Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Cold Read by Tara Laskowski, which releases on November 10th 2026.

They’re there to make a sequel. But someone came for revenge.

A decade ago, the release of the horror film No One Can Hear You Scream catapulted a young no-name cast into Hollywood fame. But below the surface, they were dealing with the fallout of their friend’s tragic death on set.

Now the cast is reuniting at the remote ski resort where the movie was filmed to announce the sequel and get a first glimpse of the screenplay. Cassidy, Jake, Ben, and Ruby—they’ve all followed different paths over the years, and each has their own reason for agreeing to return to a place they had sworn to leave behind.

At first everyone works hard to ignore the shadows of the past and focus on the opportunity ahead. But the reunion takes a dark turn during the midnight announcement to fans when a disturbing incident stirs up a long-buried secret.

Each of them has something to lose. Each of them has something to hide. And if they want to survive the weekend, they’ll have to deliver the performance of a lifetime…

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Saturday, January 10, 12:01 a.m., PST

The live feed starts off shaky. A glimpse of a flickering fireplace, dark wood paneling. Then an adjustment, and Izzy Bingham’s face appears, close to the lens, cheeks pink from the heat of the fire, blue bangs peeking out under the knit cap on her head.

The tiny red icon blinks in the corner of the screen as thou-sands of viewers flood into the feed.

“Horrified fans!” Izzy says. “Have I got the most terror-ific treat for you today!”

She grins, the camera’s speaker catching a slight tremor in her voice.

She zooms out to reveal the setting behind her: the Frostmourne Lodge’s lobby. The famous plaid couches. Antique skis mounted on the wall. Rustic wooden table lamps, the shades stamped with bears and eagles, casting a dull orange glow over the room.

Large windows like dark, gaping mouths.

“I know you can all guess where I am.” She pauses for dramatic effect, letting the silence stretch. “That’s right. The setting for one of the scariest horror films of the twenty-first century.”

She pulls the camera close again. “It’s been nearly ten years since the Lumberjack hacked his way into all our hearts . . . and spleens . . . and the backs of our heads.” Izzy’s grin widens. “Leaving his impression, if you know what I mean.”

She raises her eyebrows, as if teasing her audience.

“My fiendish friends, you of course are familiar with the most horrifying movie written and directed by Esme Duncan. A simple, but harrowing premise—five college students on New Year’s Eve, stuck in a blizzard on the way to their rental cabin. The creepy old ski resort they stumble upon and an even creepier lodge owner who makes all their nightmares come true.

“Well, now I’m here at Frostmourne Lodge for a very special announcement. But I’m not alone. Oh, no, freakish friends, I’m not at all alone.”

Izzy pauses and zooms the camera out to show the cast seated on a long couch next to a blazing fireplace.

“I’m here with our original cast members. Our favorite scream queen, Cassidy White, world-famous model and actress Ruby Morales, action-star heartthrob Jake Abbot, the elusive but smoldering Ben Hartman, and of course David Belfardy—the Lumberjack himself. Say hi, everyone!”

A chorus of hellos crackles through the feed.

The camera pans over the cast. Cassidy, perched on the edge of the couch, grips her knees tightly. Ruby, next to her, leans back, one leg crossed over the other, stiletto boots swinging in a rhythm. David, seated near the fire, narrows his eyes dramatically toward the camera, clearly trying to channel his iconic killer character. Ben stands behind the couch with Jake, hands buried deep in his pockets. Only Jake gazes directly into the camera with a dazzling grin, wearing a dark T-shirt that shows off his well-defined biceps.

Izzy swings the camera back to herself, the red light of the live feed reflecting faintly in her eyes. “And now, my friends, it’s midnight. A new day has begun. And we have the incredible news that you have been begging for. As fans of No One Can Hear You Scream, you have been waiting nearly a decade for this moment—”

The words hover in the air. The viewer count ticks upward. Thumbs-up emojis and heart icons fill the screen. The comment section scrolls by, almost too fast to read.

Lumberjack is my favorite monster ever.

I want to go to Frostmourne! No fair.

It’s haunted AF, I swear.

Get on with it already!

Izzy sweeps her bangs from her eyes. “As you know, Esme

Duncan purchased this land last year, and rumors have been circulating ever since about what she’s going to do here.

“Well, I’ve got the deets.”

Izzy holds the camera out so the viewers can see both her and the cast. The actors stand poised, their faces now plastered with rehearsed smiles, waiting—

And then the screen jerks.

Izzy’s face changes. Her smile drops.

Behind her, the cast looks at something off camera. Ben stands, rushes out of the frame.

“It’s opening,” Ruby shouts, her voice rising.

The camera jerks again, focuses on Izzy’s face, while behind her the lobby swirls. The sound muffles, as if someone’s hand is over the microphone.

Jake’s voice cuts through the noise. “What the hell is that?” Static. Hiss.

The blinking red icon dies.

The feed cuts to black.

For those watching, there’s a collective intake of breath, a silence that stretches too long.

Then the sound kicks back in—low at first, barely there, like something scraping against ice. The stream crackles back to life for a heartbeat. There’s a brief flash of Izzy, but her face is distorted, frozen in an expression of shock.

“Oh, shit,” Izzy says.

“Shut it down.” The voice is tense. “Now.”

A hand hovers over the screen. The feed cuts out.

A minute passes. The viewers wait. Confusion builds. Some think it’s a technical glitch, others feel the first prick of unease.

Where did they go?

What happened?

Is this part of the announcement?

But the screen stays black, hissing faintly, the sound like a distant, unsettled breath.

Excerpted from The Cold Read. © 2026 by Tara Laskowski, used with permission from Park Row Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Cold Read’ by Tara Laskowski appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Before I Disappear by Cate Quinn, which releases on November 10th 2026.

Criminologist April Anderson wakes up in a remote motel with a new name, a new identity, and absolutely no memory of how she got there. Told she’s under police protection as the victim of a disturbing crime, she’ll have to stand as a witness on a major trial that she knows nothing about. April isn’t sure who to trust — the cop guarding her from an unknown threat, or the fiancé secretly tracking her.

As April’s memories start coming back in waves, she discovers a side to herself she didn’t know existed. A side she’d rather stay hidden.

With the trial drawing closer, the need for her to remember everything that happened to her the night of the crime becomes vital to her survival. But someone wants her silent, and her missing memories may be the only thing keeping her alive. Will she remember the truth… or disappear forever?

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

There’s a moment between sleep and waking when the realities that tether your life are unfixed. Your future is a set of turning reels, spooling out threads like Fates. Just in that moment, you could be anyone. And right now, as I wake to this unfamiliar bedroom, my first thought is I’ve failed to fully unstick from sleep. None of this is real. I don’t know who I am. As I blink my eyes open, the threads of possible futures are scythed away by an unseen knife.

The bed I lie on is made of knotty pine, with tangerine-hued varnish. A patchwork comforter tucked tight into the corners fails to keep out a noticeable chill to the air. The bare expanse of cream walls has been half-heartedly domesticated with a couple of chintzy pictures. I blink awake, trying to figure how I’ve been transported from the New York apartment to this strangely homespun room.

I’m used to traveling for work, delivering guest lectures as an associate professor of criminology for NYU. But this isn’t like any hotel I’ve ever stayed in. There’s a flickering pain in my head as I try to put the pieces together. The last thing I remember is standing in front of students, speaking about the links between crime and poverty. Now I’m here.

My head hurts, and there’s a slight patchy quality to my vision. Like reality is coming at a slower speed.

Did I drink too much at a conference? Unlikely. My fiancé, Chris, calls me “nauseatingly healthy” – and he’s not wrong. I was a track scholarship kid. Still train like I’m in college.

I pull back the bedclothes and look down. I’m dressed in a colorless gray T-shirt and equally faded sweatpants. Nothing I remember owning or purchasing. Panic is creeping in, and I have to fight it down. The last thing I remember wearing was a dress, blazer, and ankle boots combination from Bloomingdale’s.

Why am I dressed in different clothes?

The large room with its dated furnishings suggests my location is off a highway or in a backwater town – someplace land is cheap and glamour is absent. A homey kind of morel, I decide, looking back to the careless choice of wall art. There’s an illustration of a red barn in a cornfield and an oil painting of a steel windmill against a blue sky. Very different from my city apartment with my contemporary artwork and vintage couch strewn with my criminology lecture notes and heavy legal tomes.

My gaze lands on the pine bedside table. There’s a purse on it, which isn’t mine. A shiny faux brown crocodile skin with thick, rounded straps – about as far from my regular battered leather purse in style as is possible to be. I lean across to the bedside table and pull it toward me, pushing away my unease at snooping. Attached to the side by a thin strip of fabric is a plastic pocket, which houses a photo ID-a driver’s license with a familiar face. I swallow hard.

The woman in the picture is me.

But she isn’t me.

My hair is blond. I wear it in a practical ponytail, swept back in a way that tends to emphasize the almond shape of my green eyes. I look at the picture. All my life I’ve been told my face has a sculpted or angular quality – sometimes in a tone like it wasn’t all the way a compliment. Symmetry without softness. Beauty without sufficient demurral.

This picture shows me with brown hair, cut shoulder length with straight bangs, and a haunted expression.

My hair was never brown.

There’s a cheap little mirror swinging next to the ID pocket, and I lift it to catch my reflection. I stare in shock. My face in the mirror marches the picture in the ID.

My once-blond hair is now brown. Like the photo.

I lift a piece of brown hair in disbelief and peer at my bangs in the mirror. Images of my blonder self flash through my mind. I have no memory of changing my hair or even considering it. I’ve worn it the same way since graduating from college.

I stare, mesmerized, at the dark strands. There is nothing, no memory at all, of how my appearance changed. Just a floating void where the memories should be.

I’m in a room I don’t recognize, with an ID saying I’m someone else, and my appearance has been completely altered.

I read the name on the ID, my lips moving.

My name is April Anderson. Bur here, in bold text, it reads CONNIE LOGAN.

A name I have no memory of and feel no affinity with. The back of my head aches, and there’s a band of pressure around my skull. My first logical thought is I have been drugged and abducted. I once gave a lecture about the subtle clues to spot women in the grip of human traffickers. Frightening feelings foam in my brain as I try to remember my own advice.

Get out. Get to a safe place. Call for help.

I sit up and look around the room. That’s when I see there’s a man sitting in the corner.

I stifle a small cry and scoot back against the headboard.

He wears a police uniform and lies back against a white painted rocking chair in the corner. His eyes are closed, and he is snoring faintly.

From the badge on his arm, it looks like he’s a New York cop. I live in New York. That must mean something. But my mind won’t cognate past a pulsing need to get out of the room before he wakes up.

Slowly I slide my feet out of bed. One by one they settle on the creaking planks of the floor.

Standing makes my head spin, and I steady myself.

The policeman’s snores stop. Holding my breath, I rise to a standing position and pause. His breathing deepens, and he shifts in his sleep.

I slip silently to the door and slide my hand around the little round brass handle. The door is locked.

I look toward the policeman, slumbering in his rocker. Behind him is a window. The view outside is autumn trees. A wide dun-colored sky. In the middle distance is a rust-red tractor, wheels sunk deep into the dirt.

Definitely not New York City. Ground floor.

Something else catches my eye. On a table next to the slumbering policeman is his unstrapped holster, with a gun inside, and what looks to be my U.S. passport. Or what’s left of it. It’s been neatly cut in two. I lean over the remains, mesmerized.

