Chapter 1

Atlantic City
Wednesday October 17
24 years later

Nine minutes to the finale.

Hand me a flower and I’ll transform it into a dove. Shoot me from a cannon and I’ll come out smiling. But lock me in the box and saw me in half, I’ll scream bloody murder.

Unheard of for a Moon – a member of America’s most famous magic family – to be terrified of that creaky old standard, the sawing box. But you’re hearing it now.

In exactly nine minutes, Charlie, our production manager, and Van, my friend and co-star, are supposed to reenact the famous Sawing a Woman in Half illusion as it was performed by Magnificent Morelli and his assistant Cleo West in this theatre during World War Two.

The classic poster hangs in the dressing room: a man with slick black hair and a thin moustache gesturing to a pretty strawberry-blonde who holds a Statue of Liberty torch.

Between them is the infamous sawing box. Black letters slash across the top of the poster:

MAGNIFICENT MORELLI! MAN OF MYSTERY

At the bottom:

NIGHTLY IN THE SCARLET ROOM WORLD-FAMOUS ATLANTIC CITY BOARDWALK

There’s one problem. Van should have been here two hours ago.

My best friend and other co-star, Stormie, and I managed to get through the show to this point because we’re used to working together and because even in the midst of frenzy, Charlie is an oasis of calm. We call it the Charlie effect. He quickly redesigned the order of illusions to make up for Van’s absence.

But Van still hasn’t shown up, so Charlie will saw me in half in Cleo’s original sawing box. This is not the contemporary sleek or transparent sawing box you see on a Vegas stage, but the real thing. Pure old-school; a deep, long wooden container that resembled a coffin. No openings for head or feet. No clamps for neck or ankles. The kind of box in which the magician’s assistant is completely locked inside, head to toe. If that’s not horrifying enough, this is the same box in which Cleo’s murderer placed her body.

Good publicity for a haunted theatre on Halloween, says Charlie.

At five-seven, I’m two inches shorter than the box. Stormie, coming in at a fraction under six feet and 190 pounds, can’t even squeeze inside.

Hanging right next to Morelli is our poster:

HALLOWEEN THRILLS, CHILLS & BLACK MAGICK! REBEL MAGIC
STORMIE, VAN, & LUCY BLACK WIDOW THEATRE, 13TH FLOOR – if you dare! MIDNIGHT CASINO, OCT 17 – NOV 10

Van and I flank Stormie – a magical version of Charlie’s Angels. As if instead of fighting crime, we resolve to change the world, one trick at a time. In the middle, Stormie towers over Van and me in an orange and black dashiki gown, enormous hoop earrings glinting through her copper- black hair that falls in long ropelike locks. On Stormie’s left is Van, a tiny silvery futuristic superhero who sometimes bills herself as ‘Kickass Korean Babe’ – spiked hair, jumpsuit, thigh- high boots with four-inch heels, and a gleaming knife in each hand. On Stormie’s right, I sparkle in my red-hot Miss Scarlett dress and stilettos. That’s me, on the corner of woo-woo and fuggedaboutit – a magic wand in one hand, a cannoli in the other.

Tonight is our opening night, and it means something big to all three of us: our breakthrough as sisters of magic, an opportunity to make our name in the good old boys’ world of magic, and for me, a chance to make my name without the Moons holding me up on stage.

Van wouldn’t miss this for the world.

Her silver jumpsuit is hanging on the wheeled rack, her knives ready for action. She’s not answering her phone, but during the intermission, she left Stormie and me a message: Emergency. Start without me.

Stormie’s golden-brown eyes were huge, her olive skin sallow, making the freckles stand out. ‘Emergency?’ Her voice is shrill. ‘That is not a Van word.’

‘An accident?’ ‘She’d tell us. No, it’s MLD.’

For the past couple weeks, Van has kept her new boyfriend on the lowdown. Boyfriend is normal – Van juggles men like her knives. Keeping him secret is not. Stormie calls him, ‘MLD,’ short for Mysterious Loner Dude.

‘Van would not miss our opening night for a guy, no matter who he is.’ ‘Then where is she?’ Stormie shook her fingers in my face. ‘Look at my hand. The girl’s giving me shpilkes.’ Whenever she’s emotional, Stormie brings out the Yiddish words her Jewish Nana taught her.

‘If by shpilkes, you mean bad vibes, I’ve got ’em too.’

Chapter 2

Seven minutes to the finale.

