A fabulous new series from the queen of crime fiction. —J.T. Ellison, New York Times bestselling author of It’s One of Us
In this suspenseful new novella in New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan’s series, the PI team’s biggest client hires them to look into a burglary that quickly escalates into a case with deadly stakes.
Logan Monroe’s family is in danger. After his sister, Laura, and her kids are run off the road and their house is broken in to, Logan tasks the Angelharts with keeping them safe, and the PIs drop everything to take on the case.
But they quickly realize there’s more to the situation than anyone thinks. First, the burglars didn’t take anything—were they just trying to scare her or were they after something they didn’t find? Then Laura can’t reach her ex-husband, who was supposed to take the kids for the weekend. While Jack protects the family, Margo tries to find the ex…but he seems to have disappeared.
As she digs deeper, Margo uncovers someone hiding in the shadows who will do anything to get what he wants—including killing anyone who stands in his way.
Review
Logan Monroe’s family is in danger. After his sister, Laura, and her kids are run off the road and their house is broken in to, Logan tasks the Angelharts with keeping them safe, and the PIs drop everything to take on the case.
This story starts out with a bang…a car crash! And it just keeps the intensity alive with the hunt for Margo’s ex. And do not think there isn’t a strong chemistry between Margo and Jack.
I enjoyed the mystery of the storage unit. I didn’t quite know if we were about to find secrets in law files or something totally different…you need to read this to find out!
Now, this is part of a series. I have read the first one, You’ll Never Find Me. But it is not necessary that you read it to follow this one. This is a stand alone novella you will enjoy either way.
Hillary Huber does a good job narrating this tale. There are quite a few male voices and she was very good keeping them separate. And she didn’t make me cringe with the children’s voices. So this is a win!!
Need a quick tale with a good mystery…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novella from the publisher for a honest review.
By Holly SmaleAugust 12, 2025 Mira Books Hardcover ISBN: 9780778368632
Book Summary:
If you knew how your life would turn out, what would you change now?
The second brilliantly uplifting and page-turning novel from the multi-million bestselling author of Geek Girl and Reese’s Book Club Pick Cassandra in Reverse.
Margot Wayward is in manically gleeful self-destruct mode. Following the implosion of a ten-year relationship, she’s wilfully derailing her successful career, joyfully taking down men on dating apps, and living in total chaos.
Until one day, when Margot has a vision of herself with a man she’s never met before. She doesn’t believe in fate. But when Margot meets single-dad Henry, the vision comes true: exactly as she’d foreseen it.
As her future continues to reveal itself, a glimpse at a time, Margot realises she knows exactly what’s going to happen, and when. And there’s nothing she can do to change any of it.
So Margot has to decide how to live, how to love again, and how to be herself… Because if you can’t change your destiny, how on earth do you live your present?
Author Bio:
Holly Smale is the internationally bestselling, award-winning author of The Valentines teen series, and Geek Girl series which have sold 3.4 million copies worldwide. She is the co-creator, writer and exec producer of the GEEK GIRL TV show, which launches on Netflix worldwide and renewed for season 2. In January 2021, Holly was diagnosed autistic at the age of 39. Suddenly a lot of things made sense. Holly regularly shares, debates about, and celebrates neurodiversity on Twitter and Instagram @holsmale. Cassandra in Reverse is her adult debut and was named A Reese’s Book Club Pick, an Amazon Editors’ Top Pick of the Month, and a June Must Listen on Apple.
I lean back in my chair and study the face of Date Number Fifteen. According to his online profile, the key to John’s heart is “Cuddles and Coffee,” and he doesn’t like “people who don’t message back— we r hear to talk!” (But not to spell, apparently.) John enjoys “long walks on the beach,” “honesty LOL” and randomly adding LOL to basic statements. He claims to be forty- two years old, a Gemini (“whatever that means haha”) and
a “six-foot- stop- asking” accountant who drinks “socially” but “never smokes” and is looking for his “next big adventure—i s it you?”
At no point did John say he enjoys smugly demeaning his dates, yet here we are.
“Sure.” I take another sip of red wine. “Why not.”
“But not on telly.” There’s a manic, slightly feverish glint in his eyes, like a light bulb about to pop. “So not a real Weather Girl. Bet you would look very nice in one of those perky little suits, though. Just saying.”
John winks and takes a huge swig of his pint: fingertips stained yellow.
“I wouldn’t know,” I say brightly. “As you say, I’m not On Telly.”
“You could be, though.” He leans forward and I catch a strong whiff of the cigarettes he never smokes. “You’re hot enough, Margaret. Like, an eight. Maybe. Not quite. Seven and a half, but with the right lighting . . .”
I grin at the waiter as he arrives with two plates of pasta.
“Thank you so much.” Picking up my fork, I attack my tagliatelle. “Could we also please get a side of garlic bread— make that two— a burrata with pesto and tiny tomatoes, a Ca-prese salad, stuffed artichokes, garlic mushrooms and . . . ooh, a bottle of your most expensive red wine? And a tiramisu, please.” John chokes slightly on his free bread roll and I smile sweetly at him.
