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Excerpt Reveal: You Deserve to Know by Aggie Blum Thompson

You Deserve to KnowA brand new suspense novel from “the master of the suburban scandal” (Samantha M. Bailey), Aggie Blum Thompson.

Neighbors Gwen, Aimee, and Lisa share more than playdates and coffee mornings on their tranquil street in East Bethesda. They confide their deepest secrets, navigate the challenges of motherhood together, and provide a support system that seems unbreakable.

But when Gwen’s husband is found murdered after one of their weekly Friday night dinners, the peaceful quiet of their cul-de-sac shatters. The seemingly idyllic world of the three close-knit mom friends becomes a web of deception, betrayal, and revenge.

As the police investigate, the veneer of friendship begins to crack, revealing hidden tensions, clandestine affairs, and long-buried jealousies among the three women. With suspicions mounting and the neighborhood gripped by fear, Gwen, Aimee, and Lisa must confront the chilling truth about their husbands, and the sinister undercurrents in their own friendship.

You Deserve to Know will be available on March 11th, 2025. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

She has a sneaking feeling that her friends are talking about her. Anton and Lisa, outside on the patio, keep glancing at her through the kitchen window, where Aimee stands at the counter, dressing the salad. They’re sitting at the large patio table, too close together, too close for other people’s spouses, that is. What are they whispering about?

Her.

Aimee is sure of it. Probably talking about that stupid argument that she had with Lisa earlier, and the way she stormed off. Not stormed, exactly, but Aimee stood up so abruptly that her chair scraped the flagstone in an earsplitting screech as she announced, “I’ll get the salad.”

From where she stands inside her kitchen, Aimee has a good view of the two of them at the table. Through the large sliding doors to the right, she can see the whole of her backyard. At one end, all six of the kids are running around, jumping on the trampoline, chasing the dog. A plume of smoke curls from around the side of the house where her husband, Scott, and Lisa’s husband, Marcus, are presumably manning the grill, a behemoth of a thing she gave to Scott for Father’s Day a few months earlier.

Lisa and Marcus.
Gwen and Anton.
And Aimee and Scott.
The three families live on the same cul-de-sac, Nassau Court,

in East Bethesda, just outside Washington, D.C. The five younger kids are all close in age and attend the same school—both sets of twins in first grade and Noa in fourth grade, while Lisa and Marcus’s son, Kai, has just started middle school. The three families have spent so much time together in the past year that Aimee can read Anton’s and Lisa’s body language even thirty feet away.

Gwen appears beside her with a bowl of potato salad.

“I think that salad is ready, girl,” she says. “You’re whipping it like it’s egg whites.”

Aimee looks down at the metal salad servers in her hands. She drops them in the bowl and sighs.

“What were you staring at?” Gwen asks.

“I was watching Anton and Lisa. I think they’re talking about me.”

“Hmm. Knowing Anton, he’s telling her to calm down, maybe not be so judgy?”

“Or maybe he agrees with her,” Aimee says. “That my mothering leaves something to be desired.”

Gwen sucks in her breath. “No. You’re an amazing mother. She was being a—”

“Don’t say it.” Aimee turns to smile at Gwen. Three-way friendships are tricky. She was friends with Lisa first. For a few years, they were the only families with kids on the cul-de-sac. When Gwen and Anton moved in next door a year ago, the three women formed a trio. Aimee loves having two close friends on her block that she can count on. Loyalty is everything to her. Sometimes, though, she senses an undercurrent of competition between her two friends.

“I appreciate your coming to my defense, but I’m fine,” Aimee says. She doesn’t want to encourage Gwen to say anything negative about Lisa. She loves Gwen, considers her one of her closest friends, but she can be a little sharp.

Still, Aimee is a bit stung by Lisa’s earlier sanctimonious outrage. Her tone was nasty. You let your daughter do what?

Gwen snorts and pulls open the sliding door to the backyard, and Aimee follows her, clutching the large wooden salad bowl as if it might protect her from incoming arrows.

This is their Friday night ritual. The three families pile into one of the backyards and either grill or order takeout. In the cooler weather, they build a fire and roast marshmallows. Sometimes they drink too much. Sometimes people say things they shouldn’t. But mostly they have fun.

“It’s getting chillier, but I’m so glad we can still eat outside.” Aimee puts the salad down and takes a seat across the table from Anton. The air has the slightest crisp to it, a hint of the autumn to come.

These cloudless September days are her favorite time to be working. In the fall, her landscape design business does not have to deal with the frantic panic of homeowners who want instant flowers in the spring, impatient with the pace at which most plants grow. In the fall, she gets a different sort of client. The ones interested in reshaping their yards, preferably with native plants—her specialty. She’d like to transition to only native designs, but the market isn’t there yet. People love their boxwoods and crepe myrtles.

“What’s this?” Gwen sits down next to Anton and picks up his glass, which contains one large square ice cube sitting in a golden-brown liquid, before taking a sip.

“Blandon’s.”

“Anton. Really. You brought your own?” She smirks at Aimee as she says this, her tone halfway between teasing and mocking. Ribbing her husband is a regular thing for Gwen, which sometimes leaves Aimee uncomfortable at the obvious underlying tension. She wouldn’t do that to Scott, nor he to her. They made a promise to each other to never become a publicly bickering couple. On the surface, Gwen and Anton seem perfect. Anton, the successful writer and university teacher, their beautiful twin boys, and sophisticated Gwen, who works part-time at a Georgetown PR firm and directs her excess creative energies into complicated holiday displays, interior design, and her own flawless appearance.

Aimee always feels slightly unkempt around Gwen. Probably because her own wardrobe consists of Carhartt jackets and cargo pants, and her hair is always up in a messy bun. Not that Gwen has ever said anything to make Aimee feel less than. Gwen can’t help it if she’s one of those moms who makes every other woman feel slightly inadequate.

Anton reaches into a bag at his feet and pulls out a bottle shaped like a large glass grenade, a wide grin on his face. His contribution to Friday nights has been to introduce everyone to expensive alcohol. Aimee chalks this up to his being a writer. She pictures him at home every day, sitting in front of an old typewriter, surrounded by books, sipping bourbon. She once shared this flight of fancy with Gwen, who laughed and said that when she gets home from her work, she often finds Anton in his underwear playing Fortnite.