Backstage, hands trembling, I tug on Cleo West’s very own Stars n’ Stripes gown, slithering into the shimmering satin. Too short for me. Seams fraying – it’s been let out and tightened more than once. Cleo must have gained and lost weight during the war years.

I sit at the vanity, tightly clip my hair and pull on a long reddish-blonde wig. I hate wigs, they suffocate me and give me an instant headache.

Trapped, wrapped and bundled inside the constraints of hair and layers of fabric, my heart staccatos. When did the theatre get so cold? The scent of lavender crawls over my flesh, the sign that the Widow’s resident ghost, Cleo, is in the house. When you grow up with an Irish witch as an aunt, you accept the presence of ghosts. Doesn’t mean you like them, but you come to terms with sharing the space. According to Auntie Maze, ‘Cleo wants us to see the cracks and stains left behind by the past. When she slams doors or turns off lights, she’s saying, “Look! There’s something you’re not seeing!”’

I add final touch-ups to my stage make-up and check my reflection from every angle. I glimpse pinpricks of light in the mirror. Next to my reflection a woman’s face appears, rippling as if she’s underwater. Her fiery-gold hair wavers. Ice-pale eyes meet mine. Two Cleos in the mirror.

I grab the edge of the table. This is the first time she’s shown herself to me! Just in case she’s really there and I’m not losing my mind, I whisper, ‘You’re not real, Cleo. You’re dead. Look, I’m just pretending to be you for an hour, okay? Now please go away.’

She stares at me through the glass. Her lips move. I lean forward, press my face to the mirror, straining to hear.

Cleo disappears, and a large black figure looms in the mirror. Moves closer.

I jolt to my feet and whip around.

A man wearing a black hoodie. At least he’s real, not a ghost. He pushes back the hood. Dark hair falls past his chin.

‘What’s going on here?’ he demands.

Shifting on my feet, I keep my hands low at my sides, ready to punch. ‘You need to leave now.’

He steps closer. He’s half a foot taller, his strong-boned face scowling, his eyes bitter as black coffee. ‘Where’s Van?’

‘Not here.’

‘She said I could come backstage.’

‘Who are you?’ Is he Van’s mysterious guy?

Stormie arrives, breathless. ‘You’re on in five,’ she says to me, and then slits her eyes at the stranger. ‘Elvis Jones! What are you doing here?’

This is Elvis Jones? Definitely not the cheesy overweight Elvis impersonator in a white jumpsuit I imagined when I saw his poster:

Elvis Jones Magic in Hell

Midnight Show No one will be admitted after the door is shut.

I found the blurb pretentious and, on principle, refused to see his show. If I’d known what he looks like, I might have taken a chance. He watches me with a sardonic grin as if he knows what I’m thinking.

‘Hi, Stormie,’ he says. ‘I’m looking for Van.’

‘She hasn’t arrived. Yet.’

He retreats toward the door. ‘I’m outta here.’

Stormie and I watch him leave, and she mutters, ‘What the hell has that girl been up to?’

‘I’m scared for her.’ I hear the words and wish I hadn’t said them.

‘Maybe her phone died, and she’s stuck somewhere. She’s gonna show up.’

***

Excerpt from Zigzag Girl by Ruth Knafo Setton. Copyright 2025 by Ruth Knafo Setton. Reproduced with permission from Ruth Knafo Setton. All rights reserved.

Tania moved fast, her shoes clicked sharply on the floor. She fished a five-dollar bill from her clutch and approached a housekeeper in the hallway.

“A roll of toilet paper, and in a discreet bag, please.”

The woman hesitated, but Tania’s eyes were steady, unblinking. She slid the bill into the woman’s shoulder strap with practiced ease.

“Take it,” Tania said softly. “In case someone accuses you of theft.”

The woman nodded.

Ruth led the way. Tania followed, her mind already ahead, calculating the next move. In the bathroom, she locked the door and leaned against the wall. She heard Judith’s groans.

“It’s me, Judy.”

“Tania?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

The air was thick with sweat and nausea, sharp like unchanged hospital linens. Tania handed Ruth the roll of paper and a small perfume atomizer.

“Tell her it’s from London. She’ll like it.”

Ruth nodded and slipped into the stall.

Tania stepped back into the hallway, then stopped. A girl sick and humiliated in a stall behind her. She caught her reflection in a wall sconce—lipstick fine, hair in place, eyes clear.