“How rude of me,” I add. “Was there anything extra you wanted? Coffee, obviously. It is the key to your heart, after all.”
Date Number Fifteen glances at the menu, boggles slightly at the prices, then forces a smile at the patient waiter.
“No, I’m good.”
John looks me up and down, presumably to work out what my body will look like after £65 worth of Italian side dishes and whether it’ll be worth the financial investment. He says he’s an accountant; I’d imagine he’s calculating it to the penny.
“I like a girl who isn’t afraid to eat,” he says uncertainly as I pile pasta into my mouth and wipe carbonara sauce off my chin. “It’s very . . . sexy.”
“What a relief, John.” I finish my wine. “You’re a true gentle-man.”
This pleases him: he is a gentleman. Here, finally, is a woman who sees him.
“You’re a breath of fresh air, Margaret.” He shakes his head, ruefully picking at his ravioli. “Online dating is the worst. You would not believe the amount of crazies I’ve met. Absolutely bonkers out there.”
“Oh no.” I tilt my head at him. “How awful for you.”
“At least you look mostly like your profile photos,” Date Fifteen grins at me with an errant piece of crab stuck between his teeth, “although obviously they’re flattering— but we all tweak now and then, don’t we?”
“We do.” I feel my nostrils flare slightly. “Which beach do you favor for your long walks, in this non- coastal city of Bristol?”
“Oh.” He blinks. “I went to Weston- super- Mare last year.” “True commitment! And what’s an average weekend like in the life of Gemini John?”
He’s starting to look irritated now, and I think I can guess why. “You know, just . . . normal stuff.” John rubs his finger yet again, and I make a mental note of it: number seven.
“Wonderful.” I beam at him. “And last weekend, specifically?”
“What is this?” John tries to laugh, which is unfortunate because the crab is still protruding, as if making a final doomed bid for freedom— possibly encouraged by all the talk of beaches. “A first date or an interview?”
I glance at my watch. “Are they not the same thing?” Just in time, the waiter arrives with my order. I grin at him and he grins back.
“Actually.” I put my fork down and pat my stomach. “Can we get all this to go? I want to make sure we have enough energy for later, if you know what I mean.”
I wink at John and his surliness evaporates like water drop-lets on a hot car bonnet.
“Ooooh, bad girl. Straight to the point. I like it.”
“I’m thirty-six years old,” I say calmly, wiping my mouth and watching as John rubs his finger for the eighth time. “I haven’t been a girl for two decades. But thank you so much for repeatedly overlooking that chronological flaw. Much in the same way you have overlooked your own age, which I’m guessing is what— forty- seven?”
Date Number Fifteen winces. “Like I said— we all tweak. Right?”
“Absolutely!” I grin at him. “It makes sense to strategically alter the data to make sure you hit a younger female demographic. What an interesting way to reject the burden of time we all carry.”
The waiter saves him from responding by arriving with the bill and, with a twitching mouth, placing it in the middle of the table. I keep my hands flat and dimple at John for a few seconds— playing a game of bill chicken— until he sighs slightly and reaches for it. The muscles under his eyes twitch, and I watch his internal struggle. Am I worth extra garlic mushrooms? He glances at my breasts and decides: just. With a gallant flourish, Date Fifteen pays the whole bill, leaving no tip.
“So.” With my most seductive eyes, I push back my chair. “Shall we go?”
Poor John’s face lights up with such ferocity, I almost feel guilty. Almost but not quite. “Absolutely. My place or yours?”
I grin. “Both.”
“Um, how does that work?”
“Well, John.” I put a twenty- pound note on the table, stand up and grab my raincoat, handbag and giant umbrella. “I am going to go to my house, and you are going to yours. So that’s how it will work.”
“But— ”
“You’ve failed this date, John. Sorry.”
“I don’t— ” He stands up too and stares at me for a few seconds with his mouth open (crab still present), then looks at my tip lying on the table. “Why?”
“I’m so glad you asked.” I smile at the waiter, who is holding a paper bag. “Because you haven’t asked me a single non- rhetorical question all evening. You have stared at my breasts for the entire, uncomfortable hour. And not a single thing on your profile is true, including your height.”
All five foot ten of him bridles. “I am six foot. It’s not my fault you’re wearing bloody heels.”
“Oh, and you’re married.”
At this, his face completely changes, which immediately erases the one percent uncertainty still remaining. “What the— ”
“With children.”
John pales. “You’re— ”
“Crazy?” I laugh properly for the first time this evening. “I doubt it, John. You’ve rubbed the indent on your ring finger eight times. You also have one piece of dried alphabet cereal stuck to the back of your jacket, along with baby spit- up on your collar. Having assessed this data, I surmise that you have two children. One is less than six months, the other learning to read, so I’m guessing three or four years old. It’s an A, by the way. In case he or she is missing a vowel.”
