With the relentless pacing and complex female characters of Big Little Lies and an expertly crafted small town setting, The Night She Went Missing introduces Kristen Bird as a new force in the world of domestic suspense. But her novel also goes well beyond that, exploring complex questions about mothers and daughters, loss, and the line between taking chances and living dangerously.
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MORE ABOUT THE NIGHT SHE WENT MISSING:
Galveston Island, Texas, is a close-knit island community where one family holds reign: The Callahans, headed up by the impenetrable matriarch Rosalyn Callahan who seems to control everything, from the prestigious prep school and the social scene to the press and, at times, the police department.
After a career disaster, daughter-in-law Catherine has just been forced to take her teenage daughter and move back to her husband’s family home and back to the watchful eye of Rosalyn.
Leslie Steele is Rosalyn Callahan’s right-hand woman, who takes care of everything, exactly how Rosalyn wants it: the parties, the galas, even the senior class trip. But she’s not sure how long she can keep up the façade.
Then Emily goes missing, and ten weeks later she’s found, alive but unconscious. The police don’t have any answers. Each of these mothers is forced to look to their teenagers, or perhaps each other’s, for answers.
EMILY
They find me faceup in the murky water of the harbor on the day of my funeral. Or memorial service. Whatever. It’s not like there’s much difference. Dead is dead.
Except I’m not. I. Am. Not. Dead. I would pinch myself if I could move.
“Can you hear me? Hey, what’s your name? Can you open your eyes?”
My eyes are as dense and heavy as basalt. Basalt: rich in iron and magnesium, Mr. Schwartz penned on the board during our volcanic rock unit in eighth grade. I fight to come out of the emptiness that has held me for the past…the past what? Hours? Days? Weeks?
I attempt to whisper my name even though my eyelids remain anchored. Emily. That’s right. Emily. I can’t remember the last time I voiced those three syllables.
“Pull her up.”
Hands yank at me, jerking me from the arms of the water. Two hands wander up my body—over my feet, my legs, the arch of my hips, my arms, onto my neck, stopping at my forehead. This touch is not like the familiar plying of the boy I love, so fiery that it almost stings. This touch is necessary, cold, perfunctory. Perfunctory, Mrs. Abbot, my sophomore English teacher had pronounced for us students as we learned the word for the first time. P-E-R-F-U—
The voice cuts in. “Tell them we have a girl, a teenager. No broken bones as far as I can tell but looks like she’s been out here for hours. Unconscious, but breathing on her own.” His voice muff les as he turns his head. “I think she might be Emily.”
Suddenly, a brilliant choir of tenors and baritones and basses burst forth. “The Emily?”
Emily. Yes, that’s me. What a comforting thing to hear one’s name spoken by those who can point the way home. I breathe in gratitude and descend into the lightness of sleep before a hand touches my cheek again.
“You awake, Emily?”
The swooshing of the waves calls to me, a reminder that the song of the deep is steady despite all the new sounds: The bustle of work boots, the hum of the boat waiting to churn to life and set out across the open sea.
“Your mama’s been looking for you, Ms. Emily. You gave us all a fright. You hear me?” The man seems to sense that I can hear his words while my body remains frozen despite the warmth of the water and the sun overhead. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart. Yes, ma’am, you’re gonna make it just fine. Got a daughter about your age, and I woulda been worried sick if my girl had gone missing for weeks on end. Your mama sure is gonna be happy.”
A nasally voice now. “Where you think she’s been all this time? Turned into a mermaid?” The boy chuckles.
“Hush, Beau.”
The man’s hand touches my forehead, his fingers sandpapery with callouses. “Now, sweetheart, if you can open your eyes for a sec, I can introduce you properly to the crew. We’re getting you help as fast as we can, but you can go ahead and open them eyes before all the medics arrive. They’d be good and relieved to see you looking around.”
I try. Oh, how I want to f licker them open, but my head aches and oblivion pulls harder. The siren call of the void is too tempting to resist.
Excerpted from The Night She Went Missing by Kristen Bird, Copyright © 2022 by Kristen Bird.
Published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
PHOTO CREDIT: Bess Garison
Kristen Bird lives outside of Houston, Texas with her husband and three daughters.
She earned her bachelor’s degree in music and mass media before completing a master’s in literature.
She teaches high school English and writes with a cup of coffee in hand.
In her free time, she likes to visit parks with her three daughters, watch quirky films with her husband and attempt to keep pace with her rescue lab-mixes.
THE NIGHT SHE WENT MISSING is her debut novel.
BUY LINKS:
Murder by the Book (Houston, TX)
SOCIAL LINKS:
Twitter: @kbirdwrites
Facebook: @kristen.bird.writes
Instagram: @kristenbirdwrites
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