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Wednesday, October 2, 2024

Book Review: Girl, Uncoded: A Memoir of Passion, Betrayal, and Eventual Blessings by Brandi Dredge -Memoir

Hello, dear Readers,

Below is my book review of Girl, Uncoded: A Memoir of Passion, Betrayal, and Eventual Blessings by Brandi Dredge.


Title: Girl, Uncoded: A Memoir of Passion, Betrayal, and Eventual Blessings
Rating: 5/5 Stars
Genre: Memoir
Author: Brandi Dredge
Publisher: She Writes Press
Publication Date: October 22, 2024
Language: English
Paperback: 284 pages
Meet the Author: Brandi Dredge
Buy Me: Amazon

Book Description

For fans of true crime memoir comes a gripping tale of one woman’s harrowing and spiritual journey of resilience after she learns that she was a victim of a sex crime—and her husband was the culprit.

At sixteen, Caroline longed to meet the man who owned the apartment she was hanging out at with her teenage friends. The one they said was a stripper, a fact that intrigued her. From the moment she saw Gary Richard, she craved his attention—and once their eyes met, he was all she wanted.

Months later, she was dismayed to discover that she was pregnant. But she had Gary Richard, she reassured herself, and he was all she needed to be okay. A belief that didn’t change even when, holding their week-old son, she sat in court and watched him face charges for stolen property. This was her family, her life; so when Gary Richard’s lawyer suggested a ploy to show the judge he was a changed man, she agreed. At seventeen years old, she became a wife.

Over the next nine years, Caroline’s identity and dreams of a fairy-tale life became twisted by adultery, betrayal, poverty, court cases, and lies. And then, one evening, the reality of her marriage finally became clear to her after a sergeant revealed she was the victim of one of her husband’s crimes—statutory rape—and her son’s DNA was the evidence the prosecution needed to convict him.


My Thoughts

A lot of people, including myself, at some point in life, have questioned why victims of domestic violence, or any abuse for that matter, don't leave their abusers. They just have to go, they say. Unfortunately, it has been proven time and again it is not that easy, even more depending on the level of abuse that person is experiencing. I am not saying that a little bit of abuse is ok; any kind of abuse is never justifiable; however, how severe it is makes it harder to walk away from the situation. 

I genuinely believe that is the case for the person at the center of Girl, Uncoded Caroline, and Gary Richard, who ends up being her husband.

She met him when she was a minor, and he was much older than her. They married and had a child. Even before getting married, he managed to control her and every situation and decision. This went on until years later, when Caroline finally walked away from the marriage, divorced him, and he was out of their house. 

Even though, through the years, Caroline started seeing who her husband really was, all the bad things and bad situations he put her and the kids through, the times she tried to end it, the times she forgave him again and again, at first I think she did it because she really thought things could get fixed and better, but in the end, in my humble opinion, I felt more than for the sake of the marriage; she stayed because of the kids. This is one big reason why I believe victims of abuse can't just leave; when there are children involved, it makes things more complicated because of the kids. 

I can only imagine how Caroline felt when she realized who her husband really was, all that he did to her, the kids, and their marriage, and also how hard it was for her to leave that toxic, abusive, unsustainable relationship. Put herself and the kids first. We all want our lives to work out for good, to have successful marriages, and to have the most minor problems possible. Still, at the same time, all these things are part of what life is, failure, mistakes, and disappointment, and I command Caroline to be brave enough to stop the abuse. 

Thank you, She Writes Press and NetGalley, for the free advanced copy in exchange for an honest review. 


Wendy

Book Review: The Last One At The Wedding: A Novel by Jason Rekulak- Psychological Thriller

Hello, dear Readers,

My book review of The Last One At The Wedding: A Novel by Jason Rekulak.


Title: The Last One At The Wedding: A Novel
Rating:  5/5 Stars
Genre: Psychological Thriller
Author: Jason Rekulak
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Publication Date: October 8, 2024
Language: English
Hardcover: 352 pages
Meet the Author: Jason Rekulak
Buy Me: Amazon

Book Description

From the author of the runaway hit Hidden Pictures, comes a stunning new work of domestic suspense

“Part conspiracy thriller, part family drama, The Last One at the Wedding kept my heart racing and my mind reeling.” ―Riley Sager.

