tucked it in the drawer. Then Evie reached behind her head to unzip her dress. The zipper didn’t budge.

“A little help here, Royce?” she pleaded toward the ceiling, tugging harder.

He laughed inside her head. Call someone, love.

She tried to pull the dress over her head, but the jewel neckline fit so snuggly, getting it over her head was impossible.

Her bed was inviting comfort. She was so tired. She could just sleep in her dress and deal with the zipper tomorrow.

“So this is what it’s come to. A woman stuck in her clothes.”

Reta’s words resurfaced. Never underestimate the strength of a quiet woman. Evie considered what quiet really meant.

She pulled open the nightstand drawer and grabbed the scissors she used for loose threads. Sitting atop the nightstand was the envelope Melony said arrived with the orchid. No address or florist’s name appeared on it.

Evie lay down the scissors and picked it up, letting the envelope sit in her hand until she felt tiny beads of sweat in her palm.

After gently gliding her fingernail under the seam, she pulled out a pale-blue card.

I’m sorry. You were meant to have this years ago.

Evie lingered over each word. She pinched the card to keep it from falling from her fingers as her body buckled.

Today, of all days.

She hid the card and envelope in the nightstand.

With the scissors now firmly back in her hand, she chopped a ragged line right up the front of her dress. The crepe shredded and curled with each snip. Then Evie peeled the dress off her body, kicked open the lid to the trash can, and tossed the fabric in. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” The lid slammed with a hearty thump. She closed her eyes and inhaled so deeply her lungs ached.

Evie unhooked her bra and let it fall to the floor. She pulled down her underwear and stepped out of each little hole, leaving it lying on the carpet. Then Evie slipped under the sheets, naked, something she hadn’t done since before her wedding night.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Evie Walters Takes the Wheel’ by Kathleen Fox appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Alibi Club by Carrie Talick, which releases on September 29th 2026.

Single, female, forty-one. Forensic psychologist Jamie Frisco’s bio reads more like victim data than stellar online dating fodder, and she’s on the verge of becoming a forever-spinster. Then her mother threatens to leave her out of her will unless Jamie brings a suitable date to her wedding. Enter matchmaker Lorna Gray, who invites Jamie to a blind date night—Dinner for Six.

Recently paroled antiquities thief Cliff Weston is desperate to change but needs a loan to start his new security business. Looking to schmooze his benefactor by passing as a family man, he accepts Lorna Gray’s invitation to Dinner for Six.

As Dinner for Six commences, Jamie, Cliff and four other unlikely singles are digging into their main course when bombs knock out the power, throwing everything into chaos.

After the smoke clears, a SWAT team arrives and a lockdown ensues, trapping them together. As the night goes on, sparks fly between Cliff and Jamie. Meanwhile, the biggest heist in Manhattan Beach history goes down, and someone at the table might be behind it all.

A note from the author: If you’ve ever had the misfortune of entering the murky waters of online dating in your 40s (or older) you inevitably start boiling people down to three-word-descriptors as you endlessly swipe right; Short, funny, from Colorado, or Redhead, marathon runner, slightly insane, or Brawny, airplane mechanic, owns a sword.

What sounds like fun at first becomes a monotonous stream of bathroom selfies, discerning if one’s hobbies incline them to serial killing, and taking part in The Ghosting Olympics. It’s bleak out there online. Enter the concept for my latest novel The Alibi Club, where six aging singles take a different approach to finding love; they put their fate into the hands of a matchmaker whose gift may be heaven sent but whose group blind date setup ends in total calamity as the biggest heist in Manhattan Beach goes down and one of the guests at the table may be responsible for it all. In the midst of all the chaos, does love stand a chance?

I hope you enjoy The Alibi Club—where mayhem and matchmaking have a meet-cute—and see who has a seat at the table. 

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nowhere to Go but Everywhere by Jessica Rao, which releases September 29th 2026.

