What inspired you to write THE LIE SHE WEARS?

I’ve always been fascinated by the art world. When I found myself dwelling on the research I had done while writing The Alone Time, which features a character who specializes in post-modern art, I knew I wanted to explore that world more in my next book. I began to think about art museums and what kind of person would become an art curator, what would drive them to study something at such length, while knowing that an object’s entire story would perpetually be out of reach.

A recurring theme in your work is family trauma. What draws you to this particular theme, and how does it play out differently from your previous books?

Trauma is a recurring theme in my stories because it’s a universal facet of life. No one escapes this world without some jarring event or conversation that stays with us, that returns to us when we’re lying in bed, trying to go to sleep. In THE LIE SHE WEARS, my main character Pearl explores a softer kind of childhood trauma, that is in no way less potent: neglect. She is constantly battling the messages she internalized at a young age, even to the point of imagining her mother Sally’s belittling voice after her death.

Without giving too much away, you turn the tables on the typical male serial killer role in this new book. What drew you to this idea?

In the past, film and books have hyper-focused on male serial killers—a trend that continues in the media today for certain valid reasons. But in my research while writing my previous books, I learned about the traits of female serial killers, and also how underreported their numbers can be. I wanted to explore our assumptions as readers, then turn them on their head.

Your protagonist is a museum curator, and your descriptions of Pearl’s work are so evocative. What’s your take on research, and how do you do it?

Research is a must during any book that I write, but I rarely undertake huge trips for the sole purpose of researching a premise. Instead, I’m constantly documenting and exploring ideas, places, or events that stick with me. In a way, I’ve been researching art museums since falling in love as a child with the Crocker Art Museum in Sacramento, California, where I grew up; whenever I’m in a new city, I make it a point to visit the local offering, and have been lucky enough to hit many major museums globally. For this book, delving into the world of an art curator’s perspective was pure fun. But it was also educational in that I was able to examine primary and secondary sources online, and I was lucky enough to speak to the art curation team at the Portland Art Museum and learn more about their practices. Discovering the Smithsonian’s published guide to art curation was another highlight for me.

Why is representation of AAPI stories so important to you? 

I grew up without a lot of Asian-centered stories on my bookshelves. I didn’t see them available in my local bookshop, or on my TV, and as a result it seemed like my culture wasn’t as valuable or important. That has changed considerably over the years, and I’m so honored to add to today’s more diverse, mpdern options now.

Who was the most difficult character to write, and why?

Sally, Pearl’s mother. She is particularly flawed, having survived a difficult childhood herself and ultimately carrying those scars with her into motherhood. I needed her to be someone with whom the reader could sympathize but also readily believe the complicated loathing that Pearl feels for her. Sally is an enigma, as many mothers are to their children at the outset. The subtle forms of neglect and abuse that she wielded on Pearl added layers to their relationship that required some nuanced wording on my part.

Your book had so many surprising plot twists, I was honestly shocked even at the very end. Do you figure out all of these twists and turns ahead of time, or do they come about as you are writing? Can you tell us a bit about your writing process?

This book was a trip! I thought I knew the ending and wrote about three different versions of it. The final chapter kept changing based on what was most top of mind for me at the time of writing, during the final six months of 2024. I usually map out the major twists and turns, but this book was firmly in control during the drafting period. Every time I thought I knew what was going to happen, the characters pointed me in a different direction. While I love how THE LIE SHE WEARS turned out, it had a much more dynamic writing process than my previous books.

What do you hope readers will get out of reading your book?

This book is about growth. Each of my characters goes on a journey to understand themselves better; some are more successful than others, while one refuses any introspection at all. Although the heart of this story speaks to the mother-daughter dynamic, I hope readers will recognize the underlying dangers of emotional stagnancy.

Do you have a favorite quote or scene in THE LIE SHE WEARS that you find yourself going back to?

There’s one scene wherein Pearl is questioning her mother’s best friend, urging the friend to spill details from Sally’s life. The friend replies, “Can’t a mother have her secrets, even in death?” This echoes the theme of the mother-daughter conflict that quietly dominates most of the book, though as a shadow from the past. I also love one of the major twists in this book, nearly at the end. Since to talk about it would be to spoil it, I won’t. But it’s one of my favorites that I’ve written, and is a complete game-changer to the narration.

How did you decide on your book’s title and cover design?

For the title, I wanted something evocative of both the figurative lies that we inadvertently (or intentionally) wear when occupying different social circles, and literal masks to highlight their role in this book. Most people adjust their behavior to accommodate their environment in ways that we would find reasonable. Some, however, take it to extremes. The cover design was meant to suggest the many faces that my characters adopt in this story.

Were there experiences in your personal life or career that came in handy when writing this book?

My grandparents used to collect masks, similar to those that Sally does in this book. I always thought they were beautiful, but occasionally terrifying to behold in the middle of the night. The empty eye holes and glitter that marked each of them in some way struck me as sinister yet hypnotic. I definitely drew on my real memories of tense, midnight walks to the bathroom, and tried to imbue this story with Pearl’s alternating appreciation of these masks and her fear of them.

What advice or words of wisdom do you have for fellow writers – other than run!?

Don’t undertake this writing thing lightly; come to the table with your ideas prepared—and at least well considered, if you’re not into outlining. I think everyone’s process is valid (lots of writers I know are pantsers); but for anyone struggling with time management, mentally preparing yourself in advance to write a story is so key. Most of us write because we love it, right? Lean into that and don’t forget it. Especially on the hard days when the words are stubborn.

EXCERPT

Chapter Two – PEARL

Everyone harbors secret fears. A creature under the bed, a stranger following us home, an image burned into the mind’s eye from a horror film viewed at a too-young age.

Not everyone chooses to specialize in their fear.