"The ultimate middle-class Dad battles the 1% for his daughter's soul in the best thriller I've read all year." ―Grady Hendrix.


Frank Szatowski is shocked when his daughter, Maggie, calls him for the first time in three years. He was convinced that their estrangement would become permanent. He’s even more surprised when she invites him to her upcoming wedding in New Hampshire. Frank is ecstatic and determined to finally make things right.

He arrives to find that the wedding is at a private estate―very secluded, very luxurious, very much out of his league. It seems that Maggie failed to mention that she’s marrying Aidan Gardner, the son of a famous tech billionaire. Feeling desperately out of place, Frank focuses on reconnecting with Maggie and getting to know her new family. But it’s difficult: Aidan is withdrawn and evasive; Maggie doesn’t seem to have time for him, and he finds that the locals are disturbingly hostile to the Gardners. Frank needs to know more about this family his daughter is marrying, but if he pushes too hard, he could lose Maggie forever.

An edge-of-your-seat thriller that delves deep into the heart of one family, 
The Last One at the Wedding is a work of brilliant suspense from a true modern master.


My Thoughts

I listened to the audiobook version of this book, and it did not influence my opinion in any way.

This is the second book I have read by this author, and although I absolutely loved Hidden Pictures, I have to admit that The Last One at the Wedding was fantastic. I listened to the audiobook version, and the narrator was also fantastic.

While Hidden Pictures was more of a paranormal/scary book, his new book was different in that sense. However, it still had suspense elements that made me a little afraid of the outcome. With unexpected twists and very complicated characters, this book is well-written and fast-paced and keeps you engaged from the beginning to the end. 

Thank you, Macmillan Audio and Netgalley, for the Advanced Free Listening Copy, in exchange for an honest review.


Wendy 


Sunday, September 22, 2024

Book Review: First in the Family: A Story of Survival, Recovery, and the American Dream by Jessica Hoppe-Memoir

Hello, dear Readers,

Below is my book review of First in the Family: A Story of Survival, Recovery, and the American Dream by Jessica Hoppe.


Title: First in the Family: A Story of Survival, Recovery, and the American Dream. 
Rating: 5/5 Stars
Genre: Memoir
Author: Jessica Hoppe
Publisher: Flatiron Books
Publication Date: September 10, 2024
Language: English
Hardcover: 272 pages
Meet the Author: Jessica Hoppe
Buy Me: Amazon

Book Description

An unflinching and intimate memoir of recovery by Jessica Hoppe, Latinx writer, advocate, and creator of NuevaYorka.

“A powerful thunderclap of a memoir.” ―Lilliam Rivera, author of Dealing in Dreams

A MOST ANTICIPATED BOOK OF 2024: Today.com,
 LupitaReads, Electric Literature, Esquire, Publishers Weekly


In this deeply moving and lyrical memoir, Hoppe shares an intimate, courageous account of what it means to truly interrupt cycles of harm. For readers of 
The Recovering by Leslie Jamison, Somebody’s Daughter by Ashley C. Ford, and Heavy by Kiese Laymon.

During the first year of quarantine, drug overdoses spiked, the highest ever recorded. And Hoppe’s cousin was one of them. “I never learned the true history of substance use disorder in my family,” Hoppe writes. “People just disappeared.” At the time of her cousin’s death, she’d been in recovery for nearly four years, but she hadn’t told anyone.

In First in the Family, Hoppe shares her journey, the first in her family to do so, and takes the reader on a remarkable investigation of her family’s history, the American Dream, and the erasure of BIPOC from recovery institutions and narratives, leaving the reader with an urgent message of hope.

My Thoughts

Another fantastic memoir.

I listened to the audiobook version of this book. It did not influence my opinion on it in any way.

The author narrating the book was on point.