Helena Vinci might like grunge and Camel Lights, but she’s not a fan of frat boys or anything else about Albany college life. When she drops out and takes a job waiting tables near the Capitol, her plan is to save up to see “the real world” out west. But soon she finds herself trapped in a new way, torn between two men – a sexy DJ and a fellow slacker with wanderlust – and a third, a politician who promises financial security, but at a price. When and how will Helena learn that you don’t have to go on the road to find yourself?

Chapter 1

To me, the best part of school was riding the University at Albany bus around town. It was an old, beat-up thing that had been painted purple and gold, the school colors, and it made a loop from the main campus to downtown and back again. I liked to see the city.

When the bus pulled out of the cobblestone circle onto Washington Avenue, there was this long stretch of office buildings. The sign out front said “State Department of

Taxation and Finance.” Every time the bus passed, I thought to myself that it must be hell. Even if the sun was shining, there was this gray hue that came off the place. If I went to

school for anything that caused me to work there, I figured I might as well drop out. My mom, on the other hand, had this fantasy that I would work on Wall Street, the “hometown industry” as she liked to call it.

As the bus bumped along, moving farther from the frat boys, and the Denny’s, and the quick-lube places near campus, I felt like I had been drugged. But the fog always

lifted when we hit the traffic light that marked the beginning of a neighborhood. There were houses with patches of lawn and short trees, and I always wondered about the people who lived inside them.

One evening in the early spring, when yellow forsythia was popping up in the little yards on either side of the wide avenue, and the window next to my seat was open a crack

to let in the cold wind, the bus stopped at a light on the corner of Manning Boulevard. I pressed my forehead against the dirty window and saw a man standing in his driveway next to a station wagon. He was wearing a light- colored suit and held a brown briefcase. The hair was thin on top of his head, and he was staring off past the bus.

I’m not sure if the light was broken, but it seemed like someone had pressed pause on the Earth’s rotation. I stared at the man. When we finally lurched forward, I turned to

my right and noticed that across the aisle, there was a guy sitting with his legs stretched out under the seat in front of him. He was wearing a white t-shirt, leather jacket, and

jeans, and his light brown hair hung in his face. On the Road was in his lap. Nodding toward the briefcase man, he said,

“I’m never going to be him.”

“What?”

“I’m never going to be that guy back there. You know, trapped. Walter Mitty.”

Walter Mitty. I had kind of paid attention in my high school English class when we were supposed to have read that story, so I sort of knew what he meant, but still, who brings up Walter Mitty to a stranger on a bus?

“Yeah, no interest here.”

“I don’t mean to be hard on the guy, but he looked like he couldn’t deal.”

“He probably just got off from work at those offices back there. New meaning to, ‘Life sucks and then you die.’”

A smile formed on his too-serious face. “Maybe we’re wrong. Maybe he’s going inside to smoke a bowl.”

“I don’t think so. Not the type.”

Not sure if it was my knowledge of who smoked weed and who didn’t, or if he liked that I knew about Mitty, but he leaned toward me and extended his hand. “Henry,” he

said.

At that moment, the boy came into focus. He looked like a Fifties greaser, minus the grease.

“So, where are you heading?”

I felt embarrassed all of a sudden. “Nowhere, actually. I was just riding around. You?”

He sat up. “Work. I got a job at a print shop.”

“They’re not hiring, are they?”

“I don’t think so, but the place is all guys anyway. Why? You looking for a job?”

“I guess I am, but I should probably wait until the summer and get one at home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Brooklyn.”

His eyes lit up and I got the sense that he must be an upstate boy, seeing as there were only two types of people at this school: Long Island frat boys and hicks.

“Why? Where are you from? Wait, don’t tell me you’re a cow-tipper.”

“I’m not a cow-tipper.”

“Nothing wrong with being a hick. Hicks are people too.”

“Listen, Brooklyn, I’m not a hick. I’m from Albany.”

“Oh. Albany. I see.”

“Hey, I’m not the one tooling around on a bus with no place to go.”