John— or whatever his actual name is, I’m assuming I’ll never know now—s tarts to froth like an overloaded washing machine. “What the hell kind of business is it of yours if my wife and I are— ”
“Except your phone has pinged six times this evening and you checked it as soon as I went to the bathroom. So I’m guessing you are currently ‘stuck at work,’ sad- face emoji. Don’t feel too bad. Statistically, thirty percent of people using online dating apps are secretly married, so it’s not just you. You’re just shockingly bad at covering it up.”
Suffice to say, John isn’t LOL-ing anymore. It’s a good thing this little Italian restaurant in Clifton is so quiet on a Monday, because I think now he’s really “hear to talk.”
“So, you knew you weren’t interested and just let me pay for dinner anyway?”
“Yes.” I pick up my takeout bag. “Thank you. Much appreciated.” I hold up the bottle of wine to the waiter, along with the previous glass I’d already poured. “I’ll bring this back next Monday, OK? Washed, obviously.”
The waiter laughs. “Gotcha.”
I glance out of the window— yup, just as expected— and sling my raincoat on. John told me when we met that my raincoat and umbrella were “overkill in August,” but I’ve been watching the cumulonimbus clouds gather all afternoon. The sky doesn’t lie, unlike the majority of my online dates. As I walk toward the front door, I can feel John crackling behind me, the way you feel electricity in the air just before a thunderstorm.
“By the way,” I say, holding up the bottle of wine, before he can start yelling. “My name is Margot. And I’m not a ‘Weather Girl.’ I’m a bloody meteorologist.”
Then I open my umbrella just as the first few drops begin to fall.
A heartwarming and empowering novel about thriving after tragedy, from the author of the “enchanting, hilarious, and insightful” (Patti Callahan Henry, New York Times author) My Magnolia Summer.
Violet Adams is the perfect, youngest child in a family of loud, passionate women on Sullivan’s Island, South Carolina. As the sweet, traditional one, she’s always been the steady hand in her family but after a sudden breakup and subsequent tragedy, she doesn’t know who she is anymore.
Aly Knox, Violet’s best friend, is a young influencer still struggling with the loss of her mother and adjusting to joining Violet in Southern living. With her best friend’s help, Violet is determined to break out of her shell—and who she thought she was—no matter what. And what better place to look for success, meaning, and possibly love than the Lowcountry of South Carolina?
Review
Violet and Aly are best friends. They are both struggling with personal issues. Violet is struggling with her ex boyfriend showing back up in her life. Aly is still reeling from the loss of her mother.
I enjoyed Violet and Aly. Both these young ladies have strong opinions. But they are also flawed…in a human way. They make human mistakes. This just endears the reader to both.
I did fluctuate between 3 and 4 stars on this one. But the ending is so very good. I moved it up to 4. It does have some mundane details in this novel. But I love a family drama and this one has secrets and a few intense battles.
Need a tale set in the Lowcountry of South Carolina…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Power, love, fame, and catastrophic greed collide in a sweeping historical novel about 1920s Paris based on the enduring friendship between Coco Chanel and world-famous muse Misia Sert.
In 1920s Paris, Misia Sert is a patron and a muse to the most revolutionary artists of the era. She is also profoundly in love with renowned muralist José María “Jojo” Sert, who prizes his wife’s iconoclastic vision and independence. But in Misia’s rarified circle, there is no greater kindred soul than designer Coco Chanel. Two women, two friends, for whom rules do not apply.
Then Misia finds herself challenged by the enigmatic Roussadana Mdivani, a Russian émigré and sculptress who solicits Jojo’s tutelage in service to a rising career of her own. It becomes evident Roussadana wants more from an enamored Jojo than that. Misia recognizes a disrupter when she sees one. Misia, with Coco as her confidante, is ready to fight to maintain her position—in marriage and in Paris—in the most unconventional ways. But the stakes are higher, and the fallout darker, than Misia and Coco can fathom.
Set during Paris’s scandalous années folles, Glorious Ruins is a sweeping novel about an indomitable friendship and the exquisite agonies of art and of love
Review
In 1920s Paris, Misia Sert is a patron and a muse to the most revolutionary artists of the era. She is also profoundly in love with renowned muralist José María “Jojo” Sert, who prizes his wife’s iconoclastic vision and independence. But in Misia’s rarified circle, there is no greater kindred soul than designer Coco Chanel. Two women, two friends, for whom rules do not apply.
I really got frustrated with Misia during this novel. I got so tired of her waiting on JoJo. Misia is an accomplished pianist and very intelligent and this just demeaned her and made me furious.
I enjoyed all the famous people in this tale. Chanel is a big one, along with quite a few others. I also enjoyed the time period of 1920s Paris and the fashions!
