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    The Woman in the Library: A Novel
    The Woman in the Library: A Novel
    The Woman in the Library: A Novel
    Ebook392 pages6 hours

    The Woman in the Library: A Novel

    By Sulari Gentill

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    USA TODAY BESTSELLER * MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD NOMINEE * 2022 BOOKPAGE BEST MYSTERIES AND SUSPENSE * LIBRARY READS TOP 10 BOOKS OF 2022 * CRIME READS BEST NEW CRIME FICTION

    "Investigations are launched, fingers are pointed, potentially dangerous liaisons unfold and I was turning those pages like there was cake at the finish line." —Moira Macdonald, Seattle Times must-read books for summer 2022

    Ned Kelly award winning author Sulari Gentill sets this mystery-within-a-mystery in motion with a deceptively simple, Dear Hannah, What are you writing? pulling us into the ornate reading room at the Boston Public Library.

    In every person's story, there is something to hide...

    The tranquility is shattered by a woman's terrified scream. Security guards take charge immediately, instructing everyone inside to stay put until the threat is identified and contained. While they wait for the all-clear, four strangers, who'd happened to sit at the same table, pass the time in conversation and friendships are struck. Each has his or her own reasons for being in the reading room that morning—it just happens that one is a murderer.

    Sulari Gentill delivers a sharply thrilling read with The Woman in the Library, an unexpectedly twisty literary adventure that examines the complicated nature of friendship and shows us that words can be the most treacherous weapons of all.

    What readers are saying about The Woman in the Library:

    "I loved this intelligent, high tension, addictive, unputdownable book so much!"

    "I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT!"

    "This is a smart, well-written whodunit with an interesting cast of characters and a well-developed plot."

    "A murder mystery that starts off in a crowded library full of book lovers? SIGN ME UP!"

    "What an outstanding job and literary work in the crime-fiction genre!"

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSourcebooks
    Release dateJun 7, 2022
    ISBN9781464215889
    The Woman in the Library: A Novel
    Author

    Sulari Gentill

    After setting out to study astrophysics, graduating in law and then abandoning her legal career to write books, SULARI GENTILL now grows French black truffles on her farm in the foothills of the Snowy Mountains of Australia. Gentill’s Rowland Sinclair mysteries have won and/or been shortlisted for the Davitt Award and the Commonwealth Writers’ Prize, and her stand-alone metafiction thriller, After She Wrote Him won the Ned Kelly Award for Best Crime Novel in 2018. Her tenth Sinclair novel, A Testament of Character, was shortlisted for the Ned Kelly Best Crime Novel in 2021.

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    Reviews for The Woman in the Library

    3.5/5

    471 ratings58 reviews

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    • 4/5
      This book was definitely confusing in the beginning especially on audio. It's a book within a book type story which took me a little time to get used to. But, once I got into it, I listened through most of the night to finish.
    • 3/5
      I had no idea what I was getting into when I started this mystery, and, listening to the audio ebook, I have to say I got more confused before it all started to make sense. Yes, it is a book within a book, but the publishing blurb doesn’t tell you that. The “book” characters are by far more compelling than the “real” characters. Readers will get caught up in this engrossing mystery, what is real, what isn’t, and just who IS the psycho killer, anyway?! My rating varied from a 2-star to a 4-star but I settled on a 3-star because of the peculiar conclusion. It is a fascinating tale, but don’t be surprised if you shake your head at times, wondering what in the world is going on.
    • 3/5
      While this had lots of clever twists, and stories within a story, it was also confusing for that same reason. I liked it, but was also irritated by the twists and layers.
    • 4/5
      This mystery had some intriguing components, including three different people writing similar mystery novels (two of which were characters in the novel itself), and a character critiquing the novel itself. I was disappointed with the ending because the motivations of the final culprit's actions weren't fully explained. It was definitley a page-turner.
    • 4/5
      A story within a story alongside the notes from a beta reader. Great execution of telling the tales. Will look for more by this author. 2022 read.
    • 1/5
      Bailed at 54% when Cain's stepfather is intent on sodomizing him.
    • 3/5
      The Woman in the Library is a long book that does not seem to go any place at all. The characters are believable and their settings are believable. However, the story makes no sense. The worst part is that the book just came to an end. It is like the author should have hired another author to come up with an ending to the book because the author did not know how to end it. The book received three stars in this review.
    • 4/5
      This was almost like a locked room mystery because the author tells you almost immediately the killer is one of a finite group and you spend the rest of the book trying to figure out which one and I thought it was really fun. There is an added layer to the story because there is also a book within a book and that fictional author is sharing chapters with a fellow writer/fan that becomes increasingly creepy as you read. Completely unique idea and if you read the author's notes she tells you the hilarious way in which she came up with the idea. Many thanks to NetGalley and the publisher for allowing me to read an advanced copy and provide my honest opinion.
    • 5/5
      This is an extremely clever mystery about a woman writing a mystery and the character who is writing a mystery. The protagonists met in the Boston Public Library Reading Room when a woman screams somewhere nearby in the library. They form a friendship as they try to solve the mystery. One of them, however, is the killer,
    • 4/5
      An Australian author named Hannah shares chapters of her upcoming book with a fan named Leo who lives in the United States, who offers his opinion of the story and advises how to make the book more relatable to American readers. Set during the pandemic and amid travel restrictions, Leo helps the author by visiting various sites in Boston where her story takes place.'

