by Ruth Ware
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and #1 Globe and Mail bestseller
The Turn of the Key
Starred reviews from Booklist, Publishers Weekly, Library Journal • One of the best summer reads according to Chatelaine, The New York Post, Entertainment Weekly, The Minneapolis Star Tribune, Good Housekeeping, TIME Magazine, Campus Circle, Goodreads, CrimeReads, BookRiot, Yahoo Entertainment, BookBub, Bustle, Working Mother Online, Better Homes & Gardens, Bookish, LitHub, Business Insider, and Crime by the Book • One of the best books for fall by Newsweek, Bookish, Parade, Romper, Campus Circle, HuffPost • One of the most anticipated books of 2019 by PopSugar
“Irresistible from first page to final line.”
The Globe and Mail
“[Ware] has delivered an old-fashioned horror story, peopled by children with ‘eyes full of malice,’ a dour housekeeper straight out of Rebecca, and an inscrutable handyman.”
The New York Times Book Review
“A ghost story for the twenty-first century, a propulsive gothic thriller with characters you’ll really care about. With this book, Ruth Ware proves she’s the true heir to Wilkie Collins. Creepy, engrossing, and oh-so-hard to put down.”
J.P. Delaney, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Before
“Ruth Ware has been called the Agatha Christie of our generation. . . . The Turn of the Key is a great read. You’re going to enjoy it very much.”
David Baldacci, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Redemption and One Good Deed
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and Globe and Mail bestseller
The Death of Mrs. Westaway
Starred review from Kirkus Reviews • Starred Booklist Review • Starred Library Journal Review • Named by USA Today as one of “10 Hot Books for Summer Reading”
“Ruth Ware is a magician. Her novels—suspenseful, sophisticated, relentlessly compelling—blow the dust off half a dozen crime genres, from Golden Age whodunits to psychological suspense. And The Death of Mrs. Westaway, her latest, is also her best: a dark and dramatic thriller, part murder mystery, part family drama, altogether riveting. More, please, and soon.”
A.J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window
“A classic never goes out of style. Consider the confident simplicity of the dry martini, the Edison lightbulb and Meghan Markle’s wedding dress. Now, add to that list Ruth Ware’s new novel, The Death of Mrs. Westaway . . . a perfectly executed suspense tale very much in the mode of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.”
Washington Post
“This British writer knows how to hook crime-novel/psychological suspense fans.”
USA Today
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and #1 Globe and Mail bestseller
The Lying Game
A Reese Witherspoon Book Club Pick • Starred review from Kirkus Reviews • Starred Booklist Review • An Entertainment Weekly “Must List” Pick • Named by Today.com as one of “17 Summer Beach Reads You Won’t Want to Put Down” • Named by Elite Daily as one of “7 Books You Need to Take on Your Vacation This Year” • Included in summer book guides from the New York Post, Time, People, Parchment Girl, BookPage, Novel Gossip, Shelf Awareness, Bustle, and Cheat Sheet
“This is the sort of territory where Ruth Ware is most at home. She’s strongest when she’s writing about embattled women, best when characters have a slight sense of privilege about themselves, most effective when events creep along the edges of disaster. Ware’s new book has all of this plus an air of foreboding that won’t go away.”
Toronto Star
“An absorbing summer read perfect for a stormy night out at the lake, The Lying Game will capture your attention and hold it until the very end.”
Winnipeg Free Press
“So many questions . . . until the very last page! Needless to say, I could not put this book down!”
Reese Witherspoon
“A riveting, atmospheric thriller.”
Entertainment Weekly
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and #1 Globe and Mail bestseller
The Woman in Cabin 10
“A fantastic read. A fog-enshrouded cruise ship, a twisty puzzle of a murder mystery reminiscent of Agatha Christie, and unrelenting suspense. Batten down the hatches and prepare to read it in one sitting!”
