Blood Sugar - Hardcover

Rothchild, Sascha

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593331540 ISBN 13: 9780593331545

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

A New York Times Best Thriller of the Year

"Terrific. You might come for the mystery, but you will stay for the sheer energy."--New York Times Book Review

An utterly delicious debut thriller that tells the story of the most likable murderess you will ever meet, perfect for fans of Riley Sager and Jessica Knoll.

“I could just kill you right now!” It’s something we’ve all thought at one time or another. But Ruby has actually acted on it. Three times, to be exact.

Though she may be a murderer, Ruby is not a sociopath. She is an animal-loving therapist with a thriving practice. She’s felt empathy and sympathy. She’s had long-lasting friendships and relationships, and has a husband, Jason, whom she adores. But the homicide detectives at Miami Beach PD are not convinced of her happy marriage. When we meet Ruby, she is in a police interrogation room, being accused of Jason’s murder. Which, ironically, is one murder that she did not commit, though a scandal-obsessed public believes differently. As she undergoes questioning, Ruby’s mind races back to all the details of her life that led her to this exact moment, and to the three dead bodies in her wake. Because though she may not have killed her husband, Ruby certainly isn’t innocent.

Alternating between Ruby’s memories of her past crimes and her present-day fight to clear her name, Blood Sugar is a twisty, clever debut with an unforgettable protagonist who you can’t help but root for—an addicting mixture of sour and sweet.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Sascha Rothchild is an Emmy-winning screenwriter, who has written and produced lauded shows such as GLOW, The Bold Type, The Baby-Sitters Club, and The Carrie Diaries. In 2015, she was named one of Variety's “10 TV Writers to Watch.” Rothchild has written for LA Weekly, the Los Angeles Times, Elle,  and the Miami Herald, and adapted her article, "How to Get Divorced by 30" into both a memoir and a screenplay for Universal Studios. She graduated from the honors program of Boston College summa cum laude, with a major in theater and screenwriting. Blood Sugar is her debut novel.

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Chapter 1

OCEAN

The waves weren't that big. But he was only seven, so even the smallest of chop towered over his drenched head. "Never turn your back on the ocean" was advice he would never hear. Instead he faced the shore, proudly gesticulating. His father was busy, drinking a sweating can of domestic beer and complaining to his group of friends about the lack of waterfront-zoning laws. His mother was busy looking at the stretch marks drifting across her once flat, smooth stomach. So neither noticed their son waving and smiling at them in the Atlantic Ocean, just thirty feet ahead.

At the moment he was going to give up on making eye contact with his parents and turn toward the blue-on-blue horizon, a crest crumbled and slapped him in the back, pitching him forward, facedown, forcing him to take a big gulp of warm salty water. He coughed. A new wave jostled him before he could regain his natural rhythm of breath, and then another. So panic started to set in. A panic with flailing arms, jerking legs, and lungs fighting against themselves, taking turns both hyperventilating and coughing. Soon, all his composure was lost. It seemed like the ocean knew he was in trouble, and was happy to take advantage. Toying with his fifty-four-pound frame.

The rest was easy. Too easy, really. I was a breaker away, watching it all, holding my head high above the water, my neck straining a little so I could see him struggle in the undulating foam. My first instinct was to help him. I was a strong swimmer. I could paddle over and prop him up and call out to an adult to get him safely to shore. Then a second instinct kicked in, if there can be such a thing as a second instinct. A calm resolve filled my chest, followed by a burst of gold-glitter excitement that traveled to the tip of every limb. I dove under the water, eyes open. The sting felt good, a reminder that I was alive.

The ocean was murky, so it was hard to make out details, but I was able to see enough to grab onto one of the boy's slick, thrashing ankles. My hand was too small to get a good hold. He was only seven years old, yes. But I was only five.

Using both my tiny hands, I had just enough grip to pull him down. And hold him down. A calmer boy might have held his breath and kicked free. He was only inches from oxygen. But he wasn't calm. He was sucking in more and more water. Until he wasn't.

When I felt his leg go slack, I held on for ten more seconds. Just to make sure. Counting slowly backward. Like I learned in school. Like I did when I couldn't fall asleep at night because my brain was swirling with too many high-voltage thoughts to power down for the day. When I reached the count of one, I let go of his ankle and swam away. Flipping my back legs together in unison, like a mermaid tail. I wasn't so different from other five-year-old girls; I too loved mermaids.