It is always interesting to me to read about other people's stories on alcoholism, and how this addition affects them and the people around them. Brings a little extra joy and happiness when there is recovery involved however, at the same time, it is bittersweet because for often than not that recovery comes with a big cost, in the case of the author, suffering and dealing with trauma related to generational, racial and societal aspects that otherwise they wouldn't have to experience or they could experience their addiction and healing process in a different way. 

I always appreciate when authors present their stories in the most honest, raw, and real way, no matter how ugly, or uncomfortable these are. Vulnerability doesn't come natural for most people, in this case Jessica does a pretty good job at it. I also appreciate how the author took the time to understand and comprehend the history behind her family, the roots of her trauma, and the struggles that come with family, society and one owns bagage. 

I appreciate the author sharing her story.

Thank you, Macmillan Audio and NetGalley, for the free advanced listeners copy, in exchange for an honest review. 


Wendy

Saturday, August 24, 2024

Blog Tour: The Berlin Apartment: A Novel by Bryn Turnbull-Women's Fiction

 

BLOG TOUR: THE BERLIN APARTMENT



Welcome to the Blog Tour for The Berlin Apartment: A Novel by Bryn Turnbull



BOOK SUMMARY

“Wholly immersive and impeccably researched, Bryn Turnbull’s tale brings the time vividly to life.” —Toronto Star on The Paris Deception.


For fans of Kate Quinn and Kristin Hannah, this sweeping love story follows a young couple whose lives are irrevocably changed when they’re separated overnight by the construction of the Berlin Wall.


Berlin 1961: When Uli Neumann proposes to Lise Bauer, she has every reason to accept. He offers her love, respect, and a life beyond the strict bounds of the East German society in which she was raised — which she longs to leave more than anything. But only two short days after their engagement, Lise and Uli are torn violently apart when barbed wire is rolled across Berlin, splitting the city into two hostile halves: capitalist West Berlin, an island of Western influence isolated far beyond the iron curtain, and the socialist East, a country determined to control its citizens by any means necessary. 


Soon, Uli and his friends in West Berlin hatch a plan to get Lise and her unborn child out of East Germany, but as distance and suspicion bleed into their lives and as weeks turn to months, how long can true love survive in the divided city?



ABOUT THE AUTHOR

BRYN TURNBULL is the internationally bestselling author of The Woman Before Wallis. With a master of letters in creative writing from the University of St. Andrews, a master of professional communication from Ryerson University, and a bachelor's degree in English literature from McGill University, Bryn focuses on finding stories of women lost within the cracks of the historical record. She lives in Toronto.






EXCERPT

Chapter 4

4


13 AUGUST, 1961


Uli stared out his apartment window, his pulse beating wildly in his ears. Seven stories below, a tangle of concertina wire ran the length of Bernauer Strasse, bisecting East Berlin from West: onlookers on both sides of the wire watched, muttering, as green-uniformed Grenztruppen, separated from the East German citizenry by a line of Volkspolizei, jackhammered the cobbles to fix stakes into the ground and carted in more spools of barbed wire, rolling it out with gloved hands. 

Was it war? He studied the faces of the border guards, searching for an indication of panic, of fear, but they looked measured and resolute. Was it a planned operation, then? A provocation? 

He needed to find Lise. He pulled on a shirt and trousers and descended into the fray. 

Outside, the sound of jackhammers was a relentless snarl that drowned out the fury of Berliners on both sides of the wire, shouting their ire. In the East, a mishmash of soldiers—police officers, border guards, and members of the People’s National Army—stood with their backs to the west, shoulder to shoulder, as guards hammered stakes in place. 

“Uli!” 

He wrenched his attention away from the barbed wire to see Jurgen’s stocky, sandy-haired figure. “Have you spoken to Lise?” 

Uli shook his head: across the street, a scrum of people had formed around a nearby telephone box. “I only just came outside. I’m still trying to piece together… What’s going on?” 

“Ulbricht’s sealed the border.” 

“Sealed it?” 

“Yeah.” Jurgen bit his lip, and Uli knew that he was thinking of his family, his brother and sister-in-law and niece, living in Bernau. “People kept saying he was going to do something, but I never thought…” He trailed off. “You’ve not seen Lise?” 