Plywood shipping boxes, plastic containers, and high-tech steel-reinforced cases overflow the storage docks of the windowless warehouse hall. Shoddy light bulbs flicker overhead, casting ominous shadows at nine in the morning. I usually avoid doing this task on my own, but I set my shoulders and clomp forward in my asexual flats anyway—essential footwear for any woman in historical studies. Gunmetal-gray scaffolding extends for rows from the doorway where I entered. The numerous aisles still fail to convey the extensive backlog of artifacts, waiting to be chosen for display in one of the museum’s many exhibit halls.

As associate curator, I should be more comfortable searching through the wooden crates and plastic bins, perusing the white sticker labels slapped on top that often include notated shorthand and country abbreviations. But this is my first real museum job as a hired expert—no more seeking coffee orders as an intern—and, until now, most of my time has been spent researching my subject. Griffin, my boss and chief curator of the museum, has been dangling a promotion over my head since I was hired six months ago. I need to get this right, even if it means staring at the source of my childhood nightmares.

A Tibetan mask painted black with white spirals jeers at me through a plastic storage crate. I shudder, turning away.

“Pearl, right? What’s your poison?”

A man emerges from the third row to my right, wearing blue coveralls and holding a box from this morning’s delivery from Seattle.

Xander, the director of collections, sports a too-chipper grin, considering the ghosts surrounding us.

I return a smile. “Twelfth-century China.”

He clicks his tongue, bowing slightly as he flattens a hand across his chest. “Right this way.”

We pass an endless series of tools, then turn right midway down the hall and along older rusted shelves. A laminated sign announces we’re approaching Islamic art as our footsteps echo against Neolithic pottery shards, plaster casts of Greek busts, and other items from the epochs that museum curators deemed too disparate to form a collection worthy of display.

When I was first hired as associate curator of Asian art, I was elated. Thrilled that my PhD in Art History from Stanford wouldn’t go to waste and that I’d be one of the youngest associate curators on record at the Portland Art Museum at twenty-seven. I was so excited to share the news with my mother Sally, who first seeded my love of unrestored tapestries found in thrift stores across the greater Pacific Northwest. Then I learned my chief task would be to cobble together an exhibit with zero budget in time for the Halloween season, when it’s taken me six months to understand the museum’s existing inventory. Sally wasn’t impressed by my new job. When I shared the news, she spilled her tea across the counter, deliberately, then told me to clean it up.

But that’s a bygone worry now. A bittersweet memory, I suppose.

A woven straw doll glares at me from a clear circular bin and an aisle dedicated to the Chinook. What are you looking at?

After my mother Sally died in a car crash four weeks ago, Griffin told me I could take as much time as I needed to process the loss. The offer lifted some of the depression cloud that had been following me. Had been trailing me since Sally’s diagnosis of cognitive decline.

“The next two rows should offer what you need.” Xander gives me a thumbs-up. “You excited for the unveiling of the new floor?”

“If by ‘excited’ you mean terrified, yes.” I offer a smile to soften the vulnerability of my joke, but Xander doesn’t laugh.

“Sure. I was too for my first big project.” He nods. “You’ll do great.”

I murmur my thanks as he goes, feeling as awkward as when I started back in April, when something scrapes in the aisle behind me. I turn toward the sound. But only shelves of dusty crates face me in response. The aisle extends another fifty feet, replete with half-empty receptacles. Deteriorating fabric swatches in need of restoration are visible through certain containers, along with thick plastic-wrapped tableaux, ancient paintbrushes, and ornate headdresses.

You never cared this much about anything, lazy.

I step forward. Closer to my quarry. A heavy metal door slams shut from the southmost corner of the room. Although the Portland Art Museum offers over 100,000 square feet of gallery real estate, the storage areas occupy another quarter of the property. So many discarded relics that will wait years to see a patron.

You care more about this than you do your own mother.

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to argue. Force myself to focus on the labels instead of the haunting echo of my mother’s voice. The first week after Sally’s death was the hardest. I stayed in my apartment most days, sitting alone on the love seat in front of a Netflix marathon. Then, after the funeral, I started imagining her voice in some twisted form of masochistic grief, whenever I began a risky task or project that I knew I wasn’t ready for, like cleaning out the gutters of the ranch house. The knee-jerk habit of conjuring up my mother’s most disappointed comments has only grown more frequent, more poisonous, recalling her frustration with me. Though I know I’m in control of my thoughts, and even the ones that resemble Sally’s oft-voiced opinions of me, the memory of her angry tone is a shock when I’m feeling exposed.

I follow the labels, now only haphazardly listening for the scraping noise. At the end of the aisle, where the shelves nearly touch the back wall, the years progress to reach the twelfth century and span the continent until “China” is legible in black ink against white adhesive.

“Gotcha,” I whisper. “Now who’s lazy?”

When I learned there were over four thousand items of Asian art gathered here, ranging from historical to contemporary, from South Asian to East Asian and everything in between, my chest tightened. As if spring cleaning had arrived yet again and my mother had banished me to the attic to organize the plastic rice bowls she saved across two decades. I was overwhelmed at the thought of how to highlight so many in an exhibit—how to prove myself to my employer in this make-or- break moment of my budding career.

Then I recalled the foundation for my interest in museum work. The catalyst to every random roadside antique store pit stop my parents made during family trips, and the motivator that made midnight visits to the bathroom a harrowing experience in our hallway: masks. Asian cultures, across countries and regions, have employed a decorative and practical range of facial coverings. My first exhibit could be no different.

Do you really think you can do this? You barely finish your dinner.

I pause before stacked shelves of preserved jewelry and headpieces. A quick scan of the content labels confirms this might take a while. The only way to tell whether the boxes house the masks I need that relate to twelfth-century China—when opera and funerary masks were in common use—is to crack each one open.

“Good thing I had caffeinated boba today,” I murmur.