When my own need for air became unbearable, I finally popped my head up a good distance from him. I searched the water until I saw his lifeless form being pushed closer to the shore, gently swaying with the seaweed. The ocean delivered him onto the sand, not wanting to play with a dead toy.

I didn't even need to scream. His mother was already doing that. Adults raced to him, rushed and frantic, unwilling to accept that time was no longer a factor.

My mother started shrieking for me to come back in, worried that drowning was somehow contagious. As I splashed to shore, I thought about how primitive adults were sometimes. And predictable. All the swimming kids were plucked back to land, held tightly in oversized once-bright tropical-patterned towels, now faded from years of use in the sun. For a brief moment, parents and children alike were not taking anything for granted. We all noticed details like the scratchy, hard corner edges of the towels, the grace of a seagull gliding past the billowing clouds that hinted at the afternoon rain that would be coming, the beauty of the peeling pink and green pastel buildings lining the bright-sanded beach. The warmth of the air was only trumped by the warmth of skin hugging skin and the rise and fall of chests that housed healthy beating, living hearts.

As my mother held me, I waited for guilt to set in. But it never did.

Chapter 2

PHOTOGRAPH

Twenty-five years later I sat in a small interrogation room inside the Washington Avenue branch of the Miami Beach Police Department. A cup of water was placed on my side of the table. The chair I was told to sit in was metal and flimsy. Light enough to pick up and swing around and throw at someone, but also light enough to not do much damage to property or person, if thrown. The table was also metal, but thicker and heavier and bolted to the concrete floor. There were some long scratches in it, of varying degrees of depth and age. Decades of frenetic doodles and cuts made by the people who had been trusted enough to hold sharp objects while sitting there.

I had my purse with me, which I hung on the back of the tin chair. A nice bag to show I was a professional working woman. But not so nice as to be flashy. And inside it I had a few pointy items. A purple pen. A house key. Tweezers. A nail file. I also had my wallet in there, with identification confirming I was Ruby Simon. Miami Beach resident. Thirty years old. Five five. Organ donor. My weight a lie. Brown eyes. Brown hair, because auburn was not an option at the DMV. My hair was a deep pecan color dappled with copper. And so were my eyes. The reddish flecks in my nut-brown irises matched my mane perfectly. And this color coordination was the most striking thing about me, physically, and pulled my otherwise unremarkable face together. I thought about taking out my nail file and idly smoothing a few edges, to show how unconcerned I was about this whole thing. But it felt like it might read as too performative, so I kept my would-be weapons in my purse.

The man who gave me the water was Detective Keith Jackson. He lumbered into the seat on the other side of the table and placed a closed file folder in between us. No doubt a tactic to put me on edge. To make me squirm and worry about what could possibly be inside the folder. I refused to give in to basic interrogation techniques. I didn't squirm, but instead sat still. And looked at the man in front of me. He was handsome and weathered, maybe fifty. His head was completely bald and smooth. He had a nicely shaped skull. Symmetrical. And a small nick on his neck from shaving. As he settled in, I caught a glimpse of his ankle skin, peeking out over his black sock. His pants were a little too short for his well-over-six-foot height.

He slowly opened the folder. Making a real meal of pulling out four pieces of paper, which I could tell from the edges were all photographs. He looked at each one, hidden from my view, and then purposefully placed each facedown on the table, until all four were in a tidy row in front of me. He certainly wasn't concerned with seeming too performative. This felt like more of a game show than a police interview. Behind photograph number one is either life in prison, or a brand-new living room set!

Then he turned over the first photo. It faced me. A smiling seven-year-old boy, awkwardly posed, wearing a pressed collar shirt, stared up at me. An unease started gnawing through my ribs. I remembered that very school picture day so well because my big sister, Ellie, couldn't decide what to do with her hair for her own school picture. As I looked at the backs of the other three hidden photos, the gnawing gave way to an educated guess. If they were like the first, they were each of a different person. And I knew these four people had at least two things in common. One, they were all dead. And two, they all died within arm's reach of me.

To be clear, I'm not a sociopath. I've studied myself....

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593331540
• ISBN 13: 9780593331545
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: preigu; mail@preigu.de; ; Lengericher Landstr. 19; Osnabrück; 49078; Deutschland