Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Served Him Right by Lisa Unger, which releases on March 10th 2026.

Ana Blacksmith has gathered her closest friends and sister Vera for a brunch to celebrate her recent breakup from her boyfriend Paul. But when shocking news about Paul arrives, all eyes are on Ana, the angry ex with a bad reputation. Suspicions only intensify when Ana’s best friend falls deathly ill after the brunch.

But Ana is not the only one who had a score to settle with Paul. As the investigation unfolds, rumors of a secret network that uses ancient methods to obtain justice begin to emerge. Vengeance is sweet, but it can also be deadly. Ana and Vera are determined to find the truth before Ana takes the fall and their own long-buried history comes to light.

EXCERPT

She really needed this job. That’s why she was always there a half an hour before her boss got in, why she was often the one to turn the lights off after everyone else had left, sometimes even there when the cleaning crew arrived at night. She came in on weekends when she knew Paul’s work week ahead was heavy to make sure he had everything he needed for his various meetings, that his calendar was in order.

“You’re meticulous,” he told her. “What would I do without you?”

Meticulous. She carried the word around like a gold star. Meticulous. On top of things. Never missing a step. And her boss, Paul, he was good to her. When he stopped at Starbucks on the way into the office, he picked her up an oat milk latte, left it on her desk. He praised her in meetings, and to his own boss. He put in for her raise, and she got it. She hadn’t even asked.

Of course, she knew all the rumors about him. How he was a different man when he’d had too much drink. How he took credit for his colleague’s work. How he got aggressive, handsy. But Jessica had never seen a hint of any that. He did his job. She did hers.

Sure, there were a couple of office affairs—Beth in Marketing, Marie in Social Media. There had been some drama there; she wasn’t sure what. She tried to stay out of it, didn’t hang out in the break room where people gathered to whisper about this and that. She wasn’t like them; they all seemed so carefree, meeting for brunch and happy hour, driving new cars, taking expensive trips.

But Jessica wasn’t carefree. She had debts—massive student loans. There was no safety net. Her parents both passed and had left her with nothing except more debt. It wasn’t their fault. They’d worked hard, too. That was the way of it for some people, wasn’t it? Work hard and still can’t get ahead. But Jessica was steadily chipping away at her debt, even managing to save and invest a little.

Though this job paid well, if she was doing what she went to college for, she’d make more. But when she’d been applying, this position was offered first. She figured she’d take it just to pay the bills and keep looking. She’d make a change soon. But for now, she needed to be here. She wanted to be here.

So, today when Paul asked her to stay late to help with his client presentation, she didn’t hesitate.

“Of course,” she said. She had plans; she’d cancel them.

“Don’t worry about dinner,” he told her. “I’ll order in Thai.”

Truthfully, she liked Paul, even though many of the women in the office did not. He was funny, kind to her, hardworking. No, no. It wasn’t like that. Jessica had someone special in her life, someone she loved. Paul wasn’t her type. Like, not at all.

The project he needed help with was a big pitch for a brand- new client, a bespoke gym founded by an influencer who needed a full suite of services from traditional advertising buys to a publicity campaign, to website design and social media management. If Paul landed this account, it would mean a lot to the firm, which had lost a few clients last year for various reasons— some said because of the rumors swirling around Paul. But she didn’t believe that.

Anyway, Jessica had been researching the client all day, and she had some ideas that she was excited to share with Paul. She’d dressed for it, too. She wore her new black suit, with a white silk blouse and pumps. Dress for the job you want. Isn’t that what they said? She wasn’t going to be like some of the people her age, showing up in hoodies and pants that could be pajamas.

Now the office was emptying out, people heading out for happy hour. They always invited her. Her colleagues at the firm were warm and inclusive. But Jessica kept herself apart, mainly because she was shy, not a bar person. And her partner worked here, too, in another department. They kept their relationship out of the office. Even the contact in her phone was just the letter M, because they didn’t want to be the subject of office gossip mill.

Her phone pinged.

Hey, there. Ready to go? Still feel like a movie?

Sorry, babe. I have to stay late to help Paul with his presentation.

. . .

Alone?

It’s fine. He’s not like that with me.

Okay. Well, stay in touch. If things get weird, get out.

Jessica smiled. Because M worried about her, and also because Jessie thought all the rumors about Paul were simply not true. She’d never seen that side of him, not even a glimmer. And wouldn’t she have? Working so closely?

She hustled to the conference room down the hall, got set up. She was a little bit nervous. But when Paul joined her, she presented her research, all her ideas; they used the whiteboard to brainstorm. After a while, he ordered the food. And they continued working.

It was after ten by the time they’d finished, the office dark and empty, even the cleaning crew gone. She’d received a couple of worried texts from M, but Jessica offered assurances that all was well and that she’d come by after and spend the night.

As she tidied up the room, keeping her notes so that she could do the PowerPoint for the presentation, Paul left and returned with a bottle of vodka and two glasses.