Decide now.

This wasn’t strategy. She wasn’t gaining leverage. And still, her feet moved.

When she returned, Judith was pale, shaken, but upright. Tania offered her the drink.

“Peppermint helps nausea,” she said.

Judith studied her. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing.”

“There’s no game,” Tania said. “You have to believe me.”

Judith hesitated. “You and your uncle seem awfully interested in my father.”

Tania unwrapped a mint. “It’s a secret,” she said. “Just not the kind you think.”

She leaned in. “The government wants something your father owns or controls. Sheldon’s the go-between.”

Judith stared at her. “That sounds shady.”

“It might be.”

Judith exhaled. “They spiked my drink. Esther and those girls. Laxatives.”

Tania nodded. “Brutal.”

Silence settled between them.

Tania met her eyes.

“Want revenge?”

Judith smiled.

And didn’t say no.

***

Excerpt from Eyes to Deceit: The Company Files by Gabriel Valjan. Copyright 2025 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Although it was just late March, Crete was already growing hot. Sweating and panting after the bird dance, I pushed my mask to the top of my head. I sucked in deep breaths and flapped the long white sleeves, pinned to resemble wings. Air rushed over my damp arms and legs,

At least my dance was finished. Other dances would also be performed, and, in fact, the next one was already beginning. The younger girls, all maidens and too young to wear the red spotted scarf, were clad in bearskins. They danced to honor the Lady of Animals and Childbirth. I remembered that hot smelly costume from previous years. Now, at almost seventeen, I danced as a bird in a graceful circle of white-clad girls twisting around one another. I thought we really did look like flying birds; not imprisoned by the earth. We each wore the mask of a different species. Although I’d hoped to dance as a gull or an owl, I was only a sparrow.

The other bird dancers removed their masks and scattered into the audience to join friends and family. Except the vulture. Funny, I thought, I didn’t recognize the vulture. Now that I’d begun my agoge and visited the dorms regularly, I thought I knew all the young women – at least by sight. I certainly should know everyone who I danced with.

Despite the identical white gowns and the masks covering the faces, the bodies were difficult to disguise. This girl was heavier, that other one was as slim as a papyrus reed. Although every girl danced the same steps, some jumped higher and some twisted with an extra roll of the hips. Easy to know them even though we weren’t supposed to – for this short space of time we were the creatures represented by our masks. But I did not recognize the vulture. I squinted against the bright sun. I didn’t remember the vulture from the rehearsals either. And surely at least one girl was missing –

“If you’re Martis, the High Priestess’s consort wishes to speak to you,” said a treble voice behind me. I turned and looked first at the grubby little boy and then around at the crowd. I saw no sign of Tinos.

“Where is he?” I asked, my heart leaping.

At one time, I’d thought – hoped – Tinos and I had developed a special connection. But last fall, during the investigation into the murder of the bull dancer, we’d fallen out. I’d seen very little of him since then and only at a distance, as he conducted his duties. Sometimes I imagined we were still close friends. Other times I despaired we’d ever be friends again.

“I’ll take you to him,” the boy said, extending a grimy paw. I took hold and followed the boy through the crowd.

We went a distance from the theater, finally pausing at a copse of trees. Tinos waited within, almost unrecognizable without his headdress or jewelry. His long black hair had been pulled back and tied with a string. “Martis,” he said. As his eyes drifted from my hair to my white dress, his eyebrows rose in surprise. I touched my long hair self-consciously. I now wore it in the fashionable style - with most of it tumbling down my back except for the locks pulled in front of my ears.

“You’ve grown up? I always think of you in a boy’s kilt . . .”

“I wear that only when I am bull dancing,” I said shortly, affronted. Did Tinos believe I would be a child forever? I was old enough to marry - although I’d vowed before the Goddess that I never would.

Tinos nodded and stared over my head as though regretting this meeting. I could see he felt awkward, without the easy camaraderie we’d once enjoyed, and I was both sorry and angry with him. I’d looked forward to talking with him once again and now he seemed, well, disappointed. “You wanted to see me?” I asked, my tone taking on some sharpness.

He turned to look at me.

“That’s the Martis I remember,” he said, grinning for the first time. “Still as quick to anger as ever.” I went hot.

Unable to think of a smart response, I tossed my head.

“Have you seen Atana lately. I know you and my daughter are friends.”

