9781804993927

‘Wickedly delightful mayhem.’

TESS GERRITSEN

‘A sneaky‚ snaky mystery.’

A. J. FINN

Praise for You Are Fatally Invited

‘Ande Pliego plays smartly with the often-implausible tropes of the suspense genre. You Are Fatally Invited works most effectively as a homage to Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.’ The Times

‘When you trap a group of mystery authors on a secluded island, the result is wickedly delightful mayhem! It’s Agatha Christie on steroids.’ Tess Gerritsen

‘Clever, funny and devilishly twisty, You Are Fatally Invited is a must-read from an exciting debut author.’ i newspaper

‘Here’s an invitation you’ll want to accept: a sneaky, snaky mystery that nods to (and winks at) private-island thrillers from And Then There Were None to Lucy Foley’s The Guest List – but beats with a pulse all its own . . . You Are Fatally Invited is a novel with black ink in its veins and a cheeky smile on its face. RSVP immediately.’ A. J. Finn

‘And Then There Were None via Knives Out meets . . . On Writing?!

An ingeniously plotted, deliciously dark treat for thriller fans. I enjoyed every page.’ Catherine Ryan Howard

‘Twisty and fabulously fun, You Are Fatally Invited is a locked room mystery that readers won’t want to put down. With its clever use of tropes and an expertly drawn cast of characters, this debut is not to be missed!’ Amy Tintera

‘Glass Onion meets Cluedo in this intricate and clever thriller – original and atmospheric.’ Catherine Cooper

‘This meta ironic fun thriller will keep you turning pages late into the night. You won’t know who did it or how or why until the very juicy end!’ Sascha Rothchild

‘Ande Pliego breathes new life into the locked room mystery with a riveting tale of a thriller writer’s retreat gone awry. You Are Fatally Invited winks at the tropes while delivering twist after twist after twist. Mark my words, Pliego is destined to reach the top of the thriller writer world – even without killing off the competition.’ Alex Finlay

‘A fresh, fast-paced take on the classic murder mystery, You Are Fatally Invited kept me guessing until the very end. The great set up is only the beginning – clever twists, compelling characters, and juicy secrets make this one of the most entertaining thrillers I’ve read in a long time. Clear your weekend, because once you start, you won’t want to put it down.’ Kristen Perrin

‘Diabolical, twisty, and utterly entertaining . . . with a rich mix of hidden identities, shifting alliances, shocking murders, and piles of secrets, You Are Fatally Invited drops readers into the middle of the scariest thriller writers retreat ever and dares them to figure their way out. Do not miss this stunning debut.’ Darby Kane

‘This playful take on classic crime and horror tropes is a joy to read. Ande Pliego’s writing is sharp and stylish and it’s a compulsive ride.’ Chris Bridges

‘Deliciously twisted, You Are Fatally Invited is perfect for thriller fans hungry for a fresh spin on a locked room murder mystery. This is one writer retreat I’d be happy to miss!’

Erin A. Craig

‘This book was absolutely delicious! A remote island, a cast who dreams up death for a living, and plenty of guilt to go around: You Are Fatally Invited has concocted the perfect recipe for murderous mayhem, and I couldn’t put it down. Playfully twisted, You Are Fatally Invited will keep you guessing until the last page!’ Jilly Gagnon

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First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Bantam an imprint of Transworld Publishers Penguin paperback edition published 2025

001

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Penguin Random House is committed to a sustainable future for our business, our readers and our planet. This book is made from Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

There was only ever one choice for this book’s dedication: for my superstar agent and partner in (literary) crime, Hannah Schoﬁeld, who always believed it was only a matter of time.

And more broadly: for those who know what it’s like to want something so much, they can taste the copper and salt of it on their tongues. (So, you.)

An

Excerpt

from The Ink in Your Veins: On Writing Fear

B Y J. R. A LASTOR

INTRODUCTION

If you were to take Story, strap it down onto your dining room table, and slide a scalpel through its chest, you would ﬁnd the lifeblood is theme. It causes Story’s cold corpse to breathe, to reach through the sheets of dead trees and puncture your skin, fastening long, clawed ﬁngers around your heart.

Let me ask you this: Why do we love the thrill? How on earth have my grisly books sold so many copies worldwide? (Abounding gratitude, by the way.) And why is The Haunting of Hill House still regarded as one of the greatest stories of all time?

My theory is that the monster in the house, the killer in the dark, reﬂects ourselves. That in reading about a house morphing into a twisted mirror of a young woman’s soul, we feel as though we, too, have looked ourselves in the eye. Like the Greeks, who witnessed plays of great tragedy and comedy to experience the emotion, we, too, hunger for confrontation of our innermost secrets.

We’ve all done things in the dark, after all.

Only, also like the Greeks, we want this experience in a safe environment. We don’t want to face ourselves, not really. We just want to feel like we have—to sample the sting of guilt, the relief of catharsis, and to move along as if nothing happened.

Writing is a kind of beautiful madness. It is slitting yourself open, bleeding your soul onto the page in that paradoxi-

cal mask of vulnerability perhaps only a writer can achieve. And writing fear requires the greatest vulnerability of all: a willingness to face your demons, and set them free.

But where do those demons come from, I wonder? Could they ﬂow from a great burden, an unpardonable guilt, as so many of our protagonists shoulder?

I think perhaps each of you knows what I’m referring to. And if you don’t—well. Over the course of this book, we shall all get rather well acquainted, shall we?

I’m dying to begin.