Jessica really didn’t drink.

“You know,” he said, pouring generous portions into the glasses. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this without you. Especially the social media stuff. You have a real gift for that.”

She had always been good with tech. In fact, her degree was in computer science, which she didn’t talk about much because it was a little embarrassing that she’d worked so hard for it only to find she wasn’t using it at all in this job. She had a gift for coding, too. She’d applied for work in the IT department, but there wasn’t an opening. And she needed the work. So, when they offered the assistant job, she took it, hoping to move when she proved herself.

Her life after college had been fraught. She’d struggled to find her footing after her parents passed. She knew she should be trying harder to get a job in her field; M was always encouraging her. But truthfully, she liked it here. This is where she met M. She’d made real friends here, even though she rarely attended the group outings. She felt safe, secure. There was time for the big job she hoped to have. She was young.

“Social media is such a big part of marketing these days. Maybe the biggest piece,” she said. “People are living online, getting all their news and advice there. And the owner already has such a big following. We can really leverage that.”

“And the idea about pitching the owner for big podcasts and podcast advertising,” he went on, handing her a glass. “I love that.”

She took the glass, even though she didn’t want to. She was driving and she didn’t do well with alcohol. It was a big part of the reason she didn’t go to happy hour. Liquor hit her too hard, and she didn’t like who she was, or how it made her feel. But she didn’t want to disappoint her boss. So she raised the glass to her lips and took a swallow. It burned going down and she must have grimaced, because Paul laughed a little.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You’re a lightweight.”

It was easy, good-natured. Jessica laughed, too. “I guess so.”

“To you, Jessica. Thanks for always having my back and going the extra mile. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had. You have a bright future here at the firm.”

He raised his glass again, and she took another deep swallow. She’d call an Uber if she had to, or text M to come get her.

“Thank you,” she said. “For being such a great boss, for encouraging me.”

Another big swallow.

Her phone pinged again.

Hey, it’s getting late. All good?

Truthfully, that’s the last thing she remembered clearly, that text, those words swimming on the screen.

She reached for her phone—she remembered that—and the world seemed to tilt.

Paul’s voice, heavy with concern. “Oh, hey, there, steady.”

His hands on her arms, holding her up. She tried to apologize but the words wouldn’t come, and then his mouth was on hers, and his arms tight around her. And she didn’t have any strength to push him away, or any voice to say no. This isn’t happening, she remembered thinking. It’s a dream. And then everything was just fuzzy, then black.

The next moment Jessica was aware of herself, she was sitting in the driver’s seat of her car. Her seatbelt was fastened. The lights in the lot glowed, casting everything in grayish sodium flicker. The office building was completely dark and there wasn’t a single other car. The moon high and full.

Her mind grappled for context. How had she gotten here?

She’d been working late. With Paul. Then—

She ached. The skin on her face felt raw. In the visor mirror, she saw that her lipstick was smeared across her face, her hair wild. She felt him on her—her arms where he gripped her. Her back where she knocked against the table. Her skirt was hiked high up on her thighs. Her panties. They were gone. She could feel him down there, a terrible sore, rawness.

The truth broke over her like a wave, swamping her, knocking her under.

She leaned over the steering wheel and wept, body heaving, wailing.

What had he put in her drink? How could she be so stupid? She should have known. Women don’t start rumors like that about men unless they’re true. They don’t warn you to watch your back and stay away and don’t get caught alone with him anywhere, unless there’s a good reason. She felt a rush of shame. How could she not have seen it?

She reached for her phone. The screen was filled with missed calls and texts from M, who was frantic.

Where are you?

What’s happening?

Please, please, pick up, honey. I’m so worried.

She looked at the time and was shocked to find that hours had passed since she took the first drink. She was shaking, couldn’t even bring herself to call M. How could she say what had happened to her? She didn’t even remember. She’d been alone with him, drinking with him. She’d taken off her suit jacket, hung it on the chair. She knew her silk blouse was flattering. She’d clocked his gaze. She should have put her jacket back on then. But she hadn’t.

She started the engine, shivering from fear and pain and the cold. Her windows were frosted. She could still smell his cologne.

She pushed open the door and vomited onto the blacktop.

Take a deep breath, her mother would say when Jessica was upset. Just breathe.

She did that, slow and deep, pulled herself together. She texted M.

I’m on my way to you.

She didn’t read the replies which came one after another in quick succession. Ping. Ping. Ping.

Jessica started to drive, moving slowly through the lot. She wondered if she should be driving. She’d go slow; she’d be okay. That’s when she saw him, waiting. He sat in his Porsche over by the exit, just idling. As her car approached his, he rolled down the window.

“Great job tonight,” he said. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

He gave her a wide smile and she saw what others before her had seen. A predator. A monster. He lifted a single manicured finger to his lips.

“Hush now,” he said. “Not to worry. I won’t tell anyone how you behaved tonight. It’s between us.”

Then he closed his window and roared away.

