My eyes skim over the half a dozen of Maura’s titles, publication years beside each and some jotted notes. A Gothic about a family hotel empire and a murder, with the note Hotel Seaview—Rogers family? scribbled alongside. A coed slasher next to the name Jessica Swinarski and the question Adjunct teaching position at Alder University? A potential trail of my grandmother’s exploits and inspirations. A shiver passes through me.

Suzanne hauls herself up from the floor with a protracted groan, joins Reama and me as we sweep our eyes over book after book.

“We have our work cut out for us, eh? She was prolific,” Suzanne says with a cough, then a curse. I catch her reaching for her pocket, for the vape that’s no longer there. Her brush with death put the fear of God into her, and the ICU detox from nicotine made it easier to quit. Doesn’t stop her from being grumpy about it, though.

“Where do we even start?” I can’t help the tinge of hopelessness in my tone.

“We don’t start anywhere,” Suzanne scolds. “Your only job is to graduate from high school and get a fuckton of therapy.”

“I should probably get a new therapist,” I joke.

“I can get you a summer internship or something,” Reama says. “When you graduate, we’ll talk. You’re clearly nosy enough to make a great FBI agent.”

“You think?”

“UC Irvine has a stellar program,” Reama replies keenly. “Something to consider.”

Indeed.

What neither of them knows won’t kill them. Because my plan is that alongside a fuckton of therapy, I have no intention of stopping. Perhaps this house can serve a purpose, with all the clues it may contain. And all that blood money can be put to good use.

I gaze up at the kaleidoscope of colorful spines, each one a window to a real-life mystery. My grandmother the serial killer?

Death has always followed me. Time for me to do the chasing.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This is my grief book. Written as the world grieved a new reality and far too many lost, and as I continued to grieve my mother, it has been the most difficult, stressful book I have yet undertaken, though sure not to be the last. I have to thank everyone who was with me on the journey, witnessing my chaos-process and providing support as my anxiety cycled to new dizzying heights. The only way out is through, and somehow this became a book in the end.

Elizabeth Stranahan—I am so grateful every day to have you as my editor. You’ve helped me become a stronger writer over the past two years, and made a stressful process much, much easier with your flexibility, encouragement, and great ideas. I could weep with happiness for getting to be on your team.