The laminated picture of me, green-eyed with its slightly quizzical smile and blond ponytail, rests in pieces, and a slash of thick black pen stroke slices the front.

I pick up the sheared halves, exposing a flurry of international stamps in the fluttering pages.

The destruction has a tidy, administrative feel. Nothing personal, we’ve just ended your existence. The laceration divides my name into equal squares.

Dr. April.

Anderson.

My entire identity has been snipped into pieces.

Before I can process this, the policeman is suddenly awake. Some kind of latent muscle memory kicks in. Instinctively I grab for his gun holster on the table. His eyes widen as he realizes I’m diving for the weapon. He’s fast but not fast enough. I grab his gun, pull it free, cock it with an alacrity that I didn’t know I had. ”

Freeze!” I shout, channeling every cop movie I know. “Put your hands in the air!”

He raises his hands, eyes on my face. Kind eyes, I notice. Trustworthy.

“Easy.” His voice catches, still thick with sleep. He clears his throat. “It’s OK, April,” he says.

“Who are you and how do you know my name?” I demand. I train the gun squarely on his chest.

“I’m Detective Hollister of the NYPD Organized Crime Force,” he says, arms still raised. “You witnessed a crime, April.” He pauses, his eyes soft with pity. “You’re under witness protection.”

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Before I Disappear’ by Cate Quinn appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Mark of Moriarty by Jack Anderson, which releases on November 10th 2026.

Here is a mystery fit for the late Sherlock Holmes, and his surviving nemesis, Professor James Moriarty, is just the shadowy genius to take it on.

Disgraced socialite Viola Bellman is found barefoot in a snowy New York alleyway. There is no sign of how she got there, and she is too traumatized to speak. The only clue is the twelve-word note scribbled in the King James Bible she’s clutching: “The Arcane Society of New York holds close the fortune you seek.” But what is the Arcane Society?

The puzzle intrigues young Dr. Clara Mendel. She decides to join the Sabel Club, whose members are devoted to solving the riddle of Viola Bellman. Clara takes Viola on as her first official patient and is determined to help her speak again—with or without the assistance of her old sparring partner, Professor James Moriarty.

But when Moriarty returns and the Arcane Society strikes, Clara must fight to protect her friends and patient. In the mounting chaos, she also faces a disturbing question: Is she more like James Moriarty than she’d like to believe?

The Mark of Moriarty is a delectable treat for Sherlock Holmes fans everywhere.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from One Good Thing by Alexandra Potter, which releases on December 1st 2026.

Liv Brooks is in shock. Newly divorced and facing an uncertain future, she impulsively trades her fast-paced London life for the tranquil hills of the Yorkshire Dales, determined to make a fresh start. But fresh starts are harder than they seem. Feeling lost and lonely, she adopts Harry, a grumpy old dog from the local shelter, to keep her company while she renovates the dilapidated cottage she has optimistically taken on.

However, Liv soon discovers she isn’t the only one in need of a new beginning. During her and Harry’s daily walks around the village, they meet Valentine, an old man perpetually gazing out his window, suffering from loneliness; Stanley, an introverted little boy hiding behind his garden gate; and Maya, a teenager at odds with the world. Gradually, as these unexpected relationships develop, they each begin to rediscover themselves, all with the help of the lovable Harry.

Utterly relatable and tender, this novel explores the beauty of friendship and the joys of living an unexpected life. When everything falls apart, sometimes all you need is one good thing to turn your life around and make it worth living again.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1: YORKSHIRE

“So, what do you think?”

Having finished showing me around downstairs, the real estate agent pushes open a stripped pine door and ushers me into the primary bedroom.

It’s an innocent enough question, but probably not the wisest one to ask a recently divorced woman who has made the impulsive decision to leave London and all her friends, resign from the teaching job she’s held for ten years, and move several hundred miles away to the Yorkshire Dales.

I think lots of thoughts. Mostly that I’m still in shock. That I can’t believe my marriage is over. That I haven’t slept properly in months. That I’m clearly having a midlife crisis. That yesterday I looked for my keys everywhere and found them in the fridge. That I’ve gained five pounds—oh, who am I kidding? More like fifteen. That I feel lost and bewildered. That I lie awake in the dark thinking this is all a bad dream. That it’s all my fault.

That I love him.

That I hate him.

That secretly I wish I were the kind of woman who did crazy, angry, vengeful things to a cheating ex, things with frozen prawns and spray paint. Instead, I’m the kind who dutifully irons my husband’s shirts after he’s told me he’s leaving me for another woman, folding them neatly into trash bags, and leaving them in the garage for when he comes to pick up the rest of his things.

“It’s very nice,” I say politely, looking around the dimly lit room, with its old-fashioned flowery wallpaper and faded brown carpet, darker in parts where the furniture used to be.

A strong musty smell reaches my nostrils and I feel painfully homesick.

Only I no longer have a home to miss. It’s been sold as part of our divorce settlement. The new owners, a couple with two young children, are due to move in after New Year’s. My ex-husband has moved in with his new girlfriend. His son, Will, my beloved stepson, who spent weekends and holidays with us, has finished university and gone off traveling. It’s just me and an empty house filled with memories.

Which is why, a few weeks before Christmas, while the rest of the world is shopping for gifts and decorations, I’m shopping for a new place to call home.

“On your search criteria you said you’re looking for a flat, preferably something that doesn’t need any work done, but I thought I’d throw in a bit of a wild card for our final property.”

It’s been a long day, but this is my last viewing before I make the five-hour return trip to London. This morning, I caught the express train from King’s Cross station at first light, then changed at Leeds to the local railway line, which took me on a slow but breathtaking journey through dramatic landscapes before pulling into a small windswept station on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales.

There I was met by Mr. Hardcastle, my real estate agent. We’d corresponded by email after he replied to my inquiry into properties for sale in the Yorkshire Dales. Ruddy-faced and larger than life in his waterproof jacket, he’s nothing like his slick-suited counterparts in London. After cheerfully squeezing the life out of my fingers as he shook my hand, he drove us deep into the countryside, past fields filled with cows and sheep, showing me everything on the market he could find while providing a chirpy commentary on the weather in an accent that is pure Yorkshire.

“They’ve given rain . . . It’s a bit nippy . . . You’re lucky, yesterday it was fair tipping it down . . . There’s talk of snow on the tops . . . Looks like it’s clearing, I can see a patch of blue . . . With any luck, weekend should be grand after all . . .”

Considering it’s the beginning of December, his optimism about the weather is remarkable—as is his ability to see anything positive in this over-three-hundred-year-old stone cottage, originally built for farmworkers in the small but picturesque village of Nettlewick.

It’s steeped in history and still has a lot of its original features, like the inglenook fireplace, but with its dark, poky rooms, rotten windows and nicotine-stained walls, it’s old and tired and in desperate need of a makeover.

I know the feeling.

“It’s got a certain charm, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure charm is the word I’d use.” I point to some scary-looking mushroom growing out of the wall. I peer more closely at the suspicious-looking pinprick holes in one of the large beams running across the ceiling.

“The seller is very open to offers,” he continues brightly, rocking on his heels. “And there’s a lovely westerly view from the back garden. There are a few houses, but mostly you can see straight across the Dales.”

“What’s the view from the front?” Walking across to the sash window, I pull back the graying net curtain. “Oh—a graveyard.”

“At least it’ll be dead quiet.” Mr. Hardcastle chuckles at his own joke. “Apparently the owner inherited the house from his greataunt,but he lives in Singapore and has no use for it.”

It’s dark outside, and my reflection stares back at me in the windowpane.

I look tired and pale as a ghost.

No use for it.

That’s how my husband must have felt about our marriage when he walked out. The thought drops like a weight on my chest. With my back still turned, I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching my tear ducts with my thumb and forefinger. I mustn’t cry here.

“Well, like I said, it was a bit of a wild card.”

As he flicks off the bare bulb overhead, I open my eyes and linger for a moment by the window. My reflection has disappeared, and my gaze extends over the high stone wall and through the skeleton branches of the trees into the graveyard’s dark recesses. It’s only four o’clock, but it’s already pitch-black.

“So, what makes you want to swap the bright lights of London for the Yorkshire Dales?” he asks curiously.

“I fancied a change,” I say vaguely. “I vacationed here as a child. My grandparents used to live in this very village. Happy memories,”

I add, forcing a smile.

Is this a terrible mistake? Maybe I should call this whole move off. Admit I’ve made a rash mistake. Rent something in London and beg for my job back. After all, this is so unlike me. I don’t do impulsive. I’m risk-averse, according to my financial adviser.

Plus, all the self-help books advise against making major decisions for at least a year following a divorce. I have a whole stack of them on my bedside table emphasizing that point.

“Going back to the new apartment with the roof terrace that you liked, ten miles from here. There’s been a lot of interest in that one, what with it being in a bustling market town near the big shops, station and amenities . . .”

In the background, the real estate agent is giving me his sales pitch.

“So, if you’re serious I’d advise acting quickly.”

Still gazing out the window, I catch sight of something. A flash of pink. White spots. I peer more closely. It’s started to rain, and drops are hitting the window, forming rivulets down the glass. It’s an umbrella. A bright pink polka-dot umbrella. I watch as it moves across the cemetery, its owner hidden underneath. Something about the scene makes me smile. It’s so incongruous, this spotted flash of color bobbing cheerfully along in the wintry bleakness, weaving in and out of the graves. Like a beacon of light in the darkness.

“I’d like to make an offer.”

Turning away from the window, I look across at the real estate agent, who is studying his smartphone. He looks up with an expression like one of my students caught misbehaving.

“Christmas shopping,” he explains sheepishly. “Perfume. For the wife. I get her the same present every year.” He quickly puts his phone away. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I want to make an offer.”

“Oh! Excellent! A very wise decision. Our warehouse conversions are always popular with professionals such as yourself—”

“No, I want to buy this house.”

“This house?” he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe his sales pitch worked.

His incredulity only makes me more determined. There’s something about this house—the way it’s been neglected and unloved— that’s stirred something inside me. It needs someone to love it back to life. I begin descending the steep, narrow staircase.

“I’ll offer close to the asking price, as long as it’s taken off the market and we can close by New Year’s.”

“Right. Yes. Absolutely . . . I’ll get straight on to the seller.” Mr. Hardcastle’s footsteps follow hurriedly behind me. “Rest assured, Ms. Brooks, at Hardcastle and Son, your problems are our solutions.”

“Oh, and, Mr. Hardcastle.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I turn to see him banging his head on the low beam and wincing.

“Buy your wife something different this Christmas. Take it from me, she’s sick of that bloody perfume.”

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘One Good Thing’ by Alexandra Potter appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

The Bishop family enjoyed a moderately successful life in New York City … until a tragic accident upended their comfortable existence. Daniel Bishop planned to celebrate the turn of the century at the family’s lake home in Maine, but when his wife Isabelle spiked a fever, she and their eldest daughter stayed behind. In a cruel twist of fate, this illness saved the pair, as the ship Daniel and his other three children took to Maine sank during an unexpected storm.

Left with just her mother and 18-year-old Mariah, Isabelle sees only one way to secure her remaining family’s future: she must remarry—and marry well. Enter John Whitten, an extremely wealthy widower who is looking to marry again and produce an heir. Isabelle sets her sights on John, but he has a different plan in mind: It’s not Isabelle that he wants. No, John is determined to marry young Mariah. And with that much money and power, John Whitten gets what he wants.

