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For fans of In a Dark, Dark Wood and All the Missing Girls comes Our Little Secreta compulsive and thrilling debut about a missing woman, a tangled love triangle, the secrets we keep and the secrets we share. The detective wants to know what happened to Saskia, as if I could just skip to the ending and all would be well. But stories begin at the beginning and some secrets have to be earned. Angela is being held in a police interrogation room. But as her past unfolds, she reveals a disconcerting love triangle and a dark, tangled web of betrayals. Is Angela a scorned ex-lover with criminal intent?
Who is she protecting? And why? Twisty and suspenseful, Our Little Secret is an intense cat-and-mouse game and a riveting thriller about the lies we tell others—and ourselves. Get a FREE ebook by ing our mailing list today! Plus, receive recommendations for your next Book Club read. She now lives in British Columbia, Canada, with her husband and two children. Visit her at RozNay. Flicking back and forth from first love to a police cell, Our Little Secret builds to a deliciously dark conclusion.
The writing, it must be said, is supremely seductive. Nay draws the reader in with compelling characters, deliciously dark themes, clever turns of phrase and heightened levels of suspense. I stayed in bed one lazy afternoon and polished it off, then stared up at my ceiling, stunned that it was over and still half in love with the characters.
Roz Nay is going to be a name we hear a lot of in the future. Our Little Secret is a gripping addition to the psych thriller world. Ruth Ware fans will love this compulsive, impossible-to-put-down novel! A most promising debut. Our Little Secret is a deliciously twisted novel about a love triangle.
Roz Nay has proven she can write the thriller you haven't read before. Carve out some time for this riveting, one-sitting read. Tell us what you like and we'll recommend books you'll love. up and get a free ebook! our mailing list! About The Book. Every hour the cops come to me, one after another, with a new pad of paper and a full cup of coffee. They must pass off the same brain at the door when they leave, hand it over like an Olympic baton, because not one of them strays from the script.
Do you know the woman well? Are you upset?
How do you feel about Mr. Would you consider your relationship with him to be particularly. Always a pause before the adjective. Parker and me.
My definition of love is nothing like theirs, though. They sit with their he down, anticipating my answers and writing them in before the words are even mine. I wonder if it matters what I tell them. The sole of humanity is on the wall to my left: one small line of graffiti written in fervent black capitals.
The only furniture in the room is a chrome table with four chairs, all the legs stubbed with rubber to avoid scarring the floor. Above the door a clock with a beige face judders its long hand through the seconds. In the top-left corner is a video camera. The red light winks at me. The long, thin pane glints like a reptile tank in a pet store. The police station parking lot must be out there.
I often hear car doors banging. At noon they send in a fresh recruit. This one is dressed in a suit with a name badge clipped on his right pocket. Novak studies the clipboard on his lap. He writes the time in twenty-four-hour digits and fills out his name on the dotted line. J for James? If you could just fill in the blanks, we can close your file.
The top is chewed into a dented peak. He puts his pen down. Novak smiles, a tight line on his lips, and pulls the sleeves of his jacket lower to cover his shirt cuffs. He puts both palms flat on each side of his paper, the pen horizontal at the top like a spoon at a place setting.
He is waiting to be fed. Mind your manners, Angela.
Twenty years I lived with my parents and we never really talked about anything. We were just moles fumbling along in the same dark tunnel. These days when all three of us meet, we blink at each other in the bright surprise of my adulthood and flounder for a point of reference.
But if I think about it now, maybe my mother was right. I prod my forefinger on the chrome of the table, leaving a smeared fingerprint. She might have just wandered off. Maybe she flew back to wherever she came from. I wait for him to finish, the full stop at the end of his line carefully pressed. He lifts his head. I coil it around and around my forefinger until the skin at the tip shrieks purple.
It might even end up being cathartic.
My mom and dad bonded over their restlessness and rushed to get married in it. They met as amateur actors in a play and once they had me, we were up and moving every three years as if our life was a stage production they thought they were touring. One of my earliest memories is of being four, maybe, and in the middle of cutting out a picture of a turkey from the grocery-store coupons.
Right now, leave that, just leave it. She yanked the scissors out of my hand and stood over me while I struggled to find my shoes. I went through my whole childhood like that. Ready to be yanked away.
Ad astra per aspera, Angela—to the stars the hard way. It was tiring watching him. Still, my mother was happy to accompany him as long as each step felt like a social climb. There was a giddiness to their choices in those early years, a strange excitement. Darling, just imagine! Each time they left a place, my parents must have believed they were on their way to somewhere they might actually be happy. In Grade 9 I said good-bye to my friends and watched them fade away from me even while I was still standing there.
Are we honestly meant to believe the important ones will stay with us wherever we go? We drove three hours northwest to Cove, Vermont, in the fall just as Grade 10 began. The house we bought was sad and gray and looked hunched like it was coughing. There was a shoe in the driveway. In the middle of the front lawn was an iron stake driven deep into the dirt, with a rusted chain on the grass.
Dad knew and liked the principal of the high school and felt the move to a smaller place would somehow benefit my chances of getting into a good college. Teacher—student ratio. He took a job at the Cove Municipal Library, giving up his research post at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston because he had become obsessed with my education. I never wanted to leave the city. It was a flat-roofed brick building with basketball hoops out front that Want to have our little secret long ago lost their netting.
The first day in that school my palms smelled tinny and sour from gripping the iron handrails that led up to the front entrance. The locker they gave me still had stickers in it from the kid before—rainbows that were plastic and puffy and crinkled when you pressed them.
I pried them all off with my thumbnail. At every school I attended, gym teachers sighed when they saw me coming, and Lakeside High was no different. At the end of gym on that first Monday, I went to change back into my regular clothes and there were knots in the ends of my pants, pulled so tight that two people must have put their full weight into the job. By the time I sat down in defeat, the locker room had emptied. Not much of a linguist. Holy smokers, they put some effort into it.
Now, pick up the pace! I knew who did it; I knew right away because two girls followed me down the hallway Want to have our little secret when I emerged from the gym. And they were everywhere: waiting outside the washroom, behind me in the lineup for lunch and three lockers down, leaning against the wall while I tried to get my books organized for English class.
The taller one wore dark-purple nail polish and a T-shirt that showed her belly button. The other girl dressed identically, even down to the love-heart laces in her sneakers. What is it about teenage girls that makes them impossible to tell apart?
I thought it was all in the styling, the makeup, the cloning of boy-band music and favorite movies. Now I realize what bonds and homogenizes them: panic. Girls of fourteen move together in a band of cruelty, always searching for somebody to terrorize as long as it keeps the spotlight off them.
He was about fifteen, olive-skinned, blond, with a sleeveless Metallica T-shirt that showed the early bump of deltoids. He wore sandblasted be around his neck and a navy baseball cap with a D on the front. I think my head tried to turtle down into my shell in that moment as I stood there in my crinkly pants, wide-eyed, holding my English textbook.
Grade 10, eleven years ago. Mark it on your sheet, Detective Novak. You want me to just keep going?Want to have our little secret
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Review: ‘Our Little Secret’ is remarkable debut by Roz Nay