The first three crates reveal early on that they’re not what I need. The fourth—sourced years ago, judging from the black scuff marks around the opaque base—provides a half dozen Jing masks from the seventeenth century. A solid win, though not my target era. The painted and patterned masks, still commonly employed for Chinese opera performances, come with newspaper that dates from 1962 lining the bottom of the bin. A reminder of how long this museum and my predecessors have been hoarding items without properly cataloging them.

Something scrapes again from the next aisle over. A box? I pause shuffling the crisp strips of paper. I thought I was alone.

Lifting my head, I make eye contact with a face, then startle backward. My throat constricts before I register the mask peering from the bin on the next shelf up. A Buddha with fat cheeks and a lolling tongue. Empty eyes return my stare without blinking.

You don’t even know what you’re doing.

I exhale a long, controlled breath. Shake my head at the way I leaned into the jump scare. “Literally could have chosen anything for my dissertation. You did this to yourself, Pearl.”

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. That noise again.

I reach for my phone from my back pocket. Tap the flashlight option on the home screen, then slide my feet toward the end of the aisle, eyeing the floor for darting four-legged bodies. Rats and other rodents are common to museum storage spaces—hazards of cool, dimly lit environments meant to protect and preserve artwork and cultural objects.

“Hello?” I say. “Anybody there? Xander?”

A shrill chime erupts from my hand. The name of my mother’s estate attorney appears at the top of my phone screen. The attorney with whom I scheduled a meeting that started fifteen minutes ago. “Shit.”

“Hi, Mr. Singh,” I answer, my pulse still amped. “I’m so sorry—I know I’m late.”

“Hey there. Just wanted to see if now still worked for you.”

I nod to a bamboo scroll beside me, to its faded, curling calligraphy. “Yup. I’ll be there in ten.”

Will you be picking up The Lie She Wears? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Q&A: Elle Marr, Author of ‘The Lie She Wears’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Elle Marr’s Your Dark Secrets, which is out July 30th 2024.

Addison Stern is unparalleled when it comes to spinning a story. A ruthless PR executive, Addison is the star employee of the infamous Ovid Blackwell Group where the rich and famous go to hide all their secrets.

Connor Windell, on the other hand, is in the business of finding out information others would rather keep hidden. He used to be LA’s top private investigator until a betrayal from his ex-girlfriend ruined his reputation and sent him into early retirement. That ex? None other than Addison Stern.

Connor has one chance to redeem himself and salvage his career, but he needs Addison’s help. Addison would rather lick the bottom of her Jimmy Choos than assist, but with some good old-fashioned blackmail, she agrees to team up for one job. But when that job proves bigger than either imagined and they uncover a dangerous hidden web of influence led by Hollywood’s most vindictive and powerful people, they’ll have to rely on each other to expose the truth…and stay alive.

From the Vegas Strip to the beaches of Monaco, this globe-trotting adventure is filled with misplaced trust, competing motivations, and more than a little sexual tension. This gripping romantic thriller will have you up reading all night!

CHAPTER ONE

ADDISON

PARIS, FRANCE | AUGUST 17

The truth? I have never met a situation I can’t spin. After as many years as I’ve logged as a top public relations pro in SoCal, I’ve seen them all. High-profile CEOs caught swiping from the till? Rebranded by yours truly as modern-day Robin Hoods intending to direct funds to charities. Respected members of Congress who sent partial nudes? Budding photographers whose only crime was forgetting an artistic filter across the shot.

And here in Paris, the City of Light, where my client, an actress whose stellar career made her spokesperson for an iconic perfume from La Fumée, has vomited onto the custom Chanel dress she’s wearing, I’m ready to flex that impressive skill set.

“Madame?” the line producer of the shoot squeaks through my phone. “What should I . . . uh . . . How can we . . . um?”

“Yves, I’m going to need a full sentence. Try again,” I demand.

When I first answered his call, the line producer updated me on my client’s sour stomach. Then he shared that a production assistant was snapping pictures on his phone of my client bent over. I ordered the producer to confiscate all cell phones on-site. I tabled the instructions I was giving the costume designer in the courtyard, then began marching up a centuries-old staircase beneath a vaulted cupola dripping in Renaissance influence.

“Bien sûr. Of course,” the line producer adds. “Well, it’s just that . . .”

“Quickly now.”

“Well—Madame, your client is drunk. I can smell the cognac wafting from her pores from here.”

At the entrance to a grand marble foyer, I pass between stately columns twined around by sculpted palm fronds reaching toward the heavens. “The organic shampoo infused with copper and oak samples from Indonesia?” I laugh into the speaker. “She orders that shit by the barrel.”

Truly, as the commanding echo of my heels announces my imminent arrival—a punishing soundtrack by which to set expectations as I reach the east wing, where the shoot is in progress— today feels like just another Thursday.

I plant my feet in the doorway of a ballroom full of production veterans collectively rolling their eyes at my client, now retching on all fours. Only a young man and an older woman flirting in the corner seem oblivious to the scene. I tuck back a strand of black hair that’s escaped my high pony. Survey the crushed-velvet settee surrounded by oversize cotton balls meant to evoke the clouds of heaven and invite consumers to purchase a new variation of the flagship scent from this brand. I smooth down the blue satin dress I bought at top dollar. Then I turn to the nearest key grip.

“What is going on?” I say, not shout. Addison Stern doesn’t need to shout.

The line producer I spoke with over the phone, Yves, approaches with all the trepidation of Quasimodo. “Bonsoir, Ms. Stern. You asked that no one leave until you got here.”

Obviously. “I meant, why has no one helped my client up? Someone get her sparkling water. Now. The carbon dioxide will help settle her stomach.”

His eyes bug out, as if debating whether to argue with me. Yves turns toward the staff lined up on chairs and seated on the floor along the mirrored walls, then bellows an order. A wise decision.