“Want some?” Anton asks as he holds the bottle in the air. “I’ll take an old-fashioned,” Aimee says.

He cringes in exaggeration, pulling at his clipped beard. “I can’t let you pollute my Blandon’s, but I think Scott’s got some Maker’s Mark in there I can use.” He stands up.

“He definitely does,” Aimee calls after him. “On his beautiful bar cart.”

Once Anton is out of earshot, Aimee turns to Lisa. “Did you see the bar cart Scott bought? It was made in Denmark in 1960 and he’s very, very proud of it.”

“Ooh, mid-century modern,” Gwen says. “Who’s the designer?”

Aimee shrugs. “Beats me.” Her husband’s fascination with Scandinavian mid-century modern furniture is a passion she doesn’t begrudge him, but one she doesn’t share. It seems all the men she knows in their forties and fifties have developed some strange hobby. Anton and his top-shelf liquor—he’s always traveling far distances to pick up some limited-edition bottle—or Scott and his hours spent online hunting down some Danish chair. And Lisa’s husband, Marcus, took up cycling during the pandemic and now heads off every weekend at the crack of dawn in some neon spandex outfit.

“Of course, we’re going to have to trade that thing of beauty in for a locked liquor cabinet at some point,” Aimee says. “I found Noa pouring apple juice into a martini glass from the shaker the other day.”

Gwen laughs. It’s supposed to be a funny, self-deprecating look- at-the-things-our-kids-get-into story. That’s what mom friends are for, to make you feel less alone in your parenting challenges. But when Aimee looks over at Lisa, her friend’s face is frozen in a neutral mask. Aimee feels an uncomfortable twinge in her stomach. The way she parents her nine-year-old daughter has become something of a sore subject with Lisa. Leaning across the table to touch her hand, Lisa smiles. “Listen, I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

Aimee shakes off Lisa’s hand and tucks a loose curl back into her top bun. “Oh, it’s okay, I get it.” She doesn’t get it. Why Lisa lit into her like that, in front of everyone, for letting Noa visit one of her clients. But she’s trying to avoid a repeat of the conversation.

“You’re an awesome mother,” Lisa says, gathering her long black hair and pulling it over one shoulder.

“Yes, she is!” Gwen says. “In fact, I think we’re all killing it.” “It’s just, how well do you know this woman, Aimee?”

Gwen groans. “Unbelievable,” she says. “Just drop it.”

“Look, I know you mean well, but I’ve got this, okay?” Aimee

stares into Lisa’s almost-black eyes. She is not about to relitigate why she’s been letting Noa spend time visiting one of her clients. The woman, a retired elementary school teacher named Cathy, is perfectly harmless in her baggy Eileen Fisher clothes and chunky black glasses. She wants to hire Aimee to replace the azaleas on her sprawling front lawn with native plants to attract butterflies and birds. When Aimee first went out there to brainstorm design ideas about a month ago, she hit it off with Cathy. On her second visit, she brought Noa, who discovered Cathy had not just a cat, but three newborn kittens, after which she insisted on coming back whenever Aimee went. And yes, over the past few weeks, Aimee has let Noa spend a few hours here and there at Cathy’s to play with the cats. Aimee doesn’t tell Lisa and Gwen that Noa’s fourth grade is off to a rough start, that words like ADHD and sensory processing issues have been bandied about. That being around those kittens makes Noa’s face light up, a welcome contrast to the defeated state in which she comes home from school every day.

Aimee isn’t ready to admit to herself what challenges Noa might have, can’t even bring herself to open the psychologist’s report that arrived in her inbox a few days ago.

And why should she have to say any of this to Lisa? To Gwen? Why should she have to justify herself?

She doesn’t have to. Anton comes back with drinks, followed closely by Scott and Marcus carrying trays laden with burgers, sausages, and grilled corn. Any further conversation is impossible, about Aimee’s parenting choices or anything else. Smelling the meat, the children converge on the table. Lisa and Marcus’s son, Kai, hangs back with Noa, but the four younger kids swarm the food.

“Slow down, boys!” Gwen stands and begins delivering commands while Marcus struggles with the tongs, distributing the slippery hot dogs. Finally, the boys step back and Kai and Noa hold out their plates.

“You two are so patient,” Lisa says to Kai and Noa. “Thank you for letting the younger boys go first.”

All the parents pitch in to get the kids settled with condiments and bean salad, with napkins and forks. This shared sense of responsibility, that they are all helping to raise each other’s children, has created a tight bond. Aimee’s heard people complain that the D.C. suburbs are cold and unfriendly, too transient to make any real connections, so she feels extra lucky to have this circle of friends. They seamlessly step into and out of each other’s lives—picking up one another’s kids at school, for example, or checking if anything is needed before going on a Costco run.

Scott sits next to her, slipping his hand behind her neck and giving it a little rub.

“How’s Bethesda’s most innovative gardener doing?”

She laughs. That accolade was bestowed upon her company by Bethesda Magazine last spring, and he’s called her that ever since. “It’s been a long week.” She needs to tell him about Noa’s psycho-educational report. They usually sit down after dinner on

Sundays to go over important things. She can tell him then. “Then drink up!” Anton says. “How’s the old-fashioned?” Aimee takes a big swig, catching the cherry in her teeth. It’s delicious, and as the bourbon does its job, her stress begins to melt.

After dessert, as everyone is getting ready to leave, Aimee hunts for a book on gentle parenting that she found useless but promised to lend Gwen. She remembers leaving it in the laundry room, and heads there to look. A little buzz from the bourbon has her a bit fuzzy but in a good way. Behind her she can hear the chaos of kids and adults, who have all moved from the backyard through the house and into the large foyer. As she grabs the book from a basket of random things, Aimee senses someone behind her and looks up to see Anton standing there.

“Hey.” She straightens up and holds out the book. “Gwen asked for this.”

He doesn’t take it, but he wobbles a little, and Aimee realizes he’s drunk. It’s not the first time she’s seen him this way. Last winter break, when the three families went to Vermont together, Anton drank so many IPAs that he passed out in the snow outside the Alchemist Brewery in Stowe.

“Listen—about before, you know with Lisa . . .” His voice trails off. He witnessed the worst of Lisa’s nasty comments about Aimee’s parenting.

Aimee waves her hand. She doesn’t want Anton getting involved. She can handle Lisa. “I’m fine. No hurt feelings here.”