Shari Lapena, bestselling author of Someone We Know
“Ware plunges the reader headlong into this action-packed, vivid tale, rendering one unable to come up for air until the very last page is turned.”
Toronto Star
“A great modern whodunit!”
New York Post
“A fantasy trip aboard a luxury liner turns nightmarish for a young journalist in The Woman in Cabin 10, the pulse-quickening new novel by Ruth Ware.”
O, The Oprah Magazine
Praise for Ruth Ware’s instant New York Times, USA Today, Los Angeles Times, and Globe and Mail bestseller
In a Dark, Dark Wood
“Prepare to be scared . . . Really scared! When I read this pageturning book about a bachelorette party gone wrong, I almost bit all my fingernails off!”
Reese Witherspoon
“Who pulls a gun at a bachelorette party? The answers are unveiled with Gillian Flynn–style trickery.”
O, The Oprah Magazine
“You’ll find it almost impossible to put this twisting, electrifying debut down . . . [The] foggy atmosphere and chilling revelations will leave you breathless.”
Entertainment Weekly
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To Ali, Jilly, and Mark, who first showed me the Hidden Valley.
From the “About Us” page of the Snoop company website:
Hey. We’re snoop. Come meet us, message us, snoop on us—whatever. We’re pretty cool. Are you?
Topher St. Clair-Bridges
Who’s the daddy? Well, if anyone’s got a claim, it’s Toph. snoop co-founder (along with ex-girlfriend, model/artist/professional badass @evalution), it all started here. If he’s not at his desk, he’s probably riding the moguls in Chamonix, losing his mind in Berlin’s Berghain, or just hangin’. Come find him on snoop at @xtopher or hit him up via his PA Inigo Ryder—the only dude who gets to tell Topher what to do.
Listening to: Oscar Mulero / Like a Wolf
Eva van den Berg
From Amsterdam to Sydney, New York to London, Eva’s career has taken her all over the world—but right now home is Shoreditch, London, where she lives with her husband, financier Arnaud Jankovitch, and their daughter, Radisson. In 2015 she co-founded snoop with her then life partner @xtopher—their idea born of a single desire: to maintain their connection across 5000 km of ocean. Topher and Eva have since uncoupled, but their connection remains: snoop. Make your own connection with Eva on @evalution, or via her personal assistant Ani Cresswell.
Listening to: Nico / Janitor of Lunacy
Rik Adeyemi
head of beans
Rik’s the money man, the bean counter, the keeper of the keys—you get the picture. He’s been keepin’ snoop real since the very first days, and he’s known Toph for even longer. What can we say? snoop’s a family affair. Rik lives with his wife, Veronique, in Highgate, London. You can snoop him at @rikshaw.
&n
bsp; Listening to: Willie Bobo / La Descarga del Bobo
Elliot Cross
chief nerd
Music may be snoop’s beating heart, but code is its DNA and Elliot is the maestro of code. Before snoop was a hot pink logo on your phone, it was just lines of Java on someone’s screen—and that someone was Elliot. Best friends with Toph since before they could shave, he’s cooler than any tech-head has a right to be. snoop him on @ex.
Listening to: Kraftwerk / Autobahn
Miranda Khan
friends czar
Miranda is into killer heels, sharp fashion, and really great coffee. Between savoring Guatemalan carbonic maceration and surfing Net-a-Porter, she’s snoop’s smile to the world. Wanna write us up, hit us up, haul us over the coals, or just say hi? Miranda’s the place to start. snoop knows you can never have enough followers—or enough friends. Make Miranda one of yours at @mirandelicious.
Listening to: Madonna / 4 Minutes
Tiger-Blue Esposito
head of cool
The epitome of chill, Tiger keeps her trademark zen state with the help of daily yoga, mindfulness and—of course—a steady stream of snoop through her oversize headphones. When she’s not pulling a Bhujapidasana or relaxing into an Anantasana (that’s a side reclining leg lift to the uninitiated) she’s polishing snoop’s cogs to make sure we look our very best, and getting the word out. Chill with her on @blueskythinking.
