Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Piano Teacher of Montparnasse by Heather Morris, which releases on October 20th 2026.

In 1942, the Nazis come for a Jewish family living in the Montparnasse area of occupied Paris. In the chaos of their arrest, eleven-year-old Josephine runs to the only person she can trust: her piano teacher, Andrée Levallois, a secret French Resistance operative.

Andrée takes her in as a member of the family, spreading their rations and risking everything to keep her safe. But soon the authorities close in, and both Andrée and Josie are caught in a desperate race to stay alive.

Epic in scope and based on real people and historical events, Heather Morris has written a story of breathtaking beauty, at once gripping, heartbreaking, and uplifting.

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The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Piano Teacher of Montparnasse’ by Heather Morris appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from One of Us Must Die by Zelly Ruskin, which releases on October 20th 2026.

She married for love. He married for trust. Specifically, her trust fund—the one with the iron-clad “no divorce, no matter the circumstances” clause her mother insisted on.

Sterling (not as good as gold) has always come second to her family’s wealth—but unlike her mother, she’ll do anything to protect her three children. For years, she’s kept up the perfect family illusion to shield them from their manipulative, gaslighting father. But now her husband is becoming more reckless, and her children more exposed. And when her daughter’s fiancé says he wants a marriage just like hers, Sterling knows her charade has gone too far.

To free herself, she must outwit her husband and the legal ties meant to trap her—before it’s too late. Because in this family, there’s only one way out: One of them must die.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

Her Daughter’s Wedding Day

The combination of champagne and outrage made it a struggle to stay within the blurry yellow lines as Sterling drove her husband’s precious Porsche around a sharp curve. She didn’t know which route he’d taken, but she was certain of his destination. She yanked the wheel to make another left. “When I find you, I’m going to kill you,” she muttered.

Up ahead, she could make out a person running out of the giant brick pillars that marked his mistress’s development. Despite the mimosas coursing through her, she recognized Keith’s lopsided gait. How predictably predictable.

The desire for vengeance boiled within her. Her ears rang. The building pressure in her head was near exploding. This is your chance. If you’re going to do it, do it now.

A dark, urgent sensation oozed inside her. Keeping a bull-like focus on Keith’s red shorts, she gripped the steering wheel and released a raw, guttural scream. All she had to do was press the gas pedal. He’d stand like a superhero protected by an invisible force field, watching her hurtling toward him. His mouth would drop open when he recognized the sapphire-blue metallic paint of his own car. He’d raise his arm to shield himself with powerless desperation.

That image brought a calming sense of clarity—her husband was a mere weakling of a man. She hit the gas.

Eight Months Earlier

CHAPTER TWO

The Proposal

Sterling leaned into her husband, feeling his hands clasp securely around her before he kissed her cheek. Witnesses of their finessed affection could never guess it was a show for their benefit. Together, as the proud parents, they watched their daughter, Ella, glow brighter with awe and optimism as Avery slipped the ring on her finger and rose from his knee. The charter boat’s engine whirred, and the wind gently swept through Ella’s hair as they glided along the Long Island Sound. With the sun beginning to set behind them, the sky turned an ombré of blue.

The crew passed around the champagne amid hugging, laughing, and endless selfies. Ella made Avery restage the moment to get the optimal “he popped the question” shot for her social media accounts, and he happily obliged. Harper, Sterling’s youngest, whooped excitedly while balancing a camera stick, so her brother, Mitchell, could be with them via FaceTime.

Through it all, Sterling showed the proper amount of happiness. With her back resting against the boat railing, she savored the joyous buzz coming from her beautiful family. She squinted to view them as if capturing their idyllic portrait for some “They-Have-It-All” magazine. She’d done a brilliant job.

Sterling thumbed the wedding rings on her finger. It was on the day of her own engagement that she’d vowed to never make her children feel an iota of the valueless insignificance her mother had imposed on her. Her children would have a mother who was present in their lives. Their mother would show up when they needed her, root for them in all they did, and celebrate every milestone and achievement. They would feel loved always. But now, as the leisurely wind brushed her face, her stomach roiled with the tartness of self-reproach.

People viewed her like they did her house. All they saw was the classy, well-polished elegance—never the years’ worth of clutter shoved in the closets, or the heavy weight of well-hidden truths.

Against a backdrop of candlelight and the celestial orange-purple twilight, Sterling watched Ella and her now fiancé embrace. She prayed her oldest daughter had chosen more wisely than she had for herself.

“There’s my perfect wife.” In one effortless motion, Keith handed her a fresh flute of champagne and kissed her. Aging had been generous with him, and his current state of elation magnified his alluring good looks. And he knew it. He grazed his smooth lips on her ear, a sensation that used to give her irresistible chills. He let his hand slide suggestively across her backside and whispered, “You outdid yourself, sweets.”

His luscious compliment made her prickle.

As they returned to the dock in Mamaroneck, her future son-in-law looked at her with glistening eyes. “Thank you for helping me set all this up. It was a perfect night.” He hugged her, and with a voice crisp with anticipation, he added, “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure my marriage to Ella will be just like yours and Keith’s.”

Sterling dug her nails into her palms to hide her displeasure. Her painstakingly cultivated masquerade was spreading like an infection.

It was her mother’s doing, really. She was the one who’d orchestrated the airtight terms of the trust that had sucked Sterling into this existence. Some mothers express love through feeding, and some through shopping. Sterling’s parents were protectors, not of their children, but of their Durham family money.

Once upon a time, before Sterling developed a mind of her own, she’d seemed destined to be her mother’s favorite. Her mother had paraded her around in dumb, fashion-savvy hairdos. She’d bragged about the starchy Bergdorf outfits no normal child could play in. She’d shown off the proper manners her genius toddler displayed. Her mother’s pleasure for her was gratifying until she hit middle school and realized other kids’ mothers were openly affectionate with their children. They encouraged their daughters to be their best selves. Because that’s what mothers do. They didn’t publicly criticize their children or angrily pluck them from the pizza place when they hung out with classmates after school. Sterling could still see the astonished faces and hear their esteem-killing snickers as her hatred toward her mother intensified.