The narrator, Elisabeth Lagelee, did a very good job. Lots of French pronunciations in this and she nailed it. Also, Jojo is pronounced Hoho in this novel. This drove me a bit insane. But I guess Joe Joe would have been just as bad. 😜
This is 3.5 stars rounded up.
Need a tale with some cameos from very famous people…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
Juliette Fay—known for her “well-drawn characters and vibrant historical backdrops” (Library Journal)—transports us to 1920s America with this big-hearted tale of two very different women who must learn to trust each other as one tries save her family and the other to save herself. Perfect for fans of Kristin Hannah and Kristina McMorris.
1926: Charlotte Crowninshield was born into one of the finest Boston society families. Now she’s on the run from a brutal husband, desperate to disappear into the wilds of the Southwest. Billie MacTavish is the oldest of nine children born to Scottish immigrants in Nebraska. She quit school in the sixth grade to help with her mother’s washing and mending business, but even that isn’t enough to keep the family afloat.
Desperate, both women join the ranks of the Harvey Girls, waitresses who serve in America’s first hospitality chain on the Santa Fe railroad. Hired on the same day, they share three things: a room, a heartfelt dislike of each other…and each has a secret that will certainly get them fired.
Through twelve-hour days of training in Topeka, Kansas, they learn the fine art of service, perfecting their skills despite bouts of homesickness, fear of being discovered, and a run-in with the KKK. When they’re sent to work at the luxurious El Tovar hotel at the Grand Canyon, the challenges only grow, as Billie struggles to hide her young age from would-be suitors, and Charlotte discovers the little-known dark side of the national park’s history.
“Juliette Fay’s gift for creating complex, exquisitely human characters” (Marisa de los Santos, New York Times bestselling author) is on full display in this deeply moving and joyous celebration of female empowerment, loyalty, and friendship.
Review
Charlotte and Billie both join the ranks of the Harvey Girls, waitresses who serve in America’s first hospitality chain on the Santa Fe railroad. Hired on the same day, they share three things: a room, a heartfelt dislike of each other…and each has a secret that will certainly get them fired.
Charlotte is my favorite Harvey girl. She is from a privileged background and she has made quite a few bad decisions in her past. But she is one of the first ones to help someone out. She has a heart of gold!
I also enjoyed the camaraderie between all these characters, including some of the “not so nice ones”. As this story unfolds and each of their backgrounds start to come to the surface, their differences come to light. But this does not deter them from growing up and becoming friends.
I enjoyed learning about The Harvey Girls. I had no idea about their history. So, of course I had to go and research. I love a novel that sends me on a quest.
Need a unique historical fiction novel…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
The first thrilling mystery in the new North Falls series from Karin Slaughter, New York Times bestselling author of Pretty Girls and the Will Trent Series.
Welcome to North Falls—a small town where everyone knows everyone. Or so they think.
Until the night of the fireworks. When two teenage girls vanish, and the town ignites.
For Officer Emmy Clifton, it’s personal. She turned away when her best friend’s daughter needed help—and now she must bring her home.
But as Emmy combs through the puzzle the girls left behind, she realizes she never really knew them. Nobody did.
Every teenage girl has secrets. But who would kill for them? And what else is the town hiding?
“Karin Slaughter’s new series starts with a book that is a knock-out punch…My God. Sign me up for more.” — Dervla McTiernan, #1 internationally bestselling author of What Happened to Nina?
Review
To say this book is fabulous is an understatement. Now, it has been a few years since I have read Karin Slaughter. Y’all, I just forgot how good her books are!
This is an intricate tale of child abduction and family drama all rolled into one!
This follows Emmy Clifton. She is an officer for the small town of North Falls sheriff’s department. Her dad is actually the sheriff. And he has taught her well. So, when two young girls come up missing. It takes everything in their power to find out what happened.
This book had me on the edge of my seat…not kidding! I was desperate for them to find those young girls. But when it flashes forward 12 years and another child is missing…I was reading as fast as I could.
Yes, I figured it out. But, only because the author wanted me to. Then there is the twist I did not see coming. Y’all…I might have screamed just a bit!
Need a story that you cannot put down…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
In this grumpy-sunshine romance, school nurse Josie and her brother’s best friend—hockey player Wyatt Jacobs—are tricked into spending a summer together that’s anything but smooth sailing.
When Josie’s brother sends her to a random address for their (sometimes) annual Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza, she finds neither siblings nor extravaganzas. Instead, ends up at a run-down cottage on the Northern Neck of Virginia occupied by a hockey player she knows and loathes.
A hockey player who isn’t just one of her sports agent brother’s clients. He’s also his best friend. And Josie’s sworn enemy.
Oh—and her brother wants Josie to help Wyatt recover from his injury.
Dragging grumpy hockey players to physical therapy is a far cry from bandaging skinned knees, but for the price her brother offers to pay, Josie is willing to try.
Even if it means sharing what she dubs the quaint little murder cottage with Wyatt.