“Not since Friday.” Uli searched for a higher vantage point— a bench, the bonnet of a car—and gestured for Jurgen to follow him toward a rusting Mercedes, parked on the opposite side of the road. “Have you spoken to your brother?” 

“I tried telephoning Karl, but they’ve cut the wires. I heard they’ve sealed off the U-Bahn and S-Bahn as well… I don’t think anyone can make contact.” 

Uli jumped onto the bonnet of the Mercedes. What purpose did it serve to cut the telephone lines? He gave Jurgen his hand and tugged him up on top of the car: from here, they could see past the guards and jackhammers to the bewildered East Berliners beyond. 

“Lise was out of town, wasn’t she?” Jurgen muttered. In the empty streets beyond Bernauer Strasse, Soviet tanks rolled in and out of view in the direction of Brandenburg Gate: Where was the answering military presence from the West? He turned, hoping to see British or American troops: on a far-off corner, a pair of French soldiers watched the growing crowd but made no attempt to move closer. Surely, they had to intervene? 

Uli turned back to the barbed wire and his heart lurched: there, coming down Brunnenstrasse, was Lise. He shouted her name and waved to catch her attention: she turned and lifted her arm in response. 

Uli leaped down from the car and made his way toward the wire. He muscled past men and women with Jurgen in his wake, rising onto his toes to keep Lise in his sights. 

A shout rang up behind him—“Fascists!”—and the crowd surged forward. He stumbled, and a West Berlin police officer caught him before he hit the ground. 

“Watch yourself.” 

Uli straightened. “My fiancée. She’s in the East,” he began, hearing in his voice the panic he was trying, and falling, to quell. On the opposite side of the wire, Lise was pushing forward too, her pale head visible as she tried to reason with a Grenztruppe. “I need to speak with her, if you could just let me through, she’s right there—” 

The officer’s expression was pitying and fearful in equal measure. “I have my orders. No one is to approach the barrier,” he said. Across the wire, a second Grenztruppe turned his head, listening to their conversation over his shoulder. “They’re operating within East Berlin, we have no jurisdiction to intervene—” 

“They’re tearing the city apart!” Uli shouted, his rational mind reeling against the sheer absurdity of what was in front of him. He took another step, searching for a break in the wire. “If I could just talk to her—” 

The officer’s grip on Uli’s arms was mercilessly hard. “If you want to start the next world war, keep going,” he hissed, before shoving Uli back. “There’s nothing I can do, mate. Take it up with Walter Ulbricht.” 

He stumbled into Jurgen, trembling with a rage he’d never felt: an impotence, a helplessness that he’d not experienced since he was a boy. 

“Easy…this might only be temporary,” Jurgen said, his hand steady on Uli’s shoulder. “We ought to go to Brandenburg Gate. We might learn more about what this is—there will be reporters, politicians—” 

On the other side of the wire, he watched as Lise’s attempts to reason with a border guard failed: she stepped back, looking distraught. “If Ulbricht is sealing the border, we must act now. We need to find a way to get to Lise—bring her across—” 

“I know.” 

Uli broke off midsentence, wrenching his eyes away from Lise. Jurgen stared at him resolutely, an. gave ground to Uli’s panic and helped him think beyond his own fear and anger. 

“We need to act now, but whatever we do, it can’t be here,” Jurgen continued. He was right: they couldn’t push through, not here, where there were so many people, so many sets of eyes. “We find a break in the wire—a gap…” “They can’t be everywhere all at once,” Uli said. “Further along,” Jurgen whispered back, and Uli’s heart quickened. Across the wire, Lise stared at him, and he jerked his head, knowing that Lise would understand—she nodded and melted back into the crowd. 

“C’mon,” he muttered, and Jurgen took off down the street.


Excerpt from The Berlin Apartment by Bryn Turnbull. Copyright © 2024 by Bryn Turnbull. Published by MIRA.