“Where is that PA who took photos of my client? I want that person fired,” I add. “Strip him of all responsibilities. I have a lot of friends in this industry, and he should know that he’ll never work with this level of talent again.”

In truth, professional contacts I have in spades; “friends,” less so. Unless you count the executive board at Ovid Blackwell, the PR megafirm I’ve been with for the last three years. Then, if anyone asks, I have two best friends—the president and vice president of the company—who each insist I use their personal jet when I travel domestically. A small perk in exchange for my skills.

Yves’s eyes dart between me and the exit to the main hallway. “You can . . . repeat, please?”

Seventh-grade French, don’t fail me now. “Where is the production assistant who took photos? Qui a pris les photos? Il s’appelle comment?”

He nods to two young men and a woman, standing wide-eyed against the mirrors. “Henri, then Antoine and Isabelle took pictures. And perhaps others.”

“Others?” I glower. My client moans, then voms onto the polished eighteenth-century tile where François the XVIII choked to death on an olive pit.

“It all happened so fast. Everyone saw her—sees her. Anything near a phone is fair game these days, yes?” Yves offers up three smartphones like he’s making a sacrifice to the publicity gods. “Do you want to delete the photos yourself?”

I smile, and the line producer shrinks backward. “You think I’m going to give the phones back?”

Lifting my head to address the room, I glide forward on my red-soled heels. “Each of you will hand over your phone now. You’ll file for unemployment tomorrow because you’re all fired.”

Outrage ripples across the room. Without blinking, Yves approaches each person to collect devices in a basket.

“You can’t fire us. The paperwork takes forever in France, and not something you can do with a snap of your entitled fingers.” The set designer, a woman with brown curls, sneers.

“The marketing firm running this campaign is a special collaborator of mine.” And well acquainted with the wrath of Addison Stern. “They won’t want to be associated with such amateurs and will do what it takes to relieve you of your duties.”

“The actress is the one hungover and unprofessional!”

I mime a swollen belly. “Enceinte. Did you really think I’d let you exploit this poor woman by taking pictures of her while she’s pregnant?”

All eyes flit to my client’s flat stomach as she lies on her back on the floor. Faint snoring rumbles from her throat.

The set designer smirks. “You think you can take our phones— fire us—but you can’t keep us quiet.”

Yves returns to me with a full basket of shiny touchscreens.

“Actually, that is my job. None of you will breathe a word of today’s excitement, because I now hold your entire lives in my hands. For those of you dumb enough to forgo a lock code, I have all the blackmail I need. For the rest of you, I have a team already digging into the background checks you submitted prior to being selected for this shoot. While I know some photos may be up in a cloud, if any images from today make it back down, I will personally blast your browser search histories to your entire contact list.”

The woman gapes at me, matching each flabbergasted slack-jawed face in the room. Ah, my favorite kind of reaction: stupor. “What else am I missing? Oh! The icing on my mille-feuille.” I smile, baring my teeth. “The roster of this production can kiss any photo shoots relating to my client Emilia Winthrop, and any of her Hollywood colleagues, goodbye. After all, word travels fast.” The director of the shoot, Annick, rushes forward. An angry little pixie. “Look, I knew that you would be upset about everyone taking photos, but this is unacceptable.”

“Is it? What’s unacceptable is your hand-selected crew and their embarrassing behavior around a celebrated movie star. Or maybe you’ve never worked with anyone this big before?”

“I’ve worked with the biggest names in French and American cinema and have never—”

“No problem.” I give her a hard pat on the cheek. “You won’t have to worry about that kind of pressure ever again.”

Annick seethes. “You have no authority to come in here and bully us. You don’t even belong to the French film union.”

The young man I saw earlier cuddling up to Annick in the corner delivers a coffee to a producer I met on my last visit to Paris. “How clever,” I deadpan. “I may not be in the union, but I can report you to the creative authorities and my contacts in the French media for sexually harassing subordinates on the job. You should know that I have the authority to do whatever it takes to protect the image of my clients. Up to and including destroying every last voyeur here.”

Facing the rest of the crew, I throw them a grin. “In case anyone asks, you’ll say the shoot was rescheduled to take place with more experienced personnel. I’ll answer questions now. Anyone? No? Pas de questions?”

When no one raises a hand, I step to Emilia’s side—she really was exquisite in this summer’s erotic thriller—to wipe spittle from her cosmetically enhanced lips. “Let’s order pâté from your dressing room.”

“Addison,” she whispers, struggling. “I’m not pregnant.”

“Sweetie, I know. And if anyone suggests otherwise, they’ll be laughed out of the media landscape. Have you seen your abs?” She throws me a weak smile as I help her to her feet. “Thank you. You are a queen, Addison Stern.”

As we take halting, echoing steps to the powder room of this stately French manor, a twinge of regret pinches my ribs. Although I dislike using pregnancy as an excuse, it was the best I could think of in the moment. After all, there are worse things than being hungover—or hungover and pregnant. There’s poverty. Destitution and desperation. And I will do what it takes to keep my crown at Ovid Blackwell. Addison Stern will never know those plights again.

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What inspired you to write THE ALONE TIME? 

Honestly, I have been wanting to write this story for a while now, but was waiting until the moment felt right — until I had the brain space to really process my own experiences. THE ALONE TIME is inspired by a plane crash I was in when I was a child. Obviously, it was traumatic in lasting ways, but I’m also very fortunate in that no one was injured. The same cannot be said for Fiona and Violet, my main characters in THE ALONE TIME, and I wanted to explore how survivors of a crash (much worse than mine) would handle that legacy into adulthood. Especially if neither of them is exactly sure of what transpired in the woods.

How is this on brand for you, after 4 published books? How is it different?

This book continues to explore dynamic and dysfunctional family relationships, as all my books do, but it focuses on the lengths we will go to survive — not only the initial trauma, but the years that follow. THE ALONE TIME is unique in that it examines whether and how the truth (or the omission of the truth) shapes our identity.