      The chapters she shares with Leo surround 4 strangers who meet at the Boston Public Library. As they are busy doing their own work, there rings a woman's blood-curdling scream. It is later discovered that a young woman had been found dead in a banquet room in the library. Slowly the four strangers realize that not all of them were there by chance and that one of them is the murderer.

      Katherine Littrell was a natural choice as narrator. She did a wonderful job separating the different strong accents, of which there were approximately three, as well as the male and female characters. It was always easy to interpret which character she was portraying.

      This was a good, solid mystery for me. There were a few moments that shocked me and that I felt truly added to the theme of the story. I was enjoying the slow burn of this audio and loved getting lost in the story, the mystery, and the characters.
    • 3/5
      An interesting idea, somewhat well managed but with a number of bizarre howlers I couldn't quite manage to get past.
    • 5/5
      In this gripping tale that starts off with a bang, Ms. Klumpers delivers a marvelous who-done-it with a host of off-beat characters that kept me guessing. Pauli is a strong but vulnerable woman who doesn't know who to trust, and really doesn't know what to do. Someone is out to get her. She stops running in the small town of Brier, home of the Sweetbriar Clinic, which isn't anywhere near the beaten path. I didn't want to put the book down, but when I did I couldn't stop thinking about. This was an excellent page turner.
    • 4/5
      The book begins with an email from an aspiring writer, Leo, to the Australian author Hannah Tigone, who is writing a mystery novel set in Boston. Leo is providing an American perspective. In the first chapter Hannah is in Boston on a writing fellowship, sharing a table with four strangers in the Boston Public Library. She is making notes on her companions as potential characters in her book when a scream from the next room jolts the four strangers into conversation, and they introduce themselves.

      The beginning of the book, Leo's email and the first chapter, is confusing and rather dull, so I nearly gave up. The second chapter is from Hannah's book, which starts with four people in the Boston Public Library who hear a scream. The writer is now called Freddie Kincaid, and her three companions have the same names as the people in chapter one. So, there are three threads: the emails from Leo, commenting on the chapters Hannah has sent him for review; Hannah Tigone's thread; Freddie Kincaid's thread. It still sounds confusing, but it's easy enough to follow. A bit too meta for me, because I'd rather lose myself in the story than be drawn back into the artificiality of the writing process, but a quick and entertaining read.
    • 5/5
      A very imaginative plot with a lot of misdirection and a complex conclusion is highlighted by some wonderful characters and fast-paced writing. Gentill has created a story within a story through a set f fictitius emails about the story that her secondary main character is writing. Hannah Tigone is writing a mystery novel abut Winifred "Freddie" Kincaid, Cain McLeod, Marigold Anastas, and Whit Metters who form a bond after they hear a scream in the library and subsequently discover that a woman named Caroline Palfrey has been murdered. Though apparently strangers they form a friendship that is challenged by the investigation into the library murder and subsequent violent events. As Hannah writes each chapter, in Australia, it is being read and commented on by Leo Johnson, her correspondent in America. They are separated not only by distance but by the Covid virus. But all is not as it seems, either with the four from the library or with Hannah and Leo. Masterfully plotted out and skillfully written, it misdirects and misleads up to the final reveal.
    • 4/5
      A very enjoyable read that I devoured in one holiday afternoon. A story within a story, a crime story, a love story (as one character suggests all stories are). Four strangers, all readers in Boston Public Library, are united when they hear a woman's scream. Later a woman's body is discovered in a neighbouring room in the library. There is a story within a story within a story, the narrative is framed by letters to the Australian author from an American fan, the narrator of the story is an Australian in Boston, writing a novel based on the three other characters she meets in the library. The reader begins to question what is real and what is not, but the author maintains an impressive clarity between the shifting narratives. This is almost purely a psychological puzzle, there is little in the way of physical and forensic detecting but this doesn't detract as the reader becomes heavily invested in the characters who hold the key to the story. There's a nice reference to Ronald Knox's 10 commandments of detective fiction, and some fun is had with the lead character and author's Australian background. Highly recommended.
    • 3/5
      Ending felt rushed and wooden and unsatisfactory
    • 5/5
      So many twists and turns and kept me guessing to the end. Very clever.
    • 5/5
      5 stars!
      Not a hugely emphatic 5 stars, as I feel like I need a reread to completely get enthralled, but the way this was written, the characters and the story itself were great!
      The relationship between the main characters I felt like was the best part, but I think I missed something with the writer of the letters that would have been more useful later on? I loved Freddie and Cain, and I want to read another story about them.
      Definitely not the last I’ll be picking up from this author!
    • 4/5
      Hannah is an author. The bulk of this book is actually Hannah’s book, which follows an author, Freddie (Winifred) who is sitting quietly in the Boston Public Library’s Reading Room, across from three strangers, as she tries to find some inspiration to start a book. When they hear a scream in the library, the four start talking and become fast friends. Early on, Freddie comments that she is conversing with a murderer, but she doesn’t yet know it.