BOOK INFORMATION

THE BERLIN APARTMENT: A NOVEL

Author: Bryn Turnbull

Publication Date: August 27, 2024

Publisher: MIRA

$18.99 USD | $23.99 CAD


Buy Links:

Harlequin

Bookshop.org

Barnes & Noble

Books A Million

Amazon


Social Links:

Author Website

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/brynturnbullwrites/?hl=en

X: https://x.com/brynturnbull

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/brynturnbullwrites/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19389611.Bryn_Turnbull



Thank you to Cheryl Lee at Harlequin for inviting me to the Blog Tour.

Monday, August 5, 2024

Blog Tour: The Body Next Door: A Novel by Maia Chance-Mystery/Thrillers

 

BLOG TOUR: THE BODY NEXT DOOR




Welcome to the Blog Tour for The Body Next Door: A Novel by Maia Chance


BOOK SUMMARY

They buried their secrets, but not deep enough…

Hannah McCullough’s life is far from perfect, but you’d never know it by looking at her. Instead, you’d see a beautiful young mother wholly devoted to her two children and a docile wife utterly besotted with her self-made millionaire husband, Allan. You’d see the designer clothes she wears, the luxury car she drives, the dewy-eyed au pair she employs.

You wouldn’t see the dark secret she carries.

But when a construction crew unearths the body of a young girl near the McCulloughs’ vacation home on Orcas Island, Hannah has no choice but to confront her past. She wonders how much Allan knows about the victim and the apocalyptic cult she was connected to. Meanwhile, Allan can’t seem to understand why his beautiful young bride, as polished and pristine as the collectible artifacts in his glass case, would threaten their fairy-tale lifestyle by digging too deep in places she knows she shouldn’t.

As the police investigation into the gruesome discovery deepens, Hannah’s picture-perfect marriage facade starts to crumble, and she soon finds herself on a dire hunt for answers. Her search takes an unexpected turn after she crosses paths with three strangers who have shocking secrets of their own.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Maia Chance is the author of the thriller The Body Next Door and ten mystery novels. Originally from northern Idaho, she has a bachelor’s and master’s degree in violin performance and a Ph.D. in English Literature. She lives on a bucolic island in Puget Sound with her husband, two children, and her dog.