As the never-fading humiliation her mother caused rose like a blistering flame, Sterling’s dangling costume diamond earrings jangled as she shook off the sensation. She had to tamp it down and exude nothing but joy for Ella’s engagement.

After everyone disembarked the boat, the kids planned to take the party to a nearby bar. Sterling hugged her children and her daughter’s new fiancé goodbye. She’d see them again in a few hours—they were spending the weekend at her house—but she got those hugs in whenever she could.

The farewells and continued congratulations echoed around the docks as she followed Keith to their car. He held the door open until she was safely in her seat. Once he was in the driver’s seat and started the engine, he picked up her hand and pressed it to his lips. His deep copper-brown eyes looked up into hers hungrily. Sterling bristled. He expected sex when they got home. Warmth rose between her legs. She detested herself for wanting it, for needing the physical closeness, even if it was a poor substitute for genuine love.

Keeping his eyes on the road, Keith grazed his hand on her thigh for the thirty minutes it took to get to their home in Briarcliff. Sterling might have reciprocated in the old days when she still believed he was everything as great as he’d led her to believe. His once soft, rose-tinged cheeks had matured into a sexy chiseled look. The hair he used to over-slick with pomade in college was now full-bodied, with a tinge of salt to his pepper. The man could sell himself, though with his sweet smile and twinkling eyes, it wasn’t hard.

If Sterling hadn’t been such a wild teen, her mother would never have created that goddamned trust. If she’d conformed to the family traditions and her socialite mother’s uppity etiquette, would her life be better? What if she hadn’t come home drunk so often, or gotten caught in the basement making out with her high school boyfriends? She would never forget the ghastly look on her mother’s face when she drove the final dagger into her family’s traditional, elite expectations—she was going to be a photographer.

Her parents had taken her passion as a spit in the face. Despite their demands, and cut in allowance, Sterling refused to major in business, and rejected the idea that she would one day join the family real estate empire. Then she’d taken that knife and twisted it deeper, callously telling them she’d never get married or have children. She’d known how much they’d wanted grandchildren.

Keith pulled into their driveway and pressed the garage door clicker. He inched his hand closer to her crotch as the door slowly lifted.

What if she’d stuck to her principles? What if she hadn’t married Keith and had his children? There wouldn’t be a condition of Sterling’s trust saying if she left her marriage, she and her children would lose their inheritance. By striving to be the perfect, enviable wife and best mother, had she perpetuated her parents’ misguided meaning of love? Were Ella and Avery doomed to repeat the cycle because of it? Because of her?

Sterling and Keith made it as far as the living room couch before they hurriedly peeled away each other’s clothes, exploring each other’s naked bodies until they fit together as one. Their heat rose in anticipation of some philharmonic crescendo about to sweep them away. But it didn’t—at least not for Sterling. It rarely did anymore.

Afterward, Keith lay on top of her, appearing sated and sleepy. She held him and caressed his neck.

“I love you,” Keith whispered.

“I love you too,” she replied. She wished she meant it.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘One of Us Must Die’ by Zelly Ruskin appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Last Looks by Cate Holahan, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Bonjour, Miss Berry. I follow you…

Ensconced in a fabulous apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower, Cécile Duval is anxious for a postdivorce makeover. Who is Nina Berry, an on-the-rise personal stylist in America, to say no to a career-making proposal from an older, wealthy étranger? Except Cécile has secrets. She already knows Nina. Nina was her husband’s mistress, or so she believes. And Cécile doesn’t want a glow-up. She wants revenge.

Arriving in Paris with her fiancé, Jean, Nina is ready to absorb all the city has to offer and transform her new client’s closet, confidence, and entire life. She even tries to set Cécile up with a handsome man her age. Shopping together, working out together, and getting closer, they’re almost like friends. But Nina has no idea what’s coming. Neither does Cécile. Because she’s not the only one keeping secrets.

As the line between predator and prey disappears, a guessing game of deadly deceptions has only just begun.

CHAPTER ONE

Cécile Duval

 French women don’t take scalpels to their faces. Submitting a well-oiled visage to a surgeon’s knife is considered gauche at best, self-flagellation at worst. Chaque vie est un chef-d’oeuvre, as they say. Each life is a masterpiece. The vibrant colors of our creation will inevitably fade, becoming brittle and creasing, flaking away. Yet such weathering hardly detracts from a true work of art. It’s original Renoirs that draw crowds, after all, not freshly painted reproductions.

*****

I muse upon this bit of bullshit while wresting my hair into a ponytail, yanking the strands until the lines leaking from my eyes are sucked from my cheeks. Preventative Botox might have spared me the pain of tightening an elastic to fraying, but thirty-year-old me wholeheartedly believed female fictions about aging. I trusted that I’d be adored in my forties, admired into my fifties and beyond. My husband would view the rivulets beside my smile as evidence of a bountiful existence. Something to be celebrated.

The truth—conveniently omitted from French Women Don’t Get Facelifts and other self-help books applauding natural European ladies—is far less flattering to les femmes. While middle-aged Parisienne women congratulate themselves on being untouched, more than half their men are stepping out with younger women. The bourgeoisie here all know this statistic. I’ve attended enough Gallic dinners to catch quips about “the way guys are.” And I’ve been roped into more than one debate concerning the male’s biological directive to spread his seed in fertile ground, as if old balls were white-headed dandelions waiting on the wind to blow.

One more wrench of my hair and it’s time to confront my phone’s selfie-cam for a frank assessment. My reflection disappoints, to say the least. Instead of a girlish Ariana Grande, I’m facing a later-career Madonna before the beauty filters and plastic surgeries. Attractive, sure. But a tad… severe?

She is nothing of the sort, of course. Judging from her online photos, everything about this other woman is soft and supple. Her lips are a pouty bow. Her cheeks? The perfect padding to cradle a pert nose. I wasn’t surprised by her Instagram bio’s claim that she’d modeled before becoming a stylist. What was her quote? On the catwalks, fashion made me powerful. I want to give women the same feeling. 