THE ALONE TIME centers around trauma and the way your characters grapple with it, as do several of your books. Why is that a recurring theme? 

Trauma is such an all-encompassing experience, one that affects us psychologically, but also physiologically, down to the cellular level. I am always fascinated by the extent that all kinds of trauma linger in someone’s life, and I’m always impressed by survivors who manage to cobble together their happiness in spite of it. Big hurts and small wounds can reverberate throughout our lives if we’re not careful to address them, and I love exploring that in my writing.

Why is representation of AAPI stories so important to you?

I grew up without a lot of Asian-centered stories on my bookshelves. I didn’t see them available in my local bookshop, or on my TV, and as a result it seemed like my culture wasn’t as valuable or important. That has changed considerably over the years, and I’m so honored to add to today’s more diverse, modern offering now.

Did you know how the story would end when you began writing THE ALONE TIME? 

Not really. Definitely, I had an idea of how the story would resolve, but the antagonists actually switched around as I dove deeper into the pages. I was as surprised as many readers will be, while I was writing, at the identity of the true antagonist of THE ALONE TIME. All of the details fell into place when I had that realization, and I knew I needed to modify my plan.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1, Fiona

Art is never more than a reflection of an artist’s twisted mind. The twigs that I harvested from the forested park that sits at the edge of my property seem to prove that idea, refusing to behave in my latest sculpture. Instead of a three-dimensional re-creation of a mountaintop, the one I can’t seem to shake from my dreams, the piece resembles more of a pincushion. Leaves, tiny branches, feathers, and an errant pine cone I stepped on during a walk last week each seem in opposition to my increasingly knobby fingers.

Something falls in my kitchen, scattering to the hardwood. “Marshall, stop going through the trash, buddy. Darleen is going to be here any minute.”

I stomp into the kitchen, all bark and no bite, then wag a finger at my Great Dane. “Jeez, look at this. You don’t even like tomato.”

Sweeping the remnants from yesterday’s BLT back into the plastic bag, I right the bin against the wall. With Marshall’s big brown eyes trained on me in fleeting remorse, I stack a cookbook on the lid. “No more of that.”

Normally, I hate wasting food. But when the BLT I ordered to go from San Diego’s hottest rooftop bar and restaurant contained a long human hair, I spat it out and then threw the whole thing away. Some people would do the same, but no one shares the same reasons as me. Except for Violet.
“Knock knock,” a voice calls through my screen door. “In the kitchen.”
Shuffling footsteps pass the dining table, and then my art dealer, Darleen Hallow, appears in the doorway. Marshall follows close behind, reaching her elbow. “Is that a new piece you’re working on back there? Love the pine cone.”

Fading red hair is artfully cut in a lob that lands on Darleen’s rounded shoulders. She could be a relative for the sharp hazel eyes we share, but that’s where any resemblance stops. Her creamy skin that seems impossible under San Diego’s consistent sunshine glows in the dim lighting of my home. A light bulb flickers above my sink—one of the endless household tasks I can’t seem to focus on when manifesting a new idea. Nothing else can grasp my attention while I’m in the thick of creativity—not for long at least. Laundry piles up, dishes multiply on counters, and take-out boxes dwarf my recycling bin. Considering I still need to create another half dozen pieces for the art gallery exhibition slated for next month, I might need help hurdling over pizza boxes to exit my house by then.

Since the Alone Time, I’ve had trouble multitasking. A therapist might say it’s a residual effect of my trauma—of being stranded in the wilderness with my family. In reality, it’s emerging from the wild without all of them that continues to haunt me.

“It’s getting there,” I reply. “My last visit to Balboa Park was productive. Found the blue-and-gold feather in a fountain. Drink?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.”

Darleen, Marshall, and I head to the front of my house, to the sitting room, beside the front door I never use. It reminds me too much of my parents’ door—just down in El Cajon.

Darleen settles onto the couch that doubles as Marshall’s bed. “Okay, Fiona. Thanks again for this quick visit. I know you’re super busy.”
I smile, sliding into an armchair. “Yeah, it’s been a little stressful. Thanks again for coordinating everything with the gallery.”

“My friend, it’s an honor. I don’t know if you’re aware, but everyone in the art world is talking about you right now.”

I stiffen. “Really?”

“Well, no—sorry. Not—not like that. Everyone is excited to see your new creations.”

She sputters just like everyone else does when they recall the real reason people are intrigued by my artwork, and how it took years before they talked about anything other than me. I survived a plane crash that took the lives of my parents, that left me and my younger sister, Violet, to fend for ourselves for months. When a rogue hiker finally spotted us and came to our rescue twelve weeks after the crash, we had become so accustomed to the world as we knew it, we didn’t want to leave. Well, I did. I wanted shelter and a hot shower as a thirteen-year-old girl. Violet, as a seven-year-old, had accepted the woods were her home now. She was harder to coax onto a small airplane that resembled the one that killed our mom and dad.

“Darleen, I get it. But this is my first major show all by myself and . . . I’m kind of terrified.”

She softens, leaning toward me. “Sure, sweetie. That makes sense.”

“Like . . . what if no one comes? What if I don’t sell one piece?”

Darleen shakes her head. “Not possible. Not after the way you were featured at the Coachella Biennial last year. Most artists wait decades for the kind of appreciation you’re getting now.”

I purse my lips. “Appreciation or criticism?”
“Well . . . ,” Darleen draws out.
She doesn’t have to finish her sentence; we’ve been over this. Some people think I’m exploiting my parents’ deaths since my pieces are inspired by our time in the wild. But lots of others, many more, just want to support me. One of the girl-survivors.

“Regardless of the naysayers,” Darleen continues, “if this show goes well, it could catapult your work up to San Francisco and New York. Maybe even Europe.”