I knew Atana of course and I’d made an effort to befriend her. At one point, I’d hoped to see more of Tinos, which hadn’t happened. Atana was only nine so I didn’t spend a lot of time with her.

I turned and looked over my shoulder as though I could see through the trees and the crowds beyond. Atana should have joined the younger girls in the bear dance but, because she was the High Priestess’s daughter, she’d been allowed to dance with the birds. Now I knew who’d been missing.

“Did you see her this morning?” Tinos continued, his words rushing out.

“No,” I said. “Didn’t you?”

“No. We – um - quarreled,” he admitted, his eyes seeking the ground beneath his booted feet. “I haven’t seen or spoken to her for several days.”

“Ah.” I said in understanding. Before I moved to the girls’ dorm, I’d been arguing frequently with my mother Now that I stayed occasionally in the dorm, I saw her less often and so we quarreled less. “I saw Atana at most of the rehearsals,” I said now. “How many days has it been since you’ve spoken to her?”

“Almost three. She’s been avoiding me. It was a very bad quarrel,” Tinos’s eyes slid away from mine. He took a deep breath and looked at me. “I’m worried about her.”

“Surely the High Priestess –“ I began. But Tinos was shaking his head.

“She’s too busy now,” he said. I narrowed my eyes at him. Too busy to wonder where her daughter went? After so many days without seeing me, my mother took pains to seek me out. “Atana talks about you,” Tinos continued. “She says you are her friend.”

I stared at him. Friends? Sure, we were friendly, but she was more like my younger sister. We were the two outsiders. I’d just moved into the dorms, years after most girls my age, and I stayed there infrequently, so I didn’t know any of them well. I didn’t care to. They were all looking forward to marriage’ I wasn’t.

“Where would Atana go?” I asked. Atana, Tinos’s oldest child, was much shyer than her older half-siblings and did not make friends easily. Perhaps because of her position – Atana’s mother was the High Priestess after all, the other girls alternately teased or flattered her.

“That’s it, I don’t know,” Tinos said. A pleat formed between his brows and he suddenly looked tired. “But I am very worried. Will you ask the other girls if they’ve seen her?”

“Why can’t you ask them?” I asked. “They would have to answer you.” As the High Priestess’s consort, I meant. Tinos was the most important man in Knossos.

The fingers on Tinos’s right hand began to twitch nervously. “I can’t,” he said at last. “It wouldn’t be wise. The High Priestess . . .” His voice faded and disappeared.

“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.

“Speaking to them would be easier for you.” Tinos tried again. “You see them regularly and no one will find it surprising if you talk to them. My appearance would cause too much comment.” He looked at me and I nodded. I was not so much around the younger girls but I did see them as they ran races and wrestled. “Well then,” he said as though it was all settled. “I just want to know she’s safe.”

“And if I find her?” I asked.

“Tell her I’m worried,” he said. “Would you ask her to come home and visit me. And tell her – .” He paused. “Tell her I’m sorry. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, all right,” I said. I did not believe this would be so difficult.

“And Martis,” Tinos continued, “if she objects or becomes angry with you, don’t argue.” He shot me a stern look from under his heavy brows. “Understand? Just come and tell me.” I nodded although I didn’t understand. Why would I quarrel with Atana? Why would Atana argue with me? More to the point: what exactly had happened between Tinos and his daughter? That was the real puzzle.

“I have to go now,” Tinos said, glancing at the sky. “It is almost time for the Showing. I’ll see you later.” He turned and started down the slope. I watched until he disappeared behind a thicket of trees.

I slowly made my way back to the throng of people gathered around the theater. I did not think I could force my way through the crowd to rejoin my fellow birds and besides I would not watch the Showing. Every spring the High Priestess and her consort copulated in full view of the people of Knossos. It was important for the fertility of this land. But now that I knew Tinos and knew him well, I couldn’t bear to see that ritual.

I pushed my way through the crowd at the bottom of the paved area. As I squeezed by a woman in the fashionable ruffled skirt and tight jacket, the lady wrinkled her nose and tried to move away. I guessed I stank of perspiration.

And then, with a collective sigh, everyone turned to look at the walkway below. The High Priestess, riding sidesaddle on a white bull, was approaching. Her unbound hair tumbled down her back and, instead of skirt and jacket she wore a loose white robe that left her neck and arms bare. Bronze bells hung from the bracelets on her wrists and ankles and they tinkled with every movement. The bull was also decorated; garlands of bright spring flowers festooned his horns and encircled his neck.