The shaking—it was almost comical. Her hands could barely hold the wheel, her teeth were chattering. The fear. The shame. The rage.

The tangle of feelings manifested themselves not in a scream, but in a deluge of tears.

That rage. It would find a home in her belly, a pot of pure molten lava.

She would drink from it, and it would make her stronger.

Everything that came next would come from that place.

Excerpted from Served Him Right by Lisa Unger, Copyright © 2026 by Lisa Unger Published by Park Row Books.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Served Him Right’ by Lisa Unger appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lisa Unger’s Close Your Eyes and Count to 10, which is out February 25th 2025.

When the real game begins, who will make it to the count of 10?

Charismatic daredevil and extreme adventurer Maverick Dillan invites you to the ultimate game of hide-and-seek. But as the players gather on Falcao Island, the event quickly spirals into a chilling test of survival. A storm rages as a deadly threat stalks the contestants, turning the challenge into something far more sinister than the social media stunt it was intended to be.

Enter Adele, a single mother with a fierce determination to protect her children at all costs. When she begins the game, she unwittingly enters a twisted web of deception and intrigue. Can she maneuver through the treacherous storm and the relentless competition and get home to her family? In a ruthless battle for survival where the stakes are higher than ever, the blurry line between the virtual and the real proves that the only person we can trust is ourselves.

“Oh, hell no,” Hector said from the back seat of the Ranger Rover.

Maverick, at the wheel, could see Hector’s worried expres­sion in the rearview mirror. His old friend ran a hand over his thick mop of dark hair, a thing he did when he was stressed, his doughy forehead moist and crinkled. Hector was often stressed. “That’s a hard pass, Mav.”

Maverick brought the SUV to a stop in front of a towering graffiti-covered sign very clearly warning them away. PELI­GRO! DANGER! GO BACK!

“Aw, come on,” said Mav, looking back at Hector with a smile. “Don’t be such a baby.”

“Why is it that when something says danger or go away, you view that as invitation?” asked Hector.

Riding shotgun beside Maverick, Gustavo was loose and easy, tattered hiking shoes up on the dash. Gustavo laughed and held out a fist which Mav bumped with his. “Because he’s Maverick.”

“One of these days you’re going to get us all killed,” com­plained Hector.

It was their shtick, their routine. “But not today,” Maverick answered. Hector grinned at him in the mirror.

As they passed the towering sign and rounded the bend in the road, the abandoned hotel rose before the vista, windows yawn­ing black, overgrown foliage leaking from the roof, deep fis­sures in the concrete walls. It was a great shadow looming at the precipice of a steep cliff overlooking a glittering volcanic lake.

The last light of the day glinted on the still water.

Maverick felt that familiar excitement, that electric current through his veins. His whole body vibrated with it.

The dark structure hulked, a huge concrete dare. Man, how he loved the broken thing, the jagged edge, the crumbling ruin. It thrilled him to see how things broke down.

“Holy shit,” said Gustavo, dropping his feet and leaning for­ward. He was lean and muscular, with a square jaw, and long black hair that he pulled back into ponytail, a bandanna over his head. That toothy smile, a wide arc of mischief and joy. It al­ways connected Mav to his inner adolescent boy. “This is going to be extreme, brah.”

“This is going to be nothing if we don’t get a permit from the town council,” said Angeline from beside Hector in the back seat, tapping on her phone.

“We’ll get it,” said Maverick. They locked eyes in the mir­ror. “Trust me.”

“Like Mav doesn’t always get what he wants,” said Alex from the too-small third row of the vehicle. He’d been mostly quiet on this trip, except to chime in with something negative. “In the meantime, he’s going to bankrupt us if we keep having to pay everyone off.”

“It’s not a payoff,” said Maverick. “It’s a donation to build a li­brary for the town. Just trying to grease the wheels.”

“Hmm,” said Alex. “Okay.”

Mav looked for Alex’s indulgent smile, the one that made him feel like everything was okay, but his friend was staring at his phone. Frowning. His vibe was off. Trouble at home, maybe. Alex and his wife Lucia had a new baby, and Mama was not too happy about this outing.

“I can’t just pick up and go at a moment’s notice anymore, Mav,” Alex had complained before the trip which he had vig­orously opposed.

And that was exactly why Mav was never having kids or teth­ering himself to a woman who wanted to settle down. Angeline had an adventurer’s heart. He glanced at her in the mirror again. She and Alex had identical postures, heads bent over their re­spective screens, faces glowing in the light. If Angeline thought about marriage and kids, she’d never said so.

He pulled the vehicle to a crunching stop and stepped out. The air was so fresh that it made his lungs ache, everything around him a dripping, fecund green.

Maverick held up his phone and tried to frame the view before him on the screen. But there was no way to capture any of it, its beauty, its drama. The deserted structure sucked in all the light. The mineral green of the water, the hyperorange and gunmetal gray of the sky, and the rolling mountains beyond were made flat and dead by two dimensions. Even his eyes could barely take it in. You can’t squeeze the whole world into that rectangle in your hand, his dad, who refused to carry a smartphone, liked to say.