THE DINNER PARTY

The Dinner Party (n.): wherein the characters are summoned to a secluded yet always opulent estate, usually by an enigmatic host who may or may not appear. Murder and mayhem inevitably follow.

—The Ink in Your Veins: On Writing Fear, Index of Tropes

CHAPTER ONE

RODRIGO

IwAs PREPAREd TO sELL My sOUL FOR A OnE-wAy TiCKET bACK

to Spain, and I’d only been off the plane for three hours.

IwAs PREPAREd TO sELL My sOUL FOR A OnE-wAy TiCKET bACK to Spain, and I’d only been off the plane for three hours.

“Ro?” Olivia’s cold fingers wound through mine, and I tore my gaze from the vein of dark cloud over the harbor. “What is it?”

I extracted my face from my scarf and grazed my mouth against hers. “Nada, mi vida.”

I glanced down the dock, the graying planks warped with age. The stalks of a dozen derelict sailboats poked at the Maine sky like toothpicks, the small ferry bobbing next to us pristine by contrast. The sun was a shameless lie, having burned off most of the fog, but I still couldn’t see Wolf Harbor Island over the horizon.

Olivia attempted to unsequester my hand from my jacket pocket, her cheeks wind whipped. “You’re still on edge.”

“My face is freezing.”

“That’s the only part of you I can see.”

“Which is why my face is freezing.”

A divot appeared between her eyebrows that I wanted to smooth away with my thumb. “Look, I know you’re—”

“A suspicious bastard?”

“Beautifully put, love, but I was going to say ‘nervous.’ Trust me, Alastor does not have some devious scheme to land us in a courtroom and ruin our lives.” She ﬂared her eyes comically, and I felt the corner of my mouth lift against my will. “The NDA has to be just a formality. How else is an anonymous author supposed to make sure we won’t let his identity slip?”

My leather necklace constricted around my neck. If only the NDA was what I was worried about.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I lied, sliding my arm around her shoulders. But a decade in courtrooms had instructed me that anyone was capable of anything—including celebrities, including authors. Including myself. What on earth had possessed me to think coming was a good idea?

“Fashionably early, are we?” The pitiless wind carried Fletcher’s words to us, his British accent threading through them from down the dock, and the tension in my neck eased a little. His herringbone suit hugged his broad shoulders, and his hair was combed and gelled within an inch of its life. Just the way he’d looked the last time we’d gone out for drinks. Had it really been a year ago? “Hello, lovebirds.”

Dread soured my relief at finally seeing my friend, who my wife was convinced was not my friend. But ﬁnalmente, we might get some answers about the secretive nature of this retreat.

I raised my arms affably. “Fletch.”

“Been a long time, hasn’t it?” We embraced, Fletcher’s hand clapping my shoulder. He dipped his head to my wife. “Olivia, darling, lovely as always.”

“Fletcher.” Olivia knotted her pale mane around one hand to keep it tamed, her smile not reaching her eyes.

Fletcher’s teeth ﬂashed in a grin. “What a week this’ll be, eh?”

“Did Alastor tell you anything?” I asked. “Particularly concerning the NDA? It’s a little odd for a writers’ retreat, no?”

His expression turned sly. “Unfortunately, my lips are sealed.”

A growl curled in my throat. “Yes, we know you know more than we do. Can we skip to the part where you’re helpful?”

“I don’t think it’s odd,” Olivia said to me, amicably rehashing the last five months of speculation. “I mean, this is a huge deal— Alastor’s first in-person event in his entire career of nearly thirty years. It totally makes sense for keeping his identity a secret. Which honestly makes me think the rumors are true, and it’s not J. R. Alastor the original, but his son who’s taken over writing in his name.”

“Olivia.” I dragged her name out with my thickest Spanish accent, shaking my head with a smile. “That was one interview ages ago where Alastor mentioned having a child—”

“Or the NDA could also be because we’re going to get a sneak peek of his next book,” Olivia said, eyes glittering like the harbor. “Perhaps Alastor wants to work on it with us.”

Fletcher snorted. “How the devil would you plebeians workshop a J. R. Alastor book? Only Ashton Carter’d be dumb enough to try, and we’d all be given the boot for letting him.”

“I heard that,” a voice called up the dock, and I ﬂinched, turning toward it. A man in his late twenties or early thirties strode toward us, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, a laptop bag slung over his shoulder—Ashton Carter, a Chinese American author whose paranormal thriller appeared in every one of Olivia’s book box subscriptions; we must have had three or four copies of his book.

“Speak of the devil,” Fletcher said, raising his voice with a wry smile. “Carter, you fool, this is a retreat for writers. How on earth did you procure an invitation?”

“Charming as always, Fletch.” Carter stuck out a hand to me with a grin. “Ashton Carter, writer, surprisingly.”

“A pleasure. Rodrigo Sandoval.”

“Carter here bribed himself onto an author panel with me last spring,” Fletcher announced cheerfully.

“Hey now,” Carter objected. “I was not the one the moderator asked to chill out.”

“Now that’s a story I’d love to hear,” Olivia said, mouth curving as she held her hand out. “Olivia. I’m afraid I haven’t read your book yet, but it’ll be my reward when Ro and I finish this draft.”

Between the two of us we’d tried to get through everyone’s books before the retreat, but I’d rather endure the seventh edition of The Literary Lawyer’s Handbook on Copyrights, Trademarks, and Contracts in Publishing and Entertainment again than another thirty pages of Ashton’s. Something about the paranormal and haunted lost me every time.

“I’d be honored,” Carter said, dipping his head.