Usually, the High Priestess smiled and waved at the people of Knossos but her expression today was uncharacteristically grim.

I turned to look at the top of the stadium. The bull-masked consort waited, glistening with water, as if he had just arisen from the sea. The huge white bull’s head covered Tinos’s head and part of his shoulders, the horns tipped with gold and glittering in the sun. Even though I was not supposed to recognize Tinos, even though who else could it be but the High Priestess’s consort, I’d have recognized him anywhere. His broad shoulders tapered to the narrow waist where the thick twisted scar was just visible as it reached his back. Once a bull leaper, the scar served as a reminder of the bull’s horn that had caught him and ripped open his side.

The white bull came to a halt and the High Priestess’s attendants helped her down. She walked the last few yards to the bed at Tinos’s feet. When she reached him she slid the robe from her shoulders and stepped out of it. But she did not unfasten Tinos’s loincloth, as she had done every one of the nine years previously. Instead, after an awkward few seconds, Tinos slid off the garment himself.

I turned and fought my way through the audience, arriving on the other side of the crowd gasping and trembling. I’d seen this ritual enacted almost every year of my life but a year or two ago I had found I couldn’t watch it anymore. I knew that the bodies coming together on the stage were not the Goddess and Her consort but the High Priestess and Tinos acting their parts. And knowing Tinos and wishing he had his arms around me made everything different.

I set off running, fleeing the central court, to hide in the room in which the dancers changed.

***

Excerpt from Murder of Furies by Eleanor Kuhns. Copyright 2025 by Eleanor Kuhns. Reproduced with permission from Eleanor Kuhns. All rights reserved.

Chapter One

JULIE

The woman slid three photos to me across the table, her manicured nails immaculate. “I know you don’t want to believe me. But you need to look at these.”

I was already on my feet, having told her—Frances Boyle, she said her name was—that we had nothing further to discuss. She had no business coming to me with this preposterous story, and certainly not here at the library where I worked. Her manner suggested she wasn’t used to people saying “no” to her, but I wanted her gone.

Yet I couldn’t help glancing at the faded snapshots she’d spread in front of me. All showed the same grouping: a couple, seemingly in their forties, and two teenagers, a boy and a girl.

“That’s my family,” she said, a rasp deepening her voice. “My parents with my brother and me. That was the year before Papa died.”

Against my will, my eyes were drawn to the man in the photos. “Papa,” she’d called him. He sure looked like Dad. My memories of him were vivid, though I was only eight when he died. That dark hair, cut short, with a white streak just off-center. Neat ears, firm chin, and warm smile. And those pointed eyebrows: unmistakable.

But I’d never seen the other people in those photos before.

Heat flared at the back of my neck, and the walls of the small meeting room felt like they were closing in on me. I shook my head, trying to clear it. I wished I’d thought to bring a bottle of water in with me.

Frances leaned forward, the gold chain around her neck glinting as she moved. “From your reaction, Julie, I’d say you recognize him.” Her gaze intensified. “Now do you believe me? Our father had two wives, two families. Yours and mine.”

This couldn’t be true. I gripped the edge of the table and took a deep breath, fighting to get my emotions under control. Who was this woman and what was her game? Inspecting her more closely, I guessed she was in her late forties, a little older than me. Well-groomed. Stocky but not fat. Wearing cropped pants and a short-sleeved silk blouse, a good choice for the hot weather we were having. Her clothes looked expensive, more Nieman Marcus than Walmart.

“Can you show me some ID?” I demanded. Maybe I should have asked for that earlier.

She smiled coolly and reached into her leather bag, pulling out a passport. The photo was definitely her, but with shorter hair. Her name: Frances Louisa Boyle. Date of birth: 1975.

“Wait a minute. Boyle?”

“That was Papa’s name—James Boyle.”

The tightness in my shoulders loosened. “So. That’s not my dad.”

“When he married your mom, he used the name James MacMillan.”

That was Dad’s name—but this was ridiculous. She was claiming not just that he’d had two families, but two names.

She sat back abruptly. “I can see you’re having trouble accepting it,” she said. “I understand. It’s hard to take in.” Her expression hardened. “I only found out after Mama died in February and I was going through her papers. I found some old letters tucked away, referring to his other family.” She raised her eyes to mine again. “Your family.” After a moment, she added, “I have a couple of the letters with me, if you want to see them. They’re in my safe at the hotel.”