EXCERPT

Chapter 1

NOW
HANNAH
I’m not completely okay with being one of those spoiled, pretty women you see in new luxury SUVs on their way to power barre, or to get microneedled, or running into Nordstrom to return some cashmere before picking up their children at prep school and going home to their hot, rich husbands.
That’s not me. Those women don’t smell like lost love the way I do. They don’t smell of death. But I have studied those women so carefully, and I imitate their ways so well, that I outdo them all.So when my friend from the Seattle Tennis Club, Jorie Henries, calls with the news from Orcas Island, I freeze like an animal in a flashlight beam. My hiding place has been sniffed out, I think. This time, I’m caught.It’s quarter to two, more than an hour before Oliver and Sibley’s school pickup, but I have been summoned by the head of school, Mr. Preller, to talk. He said it was time-sensitive but didn’t elaborate. The meeting must be about the school’s fundraising auction: I’ve sat on the committee for five years and counting. Or maybe the school is going to come at me, sharklike, for more of Allan’s money. They aren’t shy.
Jorie pings my mobile phone just as I’m making my exit onto Capitol Hill. I ignore it until I’m safely off I-5. Rush hour in Seattle starts at one thirty these days, and it doesn’t let up until after seven. Getting across town to the Huxley School and back is basically my job.
I pick up the phone, redial the call, and switch to Speaker. I gas my Range Rover into a left turn.
Jorie’s bright voice says, “Hannah! How are you?”
“Great. Heading over to the school. I’m guessing I’m about to get roped into even more auction stuff.”
Jorie laughs. “That’s why I always just say no to the school. I would never have any me time if I let the school have their way with me. God, as it is, the girls’ lacrosse schedule is running me ragged. Listen, I’m calling because I just found out about the news on Orcas, and I wanted to see if everything’s all right. With your island house, I mean. And with you.”
At the word Orcas, my throat clicks shut. I keep my eyes on the wet asphalt rolling out of sight under the Rover’s hood. “I’m not sure I know what you’re—”
“Oh, that’s right, you hate current events, don’t you?” Jorie laughs again. This time I hear a lilt of condescension. Jorie has an MBA from Stanford and considers herself to have the intellectual upper hand over me, who can only boast of a high-school diploma and subsequent (brief) flight-attendant career. Not that Jorie has ever used her business degree for anything besides making sure she didn’t get screwed in her prenup. “They dug up a dead body yesterday on Orcas Island,” she says. “Someone is excavating for a new house. A woman’s body—”
Allan, I think.
My fingers slip and fumble the phone. Just as I catch it, my vision fills up with the red glow of brake lights. I slam my own brakes, jolting hard against my seat belt. I have stopped with maybe a couple of inches between my front fender and a Prius.
My heart beats quick and small. It’s a rabbit’s heart. The heart of a victim.
I carefully drive forward.
Jorie is still talking. “—near Deer Harbor. Isn’t that where your island house is? I would just hate it if something like that happened near one of our homes.” A pause. “Hannah? Are you there?”
“Yes. Hi. I hadn’t heard about that, Jorie. Thanks so much for telling me— Oh! Sorry, I have another call. Is there—”
“No, no. See you Monday at the club.” Jorie’s voice is replaced with dead air.
There is no incoming call, only someone honking their horn wrathfully behind me. I pull through the intersection and then, half-blind, turn onto the first side street.
Dead leaves are gunking up the gutters, and cars pack both curbs. The houses are large, well-kept, and close together. Does wealth always look so desolate? Maybe it’s just because it’s November. I double-park and, without switching off my engine, open the web browser on my phone. Ghostly plumes of exhaust coil around my car.
Allan, I think again.
I have a choice here, I tell myself. No one is forcing me to search for anything. I can turn away and refuse to look. I can lock this news in the box in my mind with all the other junk I can’t deal with, and I can carry on. I’m good at that.
But instead I type the search terms into my phone.
I’m jittery. I misspell every word. Despite that, the news item from the Seattle Times is easy to find: Human Remains Unearthed on Orcas Island.
Construction workers on Orcas Island, Washington, made a gruesome discovery yesterday when they excavated the remains of an adolescent female on a secluded waterfront lot. A spokesperson for the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office reports that the remains were found in a shallow grave, and there is evidence of blunt force trauma to the female’s skull. Foul play is suspected. Based on preliminary observations, the female appears to have been deceased between five and ten years.
Rural Orcas Island, with only around 6,000 year-round residents, made national news in the summer of 2015 as the home of the Kinfolk Community, a group of self-professed “radical homesteaders” led by Chris Garnock, who was known to his followers as Uncle. The community, which was flagged by watchdog organization Cult Watch, disbanded after a standoff with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives that left an ATF agent, Garnock, and fourteen-year-old Kinfolk Community boy Quill Stroufe dead. The remains discovered yesterday were unearthed on land neighboring what was once the Kinfolk Community’s parcel.