“All right, let’s see it.” Fletcher ﬂapped a hand at Carter. “Your invitation? I’ll believe you were invited only when I see your name at the top, not a moment before.”

Carter rolled his eyes but popped open his bag and rummaged inside. “I was actually thinking we could all compare, see if we got the same invite, or if Alastor hid, like, a clue or something in one of them.”

“Oh, a clue,” Fletcher said with false revelation. “What are you, a child?” He plucked a severely folded envelope from Carter’s fingers, the paper a familiar matte black with a gold wax seal shaped like a skull. His nose curdled as he read the gold cursive words aloud. “‘Dear Mr. Carter.’ Rodrigo, Olivia, I do believe we are witnessing an anomaly. Either that, or a lapse in J.R.’s cognitive function.”

Olivia had already taken out our invitation—preserved like a piece of evidence within a small manila folder, the envelope neatly slit with the letter opener she’d given me for my birthday last year—and she held it up next to Carter’s, her eyes ﬂicking to mine with a glint of excitement that, yes, I mirrored.

Dear Mr. Carter,

It would do me a great honor to have you join me at Wolf Harbor Estate in Maine for a themed writers’ retreat during the last week of October.

I make it my business to be “in the know” about what thriller/ horror is doing these days, and IT SWALLOWS US WHOLE rightfully snagged my eye. I think you have something unique here, something visceral, and I’m on the proverbial edge of my seat for your next book. Dare I say, it’s one of my most anticipated reads.

My hope is that this little retreat will provide an opportunity for you to write, engage with other rising and established stars in your ﬁeld, and provoke the Muse into speaking with you through nightly mystery dinners. You’ll have a killer time, I assure you.

Please RSVP to the number below. My personal assistant, Mila, will see to the details, including sending over an NDA for your review—for my anonymity’s sake, you understand. Would you join me? I hope you will.

Yours fatally, J. R. Alastor

“It’s basically the same,” Olivia murmured. “Except our names, and what he said about our books.”

“Still doesn’t really explain much, though.” I watched a wave break over the dock onto our feet, salty water beading on my leather shoes. “Why would Alastor engage with the world now, after thirty years of obscurity?”

“Clearly he had a sudden abounding adoration for Carter’s pamphlet and simply had to arrange an introduction,” Fletcher said blandly.

Carter sighed. “No one believes in me like you do, Fletch.”

“Perhaps he’s lonely,” Olivia offered. “After so many years of no book signings—”

“I have a signed book,” Carter said, finger in the air. “Sever the Name. First edition.”

“With the original cover?” Fletcher asked, frowning. “The dodgy confessional thing? Even I don’t have that edition. Next you’ll be saying you were the tosser at Christie’s last year who swiped the phonograph used in the film adaptation of Our Graven Bones, hmm?”

“Not sure what Christie’s is, but you have no idea how much I wish that’d been me,” Carter told him, then had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry, Olivia. You were saying, about book signings?”

“Okay, so you can get signed books from certain stores,” Olivia conceded, “but Alastor’s never done any in-person events, launch parties, face-to-face interviews, nada.”

I hid a smile; she’d slowly adopted some of my Spanish phrases.

“I’m just saying,” she continued, “when you’re at the top of the food chain, and no one knows who you are . . . I’m sure it’s pretty

isolating. We just happen to be the lucky few he read recently and liked.”

I chucked her chin with my knuckle. “I’m concerned it’s more than a little loneliness, mi reina.”

She cocked an eyebrow, wagging her head as she said, “Then you can ask him when we get there.”

“Speaking of which,” Carter said, eyeing the ferry, the choppy waves sloshing against the dock, “little small for the six of us, plus luggage?”

“Not a fan of boats, are we?” Fletcher seemed delighted.

“Water, more like.” Then, spotting the gruff-faced captain, “Is that Alastor?”

“Hardly. You’ll know when we see him.”

“Oh, you’ve met?”

“If you must know, Alastor invited me personally before the letters went out.” Fletcher ﬂicked the sleeve of his blazer back, and perhaps his smile was a bit patronizing. “But yes, to condense a long history, we’ve met.”

“Wow.” Carter stuck out his lower lip, his face creasing with a hidden smile. “I didn’t know Alastor took on charity cases.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?”

“If I remember right,” Olivia interjected, “Ashton was an instant number-one New York Times bestseller, weren’t you?”

I winced. Fletcher’s book had reached number nine, well below Carter’s, and I doubted he relished the reminder.

A rhythmic thud emanated from the boards beneath my shoes. Footsteps.

The back of my neck prickled as my gaze fell over Olivia’s shoulder. Two women came down the dock toward us, and one of them locked eyes with me. My throat grew taut.

“Cassandra,” Olivia called, breaking away from me. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m—”

“But of course!” the older woman exclaimed, hands ﬂuttering, her cloister of bracelets chiming. “The workshop in San Fran, how could I forget? I take credit for your career, you know. Pride doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel.”

Smile fixed in place, I held out a hand as Olivia introduced me. I was about to be confined to an island with my wife, my former friend who shared a mutual dislike with my wife, and several strangers to witness the tension. Not to mention our anonymous host, whose books I’d worshipped most of my adult life—which might’ve been exciting if he hadn’t also invited someone else from my past. One of the only people who could single-handedly destroy me.

Cielos. I should’ve told Olivia the truth when I had the chance.