More nonsense. Her thirties loomed and, unlike me, she’d read the tea leaves rather than simply placed their bags upon her eyes. A younger model would soon replace her, quite literally. She dodged that bullet by turning to a styling career which could keep her in the realm of the rich and connected long enough to snare a wealthy husband. Long enough to trap a few, in fact, then pluck the one with the plumpest bank account as her companion.

If only I’d learned to hunt so well at her age. I am still learning…

And that will be my angle.

That and money.

I set my phone atop the fireplace mantle, propping it against a picture of me in my before times. Before the miscarriages. Before the hormone shots that did little besides impregnate me with gas. Before my ex-husband’s business trips to London and New York.

A red bullseye sits on the bottom of my screen. I lean forward to press it, subjecting myself to a horrifying magnification of my skin texture. This is why I no longer use makeup mirrors.

I retreat three steps before again confronting the camera. “Nina, I found you. Well, your account. We know some of the same people—

Oops. Can’t say that.

The phone’s HD is throwing me off.  Also, this ’do isn’t working. It makes my hairline seem to recede. Her most recent photos flaunt a coif that frames her face perfectly, falling right at her clavicle, flirting with the nape of her neck in a style that’s both sexy and sophisticated. Its espresso color also pairs nicely with her complexion, which, honestly, isn’t that different than mine. Of course, she has a healthy glow, and I’ve been looking rather wan recently. Not completely her fault, though she’s certainly to blame.

With a wince, I pull off the hair tie and shake out my long locks. Several silvery threads peek from the dark and increasingly limp curtain that once complimented my bone structure but now draws it down. With luck, she’ll mistake my grays as highlights. I want her to find me attractive. Surely, she’d prefer to work with a good-looking woman whom she can post on her social media.

Again, I stop the video, treating myself to another zoomed-in image of my furrowed brow. I rub away the deeper folds while sifting through beauty filters. Amber glow? My skin looks jaundiced. Soft highlight? A white line divides my nose, pulling more attention to its lens-distorted size. Catfish?

What appears on screen is more rose-colored memory than real me. My face lacks a single expression line. The last time I was this wrinkle-free, I probably had acne. Nary a blemish mars this enhanced reflection. There are, however, longer lashes and a bit of added fullness to my upper lip, as if I’d eaten something spicy. This is me on the best day I never had.

I press record. “Hello Nina. I follow you. You’re beautiful. Obviously, you’re beautiful. And you know how to attract… Well, I mean you attract…”

The phone struggles to keep the filter on my moving face, stretching and distorting the image, turning my skin to taffy. I can’t send this. She’ll think I’m an AI-scam artist luring her with money only to skip out on the bill—or worse.

I do, in fact, plan worse. Though I can’t give her any reason to suspect that.

Perhaps my raw image is the best lure. The years have failed to erase all my je ne sais quoi. And at least she won’t doubt the need for her services. A tap of my screen ages me twenty years in a second. If comparison is the thief of joy, then the juxtaposition of one’s real self against a digitally perfected model is the bloody murder of it.

Bloody murder. Now there’s a thought.

I hit record a third time. “Bonjour, Miss Berry. I follow you online and need a stylist.”

A forced smile and some flattery round out my pitch. I name specific looks from her social media accounts to demonstrate that I’ve done my research and throw in her quote about helping women feel their best. I’m selling myself, I think, but not fully. Why work with a stranger three thousand miles away? How can little old me fulfill her self-described mission of making women feel powerful?

While I think of an answer, the phone’s green dot shines in my eyes. I stare at it, Gatsby on his dock dreaming of Daisy—that terrible, vapid bitch. Though she did run over her husband’s mistress and get away with it. I should be so lucky.

“My husband left,” I sigh, a soap opera character unburdening herself from a deep, dark secret. “I need a new look. A new life, really. And you’re clearly the woman for the task. So, name your price. It’s on him.”

And scene! My pitch is good. Enticing. Seemingly honest. In fact, everything I said is true save for my last words.

The reality is that my ex has already paid plenty. What’s coming next is truly on her.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Last Looks’ by Cate Holahan appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Monster in the Mirror by Janasha Prabhu, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Her uncle was a serial killer. The town whispers, could she be a killer too?

On the night Jiah Rai was found cradling her girlfriend Georgia’s dead body at the bottom of Wailing Cliff, everyone suspected her. There wasn’t enough evidence to charge her, but the town refuses to forget. Murder must run in the family. Jiah’s uncle was a convicted serial killer, and while he died behind bars, his legacy lives on in Jiah and her sister. It doesn’t matter that they’ve lived in Dumont their whole lives―they have never fit into the insular white community, and perhaps they never will

But legacy isn’t done with Jiah just yet. A few years later, a threat from Georgia’s brother threatens to crumble the shaky peace Jiah has rebuilt. Desperate to feel safe again, Jiah decides to take matters into her own hands and seeks support from her best friend, Estrella. After all, Estrella has been there for Jiah ever since they met after Georgia’s death. But when Estrella never shows up to a dinner party, a series of texts lead Jiah to the beach below, where she finds a body positioned exactly how her uncle displayed his victims over a decade ago. The killer mocks Jiah, hinting they know about her secrets, too. But is Jiah really the monster Dumont thinks she is? As Jiah hunts the killer, she begins to realize she might be unable to save the next victim…and that she may not want to.

Chapter 1

The rabbit lying gutted on my front porch had, of all things, a note pinned to it—held perfectly in place by a long stick shoved straight through its right eye.

I’d pulled into my driveway and there it sprawled, lit up like a macabre prank in the headlights of my car. I stepped around the blood. There was so much, I could smell it. It ran, trickling in wet lines from the body, and now it pooled thick and dark on the wood. I heard the faint patter of it where it dripped down through the planks to the ground below.

It’s going to stain, just sitting like that, I thought. A bitch to get out. You may have to repaint.

I knelt by the body carefully, slowly, setting my grocery bags down beside me, making sure I didn’t crush the eggs. I flipped on my phone light.

The paper note was thin and baby blue and covered in text. The stick punched a neat hole through the top of it, skinny and jagged. I grabbed it. My fingers shook a little from the adrenaline.

My gaze drifted back to the rabbit. It didn’t look wild. It looked like one of those big-eyed ones that hopped around their straw pen at the pet shop in the mall, little noses twitching. The ones with the floppy ears.

