With a compelling mystery, a simmering romance, and a picturesque beach town, readers will be irresistibly drawn into Lucy Sinclair’s story as she returns to her hometown and digs into the 15-year-old murder conviction that robbed her of her father and changed the course of her life.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Brenda Novak’s The Summer That Changed Everything, which is out June 3rd 2025.
It’s been fifteen years since Lucy Sinclair saw her father. Fifteen long years since she sat in a courtroom and watched him sentenced to life in prison. He murdered three victims—all people she knew—which ruined her life at just seventeen. But now she’s back in Virginia to talk to him, wondering if there’s more to the story of what happened that fateful night.
An old flame, Ford Wagner, makes his own return to North Hampton Beach, fleeing a marriage that seems destined for divorce. He’s wary of Lucy and her digging into the past, but the more time they spend together, the closer they get and the more he finds himself reconsidering the truth behind the death of their mutual friend that summer. Problem is, there are plenty of those in this small coastal town who would prefer things stay quiet…
Red Onion State Prison, near Pound, VA
April 16
It’d been fifteen years since Lucy Sinclair last saw her father. She’d sat at his trial, as shocked and horrified by all that’d been revealed as anyone else. There were those in the gallery who’d lost a loved one and felt profound grief and anger. Her heart broke for them. But she received no sympathy as they showed graphic pictures of her father’s victims. That three-month stretch, from the time the police had knocked on the door to the moment her father had been sentenced to life in prison, had felt like she’d been catapulted into The Twilight Zone. Except it was real. At seventeen, she was going through something that most of humanity would never experience.
As she’d sat there alone, hoping and praying that, like he’d told her, none of what she was hearing was true, the other residents of North Hampton Beach, Virginia, where she and her father had been living for four years—the longest they’d stayed in any one place—had watched her suspiciously, simply because she was related to him. Some believed she had helped him cover up his heinous crimes. She knew that from the attacks she’d received on social media—before she’d pulled down her accounts. After he was arrested, the trailer they’d been renting had been vandalized.
But she’d had absolutely no idea he’d done anything wrong. She’d admired her father. Unlike her mother, he’d stayed, he’d continued to take care of her, and she’d believed he would stand by her forever. Their relationship had seemed perfectly normal.
The memory of his trial always brought a lump to her throat. In spite of everything, she’d missed him terribly. That wasn’t something she could admit to anyone else, though. She hated to admit it even to herself. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt his loss quite so acutely if she’d had any siblings or other family—people to love and support her in his absence. But she didn’t.And once he’d gone to prison, she’d cut off all contact—changed her last name to something she saw on a gas station sign to break that connection—and soldiered on alone, rambling around the United States in a beat-up old van she’d purchased with what little money she could scrape together by selling his tools and their furniture. While other girls went to college, she’d anesthetized herself with drugs and made what gas and grocery money she could playing poker—something she was surprisingly good at, so good that she’d eventually landed in Vegas and it was how she made her living to this day. She’d never gotten a degree, and other than a few restaurant jobs, she’d never had a boss, a 401K or a regular paycheck.
She clasped her hands to keep them from shaking while she sat on the small, cracked vinyl stool and waited for prison staff to bring Mick from his cell to the other side of the thick Plexiglas. She’d never been inside a prison before, had never felt so ill at ease, except at his trial.
She almost got up and left—several times. It was a beautiful spring day outside, perfect weather. The life she’d painstakingly built was out there, as well, two thousand miles away. But she’d come because she hadn’t been able to forget something he’d said. She’d purposely disregarded it once she realized he had to be a shameless liar, and yet . . . his words troubled her late at night when she couldn’t keep the more painful memories locked in the deeper recesses of her mind.
She was finally clean, stable and strong. If she was ever going to do this, now was the time. Or so she’d thought. She didn’t feel very strong at the moment. She felt like the little girl who’d craved her daddy’s love and acceptance and had believed he’d hung the moon.
Down the row, people used telephones to talk with their loved ones. Their voices bounced off the ceilings and walls of the cavernous space, creating a resounding hum. One woman, who had a young child on her lap, wept as she clutched the dirty receiver to her ear. Lucy couldn’t see the face of the inmate she was speaking to, but she assumed it was the woman’s husband and the child’s father. She wondered what he’d done. Cooked and sold meth? Robbed a bank? Embezzled money from his employer?