“Yeah, that’s not it,” he says, irritated, vibrating with nervous energy. He glances behind him as if to make sure no one is listening and turns back.

“Anton?” Gwen calls from the foyer.

“I think Gwen’s looking for you.” Aimee puts her hand on his arm, gently nudging him in the direction of the front door.

Gwen appears. “There you are! Didn’t you hear me calling? We have to go. The boys are really tired.” The tension in her voice is evident. Gwen doesn’t like to let the ugly parts show. It’s all about control with her. Tidy house. Twins in matching clothes. Job at a prestigious PR firm with high-powered clients. The only thing that refuses to bend to her will is Anton.

He’s a hot mess.

And tonight, he is messier than usual.

Gwen maneuvers around her husband and gives Aimee a hug. “Thanks for bringing the potato salad,” Aimee says. “Here’s the book I told you about. It just ended up making me feel guilty, but maybe you’ll get more out of it.”

Gwen takes the book and turns to go, but Anton doesn’t follow her. Not right away. He leans into Aimee, as if for a goodbye hug, but instead he hovers, his mouth inches from her ear.

Aimee can feel his hot breath on her neck, smell the bourbon. The intimacy of someone else’s husband so close unnerves her. She instinctively pulls back, but not before he whispers something in her ear.

“You deserve to know.”


Click below to pre-order your copy of You Deserve to Know, available March 11th, 2025!

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Excerpt Reveal: Such a Lovely Family by Aggie Blum Thompson

Such a Lovely FamilyThe cherry blossoms are in full bloom in Washington, D.C., and the Calhouns are in the midst of hosting their annual party to celebrate the best of the spring season. With a house full of friends, neighbors, and their beloved three adult children, the Calhouns are expecting another picture-perfect event. But a brutal murder in the middle of the celebration transforms the yearly gathering into a homicide scene, and all the guests into suspects.

Behind their façade of perfection, the Calhoun family has been keeping some very dark secrets. Parents who use money and emotional manipulation to control their children. Two sons, one the black sheep who is desperate to outrun mistakes he’s made, and the other a new father, willing to risk everything to protect his child. And a daughter: an Instagram influencer who refuses to face the truth about the man she married.

As the investigation heats up, family tensions build, and alliances shift. Long-buried resentments surface, forcing the Calhouns to face their darkest secrets before it’s too late.

Such a Lovely Family will be available on March 12th, 2024. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

Trying to be this perfect hurts.

The silk dress compresses Danit’s ribs, the three-inch espadrilles squeeze her toes, and the incessant smiling for the photographer makes her face sore. But pain is a small price to pay to belong. To finally be, at twenty-six years old, part of a family.

And not just any family—the Calhouns.

Ellie Grace slips her arm around Danit’s waist as the photographer calls out, “Fromage!” The pressure of her future sisterin-law’s arm against Danit’s ribs unleashes a warm feeling, the same sensation she used to get as a child when her mother would play with her curls. An almost primordial sense of belonging. I will finally have a sister, Danit thinks.

Danit fell hard and fast for Nate last year. That first month or two, it was hard to imagine wanting or needing anything more than him. But then she met his little boy, Malcolm, and saw pictures of his parents and brother and sister and realized that he came with this incredible family. And that by marrying him, she would instantly belong to his family as well. It was more than she had ever dreamed of.

Although this morning did get off to a rocky start with Ellie Grace, Danit attributes that to the stress of organizing the annual Calhoun cherry blossom party. When she and Nate and Malcolm arrived late last night to Nate’s childhood home, Ginny and Thom were already in bed. So her first introduction to the Calhoun family was this morning, when she came down for breakfast and found Ellie Grace fuming about missing flowers. When she turned on Danit, she was abrupt, bordering on rude.

“You’re not wearing blue-and-white gingham.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. Ellie Grace was wearing a sleeveless shirtdress in the checkered pattern.

“I . . . didn’t know I was supposed to,” Danit stammered, ashamed to have stepped in it so soon with Nate’s sister. When Danit was back in California packing for the trip, she had asked Nate if there was something special she should bring for the party. It was the first time she would be meeting her future in-laws, and she wanted to make a good impression. She knew they were wealthy, and she was nervous that what she had would not be good enough. But Nate had said nothing about blue-and-white gingham.

Thank goodness Ellie Grace had shown up with a collection of shirts, dresses, skirts, and wraps—all in gingham. Ellie Grace hustled Danit into the wood-paneled study off the living room to change. “I knew someone would forget. I’m sure I’ve got something in here that will fit you. Coastal Cues, that’s one of the brands we collaborate with, sent me a whole bunch of these. Here we go, this is cute!” She held up a sheath dress—navy blue on top and gingham from the waist down. You’re what, a size eight?”

“Ten, actually.”

Really, Danit is a twelve. Sometimes a fourteen. But it was nothing that a little Spanx and holding her breath wouldn’t take care of. And she wanted to please Ellie Grace.

“Give me that Calhoun smile!” the photographer orders with the verve of a cheerleading captain.

The Calhouns shift ever so slightly for the photographer, their stately white house in the background. From the corner of her eye, Danit glances at Nate’s parents—Thom, with his athletic build and perpetual tan, and Ginny, whose smooth, unlined face belies her sixty-two years. She hasn’t had a chance to really talk to them yet, not with the chaos of the party, and she has no idea what she will say to them when the opportunity arises.

Danit worries she might pass out from the warmth of everyone’s bodies and the constriction of the dress. The late-spring sun isn’t helping. It was much cooler in Mendocino when they left yesterday. Next to her, Malcolm fusses in Nate’s arms, and she takes the baby happily. He plays with the diamond on her ring finger

“Since you’re not yet technically a Calhoun . . .” Ginny winks at Danit, letting her finish the thought for herself.

“Oh, of course!” She steps away from the group and out of the photo.

“That’s ridiculous,” Nate says, but Danit shakes her head at him and smiles to let him know she understands. Which she doesn’t, of course. She’s never been in a family portrait—there was just her and her mom growing up. But she can kind of see where Ginny is coming from.

After all, Nate has already been divorced once.

This photo will go out this Christmas and feature the whole clan, all of them wearing some iteration of blue-and-white gingham. The men in button-downs, their sleeves rolled up, a little bow tie for baby Malcolm, a headband for Ginny, and so on. Even matching collars for the two French bulldogs, Asti and Spumante.

