BooksBarbecue
Back A Small Affair Save as PDF

A Small Affair

Flora Collins
Chapters (54)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise
  3. Dedication
  4. About the Author
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. Part Two
  22. 1
  23. 2
  24. 3
  25. 4
  26. 5
  27. 6
  28. 7
  29. 8
  30. 9
  31. 10
  32. 11
  33. 12
  34. 13
  35. 14
  36. 15
  37. 16
  38. 17
  39. 18
  40. 19
  41. Part Three
  42. 1
  43. 2
  44. 3
  45. 4
  46. 5
  47. 6
  48. 7
  49. 8
  50. 9
  51. 10
  52. EPILOGUE
  53. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  54. Booklist

Cover

Cover image

Praise

Praise for Flora Collins

“Flora Collins is a sure-handed and inventive suspense novelist.”

—Adriana Trigiani, bestselling author of The Good Left Undone

On Nanny Dearest

“A slick thriller.”

—CrimeReads

“A seesaw of rising tension that ultimately delivers a raw, crashing conclusion… Collins’s debut illustrates the sometimes obsessive and terrifying nature of love and the shattering consequences of its betrayal.”

—Library Journal

“A well-crafted debut… Horrifying… Psychological thriller fans won’t be disappointed.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Unsettling, compelling, elegantly paced—Flora Collins’s debut is a slick, contemporary novel that explores the wispy, nagging memories of childhood, the dark side of relationships, and the unrelenting desire to be loved.”

—Julia Heaberlin, bestselling author of We Are All the Same in the Dark

“A powerful debut about the fine line between love and obsession… Haunting.”

—Miranda Smith, author of What I Know

“You won’t be able to put this book down.”

—Emily Freud, author of My Best Friend’s Secret

Dedication

To Andrew, my best friend and the closest thing I have to a husband. Always and forever grateful that our “marriage” has yet to be tabloid fodder.

About the Author

Flora Collins was born and raised in New York City and currently resides in Brooklyn Heights.

Part One

PART
ONE

1

One year ago

We met on an app, one of those achingly boring, exclusive ones. White text on a black background. Where you have to work in a certain industry, have a certain type of education, a pedigree to differentiate yourself from the riffraff.

Oddly, or perhaps not oddly at all, I remember the exact moment we matched. I was on my couch under a heavy knit green blanket, my legs splayed across my best friend and roommate’s legs. We were watching Real Housewives—though which franchise, I can’t recall—ignoring each other, ignoring the TV. Classic millennials on our phones, doom scrolling.

I wish with all my might I could do that again. Sit next to Quinn on that olive green couch we’d found in a West Village Housing Works and ignore each other without these ghosts separating us, sitting on my chest. Incapacitating me. Incapacitating all my relationships.

“Ugh, can you move your legs? Mine are asleep,” Quinn whined, throwing his end of the blanket in my face and getting up on unsteady feet, stretching. He padded across to our small kitchen and took out a beer, watched me on my phone, my face lit by the glare of the TV.