Peregrine Hill is a beautifully executed novel that captures the grandiosity of this bygone era, while detailing the struggles that women of every station have long faced living under the thumbs of men. Desperate choices are made by each female character in order to not just survive, but to try and break free from their expected roles. Which leaves the reader pondering a central question: What are you willing to sacrifice—and what may be taken from you—in the pursuit of the life you want to live?

de Gramont’s writing is so smooth, while still feeling natural and authentic to the time period. She tells a dramatic story, yes, with no shortage of twists and turns to keep the plot interesting—but it is also full of heart and truth.

So much truth, in fact, readers may be surprised to learn that Peregrine Hill was inspired by the author’s own family history. While this novel fully stands on its own, I’d be lying if I said this fact doesn’t make for an even more interesting read. Protagonist Mariah Bishop is inspired by Nina de Gramont’s own great-grandmother, Dona Maria. As a teenager, Dona Maria was married off to a 57-year-old man who originally came to court her mother. Like Mariah, Dona Maria was trapped in a marriage forced by her family—but also like Mariah, she found ways to rebel against these restraints.

As she spends day after day feeling like a bird trapped in a gilded cage, Mariah leans into her love of writing as an escape. Mariah’s journey is also bolstered by a handful of intriguing secondary characters with adventures of their own. Mariah’s maid, Hetty—who also serves as an editor for her writing—is sure to be a particular favorite of readers with her sharp intellect and brazen nature. And jaws will drop as readers follow the unexpected storyline of Mariah’s mother, Isabelle.

In all truth, I don’t read a lot of historical fiction because so many of these stories tackle the same subjects and events without bringing fresh energy to the page. Nina de Gramont is an exception, though. She filters the past through a  compelling new lens that keeps the pages turning, so count me in for whatever she is writing!

Peregrine Hill is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore, as of November 10th 2026.

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

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Christie Affair comes a sweeping novel set in Gilded Age New York where a forced marriage, family secrets, and the fight for freedom collide in an unforgettable story about a desperate mother and headstrong daughter navigating a world built on men’s appetites and women’s silence.

“A luminous, entrancing novel…The Gilded Age springs to vivid life in these pages, but beware, for not all that glitters is gold.” —Nita Prose, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Maid series

At the dawn of the 20th century, widow Isabelle Bishop still believes in love—but she knows only money can save her. After losing her husband and three of her children in a shipwreck, she has one chance to rescue what remains of her family: her daughter Mariah and her elderly mother. When Isabelle captures the attention of John Whitten, one of New York’s wealthiest men, she dares to hope that fortune might finally favor her.

But Whitten’s interest is not in Isabelle—it’s in eighteen-year-old Mariah, still reeling from a romantic but disastrous scandal. When Whitten discovers the secret mother and daughter have tried to keep buried, he uses it to his advantage, threatening to expose them unless Mariah accepts his proposal. For the sake of their survival, Isabelle makes a devil’s bargain: She will urge her daughter into a marriage she knows could destroy her.

Mariah quickly realizes her husband’s home is a gilded cage. Yet even under his watchful eye, she begins to carve out passions of her own, finding an unexpected ally in her ambitious maid, Hetty, and daring to imagine a life beyond her constricted world. Together, she and Hetty risk everything to claim a measure of power and self-determination in a world that attempts to deny them both.

From the glittering parlors of Gilded Age New York to the windswept cliffs of Rhode Island, Peregrine Hill is a novel in the tradition of Edith Wharton and the Brontë sisters, about unlikely love affairs and the impossible choices women have always been forced to make.

The post Review: Peregrine Hill by Nina de Gramont appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and cover for In Her Grace by Reema Zaman, which releases on May 4th 2027 and now available to preorder from Blackstone Publishing, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, and Amazon.

But first, here’s what Reema had to say about her upcoming release:

“Set in a near-future America where women’s autonomy has been steadily dismantled, In Her Grace follows Grace, a dauntless woman who uses a controversial technology to fight back against her abusive husband, and Helena, the attorney who defends her when she’s put on trial for his death. This deeply moving, propulsive thriller explores the urgent questions: How far would you go to protect yourself and your child? What does self-defense mean in a society that has stripped women of the right to protect themselves?

I loved writing the relationship between Grace and Helena; I was their spellbound witness as they confront a legal system stacked against them, with exhilarating courage that inspires a cultural reckoning. The novel explores dark territory, but their profound sisterhood and pursuit of justice fueled my writing, and act as the engine for the novel. And there are some insane twists! I’m excited for readers to fall in love with Grace and Helena the way I have.

My gratitude goes to Alenka Linaschke, whose gorgeous cover captures the soulful complexity of In Her Grace.”

In 2052 America, the laws that once protected women’s autonomy have been steadily dismantled under the guise of protection and order. 

Grace Banks knows this intimately. Once a promising ballerina, Grace is now trapped in a glittering cage of an abusive marriage to trillionaire Preston Banks, living under constant surveillance. Pregnant and running out of options, Grace uses Merge—a controversial new technology that allows one consciousness to inhabit another person’s body—to enact a brave, desperate choice. 

The result is Preston’s death.

Was this murder or self-defense? With her freedom on the line, Grace becomes the center of a trial that captivates the country. Her defense rests in the hands of Helena Variss, a once-renowned attorney struggling with grief and her own disillusionment with a legal system increasingly hostile toward women. As the case unfolds, what first appears to be a shocking act of violence becomes something far more complicated and revealing: a reckoning over female agency, motherhood, and the stories society chooses to believe about women.

For readers of Jessamine Chan and Naomi Alderman, IN HER GRACE is a gripping near-future novel about resilience, sisterhood, and justice redefined, with two unforgettable heroines who refuse to be erased.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Reema Zaman is the author of the memoir I Am Yours and the forthcoming novel In Her Grace. Her work has appeared in Vogue, The Guardian, Salon, The Rumpus, and other notable platforms. She sits on the board of On the Inside, a non-profit that provides wellness and writing classes to incarcerated women across the United States and Australia. She lives in Los Angeles with her chihuahua, Fia.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from When They Find Me by Carter Wilson, which releases on November 10th 2026.

Some secrets don’t fade. They hunt.

Expanse, Colorado. Population 313. A town so remote it barely exists on a map—the perfect hiding place for Annie Wolfe and her daughter, Coral. Their cabin is nearly off the grid, and Annie has done everything to keep them safe. Everything. But she knows the people hunting her don’t forget. And they don’t forgive.

Riven knows about survival. She and her family have lived off the land for years, moving like shadows through the wilderness. Now her father has led them to this forgotten town, tracking the man he swears destroyed their lives. The plan is simple: strike fast, take revenge, and disappear.

But when Riven knocks on Annie’s door, their worlds collide. What follows is darker, stranger, and more dangerous than either woman ever imagined—because the hunt isn’t just for vengeance. It’s for the truth. And in Expanse, Colorado, the truth can kill.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

RIVEN

The old man says this is where our target is hiding. Somewhere in this little town. Expanse, Colorado.

Cold and snow, and the old RV’s heat can’t keep my breath from frosting.

Cold’s fine.

I’ve been colder.

I’ve never killed anyone. Boone has. The old man too. Twice each. They never asked me before—­ maybe ’cause I’m the only girl. But they’re asking now.

“The house is about a half mile from here,” the old man says. “Imagine that. All these years, and now we’re only a half mile away.”

Boone doesn’t say anything. He’s got sleepy hair and a face that looks peaceful, but I know what’s under my brother’s expression.

“When are we doing it?” I ask. We’re parked downtown, if you can call it that. This place is tiny. We’ve been through a lot of places like this. Towns where nobody asks questions because they don’t want questions asked back. Hiding towns. Just like we like it.

We won’t be staying after the killing.

“I suspect pretty soon,” the old man says. “If you’re ready.”

Ready?

I hadn’t really thought about that. Makes it sound like I have a say.

“You sure you don’t want to do it?”

I ask him that a lot, ever since he found out where the target was living. He always answers the same.

“Years ago, I would’ve,” he says. “Thought it should be my kill. But this death belongs to all three of us now. And I need to make sure you can do it before I go.”

Boone stirs, tense for the first time. “You’re not going anywhere, Coyote.”

My father doesn’t like us calling him Dad. He says that’s too human. He likes Coyote. Sometimes I call him that. But in my head, he’s the old man. He’d hate that. Maybe that’s why I keep doing it.

Not that fifty-­ seven is all that old. But he’s always looked like someone in the middle of dying. Especially now.

“You know I am,” the old man says to Boone.

“A doctor could help,” Boone replies. We both know what the old man will say to this.

“Wild animals don’t get doctors. No dignity in fighting nature.”

The old man’s down weight—­ at least ten pounds he didn’t have to spare. Not a skeleton yet, but he’s headed there. I try not to think about it, but I do. I picture him dead all the time. Lying still. Last words spent. No more talk about animal glory, about human waste, about our past, or what’s supposed to happen once it’s just Boone and me.

I don’t want him gone. But I wouldn’t mind less talking.

“You need time, Riven?”

I nod. Not because I actually need time, but because I don’t know how to say no.

Killing is supposed to be instinctive. Boone and the old man made it sound like breathing. But my hands won’t stop shaking, and my stomach is sour. I’m not scared. I’m just…not ready.

I want to be ready. I have to be ready. For him. For Boone. For me.

“Maybe we can get something to eat,” I say.

“Animals kill on empty stomachs,” the old man says. Quick, like he’s been waiting to say it. “That’s why they kill.”

He says stuff like that a lot.

“Please, Coyote.”

He considers, then nods. “Fine. We’ll get you some food.”

Just the idea of food hits something in me. I barely touched dinner last night, but now, on the day itself, I’m starving.

And that makes me wonder:

Does prey ever know when it’s had its last meal?

Excerpted from WHEN THEY FIND ME © 2026 by Carter Wilson. Reprinted with permission from Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from This Jury Is Guilty by Laurie Blake, which releases on November 3rd 2026.

No one here is innocent.

Hollywood’s biggest movie star, Danny Scott, stands accused of trying to murder his wife, starlet Hope Harrison, in a case that has taken the world by storm. Everyone is asking: What led to the events of that night, and what darker truths simmer beneath the surface of Danny and Hope’s marriage? As the world watches, twelve sequestered jurors must decide Danny’s fate. But even a jury has its secrets…

Juror 6 is risking everything for this trial. Even her life.

Juror 2 is playing games. But can he keep one step ahead of his own lies?

Juror 13, the alternate, will do anything to be on that jury. Anything.

Juror 7 is hardly noticed by anyone. Just as she planned.

As each juror vies for the verdict they want, secrets, obsessions, and plots for revenge will come to light in the stands. Because everyone is lying. Everyone is guilty. And one of them might be planning a murder of their own.

With shocking twists and propulsive pacing, This Jury Is Guilty is a thought-provoking, locked-room thriller exploring our obsessions with true crime, the blurry lines between fact and fiction, and the lengths we’re willing to go to seek justice. For fans of Amy Tintera, Steve Cavanagh, and Ellery Lloyd.

EXCERPT

Two hundred million people watched the live stream from the Superior Court of Los Angeles that summer.

The People of the State of California v. Danny Scott.

