One dead body. Seven mystery writers who all know how to get away with murder. In this wickedly clever whodunit from the bestselling author of Save the Cat! Writes a Novel, the only thing harder than writing the perfect plot twist . . . is surviving it.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from How to Write a Murder by Jessica Brody, which releases on September 22nd 2026.
If you want to write a murder, you have to set it in the right location—like an old, converted monastery with an ominous past, hidden deep in the mountains. Then, you have to invite the right people—like a group of authors attending a prestigious mystery-writing conference.
Of course, someone should show up uninvited—like a disgraced literary agent accused of stealing from his top client. Everyone in the story must be hiding something so they can all become suspects when someone ends up dead. That’s when they’ll turn on one another, digging into the past to uncover dark truths—like a book canceled on the eve of publication, two million dollars in missing royalties, and an obsessive fan with a hidden agenda.
But don’t forget to trap everyone there—a landslide should do the trick—so they can’t escape when more people turn up dead. . . .
Welcome to the perfect murder. Nothing will go wrong. Because if anyone can get away with murder, it’s a writer.
EXCERPT
“Whenever possible, put your main character in danger on the very first page.”
Darius Walker turned up the volume of his audiobook, hoping the voice of the narrator would drown out the pounding of his heart. He sat in the back seat of the car, bracing himself as his driver approached another hairpin turn along the seemingly endless dirt road.
“Danger helps the reader create an emotional connection to the character. A character in peril is a character worth reading about,” the narrator continued as the Lyft driver—Marco, 4.8 stars—careened around the turn, making no effort to slow down. Darius gripped the backpack on his lap as if it were a life raft, even though the last fleeting glimpses of the Pacific Ocean had vanished in the rearview mirror four turns ago.
The car skated the knife-edge corner. Darius shut his eyes. If there was one thing he liked less than winding dirt roads, it was winding dirt roads through mountainside cliffs that plunged thousands of feet into dark, bottomless abysses.
“Your opening scenes are your opportunity to hook the reader with intrigue and taut pacing, so whatever you do, don’t—”
“Slow down!” Darius shouted, ripping off his headphones. He’d made the mistake of opening his eyes just as the car veered recklessly around another sharp turn. The driver slammed on the brakes, sending pebbles cascading over the cliff edge. Darius was certain they were going to follow right after, straight into the gaping chasm below. That would make a terrible start to a novel.
Or an intriguing one . . .
The car evened out and Darius slid his headphones back on, letting the words of The Bestseller Formula soothe his frayed nerves. It was currently the number-one mystery-writing guide on the market, probably because of its simplicity. The author, Jenna Blake, claimed all mystery novels follow the same twelve-step pattern, so naturally, if you followed it too, you’d write a bestseller.
“In Step 1 you introduce all your main characters, including the victim and the killer,” the narrator proclaimed with an overly dramatic flair. As if the rules of mystery writing were as grave and consequence-laden as the rules of open-heart surgery. One wrong cut, one misplaced scene, and your book will flatline with no hope of resuscitation. But that was why Darius loved writing guides. They brought order to a chaotic process, a chaotic world.
The car slowed as it approached a narrow one-lane bridge that looked like it was built decades before the invention of the car. Even Darius’s Formula One driver hesitated, hands tightening on the wheel before he inched onto the groaning wooden planks. Darius’s smartwatch erupted in high-pitched beeps as his heart rate skyrocketed.
“This step is also where you should introduce the primary setting of the novel,” the narrator crooned into his ear. “The more remote or ominous the location, the higher the stakes—”
“This place sure is far,” Marco said, glancing at Darius in the rearview mirror as they miraculously made it across the bridge. “Where are you heading, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m going to a mystery writers’ conference,” said Darius, pausing the audiobook and sliding off his headphones. It’s not like he didn’t have the whole book memorized anyway.
“Oh yeah? That sounds fun. So, you’re a writer?”
Darius froze, completely caught off guard, although he wasn’t sure why. It was an honest question. He just didn’t have an honest answer. He should have rehearsed something. “Um—”
“Whoa! Is that where the conference is?” The car lurched to a halt as Marco peered up at the building now visible through the low clouds hugging the top of the mountain.
Darius inhaled sharply and searched for the perfect words to describe the looming structure.
Majestically regal?
No, too pretentious.
Formidable and ominous with an understated beauty.
Good enough for now. Descriptions had never been his strong suit.