Ginny might be worried that the marriage will not go through and they will be stuck with photographic evidence of a failed relationship.

But it will. Danit is sure of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, Danit can see the first guests arriving. And just like that, the photographs are over and the party has begun. Light jazz begins to play from hidden speakers, and it seems to Danit that the pink and white tulips planted along the front border stand up and salute as if on cue. The Calhouns scatter and, almost like magic, waiters appear, circulating the lawn with shrimp puffs and mini quiches and trays of fizzy pink drinks.

Suddenly finding herself alone, Danit grabs a drink off a tray and takes a big sip. She doesn’t want to get drunk, of course. She wants just enough to take the edge off. Meeting all your future in-laws at once is tough to tackle sober.


Click below to pre-order your copy of Such a Lovely Family, coming March 12th 2024!

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Forge Your Own Book Club: All the Dirty Secrets by Aggie Blum Thompson

All the Dirty SecretsBy Ariana Carpentieri:

It’s currently the middle of summer, which means the weather is warm, the beaches are poppin’, iced coffee is officially in-season, the fireflies are glowing, and the days of relaxing with a good book while basking in the sunshine are finally upon us. If your book club is planning to read All the Dirty Secrets by Aggie Blum Thompson, we’ve got the scoop for you on what to watch, what to drink, what to eat, what to listen to, and what to discuss!


What to Watch:

All the Dirty Secrets focuses on the perspectives of both a mother, Liza Gold, and her standoffish teenage daughter, Zoe. Their relationship has a major shift over the course of the book. So if you love storylines that take place in the summertime with an emphasis on teenage/parent relationships and deep secrets that could tear everything apart, then we suggest you take a look at The Summer I Turned Prettyan Amazon Prime show that portrays love and heartbreak during what should’ve been the perfect summer.

What to Drink:

Chapter one starts off with the mention of a whiskey sour—a drink that will pack the perfect punch for such a strong read like this one. But if you’d rather sip on something a little less potent, then a whiskey sour mocktail would work just as well!

What to Eat:

According to Kaira Rouda, USA Today and international bestselling author, “All the Dirty Secrets will have you racing to the end. This tale was so chillingly real it could have been ripped from the headlines. I loved it!” AKA: You’re going to want to settle in and grab a big bucket of popcorn for this one. You’re in for a wild, thrilling ride.

What to Listen To:

Looking for the perfect playlist to accompany this thrilling read? We’ve got you covered! Aggie put together a killer list of 90s songs that will have you all up in your feels. Click here to check out the full blog post featuring Aggie’s breakdown of her song choices and peruse the Spotify playlist below!

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What to Discuss:

Download the All the Dirty Secrets Reading Group Guide for insightful questions to get the discussion going:

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Click below to order your copy of All the Dirty Secrets, available now!

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Aggie Blum Thompson’s Killer 90s Playlist!

All the Dirty SecretsAggie Blum Thompson’s All the Dirty Secrets is a thrilling tale that asks how far you would go to protect your status and your family…and if some secrets should ever be revealed. And what better way to fully immerse yourself in a gripping book like this one than to have a killer playlist that accompanies it? Read below to see Aggie’s incredible list of 90s bops that’ll have you vibing out, reminiscing about your own teenage angst, and feeling all sorts of nostalgic!

 

 


By Aggie Blum Thompson:

Some decades are more difficult to define than others. You say 1920s, I say roaring. When we think of the 40s, Rosie the riveter and Victory Gardens come to mind. But the 90s? What is unifying about a decade that started with the fall of the Berlin Wall and ended with the overhyped Y2K threat that the entire world was about to implode?

Writing the chapters of All the Dirty Secrets that took place in 1994 thrust me back in time to the last decade that gave us TV shows that were cultural touchpoints – Friends, Seinfeld, The X-Files. To a time when Cable TV news erupted on the scene, crawling its way through our national consciousness with nonstop coverage of events like O.J. Simpson’s white Bronco ride and subsequent trial, of Monica Lewinsky’s blue dress and its implications, of shootouts between the feds and far-right groups at Ruby Ridge and Waco.

The nineties gave us both blockbusters that spawned industries – like Titanic and Jurassic Park — and films showcasing Gen X sarcasm – think Slacker and Clerks. The internet was a just a wee baby and was dominated by AOL. In a world before streaming, Apple Music, or Spotify, a file-sharing giant called Napster allowed strangers to exchange, illegally, songs for free. But my favorite part of writing these chapters was researching the music that rocked the decade. Here is a completely incomplete list of the soundtrack of the 90s.