Bunny, I heard in my head, a voice from another time.

The other eye, the intact one, was milky-white, glazed, and unseeing. The bunny’s soft belly gaped wide, slit from sternum to hip, glossy innards slipping out to curl in loops against its matted fur. Despite all that, the killing blow had been the broken spine. I could tell by the angle of the long torso that whoever did this had taken that thin line of bone between two hands and jerked it in on itself. Could tell by the shy peek of its bones through the blood and the fur. Everything else came after.

Flies already buzzed around the body in the summer heat. I pressed two fingers into the fur at the rabbit’s back, feeling for warmth, and glanced over my shoulder toward where I’d parked my car in the drive. The yard rolled away in shadows, the trees lining it even more indistinguishable. It was a cloudy night, humid and dark. I heard nothing but the murmur of the wind through the woods, the distant crash of water against rock down on the beach below my house.

Don’t you think he could still be out there? I asked myself. Don’t you think you should get inside? He’s spilled blood.

I got up, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside, leaving the rabbit behind. Madeline, my blond streak of a cat, came immediately to curl around my ankles, and I was thankful for her warmth, for the light I kept on in the living room. I’d adopted Madeline with Georgia a few weeks after we started seeing each other—a spur-of-the-moment, spontaneous decision made after sex and too much wine. Georgia had named her the moment she’d seen her.

I hadn’t sensed anyone outside, but the blood slicked damp on my fingers, fresh. I was tired and hungry, the beginning of a horrible headache edging along the back of my skull. If Clark Graves was still watching me in the dark, I was no match for him in my current state.

Because it had to be Clark coming for me. I knew the moment my headlights illuminated the dark wet seeping down my porch steps.

Before it was the thick red sludge splashed over my windshield while I was at work, following the lewd graffiti at Reid Park, calling me a whore. Prior to that, the drunken rants in front of the Abbey, the one bar in town, and even farther back, the restraining order, after he left me with a black eye. All of it always led back to Clark.

Funny how a man I barely knew—had hardly ever spoken to—had become a shadow in my life. All because I loved his sister, his twin. Because I witnessed the unthinkable the night Georgia fell to her death.

I went to the kitchen to wash my hands and put the eggs and milk in the fridge. I poured a glass of water, pulling my sweaty, tangled hair back from my face after I’d drained it. Then I pulled the note from my jeans pocket and smoothed it in my hand to read it. I noticed an unfamiliar phone number printed below the words.

Only then, as my eyes slid over the lines of typed letters, did I finally feel afraid. Bile rose in my throat, sour and sickening. There was a distant thudding in my ears. For a moment, I couldn’t catch my breath, but when I did, the words on the note were crystal clear.

Your sister walks alone every night, it read. When it gets dark, it’s hard to see her. If I ran her over, what do you think the police would say?

Accident or murder?

Chapter 2

Dumont, like a lot of things, wore a mask.

Some mornings it was just a town—a small, seaside community nestled to the rugged breast of east New York. It was a two-hour train and bus ride to the city and closer to Montauk than Manhattan. A stubborn knot that consisted of a grocery store, two gas stations, one outdated mall, the police station, a hospital, and a convenience store with one pharmacy. It all fell together into a picture-perfect postcard, battered and caressed by the wind that blew in from the ocean.

Some days though, Dumont was disjointed, a drunken look into the mirror. The unfamiliar face looking back.

The forests grew dark and deep, their shadows and tangled roots pushing the rest of the town away. The sea shoved from the other side, the waves like hard fists. The old Victorian houses watched over it all, an audience of yawning windows and creaking porches, of dark eyes and rot-damp mouths.

Despite this, the town was close-knit. It was safe, everyone said. The kind of place to raise a family, settle down, knock on a neighbor’s door and expect to be greeted with a smile and an invitation inside.

Safe if you ignored the iced cliffs in the winter, the reckless college parties on the beaches during the summer, the deadly riptides that could snatch even the strongest man off his feet. Safe if you ignored the whispers, the words behind closed doors, believed the headlines and went about your way, telling yourself that nothing like that could ever happen to you.

A safe town, until you looked closer, deeper. Until you found yourself staring into the dark jaws of a monster, and then realized you were looking at yourself.

After all, push anything you think is innocent, weak, or soft too far, and it will undoubtedly turn on you the moment it gets a chance.

Later that night—when I couldn’t sleep, and I felt sure Clark had gone—I scrubbed the blood from my porch and thought about what I’d do.

In the end, the blood did leave a stain.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Monster in the Mirror’ by Janasha Prabhu appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Haunting of Lavender House by Natalie Kikic, which releases on October 20th 2026.
 
2026. All Petra has inherited are tales of loss. Which is why, after her mother’s passing, she is shocked to learn that her grandmother is not dead like she’s always believed, but alive and living on Tolba, a small island in Croatia. Desperate to find her last surviving family member, Petra ventures to her ancestral home, famed for its sprawling lavender fields. While she’s happy to be reunited with her grandmother, rarely does a night go by that Petra doesn’t lose herself to vivid nightmares and the dizzying sense that something—or someone—is always watching in Lavender House.

1895. Whore. Sinner. Witch. No matter how many people Magdalena heals, the rumors persist. So, when she’s asked to help the matriarch of Lavender House, she seizes the opportunity to rehabilitate her reputation. As Magdalena races against time to heal the ailing woman, she finds herself unexpectedly falling for the son of her greatest enemy, the man responsible for her ostracization. But are true love and acceptance possible for a woman who has always lived on the margins?

Back in the present, Petra finds it increasingly difficult to ignore the rumors plaguing her family: that a mora, a spirit from Croatian folklore, haunts Lavender House for revenge. As the sole heir to Lavender House, Petra must discover the truth of her inheritance, or else fall prey to the same curse that claimed her family.

Through the intersecting stories of Petra and Magdalena, Natalie Kikić’s gorgeous debut asks us to consider the lengths to which we go to belong, the cost of choosing love, and what it really means to be a monster.

EXCERPT

The island looms on the horizon, emerging from the water like an emerald mirage.