CHAPTER TWO

MILA

TThE sALT-sOAKEd wind sLAshEd AT My hAiR, LATE-OCTObER fog seeping through my coat. The water slapped at the pristine white dock, and I rocked up on the toes of my heeled boots to squint at the small ferry parting the harbor like a scalpel, heading toward me.

hE sALT-sOAKEd wind sLAshEd AT My hAiR, LATE-OCTObER fog seeping through my coat. The water slapped at the pristine white dock, and I rocked up on the toes of my heeled boots to squint at the small ferry parting the harbor like a scalpel, heading toward me.

The guests spilled out of the boat’s cabin, heads swiveling in appreciation of the crimson leaves robing the trees, the tendrils of mist still curling over the island’s jagged shoreline. And at the sight of them, a thrill slithered down my spine.

After years of seeing their faces in the back of their books, they were finally here.

In my hands.

The ferry’s engines lowered to a growl as the captain unlashed the bowline and tossed it to me.

“Welcome to Wolf Harbor Island,” I called, slipping the knot over the cleat on the white railing. My breath was a ghost in the chill, there and then gone. “My name is Mila del Angél, and I’ll be taking care of you on behalf of your host.”

The guests murmured thank-yous as I helped them up onto the dock, welcoming each of them by name as they craned their necks back toward the island’s pebbled beach, the cliff looming above us.

“Where is the fellow?” asked a tall British man in a gray suit jacket, peering past me to the stone steps carving up the hill—the great Thomas Fletcher, whose slow-burning literary mystery took both sides of the Atlantic by storm. “He said he’d be here to welcome us.”

Did he now? “I’m sorry to say Mr. Alastor has been delayed. In the meantime, your luggage will be brought up, and there are refreshments at the house.” I pivoted on one heel, the heavy skirt of my black dress slapping against my thighs.

My gaze caught on the sky. A minute ago the sun had cut into my eyes, but now clouds descended, full and dark like a heavy stage curtain.

“He must’ve been delayed,” Fletcher repeated to the others, as if I hadn’t said anything. “I don’t have reception out here, probably missed his call.”

A shiver raked over my skin. The temperature had dropped, too, and tonight’s welcome dinner was supposed to be on the beach.

No matter. This was my stage, my play. Nothing would go wrong this week; I’d obsessed over it for far too long.

A shiver raked over my skin. The temperature had dropped, too, and tonight’s welcome dinner was supposed to be on the beach. No matter. This was my stage, my play. Nothing would go wrong this week; I’d obsessed over it for far too long.

After so many years, you were mine.

Crows fretted above us as we climbed wide steps of smooth rock, and I chatted idly about the island—the six miles of pine and oak forest, the beach on the south side, the boathouse. The anonymous author who went by J. R. Alastor had bought the island a year ago from an actress who’d trashed it; the mansion and grounds had gone through extensive renovations, and now, the media called it the height of luxury.

Not that any journalists had ever actually been here.

Funny how Alastor shelled out unthinkable amounts of cash just to stay anonymous, while I’d willingly made a deal with the devil so that you would remember my name.

“It’s all fun and games till a storm hits,” deadpanned Violet Blake, ﬂicking her hair out of large, heavily lined eyes. The youngest at twenty-four, she’d lightened her dark hair to a burgundy wine and chopped her bangs herself earlier this year, if anything claimed on social media could be trusted.

Dramatic hair decisions were rarely without catalyst, and I couldn’t help but wonder what hers had been.

“There’s quite a bit of wind,” I said cheerfully, ignoring the sky, dark and textured like smoke against the ﬂame-colored leaves. “But we have a generator, a boat for emergencies, and a landline that routes directly to the mainland.”

As I spoke, I was painfully aware of the source of the footsteps at my left elbow: Ashton Carter, author of a young adult paranormal thriller that had ripped my soul out through my rib cage last year. It’d be better for all of us if I pretended he was anyone else.

The canopy of trees gave way to the house on the hill. It still took my breath away, every time.

“Oh, magniﬁcent,” exclaimed Cassandra Hutchinson as she clapped, bracelets ringing like wind chimes. The oldest of the group, in her early seventies and on her third husband, she was a rotund woman with ﬂuffy garnet-dyed hair she probably wore in rollers at night.

If the rumors about her were true, it wasn’t all that surprising she’d gotten on Alastor’s radar.

The barest shroud of fog clung to the freshly cut lawn, and from the hill’s crest, the four-story colonial manor rose in tiers. The clapboard siding was a rich brown, with white trim lining the massive windows, and the stone steps we climbed led up to an expansive porch braced by round columns.

I guided the authors through the double doors, and a luscious scent wafted over us from the kitchen: Curt’s apple cider, tinged with clove and nutmeg. The main foyer was a coastal combination of white wainscoting and polished wood, red to rival the autumn leaves outside. A spotless cream couch lounged beneath a long window, a minimalist gold chandelier suspended above us.

Cassandra gave a throaty squeal and rushed to the built-in bookcase. “Look! It’s our books!”

Not only the hardbacks, but also paperback releases and international editions of every single one, tidily lined up by author, language, and then height. It had taken me two and a half months of ordering from ancient secondhand bookstores to find them all— apparently hardcovers went out of print when the paperbacks released, usually a year afterward (who knew?)—but the last one

had finally arrived this past week. I’d spent an afternoon arranging them with Curt’s obnoxious emo pop music blaring from the kitchen down the hall.

“Cheeky,” Fletcher said, prowling over. “Mildly disturbing. But then that is in character for J.R., isn’t it?”

“Oh Tim, don’t be such a cynic, I think it’s delightful.” Cassandra swatted his shoulder with a hardback of The Santorini Scandal, her bachelorette-party-gone-wrong mystery—just about every domestic suspense author had one.