Everything that happened in that courtroom was dissected, torn apart, and argued on TV, in coffee shops, checkout lines, offices, at dinner tables, and on social media.

Everyone had an opinion.

But only twelve people got to decide whether Danny was innocent or guilty.

The Prosecution
One
Juror Six
Dee McCallister

Dee’s suitcase bumps against her heels as she rushes along the courthouse corridor, a step behind the court deputy.

She made it!

Beads of sweat prickle the skin beneath her top. Thank God she chose black.

She keeps her gaze fixed on the shiny floor, weaving around huddled lawyers. If they’re staring, they’ll see a woman in her late thirties carrying a little extra weight, with a nose too long for her face and badly dyed blond hair. Nothing to see here. She’s made sure of it.

The deputy throws a glance over her shoulder. “You’re the last juror to arrive and you’re late.”

Dee flashes an apologetic smile. “Sorry. The traffic was gridlocked.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the reason she’s late either.

“Always is,” the deputy replies, shifting the leather belt on her khaki uniform as she stops by a door, one hand resting on the handle. She has neat jet-­black hair and a petite frame. She sets her gaze on Dee as though wondering whether juror six is going to be a troublemaker.

You have no idea!

The thought lands in Dee’s head, but she offers another sweet smile. It seems to work, because something softens in the deputy’s face.

“I’m Gloria Honey.” She opens the door and waves Dee into a large room already containing her fellow jurors. “I’m the court deputy assigned to take care of you for the duration of this trial. So anything you need, come to me. Pop your suitcase with the others. We’ll be conducting a search later and then transporting them to the hotel for you.”

Dee’s heart lurches in her chest. She knew it was coming but can’t stop the question from forming. “A search?” She pushes the frizzy waves of her hair away from her face, hoping her makeup isn’t already ruined. Less than five minutes in and she’s already a mess.

Gloria rattles off the reply as though she’s said it a dozen times this morning. “A search of baggage for contraband items such as phones, tablets, laptops, and newspapers and magazines is standard procedure for jury sequestration.”

Jury sequestration. Dee still can’t believe it. They’re not going home at the end of each day, but to a hotel. They’ll be completely shut off from the world. Watched by court deputies twenty-­four seven. The thought causes sharp claws of fear to dig into her.

Gloria points to the table. “Notebooks and pens are there. You can use them to take notes during the trial to refer back to during deliberations. And please check your lunch order before you go into court each morning. We order from Lou’s Deli Monday through Wednesday. And Georgio’s on Thursday and Friday.” With that, she’s gone, shutting the door behind her.

Dee turns to face the room, feeling every pair of eyes on her. So much for wanting to slip in unnoticed. The claws tighten their grasp. She shouldn’t have spent so long standing on the corner, watching the crowds gather outside the courthouse while trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. As if there’s even a choice not to carry on.

No more running, she reminds herself as she takes in her surroundings. The jury room is dominated by a long table and chairs in the center. The air smells of coffee and a woody aftershave.

To one side, there’s a smaller table set with a silver coffee carafe. Dee’s mouth is dry. She’s desperate for a drink and a hit of caffeine, but she forces herself to smile at the group.

Jury selection may have been weeks ago, but she remembers every face. She remembers their names and the answers they gave when questioned by the prosecution and defense teams, searching for the perfect jurors to secure the desired verdict, with both sides choosing six people each.

She remembers the numbers they were given when one hundred people were whittled down to four women and eight men. Plus two alternates—­a woman and a man—­who’ll watch the trial alongside them but won’t take part in deliberations or vote on Danny Scott’s fate unless someone leaves the jury.

She knows who has secrets, who has lied, and who might be useful when the time comes.

“Traffic was crazy, huh?” she says, trying not to worry about what these people are thinking of her and her Dollar Tree leggings, already sagging at the knees, and the top she picked up from a thrift store on North Avenue, bobbled and stretched from someone else’s body. How the hell are they a jury of peers to the likes of Danny Scott and Hope Harrison?

Allie Parks, juror five, gives a welcoming grin—­freckles, heart-­shaped face, dark-­red ponytail. She’s a stay-­at-­home mom who spends over thirty dollars a week on gossip magazines, reading them cover to cover in coffee shops while her older kids are at school.

Beside her is juror two, Rick Peterson—­a forty-­three-­year-­old self-­proclaimed artist from Pasadena. He adjusts his glasses before raising his hand in a mock-­solemn wave. “Guess we’re in this for the long haul,” he says, grinning. “At least the coffee’s free, right? Even if it tastes like it was filtered through a gym sock.”

A ripple of laughter moves around the table where the other jurors sit. Rick soaks it up with a friendly smile that makes him look instantly at home. Dee forces herself to copy the expression, even as she feels the distance between his easy charm and her own awkwardness.

Dee runs through the other names in her head as she steps up to the coffee table. She spots Franny Davis at the far end of the table. Juror seven is a retired schoolteacher with white hair and large blue-­framed glasses, and the oldest of the group.

Beside the coffee table is another couch and a half-­filled bookshelf with tatty paperbacks and a collection of board games. The judge warned them to expect long periods of waiting in this room for the attorneys and witnesses to be ready. Panic whips through her. How will she cope when she already feels trapped? There are no windows. The only escape is through the door she’s just walked through, guarded by a deputy standing outside. The only other two doors on the opposite wall lead to their own private restrooms.

Coffee will help, she decides. Even bad coffee. She pours a cup and takes a sip. It’s bitter and already tepid. Rick wasn’t wrong about the taste.

Allie steps beside her and takes a cup. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Allie. We chatted at selection.”

Dee takes a breath, forcing herself to relax—­or seem it, at least. “Dee McCallister, juror six. And I remember. You have three daughters, right? Two teen girls and a baby.”

Allie’s eyes light up. “Peyton turned one last week. You said you sell makeup in a mall, right?”

Dee nods but doesn’t offer any more details about herself.

From her pocket, Allie pulls out a photo of her family, all wide smiles and the same red hair. “I got this printed since I can’t scroll through my phone.” There’s a wobble to her voice, and Dee pats her arm like any normal person would. She hopes the gesture doesn’t feel as weird to Allie as it does to her.

“You have kids, too, don’t you?” Allie asks. “Is your husband going to cope? My husband, Robert, is a good man, but I don’t think he’s ready for life on his own with three girls.”

Dee pictures ten-­year-­old Charlie and eight-­year-­old Mason and thinks she should’ve printed a photo. “Two boys,” she says. “Their dad is long gone, but my mom is looking after them. I hope this doesn’t drag on.” Dee has her own reasons for wanting a quick trial, but Allie doesn’t need to know that.

“Me too.” Allie leans in and lowers her voice. “But how are we supposed to decide if Danny Scott is guilty? I have enough trouble deciding what to make for dinner every night.”

They laugh and Dee feels her heartbeat slow a fraction. Allie will be her first ally, she decides.

But then a gravelly voice cuts in: “We’re not allowed to discuss the trial.”

Dee turns to find juror one—­John Timpson—­planting himself in front of them like a sentry in a plaid shirt. He’s a tall, thin man in his late fifties with a gray handlebar mustache and a red face. He’s a retired veteran who works as a security guard in an office block of the business district.

“It’s in the jury handbook,” he continues, voice hardening. “Rules are rules. Break them, you compromise the whole jury.” He steps closer, and Dee notices a gleam of sweat on his face. She’s also found the source of the aftershave.

She gives him the same apologetic smile that worked on Gloria. “Sorry. Although the trial hasn’t actually started yet, has it? We’re both just nervous.”

Before John can reply, the door opens and Gloria appears with a clipboard and a stern expression. This is it. They’re going into court. Dee’s heart starts to beat so fast it feels like it will split her chest in two. If anyone recognizes her… She cuts the thought dead. They won’t. They can’t.

Two
Juror Seven
Franny Davis

Franny remains perfectly still as the other jurors scramble to collect notebooks and pens from the pile on the table before checking off their lunch orders from a printed sheet of sandwich fillings and salads. She glances down a final time to clue three in her large-­print crossword book.

“Tropical bird (5)

Last letter, w.”

She likes to have a clue ruminating, something for her mind to chew on as she goes about her tasks. It’s an old habit—­but then, everything about Franny is old. Her body, her bones, her eyes. They’re all failing. But her mind is still sharp. Sharp enough to know that if she’s going to act, it must be soon.

Last year she watched a dear friend sink into the depths of dementia until she didn’t know her own name, didn’t know she should have a name. It’s a terrible way to go. And yet sometimes, in the dead of night when Franny can’t sleep and everything hurts, she wonders whether knowing her body is failing is worse than the oblivion of a mind that goes first. Either way, she hopes her body won’t quit on her before she’s done what she’s come here to do.

“Morbid thoughts again, Francine.”

Franny exhales a small huff of amusement. It no longer surprises her to hear her husband’s teasing voice in her thoughts. It’s as though he’s leaning close to whisper in her ear like he did for the thirty-­one years of their marriage. She’s learned not to reply aloud like she did at his funeral.

“Waste of money, those flowers.”

Out of habit, she shushed him, turning to catch the twinkle of mischief in his eyes as the reverend gave her a quizzical look.

It’s been two years since Bill’s death. She still misses him. Bill owned his own building company and was the kind of man who undercharged to help families in need. Even if it meant he and Franny barely scraped by some months.

They’d met when Franny was forty-­one, in what she thinks of as the second half of her life. The first half ended with a single mistake that cost her everything. She and Bill married a year later. He was the only silver lining after what happened.

He’d been one week into his retirement when a stroke killed him. Then it was just Franny and the cat. She’s always thought of the tabby as Bill’s. She hopes her neighbor remembers Mittens likes the fish-­flavored treats but not the cheese ones.

Gloria Honey waves her clipboard in the air, and everyone stops like it’s a game of freeze dance. The deputy wears that same frazzled expression Franny recognizes from class trips when she taught high school English. There’s a lot she misses about teaching, but trying to herd thirty bored kids around a museum isn’t one of them.

“OK, folks. It’s time for court,” Gloria says, tucking her black hair behind one ear. “When you enter the courtroom, the judge, defendant, and attorneys will already be waiting, so take your seats quickly and be ready for the proceedings to start.”

Franny plants both hands on the table before pushing herself up to standing. She moves carefully with her cane, pretending it’s only caution and not necessity. She doesn’t want Gloria to realize how heavily she relies on it.

Her legs tremble all the same, the ache spreading from hip to knee until it’s almost a throb. Let the young ones rush for their notebooks. She’ll take her time, thank you very much.

“You’re too damn old for this,” Bill tells her.

He may be right. What business does a seventy-­five-­year-­old woman have on a case like this? Even Judge Thornton J. Malone told her she could go home. “Anyone who’s received a summons and is over seventy years old is excused from jury service,” he said at the start of jury selection two months ago. “I thank you for your time today. You may leave.”

Franny watched several members of the jury pool rise from the courtroom benches and hurry to the doors as though a great freedom awaited them. But she had nowhere to go. Nothing to do except feed Mittens and water Bill’s rosebushes.

“Mrs. Davis,” the judge said when she took her place in the witness box to answer questions from the lawyers. “You’re aware you can leave if you wish?”

She nodded. “If it’s all right with you, Your Honor, I’d like to stay.”

When the district attorney, Mark Vale, asked her why, she told him a half-­truth. “I’ve spent my life serving this community as a teacher. I’m retired now, but I’d like to serve one more time.”