As the ferry draws closer, I wait for it to come: a tug near my heart perhaps, a flush of warmth spreading through my chest. That feeling people always talk about when they discover their roots, venture to their ancestral homeland. After all, Tolba is where my mom grew up, where she met my dad, where he died. But all I feel is a faint churning in my stomach, a prickling down my spine. This island has only ever been a mystery, a place never meant to be found. My mom made sure of that.

As a curt voice calls across the ferry, my mind clambers to interpret: Final stop. Tolba. Inhaling a deep breath of briny air, I skim the worn letter in my hands. Though it’s written in sprawling Croatian, I’ve reread it so many times that I’ve memorized the translation:

Dear Petra,

Thank you so much for reaching out, and for telling me about Marija’s passing. It pains me that she deceived you about my death. But it also doesn’t surprise me, with the way she abandoned me, our home, so harshly.

Would you like to come visit? I would dearly love to meet you.

With love, Your baka, Karmela

I stare at the word baka. Grandmother. I’m still getting used to the idea.

A photograph had accompanied the letter. I slide it out from behind the parchment. The back reads Jugoslavija 1989, while the front features two women.

I glance over Karmela’s modest blouse and honey-blond hair to focus on her smile. It’s gentle and inviting—an encouraging sign. I’d always been envious of my friends with grandmothers. The sage wisdom they passed down. The soft affection they emanated in a simple touch, a silent look. Maybe, now, I could have that too.

For a moment, I close my eyes and let my dreams dance across my mind: me arriving, us embracing. Her showing me her rustic home, where we eat and talk and laugh together for hours. Ever since I lost my mom, I’ve felt lost and adrift, but Karmela would change all that. Once we were together, I would finally feel whole again. At least, I hope.

My throat tightens as my eyes stray to the other woman in the photo. Some people have said I resemble her, with our matching dark hair, the spray of freckles over our twin noses. But I have never looked this radiant: tanned skin glowing against a summery red dress, wavy locks tumbling over slim shoulders, a carefree smile splayed across her face. So different from the serious woman I grew up with, who preferred muted colors and kept her hair meticulously pinned up. Back then, she wasn’t Maria, as I knew her, but Marija.

Majka. Mom.

The person who no longer exists from the country that no longer exists.

A part of me feels I should be sadder that I’m making this journey without her. But gazing at her taunting smile, all I can think of is one word burning in my chest: Liar.

A boisterous laugh pulls me back to the present as the ferry docks. The other passengers have already risen, their voices chat-ting excitedly in Croatian, brimming with rich ch’s and trilling r’s. Tucking the letter and photo back into my purse, I attempt to maneuver to the back of the line. Amidst the bustle, I accidentally step on a woman’s foot, and she curses, giving my vintage Manolos a sour look. They used to belong to my mom, and though I didn’t share her love of luxury brands, shoes were the one exception. I’d hoped the low, chunky heels would make a good impression on Karmela, but my feet already ache for release. “Sorry,” I say quickly. “I mean, oprostite.” The word tumbles out jagged and awkward from my mouth. It’s been years since I’ve spoken the language. To hide my embarrassment, I pull out my phone and double-check the last message from Karmela. She

had given me her phone number at the end of her letter.

Naći ćemo se na mulu. I will meet you at the pier.

Anticipation surges through me. As I heave my suitcase down from the luggage rack and step onto the landing outside, sunlight floods my vision. I lower my sunglasses from my head, squinting to make out the details of the island before me.

A row of wooden boats line a cement pier, bobbing up and down in a gentle current. Rugged rocks line the shore, transforming into rustic buildings with orange-tiled roofs and quaint cafés with umbrellas perched over picnic tables. Interspersed among them rise tall cypress trees, like deep green slashes of a painter’s brush. But what draws my eyes the most is the water.

It’s . . . ethereal. A bold shade of aquamarine, the subtle waves flashing like gems catching the light. Far different from the dark, murky water I’m used to back in San Francisco. The stunning scene should put my mind at ease; instead, it makes me wonder: Why would my mom abandon such a beautiful place?

I turn my attention back to the pier. I’d read online there are currently less than 120 residents on the island, yet it seems like a quarter of them are gathered here, waiting to greet the new arrivals. I search the crowd for some sign of Karmela, but all the faces blend together. Everyone is a stranger here, even family.

As I carefully step down the ramp off the ferry, the people converge on the other passengers, kissing and hugging with the exuberance of long-lost family and friends. I scan the crowd again with nervous excitement, combing my bangs into place and fanning my oversized blouse away from my sweaty skin. A few people turn and stare, their eyes scrutinizing. Where is Karmela?

I’m about to pull out my phone when I hear my name. “Petra Babić?”

A tall, bearded man with dark hair and sunglasses emerges from the crowd, approaching me with quick steps. He looks about my age, in his late twenties or early thirties. “Yes?”

“Super,” he says, though his tone is less pleased. “I’ll take that.” As he reaches for the handle of my suitcase, I instinctively pull it toward me.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

The man frowns as he raises his sunglasses onto his head. “You are here to visit Karmela, right?”

“Yes,” I hesitantly agree.

“I am Luka, her neighbor. She asked me to come get you.” A slight accent curls his words, though it’s not as harsh or heavy as others I’ve heard. As he speaks, he skims my figure, arching a stern brow at my shoes.

I stand up straighter, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow. Why didn’t she tell me this? I reach for my phone, to check if I missed anything.

As if he read my thoughts, Luka says, “She only asked me a few hours ago. I didn’t bother to send a message.” He takes out his own phone from his pocket. “I’m the one texting you. Karmela doesn’t have a phone, so she uses mine.”

Staring at the screen, I think of the stream of messages Karmela and I exchanged over the past few weeks. They were short and sporadic, just enough to arrange this trip. Still—the thought that they were being filtered through a random guy irks me. My shoulders sag in disappointment. Why didn’t Karmela come to greet me herself?

“So, can we go?” Luka asks, cocking his head. “Not all of us are on vacation here.”

I cast him an irritated look. I certainly wouldn’t call meeting estranged family after your mom died a vacation.