Listening to: Jai-Jagdeesh / Aad Guray Nameh
Carl Foster
law man
There’s no two ways about it—Carl keeps us on the straight and narrow, making sure that wherever we snoop, we’re doing it on the right side of the law. A graduate of University College, London, Carl did his pupillage at Temple Square Chambers. Since then he’s worked in a variety of international firms, mostly in the entertainment industry. He lives in Croydon. snoop him on @carlfoster1972.
Listening to: The Rolling Stones / Sympathy for the Devil
Taken from the BBC News website:
Thursday, 16th January
4 BRITONS DEAD IN SKI RESORT TRAGEDY
The exclusive French ski resort of St Antoine was rocked by news of a second tragedy this week, only days after an avalanche killed six and left much of the region without power for days.
Now, reports are emerging that in one remote ski chalet cut off by the avalanche, a ‘house of horror’ situation was unfolding, leaving four Britons dead and two hospitalised.
The alarm was only sounded when survivors trekked more than three miles through the snow to radio for help, raising questions of why the French authorities did not work to re-establish power and mobile phone coverage more quickly following Sunday’s avalanche.
Local police chief Etienne Dupont refused to comment, except to say that ‘an investigation is in progress’, but a spokesperson at the British embassy in Paris said, ‘We can confirm that we have been informed of the deaths of four British citizens in the Savoie department of the French Alps and that the local police are treating these incidents as a linked murder inquiry at this stage. Our sympathies are with the friends and families of the victims.’
The families of the deceased have been informed.
Eight survivors, also thought to be British, are said to be helping the police investigation.
This year has been marked by unusually heavy snowfalls. Sunday’s avalanche is the sixth since the beginning of the ski season, and brings the total of fatalities in the region to twelve.
FIVE DAYS EARLIER
LIZ
Snoop ID: ANON101
Listening to: James Blunt / You’re Beautiful
Snoopers: 0
Snoopscribers: 0
I keep my earbuds shoved into my ears on the minibus from Geneva Airport. I ignore Topher’s hopeful looks and Eva, glancing over her shoulder at me. It helps, somehow. It helps to shut out the voices in my head, their voices, pulling me this way and that, pummeling me with their loyalties and their arguments to and fro.
Instead, I let James Blunt drown them out, telling me I’m beautiful, over and over again. The irony of the statement makes me want to laugh, but I don’t. There’s something comforting in the lie.
It is 1:52 p.m. Outside the window the sky is iron gray, and the snowflakes swirl hypnotically past. It’s strange. Snow is so white on the ground, but when it’s falling, it looks gray against the sky. It might as well be ash.
We are starting to climb now. The snow gets thicker as we gain height, no longer melting into rain when it hits the window but sticking, sliding along the glass, the windscreen wipers swooshing it aside into rivulets of slush that run horizontally across the passenger window. I hope the bus has snow tires.
The driver changes gear; we are approaching yet another hairpin bend. As the bus swings around the narrow curve, the ground falls away, and I have a momentary feeling that we’re going to fall—a lurch of vertigo that makes my stomach heave and my head spin. I shut my eyes, blocking them all out, losing myself in the music.
And then the song stops.
And I am alone, with only one voice left in my head, and I can’t shut it out. It’s my own. And it’s whispering a question that I’ve been asking myself since the plane lifted off the runway at Gatwick.
Why did I come? Why?
But I know the answer.
I came because I couldn’t afford not to.
ERIN
Snoop ID: N/A
Listening to: N/A
Snoopers: N/A
Snoopscribers: N/A
The snow is still falling—fat white flakes drifting lazily down to lie softly over the peaks and pistes and valleys of St Antoine.