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  1. Freedom 90! by George Michael (1990). Released as the first single from his second solo album, Listen Without Prejudice Vol. 1, Michael sang, “There’s something deep inside of me/There’s someone else I’ve got to be,” ushering in an era of songs that celebrated the LGBTQ community. The 80s were a tough time to be publicly gay, but the 90s saw several commercial artists openly embrace their queer identity — like k.d. lang with her hit Constant Craving, Melissa Etheridge and Come to My Window, and RuPaul’s Supermodel (You Better Work).
  2. Alive by Pearl Jam (1991). The neon colors and big hair of the 80s collapsed at the turn of the decade under the weight of a terrible economy and a war in the Middle East. All of a sudden, grunge emerged from the shadows of the alternative rock scene, as hits like Soundgarden’s Black Hole Sun, Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, and Man In The Box by Alice in Chains exploded onto the charts. Everyone started wearing flannel, baby doll dresses, and doc martens, and packed the theaters to watch Singles and Reality Bites.
  3. Finally by CeCe Peniston (1991). House and club music may have been around since club DJs began spinning records at a tempo of 120 beats per minute, but they didn’t take America by storm until the early 90s thanks to a series of breakout hits featuring Black female voices — such as Robin S. (Show Me Love) and Martha Wash (Everybody, Everybody) – who often appeared on hits uncredited.
  4. The Rain King by Counting Crows (1993). This buoyant, jangly rock song was a single on the band’s debut album, showcasing their poetic lyrics, singable choruses, and desire to carry the torch of classic rock artists like Van Morrison, Bob Dylan, and Bruce Springsteen into the 90s. The Counting Crows helped us move past grunge into an era of hits the whole family could sing along to in the car, like I Only Wanna Be with You by Hootie and the Blowfish, Run Around by Blues Traveler, and Jealousy by the Gin Blossoms.
  5. Cornflake Girl by Tori Amos (1994). Her brilliant album Under the Pink is an example of the virtuoso women artists who appeared on the music scene in the nineties, often defying categorization – not quite pop or rock, R&B or country. Songs like Sarah McLachlan’s “Possesion,” Erykah Badu’s “On & On,” and Liz Phair’s “Never Said.” For several summers, the performers who gathered at Lilith Fair consisted solely of female solo artists and female-led bands. In its initial three years, Lilith Fair raised over $10 million for charity.
  6. Mo Money Mo Problems by Notorious B.I.G. feat. Mase & Puff Daddy (1997). Rap arrived big-time in the 90s, breaking off into diverse subgenres that dominated the charts with hits like Snoop Dog’s Gin and Juice, Lauryn Hill’s Doo Wop (That Thing), and Eminem’s My Name Is. Mo Money Mo Problems, an infectious danceable mega-hit that sampled Diana Ross’s joyful I’m Coming Out, showcased Biggie Smalls bragging about his fame and success. Sadly, he did not live to reap the rewards of this huge hit as he was murdered a few months before it was released.
  7. I Want it That Way by the Backstreet Boys (1999). Boy bands had been around a while – the 80s had Menudo, New Edition and New Kids on the Block — but the concept really blew up in the 90s. Suddenly, everywhere you turned were attractive but anodyne young men in coordinated outfits who wanted to sing and dance their way into your heart with hits like I Do by 98 Degrees, I Want You Back by ‘NSYNC, and Motown Philly by Boys II Men.
  8. Don’t Look Back in Anger by Oasis (1996). Not all the boy bands were happy and knew how to dance. Some were deeply angry and really wanted you to know. They whined. They growled. They yelled. They would have flipped their lids if you called them boy bands. But some of them — like Bush (Glycerine), Offspring (Self Esteem), and Live (Lightning Strikes) — made pretty good music.
  9. You’re Still the One by Shania Twain (1998). This gorgeous love song crossed over from country and became a huge mainstream hit, aided by a sexy video featuring the Canadian singer. Suddenly, country was cool and showing up on the pop charts with songs like How Do I Live by LeAnn Rimes, This Kiss by Faith Hill, and Amazed by Lonestar.
  10. Mambo No. Five by Lou Bega (1999). Who? you ask. Of course you can’t remember the artist, but there’s no way you don’t remember this earworm. It joins those one-hit wonders of the nineties like Macarena, Barbie Girl, Baby Got Back, and I’m Too Sexy that you hate-love but can’t stop singing along to. In fact, I bet you’re humming one right now. If not, let me help . . . a little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Erica by my side . . .

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Excerpt: All the Dirty Secrets by Aggie Blum Thompson

All the Dirty SecretsSet in the upscale DC private school scene, where silence can easily be bought, Aggie Blum Thompson’s All the Dirty Secrets asks how far you would go to protect your status and your family, and if some secrets should ever be revealed.

One warm summer night twenty-five years ago, Liza Gold and her friends celebrated their high school graduation with a party on the beach. It should have been the best night of their lives, only one of them never came back out of the ocean.

The tragedy haunted Liza Gold for years. Now, she’s a recently divorced working mom struggling to connect with her standoffish teenager daughter Zoe when history repeats itself. Another young woman has drowned at Beach Week, and this time the victim is Zoe’s secret best friend.

Liza begins to suspect that the two deaths are somehow related, which causes her to face hard truths and take an unflinching look at the people she’s called her closest friends for the past two decades. She must discover what really happened to both women before it’s too late.

All the Dirty Secrets will be available on July 12th, 2022. Please enjoy the following excerpt!


CHAPTER ONE

LIZA

If your friends won’t lie to you, who will?

“Seriously, Liza. You do not look a day over thirty.” Shelby takes a big swig of her whiskey sour and crunches down on an ice cube. “I mean, you still got it.”

“Uh-huh.” I blink. I look every day of my forty-six years, and she knows it. Shelby has been my personal cheerleader since we met at Washington Prep in sixth grade, and I don’t know what I’d do without her slightly deluded optimism. Especially this past year.

“I agree.” Todd leans across the small table so he can be heard above the din of the bar. “I’d date you.”

“Gross.” Shelby punches him in the shoulder. “You mean if you weren’t married to her best friend, right, hon?”

Archer lets out a howl, and Todd rubs his arm with exaggerated care. I laugh, too, maybe for the first time in months. The four of us have been friends since high school, and when we’re together, some subtle alchemy happens that melts away all of life’s problems.

Washington, and all the frenzied hustle of our complicated, busy lives, is less than three hours away, but crossing the Bay Bridge this afternoon was like traveling back in time to when we had nothing to worry about but how we would fill a long weekend.

Together, here in Dewey Beach, we are forever young.

“Remember when we needed fake IDs to get in to the Corkboard?” Todd asks.

We didn’t need fake IDs.” Shelby gestures toward me. “’Cause we were cute.”

If anyone doesn’t look a day over thirty, she doesn’t. While Todd’s hair is salt and pepper now, and Archer has a few smile lines at the edges of his eyes, Shelby looks virtually the same. Thanks to an annual self-care budget equal to the GDP of a small nation and some good genes, she has the same glossy blond hair, smooth skin, and compact body she had in high school. I’d be jealous if I didn’t know how much damn effort it took. I enjoy my nightly half pint of ice cream too much.

“Here’s to Dewey.” Archer raises his glass. I raise mine. The Corkboard hasn’t changed. It’s still the perfect beach town bar— dark, divey, and ripe for anonymous make-out sessions. And there’s a pretty good crowd for a Sunday night. I watch as a woman nearby takes an oddly angled selfie that clearly includes Archer.

It always amuses me to see how people react to having a celebrity near them. And not a politician but a real celebrity like Archer. He’s even better looking in life than on TV, where his makeup smooths out the variations in his brown skin and gives him a plastic perfection. And fame like his makes people act weird. In D.C., most try to act stoic, as if acknowledging fame is a personal weakness. And Washington is nothing if not a town of overachievers with iron wills.

But we’re not in D.C. tonight.

The woman appears at Archer’s elbow. Up close, it’s clear from the way she is wobbling and having trouble keeping her kohl-rimmed eyes open that she’s drunk.

“Can I get a pic?” She gestures to the two women behind her, who wave. “We’re from Balmer.”