      At the end of each chapter, we see a letter coming from Leo, an American (Hannah is Australian, as is her character Freddie). Leo is helping Hannah with her book; he reads and comments on each chapter, as he tries to help with Americanisms and the layout of Boston, etc. But as Hannah’s book continues on, Leo seems to make stranger and stranger comments.

      I could say more about the plot in Hannah’s book, with Freddie and her new friends, but maybe I’ll leave the summary there. I usually don’t like a story within a story, but I really liked this one. The letters from Leo really ramped things up a bit (though there were times I took a minute to unscramble things in my head, as we had Freddie, a character in Hannah’s book, using real life events to write her own book. But Leo was reading and commenting on Hannah’s book!). I still thought the letters worked well and it brought an added tension. As for the mystery in Freddie’s world, I thought I had it figured out early on, but not so much! Freddie’s story would probably have gotten 3.5 stars out of me, but add in Leo’s letters to Hannah and that brought my rating up.
    • 4/5
      This is an embedded novel, a story withing a story, but how deeply is ambiguous. Well told and quirky, a bit un-credible as to characters and their actions and it isn't about character development though the created personalities are interesting.
    • 5/5
      4.5⭐️

      “And then there is a scream. Ragged and terrified.”

      Australian author Winifred ‘Freddie’ Kincaid is in Boston on a writers’ scholarship and is spending time in the reading room of Boston Public Library, seeking inspiration for her next book when a piercing scream shatters the silence and becomes a conversation starter for Freddie and the three other people sharing the table – psychology student Marigold Anastas, law student Whit Metters and published author Cain McLeod (initially dubbed Freud Girl, Heroic Chin and Handsome Man respectively by Freddie, based on her observations). Initially, the source of the scream is not revealed until the next day when it is made public that the body of a young woman, who worked for a local tabloid, had been found. As the story progresses, the four of them become friends and find themselves embroiled in the mystery surrounding the death of the young woman and it is revealed that one of them is connected to the murder.

      Guess what? This is the plot of a work of fiction by Australian author Hannah Tigone. Unlike her protagonist Freddie, she is in Australia, working on her new book, and is sharing her chapters with Leo Johnson, a struggling writer and fan of Hannah’s previous work. Leo is based in Boston and shares his opinions and suggestions with Hannah. (Hannah also names another character in the book, Freddie’s friend, neighbor and fellow scholar, Leo). Travel restrictions on account of the COVID pandemic render Hannah unable to travel and Leo attempts to help her in her research, the tone of his letters becoming more forceful and disturbing as the plot progresses.

      I thoroughly enjoyed The Woman the Library by Sulari Gentill. I loved the story within a story structure of the narrative. The narrative is in the form of draft chapters written by Hannah Tigone interspersed with her correspondence with Leo. This is a smart, well-written whodunit with an interesting cast of characters and a well-developed plot. The mystery element was intriguing and I found myself pleasantly surprised with the way both the stories progressed. Though the pace does waver in parts, at no point did I find myself losing interest. This is the kind of book that needs to be read in one sitting. This was my first Sulari Gentill novel and I look forward to reading more of her work in the future.

      Many thanks to NetGalley and Poisoned Pen Press for the digital review copy. All opinions expressed in this review are my own. This novel is due to be published on June 7, 2022.
    • 5/5
      I really enjoyed the writing in this novel. The story within the story led me down two different mysterious paths.
      I picked it up off the library display because of the title and kept reading because of the fun writing technique and intricate storytelling.
    • 3/5
      An interesting read about a novelist writing a mystery novel. The characters weren't always believable and there were a lot of twists and turns. Kept you guessing right until the end but kind of finished on a strange note. An easy read.
    • 4/5
      Four stars for keeping me up all night reading but minus a half star for the ridiculous ending. I enjoyed the meta "book within a book", but not the fact that the beta reader and another fellowship housemate share the same name. But I loved the premise, that four seemingly unknown people could meet in the glorious Main Reading Room in the glorious Boston Public Library and become friends and lovers. I also enjoyed the unpeeling of their connections. But I found some of the red herrings annoying and confusing.
    • 4/5
      Australian mystery author writes about Australian mystery author Hannah Tigone who writes about an Australian mystery writer named Winifred “Freddie” Kincaid.  Hannah's narrative about Freddie is set abroad in Boston and begins when Freddie makes the acquaintance of three strangers in the Boston Public Library after hearing a woman scream.  Freddie and her three new friends Cain, Marigold, and Whit, soon find themselves in the heart of a murder mystery when a body is found in the library.