She didn’t tell him this was her last chance to right a wrong. To lift the guilt that’s eaten away at her for the last thirty-­five years.

Gloria’s voice continues from the doorway: “I will remind you that some discussions between the attorneys and the judge will happen in court without you being present.”

“What kinds of discussions?” It’s juror two who asks the question. The man with the glasses and the brown hair who introduced himself as Rick, shaking her hand earlier like she was made of glass.

“Mostly whether certain evidence or witnesses can be included in the trial. If Judge Malone says no, then you won’t hear it.”

A man standing by the bookshelf raises his hand. “Hi, Gloria. Simon Wu, juror nine. I have a question, too, if that’s OK?” Simon is wearing a white shirt and a sports jacket. He’s a Korean American in his early sixties and has a receding hairline and a slow Californian accent.

Gloria frowns. “As long as it’s quick.”

“I…” Simon’s voice trails away and he blinks nervously. “I want to know if it matters where we sit? I’d prefer—­”

“Yes, it does,” Gloria replies before Simon can tell the room his preference. “You need to sit in the order of your juror numbers. Your seat and your juror number today will be the same for the duration of the trial. It does not change. When we reach the door to the jury box, I will call you to your seat one at a time. The back row will fill in first and then the front row.”

“And us?” a voice says.

Franny watches one of the alternates step forward. She’s a beautiful Black woman in her early thirties, with Afro curls and red lipstick. Her clothes are smart, fitted, and expensive. She looks as though she’s heading to Wall Street or a fancy meeting Franny can only imagine exists outside of classrooms and cafeterias, and now the weekly trips to the senior center in Potrero Heights when she can bear it.

“Alternates have their own seats to one side,” Gloria replies. “You must watch the trial as though you’re a member of this jury. The same rules apply to you as to the others, but you won’t take part in the deliberations or vote at the end of the trial to decide the defendant’s innocence or guilt.”

A man in his late forties steps forward. He has a large belly and a friendly face. “Hi, Gloria. I’m juror eleven, William Slack.”

“I know who you all are,” she replies, tapping her clipboard.

“I want to ask why we need alternates if they don’t get to vote? Seems like a waste of their time.”

There’s a mumbled agreement from the second alternate—­a young man in his twenties with glasses and neat hands.

“It’s very rare a juror is unable to complete jury service, but if it happens, the alternates will need to take that juror’s number and place to ensure the trial can continue,” Gloria says, before waving her clipboard in the air again. “Now, let’s go, please.”

Franny closes the crossword book, making sure to tuck her gold pen inside to keep her page. The pen was a gift from a student some years back, and it’s special to her. She leaves the book on the table, saving her place. From here, she can see the entire room and everyone in it, including the young man who introduced himself as Freddie Malik—­juror four. Freddie is in his twenties, with dark circles under his eyes. She notices the way he keeps looking at the door like he’s expecting someone to burst through it and drag him away.

Like the rest of the courthouse, the jury room isn’t much to look at. Franny remembers it being built. Her father loved architecture and brought her to see it during the construction. She remembers how modern it looked through her child eyes. That white-­brick facade rising six stories high. Named at the time after Stanley Mosk, the longest-­serving judge on the California Supreme Court. The building no longer seems grand or imposing, but bland and functional.

None of the jurors look Franny’s way as she shuffles slowly to the door, cane in hand. She can’t remember what age people stopped seeing her. It started with men no longer giving that second glance, eyes no longer lingering on her breasts or her legs.

Eventually, the rest followed. Even store assistants stopped asking about her day, wary of being trapped in a litany of ailments like the seniors at her community center like to talk about.

Franny understands. Doesn’t even mind. In fact, it’s better she’s invisible. If no one is watching her, then no one will suspect her of the murder she’s planning to commit.

WKT NEWS

LIVE with Hannah Smith from Stanley Mosk Courthouse, Los Angeles County Superior Court

I’m standing just meters away from the entrance of the Stanley Mosk Courthouse in downtown LA on the first day of the Danny Scott trial. The crowds you can see on my left have been gathering since yesterday as they wait to catch a glimpse of the famous actors who’ll be arriving at any moment.

We’ve not seen crowds this big outside a courthouse since OJ Simpson was famously found not guilty of murder inside this very building in 1995. This really is the trial of the century, at the center of which are the events that took place in May of last year, when Artie Peets broke into Hope Harrison’s home with the intention of killing her. But, in a struggle with her attacker, Hope overpowered Artie and he fell to his death from the second-­floor balcony in what was later ruled justifiable homicide. Over the coming weeks, evidence will be heard from both sides to determine if Danny Scott paid his longtime friend Artie Peets to kill his then-­wife, Hope Harrison.

We know Danny Scott has been charged with solicitation to commit murder—­the act of getting someone to commit a murder for them. It’s a felony crime carrying a sentence of up to nine years in a California state prison and fines of up to $10,000, which won’t be an issue for the fifty-­one-­year-­old actor. Danny’s net worth is estimated to be a whopping $400 million.

The judge presiding over the trial is Judge Thornton J. Malone, a man with a stern reputation among the clerks at LA court. He’s already warned both the prosecution and defense teams he’ll not suffer time-­wasting. Due to just how high profile this case is, the jury has been sequestered and will not be allowed any contact with the outside world for the duration of the trial.

Last week Judge Malone granted permission for this trial to be live streamed, citing both public interest and a desire to keep order in the courtroom in his reasons behind the ruling. Live streaming in the criminal court is rare but not unheard of.

And here comes the first car. It’s Hope Harrison, alongside LA County District Attorney Mark Vale, who’s trying the case against Danny Scott. Hope is looking demure in a high-­collared white blouse with her famous blond locks tied back. Will she say something to us?

Hope, how are you feeling about the trial?

Mark, are you ready?

“We’re ready to get justice for this heinous crime.”

That was Mark Vale, the district attorney of LA County, cutting a dashing figure as he guides Hope into court. The thirty-­eight-­year-­old British-­born Oscar-­winning actress won’t be allowed in the courtroom until after she’s appeared as a witness, which isn’t expected to happen for several days.

Here comes Danny, arriving with his attorney, Jessica Brady, famously nicknamed among fellow lawyers as “the woman of steel” for both her ice-­blond hair and her composure in the courtroom.

Danny, how are you feeling about the trial?

“Hi, Hannah, good to see you. The truth is, I’m glad this day has finally arrived. Now I can prove to all my fans that I’m innocent and get my life back.”

There you have it. The two people at the center of this trial—­Danny Scott and Hope Harrison, who were once considered to be Hollywood’s golden couple—­have entered the courthouse. As we can see from the images now playing in the corner of the screen, the live stream has begun as the lawyers take their places in courtroom one.

Very soon, the jurors will be taking their seats and Danny’s trial will finally begin. There have been weeks of delays since the jury were selected. This has been caused by legal challenges from both sides, key witnesses abroad, and a significant security operation put in place as media attention continues to intensify. Jurors were able to remain at home while waiting for a trial date, with Judge Malone instructing them to avoid media coverage surrounding Danny and Hope. They’ve since been sequestered for their own safety.

What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in the jury room for this trial. That’s the latest live from WKT News. I’m Hannah Smith. Back to the studio.

The post Read The First Two Chapters From ‘This Jury Is Guilty’ by Laurie Blake appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from First Love Last Love by Adele Griffin, which releases on November 3rd 2026.

When the past collides with the present—literally—one woman must decide if the life she built is the one she truly wants, or just the one she chose.

Vida Jamison favors the reliable and the unsurprising – the things she can count on. But all it takes is a winter storm, a chance encounter, and a familiar voice to turn certainty into quicksand.

Elijah Beck, her first love and most enduring wildcard, is back in town.

He might have struck gold on the stage, writing the soundtrack to the lives of a generation, but for Vida, he’s just the one person who has always known how to get under her skin. Elijah, for all his talent and magnetism, has spent a lifetime being wanted but never quite held—by the industry that made him famous, by the fans who adored him from a safe distance. When an accident lands them in the hospital, Vida has to face the question she’s spent two decades avoiding: Is Elijah her greatest mistake, or the love she was always meant to find again?

Nostalgia is a tricky thing. The past can pull you under just as easily as it can set you free.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

VIDA

The weather flips like a coin.

Down the frozen foods aisle, someone whistles.

I turn my head from the freezer’s glow of toaster pizzas and Klondike bars. It’s a kid in a puffy silver jacket, hood up, looking out the window, where the sky’s gone dark as granite. The forecast won’t commit – a chance of flurries, maybe more – but the clouds are saying something else. Either way, Luke is back from his ski trip tomorrow, and he’ll be, as ever, starving.

Hence the errand: a dash through the Wawa food market instead of settling in with my girl-dinner of cheese, crackers, and a glass (okay, maybe two) of Chablis. I know better than to be snow-bound with a growing fourteen-year-old and nothing more to offer him than a couple of limp carrots and half a box of stale, welded raisins.

Before he left, Luke let me fold him into a big hug, the way I used to. A mom squeeze like an old song that says everything’s okay. It’s been years since he let me hug him like that, and it felt big and right.

He lingered, just a second, then backed off. “It’ll be a great weekend, I promise.” “Maybe.” Luke’s new answer for everything.

However much I stock up, no doubt tomorrow I’ll be splurging on Grubhub as a way of making up for Luke’s year of upheaval: the split weekends and the separated-parent shuffle between the main house and the two-bedroom rental in Manayunk.

Behind me, I feel a light tug at my coat sleeve. “Vida Marie?”

My heart stops. Nobody ever adds the Marie. Nobody but him. There was a time when I’d hoped to bump into him everywhere. A time when I’d prayed that I’d never see him again. I force a long inhale before turning.

“Elijah.” Speaking his name clicks some small lock inside me. Because yes, it’s Elijah, his jacket hood pulled low to avoid recognition. I’d pegged him for a teenager from behind-he’s that thin. “Of all the Wawas in Pennsylvania,” he says, a wry half smile on his face, “I had to walk into this one.”

“What are the odds,” I manage, and the meaning of it hangs there, unspoken. We always used to come here after school for Italian hoagies drenched in vinegar and sweet cherry peppers. I can still taste them, the same way I can still feel Elijah behind me in line, his arms snug around my waist, his chin on my head.

Now we just stare at each other, stunned. Caught in a moment neither of us was prepared for. My heart’s thudding. I want to step forward into the hug I know Elijah yearns to give, but the idea of touch also feels like it might knock me over.

Who are we to each other now?

His face is familiar, and also not. Those gray eyes, so wide set, the cheekbones even sharper now. It’s a face that can shift from beautiful to haunting, depending on the light. Tonight I’m struck by how Elijah feels as much like a homecoming as an intrusion. Forty-four last week, and he looks it. Handsome but…forty-four. I see the silver threading his hairline, the etch of worry between his brows, a herringbone scar puckered at his left temple. His fingers, hands, and wrists are a map of tattoos. Many more than I remember: some finely inked, others smudged as faded bruises.

He’s doing that thing, his old anxious habit, where he rubs his thumbs over his nail beds.

“Next,” calls the checkout girl. He leans close. “Wait for me?”

I nod and move forward. Once my items are bagged, I step aside, watching as he takes a pint of heavy whipping cream and a carton of eggs from his plastic basket.

“You here long?”