“Happy to oblige.” Archer scoots one way, and we all lean back the other way to provide them room. Even back in high school, Archer had that effect on people. He wasn’t voted God’s Gift to Women senior year for nothing.

“You’re so cute,” she says. “What’s your name again, hon? I know it’s not Don Lemon.”

Archer laughs. “Archer Benoit.”

“Oh, I knew that.” She wobbles away as our table erupts in laughter.

“Oh. My. God.” Shelby squeals.

“That was a great Baltimore accent,” Todd says. “Balmer?”

“And I love how she’s like, I know you’re not the Black guy on CNN . . .” Shelby laughs.

“Right? Why not just ask your name?” I sip my drink. “Why drag Don Lemon into it?”

“You would be surprised how often that happens. Sometimes they straight-up ask if I’m friends with Don Lemon. I’m like, no, he lives in New York, I live in D.C., and we work for competing news channels.”

Todd looks at his watch, then raps the table with his knuckles. “We’d better get going. We’re going to try to catch up with Chris tonight. Last chance, ladies.”

“Chris de Groot? Really?” Chris was part of our crew in high school, but has since drifted away. According to a Washington Post profile I read, he’s keeping busy churning out his Kurt Jericho: Rogue CIA Agent series. But I wonder if copious amounts of scotch, and a few DUIs, don’t also play a role.

“He’s at his beach house now?” I ask.

“Yeah, we’re going to head down there.”

“I keep trying to get him to return my emails.” Over the years, I’ve reached out to Chris, hoping he’d agree to let me write a profile on him for the school’s alumni magazine, where I work. In high school, he, Archer, and Todd were an inseparable trio. But if we do get a correspondence going, it peters out before I can get him to commit to anything. “He’s up to what—novel fifteen at this point, right?”

“Those books are crap,” says Shelby without looking up from her glass.

“And you’ve read them?” Archer raises an eyebrow.

“What? I read books.” Shelby tosses back her drink. “Anyway, I don’t need to read them. I read the Amazon reviews. Too many heaving bosoms and explosions.”

“Heaving bosoms and explosions,” Archer repeats and winks at me. “Good name for our band.”

I laugh. We’ve had a running joke about potential band names since Mr. Mooney’s civics class in tenth grade, when we first decided Penal Offense would be a great name.

“Forget novels,” Todd says. “Apparently, Netflix is making a series out of the books.”

“Oh, really?” I ask. My boss, Geoff, would go nuts for that. I can see the headline now: Wash Prep alum takes on Hollywood.

“Look at you all excited.” Archer smirks, but I can actually sense an undercurrent of competition. You don’t get to be a cable news star by being laid-back about other people getting more attention than you do.

“Well, I can’t keep writing about you, Archer.” I give him a wicked smile.

Shelby and Todd laugh. Because I do keep writing stories about Archer, and he loves it. I don’t add that it’s in large part because my boss is starstruck by Archer and always leaning on me to exploit my personal friendship with him.

Todd stands up. “All right.” He gives Shelby a long kiss on her mouth. I have to look away. Even though I know that their relationship has seen its ups and downs over the years, this display of affection stings me like lemon juice on a cut. In the wake of my recent divorce, I don’t need to see someone else’s marital bliss up close. Not too mature of me, but there’s no denying it.

Archer leans in for a friendly peck on the cheek. He’s like a second brother to me, and save for one drunken and horribly awkward attempt at a hookup during college spring break in Florida, we’ve never been tempted to try anything romantic. “We still on for coffee Tuesday morning?”

“Yup. See you in D.C.” I have to interview him for the article, although I don’t think there is much I don’t already know about Archer.

“Don’t you girls get into too much trouble,” Todd says, and they’re off. I watch them push through the crowd that has gathered to listen to a nineties cover band that is tuning up. When I turn back, I notice that the phone on the table is Todd’s. It has a gray case. Everything Shelby has is pink.

“I think Todd grabbed your phone by accident,” I say.

She makes a pouty face and picks up Todd’s phone. “Dummy. I’d better let him know.” She types quickly into the phone and then turns to me.

“Of course you know his password.” Daniel never shared his with me. That should have been a sign.

“We share everything!” Shelby makes a cutie-pie face and then laughs. “Sooooo, see any cute guys here?”

“We’re not here to pick up guys for me,” I say. “We’re at the beach to spy on your kids.” She and Todd have boy-girl twins, Brody and Kinsey, who have just graduated from Washington Prep, and like the majority of recent high school grads in the D.C. area, they’re spending this week partying at the beach, just like we did when we were their age.

“Spy? You’re going to do the same exact thing when Zoe’s a senior.”

I laugh. “I know. But I have two more years until I have to think about that.”

Back when we were in high school, our parents sent us to Beach Week in cars loaded with beer, or in our case, Shelby’s mom bought us Zima so we wouldn’t have to drink our calories. But the overall experience has not changed: the Delaware and Maryland shore is inundated with drunk, horny teens whose cerebral cortexes are not yet fully formed, making them a danger to themselves and others.

So last fall, when Brody and Kinsey entered their senior year, Shelby asked me to mark off this week to spend at her family’s beach house. The twins would be renting houses with their friends, but we would hover in the wings just in case. Neither seen nor heard, we would be but a few minutes away if things got hairy. A girls’ getaway, Shelby called it, even though we both knew that we were really here because she would be climbing the walls with anxiety if she were back in D.C.

“You do need to get out there again!” Shelby shouts above the Toad the Wet Sprocket cover. “You’ve been divorced more than two years.”

“Separated more than two years,” I correct her. “Divorced one year, as of last month.”

Shelby waves the distinction away. “Whatever. Who have you slept with, besides that guy from the gym? Who was that guy? Oh yeah, Deltoid Doug.”

“Please don’t remind me about Deltoid Doug.” I hadn’t realized that you could take the guy out of the gym, but you couldn’t get him to stop talking about CrossFit versus Orange Theory.

“Look around—there’s got to be some decent guys here.” She sweeps her hand around the packed room. But I’m not checking out guys. I’m pulling out my phone to check on Zoe. Shelby puts her hand over mine.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Zoe’s at home watching Dance Moms.” She gives me a challenging look. “Daniel’s got this. I dare you not to check up on her.”

