HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: What
we’re writing? I have NO IDEA. NO IDEA! I am 33,102 words into my new book, and
I’m still thinkin’—well, soon I’ll know what this is about. Never a dull moment
in this writing life.
But
one thing that keeps me going—I do remember when I felt nervous like this about
THE MURDER LIST, and hurray, that’s now finished, the final final copy edits, finally, are all done. (Why are there always
more typos?) So it proves it can happen, even though I worry every time. And so
far, so good!
And
THE MURDER LIST is getting fabulous blurbs—wait til you see!!—and the first reviews
from the early readers are coming in (My first review on Insta began like this:
ALL THE STARS! So that was reassuring.)
THE
MURDER LIST, a standalone, is a cat and mouse and cat tale. This time, a twisty
triple triangle. You’ll see what I
mean when you read it. Someone said it’s B.A. Paris meets John Grisham, and hmm…that
sounds about perfect.
Here
are the main characters: Rachel North, a law student who always reliably tells
you what she knows to be true. She’s smart, successful, and always does the
right thing.
She’s happily married to the faithful and devoted Jack Kirkland, a
hotshot defense attorney.
And her summer internship with the zealous prosecutor
Martha Gardiner is sure to put Rachel on the fast track to a brilliant career.
Problem
is: Rachel is wrong.
Rachel, Jack, and Martha.
Meet
the triangle—maybe.
Rachel
North
We never fight. Not in the past six years, as long as
we’ve been married. Not even in the months before that. It isn’t that Jack is
always right or I’m always right. Usually our disagreements are about things
that don’t matter, so it’s easier and quicker for me to acquiesce. Jack’s a
lawyer, so he likes to win. It makes him happy. And that’s good. But now on a Saturday morning in May, sitting
face-to-face across our breakfast table in sweats and ratty slippers, we’re
definitely on the verge of a real fight. This time, the fight matters. This
time I have to win.
“I forbid it,” Jack
says.
I burst out laughing—all
I can think to do—because “forbid” is such an odd word.
“Forbid?” I say the
word, repeating it, diluting it, undermining it. “What’re you gonna do, honey, lock
me in the castle tower? You’re not that much older than I am. Come on, sweetheart. Get real.
Have some more coffee. Read your Globe.”
He doesn’t look up from
the Metro section. “It’s absurd, Rachel,” he says into the paper. “That woman
is evil. Plus, I can’t understand why you’d want to fill your brain with that
kind of . . .” He shakes his head as he snaps a page into place, the newsprint
crackling with his impatience. “Absurd. An exceedingly unwise decision on
Gardiner’s part. And yours, too, Rach.”
I take a sip of dark
roast to defuse my annoyance and to clear the looming emotional thunderstorm. I
know his problem isn’t my summer internship in the Middlesex County District Attorney’s
Office. Jack’s impatience with me is fueled by the headlines he’s reading, news
stories that feature his name. Jack hates to lose. Especially in court. And
especially to Assistant District Attorney Martha Gardiner. My new boss.
And LATER in the book….
Jack Kirkland
“The jurors will think what I want them to think.”
Jack clicked open the two brass snaps on his briefcase, extracted two manila
folders, placed them on the holding-room conference table between them. “Look.
Here’s your criminal record.” He opened one folder, spun it so Deacon could read
the printed-out black-and-white pages. Pointed with one forefinger. “Attempted
robbery. Larceny under. Breaking and entering.”
“But—” Deacon Davis, hollow-cheeked and swimming in a
long-sleeved shirt that had fit him three weeks ago, had the look Jack had seen
on so many defendants. Confused. Defeated. The perplexed demeanor of someone
watching the last train pull away from the station. A train that left them in a
courthouse, seated in a folding metal chair at a pitted conference table at
nine on a bleak Wednesday morning. Destination possibly life in prison.
“But nothing,” Jack interrupted. “You say these were screwups.
Unfair. Mistakes. Miscarriages of justice. Whatever you want to call them. But
there they are, buddy. And the jury will think, oh, he was a bad guy before, so it’s more likely he’s a bad guy now.
Even when it’s not true.”
“But—”
“If the jury ever finds out about these convictions,” Jack
talked over his client, had to, “you’re toast. However. If you do not give Martha
Gardiner the opportunity to open the door to your criminal history, the jury
will never hear about it.”
Jack, assessed his client’s stubborn expression, then held
up both palms in pretend retreat. “You wanna do it, Deke? Testify? Your call. Gardiner’s
been properly notified that you might take the stand. But look . . .” Jack softened
his voice, a wise coach counseling his newest player. “Don’t turn that victory
into a defeat because you think you can convince this jury. Let me do that.”
“Ten minutes, sir.” The conference room door had
opened so quickly, the sound of the sharp knock on the wood had not quite faded.
Jack turned his attention back to his client, lowered
his voice. “Juror Five likes you, the furniture-store woman. The knitting
grandmother likes you. All you need is one of them
to hold out.”
And LATER in the book!
Martha Gardiner
Martha stepped back from the demilune table in
her hallway, tilting her head, assessing her newest arrangement. The pale-blue
hyacinths and white tulips and spiny green ferns, fresh from her tiny garden,
were duplicated in the ceiling-high mirror behind them, a mirror that had
graced the entryway to her Beacon Hill apartment since her grandparents had
owned it in the days when the Esplanade’s now-iconic Hatch Shell was brand new.
Back then, though Grandpa Leggett had signed up to fight Nazis, his father’s
influence kept him desk-safe in Washington at the War Department.
Through her lattice of lavender-tinged windows,
originals, Martha could see the early evening sun streaming though the elm
trees on the green expanse of Boston Common, couples and puppies and children
winding the same paths where Abigail Adams strolled, and then Lucy Stone and
Margaret Fuller. Those women had made a difference, and she would, too.
She plucked a tulip from behind a stubborn green hyacinth
leaf and replaced the flower front and center. The flowers were from the square of green courtyard behind her
building, hardly a garden, more of a patch, the one place she felt
responsibility only to nature. Sometimes, when the wind was right, she could
smell the brine of the harbor, or see an optimistically wayward gull headed for
the Atlantic.
The tulip shifted, and now a fern blocked it. Using
her thumb and forefinger, Martha pinched off an offending leaf. Perfect.
Gardiner the gardener, her father used to joke. When he could still joke.
The graceful bay windows, her inherited Persian rugs,
the polished mantle over the fireplace. The lines of silver-framed family
photos. She’d lived here since she was a girl—after her college dorm years in
Cambridge, of course, but after it had seemed more sensible to stay here, while
her mother was sick and then her father, and then, alone, she kept the place to
herself. Familiar and orderly and set in its ways. She refused to think of it
as her personal metaphor.
She used one of her family wineglasses for this evening’s
cabernet—who else would she use them for?—and wondered, yet again, about her
choices. No pets, no friends, no hobbies except for her patch of green. Only .
. . She took a deep breath and looked into her remaining wine. Only justice.
The file lay open on the supple saddle-leather couch,
tempting her, yet again, to read the documents. What did she think she would
find after all these years? Most people kept scrapbooks of their wins, their
glory days, to reassure themselves when they failed.
Martha kept files of her losses. To remind
her of her failures. To prod her to prevent them.
HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: So excited about this! Tell me what you think…and
you’ll be entered to win a review copy of THE MURDER LIST! (Coming August 20 from Forge.)