My mouth tasted of something bitter, metallic. “What are you after?”

She clasped her hands together. “I had a private investigator locate your mother, your family. I came here to find out more.” Her gaze swept over me. “I thought it was best to come to you first, to see if you knew about it. Before I approach your mother.”

“You can’t be thinking of disturbing my mother with this!”

“I’m sorry, but that’s why I’m here. To find out what she knew, or knows, about what happened.”

If Frances confronted Mom with this story, it would devastate her. “Give me some time to think about this first.” There must be some way to check this woman’s claim. “Can I have copies of those photos?”

She pushed them toward me. “Those are for you.” She rose and pulled a card from her purse. “I realize you may need a bit of time to get used to the idea. Here’s my cell number. When you’re ready, give me a call.” She dropped the card on the table. “But don’t take too long. I can play tourist here in Ottawa for a couple of days, but then I’ll need to talk to your mother.” She straightened her shoulders and left.

I watched her cross the library’s open lobby, passing Tony at the info desk, heading toward the main entrance. I paced back and forth in the hallway, fuming. What she was claiming couldn’t be true.

But a coldness was rising in my stomach. Could Dad really have done this to Mom? To us?

#

Returning to my office, I closed the door and collapsed into my chair, my stomach churning. I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared blankly at the ceiling. Frances’s story kept echoing through my mind. It had to be nonsense…except for those photos. That guy did look like Dad.

When she asked for me by name at the front desk, I had hoped the interruption would be short. I hadn’t anticipated how shaken our conversation would leave me.

I needed to get back to work; I had to post next month's staff schedule soon. But after staring at my computer screen for a few minutes, I picked up my phone to call Caroline.

She and I had been friends since our university days in Toronto. I was studying library science and she was a psychology grad student. We met when we both moved into a shared student house near campus and clicked from the beginning. We’d stayed close friends ever since.

I came back to Ottawa after graduating. When she moved to Ottawa as well, joining the psychology staff at the Royal, our friendship grew. She had become my rock, the person I turned to first for advice.

“Do you have a few minutes?” I asked.

“I do. What’s up?”

I quickly recapped my meeting with Frances and the story she’d told.

“That’s quite the tale.” Caroline’s voice deepened. “But you don’t think it’s true?”

“I’m not sure.” I wanted to say no. But those photos had left me with doubts.

“Have you told Matt?”

My husband. “No. I haven’t had a chance.” I wasn’t even sure I wanted to tell him.

“Or your mom?”

My jaw clenched. “If Dad had another family, if he deceived Mom, I don’t see any need for her to know about it after all these years. She’d be heartsick.”

“But you say Frances wants to talk to your mom. How can you prevent that?”

“Maybe I can’t. But I wish I could find out first…”

“If it’s true?”

“Yeah.”

“There’s a foolproof way to check. A DNA comparison.”

Trust Caroline to have a scientific suggestion. “Yeah. But I don’t know if Frances would agree to be tested.”

“Why wouldn’t she? She’s the one who says you’re related.”

I sighed. “Testing takes time, and I don’t think Frances wants to wait.”

She paused. “Do you know about Ancestry.com?”

“…I’ve heard of it, but don’t really know—?”

“It’s a site where people upload their DNA, and check to see if they match with anyone. I keep hearing about people finding linkages there to relatives they didn’t know about.”

“So we could check that site to see if we’re related to Frances?”

A doubtful tone entered her voice. “Well, maybe not, if you’ve never sent in a sample. If you send one in now, it could take several weeks for results to show up. And you don’t even know whether anyone on Frances’ side has uploaded there. If not, there’d be nothing to match to.”

I grimaced, disappointed. “Doesn’t sound like DNA’s going to help us. In the short run, anyway.”

“Yeah, maybe not. So let’s look at this another way. Is Frances’ story plausible? Could that have happened?”

Frustrated tears were pressing behind my eyes. “I don’t think so. But I wish I remembered more about our family, how things were before Dad died. I was so young, and my memories are pretty thin.”

“How about your brother? Would he remember more?”

I sat up at the thought. “That’s a good idea.” Patrick was four years older than me, so his memories of our family life back then would be better than mine.

#

Calling Patrick was complicated by the fact that he lived in Canberra, where he moved when he married Melissa six years ago.