      To add to the many layers of metafiction, Hannah is receiving feedback on her work in progress from Leo, a Bostonian who is able to provide local features and appropriately American dialogue.  Hannah and Leo's correspondence takes place during the widening COVID-19 pandemic, although it does not affect Hannah's novel-within-the novel, much to Leo's annoyance.  In fact, Leo has a lot of strong opinions that make his feedback unsettling.

      The Woman in the Library is a fun whodunit with a lot of ridiculous but entertaining twist.  The hardest thing to believe is that four people would become friends so quickly after meeting.  I am partial to the Boston setting and the centrality of the BPL.
    • 4/5
      As everyone knows, this has been a super hyped book and I can see why, but also there were parts of it that were slow and dragged for me. So, for me, this didn't completely live up to the hype, but it came close. I listened to this one on audio with an alc(advanced listening copy) and enjoyed the audio. It was well done with very good quality audio. The narrator, Katherine Littrell, did a great job portraying the characters and everything.
      It was very engrossing in a lot of the story and I don't know how she wrote this without getting confused at times because I got a little confused and had to separate who was talking and where we were and what was going on.
      If I hadn't listened to this one on audio, I don't know if I would've gotten into it as much or been able to finish it as I did, so I would recommend the audiobook of this one.
      This had layers to it and was one of those stories within a story book that starts with a murder in the library and is a twisty adventure. It was a bit messy and confusing in parts though, but overall a decent read. I did kind of expect and hope for something different, then it ended up being more of a locked room mystery. Anyway, if you want to check it out, I would highly recommend doing it with the audiobook.
      Thanks so much to NetGalley and Dreamscape Media for letting me listen to and review this alc(audiobook arc). All thoughts and opinions are my own.
    • 2/5
      Too many twists and turns and red herrings for my taste. Unpleasant characters, especially Marigold, the stalker, and Leo, the know-it-all beta reader. A novel within a novel, and I guess Leo's comments were a frame for everything and to keep in our minds that the story was a novel the heroine was writing. And, how the fact the three main characters became bosom buddies so quickly did not seem realistic to me.
    • 4/5
      3.5 rounded up, this was up and down in enjoyment for me, but it ended well. The writing style is just a degree off, I can't quite explain it, but it made me slow down a bit. I did like the correspondence taking place between each chapter, it provided more interest during slower parts of the main story and added some tension beneath the writing.
      I thought this was maybe a locked room mystery where we'd be spending the whole book in the library trying to find out whodunnit, but very little time is spent there, and this unfurls slowly over weeks all around Boston. The setting is great, and the letters add more visuals to bring it to life. A satisfying mystery in the end.
    • 4/5
      This is two stories at once - the story of the author and the story the author is writing. But it is hard to keep them separate because they intersect in weird ways. This is less about the mystery (there aren't many suspects and not many clues) and more about the psychology of strangers create connections and friendship and the inherent risks of trusting people who may or may not be worthy of that trust.
    • 3/5
      Initial thoughts: my mind is spinning

    Book preview

    The Woman in the Library - Sulari Gentill

    CHAPTER ONE

    Writing in the Boston Public Library had been a mistake. It was too magnificent. One could spend hours just staring at the ceiling in the Reading Room. Very few books have been written with the writer’s eyes cast upwards. It judged you, that ceiling, looked down on you in every way. Mocked you with an architectural perfection that couldn’t be achieved by simply placing one word after another until a structure took shape. It made you want to start with grand arcs, to build a magnificent framework into which the artistic detail would be written—a thing of vision and symmetry and cohesion. But that, sadly, isn’t the way I write.

    I am a bricklayer without drawings, laying words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, allowing my walls to twist and turn on whim. There is no framework, just bricks interlocked to support each other into a story. I have no idea what I’m actually building, or if it will stand.

    Perhaps I should be working on a bus. That would be more consistent with my process such as it is. I’m not totally without direction…there is a route of some sort, but who hops on and who gets off is determined by a balance of habit and timing and random chance. There’s always the possibility that the route will be altered at the last minute for weather or accident, some parade or marathon. There’s no symmetry, no plan, just the chaotic, unplotted bustle of human life.

    Still, ceilings have a wonderful lofty perspective that buses do not. These have gazed down on writers before. Do they see one now? Or just a woman in the library with a blank page before her?

    Maybe I should stop looking at the ceiling and write something.

    I force my gaze from its elevated angle. Green-shaded lamps cast soft ellipses of light that define boundaries of territory at the communal reading tables. Spread out, by all means, but stay within the light of your own lamp. I sit at the end of one of dozens of tables placed in precise rows within the room. My table is close enough to the centre of the hall that I can see green lamps and heads bent over books in all directions. The young woman next to me has divested her jacket to reveal full-sleeve tattoos on both arms. I’ve never been inked myself, but I’m fascinated. The story of her life etched on her skin… She’s like a walking book. Patterns and portraits and words. Mantras of love and power. I wonder how much of it is fiction. What story would I tell if I had to wear it on my body? The woman is reading Freud. It occurs to me that a psychology student would make an excellent protagonist for a thriller. A student, not an expert. Experts are less relatable, removed from the reader by virtue of their status. I write psychology student onto the blank page of my notebook and surround it with a box. And so I hop onto the bus. God knows where it’s going—I just grabbed the first one that came along.