“That would be amazing,” I reply, wistful. “Violet would love all of that.”

“Right. I’m sure.” Darleen gives my hand a squeeze. It’s one of my favorite refrains at this point—me wishing my baby sister would find a way to move forward from the trauma, to lead a fulfilling life and stop wallowing in the past. Better to completely turn the page and channel the experience into something good. Like art. Like I’m doing. So far the only productive thing Violet has accomplished is dropping out of college. Twice.

“Do you think Violet would join you for the art show next month? You said it yourself: it’s kind of a big deal.”

I smile. Darleen has my best interests at heart, I know it. “I haven’t spoken to my sister in over a year. Now—when there’s so much riding on this gallery showing—isn’t great timing.”

“Well, I had to ask. You know, there have been a few inquiries. Requests for interviews and features. There’s a documentary that was announced a few weeks ag—”

“It’s a no for me,” I cut in. “Definitely.”

“Got it.” She holds up both hands, palms out. “Understood.”

The conversation turns toward the dozen pieces that I promised the Hughes Gallery. Darleen asks well-meaning questions, tilting her head to the side just like my mom used to do. When she rises to leave, she pulls me in for a tight hug.

As Darleen’s blue Civic backs out, Marshall sits at the screen door facing the curved driveway of my home. As if yearning for a friend who doesn’t care if he paws at cold sandwich bits. Birdsong twirls through the air at dusk. The noise of traffic and cars honking grows faint against the rural whisperings on the edge of town.

Once, Darleen asked me why I keep my door open during the day, only locking it at night. I nodded to Marshall and said, “My bodyguard scares anyone off. And I like a breeze.”

She said, “Aren’t you afraid he might overpower you, living just the two of you? He’s such a big guy.”

I touched my dog’s head. Patted the skull I know exactly how to crush, whose bony plates would collapse together like Styrofoam under the right weight and angle.

“No,” I replied. “I’m not afraid of my dog at all.”

Certain that she’s long gone, Marshall trots through my one-story house. He returns to the front room’s couch, then curls up on the blanket that’s wedged against the corner cushions for him.

I approach my dilapidated sculpture. Since I don’t have roommates and don’t entertain guests outside of my art dealer and the wayward boyfriend, my dining room is the most versatile workshop I could ask for. Tweezers, meat tongs, and latex gloves are scattered along the table’s border.

The pine cone tilts away from the summit like a sore thumb, whereas before it seemed the perfect addition to the sticks and twigs that formed a mountaintop twelve inches in height. The cardboard box I use as a base and which I specially order in bulk from a warehouse in Los Angeles seems too wide now, given the shift.

I heave a sigh. “Why did I think this was a good idea, again?”

Over the years, interviewers at galleries—the only interviews I’ll give—have asked me when I began creating art from organic materials. Whether the idea was born from the Alone Time, as my sister and I called the twelve weeks that we were stranded in the wild, or afterward during my wandering adolescence at my aunt’s house in La Jolla.

Every single time, I reply, “Oh, afterward.” I always wonder then if I’ve managed the right balance of spontaneity and genuine reflection to appear truthful.

My phone rings, jarring me from my process. Marshall whines from the front room, lifting his head and jingling his collar to further alert me. He doesn’t like it when I receive calls either.

As I reach my cell where I left it beside the trash bin, an unknown number buzzes across the screen. An automatic no for me.

I silence the call, returning to my dining table.

Then my phone buzzes again. The same unknown number calling.

When a voice mail hits my inbox, I play the recording, already anticipating the bomb.

A silken voice begins, “Hi, this message is for Fiona Seng. I’m Nathan Wallace from the Boston Times. In light of your upcoming gallery show, I was hoping to—”

I snatch my phone from my table, then jam my finger against the delete button.

A deep breath rattles in my throat. I pause to recenter myself, to refocus. Try to block out the nasty energy of rubberneckers seeking more page views at my emotional expense.

Cool air passes through the screen door, circling my mountain sculpture and tipping a gray-and-white feather from the middle. The short tuft of plumage slides out of position, resembling a cloud that drops in elevation. Falling out of line. Refusing orders.

A three-note melody twirls from somewhere outside. The soothing coo of a turtledove.

I set my shoulders, drawing strength from the ambient noise. Although my sister has shunned most forms of nature since our return to civilization, I never lost my appreciation for the outdoors. Our experience in the wild took so much from us, but I have clung to my love of sunsets, landscapes, and animals in their natural habitats. Against all odds.

I reach for the tweezers with a shaking head.

As my mother used to say to us girls, before she tramped past the damaged wing of the airplane into the darkness of a mountain ridge: if you get knocked down, make sure you get back up.

Fueled by the memory of her voice—the way it echoed against the cliff’s edge—I reposition the feather at the mountain’s peak. Higher than it was before.

The post Q&A: Elle Marr, Author of ‘The Alone Time’ appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Elle Marr’s Strangers We Know, which is out now.

Adopted when she was only days old, Ivy Hon knows little about her lineage. But when she’s stricken with a mystery illness, the results of a genetic test to identify the cause attract the FBI. According to Ivy’s DNA, she’s related to the Full Moon Killer, who has terrorized the Pacific Northwest for decades. Ivy is the FBI’s hope to stop the enigmatic predator from killing again.

When an online search connects Ivy with her younger cousin, she heads to rural Rock Island, Washington, to meet the woman. Motivated by a secret desire to unmask a murderous relative, Ivy reaches out to what’s left of a family of strangers.

Discovering her mother’s tragic fate and her father’s disappearance is just the beginning. As Ivy ventures into a serial killer’s home territory, she realizes that she may be the next victim of poisonous blood ties.

Three
Ivy

When I get home, Onyx is yowling at the window, pawing at a pigeon resting on an electrical line. I check the clock; it’s dinnertime, and borderline negligent to feed a pet so late.

