In this chilling thriller from New York Times bestselling author Nalini Singh, a remote estate in New Zealand’s Southern Alps hosts a reunion no one will ever forget.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Nalini Singh’s There Should Have Been Eight, which is out November 21st.
Seven friends. One last weekend. A mansion half in ruins. No room for lies. Someone is going to confess. Because there should have been eight. . . .
They met when they were teenagers. Now they’re adults, and time has been kind to some and unkind to others—none more so than to Bea, the one they lost nine long years ago.
They’ve gathered to reminisce at Bea’s family’s estate, a once-glorious mansion straight out of a gothic novel. Best friends, old flames, secret enemies, and new lovers are all under one roof. But when the weather turns and they’re snowed in at the edge of eternity, there’s nowhere left to hide from their shared history.
As the walls close in, the pretense of normality gives way to long-buried grief, bitterness, and rage. Underneath it all, there’s the nagging feeling that Bea’s shocking death wasn’t what it was claimed to be. And before the weekend is through, the truth will be unleashed—no matter the cost. . . .
After drying myself off, I looked in the mirror and I began to wonder if the edges of my reflection were blurry because of the steam or because of the minuscule crystals eating away at my eyes. I was a photographer by trade, but I did art on the computer now and then, and my latest project was a single crystalline eye. Flawless. Exquisite. And blind.
The world pressed in on me, closing in on every side.
Suddenly my chest was too tight, the air not coming up through my airways.
Trying to suck in a breath only increased the pressure, making spots dance in front of my eyes. The towel half-wrapped around me, I collapsed onto the cold tile floor on my hands and knees. This was it. I was going to suffocate while wide awake and aware.
The needle of my brain scratched again and again, my neurons stuck on repeat.
Some small corner of that broken brain recognized what this was: a panic attack.
I’d suffered more than one before. After I’d admitted to them and before I’d refused to attend any more sessions, Dr. Mehta had given me tools to deal with them. Tools to calm myself down. Tools to get my mind off the circling panic.
But I couldn’t think of any of those tools today. Only one thing filled my mind: darkness. The same darkness that was even now cramping around my skull, squeezing my brain, making the tiles blur and vanish in front of me.
Blind, I was going blind!
I came to consciousness to find myself naked and shivering on the bathroom tiles. My wet hair stuck to my cheek, dripped down my neck, fine black veins against the aged cream of the tiles. A faint scent teased my nose, evoking memories of summer and laughter, but slipped out of my grasp when I tried to hone in on it.
I could breathe now.
My brain had literally shut down my thought processes in order to give my autonomic nervous system space to function. Shame was a sob caught in my throat that I couldn’t release, gritty eyes that couldn’t cry.
Shuddering, I forced myself to get up.
One glance at the mirror gave me the timeline of my involuntary shutdown. Steam was yet a soft filter on the edges. I wiped my finger through the condensation to confirm it was that and not a phantom image created by my crystalline eyes.
The pad of my finger came away wet, a streak on the glass evidence of my trespass.
Shifting away from the mirror and my shame, I walked into the bedroom damp and cold. The room was frigid, the embers of the previous night’s fire having long since gone dark. Reminded all over again of the oblivion that awaited me, I rubbed my hair and body dry with hard, rough motions that left my flesh red and angry—but I was still naked when the handle of my bedroom door began to turn.
“Not decent!” I yelled out at once, too late recalling what I’d forgotten in my alcoholic haze last night: there were secret passages in this house. The door might not be the only entry into my room.
Someone could be hiding in the walls watching me right now.
The door handle stopped moving, but there was nothing else. No apologetic call from one of my friends. No sound of footsteps moving away. Or if there was, I couldn’t hear it through the thudding of my heart.
Infuriated by the renewed sense of panic that threatened to strangle me, I wrapped myself in the towel as I ran to confront whoever it was.
I wrenched open the door to see Vansi heading up the final part of the stairs. Up, not down. Also, if it had been her, she’d have yelled back that she’d seen it all before. We’d gotten changed into our bathing suits together plenty of times, neither one of us uncomfortable doing so in front of the other.
Now, my friend glanced over with a questioning raise of the eyebrows. “Nip slip, girlfriend.”
Hitching up the towel without checking to ensure I’d covered the offending nipple, I looked up and down the corridor, saw no one. “Did you see anyone by my door just now?”
“No.” Vansi looked around. “Did someone try to get in? They probably made a mistake and got embarrassed. All these doors look the same.”
“Still, they should’ve said something.” After all, it wasn’t like we were strangers. “This way, just creeping off, it’s . . .”
“Weird?” Vansi completed. “This entire house is fucking weird.” A loud whisper, though she obviously wasn’t worried about Darcie or Ash, because she didn’t look over to their door.
Which, I belatedly realized, was open. “Darcie up?”
“Came down a few minutes ago. Suitcases under the eyes, poor thing.” That was my friend, born with a well of empathy so deep that nothing could suppress it. “Don’t think either one of them slept well.”
I felt for Darcie, but I was more worried about another member of the group. “How is Kaea?”
Pressing her lips together she shook her head. “Sick. Nothing crazy, and we did manage to get a third of a can of sugar-loaded soda into him—we have to see if he keeps it down, and if he can do the same with the soup Aaron’s making. Any liquid is good, and we’ll take junk calories if that’s all he can stomach.”
She turned toward one of the narrow windows that lined the staircase, the line of her profile delicate against the charcoal light. “This trip, this place, it was an adventure in the sun. Now all I can think about is that there’s no chance a helicopter could get through the wind and the rain, and that our only way out is a road that Ash mentioned is prone to slips. So who knows if that’s even open.”
I kept my mouth shut.
There really was no point in spreading that piece of bad news. Soon as it stopped raining however, I planned to drive out to the site of the slip and leave a giant sign telling them we were stuck out here.
From THERE SHOULD HAVE BEEN EIGHT by Nalini Singh, published by Berkley, an imprint of The Penguin Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2023 by Nalini Singh