    Beneath the box I make some notes about her tattoos, being careful not to make it obvious that I am reading her ink.

    Across from me sits a young man in a Harvard Law sweatshirt. He cuts a classic figure—broad shoulders, strong jaw, and a cleft chin—like he was drawn as the hero of an old cartoon. He’s been staring at the same page of the tome propped before him for at least ten minutes. Perhaps he’s committing it to memory…or perhaps he’s just trying to keep his eyes down and away from the young woman on my left. I wonder what they are to each other: lovers now estranged, or could it be that he is lovelorn and she indifferent? Or perhaps the other way round—is she stalking him? Watching him over the top of Freud? Might she suspect him of something? He certainly looks tormented… Guilt? He drops his eyes to check his watch—a Rolex, or perhaps a rip-off of the same.

    To the left of Heroic Chin is another man, still young but no longer boyish. He wears a sport coat over a collared shirt and jumper. I am more careful about looking at him than I am the others because he is so ludicrously handsome. Dark hair and eyes, strong upswept brows. If he catches my gaze he will assume that is the reason. And it isn’t…well, maybe a little. But mostly I am wondering what he might bring to a story.

    He’s working on a laptop, stopping every now and then to stare at the screen, and then he’s off again, typing at speed. Good Lord, could he be a writer?

    There are other people in the Reading Room, of course, but they are shadows. Unfocused as yet, while I try to pin a version of these three to my page. I write for a while…scenarios, mainly. How Freud Girl, Heroic Chin, and Handsome Man might be connected. Love triangles, business relationships, childhood friends. Perhaps Handsome Man is a movie star; Heroic Chin, a fan; and Freud Girl, his faithful bodyguard. I smile as the scenarios become increasingly ridiculous and, as I do, I look up to meet Handsome Man’s eyes. He looks startled and embarrassed, and I must, too, because that’s how I feel. I open my mouth to explain, to assure him that I’m a writer, not a leering harasser, but of course this is the Reading Room, and one does not conduct a defence while people are trying to read. I do attempt to let him know I’m only interested in him as the physical catalyst for a character I’m creating, but that’s too complex to convey in mime. He just ends up looking confused.

    Freud Girl laughs softly. Now Heroic Chin looks up too, and the four of us are looking at each other silently, unable to rebuke or apologize or explain, lest we incur the wrath of the Reading Room Police.

    And then there is a scream. Ragged and terrified. A beat of silence even after it stops, until we all seem to realise that the Reading Room Rules no longer apply.

    Fuck! What was that? Heroic Chin murmurs.

    Where did it come from? Freud Girl stands and looks around.

    People begin to pack up their belongings to leave. Two security guards stride in and ask everyone to remain calm and in their seats until the problem can be identified. Some idiot law student starts on about illegal detention and false imprisonment, but, for the most part, people sit down and wait.

    It was probably just a spider, Heroic Chin says. My roommate sounds just like that whenever he sees a spider.

    That was a woman, Freud Girl points out.

    Or a man who’s afraid of spiders… Heroic Chin looks about as if his arachnophobic friend might be lurking somewhere.

    I apologize if I was staring. Handsome Man addresses me tentatively. I have enough of an ear for American accents now to tell he’s not from Boston. My editor wants me to include more physical descriptions in my work. He grimaces. She says all the women in my manuscript are wearing the same thing, so I thought… Heck, that sounds creepy! I’m sorry. I was trying to describe your jacket.

    I smile, relieved. He’s volunteering to take the bullet. I’ll just be gracious. It’s a herringbone tweed, originally a man’s sport coat purchased at a vintage store and retailored so the wearer doesn’t look ridiculous. I meet his eye. I do hope you haven’t written down that I look ridiculous.

    For a moment, he’s flustered. No, I assure you— And then he seems to realise I’m kidding and laughs. It’s a nice laugh. Deep but not loud. Cain McLeod.

    After a second I register that he’s introduced himself. I should too.

    Winifred Kincaid…people call me Freddie.

    She’s a writer too. Freud Girl leans over and glances at my notebook. She’s been making notes on all of us.

    Damn!

    She grins. I like Freud Girl…I sound like an intellectual superhero. Better than Tattoo Arms or Nose Ring.

    I slam my notebook shut.

    Awesome! Heroic Chin turns to display his profile. I hope you described my good side and… he adds, flashing a smile, I have dimples.

    Handsome Man, apparently also known as Cain McLeod, is clearly amused. What are the chances? You two should be more careful who you sit next to.

    I’m Marigold Anastas, Freud Girl announces. For your acknowledgements. A-N-A-S-T-A-S.

    Not to be outdone, Heroic Chin discloses his name is Whit Metters and promises to sue if either Cain McLeod or I forget to mention his dimples.

    We’re all laughing when the security guards announce that people may leave if they wish.

    Did you find out who screamed? Cain asks.

    The security guard shrugs. Probably some asshole who thinks he’s a comedian.