“I was kid—”

“So was I.”

The bus stopped. I looked out the window, and we were in front of a drugstore. There were a couple of homeless guys leaning on the glass window.

He stood up and tossed the hair from his eyes. “You’d be right if you thought I knew the country better than the city, but if you stop into Royal Press on Dove Street, I’ll see if they need somebody.”

I nodded. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

“Do it soon ‘cause I’m not going to be on this bus much longer. I’m done with school.”

He got off the bus, lit a cigarette, and started walking down Lark Street, the block known for being the city’s “Greenwich Village.” I leaned forward to watch him walk,

his arms swinging. He looked back at the bus, and when he did, I looked away even though I was pretty sure he couldn’t see inside.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Nowhere to Go but Everywhere’ by Jessica Rao appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Kind of Aloe Vera by Tomas Moniz, which releases on September 29th 2026.

Seventy-five-year-old Rey has lived on the same block in San Francisco’s Mission District for most of his life, watching his city transform. A widower for ten years, he spends most of his time volunteering at the library, but by the end of the month, Rey must move into a senior retirement and leave his neighborhood behind. It’s at the library during one of his last shifts where he meets Q, on probation, post breakup with her girlfriend and dealing with a troubled family. As Rey tries to decide what to do with the rest of his days, literally counting them off and cutting his remaining ties, Q begins to insert herself into his world in a way that he can’t deny.

A story about Latinx identity, intergenerational friendship, and chosen family, Moniz’s novel takes us on a journey through senior dance classes, illegal bike trips over the Bay Bridge, and fair housing rallies. And as the days tick down, Rey and Q find themselves leaning on each other for answers on how to find community and purpose, make amends, and process grief.

For readers of Steven Rowley and Claire Jimenez, equally funny and tender, The King of Aloe Vera delights in how we choose to live, and live out, our lives.

EXCERPT

October 1^st: Loose Ends and Final Wishes

Rey swings open the front door of his two-bedroom apartment in the Mission to begin his regular morning routine: gather the SF Chronicle before someone (and he knows exactly who) steals it from his bottom step where it is regularly deposited, despite his repeated attempts requesting the paper be delivered to the top of the steps so it has less a chance at being stolen. He’s a thirty-three-year subscriber to the printed version (yes, he even has a Local Legend Supporter trophy to prove it), so you’d think the Chronicle would comply with his wishes, but five days out of seven, there it is, eleven steps below his front door, just asking to be taken.

But on this fine morning, Rey discovers a very official Notice of Entry affixed to his front door, OCTOBER 1ST: 3RD AND FINAL WARNING printed across the top in red.

And for the third time Rey peels it off.

However, the date gives him pause: there really is only one month remaining before he has agreed to move out of his apartment and into the San Leandro Rolling Estates Retirement Community and Park.

“Excuse me, are you Reyes Calderón?”

Rey reaches behind him to grab the broom hanging just inside and then turns to see a person dressed in tan golf pants and a black puffer jacket with a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other. He begins to ascend the stairs.

“I’m Jonathan Gusman and I’m here with Bay Investment Management Group. We’ve been trying to reach you. It’s imperative we assess the apartment per your agreement signed . . .”

Jonathan pauses long enough for Rey to point the head of the broom and prevent him from taking another step. On the sidewalk below, a person walks into view, and Rey hopes they will intervene in the impending fracas, but instead they walk on by, talking on their phone.

Jonathan says, “Wow. Did you really set up this vacate agreement ten years ago?”

Rey responds, “The only one vacating right now is you off of my property.”

“Listen we just want to assess the state of the apartment. Make necessary repairs before it goes on market.”

Jonathan takes another step up.

“I object. I’m not comfortable with that.”

Rey gives a warning jab with the broom, which causes Jonathan to stop.

“It’s not really about your comfort. It’s the law. It’s in your signed contract, which, we should remind you, came with a relocation fee that already has been deposited in escrow, per our agreement.”

“Why do you keep saying ‘we’?”

