A writer’s search for her missing friend becomes a real-life thriller in a twisting novel of suspense by the New York Times bestselling author of These Toxic Things.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Rachel Howzell Hall’s What Fire Brings, which is out June 11th 2024.
Bailey Meadows has just moved into the remote Topanga Canyon home of thriller author Jack Beckham. As his writer-in-residence, she’s supposed to help him once again reach the bestseller list. But she’s not there to write a thriller—she’s there to find Sam Morris, a community leader dedicated to finding missing people, who has disappeared in the canyon surrounding Beckham’s property.
The missing woman was last seen in the drought-stricken forest known for wildfires and mountain lions. Each new day, Bailey learns just how dangerous these canyons are—for the other women who have also gone missing here…and for her. Could these missing women be linked to strange events that occurred decades ago at the Beckham estate?
As fire season in the canyons approaches, Bailey must race to unravel the truth from fiction before she becomes the next woman lost in the forest.
Some things are unknowable.
I blink and—
Stop!
—slam my foot on the car’s brake pedal. The Volvo skids to a stop on the side of the road. My heart booms as I try to catch my breath.
What . . .
Not paying attention on a twisty road while listening to this podcast about . . .
What . . . ?
I jab the stereo’s power button, dropping the cabin into silence. Since I’m stopped, I close my eyes. Force my pulse to slow. Force my hands to unclench the steering wheel and for my lungs to take deep—
A knock on my driver’s-side car window.
I yelp, jerking away as far as I can.
An old Black man is stooped outside the car, his knuckles still resting against my window. “Hey, you okay in there, young lady?” he asks, concern and sweat bright against his grizzled face. He wears a black baseball cap and a black satin jacket. A writing pen is clipped to his shirt pocket, and his gold tin badge—Russell Walker–Privatas Security Patrol—should also say “Marshal–Dodge City,” that’s how fake it looks.
“I saw you swerving just now,” Russell Walker says. “You’re lucky you didn’t go flying off this mountain.”
I gape at him, my mind still revving.
“You okay in there, young lady?” he asks again.
Am I okay in here?
I’m breathing so . . . I guess?
My purse sits on the passenger seat. My phone sits in the cup holder. There’s gas in the gas tank. So . . . yeah? An envelope addressed to Bailey Meadows sits atop my purse along with a postcard-size invitation:
JOIN US
Emerging Writers Reception
May 12, 2021, 5:00 pm
61147 Old Topanga Canyon Road
Topanga, CA 90290
RSVP to Margo Dunn
*Masks Required*
I force myself to smile at Russell Walker–Security Guard, and through the small crack in the window, I shout, “I’m okay. All good, Mr. Walker.”
Beyond the old man, there’s chaparral and old thick trees and hillsides covered with more chaparral and old thick trees. To my left, there are orange skies and the sun sinking behind a hill already lost in shadow. In front of me, there’s a battered Wagoneer with a Privatas Security Patrol sticker on its rear and a bar of orange lights on its roof. Those orange lights are now swirling.
Swirling lights signal danger.
I want to write all of this down, capture it in the here and now because Topanga Canyon is a mystery to me—I’ve never visited this part of the county before today. It’s too far from my home in South Los Angeles—thirty-nine miles—for a casual visit. This road carved through the Santa Monica Mountains is too twisty for a casual drive. A population of eight thousand people lives nestled around these parts. I roll down my car window and smell sage, wood, wildflowers. That sky, colored blue-orange-yellow—
“Where you trying to reach?” Russell Walker asks.
“Umm . . . I don’t . . .” I swipe through my head for the address, then nervous-laugh. “Let me look . . .” I push the stereo’s off button as I peek at the invitation and then peek at the directions on my phone now dangling from its charger between the cup holder and my knee. “I’m trying to reach . . . 61147 Old Topanga Canyon Road.”
Some things are unknowable.
And you’ll never know enough, even if you know everything.
Why am I thinking about the unknowable—
“Oh, I know exactly where you’re going,” the old man says, his head bobbing. “You’re going to the Beckham place, ain’t you?”
I swallow—my throat feels lined with sandpaper. “Yes. That’s right.” I grab my phone to confirm that, yes, I missed a right turn off this main road. There’s a text message banner still sitting at the top of the phone’s screen:
Some things are unknowable.
Ah. My eyes had left the road for just a second to read that text, and just like that . . .
“People always pass these turnoffs,” Russell Walker–Security Guard says now. He chuckles, then adds, “Happens all the time if you ain’t used to it. You from the city part of LA, ain’t you?”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
“Uh-huh. It’s gonna take you a while to get used to how they do things up here, then. The Beckhams’ driveway is almost hidden. Like everybody up here, the family likes their privacy. Margo shoulda told you to slow down once you passed that first turnoff with all them trash bins.”
“She may have,” I say. “She probably did, and I still missed it.” And now, that sandpaper sensation travels from my throat and up to my mind, scratch-scratch-scratch.