Begrudgingly, Josie starts to see a little more of the man behind the grumpy exterior. And when she finds out he was supposed to sail the Intracoastal Waterway south to Savannah scattering his uncle’s ashes, Josie surprises even herself by offering to be Wyatt’s first mate.
Smooth sailing is nowhere to be found, and Josie begins to wonder if they’ll be able to make it home without killing—or kissing?—each other.
And yet, the longer they share cramped quarters and canned food, the more of Wyatt’s layers she peels back until Josie realizes she misunderstood him, their shared history, and perhaps herself as well.
If you’re a fan of closed-door romance with sizzling chemistry, laugh-out-loud banter, and relatable characters, this romance with enemies-to-lovers vibes is your perfect escape. Dive into the irresistible story of Wyatt and Josie as they navigate the rocky waters of their past, uncover hidden depths, and discover that sometimes love is found in the most unexpected places. With the delightful grumpy-sunshine dynamic and the swoon-worthy he-falls-first trope, If All Else Sails by USA TODAY bestselling author Emma St. Clair will keep you listening late into the night.
Review
This story started strong and NO! I am not telling you want happens…it is cute though…read it!
When Josie’s brother sends her to a random address for their (sometimes) annual Super Summer Sibling Extravaganza, she finds neither siblings nor extravaganzas. Instead, ends up at a run-down cottage (the murder cottage) on the Northern Neck of Virginia occupied by a hockey player she knows and loathes.
These characters are fantastic. And their interactions tickled me. Josie has disliked Wyatt since their first meeting in high school. So, she is very unhappy that her brother has sent her to a “murder cottage” to help.
And Wyatt…you talk about grumpy…oh boy. So, these two clash out of the gate. And I am here for it.
But, as you can guess, as the story moves along, these two begin to enjoy each other and even open up about their pasts.
This is an adorable enemies to lovers romance. Perfect for a break between heavy books, road trip or even a beach read.
This author has quite a few books. I have not read a single one. I do not know how I have missed her. I will definitely keep her in my radar.
The narrators, Andi Arndt and Patrick Zeller, did a great job. Patrick has a very deep voice and this just added to Wyatt’s grumpiness. 😜
Need a cute story…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today.
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
A delightful new cozy crime novel from the award-winning author of the “twisty, engaging, and thoroughly unexpected” (Deanna Raybourne) The Framed Women of Ardemore House
An amateur autistic sleuth. A wry English detective. A murder case that thrusts them both into the wealthy world of the rare artifacts trade…
Jo Jones can’t seem to catch a break. Trading in city life for the cozy, peaceful hills of North Yorkshire to take over her family estate should have been a chance for a “fresh start.” Instead, she’s been driven further into the past than she thought possible — and not just her own. The estate property is littered with traces of ancestors that Jo never knew existed, including the mysterious woman in a half-destroyed painting – and hints about Jo’s late uncle, who may hold the key to her cryptic family history. Then there’s the gossipy town politics Jo must constantly navigate as a neurodivergent transplanted American… And of course, the whole murder business.
When prickly town detective James MacAdams discovers a body in the moors with coincidental ties to Jo Jones, they’re forced to team up on the case. The clues will lead them into the wealthiest locales of Yorkshire, from sparkling glass hotels to luxury property sites to elite country clubs. But below the glittering surfaces, Jo and MacAdams discover darker schemes brewing. Local teens, many of them international refugees, are disappearing left and right, and each case is somehow linked to a shady architectural firm — which also happened to employ the dead man from the moor-side ditch.
What begins as bizarre murder case quickly plunges them both into the black market world of rare artifacts and antique trading… and a murderer who will do anything to cover it up.
About the Author:
BRANDY SCHILLACE is the author of several works of nonfiction, including Mr. Humble and Dr. Butcher. She is the creator of Peculiar Book Club, a twice-monthly live-streamed YouTube show. A former professor of English and gothic literature, she writes about gender politics and history, medical mystery, and neurodiversity for outlets such as Scientific American, Wired, CrimeReads, and Medium. She is also autistic, though has not (to her knowledge) been a suspect in a murder investigation.
The man on the doorstep of Jo’s cottage dripped rainwater; it trickled from wet-plastered hair to overcoat gun flap and onto the overnight bag clutched under one arm. Jo had remembered to say hello, but that didn’t stop him staring at her, all wide-eyed and open-mouthed. He reminded her of a disheveled pigeon after colliding with a windowpane.
“Mr. Ronan Foley?” Jo asked, stepping back to give him entry room.
“I—Yes.” He shuffled onto the flagstone cottage entry. “I—I thought keys would be in a lockbox?”
“Um?” Jo had practiced every opening line, but not this one. She blinked twice. “I have the keys for you. It’s for an attic en suite . . . in my . . . house.”
“You live here?” The way he looked around himself wasn’t entirely complimentary; Jo chose the high road.