“We’ve tried repeatedly to contact you over the last few months. We can get the sheriff’s office to accompany us if need be but . . .”

Rey attempts another jab and almost loses his balance, quickly grabbing the handrail. One day these steps will be his demise, another reason for his request to have the paper left at the top of them.

“Please, Mr. Calderón. Watch yourself.” Jonathan backs down the steps. “You need to honor your agreement. I’ll be back with reinforcement if necessary.”

Rey, two steps from the top, one hand firmly gripping the rail, the other clutching the wooden handle of his handmade broom, imagines he appears stately, kingly.

“Do what you need to. But before you leave, can you toss me my paper?”

Jonathan does, in fact, toss the paper up as he departs. Rey returns to the top. Victorious. He surveys his kingdom: Shotwell Street. He can see up to the corner of Eighteenth Street. He’s witnessed the neighborhood change and shift. Morning laborers hustling to bus stops and BART stations; posses of teenagers, mostly boys, some girls, all with black backpacks, shouting and running mornings and afternoons; the women and some men of the night standing on the corners barely dressed, cars rolling slow, music blaring; then the skittery tech workers; the scooters and bikes and so much spandex; the moms pushing fancy strollers; businesses opening then shuttering: the auto shop four buildings down now a dance company called ODC (which does offer discounted classes for seniors), the liquor store on the corner of Seventeenth now the Corner Cafe, a coffee house with laptops on every table. More recently, the numerous tents on sidewalks, the pushcarts and pilfered shopping carts overstuffed with belongings. Through all of it, Rey has hung on, waiting, slowly preparing for and perhaps dreading the plan he and his beloved wife, Juliet, concocted: moving into a two-bedroom house in a retirement community in San Leandro, his childhood hometown across the bay. It would have been perfect living just outside the city, so she could still visit friends and take classes, but they could also have had space, a yard, fruit trees, a garden. It’s been eight years since Juliet passed and he hasn’t amended the plan because Juliet would have loved a yard and a garden.

He recalls the way his mother took care of the landscaping when he was growing up: plots in the front yard filled with equisetum (which always died, too hot) and aloe (which took over), the garden boxes in the backyard rotating tomatoes in the summer, kale in the fall, the one loquat tree, a remnant from the Lao tian family his parents purchased the house from. His mother tried to control the aloe: encircled it with lava rocks or bendy boards to keep it at bay. She even tried to remove it at various times, but months later, along a slightly different part of the wall, the aloe always returned.

Rey closes the front door and grabs his Moleskine calendar from the living room and begins his final monthly to-do list. He titles it Loose Ends and Final Wishes.

Return the rifle

Swim in the ocean

Give broom to someone who will appreciate it

Bike for pleasure not health

Get bike to accomplish previous task

Confirm number of pills

Cancel ODC membership

Resignation letter to library

Calls to make

Gustavo at San Leandro

Mr. Peter Nguyen

He then calls Gustavo — crossing a line through his name — at the San Leandro Rolling Estates Retirement Community and Park to confirm his walk-through appointment in two days, securing personal transportation both there and back, part of the perks of being a founding investment member.

He promises himself he will call that Jonathan from Bay Investment Management Group next. He needs to be proactive, do more than just ignore their calls and rip down their notices, like he’s done the past few months. He’s known this moment was coming for years, haphazardly preparing to move a year ago. During the last big purge, he’d donated all Juliet’s clothing as well as the last piece of her furniture: the vanity. The apartment, now absent of any of her possessions, contains just the essentials Rey needs. In the living room: his favorite Amish rocker; a wooden coffee table; a set of four cork coasters; a blue velvet couch with two SF-themed throw pillows, one featuring the Bay Bridge, the other the Golden Gate; and a trio of plushy blankets for each of the now departed Oakland sports teams: the A’s, the Warriors, the Raiders. He walks to the fireplace, which has never been usable. But the mantel has housed many mementos over the years: wedding pictures, nesting Shaker baskets that Juliet and he had made one summer, various awards like SFUSD Administrator of the Year for Juliet.