“It’s Tom, actually, but Fletcher’s fine. Oh, look,” he sniffed to an unamused Ashton Carter, pointing at a narrow blue book. “He even found room for your pamphlet.”

“My daughter would be head over heels for this,” Cassandra murmured, ﬂicking through another book. My throat tightened when I saw which one. “A hungry beast for literature, she was, even as a kid. My husband—Mr. Hutchinson the First—tried to get fresh air in her lungs, took her to parks, sent her to camp. She always disappeared with a book.”

“I’d have been right there with her,” Ashton said wistfully.

“There must be four shelves of Alastor’s books,” Rodrigo Sandoval commented to his wife, Olivia. His eyes were the palest shade of sky against his Mediterranean complexion, his black curls grazing the base of his neck, and with their overkill black and white snow coats, the couple reminded me of a salt-and-pepper set.

It was amusing, watching Rodrigo’s can’t-be-bothered avoidance of the other guests. They probably thought it was out of arrogance or self-centeredness.

He’d be the trickiest to handle.

Olivia gasped, snatching a black book off the shelf. “Ro, look. It’s Alastor’s book on writing. It’s releasing next week. But it’s here.”

“Oh, I’ve read that,” Fletcher said. “Bits, anyways. Alastor asked for my input.”

I deserved an award for the neutral face I kept.

Cassandra padded over, her many-ringed fingers grabbing at the air. “Give me that, and no one gets hurt.”

“Over my dead body,” Olivia laughed, hugging the book to her chest.

“Don’t tempt her,” Fletcher advised. “Every one of us kills people for a living, remember?”

“No murder is necessary,” I interjected with a smile. “Mr. Alastor has kindly provided copies for each of you in your rooms. A welcome gift.”

Clasping Alastor’s book to her chest, Olivia smiled up at her husband, and the softness in his eyes sent a little thrill through me.

I’d kept tabs on them all for the last several months, keeping track of their book tours and events and even the vacations they posted about on social media. But watching their little moments now felt like stepping into a book or show and interacting with the characters. It was exhilarating, seeing them take on a life of their own.

“You may of course make use of any area of the main house. However”—I lifted a hand to the doors at the top of the stairs, the dark wood carved with a wolf’s head the size of a dinner plate— “Mr. Alastor’s study is strictly off-limits.” I let the words hover in the air, sink like burrs into their minds. They’d need to remember the study on day four.

Then I continued. “Some of you might’ve heard the rumors of certain icons from pop culture being bought, the latest of which was the famed axe from Stanley Kubrick’s film The Shining. Well.” I beamed. “I am pleased to share that Mr. Alastor has been acquiring artifacts from thriller and horror history for some time now, and he’s delighted to have you as the first guests to lay eyes on his newly complete Museum Room.”

“How divine,” Cassandra cooed over the pleased murmurs. “I simply must get a glimpse.”

“Well, that solves the mystery of my missing gramophone,” Fletcher harped.

Their delight was infectious; even sullen Violet’s eyes glowed.

“You’re welcome to visit anytime,” I said. “The mystery dinners will be every evening at six sharp. Tonight’s welcome banquet is a formal affair, down at the beach.”

“Sorry, when again did you say our host would arrive?” Ashton Carter asked.

“He hopes to join you for dinner,” I said with a practiced pause, “depending on his business elsewhere.”

“Business elsewhere,” Cassandra said, perking up. “Indeed, may we know what this business is?”

Look at them, so desperate for even a scrap of information about their host. I smiled, tilting my head. “Provided he arrives shortly, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to tell you about it over the exquisite meal our chef has planned.”

Upstairs, my heels grazed the woven carpet as I directed the authors to their rooms, the hall lined with sprawling tall doors and canvas-printed photographs of the island.

“Thank you, Mila,” Ashton said, meeting my gaze as he passed me, and my breath tripped.

He said my name. He may have only published the one book, but the emotion in those pages still haunted me. I ate through my library’s copy in two nights, consumed by the story of two best friends torn apart by a possessed lake, and at three in the morning, with burning eyes, scrambled to my ancient laptop to hunt for a signed copy.

I never bought books new, if I could buy them at all. Event coordinating provided a decent income, but most of it had gone straight to my mother’s medical bills. But for It Swallows Us Whole, I made an exception. It didn’t help that I’d googled him and discovered the dimples and the fact that we were only a few months apart, closing out our twenties.

But I wasn’t going to back out just because I liked one of the guests’ books. I liked most of their books, actually. I’d given myself to our plan: my name on every work order for Wolf Harbor Estate’s renovation, Alastor’s credit card in my wallet, and his whispers of bringing you to justice sweet in my mind.

And besides. It wasn’t like Alastor was the only one keeping secrets.

At the end of the hall, Ashton Carter glanced back, finding me with those dark eyes framed by ridiculously long eyelashes. I pasted

on a neutral smile and glanced away—but not before seeing a deep dimple reappear as he vanished into his room, and I cursed myself. Idiot.

I couldn’t afford to catch anyone’s eye; this entire plan hinged on me being one with the wallpaper. Just a light fixture in the room.

The guests were opening their doors, cheerfully oblivious, exclaiming about the brick fireplaces and the garlands of lifelike fall leaves on the mantels. My chest swelled; this was finally happening. You weren’t just names on the books dominating the tables at Barnes and Noble. You were all here. Living, breathing people. Here. As if you’d walked off the pages of a story. And into mine.

An Excerpt from The Ink in Your Veins: On Writing Fear

B Y J. R. A LASTOR

WRITING EX NIHILO

“Unfortunately, there’s nothing new under the sun, including what can be said about writing.”