That’s not what he was trying to do. The phone—it wasn’t a box. It was a portal. He was trying to give something to his fol­lowers, many of whom rarely left their gaming chairs.

“It’s perfect,” Mav said, the silence swallowing his words. But it wasn’t really silence. The movement of the trees, the wind, the calling of birds, the rustling of undergrowth wove a chorus of whispers, a landscape of sound.

No one answered him.

Angeline was on her phone again. Having exited the vehicle, she moved purposefully toward the tilting gate at the grand en­trance. Her form was a slim shadow, tiny against the towering old-growth forest.

Though he had the urge to call after her, bring her back closer to him, he stayed quiet, watching her. Her voice, but not her words, carried on the night. She sounded angry. But then she was usually angry, or at least annoyed. As the chief operating of­ficer of Extreme, she was constantly in the middle of his circus, cracking the whip. Making sure things worked, that the haters stayed at a safe distance, that his plans came to life.

Gustavo and Hector already had the gear and were moving toward the open corpse of the hotel, laughing, their voices echo­ing. Gustavo Bello, or Tavo as they mostly called him, with Hec­tor’s reluctant help would rappel down the empty elevator shaft to inspect the foundation. Extreme’s social-media director and main sidekick, Tavo could and would climb in or out of anything with agility and grace. As thin and powerful as a galvanized-steel cable, his body was seemingly not beholden to the laws of gravity that others had to obey.

Hector Cruz’s role—his official title at Extreme was pro­ducer—was to stay on the sidelines telling them to be careful, identifying potential threats, managing safety. He was the one holding the rope, pulling them out when things went FUBAR.

Alex Tang, number cruncher, was still in the vehicle.

“You coming?” Mav called.

But Alex gave him a wave, pointed at his screen. Maverick pressed down a rush of annoyance, their last conversation—fight, really—still lingering.

The numbers don’t work, Mav. We’re in major trouble.

It’s your job to make the numbers work, isn’t it?

I’m the CFO, not a fucking magician.

Mav hesitated another second, then followed Hector and Tavo, watching the beams of their flashlights dancing around the near darkness.

When he was closer, he spun around and flipped the camera so that it was his own face he saw, turned to put the hotel and the vista behind him. He knew that he should tell Angeline that he was going live, but instead he just pressed the button.

“Hey, guys.”

He was supposed to say folks or y’all. Guys was misogynis­tic or at least neglectful of the fact that not everyone in his vast following was male. Though, most were. Most were boys to be honest, teenagers, young adults. But he had his passel of teen girls, too. Apparently, he even did well with the ClickClackers who skewed a little older. According to Tavo, who knew about all things web and social, the ClickClackers were hot for Mav.

The likes and comments started streaming in.

ManSplain: Mav, where are you dude?

Kittycatxxx: You’re so so hot

Fairywings: I luv you mav

Glittergrrl: Marry me

Joshwuzhereyo: Douchebag

“Behind me you see the shell of what used to be Enchant­ments, a resort here on beautiful Falcão Island that sits in an ar­chipelago the middle of the Atlantic.”

That wasn’t the actual name of the hotel. It’s original name was Esperança. But Mav kept stumbling over the right pronun­ciation, so he changed it—against Angeline’s wishes. But no one would care, right? The hotel went out of business long ago, and there was barely anything about it online. The word Enchant­ments sounded better to Mav than Esperança, which meant hope. And that had clearly died here long ago. It was depressing. En­chantments was optimistic, magical.

Pokemaz69: Looks like a dump

Climbergirl: Holy shit that’s scary

Bloxman: What are you doing there, man?

He usually didn’t read the comments, too distracting. But lately he’d been keeping his eye on them, looking out for one person in particular. Someone he kept blocking but who kept popping up under different accounts.

Maverick went on, walking backward, the hotel growing larger behind him.

“Built in the 1980s, this place was supposed to be the epit­ome of luxury, an isolated, hundred-acre paradise for the very wealthy with a grand ballroom, spa, stunning suites, private ca­sitas, trails, tennis courts, three swimming pools.”

He paused, panned the camera around so that his viewers could catch the whole vibe—dusk, the decrepit hotel, the iso­lation. He lowered his voice an octave.

“But because of outrageous debt and poor management, the inaccessibility of this tiny island, and a series of, um, unfortunate incidents, Enchantments went out of business in under five years. So this place has stood empty for four decades. Ravaged by time and by looters, Enchantments is a ghost of its former glory.”

There were ten thousand people watching now. He watched as a flood of hearts streamed up the screen, name after name, a full rainbow of comments from praise to trash-talking. The whole mess of humanity scrolling by. It wasn’t long before he saw the comment he was waiting for. This time it was MavIsALiar with three skull emojis. Formerly it was MavSucks or FUMav. That’s how Maverick knew: those three skulls with their gray, menacing faces and holes for eyes.