Now only two items remain. The first is his etched glass trophy from the SF Chronicle acknowledging his commitment to the craft of quality journalism. In a month, he won’t need to sub scribe anymore because the San Leandro Rolling Estates Retirement Community and Park has a digital communal subscription for all residents. He walks back to his list and adds cancel newspaper subscription.

The second item on the mantel: his antique nineteenth-century US-issued Modoc-reappropriated musket, resting in its stand, that his father passed on to him.

Today, he will remit his resignation letter for his biweekly library shift, despite Alma’s insistence that it’s unnecessary. Today, he will cross out library in one slow, precise movement.

Rey loves the Mission branch of the San Francisco Public Library, on Twenty-fourth and Bartlett, and his volunteer shift in the kids’ book section. He makes a concerted effort whenever possible to point out to patrons the building’s magnificent architecture: its huge arched windows and art deco chandeliers in each of the four stories, the chevron-patterned oak floors, the various community meeting rooms lined with posters of celebrities exhorting people to read, such as Barack Obama (who, he proudly reminds everyone, was the forty-fourth president of the USA) and Taylor Swift (whom he knows nothing about).

His absolute favorite detail: the ornate brass postal drop slots.

“Welcome, welcome,” he would say to everyone who walked in when he stood at the front entranceway holding the gilded double doors ajar.

But whenever he encountered a parent and a boy or girl, he spoke carefully — the volunteer coordinator Alma, an irritatingly upbeat young woman with thick and chunky glasses, had cor rected him on multiple occasions: “Rey. Please remember our conversation and refer to patrons, especially in the kids’ area, as adult rather than mother or father and child, not boy or girl. We don’t want to assume anything, now do we?”

“Not at all,” Rey said.

He had learned to always agree.

Alma pronounced with a smile, “All family structures are valid. Thank you and I appreciate you so much.”

This morning, as he greets patrons at the entrance, he says to an adult and a couple of children: “Good day, have you ever noticed the mail slots, you two young people?”

“Did you hear the nice man, Adian and Andrew? He’s showing you how fancy the mail slots are.”

One child reaches out and begins rapidly flipping the flap up and down.

Rey says, “That’s over a hundred years old. Be gentle.”

The adult says, “Sorry about that. Don’t think he’s ever received mail. I mean who does anymore, right?”

The child’s adult proceeds to escort the two children into the library, ignoring the vaulted ceilings and art deco chandelier entirely.

Rey steps outside the building to inspect the entryway for any troublesome litter: gray stone walls, a massive ficus tree and a row of four tents lined up along the opposite sidewalk, various bikes and pilfered shopping carts from Gus’s Market parked around the perimeter like a security gate. He often recognizes a few of the residents from the numerous other encampments that line so many streets in this neighborhood, including his own. Rey doesn’t mind them, but he does mind the ficus leaves, which he has a weekly battle sweeping away.

He admires the morning light: blue skies, a tad crisp, but warmth coming. He faces the entrance, as someone jostles by and enters, oblivious to the mail slots.

Rey definitely loves library buildings more than the actual patrons.

In fact, he can proudly name all the branches, and begins to — Anza, Bayview, Bernal Heights — but is interrupted from his mental exercise by someone calling to him from across the street. He’s young and compact. He’s holding a number of bright blue IKEA plastic bags packed with clothes.

“Abuelo, I got something cheap for you.”

He drops the bags, reaches both hands in, and holds up a shirt on a wood hanger and a baseball cap.

“I don’t need anything right now.” Rey waves him off and goes back in the library, letting the door close smoothly behind him.

But he does discern the young man’s parting remark: “Everybody needs something, abuelo.”

Back inside, Rey wheels a cart full of returned books back to the kids’ room, which is carpeted with a floor that undulates, providing small hills and berms that children can climb on or roll down and lean against as adults read books out loud.