The deceased female was wearing a braided leather bracelet with a small pottery disc attached, printed with the emblem of the Kinfolk Community: a seedling with two leaves. Cult expert Dr. Anthony Chin of the Department of Psychology at the University of Washington notes that the emblem signifies the “new springtime” that Garnock and his followers believed they would experience following an environmental apocalypse. A spokesperson for the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office says that, while not conclusive, the evidence strongly points to the possibility of the female having been a member of or visitor to the Kinfolk Community but adds that no persons linked to the community were ever reported missing.
The remains have been transported to the Snohomish County Medical Examiner’s Office for autopsy. Officials ask that anyone with information about the female’s identity contact the San Juan County Sheriff’s Office. 
I read the article twice. Then I squeeze my eyes shut.
I would like to cry, except I’ve forgotten how.
Fifteen minutes later, I park in the fire lane in front of the Huxley School. Lawns sprawl around the stately old redbrick main building. Modern structures—the new library, the slick sports complex—stand off to the side, their windows glowing in the dull autumn afternoon. The school’s air of smug, liberal-minded money always makes me feel trashy.
I get out of the car. I’m not worried about being towed from the fire lane. My husband’s considerable annual donation to the scholarship fund has its perks.
I have pulled it together. Pulling it together, keeping it together, that’s in my skill set. With my quietly luxurious outfit—belted vicuña coat, jeans, Italian suede booties, chocolate-brown Birkin bag—I know I look like any pampered Huxley mom. Except that I’m younger and even more pampered than most.
It’s just a vacation home, I recite to myself as I wait to be buzzed into the school. Just a vacation home. And dead bodies are gross; anyone would be upset.
I make my way through the school’s empty hallways to the administrative offices.
“Mrs. McCullough,” the receptionist says. “Welcome. Mr. Preller is waiting for you.” She gestures to Preller’s office door.
I think I see a flicker of anxiety on her face before she turns back to her computer screen.
“I’ll get straight to the point, Mrs. McCullough,” Preller says once I have taken a seat and declined refreshment. “It’s about Oliver.”
“Oliver,” I repeat. This isn’t about the auction? Not about the scholarship fund?
“Surely that doesn’t come as a complete surprise. Your son’s behavior has been a problem since he began here…” Preller’s voice tapers off, as though he’s waiting for me to interject.
I remain silent, my spine rigid.
Preller says, “In some ways, Oliver has made progress—I understand he’s been in behavioral-cognitive therapy, and his impulse control seems to be improving. However, we’ve had several complaints from parents just this term, and I’m afraid that at this juncture we simply cannot fail to take some sort of action. I called you and your husband here today—it’s unfortunate he couldn’t come—to tell you that we have decided it would be best to…to suspend Oliver.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I quite understand.” I use the tone Jorie calls my flight attendant’s chirp.
In the back of my brain, a nasty little voice whispers, See? See? I told you we’re not safe.
“This morning he exhibited extraordinarily aggressive behavior toward one of our fourth-years,” Preller says.
“Aggressive?”
“At first, Oliver limited himself to berating the other student after their basketball accidentally hit him in the sport court—”
“Was Oliver hurt?”
“He terrified the other student. He screamed—he called the other student a freak and a monster—”
“He said that?”
“I’m afraid so. When the other student made a swipe at Oliver—”
“So the other child hit him first.”
“—Oliver tackled him to the ground and bit him. Bit his cheek. Not hard enough to break the skin, but contusions and swelling are present. The child has been taken to the doctor, because human bites carry a heavy risk of infection. The parents have threatened to sue the school.”
“Oliver is only twelve years old. Kids do weird things.”
“He should know better. He does know better.”
“How long is the suspension?” 
“In January he may return to school, and we will reassess his behavior. You must realize that Oliver is being given extraordinary consideration here. Almost any other student would have been expelled—expelled, not suspended—years ago.”
“So, what? I’m supposed to be grateful to you? Grateful that now I have to hire some kind of private tutor just so he won’t fall behind, after my husband and I—”
“Your husband is one of our more generous donors, and for that we are grateful.”
Your husband is generous. Not you. It’s the same kind of microslight as Jorie laughing at my lack of interest in current events. But Jorie is at least a social peer. Preller is just a glorified minion.
