Martin and Scott: you were a massive part of my winters. Mika, Dave and Dave, and all the other snowboarders I met and rode with: thanks for the memories.

If any old snowboarder friends remember me from my winters, get in touch and let’s organize a reunion <evil laugh>. No, seriously, in those pre-Facebook years I moved around a lot and lost touch with so many people. I’d really love to hear from you.

To the snowboarders, past and present, who have taken the sport to the incredible level it’s at today, I’m in awe of your skills, physical and mental strength, and sheer balls. You are inspirational. To snowboarders everywhere: happy riding, stay safe. Treasure those memories.

And to my readers, wherever you are, thank you so much for taking a chance on a debut author and choosing this book. I hope you enjoyed it.

Excerpt from THE SWELL

Keep reading for an excerpt from Allie Reynolds’s next book, The Swell.

CHAPTER 1

KENNA

“Hey, you!” A blonde woman holds a flyer in my direction. “Take one please!”

A slight accent: Dutch or Swedish or something.

I blink, dazzled by the sunlight after the shade of the train station. Why is it so bright? It feels like the middle of the night.

“Best Thai food!” shouts a young man.

“Looking for a room?” calls a girl with multiple facial piercings.

The touts stand there, holding their ground—or trying to—in the stream of people flooding from the station. Sydney may be on the other side of the world, but so far, arriving here is little different to arriving in London or Paris.

My heavy backpack makes me unsteady on my feet. The Thai restaurant guy tries to give me a flyer but I have my travel card in one hand and my daypack in the other so I shrug in apology and step around him.

“Happy hour!” shouts another voice. “Six-dollar schooners.”

As I’m wondering what a schooner could be, a hand grips my wrist. The Dutch woman. She’s fiftyish with dark blonde hair and clear blue eyes. Pretty, or she would be if her face wasn’t taut and unsmiling. I want to pull free and walk on—ignore her like everyone else—but the desperation in her eyes stops me. I glance at her flyers.

Missing! Elke Hartmann, German national.

The photo shows a smiling blonde girl clutching a surfboard.

“My daughter.” The woman’s voice is raw.

Not Dutch then. I’m hopeless with accents. The tide of people divide and merge around us as I skim the flyer. Elke is twenty-nine—a year younger than me—and she’s been missing for six months. I offer a tight smile of sympathy. I hope the bus stop isn’t far because this backpack weighs a ton.