Checking my watch and doing a time conversion, I realized it was still the middle of the night in Australia. But if I called around 4 p.m. my time, it’d be 6 a.m. there. I didn’t know what shift he’d be working—he was a paramedic with the Capital Territory Ambulance Service. If he was on the day shift, he’d be up. I’d text to see if he was awake.

He replied with a yawning-face emoji, but I took that to mean I could call. He answered on the first ring, “Yeah.”

I cut our usual time-and-weather chitchat short. “Listen. A woman came to see me today with a weird story.” I blurted out Frances’ claim that Dad had had two families, ours and hers.

His reaction was immediate. “That’s ridiculous.”

Thank you. “I know, right? It’s just not possible.”

“Wait, let me put on some coffee.” A series of indistinct sounds came through the phone. Then he was back. “Tell me the whole thing. From the beginning.”

I ran through it all, starting with Frances showing up at the library, and ending with her dropping a card as she left.

“Ridiculous,” he repeated. He was silent for a moment. “You think it’s Dad in those photos?”

“I don’t know.” I breathed out. “It looks like him. But photos can be manipulated…”

“Can you send me copies?”

“Sure. Hold on. I’m sending them now.”

While he waited for the images to arrive, he asked, “Are you thinking it’s some kind of scam?”

“Well, what could she be after? It’s not like there’s any inheritance or anything…”

He gave a small cough. “What about Mom? Are you going to tell her?”

“No! Can you imagine her reaction?” I swallowed. “Even raising it…I don’t want to spoil her memories of Dad.”

“Hold on—the photos are coming through.”

***

Excerpt from That Other Family by Lis Angus. Copyright 2025 by Lis Angus. Reproduced with permission from Lis Angus. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

Now

“They found Mom. You need to come home.”

Her older sister Gaby wasn’t one to waste words.

Connie should have been relieved, comforted, something. Unfortunately, it was fifteen years too late for that. And anguish she had buried deep in her body, and mind, erupted with a vengeance.

She cooled her heels in San Diego until the last possible moment to return for the funeral. The less time spent there, the better. New Jersey triggered chilling images tethered to that night. To the last time she saw her mother.

The plane thumped to earth, delivering Connie Tucker to the past with a bounce. Everything about this state was a rude wake-up call. She couldn’t wait to board the return flight to California. At fifteen, she left New Jersey in a rage, thrown out of the only home she’d known, dumped thousands of miles away on a relative she’d never met. Nerves twitching, her insides were a stew of anxiety and bitterness, wondering how people here would react to seeing her. Connie shook her head to tamp down the unruly thoughts and scold herself. They were the ones who should be nervous.

Down the parkway in the rental car, exit onto Lenox, right onto Mercer, left onto Third Street. Past Antonio’s Pizza where she and Gaby bought slices on their way home from school because who knew what their mother would cook for dinner. Past the playground attached to St. Gabriel’s. At the corner of Mercer and Third, a few patrons ambled in and out of a bodega. The street was mostly empty. Her heart bounced in her chest.

42 Third Street. She lowered the car window, her breathing shallow at the sight of the ancient Lincoln in the driveway. The blue paint polished and gleaming. “Buy American” was her father’s motto when Connie was a kid. The same automobile she and her best friend Brigid had “borrowed” until Gaby blew the whistle on her. Grounding was followed by exile two months later. She swallowed raging emotions—love, hate, sadness. If Connie closed her eyes, her parents magically materialized on the porch swing, creaking steadily back and forth on warm summer nights. Sometimes Uncle Charlie sat on the steps and the three of them drank beer, Charlie telling stories and her father laughing. But that was before.

Connie stepped out of the car and surveyed the neighborhood. Much had changed and much had remained the same. Down the block, Porter’s Bar and Grill still boasted the neon signs out front advertising beer, wine, and food. After his stint on the police force, and her mother’s disappearance, her father found employment at the bar—back then a hangout for current and former cops, a nerve center for law enforcement chatter. Old Man Porter was fond of her father, of the whole Tucker family.

Despite the sun shining in a brilliant blue sky, the area was tinged with gray. Sunny in San Diego and sunny in Hallison, New Jersey were two different animals. But even worn out as it was, her Jersey home beckoned, a magnet luring Connie into a tangle of sensations and history. Part of her, she hated to admit, yearned to be here again, but before nostalgia could overwhelm her, she stiffened her resolve: do her duty to her mother and then back to the other coast.