That was, in its entirety, the ﬁrst draft of this book that I sent to my editor.

I admit the rest came into existence at her prompting, but perhaps there is a unique perspective I might humbly o er.

I’d always been a voracious reader, only I didn’t want to just read someone else’s words, but interact with them. Writing was the missing piece, the other side of the conversation. Creating written worlds ex nihilo—from nothing—is the closest we get to the divine.

Perhaps, in writing, we are divine.

But I wonder: what if the page wasn’t the only place we could control fate?

CHAPTER THREE

RODRIGO

IIhid A sMiLE As OLiViA dARTEd FROM ThE whiTEwAshEd FiREplace to the king-size bed, her fingers light on the curling driftwood decorations. While I trod through the day according to my watch and calendar, Olivia tore through it with the frenetic energy of a dog greeting its master, every corner of life holding the possibility of a new adventure.

hid A sMiLE As OLiViA dARTEd FROM ThE whiTEwAshEd FiREplace to the king-size bed, her fingers light on the curling driftwood decorations. While I trod through the day according to my watch and calendar, Olivia tore through it with the frenetic energy of a dog greeting its master, every corner of life holding the possibility of a new adventure.

On both nightstands, a book stood tilted against the lamps: The Ink in Your Veins, J. R. Alastor’s book on writing. Perhaps that was just the thing I needed to coax forth some ideas.

“Hey,” Olivia said, wheeling to me. The playful curve to her red lips faded. “I know spending a week in a house full of strangers isn’t your idea of a good time, but I’m really thankful you’re here.”

I crossed the sprawling carpet to her. “I know. I’m sorry I’ve been on edge. I’m just tired”—I kissed her hand—“and frustrated about this draft”—I sank onto the edge of the bed and fell back, tugging her with me—“and increíblemente cold.”

“Then I’ll find you a hot cup of tea,” she teased, ﬂicking my nose, “and first thing tomorrow, we’ll figure out why we got stuck, even if we have to draw a dozen timelines or freewrite all day. Soon as we figure it out, we’ll be done drafting by the end of the week.”

Excitement seeped back into her voice, her eyes radiant diamonds. “But we’re in J. R. Alastor’s house. On his private island.” She squealed into the pillows. “Do you have any idea how my twenty-year-old self would be losing her mind right now?”

“You still are.”

“Don’t you dare act like you’re not excited, too. Let’s go find the Museum Room? I’m dying to—”

“Cielos, not even a moment’s peace.” I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t mean it when her hair spilled like silk through my fingers and she pressed a long, lingering kiss to my mouth. And she was right: I’d been bingeing Alastor’s books since law school.

I opened the door, still fastening the top button of my blue silk shirt, when I found myself making eye contact with the one person I didn’t want to see.

She froze in the doorway to her room, staring at me. It was astounding that of all places, our paths would finally cross again here. A coincidence, one might believe. But if something wasn’t a coincidence, what would follow, logically?

I didn’t like the answer here.

Movement ﬂashed in the corner of my eye—the hostess, starting down the stairs.

“Mila?” I called, marching down the hall. Hopefully that was her name. “Can we visit the Museum Room?”

“Mind if I join?” Fletcher said, head appearing out of his doorway.

Olivia’s smile slipped off her face, and a sigh built in my throat. I was happy to see him, claro, but acting as mediator wasn’t my idea of a relaxing week.

Mila led us to the third ﬂoor, which consisted of a small landing beneath a skylight, with a red wood bookcase and a white leather armchair.

“Mr. Alastor had this entrance installed with the renovations.” Casting a smile over her shoulder, Mila placed her palm on the skull of some animal used as a bookend, and pulled it back.

“Mr. Alastor had this entrance installed with the renovations.”

Casting a smile over her shoulder, Mila placed her palm on the skull of some animal used as a bookend, and pulled it back.

The bookcase lurched, and she slid it sideways, revealing a doorway. Beside me, Fletcher let out a low whistle.

Through the doorway, glass display cases lined the black-andwhite checkerboard ﬂoor. From the skylight, a beam of sunshine carved through the dark room, the only light aside from the ones illuminating each case, and the relics inside: a number of threadbare white dresses on mannequins, an artful display of Polaroid

pictures, and an entire aisle of knives of alarming shapes and sizes, punctuated by a chainsaw and a grim reaper scythe.

Olivia bounded toward the nearest case, vibrating with excitement. “Ro, look! It’s the axe, like she said.”

“Extraordinary.” Hands in his pockets, Fletcher perused a row dedicated to masks, stopping in front of a disturbing white one with black, peanut-shaped holes for eyes, a prop from a film that had put me off horror for years. “How does Alastor acquire these, I wonder?”

Mila hovered in the doorway, beneath a massive deer mount fixed to the wall. “Mr. Alastor was very fortunate to begin his collection many years ago. He is well-connected in Hollywood circles, and has a fondness for cultural icons.”

I did a double take at what appeared to be a massive rabbit costume—what movie was that from?

“Quite impressive for a man who has never shown his face, isn’t it,” Fletcher observed, the side of his mouth lifting.

Mila stared straight at him, then at me, unblinking, like a snake. Perhaps she had a condition. “Quite. Mr. Alastor prefers his estate to handle any public affairs.”

“So you’ve said,” Fletcher murmured, frowning at an ancient record player inlaid with gold—the gramophone he’d coveted, I assumed. Then he gestured with his chin to the far end of the room. “What’s that?”