Chances were it wasn’t as bad as what Mick McBride had done.
A steel-gray door opened at the far side of the room where the prisoners were brought in, and she braced for how it might feel to see her father for the first time after so long. Once again, she had the impulse to run and never look back. Proving what’d happened to Aurora Clark shouldn’t be her fight. She was probably being foolish, thinking she had to establish the truth, once and for all.
But . . . if she didn’t, who would?
Besides, after traveling all the way from Las Vegas to Virginia, she meant to get what she’d come for. She was probably worried about nothing, but if she could determine that, the peace of mind would be worth it.
Digging her fingernails into her palms, she watched as her father shuffled toward her, his once handsome face lined and weathered, his thick black hair, which he’d always styled like his idol—Elvis Presley—now gray and buzzed close to the scalp. He fixed his dark eyes on her as he sat. He seemed stoic, unemotional. And yet his hands trembled as he adjusted his manacles to lift the phone.
It took a moment for her to follow. She’d been instantly transported back to the night she’d been watching TV in her room while he was, as manager and handyman of the park, supposed to be taking care of the people who rented spaces—or having a beer at the local bar—but must’ve been breaking into the Matteos’ trailer.
What he’d done to the old couple turned her stomach. That was fifteen years ago, but she still had trouble believing he could kill two such kind and defenseless people.
Swallowing the bile rising in her throat, she lifted the handset.
He didn’t bother with hello. “You look good.”
He didn’t. He looked old and tired, a mere shell of the man he used to be.
She tucked her thick dark hair—so much like his once was—behind her ears. “Thank you,” she said woodenly.
He had to be wondering what’d prompted this visit. But he didn’t ask. “You married?”
“No.”
“Seeing anyone?”
“No.”
“That surprises me.”
“Why would it surprise you?”
“Beautiful girl like you . . .”
“I have trouble trusting men.” Unable to resist, she added sarcastically, “I wonder why that would be the case.”
He didn’t have the grace to even look ashamed. If he could do what he’d done—he probably wasn’t. That was the thing that set him apart, what put him in an entirely different class of people. “So . . . you’re planning to go through life alone?”
She’d had relationships here and there and one broken engagement back in her drug days. She was certainly glad she hadn’t married Dean. Last she’d heard, he was still using. “Not exactly. I’m just hoping to fix what’s wrong with me first.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“I’ve had some counseling. Maybe I’ll continue.”
He chuckled without mirth. “Waste of time.”
“Maybe for you. I feel like it’s helped me—to a point.”
“Then I’m glad to hear it. Whatever works, right? Do you have any kids?”
“No.”
“That’s unfortunate. You always wanted a family.”
“It’s not too late.”
He didn’t say it, but it was probably getting close. “Where are you living these days?”
“Vegas.”
He rocked back. “Why Vegas?”
“I’m a professional poker player.”
He blinked several times. “You work for one of the casinos?”
“No, I play in one,” she clarified. “That’s how I make my living.” She could’ve lied and invented something else. She often did, simply because people assumed she must be a reprobate—in the Calvinistic sense—to make her living in such a fashion. Just the mention of poker conjured up dated images of late nights and smoky rooms filled with intoxicated, bleary-eyed players willing to risk their last penny, even though their children depended on the money. But professional players had to be patient, sharp and clearheaded or they wouldn’t be able to make a living for long.
Her father’s scraggly eyebrows slid toward his hairline. “No kidding. You win a lot?”
“Of money? Sometimes.” Because she was a woman, and younger, the other players tended to underestimate her. Or they got distracted coming on to her. She loved nothing more than to sit at a table full of older men who believed themselves to be better players than she was. That almost always worked in her favor. “There are also the endorsement deals, which can add up.”
“You must be really good if you have a sponsor.”
“I hold my own.”
“I remember teaching you the game,” her father said. “At least I left you with one skill.”
He’d taught her a lot of things. The parents of her friends had thought it a bit odd that she was introducing poker to her playmates in the fifth grade. Her upbringing certainly wasn’t conventional. But her father had always taken care of her and done what he could, considering his own background. He’d grown up in the foster care system and hadn’t kept in contact with the many families he’d lived with. He’d struggled with depression and with no extended family to rely on, they’d rambled around, which meant he hadn’t been the best provider. She’d been embarrassed and a little ashamed to have friends over, especially that last year as the richest summer boy started to show some interest in her.