    Whit nods smugly and mouths spider.

    Cain’s brow lifts. It was a convincing scream, he says quietly.

    He’s right. There was a ring of real mortal terror in the scream. But that’s possibly a writer’s fancy. Perhaps someone simply needed to expel a bit of stress. I need to find coffee.

    The Map Room Tea Lounge is the closest, Cain says. They make a decent coffee.

    Do you need more material? Marigold asks. With coat sleeves covering the ink which had held my attention, I notice that she has beautiful eyes, jewel green and sparkling in a frame of smoky kohl and mascara.

    Just coffee, I reply for both Cain and myself, because I’m not sure which one of us she was asking.

    Can I come?

    The childlike guilelessness of the question is disarming. Of course.

    Me too? Whit now. I don’t want to be alone. There’s a spider somewhere.

    And so we go to the Map Room to found a friendship, and I have my first coffee with a killer.

    Dear Hannah,

    Bravo! A sharp and intriguing opening. You have made art out of my complaints. The last line is chilling. An excellent hook. I fear that a publisher will ask you to make it the opening line to ensure you catch the first-page browsers. All I can say is: resist! It is perfect as it is.

    That line, though, is as brave as it is brilliant. Bear in mind that you’ve issued your readers a challenge, declared one of those three (Marigold, Whit, or Cain) will be the killer. They’ll watch them closely from now on, read into every passing nuance. It may make it more difficult to distract their attention from clues in the manuscript and keep them guessing. Still, it’s kind of delicious—particularly as they each seem so likeable. As I said, brave.

    Dare I hope that since your setting is Boston, you’ll make a research trip here sometime soon? It would be wonderful to suffer for our art face-to-face over martinis in some bar like real writers! In the meantime, I’d be delighted to assist you with sense of place and so forth. Consider me your scout, your eyes and ears in the U.S.

    A couple of points—Americans don’t use the term jumper (description of Handsome Man). You may want to switch that reference to sweater or pullover. It’s also much less common in the U.S. for women to be as heavily inked as women in Australia. I haven’t seen any full-sleeve tattoos on women, here. Of course, that doesn’t mean Marigold can’t have them—perhaps that’s why Winifred notices them particularly.

    I returned to the Reading Room after I received your email and chapter to check, and I’m afraid there’s no explicit rule against talking. It’s more a general civility. Easy to fix. Insert a disapproving shushing neighbour or two on the table and the pressure for silence won’t be lost. I had lunch in the Map Room, so if you need details, let me know. As an Australian, you’ll probably find the coffee appalling out of principle, but since Winifred is American, she is not likely to find it wanting.

    Do you need somewhere for Freddie to live? If money is no object, you could put her in Back Bay, right in the BPL neighborhood. Many of the apartments are converted Victorian brownstones, but Freddie would have to be an heiress of some sort to afford one! Is she a struggling hopeful, or an author of international renown? The former would probably live somewhere like Brighton or Alston. Let me know if you’d like me to check some buildings for you.

    I received my tenth rejection letter for the opus yesterday. It feels like something which should be marked. Perhaps I shall buy a cake. This one said my writing was elegant but that they felt I was working in the wrong genre…which I suppose is an indirect way of saying they want my protagonist to be a vampire and the climax to involve an alien invasion…and not the kind with which our President seems preoccupied!

    I know the repeated rejections are a rite of passage, Hannah, but, honestly, it hurts. I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this business. It must be wonderful to be at that stage where you’ve paid your dues, where you know that whatever you write now, it will at least be seriously considered. This stage just feels like a ritual humiliation.

    Yours somewhat despondently,

    Leo

    CHAPTER TWO

    I’m still a little in awe every time I step into the chequerboard foyer of Carrington Square. It’s one of those Victorian brownstones for which Back Bay is famous—a magnificent gabled exterior, renovated to perfection within. My one-bedroom apartment looks out over an internal courtyard featuring landscaped gardens and cast-iron fountains. It’s beautifully furnished and decorated—an address usually beyond the means of a humble writer. In the sitting room, on either side of the marble fireplace, are built-in bookcases in which are stored the works of each of the previous Sinclair scholarship winners who were writers in residence here. The collection is both inspiring and terrifying. Wonderful novels in almost every genre, crafted in the year during which the writer lived in this apartment. In the fifty or so years the scholarship has been running, the apartment has no doubt been refurbished and redecorated several times, but these bookcases remain untouched, sacrosanct. The heart and purpose of this place—sometimes I fancy I can hear it beating.

    Perhaps it was the bookcases that stilled my pen in the beginning. I had thought that the words would come easily here. A time and place to write—a dream bolstered by the endorsement of the award. And yet I’d felt unworthy, uncertain. I’d choked, and in the first month I’d deleted more than I wrote. But not today.

    Today I return from the library exhilarated. We had lingered in the Map Room for hours, Cain, Whit, Marigold, and I. It was bizarre, four strangers who seemed to recognize each other, like we’d been friends before in a life forgotten. We talked about all manner of things, laughed about most of it, and poked fun at each other without restraint. It felt like being at home, and I breathed out completely for the first time since I stepped on that flight from Sydney.