Against the wall, a white sheet was draped over a massive object, its three sharp points reaching nearly to the ceiling.

“That,” Mila said, “is Mr. Alastor’s newest addition, a prop from the miniseries adaptation of Sever the Name. The confessional still needs to be restored, so I’m afraid it’s not quite ready for display.”

A confessional.

Unease rippled in my stomach.

“We watched that show,” Olivia said, her head tilted playfully. “I liked it, though you wouldn’t stop about how they got all the legal parts wrong.”

“Desperate to feel like a lawyer again, are we?” Fletcher probed, eyebrow arched.

I smiled without humor. He’d always thought Olivia had something to do with why I quit the firm.

If only that were true.

As Olivia led me from the Museum Room, under the deer mount, I glanced over my shoulder at the hulking shape covered by the canvas, envisioning the pointed spires and dark wood of the confessionals lining the gaudy Spanish church of my youth.

A chill bit into the back of my skull.

“Just a moment,” Olivia said, when we were downstairs and in our room once more. “I need to ask Mila something.”

I collapsed back on the bed, rubbing the jet lag out of my eyes. It should have been a relief, being left alone.

I’d done my best to forget what I did to become partner at the firm. It’d only been a month before I couldn’t stand to see my last name set in bold iron letters on the wall every time I stepped off the elevator, a constant reminder. I resigned, exiling myself into my writing career, my marriage.

I couldn’t remedy my mistakes, not without getting formally disbarred and having every case I’d ever worked on subject to investigation. And that was just the legal formalities. There was no predicting how confessing might affect my marriage. I’d thought it’d be fine, that I could live with it.

I hadn’t known that a sliver of guilt would live in the corner of my eye, every time I glanced in the mirror.

CHAPTER FOUR

MILA

YYOU sTAREd sTRAiGhT inTO My EyEs And didn’T RECOGnize me.

OU sTAREd sTRAiGhT inTO My EyEs And didn’T RECOGnize me.

Amazing, how you could come downstairs and ask me to turn on the fireplace in your room, hear my upbeat response, and still not know.

It was a sign I was doing my job, but still. Sometimes success stung, didn’t it? You would know.

At least, you should.

When you stepped off the ferry, your hand—cold, dry—had met mine as I’d helped you to the dock. I’d braced for the shock, the second when your gaze met mine and your pupils expanded, realization darkening to horror. Embarrassingly enough, I lusted for it so badly I could taste the salt and grit of it against my teeth.

But your gaze had brushed over me. Of course you wouldn’t recognize me, not after so many years. Not when the only thing you knew me by was my words.

It still left me breathless, to finally be so close to you.

With that same exhilaration now, I followed you back up the stairs, the rug muting our footsteps. Would you be shocked, when you found out? Terrified, surely, but did you expect to just get away with what you did?

The memory of that one day forced its way up my throat.

The day I saw your book in the front window display of Barnes and Noble, three years ago.

I saw your name on that awful cover, and bolted into the store.

It looked heinous, but it was still a book by you, and that was what mattered. I bought it on the spot. Told the cashier that my friend wrote that.

What must it have been like, for you? Getting published? All your dreams coming true?

I hoped it hurt.

I hoped it stung like a paper cut slitting your throat.

I hoped the guilt of what you wrote sank into your marrow.

And honestly? It’d be nothing compared to how I’m going to make you feel now.

I hoped the guilt of what you wrote sank into your marrow. And honestly? It’d be nothing compared to how I’m going to make you feel now.

When Alastor had bought the island, he’d not only renovated the house, but installed extra corridors, staircases, and doors that melted seamlessly into walls. I’d spent the last week learning them, testing my speed running from one end to the next.

Dinner was in half an hour, and I sped down the tiny hidden staircase that spiraled into my little study on the second ﬂoor. I slid the carved bookcase back over the passageway, and turned.

Froze.

The main door to my study was closed, like I’d left it, but the armchair by the little gas fireplace was occupied. By a man, his back to me.

He was hunched forward, head down, muttering—saying words slowly, repeatedly. Testing their inﬂection. Sliding long fingers through the black hair that grazed the base of his neck.

What was he doing?

And had I really forgotten to lock my oﬃce door on the first day? One more mistake like that, and this game would be over before it began.

I could vanish back through the hidden staircase—except, I needed to make sure Taryn and Curt had set up the pavilion for dinner. I couldn’t get to the door without the intruder seeing me, even though he was very clearly absorbed in whatever he was

doing; it was a miracle he hadn’t heard the bookcase squeak. A window seat was tucked in the corner behind us—maybe I could make him think I’d been there all along.

A thump sounded behind me—a book ﬂinging itself off the sliding bookcase.

The stranger snapped to his feet and whirled, swearing under his breath. “Holy— I am so sorry, I had no idea anyone was in here, sorry, sorry, you scared me half to death.”

Holy crap.

Ashton Carter, the Ashton Carter, was in my oﬃce, literally three feet away from me.

His Wikipedia page was pretty sparse, but he’d been born to a Chinese pediatrician and an American engineer, spent most of his life in Seattle. His social media consisted of pictures of his German shepherd, whatever mountain he was hiking, and his TBR list that could’ve been mine, for all the same books we read. He was turning thirty next month.

Thank goodness I didn’t remember which day—I tried to keep my obsessions leashed.

“Sorry,” I finally said with a wince. “I hate to interrupt.”

“No, no, not at all, I’m the one intruding.” Red colored his cheeks, and—wow, was there anything more attractive than a man in a black tux with a perfectly tapered waist and an embarrassed grin? “Where did you . . . ?”