“Sure.” I grab my suitcase, following his lead toward a golf cart parked nearby. There are several other golf carts on the pier—it seems to be the preferred method of transportation.

As Luka lifts my suitcase onto the back, a man with tanned, leathery skin walks by, his eyes raking over my legs before he throws me a wink. “New girlfriend?” he asks Luka in Croatian.

Luka scoffs in response. “No. Karmela Petrov’s granddaughter.” My grandparents’ surname. “From America,” he adds in a scornful tone.

A spark of irritation flares in me, though I’m not sure which part bothers me more—the guy checking me out, or Luka’s dismissal. But then the man’s leery smile vanishes, and his eyes widen with astonishment—or fear.

Luka doesn’t seem to notice though. He settles into the driver’s seat beside me, then asks in a brusque tone, “Ready?” Despite the wave of anxiety that washes over me, I answer,

“Yes.”

Excerpted from The Haunting of Lavender House. © 2026 by Natalie Kikić, used with permission from Park Row Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Please Enjoy Your Stay by Tara Goedjen, which releases on October 13th in the US and on October 20th in Australia.

When they were teenagers, Mia’s beloved cousin was murdered during their stay at an infamous castle in the Austrian Alps. As the only witness, Mia’s testimony put the killer behind bars, but it tore her life apart: the media accused her aunt, a controversial true crime author, of being involved. Now, a decade later, the murderer is appealing his conviction, and a popular true crime podcast starts covering the case, determined to exonerate him, and resurfacing lies about Mia’s family in the process.

Desperate to protect her aunt—and what she knows to be the truth—Mia returns to Austria. The castle is being revamped as a luxury hotel, and Mia gets a job as a nanny for the new owner, hiding in plain sight as she investigates, needing to set the story straight once and for all. But after someone mysteriously disappears on the property and sinister new evidence emerges regarding her cousin’s death, she realizes she might have accused the wrong man…and put her own life in danger.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Memory of Borrowed Books by Meg Anderson, which is out now.

Deep in the library lives a hidden room

where magic lines the shelves and memories lie in wait

Ready for readers daring enough to finally discover the truth.

In the coastal town of Foxhollow Bay, librarian Claire Ashford keeps her life as meticulously ordered as the centuries-old library she calls home. But when the town announces plans to shut it down, her sanctuary, and the life she’s built within its walls, begins to crumble.

One night, while wandering the stacks after hours, Claire discovers a door that shouldn’t exist. And behind it lies a secret room filled with books no one else can see.

Each book pulls her into the memories of those who have passed through the library’s doors―moments half-lived and stories left unfinished. Buried within these pages is a message the library has been trying to share, urging Claire to uncover the path to saving it.

With the demolition looming and time running out, Claire must piece together what the library is trying to show her. But one book keeps calling her back, and in its pages is a memory that could change everything. One that reveals the key to saving the library may be tangled in her own memories more than she ever could have imagined.

An ode to the power of community and hope, The Memory of Borrowed Books is a sweeping story about what’s at stake when the places we love―and the memories they hold―are threatened. A reminder that what we fight to preserve just might be the very thing that saves us in return.

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Claire Ashford had been awake for thirty-nine hours. Not that she was counting, not that counting helped. If anything, it made the exhaustion feel heavier, pressing into her skull like the weight of an unopened book, one she’d never be able to read no matter how hard she tried.

She wandered the dim aisles of the old library, fingers trailing over cracked spines, hoping the books might whisper her a lullaby. It was well past midnight, long after the doors had been locked. But that was one of the perks of being the librarian, no one left to tell her to leave.

The library had long been her comfort, a shelter from the sleepless nights that had plagued her since childhood. Nights spent curled on the couch, waiting for the sound of her father’s heavy boots on the front porch and the reassuring creak of the door swinging open. He always came home, always kissed the top of her head on his way to bed. But she could never sleep until she knew for sure.

Now, years later, it was the uncertainty of everything else that kept her awake. Rumors swirled that the library might be sold, meetings were held without her, and with each passing week, the possibility of losing the only place that had ever felt like solid ground beneath her feet grew harder to ignore.

She turned a corner, her steps slowing as the air around her changed. The library always carried the scent of old paper and dust, but here, tucked away beyond the archives, there was something else.

It was older.

A newer current pulling her forward.

A draft brushed against her skin, and she stopped, just long enough for the ache in her chest to surface again. And there, nestled into the dark wood paneling, waited a door where no door should have been.

Her breath caught. She had worked here for years, knew this place better than she knew herself. So why did she have the unsettling sense that this door hadn’t been here before?

The handle was cold against her skin, chilling her fingertips as if it had been waiting just for her.

The door gave way, and the room tipped sideways.

Literally.

The library around her tilted, or maybe she was the one falling, and then there was nothing but darkness and a dream waiting on the other side.

CHAPTER 1

Thirty-nine hours earlier

The Foxhollow Library stood just outside the grasp of time. Nestled on the Massachusetts coast, it weathered seasons with the same indifference as the sea, unmoved by the passing years. It had once been the estate of Elias Holloway, the town’s founder, who turned his home into a sanctuary for words, a refuge as much for books as it was for people who needed them most.

Beyond the library’s arched doors, the sleepy town stirred beneath a sky just beginning to tip toward autumn. Foxhollow Bay, set between the Atlantic and its jagged coastline, moved at its own pace. Unlike its tourist-heavy neighbors, Foxhollow kept to itself. Its streets were lined with brick buildings bowed with age while shingled storefronts leaned into the salt air, their painted signs faded and rattling softly in the breeze.

For Claire Ashford, Foxhollow Bay’s unhurried cadence was the only thing keeping her upright.

People often assumed Claire was quiet and reserved, easy assumptions really. It was simpler to let them believe it than to explain that she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. That her bones ached from the weight of too many anxious dawns. That the only thing keeping her from unraveling entirely was the library’s routine, holding her together book by book and shelf by shelf.

A slow breath slipped from her lungs as she stood before the library’s stone facade, its arched windows and ivy-cloaked walls rising like a cathedral.

Inside, time folded in on itself High ceilings stretched above her, ribbed with timber beams darkened by age. Chandeliers hung like relics from another century, their bulbs flickering in protest and the stone floors worn smooth by decades of footsteps.