But she remembered many times when her father had put her needs before his own. That engendered loyalty—and trust, which was why she’d never seen what was coming, and why she’d been torn in two ever since DNA evidence had connected him to the deaths of the old couple who’d lived in their trailer park. A separate jury had convicted him of a third murder involving a girl her age—someone she’d also known; someone who’d once been a friend—but on far less reliable evidence.
“You weren’t a bad father,” she admitted, which had to be the greatest irony in the world. She still couldn’t understand how a man could be two such opposite things. But he’d never hurt her. If he was going to kill someone, she would’ve thought he’d go after her mother. From what he’d said over the years, Billie had given him a million reasons to hate her. Her mother had let them both down in so many ways.
His forehead creased, and he shifted on the stool as if he didn’t know how to take the compliment. These days, he had to be far more accustomed to being reviled. Maybe he’d shut off all his emotions and what she’d said made him more uncomfortable than if she’d told him the opposite. “I thought . . .” He cleared his throat. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”
“You told me never to contact you,” she reminded him.
“I thought that was what would be best for you—best for both of us. So . . . what brings you here? Must be important for you to have come so far.”
A million questions swirled in her mind. But she knew he couldn’t answer the ones that tortured her most. She’d already asked him why he’d done what he’d done—during the trial when her belief in his protestations of innocence began to crumble. He’d simply hung his head and said he couldn’t remember doing it.
“You told me something fifteen years ago,” she said, “something that’s bothered me ever since.”
“I’m sure there are many things that bother you about me,” he said wryly.
She wasn’t going to deny it. “This one had to do with Aurora Clark.”
“What about her?”
Aurora had been the most popular girl in high school. Born to wealthy parents who owned two art museums and a wine store in town, she’d also been interested in Ford Wagner, whom Lucy had been dating at the time. The fact that Lucy had disliked Aurora—for her aggressive pursuit of Ford and many other reasons—made it look as though he’d killed Aurora for her sake . . .
Maybe that was why this was so important to her. She was out to prove it wasn’t true as much as anything else. It couldn’t be true. She’d only ever mentioned Aurora to him as a “mean girl.” Unless . . . had he overheard her on the phone? Picked up on more town gossip than she’d imagined? “You said they could try all they wanted to come up with evidence linking you to her case, but they wouldn’t find any.”
“Because I didn’t kill her,” he said simply.
He stated it as if she could take it for what it was worth—and somehow seemed credible. Could she believe him, though? All the self-help gurus she’d followed on YouTube over the years would tell her she couldn’t. Before that fateful summer, there hadn’t been a murder in North Hampton Beach since forever. Then, suddenly, three bodies showed up within weeks of each other. What were the chances that there’d be two active killers at almost the same time?
Very small. Lucy understood that. She played poker for a living, calculated the odds on everything. And yet . . . There were always outliers. Odds only predicted what was most likely true.
“You killed Tony and Lucinda.” Even she could hear the petulant accusation in her voice. “Why should I believe you about Aurora?”
He seemed world-weary when he answered. “You are the only thing I’ve ever cared about in my entire life, Lucy. But what I did created a permanent divide between us. Are you going to feel the way you once did about me if I killed one less person?” He chuckled humorlessly. “No. And I’m not going to torment myself by wanting it.” He jerked his head to indicate their surroundings. “You stay in here long enough, you grow numb. I told you when they took me away that I never wanted to see you again, and I meant it. I couldn’t face the pain and disappointment in your eyes. That was the real punishment. But now that
you’re here . . .” He sighed. “I’m telling you the truth.”
There was so much in his statement that hurt—that he honestly had, and maybe still did, care about her, that he knew better than to even hope she could ever love him back, that by taking other people’s lives he’d essentially given up his own.
Flinching against those emotional daggers, she told herself to focus on the information instead. “If you didn’t do it, who did?”
He met and held her gaze. “Hell if I know. But someone’s getting away with murder. Maybe you care about that,” he said and hung up the receiver, signaling the end of the conversation.