“Don’t worry! You’ll have total privacy,” she insisted. That was the point of going through all that trouble of installing a full bath on the second level (including hoisting a freestanding tub through the attic casements, quite a feat when you’re five foot four and one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet).
“Of course, of course,” muttered Mr. Foley. “You . . . meet all your guests in person?”
Jo decided not to tell him he was her first guest. Or that she’d locked her knees to keep from bouncing up and down with nervous energy. She also fought to urge to ask if he was Irish. In- stead, she dangled the keys.
“The door at the top of the stairs locks with the minikey,” she said. “The brass ones are for the front door and dead bolt.”
“Thank you, Ms…?”
“Jones. Jo Jones.” She smiled, probably a little too much. He had a broad face and smile lines, but he wasn’t smiling now. “Al- ways ask if you can get them something,” Tula had said when she informed her about her decision to rent the cottage. “It’s welcoming.” Wise words from the Red Lion innkeeper and the one person Jo considered a truly close friend. She might have suggested what to offer.
“I could get you . . . something? I can cook. Well. I can warm things up. Actually, I can drive into town and get food. Or maybe you’re thirsty?”
“Tea,” the man said, and of course he would say tea. They were in Yorkshire.
“Yes! Yes, that I can do. And cookies. You don’t call them cookies—but little shortbreads with the jam in the middle?”
Maybe it was the fact that Jo had forgotten to call them tea biscuits, or maybe it had to do with the fact she wasn’t taking breaths between sentences, but the startled pigeon suddenly began to laugh. It worked a change in him, shaking all the stiffness out.
“Tea biscuits. You’re American—you are, aren’t you?” “Erm” was the best she could do, but now, now he smiled.
“Delighted,” he said, shaking her hand. “May I?” He pointed up the stairwell, but Jo looked at his wet mackintosh. Obviously, he needed to clean up. And she should, as they say, put the kettle on instead of jawing at him like an idiot. He hadn’t actually waited for an answer, though, just gave the keys a jingle and disappeared up the stairs.
This wasn’t how she’d pictured her first experience as a host— and she’d run every possible scenario right down to the mise-en-scène. She’d try again when he came downstairs. Better make it a big plate of biscuits.
* * *
Jo hadn’t wanted to rent out her little cottage, but the attic was empty, and her bank account soon would be as well if she didn’t find some work. A year ago when she’d first moved to England, Jo had envisioned herself freelance editing, but that still hadn’t taken off yet. Plus, she had been spending all of her time in the Abington Archive searching for any scant information about her ancestors with the long-suffering elder museum curator, Roberta Wilkinson. Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly a moneymaking endeavor. It was obsession.
But she couldn’t help it: Jo had moved to the Ardemore property last year in a surprise inheritance following the death of her mother, who conveniently never mentioned that her will would leave Jo with a giant crumbling manor home (unlivable), the small cottage attached (slightly more livable) or the gardens upon which they were built, which turned out to be quite famous. The cottage made for a simple, straightforward home that suited Jo nicely, but she’d learned in a hurry that the manor across the hill housed only secrets.
The mysteries of her ancestors William and Gwen, for ex- ample, who had lived in the estate house a century prior. They were lord and lady so to speak; their portraits had hung regally in the estate house as a constant reminder of their strange marriage and even stranger living arrangement with Gwen’s sister, Evelyn. Some handwritten letters revealed that Evelyn and William were having an affair. How much sister Gwen knew about it all was unclear.
Jo had been the one to bring all this to light last year when she discovered, buried beneath the crumbling estate, the remains of Evelyn herself—and the telltale signs of pregnancy etched in her bones. Curiously, no remains of a child were found with her, only a hope chest filled with baby clothes buried in the garden and the letters between her and William.
The questions surrounding the strange love triangle at Ardemore estate a century ago and what exactly happened to Evelyn’s child haunted Jo, but the constant dead ends threatened to drive her mad. Even Roberta, who worked in a museum after all, was ready to let it go.
“Face facts,” said the crusty old woman; the Ardemores had always been a “bad lot” who didn’t care about community, and Evelyn and her baby “obviously” died in childbirth. Time to focus on the better part of the Ardmore property: Jekyll Gardens, about to open to the public in an event that would be historic for the town of Abington.
The kettle whistled and Jo jumped; she usually tried to stop it before the unholy screech. She poured hot water in the pot and steeped; if her sojourn in the north of England had taught anything, it was to never leave the tea bag in.
Her guest was awkward. But so was she. This could work.
She reached into the cupboard for the package of Jammie Dodgers. Jo bought them because, as a New Yorker, “Dodgers” would always mean Brooklyn, even though they had been in LA since 1957. Of course, there was the Artful Dodger, too, from Charles Dickens’s Oliver Twist. A silly name for cookies, maybe, but the mix of American baseball and Victorian pickpocket ap- pealed to her sense of incongruity.