As she stepped between the shelves, grabbing her returns cart, her fingers grazed the spines she passed, and she swore she could feel the echoes of the people who had touched them before her.

Foxhollow Library had always felt secretive by nature, and Claire had never questioned it. But lately, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it. Whether it was exhaustion or her mind playing tricks on her, the building had felt different, recently alive in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

Whatever it was clung to her like the afterthought of a dream. Claire adjusted her hold on the cart as she forced herself to focus. Normally, the repetitive motion of aligning call numbers and sliding books home helped to settle her mind. But today, it offered her no solace as her thoughts whirled, scattered and restless.

The first rumor had surfaced a month ago, unease passed between patrons like contraband. “Did you hear?” soon turned into “The town is reviewing offers;’ and soon after that, “It’s only a matter of time before they tear this place down:’

Claire had dismissed it at first. Of course she had. Buildings like this didn’t just vanish, not this one. The Foxhollow Library was more than a building; it was history. It had withstood wars and recessions. Surely, no one would be naive enough to believe they would actually tear it down.

But then the signs had started to appear.

A slashed budget, secret meetings behind closed doors filled with loaded silences and evasive answers. Then came the men in suits, roaming the halls with calculating eyes, already deciding what would be left standing.

This place had been her sanctuary long before it became her career. If it vanished, she wouldn’t just be out of a job; she’d be set adrift without the only place that had ever kept her steady.

She knew every crack in the plaster, every quirk of the radiators, every faulty screw in each of the shelves. The thought of it being no more, replaced by a parking lot or overpriced condos, was unthinkable to her.

And yet, the unthinkable still circled.

Claire moved back through the shelves. Colors from the stained glass spilled over her as she paused, morning light dancing through in waves of ruby and honey that pooled across the stone in trembling mosaics.

With the board meeting approaching, sleep came in fits, Claire’s footsteps beginning to wear a path in her living room floor. She memo-rized budget lines like battle plans and jotted talking points on napkins and receipts. Maybe if she spoke loud enough to the board, pushed hard enough, reminded them what the library meant-to generations of readers, of dreamers…they’d reconsider.

But now, as she stood under the window’s mosaic light, it all felt different. The library seemed watched, trapped beneath glass.

A weary sigh left her as she turned down an aisle, balancing a stack of books on her hip. At this hour, the library was nearly empty, just a few regulars lost in their own worlds.

Which was why she noticed him immediately.

He was already there, settled into his usual back-corner table. His sketchbook was open, expression focused, pencil poised mid-stroke. His dark hair fell across his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with graphite. He wasn’t reading, which was normal. He never read; he never checked out books either. But he returned almost every day now.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nomad by Cynthia Johnstone, which releases on October 13th 2026.

After the sudden death of her brother, Corey retreats to a remote ranch in Sedona, Arizona, hoping the silence of the desert can drown out the noise of her grief. But the quiet only deepens her isolation—until a mysterious stray dog appears, pulling her back into the world and forcing her to face what she’s been running from.

Set against the stunning red rock canyons, Nomad is a lyrical, emotionally charged debut about trauma, resilience, and the wild grit it takes to heal. As Corey grapples with loss and the ghosts of her past, she’s drawn into unexpected relationships that challenge her guarded heart and crack open the possibility of love.

For readers of Prodigal Summer and A Town Called Solace, this is the story of one woman’s return to herself through the rhythms of nature, the ache of memory, and the quiet, untamed beauty of connection. It’s a tender, tough meditation on the raw path to healing—and the fierce, fragile hope that blooms in its wake.

EXCERPT

I gather my leftover kitchen scraps and head out to feed the chickens. I collect their eggs, half a dozen today, then begin walking the dirt trail that leads to my greenhouse. The humidity slaps me the moment I open the door—my lush paradise, tucked within this parched desert.

Ten-foot-tall pitched ceilings offer breathing room while a long rectangular cedar frame, painted white, in need of another coat, surrounds me on all sides. I can almost taste the Roma tomatoes the moment I walk in, their sweetness filling the air, sugary, earthy. I nearly salivate thinking about the marinara I will soon be making with them. The floorboards let out gnarled moans as I walk past the lettuces, chard, kale, arugula, and butterhead, but I find these noises comforting and beautifully familiar by now, as if the earth has found its own way to greet me.

A potting station sits at the north end, overflowing with petri dishes teeming with seeds, vines, and propagating clippings in various stages of growth, as well as bags of soil, sand, and pumice. I have an arsenal of homemade fertilizers that I apply as needed, along with bottles of vinegar, baking soda, garlic, and neem to ward off viruses and disease. And anywhere there might be a shadow of space lie mounds of clay pots, awaiting their next seed. A collage of gardening tools hangs from hooks alongside an old battery-powered radio.

I check on my peppers, chilies, and melons. Inspect the potatoes and beans, then survey the onions, carrots, and herbs. I prune, pluck, snip, and clip, so thoroughly absorbed in my tasks, humming along to the staticky radio, that I nearly walk past the meandering crack in the windowpane in the southwest corner. I set down my basket of vegetables and step closer. A burgundy smear runs alongside the crack. How strange, I think, this looks like blood.

I step outside to inspect the crack, and as I crouch for a closer look, something catches my eye—a small tuft of saffron-colored hair. I roll it between my fingers, watching how it catches the bright morning light. When I bring it to my nose, the scent is unexpectedly primal—like desert soil after a storm. With a gentle toss, I release the strands into the wind and watch them scatter. The cactus wrens will find them, I think, picturing how they’ll weave this unexpected gift into their nests. Without a clear answer, I shrug off the mysterious crack and fetch my wheelbarrow. The metal joints creak in protest as I load it with empty water jugs and push it down the well-worn path through the manzanita grove. Suddenly, something flickers in my peripheral vision. I stop as a patch of sunflower stalks erupts into motion. My pulse quickens; out here, this kind of movement usually means rattlesnakes. I don’t want to take any chances. Keeping my eyes locked on the stalks, I inch backward, dragging the wheelbarrow along like a shield. Then—suddenly—a pointed ear pokes up through the tangle of gold flowers, followed by another. I exhale. It’s just a jackrabbit. I catch glimpses of its fur as it bounds away, disappearing into the thick brush.