    Cain is a published writer—his first book was reviewed by the New York Times. He doesn’t tell me that last bit; I google him on the way home. The Washington Post called him one of America’s most promising young novelists, and his first book was something of a sensation. Marigold is in fact studying psychology at Harvard, and Whit is failing law. The failing part doesn’t seem to bother him. It is the only way, apparently, that he can avoid being absorbed into the family firm.

    And so my attention is initially elsewhere when Leo Johnson crosses my path on the stairs.

    Freddie! Hello.

    Leo is also a writer in residence at Carrington Square. He’s from Alabama originally, though I think he went to Harvard at some point. He holds a fellowship which seems to be the American equivalent of the Sinclair, and occupies an apartment a few doors away from mine. How was the library? he asks. He speaks with a gentle Southern pace that invites you to slow down and chat a while. Get much work done?

    How did you know I was at the library?

    Oh, I saw you at the Map Room. He pushes his glasses back up against the bridge of his nose. I dropped into the BPL to pick up a book I’d reserved, and then I needed coffee. I just happened to see you there. I waved, but I’m guessing you didn’t see me.

    Of course I didn’t, or I would have asked you to join us. Leo is the closest thing I have to a colleague. I tell him about the scream.

    He laughs. I expect it was some nutcase, or a club initiation of one sort or another. A number of the Harvard clubs are co-ed now.

    I raise my brow, uncertain what that has to do with it.

    It seems like the kind of prank that would be conceived in the brain of an adolescent male, he explains. But, of course, a woman would be required to execute it.

    I smile. You don’t think women might have planned it?

    I don’t think a woman would have found it that funny… A man, however, would be delighted with his extraordinary wit.

    Remember that you said that, not me. I glance up the stairs. Would you like to come in for a coffee?

    Leo shakes his head. No, ma’am. There’s a story-cooking gleam in your eyes. I’ll leave you alone to write. Let’s compare notes in the next couple of days.

    I agree, relieved. I do feel an urgency to write. And I like Leo even more for the fact that he understands.

    I open my laptop as soon as I get into the apartment, slipping off my shoes and nesting into the couch. I begin typing, using the monikers Handsome Man, Heroic Chin, and Freud Girl. They appear on my page like a rubbing taken from life, shape and dimension created with words. I’ll give them real names later; for now I don’t want to stem the ideas by trying to work out what to call them.

    I dwell on the scream. It, too, has a place in this story. The four of us had talked about it at length. How could something like that be unexplained? Someone must have screamed, someone must have had a reason to. Whit brought up spiders again. I think he must have some kind of phobia.

    We had all agreed to meet at the BPL tomorrow. Actually, Cain and I had agreed to meet, to form a writers’ group of sorts. Marigold and Whit had decided that any group should include them, regardless of its purpose.

    We can be sounding boards, Marigold insisted.

    And inspiration, Whit added. And so it was arranged.

    It is exciting to have plans, people to meet.

    I turn on the television, initially for background noise. I’m working, so it’s only sound. A murmur that connects me to the real world as I create one of my own, an anchor barely noticed. Until I hear the words Boston Public Library today.

    I look up. A reporter talking to a camera. …the body of a young woman was discovered by cleaning staff in the Boston Public Library.

    I close the laptop and turn up the volume, leaning forward towards the television. A body. My God, the scream! The reporter tells me nothing more of any use. I switch to another station, but the report is much the same. The body is not identified beyond being that of a young woman.

    My phone rings. It’s Marigold. The news! Did you see the news?

    Yes.

    That scream! Marigold sounds more excited than frightened. That must have been her.

    I wonder why they didn’t find her then.

    Maybe whoever killed her hid the body?

    I smile. They didn’t say anything about murder, Marigold. She might have screamed because she fell down the stairs.

    If she’d fallen down the stairs, someone would have found her straight away.

    That was true. Do you think they’ll close the library tomorrow?

    Maybe the room she was found in, but surely not the whole library. Marigold’s voice drops into a part whisper. It must have been close to Bates Hall.

    I did think that too.

    We might have passed him on the way out—the killer, I mean.

    I laugh, though it’s possible of course. If this were a book, we would have bumped into him at the very least.

    So we’re still meeting tomorrow?

    I don’t hesitate. The cleaner employed by the Sinclair Fellowship comes on Tuesdays, and I prefer to avoid the feeling that I’m in the way, or lazy or unclean, that is part and parcel of having someone clean up after you as an adult. I’ll be there. We’ll at least find out if the library is closing for any period of time.

    We talk for a while longer about other things. Marigold has a paper due on juvenile maternal separation anxiety, which she calls mommy’s boys and the women who create them. I’m laughing aloud by the time we arrange a place to meet in case we are not allowed into the BPL.

    But when the call is over, my mind returns to the scream, the fact that I’d heard it. I’d heard someone die, and however it occurred, I was in no doubt she had been in terror. The fact seems to have a weight of its own, and I feel that weight in the pit of my stomach.