She emptied the whole box onto the tea tray, and by the time she reached the living room, the man was standing in front of her. Clean and tidy and now in proper lighting, he offered her the chance for a better look.
Face: full, square at the jaw. Hair: dark and wet, combed back behind the ears. Mud-flecked black trousers had been changed to another pair, also black. Rather baggy. The blue button-down shirt was damp at the collar.
“How long were you standing in the rain?” Jo asked. “You were very wet.”
“Sorry? “Oh. Yes. It’s—I didn’t have an umbrella.” He touched the curl at his temple with a wandering fingertip.
Had she been rude? She held out the plate of biscuits to offer him one. He gave her the smile again. Salesman smile, she thought, but his eyes settled on the Dodgers with evident plea- sure.
“You’re out of the way, living up here.”
“Sort of. We’re close to the trails, though, and you can’t get any nearer the Jekyll Gardens.” Jo flapped a hand toward the window. “You’ll practically be on the doorstep for tomorrow’s opening ceremony.”
That had been the entire point of finishing preparations for renting the cottage by May: the Jekyll Gardens Opening Celebration. Jo may have lost her ancestral home to a fire, but finding out that it was built on a garden designed by the renowned Gertrude Jekyll Well, it was one for the books. The falling-down house at the edge of town had suddenly become a site of national historical significance. The whole National Trust seemed to have checked into the Red Lion inn.
“You’re lucky,” Jo added, hugging her knees in the rocking chair. “I barely got the weblink up before you booked in— otherwise there’d be stiff competition for a room, I’d bet.”
He hadn’t answered either comment, or her attempt at a joke, just chewed a sticky biscuit and drank tea. Jo felt a prickle run down her spine; was she not supposed to make chitchat? Wasn’t that part of hosting duties? He’d looked at the clock twice, but after swallowing, he refocused on her.
“I’m afraid I didn’t know about it. Just traveling through on business.”
“Oh! But you’re here at just the right time! The National Trust is opening the garden tomorrow — it’s where the manor house used to be. Big party!”
“Sorry, a manor? I didn’t see anything nearby . . .”
Jo jumped up and joined him by the window, pointing to the dark distance. “Well, you can’t really see it from here. But just beyond the trees is Ardemore House. What was once Ardemore House, at least.”
“So, it’s a ruin?” her guest asked, and gulped his tea.
“Well, it is now. It was deserted for almost a century. The property was supposed to be in the care of my uncle Aiden in the nineties, but he never really tended to it. Didn’t even live here, in fact.”
Jo looked up to see her guest gaping at her and stopped short. “So you are a newcomer to Yorkshire, then?” he asked. Jo al- most laughed. He wasn’t exactly hanging on every word, was he? “A yearling, I guess,” she admitted. “I came here to start over after my divorce and the death of my mom last year. I didn’t realize inheriting the estate would be so . . . complicated.”
She felt herself at risk of rambling again, so she pulled out her phone and flipped to her photo library. “Here’s the Ardemore House before. Here it is after the fire last year, still smoking. I was inside it when it burned down.”
“You—What?”
Jo’s finger kept swiping through the pictures. “That’s the gar- den workmen over summer, and here is the original Gertrude Jekyll plan, and this—” Jo stopped at last on the National Trust page “—this is the announcement of its opening tomorrow! I’m sort of, em—part of the—committee.”
Mr. Ronan Foley looked down dutifully at a bright summer green event ad: open time at 10:00 a.m., official ceremony at noon, under pavilion, rain or shine. He didn’t say anything. Again. And Jo felt her heart hammering. Uncertain about chit- chat, she’d instead launched into full-blown special interest lecture. Nice, Jo.
Or was it her reference to the fire? She’d got used to everyone knowing about all of that; it had caused quite a commotion in Abington. There’d even been interviews for the paper.
“Very interesting.” His eyes roved about the room in a full circuit. Then he smiled, genuinely and wide. A surprised smile. “Well, it would be my pleasure to come.”
Crap, Jo thought. She’d got a hapless rain-soaked business- man who booked the cottage only because he couldn’t get into a hotel.
And now she’d accidentally invited him to the gardens.
“You know, you really don’t have to—” she began.
“No, I do. It’s a wonderful idea. So many locals will be there, new people to meet. You can expect me ” His eyes strayed to the enormous painting over the fireplace even as he spoke. “My goodness. Beautiful painting.”
Evelyn’s portrait. It would be hard to miss. The near-life-size painting took up most of the chimney. The gilt frame glinted, offering the perfect contrast to the moody scene within: a woman with strange, distant eyes, a face simultaneously demure and retiring, fierce and resistant. She sat against a back- drop of flowers—yet the sky was a haze of storm.
“Yes. Evelyn Davies,” Jo said. “An ancestor.”
Do not recite your family history. Do not mention that she was buried under the house.
From THE DEAD COME TO STAY by BRANDY SCHILLACE. Copyright 2025 by BRANDY SCHILLACE. Published by Hanover, an imprint of HTP Books/HarperCollins.