Jackrabbits are common out here and certainly of no concern, so I continue down the path another few yards but pause when the rustling picks up again. It’s closer now, though still well-hidden. I turn toward the noise and make a short clicking sound with my tongue. Sure enough, the movement resumes. I watch curiously as the thick stalks slowly begin to part; it’s moving closer. I step back, unsure what to make of this unusual behavior, when suddenly, both ears emerge, followed by a snout and two large eyes. “What in the world?”

It’s a dog.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from the audiobook of Bad Words by Rioghnach Robinson, which releases on October 6th 2026.

Parker Navarro’s debut novel was meant to define his career – until critic Selina Chan’s blistering review made it the flop of the decade. Four years later, his new book is his shot at redemption; for Selina, reviewing him again is a professional risk she can’t refuse. When her second takedown ignites a viral feud, both their fortunes shift overnight. But as the literary world feeds on their public sparring, a quieter dialogue begins – one that challenges everything they thought they knew about success, sincerity, and each other.

Both incisive and tender, Bad Words lays bare the costs of creation – the pull between ambition and integrity, the vulnerability of being seen, and the unexpected closeness that can grow in the space between critique and care.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Undercover Bookshop by Katherine Reay, which releases on October 6th 2026.

Recently moved to the English Cotswolds, Gemma Brown desperately wants to create the kind of idyllic life she’s read about in her favorite mystery novels, with herself as the leading lady. But fitting in proves difficult as Gemma is more adept at solving mysteries and setting up the village’s first bookstore than she is at baking cakes or grasping social niceties. Nevertheless, she finds a friend in Peggy, a young woman recently moved to town herself, and Ursula Beurton, who is not only the village’s best baker but an enigmatic figure who sparks controversy in the small-town gossip network.

As Gemma spends more time with Ursula, she begins to suspect all those novels are affecting her thinking. The oddities she starts to notice must be her imagination because, if not, they point to something far more dangerous than winning the local baking contest or being placed on the church committee. Could her neighbor be a real spy?

Following her instincts and a few skills learned through fiction, Gemma soon becomes embroiled in an international intrigue involving the village’s mysterious benefactor, Lady Marchmont, MI5, and the KGB. In an unexpected twist, however, Ursula asks Gemma for a favor which may endanger all their lives as their next chapter unfolds in Gemma’s new venture, the Undercover Bookshop.

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Tuesday, 5 November 1991

LONDON, ENGLAND

We are delighted to announce that Ruth Werner’s bestselling novel Sonja’s Rapport has released an English translation under the title Sonya’s Report. Mrs. Werner will be traveling throughout November and December to promote sales and has personally requested an evening event at The Undercover Bookshop. Please reply if 4 December is available. Books and promotional materials to follow.

Ruth Werner.

I draw in a deep inhale and it catches in my throat. The world blurs at its edges on the exhale, and I drop onto the stool behind the shop’s customer service counter, laying down the letter. It shouldn’t shock me, yet it does. It’s certainly a surprise. Ruth Werner is coming to England. Ruth Werner is allowed to come to England.

After all these years . . .

Easy, Nora. Easy now.

The words come to me without prompting, as if pulled from thin air and the distant past. Just as she had so often said them all those years ago. Well, not quite as she said them. Much has changed in forty-­one years. One thing in particular. Nora.

My thoughts flit from my relationship with the bestselling author to our country’s decades-­old entanglement with her. Why is the government letting her in? No one outside a select few knows what she’s done since her escape in 1950. No one knows she might now be called a friend rather than one of our greatest foes. And, considering who she is, even that’s an open question.

What a powerful enemy she was. She ran the Soviet Union’s biggest ring of informants and spies, passing along top-­secret economic, military, and financial data—and more. She was responsible for giving—­via “handling” Klaus Fuchs—­the Soviets the atomic bomb, along with advantages that put them ahead of Great Britain at nearly every step during those beginning Cold War years.

I close my eyes to consider what game is being played. Is the government trying to rehabilitate her reputation in England? Will they share what she’s done for Britain to placate her detractors? A derisive laugh escapes at the impossibility of that. Certainly the Soviets would shut down such a publicity stunt.

Granted everyone seems to believe the Soviet Union will fall soon and that it’s no longer a viable threat, but when is the KGB not a viable threat? One does not betray it and live to tell the tale. Her work—­our work—­will remain a secret. Probably long after we both are dead.

Nevertheless, I look around my bookstore, the second love of my life, and wonder what will become of it. And what will become of me, if there is a game playing in the geopolitical background—­there are always at least a few games running—and I’m the pawn to be sacrificed.

I run my hand over the printed letter. Excitement and dread, in equal measure, war within me. She is coming to England and my bookshop will host her. This will happen. There is no escaping it. I simply pray I haven’t been duped by her, that what we’ve done over these past years has been what I think it’s been—­good work—­and, perhaps, she truly does mean to atone for the damage she caused.

Another deep breath and my heart calms. I haven’t been duped by her because I am not the scattered young woman—searching for home without an understanding of what it meant, distracted by life, by hope, and by dreams—­she found standing outside her door that long-­ago cold January morning. I grew under her tutelage, and I have carried her lessons further. My mind grew focused. My attention grew sharp. My thinking slowed until I could strategize, make connections and inferences almost as effectively as she did. I have not been her pawn. I have grown into her equal.

Yes, she taught me a great deal, but I made my own decisions, too, even back then. I did not follow her blindly. Perhaps I even taught her something. Perhaps that is why the government is letting her into England. Perhaps all is well and this is nothing more than a book tour.

Or perhaps she’s got another move up her sleeve.

After all, this isn’t simply a bestselling novelist we’re talking about. Ruth Werner is merely her pen name. This is the Soviet Union’s most famous and most celebrated spy. Ursula Kuczynski Beurton.

And with Ursula, nothing is what it seems . . .

Excerpted from The Undercover Bookshop, by Katherine Reay. Harper Muse, 2026. Reprinted with permission.

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