“Your daughter is doing well, both academically and socially, here at Huxley, so I do hope—”
“Thank you, Mr. Preller.” I’m on my feet, gripping my handbag. “My husband and I will be in touch about whether or not we’ll be keeping our children at Huxley.” I give him an ostentatiously fake flight attendant’s smile. Pretzels? Something to drink? I say, “Have a great afternoon.”
All I can see are bones.
Big bones clumped with dirt and something gluey and fibrous. Delicate little bird bones flittering away in the wind. The bones are entangled with the name that keeps whispering in my mind: Allan.
“Daddy says everyone has their price,” my eight-year-old daughter, Sibley, says on the car ride home from school. “All you have to do is figure out what it is.”
“What?” I say, glancing at her in the rearview mirror. She sits straight and alert on her booster seat, her dark blond curls wisping around owlish glasses. “Daddy said that to you?”
“It’s for his work,” she says. “For being good at it.”
“Oh, okay,” I say, relaxing. “That makes sense.”
Sibley is a funny kid. Imaginative, precocious with art and language, but a little behind her peers in terms of emotional development. She is happiest playing alone for hours with her Calico Critters. Moving the tiny toy animals around in their plastic treehouse, making them have conversations with each other.
Oliver rides in the seat beside me. I haven’t mentioned the suspension to him yet, but I think he knows. His fair head is bent over his phone. He’s playing a game. Frown—swipe—frown—swipe—
I do not dare speak to him. I can’t reveal how desperately I need him to interact, or he’ll shut down even more. But this isn’t about my needs. It’s about his.
Once a month, I meet with Oliver’s therapist, Patti, one-on-one. She, who knows more of the truth than anyone else, suggested I see a separate therapist for myself. I declined. No way am I going to rip off those old scabs.
And now, Oliver’s suspension. How am I going to broach the subject with Allan? He’ll start pushing again to send Oliver to that boarding school in Montana, the one for screwed-up rich kids. Oliver won’t make it in a savage place like that.
“Is Daddy coming home today?” Sibley asks, as though she can read my thoughts. Sibley is an empath, her preschool teacher told me years ago, sadly, almost as though she were saying Sibley is defective.
“Yes, Daddy’s coming home,” I say.
I imagine that I hear a gentle tapping sound, the one that seeps from the locked-up part of my brain sometimes. It is soft, but so persistent.
We arrive fifteen minutes later at our large brick Tudor Revival home in Briarcliff, a moneyed neighborhood north of downtown. Perched high on a slope and framed by twisty madrone trees, there’s usually a view of Puget Sound, Bainbridge Island, and the Olympic Mountains, but not today. Too misty, too dark even at 3:45 in the afternoon. 
The house was built in 1927. It has English-style mullion windows, a turret, creeping ivy, and a picturesque garage built to look like horse stables. A century ago, Seattle’s new rich wanted to cover up their grubby backgrounds by pretending they were British landed gentry. I know Allan bought this house for the same reason.
I park in the driveway. The garage doors are open, and I can see Allan’s black Tesla Model S inside, next to his Porsche.
“Daddy!” Sibley cries, unbuckling and flinging open her door. “I see him!” She dashes to the garage, hair flying, and knocks on the window of Allan’s Tesla, bouncing up and down. “Daddy, Daddy! Get off the phone!”
For the first time that afternoon, I’m alone with Oliver. I decide I won’t mention his suspension yet, but I want him to know I’m on his side. That, no matter what, I’ll always be on his side.
“Oliver, sweetheart.” I reach over to touch his still-round cheek. “Little—”
He pushes my hand away. “Stop it.”
My hand falls to my lap, limp and defeated. “Sorry. You’re right. You’re not a little kid anymore. But…” I turn to look at him, his profile so like my own, especially the slightly undersize nose with the faintest upward slope to the round tip. My mother had that same nose. So did my sister.
Oliver gets out of the car. Leaving his door open, he lopes toward the house.
I gather up my handbag, then get out, and circle around to gather the kids’ backpacks and close their doors.
In the garage, Allan has gotten out of his own car. He is crouching to talk eye to eye with Sibley, his phone in his fist. He is red-faced and in running clothes. A triangle of sweat darkens his T-shirt. He has just come back from a run. He is fifty-one years old and more than a little apprehensive about his own mortality, so there’s nothing weird about him squeezing in a run after a long flight. 
What is weird is that he would sit inside his car—his precious custom Tesla with its soft leather seats—in sweaty clothes.
He was on the phone. He was trying to keep the call private, using the Tesla as a sort of high-privacy zone.
He sees me approaching. He smiles.



BOOK INFORMATION

THE BODY NEXT DOOR

Author: Maia Chance

ISBN: 9780778310419

Publication Date: August 6, 2024

Publisher: MIRA


Buy Links: 

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Thank you to Kamille Carreras at Harlequin Trade Publishing for inviting me to the Blog Tour.