I lifted my chin over my shoulder, to the window seat. “I thought you saw me, and then it sounded personal.”

“Probably like I was trying to summon a demon or something.”

I swept a hand down myself. “And here I appear.”

He blinked, shyness shifting into a smirk as he held out a hand. “Ash.”

“I know.” His palm was warm in mine, haphazard black writing fading on the back of his wrist, the offending ballpoint pen lodged behind his ear. I was having a hard time looking him in the eye; it felt like a sin. “Mila del Angél.”

By all that was holy, look at those dimples. “I know. Thank you,” he added, glancing around the room, “for making this week

happen. I’m sure so much went into it behind the scenes, and we only see the surface.”

I blinked, breath catching. “Oh, um—of course.”

“Do you get to live here year-round?”

“On the island? Alas, no. I don’t work for Mr. Alastor directly— I’m part of a company that specializes in event coordinating. Mr. Alastor contacted us a few months ago, right before he announced the retreat.”

It wasn’t quite a lie.

“So you coordinate this kind of thing a lot.” He shook his head. “That’s wild. I can barely keep track of my dog’s leash, much less organize a trip.”

“It’s incredibly stressful,” I admitted, “but I do love it. It’s almost like pulling off a mystery, watching all these parts fit together into one finished piece. I get to watch all of you enjoy it, and”— I smiled—“that makes it worth it.”

“If you do it well, the end result looks easy, right? Sounds a little like writing.”

My smile dimmed. “Yes, it is.” My wrist vibrated, and I ﬂicked my watch over, winced—I was late. “I should really—”

“Yeah, no, totally, me too.” He glanced down at the notebook in his hand, the soft cover rolled back, and my pulse jumped. The notebook. Nearly every writer had one, a cemetery for stray thoughts and scraps of dialogue which may or may not be resurrected in a story. I itched to get a glimpse into his. “See you later?”

His voice went up at the end, a question. In fact, he was trying not to smile, and failing, in the way one did when talking to someone they thought attractive, which really shouldn’t have sent a ﬂutter of heat to my cheeks.

“Later,” I confirmed, and paused, hovering in the doorway. And against my better judgment said, “If you need a quiet place to work, let me know.”

“I’d like that, Mila.”

Damn, those dimples again.

CHAPTER FIVE

RODRIGO

AAT dUsK, ThE hOsTEss LEd Us ThROUGh ThE TREEs dOwn TO the waterfront, and from the back of our group, Cassandra Hutchinson was an eternal fount of theories about our host. I was fairly certain I’d never heard a person speak so much outside of a courtroom.

T dUsK, ThE hOsTEss LEd Us ThROUGh ThE TREEs dOwn TO the waterfront, and from the back of our group, Cassandra Hutchinson was an eternal fount of theories about our host. I was fairly certain I’d never heard a person speak so much outside of a courtroom.

“Imagine, buying an island to make your great debut into society,” she was saying. “Eclipsing everybody in one fell swoop.”

Fletcher, predictably, couldn’t be impressed, and Olivia huffed a laugh from where she was burrowed into my side, her red velvet dress with its lovely but impractical thigh slit doing nada against the cold. A ﬂare of annoyance shot through me at Alastor sentencing us to the outdoors in late October.

The steps gave way to a pebbled beach, the water rippling against the rocks jutting out from the surf. The sky was the color of the peaches on our trees in Marbella, and somewhere over the dark horizon was the Maine shore, more than an hour’s boat ride away. Not a speck of land in sight. I had to admit that despite the rotten smell of seaweed, being so far from the rest of the world wasn’t entirely objectionable.

Behind us, over the cliff, the house rose from the highest point on the island. The lit windows were just visible over the fall leaves.

On the beach, a table waited under a long pavilion, a navy carpet stretching out from under it and, mercifully, thick blankets draped over each chair. The crystal glasses were fogged with the chill, and on either end of the table silver buckets on stands housed

bottles in ice. Warmth raced over my face—heat lamps from above, thank heaven.

I subtly swapped the name cards for me and Olivia, positioning myself between her and Fletcher.

Once we’d all taken our seats, only the chair at the head of the table remained empty.

“My apologies, everyone, our host has been further delayed,” Mila said, filling each of our champagne ﬂutes. The ice-soaked label on the bottle read MOËT, earning an appreciative eye ﬂare from Olivia. “However, he insists you proceed as planned with both dinner and tonight’s mystery.” She gestured to the table in front of us, empty of food save for one long, covered platter in the center. “A riddle, which you have thirty minutes to solve.”

What with the events of this afternoon—the Museum Room, dodging a rather problematic individual—I’d nearly forgotten about the mystery dinners. Hopefully we wouldn’t be too disappointing.

The hostess smiled. “I would encourage you to come up with an answer, whether you’re confident in it, or not. Mr. Alastor believes in consequences for poor effort.”

“Sweet,” Carter said with a grin and a clap as Mila’s footsteps faded away. Americans. I felt a ﬂicker of amusement. Always so eager. “Shall we?”

“So when she said consequences, does she mean, like, someone will lose a finger, or a hand . . . ?” Violet asked without inﬂection.

“Wouldn’t disappointing our dear host be enough?” Fletcher offered.

“I’m sure it’s just incentive, Violet, dear,” Cassandra said, waving her chilled glass. “Nothing too barbarian.”

“Obviously, the riddle’s under here,” I said, reaching for the silver cloche on the center of the table. Frost dusted the metal, and the wolf’s-head handle was icy to the touch, like an electric current coursing up my arm.

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