From the USA Today bestselling and Edgar-nominated author of Darling Rose Gold comes a dark, thrilling novel about two sisters–one trapped in the clutches of a cult, the other in a web of her own lies.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Stephanie Wrobel’s This Might Hurt, which is out February 22nd 2022.
Welcome to Wisewood. We’ll keep your secrets if you keep ours.
Natalie Collins hasn’t heard from her sister in more than half a year.
The last time they spoke, Kit was slogging from mundane workdays to obligatory happy hours to crying in the shower about their dead mother. She told Natalie she was sure there was something more out there.
And then she found Wisewood.
On a private island off the coast of Maine, Wisewood’s guests commit to six-month stays. During this time, they’re prohibited from contact with the rest of the world–no Internet, no phones, no exceptions. But the rules are for a good reason: to keep guests focused on achieving true fearlessness so they can become their Maximized Selves. Natalie thinks it’s a bad idea, but Kit has had enough of her sister’s cynicism and voluntarily disappears off the grid.
Six months later Natalie receives a menacing e-mail from a Wisewood account threatening to reveal the secret she’s been keeping from Kit. Panicked, Natalie hurries north to come clean to her sister and bring her home. But she’s about to learn that Wisewood won’t let either of them go without a fight.
CHAPTER 5
Natalie
January 8, 2020
The Hour Glass’s interior looks like it’s been doused in bleach. Every surface sparkles: white leather seats with tan trim, white sun‑ deck, white floor. A folded map sits on the dashboard. I join Cheryl and Chloe on the L‑shaped cushions. Gordon unties the boat, then hops in be‑ hind me. Hooded Guy watches Gordon, who lowers himself to the captain’s chair.
“Once again, welcome,” Gordon says to the three of us. “I’m Gordon, and this is my friend Sanderson. Normally he does these trips on his own, but he’s under the weather today. To be safe, I’ll do the driving, but he’ll still tell you about the area. Pretend I’m not even here.”
While Gordon talks, Sanderson scratches at his facial hair, which doesn’t quite come together to form a mustache or goatee but grows in ornery patches around his face. He has the general appearance of a stray cat.
Sanderson wrinkles his brow as Gordon steers the boat out of Rockland Harbor. “Maximized morning,” he says in a daze. “I’m Mike Sanderson. Been at Wisewood three and a half years.”
“Three years, wow,” Cheryl says. “You must love it here.”
Sanderson swallows. “Wisewood saved me. Hang tight—we’re about to pick up speed.”
The cold is even more punishing once we’ve left the marina. My teeth chatter; hair whips my face. I pull a fleece hat from my bag and watch the coast recede, feeling an irrational pull toward the harbor.
I wonder whether Kit has ever driven the Hourglass. God, this is so like her: throwing herself headfirst into an endeavor with no regard for how it affects anyone else. As long as she’s pursuing her true north, she doesn’t mind, probably doesn’t even notice, when she leaves people adrift. She can afford that selfishness; no one has ever depended on her. She’s always had someone to lean on: me.
Letting out a deep breath, I try to break up the ball of queasiness in my abdomen. I have no room to talk when it comes to brushing away the con‑ sequences of my actions; I am the blackest of pots. I try to relax my hands, but they keep clutching each other when I’m not paying attention.
“None of you are from Maine, right?” Sanderson asks, eyes losing that glazed‑over quality. “Me neither. Check it: there are over forty‑six hundred islands in this state.”
Cheryl gasps. I lift my eyebrows. Chloe doesn’t react, completely indif‑ ferent.
“Right now we’re on Penobscot Bay, which opens into the Atlantic. You might have heard of Vinalhaven, the most crowded island in the area, if you can call twelve hundred people a crowd. We only make the seven‑mile trip from Wisewood to Vinalhaven to pick up mail—”
Cheryl squeals, pointing at the water. “Is that a seal?”
While everyone else peers where she’s pointing, Gordon watches me. I pretend not to notice. A gray blob bounces in the distance.
“Excellent spot, Cheryl,” Sanderson cheers, pulling out a pair of binocu‑ lars and doing his best Steve Irwin. He’s a different person now than he was in the harbor, chatty and happy, no longer nervously glancing at Gordon every thirty seconds. “We see tons of seals around here, otters and porpoises too. You should all keep an eye out. Once a bunch of dolphins even swam alongside the boat. So dope.”
Cheryl oohs and aahs while Chloe leans over the rail. The mention of marine life makes me think of Kit’s walrus impression, assisted by bread‑ sticks. She would do anything to get a chuckle out of Mom and me: that goofy butt dance, corny dad jokes, the way she rode her bike with no hands while belting Mariah Carey, dead serious that she thought she sounded good when in reality her voice sounded like a crow in distress. When I realize I’m thinking of her in the past tense, my breath catches.
By now Maine’s coastline has disappeared. Wild islands surround us. At their shorelines are slabs of granite so monstrous a person could fall between two and disappear forever. Towering evergreens have consumed every inch of land beyond the granite, huddling in such thick clusters you can’t see past them. They lean away from the water, recoiling as one, and it’s no wonder. The sea roars and roils, steel in color and resolve. A wispy fog envelops us, dancing on the surface of the bay. Instead of descending from the silver sky, the vapors climb out of the water, otherworldly. I peer over the side of the boat, trying to find their source. I sense something is down there, watching, waiting.
“What’s the deal with the fog, Sanderson?” Cheryl asks. “It’s sea smoke. Super‑cold air moving over warmer water.”
“Does that mean we can swim at Wisewood?” says Chloe, who I’m re‑ lieved still has a pulse. “If the water is warm?”
