‘I read The Dark Lake in one sitting, it’s that good. A crime thriller that seizes you from the first page and slowly draws you into a web of deception and long buried secrets. Beautifully written, compulsively readable, and highly recommended.’

Douglas Preston, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Lost City of the Monkey God and co-author of the bestselling Pendergast series

‘Debut author Sarah Bailey depicts both the landscape and Gemma’s state of mind vividly, bringing into focus the intensity of Gemma’s physical and emotional pain and her increasing discontent. The Dark Lake adds to the trend of haunting, rural Australian crime fiction, and provides a welcome addition to the genre for those left bereft after finishing Jane Harper’s The Dry.’

Books + Publishing

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Bailey is a Melbourne-based writer with a background in advertising and communications. She has two children and is currently the Managing Director of advertising agency VMLY&R in Melbourne. Her internationally award-winning Gemma Woodstock trilogy includes The Dark Lake, published in 2017 and winner of the Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction and the Davitt Award for Best Debut, followed by Into the Night in 2018, and Where the Dead Go in 2019, and The Housemate in 2021.

DEDICATION

FOR MY FRIENDS

(LUCKY ME)

SATURDAY, 3 OCTOBER 2005, EARLY

SATURDAY, 3 OCTOBER 2005, EARLY

Through the dust and faded bird shit on the windscreen of her Mazda, Oli Groves watches the cops huddled next to the letterbox of 28 Paradise Street, St Kilda. The cop who just yelled at her, the bow-legged beanpole with the constellation of freckles and the permanent smirk, is talking animatedly and pointing a finger aggressively toward the house. His hot breath forms comical white clouds, but the faces of his colleagues remain solemn.

‘Piss off!’ he snapped when he encountered Oli standing on the bottom step of the porch, peering into the front door of the house.

Oli’s pulse is racing, though she’s not sure whether that’s from his reprimand or the MDMA still coursing through her system. Before Beanpole blocked her view, she saw into the dark hallway: furniture on its side, the glint of glass on the worn floorboards. The curve of a female body lying there naked, a gaping wound in her abdomen. Half-open eyes staring blankly at the wall.

Oli squeezes her own eyes shut, then blinks a few times. Shakes her head and sniffs, adjusting the rear-view mirror to check her hastily applied make-up. With her fingers, she combs her long blonde hair, knotty with stale hairspray. The image of the dead body is fixed in her mind. C’mon, c’mon. Keep it together, Oli. Clearly Jo was desperate, or she wouldn’t have called you. She must know this is going to be big. What if it’s a proper story, and you get to file it?