In this new mystery from CL Montblanc, the author of Pride or Die, two internet enemies are forced to work together after a true crime meetup turns into a deadly case of its own.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from They Want Us Dead by CL Montblanc, which releases on April 28th 2026.
Seventeen-year-old Sam Tombs hopes to get more eyes on the videos they make to raise awareness of crimes against LGBTQ+ teens. A true crime content creator event seems like the perfect opportunity to grow their channel―until the group becomes stranded at an eerie Victorian mansion, and one of them is killed in the night.
Sam’s alibi, and the only person they can trust, happens to be their mean, dorky internet nemesis Dylan. But the two must now put aside their rivalry and use their investigative skills to figure out who among the remaining teens is the killer, before their own deaths become tomorrow’s trending content.
The morning of the retreat, I’m scrambling to pack my bags while also wondering if it’s not too late to bail.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’m mildly terrified to go. I’ve never been away from home for longer than a single night; nearly eighteen and not even a summer camp experience under my belt. On the other hand, I clearly need to get out of the house before my desk chair becomes molded to my body like a turtle shell.
My bedroom is a mess of clothing and recording equipment. It’s all black on white, white on black. Dad’s tried so hard to sneak in a little color–a potted plant here, a tchotchke from Family Thrift there–to no avail. It’s a unique decor style that Arya labeled as “barebones, Spartan IKEA bullshit” after I let her see too much of the room on a video call once.
My phone buzzes with a push notification: It’s a comment on a video I posted last night. I’m too busy right now to get distracted, but my wandering eyes betray me.
AdventuresWithDyl
YOU ARE A NASTY LITTLE WORM WITH NO MORALS
I stare at the words, fighting back the urge to reply, “as opposed to … a worm that has morals?” or, “wow, so you’re obsessed with a worm,” but frankly, the asshole’s not worth my valuable time.
I Frisbee my phone onto my bed and start rummaging through my closet, trying to pick out which of my black shirts and black pants feel most appropriate for a Teens of True Crime event. It’s practically my uniform, now–the only thing I’m seen wearing in my videos. I’m honestly surprised Mister AdventuresWithDyl hasn’t ribbed me on that one yet. You know, suggesting I only own one shirt that I never wash or something equally unfunny.
Ugh …
One little reply to him should be fine, actually. It’ll only take a second.
SamTombs
I’m sure your 23 followers are super impressed with your attitude. Or maybe they don’t care, actually, considering they’re all bots?
Eat shit.
The LED panels above my desk creak, and I know I should pack them up to make sure they don’t somehow get damaged while I’m gone, but there’s no time. I unplug the lights, tidy their cables, roll up my green screen, and leave it at that. My chargers are yanked out of their sockets, and I send them flying like foxtails toward my open bag. That’ll have to do.
“Sam! Your ride is here!” my mom calls from the front of the house.
With that, I throw my bursting duffel bag over my shoulder and bid goodbye to my tiny bedroom studio.
Mom and Dad are both lined up by the front door like they’re seeing me off to the army. Dad’s eyes look a little teary, as though I’m leaving for months rather than a quick Sunday-through-Sunday. Mom looks more nervous than sad, wringing her hands and trying not to drop her blatantly fake smile.
She’s never been the biggest supporter of my social media exploits. She thinks talking about cold cases online puts me in danger. If I were any good at lying, I’d tell her she’s totally wrong.
“Did you remember everything?” Mom asks. “Underwear? Medicine? Floss?”
“I’m sure the rich-people house will have plenty of stuff,” I say with a sigh. “I’ll text you about the floss situation when I get there.”
“But the organizers said there might not even be service up there, isn’t that right?”
“Yeah, so I guess don’t assume I’ve died from a gum infection if I don’t text you.”
Mom’s smile twitches, almost imperceptibly, at my morbid joke.
“And if someone ever tries to lay a hand on you … ?” Dad starts.
“Strike to the neck,” I recite, whipping my hand forward to demonstrate. A few years ago I may have found it silly, but lately I’ve felt appreciative of Dad’s little self-defense lessons.
You never know what might happen. Especially when you’re … like me. Gender nonconforming. Blurring the lines in a way that can give awful people confusion-aggression. It’s not a problem I typically run into in LA though, thankfully–even out here in its questionable suburbs.
Dad ruffles my hair. “Go get ’em, Sammy.”
He opens the door, and I step out into a wall of heat. There’s a distant smell of smoke, somewhere out there, beyond the already-torched hills that surround my neighborhood. It’s not like I’m going super far–just about an hour east toward North Hollywood–but I’m still tingling with excitement to get out of here.
In front of me and our dying, yellowed lawn is a tiny black car. A GLE Coupe, to be exact, which is too flashy to be a favorite but still undeniably cool. I wave at the driver and charge forward, almost skipping with enthusiasm, to chuck my bag into the trunk. I come back around to the passenger’s side door and throw it open, ready to confirm my identity with the driver.
But when I peer inside, somebody else is already sitting there.
That’s odd. I would’ve thought that a bougie charity org could afford to send eight people their own individual rides…But the notion quickly makes me embarrassed, because I’m grateful that travel was subsidized at all, especially given that the family car is busted. If another attendee happens to live near me, then I’d genuinely prefer the earth to be polluted a little bit less, anyway. Carpooling is fine.
Until it’s not.
I catch a glimpse of a guy with tawny hair and tanned skin. He blinks up at me, blinded by sunlight, as I slowly drop myself into the seat next to him. I notice his round glasses, perched low on his nose, which seem so familiar that I swear to myself I’ve seen that exact pair before.
And then it hits me.
And then it hits him.
The door clicks behind me, and we begin to roll. But there’s just no fucking way–I cannot accept what I’m seeing right now to be real.
Even though my brain isn’t processing, my fight-or-flight is kicking in, because I’m pawing helplessly at the door handle like I would genuinely risk a tuck-and-roll escape right now to get out of this situation.
Because I would.
Because I’m looking directly into the smug goddamned face of AdventuresWithFuckingDyl.