Over the past few weeks, Rey has been arranging the books by color. The joy that rushes through him when he tells a kid who ventures into the section: want a purple book? A green one? The child almost always laughs.

Of course, Alma has patiently reprimanded him a few times not only for this choice of book organization but for others he’s attempted in the past as well: shelving by size, shelving in piles, shelving randomly to encourage surprise and cultivate acceptance, all ideas soundly rejected by the library establishment.

Rey knows Alma coddles him because he’s seventy-five and the longest tenured volunteer at the branch. Generally, Rey would never lean into that coddling, but because it gives him a bit of autonomy, he acts surprised and compliant.

Despite his chagrin at the library’s complete lack of imagination, of vision, he cherishes his time here. He knows that Alma, although a bit rigid, appreciates him because no other volunteer wants to shelve kids’ books or sweep out front.

Strangers ask him questions: “Where’s the bathroom?” or “Is there a Wi-Fi code?”

He always gives them a little something else for their benefit: “To the left but make sure you look at the tile work around the porcelain urinals” and “No code, and did you know we have free printing up to ten pages?”

They never listen, but still.

Back out front, on his break, Rey notices once again a hand ful of cigarette butts lined up in a little design to the left of the entrance, clearly within the hundred-foot no-smoking zone. Every shift he sees that someone has created shapes and lines with discarded filters. He eyeballs the sidewalk tents looking for someone with a guilty presence. He wonders if it’s personal. He looks for the young man with the blue IKEA bags. He sees a few people standing around a tree, but no one is smoking and no one looks his way.

He heads back into the library to take the elevator four floors up to the staff room to get the library’s so-called broom, with its cheap white plastic handle and green synthetic bristles, to sweep up the butts. The elevator door opens and a person stands ready to exit. Rey’s unsure whether they’re a man or woman because of the SF Giants hoodie pulled up over their head.

He sees the cigarette dangling from the person’s lips. He gets into the elevator and says, “I’m sure you are aware that there is no smoking in the library.”

The person takes the cigarette from their mouth and responds, “And here I was about to ask you where the ashtrays were.”

Rey deduces it’s a young woman. She steps out, then pauses.

“Relax,” she says. “I’m going outside to smoke, but I know you. You’re Rey. I’m Q. You live on Shotwell. I do too, with my pops.”

“I know everyone who lives there. I’ve never seen you.”

She flips down the hood and looks directly at Rey. He does recognize her, no longer a sullen teenager sauntering up and down the sidewalks before and after school hours or hiding out on his stairs.

“Why are old men always so arrogant? I’ve basically lived my whole life on that street.”

“I’m not arrogant,” Rey says.

“I hope I never get old. Looks like somebody might be getting a little soft,” and she proceeds to tap the side of her head, making her eyes wide and round.

She steps away from the entrance as the doors slide shut.

“I have a perfect memory,” he responds, but it’s pointless. He’s alone in the elevator.

In the staff room, he grips the broom, remembering the multiple requests he’s filed for the library to acquire an actual broom with corn fiber bristles and a sturdy wood handle, but this has been denied each time.

Nobody appreciates the wisdom of old men.

It’s wisdom not arrogance.

And then it hits him. How could he have not immediately seen it: the line of cigarette butts in front of the library and her smoke break.

Coincidence? He thinks not.

Rey puts the broom away and goes back down to the first floor to find Alma, who’s in the administration offices, which have an amazing view of Bernal Hill. Like a concerned patron, he says, “I need to report a young woman to security. She’s repeatedly violated the no-smoking signs clearly posted outside the entrance.”

“Have you asked her to leave the area?”

“I haven’t seen her actually in the area smoking but I’ve swept up the evidence.”

“So you have not witnessed who is smoking?”

“Trust me, she looks like she’d do it.”

Immediately, Rey realizes he said the wrong thing despite knowing its veracity.

Alma says, “Rey, thank you for your concern. I will keep an eye out, and remember: I appreciate you.”

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