MavIsALiar: Liar, liar.

He ignored it and continued.

“This is the location for my next challenge. The contestants are already on their way, and the game begins tomorrow. The winner will walk away with—wait for it—one million dollars, our biggest prize EVER.”

Alex was in his head again.

Mav, we do not have a million dollars to give away. You can’t prom­ise people that.

We’ll have it when the challenge is a success. Trust me, brah.

We’re running on fumes.

But Mav shook off the negative vibe. He knew something that Alex didn’t seem to. Money was magic. You could mani­fest it from the universe. If you asked it to come, it would come. And he was asking.

Pokemaz69: Holy shit.

Wildonez55: A cool million!

Byteme$$: I’m so there

Climbergirl: Where do I sign?

MavIsALiar: He never actually gives the money he raises for charity.

Truthteller09: Aren’t you being investigated for fraud? Unfollow this loser.

ExtremeHottie: Ignore the haters, Mav. We know you’re a good guy.

Violenceisblue: Love you, Mav.

Eleven thousand people now.

What a rush. He pressed a button on his phone, and people from all over the world tuned in to hear what he was saying.

Him. A kid from New Jersey, a college dropout. He’d tried to explain that to his father. But the old man just didn’t seem to get it.

“What’s a follower?” his dad wanted to know. In his language, follower wasn’t a good thing.

Fifteen thousand people now.

“We have some sick sponsors for this event,” he said.

Over his phone, he saw Angeline marching toward him, tiny but mighty. A furious pixie with close-cropped jet hair and a face of hard angles: high cheekbones, arched brows, big heav­ily lashed dark eyes.

“What the fuck, Maverick,” she mouthed, lifting her palms. She wouldn’t screw up the live broadcast, though; he knew that. He gave her a grin, and she shook her head, put her hands on her hips.

“And I’ll be announcing those sponsors and our players soon.”

He moved in close, lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whis­per.

“This place is crazy, you guys. The locals say it’s cursed. And you know what?” He made a show of glancing around. “I think they may be right. The energy is electric, and this is the per­fect place for Extreme Hide and Seek. More to come. Peace and love.”

He cut the live, but not before he saw the comment from MavIsALiar:

Keep playing, Mav. But you will pay for what you’ve done. Where is Chloe Miranda?

Excerpted from CLOSE YOUR EYES AND COUNT TO 10 by Lisa Unger. Copyright © 2025 by Lisa Unger. Published by Park Row, an imprint of HTP/HarperCollins.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Close Your Eyes and Count to 10’ by Lisa Unger appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Lisa Unger’s The New Couple In 5B, which is out March 5th 2024.

Rosie and Chad Lowan are barely making ends meet in New York City when they receive life-changing news: Chad’s late uncle has left them his luxury apartment at the historic Windermere in glamorous Murray Hill. With its prewar elegance and impeccably uniformed doorman, the building is the epitome of old New York charm. One would almost never suspect the dark history lurking behind its perfectly maintained facade.

At first, the building and its eclectic tenants couldn’t feel more welcoming. But as the Lowans settle into their new home, Rosie starts to suspect that there’s more to the Windermere than meets the eye. Why is the doorman ever-present? Why are there cameras everywhere? And why have so many gruesome crimes occurred there throughout the years? When one of the neighbors turns up dead, Rosie must get to the truth about the Windermere before she, too, falls under its dangerous spell.

Sometimes the smallest things are the biggest.

Like the slim rectangular box that sits at the bottom of my tote. Maybe just six inches long and two inches wide. Light, flimsy, its contents clatter when shaken. But it’s a whispering presence, a white noise buzzing in my consciousness.

Max, dapper in a houndstooth blazer and thin camel cashmere sweater, peers at the oversize menu, considering. As if he isn’t going to order the penne ala vodka and salad he always does. I hold mine, as well, perusing my options. As if I’m not going to get the pizza margherita, no salad. The tony Italian restaurant on Broadway across from my publisher’s office is packed, silver­ware clinking, conversations a low hum. Lots of business being done over sparkling waters and tuna tartare.

Outside the big picture window, beside which we sit, the river of traffic flows, horns and hissing buses, the screech of brakes, the occasional shout from annoyed drivers. Beneath all of that, I feel it, the presence of that slim box, so full of possibility.

The waitress takes our expected orders, deposits Max’s usual bottle of Pellegrino. I’m a tap water girl, but he pours me a glass, always the gentleman. I note his manicured nails, buffed and square, the white face of his Patek Philippe. No smartwatch for him. Max appreciates timepieces for their elegant union of form and function.

“So,” he says, placing the green bottle on the white tablecloth.

I don’t love the sound of that word. Max and I have known each other a long time. There’s a heaviness to it, a caution.

“So?”

“Your proposal.”

That’s why we’ve met for lunch, to discuss the proposal I’ve submitted for my new book.

He slips my proposal out of the slim leather folder he’s laid on the table between us.