For fans of stranger than truth stories, Sandy Schnakenburg is uncovering rattling and unprecedented revelations in this powerful memoir of love, secrets, and survival.
When Lee Metoyer is hired to be the new housekeeper, she has no idea that she’s about to become the anchor to a family in an abusive patriarch’s home, setting a mystery in motion that will take decades to uncover. At the age of seventy-two, Lee falls ill and on her deathbed asks Sandy to write her story. The only problem is, Sandy doesn’t know the story.
Embarking on a quest to honor Lee’s final wishes, Sandy takes an emotional and thrilling journey, unveiling shocking truths not only about her beloved housekeeper but also her own upbringing. As she digs further, she learns that Lee came to her family’s sprawling estate in Barrington, IL, harboring a secret past. For decades, she’s been in hiding. But Lee is not the only one with secrets; Sandy’s quest forces her to grapple with her own family history as well, and to finally confront the effects of the psychological abuse she suffered as a child.
Both a chilling and exciting personal tale of love and survival, The Housekeeper’s Secret is a gripping saga that illuminates the resilience of the human spirit.
Review
When Lee Metoyer is hired to be the new housekeeper, she has no idea that she’s about to become the anchor to a family in an abusive patriarch’s home, setting a mystery in motion that will take decades to uncover. At the age of seventy-two, Lee falls ill and on her deathbed asks Sandy to write her story. The only problem is, Sandy doesn’t know the story.
To me, this story is more about Sandy and her years in her troubled household. And trust me…it is troubled! Lee was a huge part of her life growing up. But she is not the main character of the story until the end. The ending is actually where you get to the meat of the housekeeper’s secret. And what a secret it is!
I have always loved a good memoir and this one kept me so entertained. It is a quick read that will get your emotions running. Add in the quest for the secret and it is a story you do not want to miss.
Y’all, this book is a memoir that reads like a fiction book. It is a bit disjointed in places but it is a read about resilience and love!
Need a good memoir to get you through your day…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
Thrilling and glamorous as its runways and backstage parties, The Cover Girl is also heartbreaking and redemptive with an ending that made me cry. Birdie is a singular, unforgettable character whose story encapsulates so much of what led up to the #MeToo movement, and why the movement was so necessary.” —Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines
Find them early enough, and they will always be her girls.
Birdie Rhodes was only thirteen when legendary modeling agent Harriet Goldman discovered her in a department store and transformed her into one of Harriet’s Girls. What followed felt like the start of something incredible, a chance for shy Birdie to express herself in front of the camera. But two years later, she meets a thirty-one-year-old rock star, and her teenage heart falls hard as he leads her into a new life, despite Harriet’s warnings. Then, as abruptly as it began, it’s over, like a lipstick-smeared fever dream. Birdie tries hard to forget that time—starting over in Paris, in the dying embers of the LA punk scene, in Boston at the height of the AIDS crisis. She’s not that person anymore. At least, that’s what she’s been telling herself.
Decades later, Birdie lives a quiet life. She works modest gigs, takes Pilates and mostly keeps to herself. Maybe it’s not the glamor she once envisioned, but it’s peaceful. Comfortable. Then a letter arrives, inviting Birdie to celebrate Harriet’s fifty-year career. Except Birdie hasn’t spoken to her in nearly thirty years—with good reason.
Almost famous, almost destroyed, Birdie can only make her own future if she reckons with her past—the fame, the trauma, the opportunities she gave up for a man who brought her into a life she wasn’t ready for. Just like she’s not ready now. But the painful truth waits for nobody. Not even Birdie Rhodes.
For fans of My Dark Vanessa and Taylor Jenkins Reid, this striking debut novel explores the dizzying fallout of being seen and not heard in a high-stakes industry that leaves no silhouette unscathed.
Review
This book surprised me. I honestly did not expect to enjoy it as much as I did. Why? I did not think that a cover girl story would interest me. But, Birdie proved me wrong!
Birdie Rhodes was only thirteen when legendary modeling agent Harriet Goldman discovered her in a department store and transformed her into one of Harriet’s Girls. What followed felt like the start of something incredible, a chance for shy Birdie to express herself in front of the camera.
There are a lot of emotions that run through you as you read this. Birdie is only 13 when her career begins. So, she is terribly naïve. Her parents are very hands off. So, it is all up to Harriet to protect her. And the further you read the more you realize Harriet did not do a great job in her role as protector. Enter the “Rock star”! Let me just say…Birdie was 15 when she met him. Y’all!!!
This book takes you behind the scenes of a world I didn’t think I cared much about. But Birdie is a character that keeps you reading. She is broken but yet she is still tough as nails.
Hillary Huber is the narrator and she helped bring this story to life!
Need a tale which will get your emotions all up in a tizzy…THIS IS IT! Grab your copy today!
I received this novel from the publisher for a honest review.
reecaspieces 