He shakes his head. “Through the holiday. Staying with Ruben Ruiz.”

“Oh! Say hi. Ruben’s son, Andreas, and Luke play basket –

” “No way!” The checkout girl gasps. “Eli Beck? Aren’t you Eli Beck?” Elijah’s fans are relentless, especially here, where he’s Philadelphia’s favorite son, weighed on the fame scale somewhere between the Liberty Bell and the Rocky statue. Or, at least, he used to be.

Elijah offers his trademark oversized grin. “Yup.”

“Can I get a picture?”

“Sure.” And just like that, it begins. Fans materializing from the ether, insistent and curious. People craning for a better look, Eli World expanding by the second.

“Eli, I saw you twenty years ago at Staples Center!” says a guy with a professor beard.

“Cool, cool,” says Elijah. “Solid tour.”

“You were on fire.” Professor Beard holds up his phone. “One pie? For my wife?”

“Let’s do it.”

I remember this rhythm – I used to run interference, once upon our time. “Not now, sorry!” I was polite but steely. “We need to get going!” I learned how to be the heavy, the buffer, so that Elijah could stay the good guy, the charmer.

“Eli,” calls out a woman in a velour tracksuit, “sing a line from ‘Birthday Baby’ for my nephew, Jake?”

Elijah throws me a don’t leave glance as he takes the woman’s phone. ”A single charm on your gold chain, baby! Day-old cake for your big day, baby!”‘

My skin prickles to hear it, as the store erupts in cheering and clapping.

It’s been decades since “Birthday Baby” topped any chart-now it’s a staple at children’s birthday parties-including Luke’s, a few years ago. But Elijah’s remarkable voice pulls me under. I can see his bare, boyish shoulders, his head bent low over his guitar, his dog-eared songbook flopped open.

I lean in, whispering, “I’ve got a virtual telehealth visit scheduled, and snow’s starting—”

“Okay, then can I call you?” he asks. “We’re overdue.”

Overdue is putting it mildly. Usually, Elijah’s name comes up in secondhand updates from school friends like Ruben, though he’s been back in the headlines lately-first for the awful thing that happened at his house this past summer; better and more recently his very first Grammy nomination, an honor he’d coveted since the day he wrote his first song. The last time I actually saw Elijah in person was three years ago, at Miriam’s funeral.

“Sure,” I say, just as every phone in the store blares a severe weather alert.

Two Wawa employees burst from a back room.

“Eli Beck! No shit, it is you!” one of them yells, gripping Elijah’s hand.

I mouth goodbye, but Elijah’s already performing again. Signing autographs, posing for photos. Same old song and dance. Blinking back the sudden heat in my eyes, I push out the door and into the storm.

Shock, tears of shock. That’s all it is.

MIXTAPE #1

PRUDENTIAL HALL, NEW JERSEY/ SUMMER 2001

Elijah was a few yards down the cinder-block corridor, light bars buzzing overhead, ringed by his stylists, handlers, and a few radio-station VIPs. His new leather jacket coyly opened over a tight, bedazzled T-shirt. The casual poise, the lazy way his fingertips balanced a plastic cup by its rim…

When he saw her, his grin faltered. Vida’d hoped she might surprise him, but it looked like she’d done her job too well. For a half second, she thought he might pretend not to notice her, and her heart lurched. Then he recovered. Gave her a slow, dimpled smile as he knocked back the rest of the drink before she reached him.

“Baby! I thought you were coming tomorrow! How’d you find me?”

“I switched shifts at the restaurant,” she said, feeling foolish.

That same girl, the publicist girl, was hovering. Vida couldn’t remember her name, and now she backed away fast. But Vida wasn’t worried about other girls-she knew Elijah’s real love was in that plastic cup. The secret girlfriend who never left his side. And for all his attitude of availability, Elijah wasn’t much attracted to people; what he liked best was people being attracted to him.

“Making new friends?” she asked, her eyes on his shirt. She’d read on a gossip board how he did this. Wore a fan’s T-shirt from the night before.

He pretended not to catch her insinuation.

“Nobody memorable,” he said, and she knew at least this was true.

“You looked the wrong kind of surprised.”

“Now you’re being paranoid.” As he brought her in for the hug she wasn’t sure she wanted, he whispered against her ear, “Don’t let them see us fight, okay? It’s all they want.”

‘Tm not fighting.” She spoke through gritted teeth. Cameras flashed. The tour photographer-nothing like a juicy preshow snap with the hometown girlfriend. Elijah’s hand found hers and laced their fingers, an unspoken stage note that they were in it together.

All around her, the noise swelled. Prudential Hall held fewer than three thousand, but it sounded like a stadium. Elijah was only the opener but already he was the breakout star. Everyone wanted him. She tugged her sleeves over the Sharpied Xes the bouncer had slashed across her knuckles to mark her as underage.

“You’re still pissed,” Elijah murmured, steering her away from the crew. “But the shirt was a fan toss. Girls throw things, I wear them. It’s part of the act.

“You promised Miriam no drinking. You could get busted, too – you’re not even twenty-one yet.”

“Are you here to Breathalyze me?” She didn’t answer.

“I can handle one drink before I go on,” he added, peevish.

“One, really?”

A roadie cut between them. Then Marty, the stage manager.

“Five minutes,” he barked, then briefly touched two fingers to Vida’s shoulder. The pressure was light but unmistakable. “You can’t be down here, Miss Vida.”

“Give us a second,” said Elijah.

Vida wanted to stay furious. She wanted to tell him that she was losing faith. Instead she slipped out of her sweatshirt, and then her T-shirt. White with tiny wildflowers.

“At least wear mine,” she said, balling it up and tossing it to him.

He laughed. “Sure. You got it,” he said as he shrugged off his jacket, switched shirts, and kissed her hard on the mouth. How much she wanted to believe it, and how much he also needed her to believe it – that they were fine.

Marty cleared his throat. “Come on, Vida. I’ll get you a spot side stage.”

She nodded. As Marty guided her forward, she forced herself not to look back.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘First Love Last Love’ by Adele Griffin appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Reunion to Die For by K.J. Whittle, which is out now.

In a dingy pub, a high school reunion brings five old friends back together. As they catch up after twenty years, painful memories surface, all centered around the disastrous prom night that broke them all apart and the school bully at the heart of it all. King of the class turned handsome sport superstar, Eric Stewart poses as a charming local celebrity, but his old friends know of his hidden cruel streak that made each of them miserable. The more they drink, the more a morbid plan takes shape, with everyone tossing in ideas for how they could get the ultimate form of revenge.

The next morning, heads-pounding and hearts racing, they discover Eric has been found dead, exactly the way they drunkenly planned it.

When a cryptic, anonymous message containing a recording of their conversation from the night before starts to circulate, the group knows they need to act, and fast. Who was listening to them? Who arranged the reunion? And, most importantly, who carried out their murderous plans? Soon, they find themselves dragged into a series of sinister games devised to reveal the truth about prom night and Eric’s death. Before they become the main suspects, the group will need to share their secrets from all those years ago, or risk going down for murder.

EXCERPT

Four teenagers gazed out the expansive windows of the stretch limo, then turned to smile at each other.

Prom night.

Anticipation sizzled inside the car as it sped the excited group toward their school.

“To prom,” the dark-­haired boy called out, his ghost-­white shirt emphasizing the natural golden tan of his neck. A rogue strand of hair fell over his left eye. He slowly pushed it away, then held up his champagne flute for the others to clink.

“It’s going to be the night to end all nights,” remarked his best mate, who was fairer with sharper features, his ivory tuxedo not fitting as it should.

“I can’t believe it’s finally here,” said the curly-­haired girl, her dark spirals cascading across her shoulders, a pointed knee pushing through the slit in her green dress. She leaned forward to kiss the fair-­haired boy.

“Let’s savor every second,” commented the blond girl, whose velvet dress was every shade of red, from amaranth to crimson blood.

The car jolted over a bump in the road, and champagne spilled on their shoes.

The girls’ screams soon turned to laughter. Nothing would spoil this special night.

For a moment, the teenagers were silent, lost in their own thoughts. One dreamed of the prom crown, another hoped for a whispered I love you, and the third simply wished for a fun night. But the fourth’s thoughts were moments away from turning to revenge.

Less than a mile away, an emaciated boy stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, pulled his long-­sleeved T-­shirt on quickly so he wouldn’t have to look too closely at the ribs poking through his skin. His head turned from the mirror so he couldn’t take the time to inspect the gray pallor of his face, the infected spots on his cheeks, and the red marks across his arms.

He pulled on his old jeans and took a sidelong glance at his reflection.

That’ll do, he thought.

“Ready for prom?” his mum shouted up the stairs, mistakenly thinking that he was like all the other teens in his class: excited about prom night, eager to impress their classmates and dance with their crushes, and hoping to be crowned king or queen.

“Ready,” he called back, attempting to add some enthusiasm to his tone. He didn’t want to worry his mum.

Because he had no interest in dancing or socializing at prom. But he had nowhere else to go. This was his only chance of safety, of finding the help he desperately needed.

Again, the dangerous boy’s face flashed behind his eyes. The one who wanted him dead.

He pulled on his jacket and tapped the pocket. The heavy item was still there. It offered him a little comfort. Perhaps he would make it home alive after all.

The girl angrily marched away from her house, pushing tears from her cheeks with the base of her thumb as the desperate words of her distraught parents rampaged through her brain.

“If you leave now, you never come back,” her dad had said.

Couldn’t they see that she was in love? That she’d found someone who loved her, too, and they had carefully planned their future together?

No, they just wanted to control her. They didn’t care about her happiness at all. But she would show them that she was serious about this boy. She smiled to herself as she imagined their apologies when they’d finally meet him and realize just how special he was, how perfect they were for each other.

The girl hadn’t planned to go to prom, but that’s where her legs were carrying her. She wasn’t dressed for it, in her old black skirt and baggy top, but that didn’t matter. She knew he would be pleased to see her. Prom night was going to be the start of her new life.

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder. It was heavy, but then it contained all her possessions and all the money she had in the world.

It wasn’t much, but she had the most important thing—­love. Perhaps tonight that love would stop being a secret; perhaps she could finally celebrate it with the whole school. Then guilt threatened to darken the girl’s daydream, but she wouldn’t let it. It was finally time for her to be selfish. She noticed her tears had dried, and a smile crossed her mouth. She started walking faster, then was almost sprinting as she raced toward all the wonderful things that waited for her.

A lanky boy smoothed gel through his thick auburn hair, using a comb to flatten it down. Then he sighed when the strands resumed their wild waves. It was no good. He would never measure up to his dark-­haired rival in the looks department. His pale, freckled skin versus the other boy’s tanned ruddiness. His long, slim body against his rival’s muscular, grown-­man frame.

The girl he loved just didn’t see him that way, and he just had to accept it.

“You look so handsome,” his mum told him when he walked down the stairs to where she was waiting in the hallway.

He rolled his eyes then leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“You’ll have fun once you’re there,” she reassured him. “All your mates are going. And she’ll be there too. I really think she’s starting to see you as more than just a friend…”

“Do you think so?” he asked, finally smiling at her.

Could this be the night?

He crossed his fingers as he said goodbye and walked away from his home.

In that moment, as they all wondered what prom night would bring, none of them could have imagined the secrets that would still torture them twenty years later.