“There’s a lot to like here.”

That’s publishing code for I don’t like it. How many times did I say the same thing to authors I was editing?

I have always been a writer, scribbling in the nooks and cran­nies of my days, my foray into publishing just a stop on the road to the writing life. But Max never wanted to be anything else more than an editor, the one who helped talented writers do their best work.

“But?” I venture. He lifts his eyebrows, clears his throat.

Max and I met when we were both editorial assistants, fresh out of the Columbia Publishing Course. We were so eager to enter the world of letters, literature geeks seduced by what we imagined was the glitz and glamour of the industry. He climbed the corporate ladder, while I stayed up late, got up early, holed up on weekends to complete my first book.

By the time I had finished my first draft, Max was a young star editor at one of the biggest publishing companies in New York, the first person I asked to read my manuscript; he was the first person to say he believed in me, the first editor to buy something I’d written and to make me what I’d always wanted to be. A full-time writer.

He runs a hand through lustrous dark hair, which he wears a little long, takes off his tortoiseshell glasses. “I don’t know, Rosie. There’s just something—lacking.”

I feel myself bristle—lacking? But underneath the crackling of my ego, I think I know he’s right. The truth is—I’m not that excited about it. The belly of fire that you need to complete a project of this size, honestly, it’s just not there.

“There was so much fire in the first one,” says Max, hold­ing me in the intensity of his gaze. He’s so into this—his job, this process. “There were so many layers—the justice system, the misogyny in crime reporting, the voices of the children. It really grabbed me, even in the proposal you submitted. I could see it. It was fresh, exciting.”

“And this isn’t.” I try and probably fail to keep the disappoint­ment out of my voice.

He leans in, reaches a hand across the table. “It is. It’s just not as exciting. The first book, it was a success, a place from where we can grow. But the next book needs to be bigger, better.”

Bigger. Better. What’s next? That’s the mantra of the pub­lishing industry.

“No pressure,” I say, blowing out a laugh.

My first true-crime book was about the violent rape of a young Manhattan woman, the travesty of justice that followed where a man was wrongly convicted and the real criminal went free, then continued on to rape and kill three more women. It took me five years to research and write while working a full-time job as an editor. The book did well, not a runaway best­seller but a success by any measure. The moment was right for that book, post Me Too, where society was casting a new light on women wronged by men, looking at older stories through fresh eyes.

It’s been a year since the book came out, the paperback about to release soon. I can’t take five years to write another one.

Max puts a gentle hand on mine. His touch is warm and ignites memories it shouldn’t. His fingers graze my wedding and en­gagement rings, and he draws his hand back, steeples his fingers.

“Is this really what you want to be writing?”

“Yes,” I say weakly. “I think so.”

“Look,” he says, putting his glasses back on. “You’ve had a lot on your plate.”

I’m about to protest but it’s true. My husband, Chad, and I had been taking care of Chad’s elderly uncle Ivan, who recently passed away. Between being there for Ivan, Chad’s only family, in the final stages of his illness, and now managing his affairs, it’s been a lot. Scary to watch someone you love die, so sad, sift­ing through the detritus now of his long and colorful life. Uncle Ivan—he was all we had. I’ve been estranged from my family for over a decade. His loss feels heavy, something we’re carry­ing on our shoulders. With the temperature dropping and the holidays approaching, there’s a kind of persistent sadness we’re both struggling under. Maybe it has affected my work more than I realized.

I think of that box in the bottom of my bag, that little ray of light. I am seized with the sudden urge to go home and tear it open.

“Look,” he says when I stay quiet. “Just take some time to think about it, go deeper. Ask yourself, ‘Is this the story I re­ally want and need to tell? Is it something people need to read?’ Make me excited about it, too. We have time.”

We don’t, actually.

The money from the first book—it’s running out. Chad has a low-paying gig in an off-off Broadway production. This city—it takes everything to live here. Our rent just went up and we need to decide whether or not we can afford to renew the lease. It’s just a one-bedroom, five-story walk-up in the East Village, and we’re about to be priced out unless one of us gets paid a signifi­cant sum. Chad has an audition for another better-paying job, but things are so competitive, there’s no way to know if he even has a chance. It’s just a commercial, not something he’s excited about, but we need the cash.

Today he’s at the reading of Ivan’s will. But we don’t expect to inherit anything. Ivan died penniless. His only asset the apart­ment that will go to his daughter Dana.

Did I rush the proposal because I’m feeling desperate? Maybe.

The waitress brings our meal and I’m suddenly ravenous. We dig in. The pizza is good, gooey and cheesy. The silence be­tween us, it’s easy, companionable, no tension even though it’s not the conversation I was hoping to have. Writers, we only want to hear how dazzling we are. Everything else hurts a little.

“You said there was a lot to like,” I say, mouth full. “What do you like about it? Give me a jumping-off point to dive deeper.”