Sanderson frowns. “It only reaches the high fifties, even in summer, so I don’t think you’d want to. But we have a class for advanced students called Mastering Extreme Elements that includes some gnarly cold‑water swimming.”
“How deep is it out here?” Cheryl asks. “Twelve feet.”
Cheryl gestures to Chloe, herself, and me. “And are your guest groups usually this small?”
“Depends on the time of year. Not many peeps want to come here in winter. If the wind kicks up too much, the water becomes unpassable. That means no leaving the island for weeks at a time. Not that you dudes would notice. We have plenty of food and medical supplies—nothing to worry about.”
Cheryl bobs her head.
“Check out my three o’clock,” Sanderson says. “See the bald eagle on top of that tree? We have a lot of these guys in the area.”
From wildlife Sanderson moves on to naming the landmasses around us: Hurricane, White, Spectacle, Crotch (yes, seriously), Lawrys, Cedar, Dogfish. Some islands he points out have houses on them, but most don’t. Every new isle is identical to the last: an army of spruce trees trying to spear the sky, granite breakwaters guarding the perimeter. Out here you can’t hear an ambulance siren or the ping of a new e‑mail. Already we’re too far away.
After a lengthy silence, I sneak a peek at Sanderson. He’s gazing at the horizon, mind a million miles away again.
“Are you all right, son?” Cheryl asks him.
For the second time since leaving the harbor, Gordon turns around. “Tell them about your setback today. What we discussed on the ride over.”
Sanderson grimaces. “I’ve been sober three and a half years. Not a single drop.” He gnaws on his lips like he’s trying to stop the words from coming out. “This morning I woke up, and the urge was strong. Stronger than usual. I thought I’d take the boat ashore, find the nearest bar, have a drink. Just one.” He closes his eyes. “Instead I told Gordon about it. He offered to make the ride with me, so I didn’t have to face temptation alone.”
“We’re all about helping one another here,” Gordon says, his attention back on the wheel.
Sanderson forces a smile, pale and sweaty despite the temperature. “It must be so hard changing old habits,” Cheryl says.
“The key to recovery isn’t fixing your old life,” Sanderson says. “It’s start‑ ing a new one.”
Gordon points at an isle in the distance. “Here we are.” He glares at Sanderson. “Home sweet home.”
Wisewood has the same thick forest as the other islands, with a coastline of boulders, but as we make our way around the island, the forest gives way to a manicured hedge wall at least eight feet tall. In the middle of it is a wrought iron gate. Past the gate, a long path leads to a silent misshapen structure.
The geometric building appears to be two stories, but it’s hard to tell. Walls jut from more walls, as if the house has grown tumors. Some sides are floor‑to‑ceiling glass, while others are painted the same deep green as the forest.
“This is Teacher’s home,” Sanderson says.
Teacher? Is that what they call the guy who runs this place? I can already picture him: perpetually barefoot, wavy brown Jesus hair, wire‑rimmed glasses, eyes open a little too wide. I’ve seen the documentaries.
What has he done to inspire such devotion in these people?
The boat passes the gate, and the hedge wall obscures most of the build‑ ing once more. Ahead of us, an aluminum pier protrudes from the water, unyielding as waves crash against it. A small lump rests on the end of the jetty. I squint. It’s a backpack.
Gordon stops the Hourglass, and both men tie her up. With Sanderson’s help, the three of us wobble onto the snow‑powdered pier with our luggage. A gust of wind mauls us, nearly blowing Chloe into the water. I hold her arm until she steadies. Sanderson puts on the backpack. It appears heavy, packed to the gills. Embroidered on the top strap is MS. Mike Sanderson.
“I’ll take that.” Gordon reaches for the bag. “I’ve got it,” Sanderson says.
“I insist.” Gordon yanks it off his back. Bag clenched in one hand, he gestures to Sanderson with the other. “Please. Lead the way.”
Sanderson opens his mouth and closes it again. He ducks his head from the wind, then leads us to the start of the pier. What did he need that huge backpack for? Why did he leave it behind? Why won’t Gordon let him carry it?
We step onto the island, cloaked in several inches of snow. Someone has shoveled a path wide enough for one person from the pier all the way to the front gate. Frozen earth and dead grass crunch beneath our feet as we bustle up the path single file, Sanderson in front and Gordon in back. Once again, I sense his eyes crawling over me.
When we reach the gate, Sanderson punches a code into the security system. The doors open. Cheryl, Chloe, and Sanderson dash through. I spin a slow circle. At the pier, the Hourglass flails on the water. I can’t see another blot of land from here.
That’s all Wisewood is: a crumb in the middle of a savage ocean. “Let’s go, Ms. Collins,” Gordon says.
I run to join the others as the gate closes behind me.
The front yard is a modernist garden, snow‑covered topiary in the shapes of cones, cubes, and spheres. Every shrub is just so. The wind shrieks like a woman being stabbed over and over, shoving us up the path. I tighten my scarf around my neck, reminded of nooses and snares. I squint at the lair of grotesque angles ahead.
We rush toward the house. Sanderson yells to be heard over the wind. “Let’s jet straight to the cafeteria and get you out of this weather.”
I stop at the house’s front steps. The person who threatened me might sleep within these four walls. The windows rattle in their frames, but there’s no movement behind any of them. I could be standing in front of a painting. It’s impossible to imagine people healing, growing, loving, here.
Everyone inside is dead.
“Ms. Collins,” Gordon says behind me.
I blink away the bizarre thought and see the others are walking toward the side of the house. Just before the hedge wall they turn left, disappearing out of sight. I take a deep, smothering breath of pine and hurry to catch up.
Excerpted from THIS MIGHT HURT by Stephanie Wrobel, published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2022 by Stephanie Wrobel