Part One
The School Reunion

1
Anne Marie
June 2026

Peering out the rain-­drenched car window, down the drive at her old school, Anne Marie shudders.

It looks mostly the same as the last time she was here, some twenty years ago. And she has the same creeping nervousness in her tummy she’d felt back then. Sadly, her tummy is no longer the taut teenage version.

But as Anne Marie looks closer, she sees that, like her, the no-­nonsense 1960s cinder-­block building has been a little battered by the passing years—­bricks discolored, cement cracked and crumbling.

Anne Marie watches the stream of thirtysomethings as they make their way past the car and down the drive, chatting animatedly, laughing, some almost trotting, so keen to get to their school reunion. It’s as if the sight of the old place has brought back some of that teenage energy.

Yet, for Anne Marie, being this close to her former school is draining her body of any enthusiasm she might have had. She can picture it leaking from the car onto the road and down the drain.

As her energy leaves her, it’s replaced by old memories: hot tears dragging mascara down her face, the stabbing pain of teenage heartbreak and the punch of a fist, blood mixing with the red of her dress—­

“Off you go, Mum,” Naomi says, flashing a trademark look of impatience from the driver’s seat. “Have fun!”

“Just give me a minute,” Anne Marie tells her, unfastening her seat belt but staying firmly in her seat.

Was this a bad idea? Should she tell Naomi to drive her back to their safe little flat, away from this old place and all its terrible memories?

Mind you, these days their home doesn’t feel so safe anymore…

Naomi sighs loudly, picks up her cell phone, and starts tapping away, her thumb moving manically while the rest of her stays stock still. It’s a wonder that young people don’t have giant muscular thumbs with all the exercise they get.

“Have you really not been back since you were a teenager?” Naomi murmurs, not looking up from her phone.

“No, your grandad got a new job, and we moved away when I was sixteen. Haven’t had reason to come back since,” she tells her daughter, trying to keep her tone nonchalant as she studies the people wandering down the drive, searching for one face in particular.

“Did you at least go to your school prom?” Naomi asks.

Anne Marie’s head whips over to her daughter. Had she mentioned the school prom to her before? She didn’t remember ever bringing it up. Why would she, after everything that happened that night?

“Um… My memory’s awful these days,” she splutters. “Yes, I think maybe I did.”

“Well, now we’re back, maybe you can pick up with your old friends again,” Naomi suggests in a rare moment of compassion.

They moved four months earlier. Anne Marie wasn’t sure about living back in the area where she’d grown up, but she hadn’t had a choice, had been forced to swallow her worries.

“That would be nice,” she says automatically, picturing her best friends from school, Yvette and Nisha. They were inseparable once. But then prom night happened, and all of Anne Marie’s ties were broken.

She takes a deep breath.

It was no use. Anne Marie had made the decision to attend the reunion, and she couldn’t back out now.

As she reaches for the door handle, a shadow passes her window. She jumps as a tall, broad-­shouldered man confidently strides past the car, running a hand through his brown wavy hair.

Her stomach lurches, but then the man turns and she sees it’s not him. She breathes out, watches two women greet each other, embrace enthusiastically, and then link arms as they make their way to the reunion together. She recognizes the strawberry-­blond mane of Michelle Davies, who was captain of all the girls’ sports teams, never seen out of gym clothes. Now she’s wearing a sensible skirt suit, her hair shorter, but she still moves with that athletic bounce.

“Come on, Mum, I’m meeting Luke at eight thirty,” Naomi says. “And I need to sort my hair and lashes.”

Anne Marie turns her attention to her daughter. Her dark hair is wrapped in a series of huge curlers. She’s wearing what looks like pajamas, and her feet, encased in giant fluffy slippers, rest by the gas pedal.

“I thought you were ready?” she teases, in a bid to tempt a smile from her humorless daughter.

But Naomi just rolls her eyes and flicks her hand dismissively. Off you go!

Then Anne Marie’s parental anxiety kicks in. Naomi always seems on edge before meeting this Luke character. Her latest beau. Is that a “red flag,” as they say these days? Is he controlling, manipulative, quick to anger?

“He’s a nice guy, this Luke?” she asks, eyes narrowed at her daughter.

“I’ve told you a million times, he’s nice. He’s got a massive social media following and has just been approached to be on that new reality show, so he’ll be raking it in soon,” Naomi says, peering into the rearview mirror.

“It’s not all about money,” Anne Marie tells her. Naomi raises her eyebrows in wordless response.

Then Anne Marie notices a crumpled paper bag stuck into the glove compartment on the driver’s side. Bearing the unmistakable capital letter M.

“Maybe give the car a little clearout tonight,” she suggests. “It’s brand new, and you promised your dad you’d keep it clean.”

“Sure,” she mutters, then turns the ignition on again.

It is time for Anne Marie to face the music. Storm into battle. Address the elephant in the room. Or whatever other cliché she could think of.

“Bye then, love,” she says, stepping out from the car. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck,” she hears before she carefully closes the car door. Within seconds, it’s halfway down the road.

Anne Marie takes another deep breath, an attempt to calm her galloping heart.

Side-­eyeing a tiny blond woman who passes her on the walk down the drive, she clocks her bodycon dress, perfect highlights, and wrinkle-­free face. Do all women now ascribe to the aging-­is-­evil mantra? Then, up ahead, she spots the unmistakable sign of a recent hair transplant. So it’s not just the ladies…

Glancing down at her own loose-­fitting denim dress and low wedges, she feels decidedly underdressed. She dabbed on her usual foundation and brown eyeshadow before setting out, but her hair shows a few weeks of gray regrowth (which her twenty-­year-­old hairdresser patronizingly refers to as “sparkles”) at the top of her blond highlights, and there’s nothing she can do right now about her frown lines and crow’s-­feet.

As she walks down the drive, she takes in the large banner tied to the railings, announcing SAVE OUR SCHOOL in block capitals. It must have been eye-­catching when it first went up at the start of the campaign, six months ago, but one corner has come loose and flaps away in the summer breeze. The words are now smudged and faded. The second S has nearly disappeared completely, so it now reads “save our chool,” which seems appropriate for a reunion like this.

Anne Marie gets her phone out of her bag and brings up the school reunion WhatsApp group again. It has more than fifty members and the profile picture is a screenshot of an article from the local paper about plans to demolish the old place and make way for a new multistory carpark.

The news sparked something of an uproar among some members of the community, most of whom had gone to the school and had seemingly happy memories. There was an explosion of new groups on social media, followed by a string of school reunions.

Anne Marie was surprised by the outrage. Were there really people out there who felt nostalgic about their school days? She’d heard the phrase “best days of my life” thrown around. It had been quite the opposite for Anne Marie. It had started well: She’d been a quiet studious girl for the first few years; then, in year nine, she’d suddenly grown boobs, started highlighting her hair and wearing a bit of makeup, and found herself on the receiving end of boyish attention—­and from one boy in particular. The two of them were the star couple, the center of the popular group in their class, along with Anne Marie’s outspoken best friend, Yvette; Yvette’s boyfriend, Dean; class clown Barry; and studious Nisha. But then prom night happened and everything went spectacularly, heartbreakingly, life-­changingly wrong.

She pictures herself standing outside her school on prom night, the last time she was here. Uncomfortable heels squeezing her toes. Feeling nauseous, her body crawling with a fear she’s not felt since, edged with excitement. Even then, she knew she was balancing on the brink of change.

“Anne Marie,” a voice says. “Is that you?”

She spins around, dragged back to the present day.

Taking two steps away from a balding man who is standing a little too close, grinning at her with crooked teeth, she squints, tries desperately to match a memory to him.

“Sorry,” she splutters finally. “I can’t quite…”

“It’s Dean, Eric’s best mate,” he says, laughing and apparently unfazed by her blank expression.

“Dean Harrison?” she cries, unable to hold back the surprise in her voice.

“Yep, you haven’t changed a bit,” he says, moving in for an awkward half hug.

She gets a whiff of stale whiskey and old-­fashioned aftershave. “Wish I could say the same about myself. Still feel like a teenager; the mirror doesn’t agree, though.”

He babbles away as they walk together toward the school. Anne Marie can’t help but take sidelong looks at him.

Was this really Dean? As her boyfriend’s best mate, she hadn’t noticed at the time, but now she realizes how gorgeous he was back then. Curly white-­blond hair like a crown, the palest of blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. Devastating in cricket whites. He was always laughing and smiling, always ready to make a joke or receive one, though often at the expense of others.

In her sneaky glances now, Anne Marie sees nothing of that boy she remembered. His hair is nearly gone, his odd-­shaped head too small for the rest of him, somehow making his nose and ears appear bigger, resembling a Punch and Judy puppet.

Wrinkles circle his eyes, like the sun’s rays on a child’s drawing.

His branded white polo shirt is well worn and yellowing at the armpits, hanging a little loose on his slim but unhealthy frame.

He is like one of those makeovers videos on TikTok she sometimes shares with Naomi—­but in reverse. A dim-­down instead of a glow-­up.

Anne Marie wonders what Yvette would make of adult Dean. Then her heart does another leap at the thought of seeing her former best friend tonight. After the prom, she cleared all the contacts on her phone, ignored any calls that came through, and kept away from social media.

She simply couldn’t face seeing any of her friends—­even Yvette—­after the humiliation she endured that night.

Would Yvette be cross with her? Or would time have soothed her hurt?

Anne Marie glances back up the drive, considers just turning on her heel and running.

But Dean is talking and talking at her, asking no questions, just repeating the same sentiment: Time has passed, they’re all older, and yet he feels the same.

She’s been swept along by the tide of former classmates and allows it to carry her toward the entrance, where a bunch of vaguely familiar faces are gathered.

One, wearing a baseball cap back to front as well as an American football jersey and baggy jeans, is immediately recognizable to them both.

“AJ! My man,” cries Dean, quickly stepping away from Anne Marie.

AJ—­or Andrew Jones—­turns toward Dean and accepts his enthusiastic hug but catches Anne Marie’s eye over Dean’s shoulder. He flashes her a confused expression.

Dean, she mouths to him, and he nods.

“Deano,” he says. “Long time no see. How you doing, man?”

“Bit of this, bit of that, staying out of trouble,” Dean tells AJ as Anne Marie walks past them and makes tentative steps into the reception area.

“Name?” an officious voice barks as she glances around at the dusty rows of class pictures on the wall. Is schoolgirl Anne Marie in there somewhere, still young and carefree? But there isn’t time to investigate, as the stern-­faced woman with a severe pixie cut sitting at the desk tuts impatiently at Anne Marie’s hesitation.

“Anne Marie Moorhouse,” she tells her.

“Oh, yes,” the woman responds, handing her a name badge. “So it’s not Stewart, then?”

Anne Marie accepts the badge but stares in shock at the woman.

How did she know?

Then Anne Marie is nearly knocked sideways at the memory of repeatedly writing “Anne Marie Stewart” in her diary as a love-­struck teenager. She’d forgotten all about that.

For the first time, she peers closely at the woman, who she assumed was a retired teacher helping out. Not one of her former classmates.

Initially, she’s at a loss to recognize the face behind the heavy black-­framed glasses and short hair.

Then the woman smiles at her, dimples dig into her cheeks, and her pale-­blue eyes twinkle like a cheerleader’s.

“Louisa?” Anne Marie says, remembering the twin sisters Louisa and Liliana, known as the “Timotei twins” for their long blond hair. Often they’d just get “TT” (which, of course, the boys found hilarious), as if they were one entity.