The day was already sweltering, humid air like a wet sheet clinging to Connie, her bangs plastered to her forehead, her shirt dotted with damp patches. Urban smells permeated the neighborhood—exhaust, heat shimmering off the pavement, cooking odors. Third Street radiated a kind of shabby warmth despite reopening sharp wounds. As she climbed the steps to her family’s front door, a voice boomed behind her.

“Connie Tucker!”

She whirled to her left. “Rosa!” she sputtered. Rosa Delano. Standing on her front porch. Daughter of the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delano, whose front yard featured neat flower beds and trimmed bushes. The woman who’d been a kind of second mother after Connie’s first one disappeared.

“Yeah, that’s me.” A cigarette dangled from between bloodless lips, graying hair a tangle of frizz, her expression sullen.

She’d aged. And not well.

Rosa smirked. “Came home ’cause they found your old lady, huh? Si-mone.” Hands stuffed in jeans pockets, she extended the second syllable to mock the dead woman. “Bunch a bones by now, I guess.”

Connie’s stomach lurched, her fingers forming a fist. Attack mode. Breathe, she told herself. Stay in control. She’d forgotten how mean Rosa could be. In and out of the Delano house when Connie was growing up. Sometimes gone for months, once even for a whole year. Neighborhood gossip churned out tales of Rosa’s arrests for petty, and not-so-petty, crimes, their father warning Gaby and Connie to stay clear of her. That was easy to do since she was away for much of their pre-teen years.

“Wonder who buried her? Si-mone.”

Connie refused to take the bait. The hell with her. “Tell your mother I’ll stop by later.”

“Fat chance. You keep away from her.” Rosa opened her screen door. “Guess you figured Si-mone was still alive all these years, huh?”

The question split the air like the crack of a whip, jerking Connie’s head backwards. “How dare you talk about my—”

Rosa laughed in triumph. “Ha! Listen to you. ‘How dare you?’ Always did act like you were better than everybody else. Always had to have your own way.” She slouched into the Delano house and let the screen door slap shut behind her.

Heart hammering, Connie was left to wonder probably for the thousandth time how sweet, generous Mrs. Delano could live with someone as nasty as Rosa. According to Connie’s mother, she was already a troublemaker when her parents were killed in a car crash and she was adopted by Mrs. Delano at thirteen. Connie was only two or three when Rosa rolled in next door like a storm front that never budged. Now, twenty-seven years later, her words hung around Connie in the ether, burning through a tangle of jumbled ideas and leaving the charred truth—Connie had figured her mother was alive somewhere.

Needing a minute, she stepped back from the front door and confronted the Tucker residence, which exhibited contrasts identical to most of the other homes on the street: window frames in need of scraping and painting, and her mother’s favorite old-fashioned glider—and slightly rusty matching metal chairs—crowding the porch, hinting at benign neglect. Yet, two flower baskets hung from hooks on the porch pillars with cascading red, yellow, and blue blooms. Someone tended to those plants. Gaby, no doubt.

Connie steeled herself, donning emotional armor. Knocking brought no response, neither did pressing the bell, broken years ago and apparently never repaired. She’d kept a key to the house—from spite—and jiggled the lock a fraction, the way she’d done as a teenager breaking the curfew her father had tried to establish.

The door swung open.

With the windows shut tight, primal odors hung in the air like church incense. Lingering smells of baking, fresh laundry, furniture polish. Connie pulled a carry-on suitcase into the house. “I’m here.” Where were her sister and father? The car was in the driveway. She’d texted her arrival time and expected someone to be in the house to meet her. Instead, she was greeted by silence. Perfect.

A chair in the hallway held a stack of mail. Circumventing the living room to her right, Connie moved straight ahead to the kitchen. A used coffee mug and bowl sat in the sink. Otherwise, the room was orderly, a table in the breakfast nook had placemats, The Star-Ledger, and a vase of flowers. The sweet scents of lilacs and roses filled the air.

Back to the hallway she stopped in the arched entrance to the living room. Taking it all in. A new couch and the worn leather of the old recliner, her father’s favorite piece of furniture, and a flat screen television. The coffee table was the same. Also, the rug she and Gaby had danced on with their mother to ABBA all those afternoons. Their beautiful French mother.

A rush of memories confronting her on all sides, blocking progress, keeping her captive, nowhere to go but back into that night.

***

Excerpt from The First to Die by Suzanne Trauth. Copyright 2025 by Suzanne Trauth. Reproduced with permission from Suzanne Trauth. All rights reserved.