Three meters have fallen in the last couple of weeks, and there’s more forecast. A snowpocalypse, Danny called it. Snowmaggedon. Lifts have been closed, and then reopened, and then closed again. Currently almost every lift in the entire resort is closed, but the faithful little funicular that leads up to our tiny hamlet is still chugging away. It’s glassed in, so even the heaviest dump doesn’t affect it; the snow just lies like a blanket over the tunnel rather than clogging the rails. Which is good—because on the rare occasions it does shut down, we’re totally cut off. There’s no road up to St. Antoine 2000, not in winter, anyway. Everything, from the guests in the chalet, right through to every scrap of food for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, has to come up in the funicular. Unless you’ve got the money for a helicopter transfer (which, believe me, is not unheard of in this place). But the helicopters won’t fly in poor conditions. If a blizzard comes in, they stay safely down in the valley.
It gives me a strange feeling if I think about it too much—a kind of claustrophobia that’s at odds with the wide-open vistas from the chalet. It’s not just the snow; it’s a hundredweight of unwelcome memories bearing down on me. If I stop for more than a minute or two, the images start to come unbidden, crowding into my mind—numb fingers scrabbling through hard-packed snow, the sheen of sunset on blue skin, the glint of frosted lashes. But fortunately I’ve got no time to stop today. It’s gone one o’clock and I’m still cleaning the second-to-last bedroom when I hear the shuddering sound of the gong from downstairs. It’s Danny. He shouts my name and then something I can’t make out.
“What?” I call down, and he shouts again, his voice clearer this time. He must have come out into the stairwell.
“I said, ‘Grub’s up.’ Truffled parsnip soup. So get your lazy arse down here.”
“Yes, chef,” I shout back mockingly. I quickly dump the contents of the bathroom bin into my black sack, change the bin liner, and then jog down the spiral stairs to the lobby, where the delicious smell of Danny’s soup greets me, along with the sound of “Venus in Furs” emanating from the kitchen.
Saturday is both the best day of the week and the worst. Best, because it’s changeover day—there are no guests, and Danny and I have the chalet to ourselves, free to laze in the pool, steam in the outdoor hot tub, and play the music we like at the volume we want.
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br /> Worst, because it’s changeover day, which means nine double beds to change, nine bathrooms to clean (eleven, if you count the loo downstairs and the shower room by the pool), eighteen ski lockers to sweep and Hoover, not to mention the living room, the dining room, the den, the snug, and the outdoor smoking area, where I have to pick up all the disgusting butts the smokers always strew around in spite of the prominent bins and buckets. At least Danny takes care of the kitchen, though he has his own to-do list. Saturday night is always a big dinner. Got to put on a show for the new guests, don’t you know.
Now, we sit down together at the big dining room table, and I read through the information Kate emailed this morning as I spoon Danny’s soup into my mouth. It’s sweet and earthy, and there are tiny little crunchy bits scattered over the top—shaved parsnip roasted in truffle oil, I think.
“This soup is really good,” I say. I know my job here. Danny rolls his eyes in a Well, duh gesture. If there is one thing about Danny, he’s not modest. But he is a great cook.
“Think they’ll like it tonight?” He’s fishing for more compliments, of course, but I can’t blame him. Danny’s an unashamed diva about his food and, like any artiste, he enjoys appreciation.
“I’m sure they will. It’s gorgeous, really warming, and… um… complex.” I am striving to pin down the particular savory quality that makes the soup so good. Danny likes compliments to be specific. “Like autumn in a bowl. What else are you doing?”
“I’ve got amuse-bouches.” Danny ticks the courses off on his fingers. “Then the truffled soup for starter. Then venison haunch for the carnies and mushroom ravioli for the veggies. Then crème brûlée for dessert. And then the cheese.”
Danny’s crème brûlée is his showstopper, and it’s to die for. I’ve literally seen guests come to blows over a spare portion.
“Sounds perfect,” I say encouragingly.
“As long as there aren’t any fucking stealth vegans this time,” he says morosely. He’s still reeling from last week, when one of the guests turned out to be not just vegan but gluten intolerant as well. I don’t think he’s forgiven Kate yet.