“Good to see you, Anne Marie,” she says, reaching across the table to hug her.

“Is Lily here too?” asks Anne Marie, glancing around for Louisa’s counterpart.

“She moved to Australia ten years ago,” Louisa tells her. “I’ve only seen her a couple of times since then. It’s hard to get over there, with kids and everything.”

Anne Marie nods to signal her understanding but thinks of how sad that is. Those girls were never apart when she knew them. They’d wear matching hairstyles—­plaits one day, loose and curly the next—­linking arms around the school, constantly whispering and giggling together, so content as a pair. She wonders if Lily has changed as much as her sister or is still flicking her golden locks on the gold coast.

Then her brain empties out. Small talk has never been a strong point. But tonight the skill seems to have abandoned her completely.

“Looks like a good turnout,” Anne Marie says finally, looking around at the growing queue behind her.

“To be honest, I think most people are here to see Eric,” Louisa tells her in a low whisper.

“Ah, life as a local celebrity,” Anne Marie says, forcing a flippant chuckle and starting to walk away.

“Not just local,” Louisa corrects her. “I’d say he’s a pretty big international star.”

“Uh-­huh,” murmurs Anne Marie, and she steps away from the table. Once Louisa is distracted by another classmate, Anne Marie folds the sticky badge over and tucks it into her bag. She would prefer to slip under the radar tonight. There are only a few people she wants to see, and she’s pretty sure she won’t need a name badge for them to recognize her.

In a bid to delay walking into the hall alone for a few minutes, Anne Marie steps sideways toward the rows of old school photos.

She walks along the corridor until she finds her year: 2006. There they are, all her classmates lined up in the spring of their final year at the school. To her eyes now, they’re still children, but she remembers feeling like a grown-­up in that moment, sick of wearing the school ties and blazers. Quickly, she spots her younger self, beaming confidently at the camera, her eyes dark and her face deathly pale thanks to her latest obsession with “smoky-­eye makeup” and layers of foundation. Next to her is Yvette, her body tilted toward Anne Marie, mouth slightly open, frozen in time midgossip. Prom had been weeks away, but they’d already picked out their dresses, spoken endlessly about how wonderful the night would be—­the icing on the cake of their charmed last year of high school. If only they’d known how it would turn out.

In the back row are Eric and Dean, arms folded, elbow to elbow, giving tight smiles, familiar poses from all their sports team shots. Anne Marie grimaces to herself; then her eyes move to the row in front, where she sees the familiar auburn hair of Ollie Bell. His head is turned toward teenage Anne Marie. She never noticed that before. She sighs at the image, imagines him turning up today, full of stories of his adventures traveling the world…

“Spot the idiot!” a voice mutters from behind her. A hand on her lower back makes her jump.

She spins around quickly and collides right into a tall man with trendy glasses and a tweed blazer.

It takes her a few seconds to recognize him.

“Barry!” she cries. “It’s you!”

“Anne Marie, as I live and breathe,” Barry says, pulling her in for a hug. His tanned clean-­shaven cheek brushes hers, and an expensive woody scent embraces her. Grown-­up Barry is a vision of healthy living, a world away from the last time she saw him.

He goes to stand next to her, taking in the old school photo.

“My mum complains she doesn’t have one picture of me as a kid when I’m just smiling normally; I’m always pulling daft faces,” he says, pointing at his sixteen-­year-­old self in the middle row. Eyes crossed, tongue hanging to the side like one of those Chinese crested dogs. Yet he doesn’t look well in the picture: His skin is so pale, cheekbones visible, acne dots his forehead.

Anne Marie tucks the thought away, laughs along with Barry. “That’s how I remember you,” she says, feeling relieved to have found an old friend.

“Oh, look, there’s Nisha too,” Barry says, pointing to the picture.

Anne Marie looks back and sees their friend in the front row, staring into the camera, unsmiling, arms folded neatly across her chest.

“Did you hear what happened to her?” he asks.

“No…” she mutters, biting her lip as she waits for the update.

“She quit school, never did make it to uni, fell out with her parents,” he says. “I don’t know the details, but sounds like none of her plans came to fruition.”

“Oh no, she worked so hard.” Anne Marie peers into Nisha’s dark eyes in the photo, feeling guilt wash through her body knowing she’d let her friend down.

“Perhaps we’ll see her tonight,” Barry says, then pulls Anne Marie in for another hug. “You honestly don’t look any older. And it’s been, what—­almost twenty years?”

“Thanks, but I don’t believe you,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears self-­consciously. “But you look wonderful, much better than on—­”

“Prom night?”

An image of Barry from prom pops into her head. Eyes sunken into his pale face, staring around fearfully, as nervous as an abused kitten.

Their eyes meet, and Barry’s expression darkens but then is quickly replaced by a sad smile.

“Ammo,” he says with a sigh.

The nickname Ammo takes Anne Marie back; she hasn’t been called that in years. Not since school.

“About prom night…” Barry starts, but then he’s cut off by Louisa’s bossy bellow.

“Make your way through to the hall,” she calls from behind them, and a stream of people follow her instructions.

“Better do as she says,” Anne Marie murmurs, slipping her hand through Barry’s arm as they follow the others into the old school hall.

On the stage opposite, there’s a large gold sign declaring “Class of 2006,” with the numbers made up of helium-­filled balloons, dancing away together, reflecting the spotlights so that the year 2006 dazzles. How can 2006 be twenty years ago? It just doesn’t add up.

It seems like only yesterday that she was standing in this exact spot, in her prom dress, looking over at the DJ booth, where the balloons are now.

Then, the well of the hall was a disco-­lit dance floor filled with twisting and grinding classmates, the girls in skimpy dresses and the boys in too-­baggy suits. Hormones, cheap perfume, and possibility filled the air.

Now the same area holds the grown-­up version of those same people. Standing, chatting politely, clutching their plastic cups protectively in front of them, nodding and grinning at each other. Mortgage chat, school catchment areas, and an undercurrent of competition is more the order of the day now, thinks Anne Marie. Being back in this hall does nothing to ease the overexcited butterflies multiplying and panicking in her stomach.

She squeezes Barry’s arm.

“See anyone you recognize?” she asks.

He shakes his head, his brow furrowed as he scans the room, and she sees he’s nervous too. Who is he worried about seeing?

“Let’s get a drink,” she suggests, spotting a pockmarked school table laden with plastic cups half filled with bright-­pink drinks. The table is manned by a familiar-­looking gangly man.

“Two?” he asks them, handing over the cups.

As Anne Marie takes hers, she spots the large ornate punch bowl at the center of the table.

Its cut glass edges are so at odds with the old-­school table. What’s more, it sparks a memory.

“Found it in one of the old cupboards—­covered in dust but cleaned up pretty well,” the man tells them, noticing her staring at the bowl.

“It was used at prom,” Anne Marie says. “Remember?”

She turns to Barry, but he shrugs and takes a large sip of the punch. Then:

“It’s Philip, isn’t it?” he asks. “Do you remember us—­Barry and Anne Marie?”

“Of course I do,” says Philip, blushing just like he did as a schoolboy.

Philip Fletcher, the studious kid who sailed along at the top of her class, appearing to exist on a different plane from Anne Marie and her mates.

“What you up to these days?” Barry asks politely.

“I’m a partner at an accountancy firm,” he tells them. “Three boys at home. My life’s just as boring as you’d imagine…”

“Not boring at all! That sounds fantastic. Well done, you,” Anne Marie says, lifting her cup to give him a cheers. Then she inwardly cringes; why did that sound sarcastic?

Philip gives a cautious smile and taps his water-­filled cup against hers.

“So what are you up to these days, Anne Marie?” he asks. “I always imagined I’d see you on one of those Cheshire Housewives–­type programs…”

“Ha! Don’t be daft. I’m doing OK, working as a sales executive for a fashion label. I’ve got a daughter,” she tells him.

She isn’t sure how selling her daughter’s old clothes on Vinted turned into working at a fashion label, but the lie just came out.

“Ah, that sounds great,” he says, then starts filling more plastic cups. Even her lie failed to impress, it seems.

Anne Marie thinks back to her school days. She recalls Philip gazing at her in class more than once. Back then, he was falling over himself to get her attention. Save my chool, she thinks.

“Well, we’d better go and mingle,” Barry says, holding his elbow out toward her.

In need of some liquid courage, she takes a large gulp of the room-­temperature drink.

“Yuck,” she says to herself as they walk back over to watch the expanding almost-­middle-­aged mass in the well of the hall.

“Not up to your usual standards?” Dean asks, suddenly appearing by her side, clutching a cup of punch, which he quickly downs, crunches the plastic cup in his hand, and then tosses it onto the floor, as if he’s in the middle of a rave.

“Dean—­look who I’ve bumped into…” she says.

As the two men lock eyes, she feels the atmosphere cool. A few seconds pass, and then Dean finally reacts.

“Bazza, good to see you,” he says, his voice overly loud and enthusiastic. He shakes Barry’s hand and then wraps his other arm around him in a forceful embrace that looks more rugby tackle than hug.

This grown-­up, muscle-­bound Barry doesn’t tumble to the floor, as the slimmer teenage version would have.

Rather, he stands firm and flashes Anne Marie a surprised expression.

“I bumped into Dean outside,” she tells him.

Barry widens his eyes and grimaces. They share a look that says, Hasn’t he changed. Remember when he was hot?

Barry switches his expression to a friendly smile as Dean finally pulls away.

“Looking good, my man,” Dean says, slapping him hard on the shoulder. “Remember when we used to call you Beryl?”

With that, Dean leans over, guffawing, his hands clutching his knees, as if it’s the funniest joke he’s heard in years.

Anne Marie notices Barry’s smile flicker, his hand touches the small gold ring in his ear.

She remembers Dean and Eric bellowing, “Beryl” or sometimes even, “Auntie Beryl,” along the school corridors. It seemed funny back then, but now she sees Barry probably wasn’t laughing at the time.

“You keeping busy, Dean?” Barry asks him.

“Yep, this campaign’s a full-­time job for us, trying to stop the bulldozers flattening this place,” Dean prattles on, puffing out his chest. “Eric said he might come tonight.”

At those words, at that name, Anne Marie’s anxiety escalates, and the sound of chatter in the room feels overwhelming. Everything in her is screaming: Leave right now! Go back to the flat where it’s safe. Well, safer.

“What about Yvette?” counters Barry. “Any sign of your childhood sweetheart?”

At that, Dean’s cocky expression fades away, replaced by a look of genuine horror.

Anne Marie finds a chuckle rising up her throat.

“Fancy another drink, prom queen?” Barry asks, holding up his empty cup.

“She wasn’t crowned prom queen in the end. Don’t you remember?” snaps Dean, before quickly recovering to grin too broadly at her.

Clearly confused, Barry looks between Anne Marie and Dean.

“Oh, I—­I thought…” he splutters.

“You’re right, Dean, I wasn’t,” admits Anne Marie, feeling her cheeks burn as she instinctively looks over at the stage opposite them.

She pictures Eric up there in his tuxedo.

Sweat shining on his handsome brow as he stands under a blazing spotlight.

The look of disgust on his face as he sees her fighting through the crowd to get to him.

Her heart starting to crack under her velvet dress as she propels herself toward him.

Toward inevitable devastation.

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