“I really like the occult stuff,” he says, shoving a big bite of penne into his mouth. It’s one of the things I love most about Max, his passion for good food. Chad is so careful about every­thing he eats, either losing or gaining weight for a role. “You kind of glossed over that.”

I frown at him. “I thought you didn’t like ghost stories.”

There were several supernatural elements to my last book—the little girl who dreamed about her mother’s death the day before it happened, how one of the children believed he com­municated with his murdered sister through a medium. Both of those bits wound up on the cutting-room floor. Too woo-woo, according to Max. Let’s stay grounded in the real world.

“I don’t like ghost stories—per se,” he says now. “But I like all the reasons why people think a place is haunted. I like what it says about people, about places, about mythology.”

I feel a little buzz of excitement then. And that’s why every writer needs a good editor.

The proposal is about an iconic Manhattan apartment build­ing on Park Avenue that has been home to famous residents in­cluding a bestselling novelist, a celebrated sculptor and a young stage and screen star. It’s also had far more than its fair share of dark events—grisly murders, suicides and terrible accidents. It’s a New York story, really—the history of the building, its unique architecture, how it was built on the site of an old church that burned down. I want to focus on each of the crimes, the current colorful cast of characters that resides there, and tell the stories of the people who died there—including Chad’s late uncle Ivan, a renowned war photographer.

I’ll still have access to the building, even though we’re almost done cleaning out Ivan’s things. His daughter, from whom Ivan hadn’t heard in years, even as he lay dying and Chad tried to call again and again, is now circling her inheritance. She wasn’t interested in Ivan, or his final days, his meager possessions. But the apartment—it’s worth a fortune. Anyway, I’ve befriended the doorman, Abi. He is a wealth of knowledge, having worked in the building for decades. I think he’s long past retirement age but doesn’t seem to have any plans to hang up his doorman’s uniform. Some folks don’t get to leave the Windermere, Miss Rosie, he joked when I asked him how much longer he planned to work. Some of us are destined to die here.

“And I like the crimes,” Max says, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “So I think if we can tease some of those elements out, I can take it to the editorial meeting.”

The truth is I’m more excited about revising the proposal than I was about writing the book when I walked in here. He’s right. It’s not the architecture, the history of the building—it’s the darkness, the crimes, the people. The question—are there cursed or haunted places, some energy that encourages dark happenings? Or is it just broken people doing horrible things to each other? A mystery. That’s what makes a great story. And story is king, even in nonfiction.

“I’ll get right to work,” I say. “Thanks, Max.”

“That’s what editors are for, to help writers find their way to their best book.” He looks pleased with himself. “Now, what’s for dessert?”

Outside, a loud screech of tires on asphalt draws my attention to the street just in time to see a bike messenger hit by a taxi. In a horrible crunching of metal and glass, the biker hits the hood. His long, lanky limbs flailing, flightless wings, he crashes into the windshield, shattering it into spider webs, then comes to land hard, crooked on the sidewalk right in front of the window beside us. I let out an alarmed cry as blood sprays on the glass, red-black and viscous.

Max and I both jump to our feet. I find myself pressing against the bloody glass as if I can get through it to the injured man. I’m fixated on him, then remembering Ivan, those last shud­dering breaths he took.

The biker’s eyes, a shattering green, stare. His right leg and left arm are twisted at an unnatural angle, as if there’s some un­seen hand wrenching his body. I reach for my phone, but Max is already on his. We’ve witnessed an accident, on Broadway between Fifty-Fifth and Fifty-Sixth, outside Serafina. A man is badly injured.

He’s dead, I want to correct him. But I don’t. Once you’ve seen the look of death, you recognize it right away. It’s a kind of va­cancy, a light lost, something fled. Those green eyes are empty, beyond sight. A stylish young woman in a long black coat and high heels runs up to the twisted form and drops to her knees while she’s talking on the phone.

She puts a tender hand to his throat, checking expertly for a pulse. Then, she starts to scream. Her screaming, so helpless, so despairing—does she know him? Help. Help. Somebody help him. Or does she, too, recognize that look? Does it connect her as it does me to every loss she’s ever known?

I’m still pressing against the glass, transfixed.

A crowd gathers, blocking the man from sight. In minutes, an ambulance arrives. There’s a frenzy of angry honking horns, people frustrated that their trips have been delayed by yet an­other accident. Max moves over to me, puts a strong arm around my shoulders.

“Are you okay? Rosie, say something.”

I realize then that I’m weeping. Fat tears pouring down my cheeks. Turning away from the scene on the street, and into Max’s arms, I let him hold me a moment. I take comfort in his familiar scent, the feel of him.

“I’m okay,” I say, pulling away finally.

“You sure?” he says, face a mask of concern. “That was—awful.”

We sit back down in stunned silence. Time seems to warp. Fi­nally, the man is shuttled away in an ambulance, and the crowd disperses. We’re still at our lunch table, helpless to do or change anything. How long did it all take? Someone from the restaurant steps outside, dumps a bucket of soapy water over the blood that has pooled there. Then he uses a squeegee to wash the blood from the window right next to me but instead just smears it in a hideous, wide, red swath.