    The news reports are now labelling the incident a murder. I’m not sure if they have more information or if it is simply an inevitable evolution of sensationalism.

    Turning up the television, I return to work, guilty that whatever I feel about this poor woman, it does not curtail or slow the words. They are coming quickly, swirling into sentences that are strong and rhythmic, that surprise me with their clarity. It feels a little indecent to write so well in the wake of tragedy. But I do. The story of strangers bonded by a scream.

    Dear Hannah,

    Well played, my friend, well played! The Sinclair Fellowship is a terrific idea. You can place Winifred in Back Bay without burdening her with vast wealth. And she can be Australian.

    And you put me in the story! With a Southern accent and my own fellowship. I am overwhelmed! You forgot to mention that Leo was tall and devastatingly attractive, but I suppose that’s a given. Not only that, you’ve introduced a sneaky 4th option into your declaration that the perpetrator was present when Freddie had coffee in the Map Room. Was that your intention?

    With respect to your first question, yes, I believe Bates Hall would be open the next day. Clearly the murder did not occur there but in one of the surrounding rooms or halls. There are plenty to choose from—I’ve listed a few suggestions below.

    With some of these you might need to consider the volume of the scream. If it was loud enough to be heard within Bates Hall, then it really would have to have occurred in one of the adjoining rooms. I will be intrigued to read how you are going to explain why a search revealed nothing.

    I did duck over to the BPL to see if I could spot anything of use. There are some vents that could possibly carry sound from a room farther away, but you would really need some sort of engineering or maintenance plan of the building to be sure. I’m a little wary of asking in case they decide I’m up to no good, but if I get a chance, I’ll see what I can find out.

    And now the other subject of your email… God, Hannah, thank you. I really did not expect you to offer to take my manuscript to your agent. I’m embarrassed that you might think that I was fishing for that. I assure you I wasn’t. And though I’m too proud to accept your help, I’m too desperate to turn it down.

    So, my manuscript is attached with the last of my dignity. Bear in mind that if you think it’s terrible and never pass it on, I’ll never know. And I’ll never ask because there must be a way for our friendship to survive my lack of talent. I’m expressing this badly…which I suppose does not bode well for my manuscript, but I am grateful and touched that you would want to help me.

    Anyway, I look forward to your next chapter, and I shall see if I can find anything that might be useful in placing your dead body in an appropriate place.

    Again, with my thanks and admiration,

    Leo

    CHAPTER THREE

    I spot Cain in the Newsfeed Café just inside the Johnson Building, where we’d arranged to meet, and wave. He smiles when he sees me, and I am reminded that he is very handsome. He’s buying coffee and signals madly to see if I want one. I nod, and when I reach him he hands me a macchiato.

    No sugar, right?

    I am impressed he remembered.

    We find a table at which to sip coffee and wait for Marigold and Whit. And, of course, we talk about the body found the night before.

    Where do you think they found her? I ask. I don’t really know the library that well. I’ve only been using it for a few days.

    That’s what I can’t figure out, he says. We heard her scream, so she had to be in one of the rooms around Bates Hall…but they were searched.

    Unless the scream had nothing, in fact, to do with the body.

    He frowns. True. The scream might have been what the crime writers call—he pauses for effect—a red herring.

    I smile. Still, a heck of a coincidence.

    They do occur in reality, even if they are a bad plot device. Cain rises and excuses himself as he notices a newspaper left on the next table. He returns with the Boston Globe and sits beside me holding the paper between us. The account of the body in the public library is plastered across the front page. We pore over it, shoulder to shoulder, sipping coffee while we read.

    We learn that the body was found in Chavannes Gallery, which was being prepared for an event the next day. That the woman’s name was Caroline Palfrey. The name means little to an Australian like me, of course, but Cain mutters, Brahmin.

    As in the cow? I ask, a little confused.

    As in the social class. He explains that the Palfreys are from a long line of Brahmins, members of Boston’s traditional upper echelons.

    They’re rich?

    It’s more than wealth, he says. The Brahmins were integral to the East Coast establishment. They’re a culture unto themselves. Surely Australians have their equivalent—old family names that are prestigious because they declare themselves to be so?

    I smile, remembering Margaret Winslow, from the board of directors of the Sinclair Fellowship, who was so proud of being a sixth-generation Australian. In the country of the oldest living civilisation in the world, some sixty thousand years of indigenous history, six generations had seemed a pallid boast. And yet she made it, waxing lyrical about the property near Wagga Wagga that her great-great-great-grandfather had claimed in the mid-nineteenth century, the country he’d cleared and cultivated. Country that belonged to the Wiradjuri.

    Probably, I reply. But I don’t move in those circles.

    I believe that’s the point of those circles.

    Does it say what was going to take place in the Chavannes Gallery? I ask as I scour the article myself for the answer.

    Not really. He points to the relevant sentence. She was found by a cleaner, so the gallery would probably have been otherwise empty.

    I wonder if Marigold or Whit knew her.

    Speak of devils, Cain says

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