“Looks like an old church or something,” said Marco.
“Renovated Catholic monastery, actually.” Darius angled himself to get a better view of the two stately bell towers that shot up into the sky like heavenly silos.
“Well, I hope for your sake the conference is inside,” said Marco, craning his neck to peer through the top of the windshield. “It looks like it’s going to rain.”
Just then, the sky split apart, unleashing a torrent of water onto the windows and, to Darius’s horror, the winding dirt driveway ahead of them. Despite the dread filling his stomach, Darius couldn’t help but think that this was actually the perfect opening to a good mystery novel. All that was missing was the ominous crack of thunder.
***
An ominous crack of thunder shook the windows of the economy-size rental car. Isabel Torres tightened her white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel as she struggled to make out the rapidly vanishing road through the rain-splattered windshield. Either this glorified go-kart had shitty wipers or the rain was coming down faster than they could keep up.
And now her frantic breaths were fogging up the glass.
She slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in the middle of the mountain’s curvy unpaved road. Why the hell did she think she could do this? Had she learned nothing in the past three months? Isabel had made plenty of poor choices in her twenty-two years—and she had the scar on her forehead to prove it—but this one somehow seemed worst of all.
The rain picked up, pounding against every surface of the car.
How could droplets of water sound so much like gunshots?
“Get it together!” she scolded herself through gritted teeth. “It’s just a little rain.”
She turned the defogger up full blast and eased her foot off the brake. The car inched forward, tires scraping against the wet dirt, fighting for purchase. She attempted the calming technique she’d read about online. Breathe in for four, hold for seven, out for eight. It didn’t work.
At least if I die on this road, the angry fan mail will stop.
That was a silver lining, she supposed. You can’t blame an author for not finishing the last book in her series if she’s dead. The morbid thought made her laugh. Quite maniacally, in fact. She’d been doing that far too much lately. Cackling to herself like an old hag. Even in public. It unnerved people. It unnerved her.
“Cut it out,” she said aloud. She often talked to herself aloud. It was a writer thing.
The rain started to subside, giving the wipers a chance to catch up. It was easier to see the road now and the imposing structure shimmering into view in the distance. As always, the words to describe what she saw crystallized effortlessly in her mind, as if she were typing them onto the page.
The Monastery of the Shrouded Vale was a twisted tapestry of moss-covered stone and yawning archways, its two brooding bell towers dissolving into the mist like ghosts fading behind the veil.
Descriptions were her favorite thing to write.
But sadly, you needed more than descriptions to finish a book.
Fueled by the sight of her destination, Isabel sped up, maneuvering the car recklessly around the next sharp turn.
Cuidado. Her mother’s voice slipped into her mind, growing fainter each day despite how hard she tried to cling on to it. Bad decisions are what make bad people, mija.
Isabel slowed. The road straightened out and she felt her grip on the steering wheel loosen, just before a dark figure darted across the road, right into the path of her car.
She screamed. Both feet slammed on the brakes. Her hands yanked hard on the steering wheel. The car spun. She prayed it was spinning toward the mountainside and not toward the cliff, but it was impossible to tell.
She felt the impact. Heard the crunch. The car stopped spinning and the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Not again. Not again! Something was dead. She was sure of it.
***
The first thing you need to know about writing a murder is that you must stay in control of the narrative at all times. The characters will try to fool you into thinking they’re calling the shots. They’re not. Never forget whose story this really is. Who’s helming the ship. Who’s hiding behind the curtain, pulling all the strings, doing all the work.
That would be me, by the way.
I am the mastermind behind everything that’s about to happen. I researched it and planned it and spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over it. I forged it in the crucible of my own pain and regret and imagination.
This is my pièce de résistance. My perfect murder.
And it’s just beginning.
Some say the perfect murder doesn’t exist. I say these people have never met a writer. Writers know how much effort it takes to craft a plot that works. You have to plan every detail, anticipate every twist and turn, set up every payoff, and strike just the right balance of real clues and red herrings.
And I’ve done that.
I’ve plotted and replotted this murder. I’ve outlined and reoutlined. (I’ve had a lot of time to work on this.) Everything is ready. The timeline of events is set. My plan is already in motion. Nothing can or will go wrong. I’m sure of it.
Because if anyone can get away with murder, it’s a writer.
Excerpted from HOW TO WRITE A MURDER by Jessica Brody. Copyright © 2026 by Jessica Brody Entertainment, LLC. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