I get up quickly, almost knocking over my chair. The rest of the diners have gone back to their meals. The show is over; everyone returns quickly to their lives. As it should be, maybe. But I am shaken to my core. So much blood. I feel sick.

“I have to get out of here. I’m sorry.”

Max rises, too. He tells the hostess he’ll come back for the bill, then shuttles me outside and hails a cab. The traffic is flow­ing again, and one pulls up right away.

“You’re so pale,” Max says again, opening the door. He presses a hand on my shoulder. “Let me pay the bill and run you home?”

“No, no,” I protest, embarrassed to be so rattled. “It’s fine.”

I just can’t stop shaking.

“Call me when you get in,” he says. “Let me know you got home safe.”

Then I’m alone in the back of the cab, the driver just a set of eyes in the rearview mirror, city noise muffled, Max’s wor­ried form growing small behind me. My pulse is racing and my mind spinning.

What just happened? What was that?

An accident. One of hundreds that happen in this city every sin­gle day. I just happen to have been unlucky enough to witness it.

My father would surely declare it an omen of dark things to come. But he and I don’t share the same belief system. I haven’t spoken to him in years; amazing that I still hear his voice so clearly.

The cab races through traffic, dodging, weaving, the cabbie leaning on his horn. I dig through my tote and find the little white, blue and purple box, pull it out so that I can put my eyes on it. A pregnancy test.

In the face of death and loss, what do we need most?

Hope.

Life.

I can’t get home fast enough.

Excerpted from The New Couple in 5B @ 2024 by Lisa Unger, used with permission by Park Row Books.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The New Couple In 5B’ by Lisa Unger appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

At the behest of her best friend Jax, Wren Greenwood agrees to try online dating, but has not been thrilled with the results. When she meets Adam, however, she feels a real connection. Without being able to put her finger on exactly how or why she has clicked with Adam, what she thought might be a hook-up or a quick fling begins to develop into a relationship that makes Wren feel more comfortable than she can remember feeling in a very long time. Then suddenly she is stood up for dinner. And Adam’s phone has been disconnected. And someone else is staying in the apartment she has been to with him, believing it was his apartment. Out of nowhere she has been ghosted.

Since almost everyone has experienced being ghosted at some point in their lives, readers should be prepared for a resurgence of their own post-traumatic stress about ghosting, because Unger makes those feelings uncomfortably real in her writing. It can bring back the very worst memories you have, but also invests us in Wren’s story all the more.

The story could have gone in many different directions from this point, but Unger chooses to turn things darker and more chilling by having Wren learn that not only has Adam ghosted women before, but that several of them are now missing, and have never been seen or heard from again. Wren is determined to find some answers about these missing women, even if only to help understand her own confusing emotions about Adam that remain and to protect herself from whatever his ultimate plan has been.

Unafraid to tackle elements that are both disturbing and gritty, Unger takes what could be a standard cat and mouse chase to a much higher level as she takes the reader back to Wren’s terrifying early life and how that plays into the dangerous situation she is now involved in.

With twists, reveals, and surprises throughout, readers will be turning pages late into the night, needing to find out what comes next. Perhaps the best advice I can give is to go ahead and plan a spa day when you finish because in Last Girl Ghosted, Unger is going to emotionally wear you out— in the best possible way.

Last Girl Ghosted is available from Amazon, Book Depository, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore.

Will you be picking up Last Girl Ghosted? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis | Goodreads

Secrets, obsession and vengeance converge in this riveting thriller about an online dating match turned deadly cat-and-mouse game, from the New York Times bestselling author of Confessions on the 7:45.

Think twice before you swipe.

She met him through a dating app. An intriguing picture on a screen, a date at a downtown bar. What she thought might be just a quick hookup quickly became much more. She fell for him—hard. It happens sometimes, a powerful connection with a perfect stranger takes you by surprise. Could it be love?

But then, just as things were getting real, he stood her up. Then he disappeared—profiles deleted, phone disconnected. She was ghosted.

Maybe it was her fault. She shared too much, too fast. But isn’t that always what women think—that they’re the ones to blame? Soon she learns there were others. Girls who thought they were in love. Girls who later went missing. She had been looking for a connection, but now she’s looking for answers. Chasing a digital trail into his dark past—and hers—she finds herself on a dangerous hunt. And she’s not sure whether she’s the predator—or the prey.

The post Review: Last Girl Ghosted by Lisa Unger appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Author Lisa Unger describes this collection as an ode to Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House. Intrigued? Well we have an excerpt and audio excerpt for you to check out from the second chapter of All My Darkest Impulses, which is the first installment in the series.

Loading…

Taking too long?

Reload document

| Open in new tab

The post Read and Listen To An Excerpt From ‘All My Darkest Impulses’ by Lisa Unger appeared first on The Nerd Daily.