“Come here, little lion.” I scoop her up, then dish out wet food into a bowl. She delicately eats her gourmet mush, then switches to aggressively licking her plate until it thuds against the cabinet again and again, per usual. Once finished, she joins me on the couch in my small living room, where I sit staring at my phone.

My finger hesitates over the center of the genetics-testing web- site, cutely named DNAcorn. The word on the button, Results, seems to pulse from the screen, as if it knows the damning information it contains.

I got the notification that my report was ready while I was still in the café and half paying attention to the document I was copyediting; of course, the FBI would have known I’d receive it today. Instead of clicking on the link, I packed up and started home. My flare-ups can be triggered by stress, and I didn’t want to be caught in public if this one was about to get worse.

Agent Ballo’s dropped bomb—that I could be related to a serial killer—is enough to motivate anyone to submit their saliva sample. But I elected to send mine weeks ago, when it became clear that the tests my doctor kept ordering wouldn’t provide answers about my condition— the reason behind the headaches, body aches, the sudden fevers, rashes, and sporadic taste of metal. I figured that more information is a win.

At least, I woke up thinking as much this morning—before my café visitor.

My father—adoptive father—knew he was going to die. We all did. Aggressive prostate cancer gives that clarity. In the months leading up to his death, he tried to tell me everything he thought I would need to know—his secret marinade for prime rib, when to arrive at the best dim sum restaurant in the Bay for freshly made dumplings. Knowing that he was dying liberated him in a way. He traveled where he wanted, ate his favorite foods, and had long conversations with loved ones.

Three years later, my mother unexpectedly passed from complications due to early-onset Alzheimer’s. Losing both parents while in my twenties left me with a greater appreciation for making the most of what time we have.

But is the confirmation of approaching death a gift? Or a curse?

A car alarm erupts a few blocks away, and the sound reverberates in the narrow street beside my apartment. A framed photo of my parents; my brother, Carson; and me posing outside Ghirardelli’s sits askew on my entertainment center, their faces angled toward the window, away from me. I don’t bother righting the frame. Although I’ve never felt ashamed of being adopted, reviewing my results seems like something I should do on my own.

Screw it.

I tap the button. A page titled “Health Predispositions” populates with brightly colored bars displaying various genetic traits and conditions. The first, Allergies, confirms it’s unlikely that I’m allergic to cats.

“Got that, Onyx? You can stay.” I rub my favorite roommate with my foot, and her purr vibrates through my ankle.

Scrolling down, I locate the reports that really matter.

A neon-green bar reads “BRCA Variants,” which determines whether I have genetic markers for breast cancer, ovarian cancer, or prostate cancer. I suck in a breath.

Variants not detected.

I swipe backward, then tap the Alzheimer’s Disease report, hearing my mother’s last rambling words from her hospital bed after she slipped on a curb and cracked her head on the concrete. Ball. Milk. Ivy. My heart had jumped hearing my name on her lips while she was going in and out of consciousness—Ivy—before I realized it would be the last I’d hear from her.

The same phrase as for the BRCA test appears on the screen.

Variants not detected.

Air floods my lungs and tears prick my eyes. My money was on cancer, as devastating as that would have been as a thirty-year-old. It’s the only thing, I thought, that would explain the symptoms that keep presenting all over my body. The rest of the reports are negative: I’m a perfectly normal spit sample.

So what is it, then? What is this sickness that’s causing me to some- times feel like an eighty-year-old on the inside, complete with the occasional arthritis?

I was always grateful that my birth mother gave me up so that I could be placed with a family that wanted me, that guided me, that argued with me when I was wrong and forgave me when I asked. I had thought that was the end of this woman’s generosity, but now it seems she and my birth father also gave me good genes.

Whoever they are. Whoever they’re related to.

I open another web page and type the words “Full Moon Killer.” The search engine returns dozens of results. Headlines like MURDER IN THE PNW, DEAD WOMAN FOUND FLOATING IN RIVER, and FULL MOON KILLER ACTIVE AGAIN splash the first page. A shudder courses down my back as I read the horrifying quotes, internalizing that a blood relative of mine could have done those things.

Do I have another brother? Sisters?

I return to the DNAcorn website. At the top of the genetics report, there’s a button that reads “DNA Relatives.” I filter the results by closest relation.

A name floats to the head of the list: Lottie Montagne. My first cousin on my mother’s side.

Excitement and fear pummel my lungs, leaving me breathless. A biological relative. The only name I’ve learned in thirty years.

Does Ballo know about her?

“Lottie, Lottie, Lottie,” I mutter, already sifting through the inter- net, doing some light cyberstalking.

In a way that’s both scary and gratifying, the results are thorough. Lottie Montagne, the only one in this part of the world, lives in Rock Island, Washington; is twenty-eight years old; owns a business; and has a publicly listed phone number but social media accounts that are private and inaccessible to my prying eyes.

“Found you,” I breathe.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Strangers We Know’ by Elle Marr appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

APRIL

Lies We Bury by Elle Marr

Marissa was born in captivity.  It’s been twenty years since she gained her freedom, but a new string of murders threatens to bring all of her secrets to the surface.

The Perfect Daughter by DJ Palmer

Grace has to visit her teenage daughter in the state psychiatric hospital where she is being held on a charge of murder.  Doctors have disagreed about a diagnosis of multiple personality disorder, but what dark and shocking secrets will be uncovered if she goes to trial?

The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily A Myers

After horrific trauma, Emma has finally opened her heart to love again.  She has kept so many secrets about the abuse she experienced, her past may destroy her before she gets her second chance at love and happiness.

Her Three Lives by Cate Holahan

After a violent home break-in, a family no longer knows whether they can trust anyone, even each other, as doubts, questions, and suspicions abound.  Gaslighting galore!