“It’s just this constant buzzing in the back of my brain—what is Zoe up to? Is Zoe safe? Is she where she said she was going to be?” I sigh. “I’m surprised I’ve been able to turn it off for as long as I have today.”

“I’m the same,” Shelby says. “If you weren’t here distracting me, I’d go nuts.”

“And it hasn’t been good lately.” Even Shelby doesn’t know how bad it’s been with Zoe recently. When Daniel moved out, I thought we might get closer, just the two of us in the house together. But the opposite happened. She’s pulled away. Lately, she absolutely vibrates with anger.

“Anything in particular?”

I laugh. “Let’s see. According to Zoe, I embarrass her. I smother her. I annoy her. I don’t get her. Should I go on?”

“Honey, these teenage girls are witches. I tell you. Thank god I have my Brody. Even though the twins are exactly three minutes apart, they’re so different developmentally. Kinsey can’t wait to get away from me. Meanwhile, Brody is all, Mama, can I fill up your gas tank before you head out with Liza? And the tires need air, so I’ll get that, too.”

“So sweet.”

“Thank god I did not have two girls.” “Well, I don’t have a son. It’s just Zoe and me. And Daniel. And he gets to be the fun one, who let Zoe get a nose piercing and took her to see Phoebe Bridgers the night before midterms.” I pull my hand, and my phone, out from under Shelby’s palm. “The type that would let his sixteen-year-old daughter roam the streets of D.C. after curfew.”

“Don’t check, Liza. Let Daniel be the parent. You’re off this weekend.”

“You’re never really off, though, are you?” I know she just wants to protect me, but I also know she’s the same way about her kids. We both know what can happen to teenagers when parents aren’t paying attention.

Just look at what happened to Nikki.

“You’re such a Capricorn.” Shelby sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine. Just one quick peek. And then put it away.”

I go to the Find My app and look for Zoe’s phone. We all do it. Every parent that I know. We lament our kids not having the freedoms we did when we were their age, and then we track their every move.

It takes only a millisecond to register that Zoe’s avatar isn’t there.


Click below to pre-order your copy of All the Dirty Secrets, coming 07.12.22!

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Q&A with Aggie Blum Thompson

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Want to know more about debut author Aggie Blum Thompson and her new book I Don’t Forgive YouKeep reading to see her answers to all of our burning questions!


What kind of research did you do for this book? Did you learn anything surprising?

I did quite a bit of research on social media and the dark underworld of fake accounts, hacking, and revenge porn – and it’s not pretty. It’s really the wild, wild West with no sheriff in sight. As I mention in my book, the number of fake Facebook accounts alone is startling. I put the number at 18 million in my book but it looks like I way underestimated. According to the New York Times, Facebook put the number of fake accounts it shut down for just one quarter of 2018 at 91 million. And as anyone who has been the victim of a fake account or revenge porn knows, scrubbing that information off the internet is extremely difficult, if not impossible. The laws on the books have simply not caught up to the technology.

What was the book that made you want to become a writer?

I was an avid reader as a child. I loved our weekly trips to the library, where I was allowed to check out as many books as I could carry. My parents were very strict about TV and movies, but they put no limits on books. I wrote short stories and plays and poems from a very young age. One summer at camp, I had a wonderful counselor whom I had a massive crush on. She was just the coolest person ever. This was in the early eighties, and I would hang out in her bunk room and I started borrowing her books. She was gay, and she had a terrific collection of gay literature. She leant me Rubyfruit Jungle; I think I was eleven. But it was through her that I discovered Armistead Maupin and Tales of the City series, and I became obsessed with the whole series. I read and re-read every single one, and immediately set out to try and recreate that kind of comic, socially conscious, intertwined novel – only set in middle school on Long Island. My first draft was a big hit at school, until it was confiscated by Mr. Nagrowski in science class.

What are the characteristics of a great book to you?

It’s funny; I read across genres, and love non-fiction as much as fiction. All I ask is to be swept away – so caught up in the world of the book that it lingers in my mind even when I am away from it, like a spell. This can be the wry comedy of John Fante’s Ask the Dust, the deep emotional resonance of Gloria Naylor’s The Women of Brewster Place or the sweeping descriptions that made me feel like I was experiencing the Dust Bowl first hand in the nonfiction The Worst Hard Time by Timothy Egan. And thrillers and mysteries have the extra-bonus of giving my active brain a puzzle to gnaw on while I am being transported.

When writing a book, do you plan it out first or do you go with the flow?

A bit of both. Writers often describe themselves as “plotters” or “pantsers” – meaning they write by the seat of their pants. I consider myself a “plonster” in that I do need to have a sense of where the book will end up before I start writing, but I have no idea how I will get there. I liken it to driving cross-country, which I have done five times. You know you’re leaving New York, and that you’ll wind up in California – but other than that, you kind of let the road take you where it wants. Maybe you’ll get off the main highway to go see the world’s largest ball of twine (located in Cawker City, Kansas if you are curious) and maybe you’ll spend longer in Arches National Park than you had planned. But eventually you end up in the Golden State.

How do you like to spend your time when you’re not writing?

Either with friends — playing cards (Pitch or Euchre), listening to music, and sipping a gin and tonic – or in my garden. I am a passionate gardener and I have transformed the tiny little lawn in front of my suburban house into a fruit orchard and veggie plot. I grow figs, raspberries, blueberries, tomatoes, fennel, greens, squash, pumpkins – you name it! It’s my happy place where I get so absorbed in what I am doing that all my cares melt away. 

Order a copy of I Don’t Forgive You—available now!

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Start a Discussion With the I Don’t Forgive You Reading Group Guide!

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Perfect for book clubs or the beach, Aggie Blum Thompson’s I Don’t Forgive You is a page-turning, thrilling debut “not to be missed.” (Wendy Walker)

An accomplished photographer and the devoted mom of an adorable little boy, Allie Ross has just moved to an upscale DC suburb, the kind of place where parenting feels like a competitive sport. Allie’s desperate to make a good first impression. Then she’s framed for murder.

It all starts at a neighborhood party when a local dad corners Allie and calls her by an old, forgotten nickname from her dark past. The next day, he is found dead.

Soon, the police are knocking at her door, grilling her about a supposed Tinder relationship with the man, and pulling up texts between them. She learns quickly that she’s been hacked and someone is impersonating her online. Her reputation—socially and professionally—is at stake; even her husband starts to doubt her. As the killer closes in, Allie must reach back into a past she vowed to forget in order to learn the shocking truth of who is destroying her life.