In The Company of Killers by Bryan Christy

A tightly wound debut thriller! Tom is an investigative reporter, but only as a cover – he’s also a CIA spy.  While he is on assignment in Kenya, his carefully crafted double life begins to fall apart, revealing truths that even Tom doesn’t know about.

MAY

The Next Wife by Kaira Rouda

Does anyone really ever ‘have it all’?  There is no limit to what some women will do to try to have it all, or to keep it.  In the name of love, or revenge, there is no limit to what a woman might do.

Find You First by Linwood Barclay

The master of psychological suspense is back with a deadly race against time when the unconventional heirs of a dying tech millionaire begin to meet mysterious ends.

The Hunting Wives by May Cobb

An elite club that focuses equally on target practice and martinis leads to a life of dangerous behavior, obsession, seduction, and murder when Sophie, her husband, and young son settle down in a small Texas town.

The Photographer by Mary Dixie Carter

After observing the wealthy and elite of New York City through her camera lens, Delta feels an uncontrollable desire to no longer be separated by the camera, and instead be part of their world.  Manipulation at its strongest is on full display here!

A Good Mother by Lara Bazelon

An exciting debut thriller with two young mothers in different positions in the same murder trial, where the decision about what defines a good mother has to be answered by the jury!

JUNE

The North Face of the Heart by Dolores Redondo (Translated by Michael Meigs)

A young but experienced female detective literally follows a murderer into the eye of a storm when she helps the FBI find a killer using natural disasters to hide his crimes and aid his escape.

Hairpin Bridge by Taylor Adams

The author of No Exit is back with a new thriller where a young woman refuses to accept the official police version of her sister’s death.  Lena is willing to fight for the truth, but instead may be fighting for her life.

The Fiancee by Kate White

What should have been a relaxing family vacation is turned on its head when a mysterious woman is involved.  An unexpected death further rocks the family, but was that only the beginning?

Hostage by Clare Mackintosh

The ultimate locked-room mystery, a claustrophobic thriller that takes place entirely on a twenty- hour flight from London to Sydney. A lot can happen in twenty hours.

Survive the Night by Riley Sager

Set in 1991, when help was not just as close as a cellphone call away, two people share a car ride when neither person knows enough about the person they are riding beside.

JULY

Choose Me by Tess Gerritsen and Gary Braver

When a young woman who is both beautiful and brilliant plunges from her apartment balcony, the detective in charge can feel in her gut that there is more to the story than meets the eye.  Discovering her sordid secrets provides more questions, rather than answers.

For Your Own Good by Samantha Downing

This best-selling author is back with a new thriller set in a prestigious private school.  Meddlesome parents, murder, Teacher of the Year, and overachieving students – what else could we ask for?

Her Last Breath by Hilary Davidson

When it is discovered that a woman predicted her own murder, her sister will absolutely not let the truth be brushed aside, despite being a pariah in her own family. Digging for the truth may come at too high of a cost, however.

Safe in my Arms by Sara Shepard

At an elite preschool, the principal is attacked and three moms who don’t think they fit in with the ultra-wealthy community work together to both find out who is trying to frame them as well as how to keep their real secrets hidden.

Silver Tears by Camilla Lackberg

Three generations of women have been hiding from one man, but secrets always eventually come out.  Betrayal and tears are sure to follow.

Are you as excited as we are about all of these upcoming thrillers? Are some of your favourite authors back with something new? Which books are you most excited to pick up? Tell us in the comments below!

The post Thrillers We Are Eagerly Anticipating In The Next Few Months appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

This is the story of Claire, but Claire used to go by the name Marissa. Marissa spent the first part of her life in a basement with her sisters and their mothers, those mothers being young women kidnapped and held hostage by a man named Chet. It has now been twenty years since they fought together and managed to get free, but such a horrific early life obviously has long-term effects on each of them. Just getting the opportunity to live a “normal” life does not mean that any of them have been able to actually do so.

Now that Claire feels like she is starting to get her life in order, complete with a new job as a photographer for a local newspaper, there is suddenly a string of murders that have strange and unusual connections to her childhood in that underground room. It’s almost too late when Claire/Marissa finally starts to put the pieces together about just how these new murders relate to her and her past.

Marr takes the reader back to Claire/Marissa’s early life in that basement with a few chapters interspersed in among the current day narrative. With this story-telling technique, the reader gradually learns more and more about exactly what Claire has gone through, but also see exactly how some of those events continue to shape and affect her to this day.

With themes such as the danger of hidden secrets and the damage they can do, as well as an examination of the cost revenge, this is a deep and complex story that may weigh you down, but will also cause you to really think about the struggles of others, how none of us really have a “normal” childhood or life (because there really is no such thing as “normal”), and how high the cost of secrets—any kind of secrets—can be. This is not a quick read, but it is a deep, meaningful, and fascinating story that you will keep in your heart and your mind long after you have finished reading.

Lies We Bury is available from Amazon, Book Depository, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore, as of April 1st 2021.

Will you be picking up Lies We Bury? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis | Goodreads

A novel about secrets and revenge by the number one Amazon Charts bestselling author of The Missing Sister. It’s only by confronting who she was then that she can understand who she is now.

I was born in captivity…

Two decades ago Marissa Mo escaped a basement prison—the only home she’d ever known. At twenty-seven, Marissa’s moved beyond the trauma and is working under a new name as a freelance photographer. But when she accepts a job covering a string of macabre murders in Portland, it’s impossible for Marissa not to remember.

Everything is eerily familiar. The same underground lairs. Sad trinkets and toys left behind, identical to those Marissa had as a child. And then there is the note meant just for her that freezes Marissa’s blood: See you soon, Missy.

To determine the killer’s next move, Marissa must retrieve her long-forgotten memories and return to a past she’s hidden away. But she won’t be facing her fears alone. Someone is waiting for her in the dark.

The post Review: Lies We Bury by Elle Marr appeared first on The Nerd Daily.