Get your book club discussion started with our reading group guide below!

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Order a Copy of I Don’t Forgive You — Available Now!

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Forge Your Own Book Club: I Don’t Forgive You by Aggie Blum Thompson

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By Lizzy Hosty

After moving to the suburbs of Washington D.C. with her husband and son, Allie Ross is soon framed for murder. When the police discover a Tinder relationship between her and the dead man, Allie realizes that someone has been impersonating her online. But when the cops and even her own husband starts to doubt her, Allie realizes that it’s up to her to discover the truth. With twists and turns and plot twists sure to keep any reader on their toes, I Don’t Forgive You by Aggie Blum Thompson is the perfect read for your book club.


What to Drink:

Allie and her neighbors are rarely seen without a glass of wine in hand – so it’s the perfect time to bust out that bottle you’ve been saving for a rainy day. Fre Wines also has a great selection of non-alcoholic wines such as this delicious Rosé.

What to Eat:

A domestic thriller like this offers the perfect opportunity to show off your best cocktail party hors d’oeuvres! For a scrumptious brunch option, try this recipe for mini-quiches.

What to Watch:

The 2018 thriller movie Searching tells the story of a father who, through the use of technology, sets out to find his missing daughter. Along the way, he realizes that the daughter that he knew was nothing more than a mirage as he slowly starts to uncover just who she is now.

What to Discuss:

Download the I Don’t Forgive You Reading Group Guide for insightful questions to get the discussion going.

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What to Read Next: 

For another twisty thriller about someone pretending to be someone they’re not, check out Hank Phillipi Ryan’s The First to Lie. After a devastating betrayal, a young woman sets out to get justice through lies and manipulation, no matter what family secrets are unearthed. But she soon realizes she’s not the only one after revenge. Once your book club is finished with I Don’t Forgive You, add The First to Lie to your reading list!

Order Your Copy of I Don’t Forgive You—Available Now!

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On the (Digital) Road: Tor Author Events in June 2021

We are in a time of social distancing, but your favorite Tor authors are still coming to screens near you in the month of June! Check out where you can find them here:

Christopher Buehlman, The Blacktongue Thief

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Tuesday, June 1
Vroman’s Books
Crowdcast
6:00 PM PT

Saturday, June 5
Interabang Books
Zoom
6:00 PM CT

Monday, June 7
Boswell Books
Zoom
7:00 PM CT

T. L. Huchu, The Library of the Dead

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Tuesday, June 15
Let’s Talk Genre: SFF Panel w/Jessica Levai at Bookmarks
Crowdcast
7:00 PM ET

Tor Books, June Read the Room Event

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Wednesday, June 23
Django Wexler, Bethany C Morrow, Neil Sharpson, Aggie Blum Thompson, and Ada Palmer in conversation at BookPeople
Crowdcast
6:00 PM ET

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Aggie Blum Thompson On Going from Covering Crime, to Making It Up

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Before Aggie Blum Thompson became an author, she was a real-life crime reporter, and also wrote for papers like The Boston Globe and The Washington Post.

Now she’s moved from covering crime to making it up in her debut novel I Don’t Forgive You, headed to a bookstore near you on June 8th! To get you ready for this page-turning domestic thriller, Aggie joined us on the blog to talk about her experience as a crime reporter!

 


By Aggie Blum Thompson

I had been on the job less than one week when I encountered my first murder victim. He was lying on the cement outside of a neighborhood market in the small Southern city of Wilmington, North Carolina, the victim of a drive-by shooting.

This was my first newspaper job.

I was hired as the local paper’s “cops” reporter, although I quickly learned not to use the word “cop” to reference a law enforcement officer. My beat was to cover the goings-on at both the city’s police department and at the county sheriff, handling everything from budget issues to crime, including, yes, murder. I knew about the murder part in theory, but as I parked my car in a dark and unfamiliar area of Wilmington, I was jittery. Would I know what to do? Would the police respond to me, or completely ignore me? What about the crowd that had gathered, at least ten people deep, agitated and restless – would they resent a reporter in their midst?

And most of all – would I make the newspaper’s deadline of eleven o’clock, seeing as it was after ten-forty when I arrived?

I parked behind a line of squad cars, pretty far away from the crime scene.  Pushing my way through the crowd was like bushwhacking through the woods and then coming upon a clearing. Only this clearing was dirty cement, where a man lay. Around him, yellow plastic markers indicated where bullets had been found. The photographer was just finishing up, and the medics were ready to take the body to the morgue. I managed to get the attention of a mustachioed, middle-aged man who looked like he was in charge. I introduced myself, and he informed me he would be all mine once they were done, happy to answer any and all questions. He called me ma’am.

Feeling relieved, I sank back into the crowd to wait. Little did I know he was ma’aming me — a specifically Southern skill that law enforcement use to their advantage. While appearing polite and respectful, they completely blowing you off.

I called in the basics of the crime — what, when, where, how — to the copy desk, but I did not have a who or why. I wanted a name, or an occupation, or at least an age. Something to make this person lying crumpled on the concrete a human. Without it, he would be known in tomorrow’s paper as “Murder Victim.”

The medics took the body away. I motioned to the police detective and he smiled, but did not approach. The crowd began to dissipate once the body was gone. Soon it was me, a few stragglers, and various law enforcement technicians. I interviewed a few bystanders to keep busy. Someone in a uniform took down the yellow police tape that had cordoned off the scene of the murder. Someone else came and collected those little yellow plastic bullet markers. The copy desk called, impatient now. It was after eleven. They needed that humanizing detail now.

I searched the scene for my detective but could not see him. I approached a uniformed officer and asked where he might be. He shrugged. “He left a while ago.”

And then I was all alone, the crowd gone, the police gone, the body gone.

It was pitch black. My car was blocks away, but without the emergency vehicles, I couldn’t remember which street I had parked on. I fumbled around in the dark until, heart racing, I finally located my car. It wasn’t until the next day that I found out that man’s name. But my editor said it was too late to put it in the paper—it was yesterday’s news.

Years later, I’ve traded in newspaper reporting for novel writing. I’m still writing about murder, but I no longer depend on anyone else to tell me the who, what, when, where or why. I am limited now only by my imagination.

Pre-order a Copy of I Don’t Forgive You—available June 8th!

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