The Lost Kings: A Novel - Hardcover

Johnson, Tyrell

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593466861 ISBN 13: 9780593466865

Verlag: Anchor, 2022

Inhaltsangabe

A NEW YORK TIMES BEST CRIME NOVEL OF THE YEAR

“The plot folds into a brilliant twist.”—The New York Times

“A novel in disguise. You could easily (and happily) mistake it for a stellar psychological thriller, bristling with surprises and packed with secrets; but listen closely and you’ll hear the beat of a dark, full heart, strong and loud. This is deeply moving fiction.” —A.J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window

Twins Jeanie and Jamie King are inseparable. Stuck in a cabin in rural Washington with their alcoholic father, they cling to one another for safety and companionship. Until one night, when their father comes home covered in blood. The next day, he is gone ... and so is Jamie. Jeanie’s whole world is turned upside down. Not only has she lost her beloved brother, but with no family left in Washington, she is ripped from everything she knows, including Maddox, the boy she could be learning to love.

Twenty years later, Jeanie is in England. She keeps her demons at bay by drinking too much, sleeping with a married man, and speaking to a therapist she doesn’t respect. But her old life catches up to her when Maddox reappears, claiming to have tracked down her dad. Stunned, Jeanie must decide whether to continue running from her past or to confront her father and finally find out what really happened that night, where her brother is, and why she was the one left behind.

At once a propulsive, heart-pounding mystery and an affecting exploration of love and the familial ties that bind us, The Lost Kings will transport, move, and shock you.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Tyrell Johnson is a father, writer, and editor. His post-apocalyptic novel The Wolves of Winter (Scribner 2018) was an international bestseller. Originally from Bellingham Washington, he now lives in Kelowna British Columbia.
 

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Chapter 1

NOW

The elevator doors open and an old lady enters.

As she shuffles in, she doesn’t see me leaning against the back wall. She’s wearing a scratchy-looking purple sweater, purple sweatpants, and glasses with lenses as thick as my thumb. She turns to face the doors as they slide closed. I watch, waiting for her to press the button to her floor. As the elevator begins to move, I feel obliged to say something.

“Fifth floor?” I ask, nodding to the small white 5 on the panel, lit with golden light.

She turns, her eyes wide as if surprised to see me. “What’s that?”

“Are you going to the fifth floor?” I ask a little louder.

“No, no, fourth,” she says, turning back around. She still hasn’t pressed a button, and now I have a social obligation. I don’t know how to do this without making her feel stupid, so I lean forward and press the button for her. She says nothing. I look over at her white hair, which is sticking up at all angles as if she’s just been electrocuted. She’s got way too much hair spray on. It’s pungent. Suffocating. A single flame in here and she’d light up like a Christmas tree. She’s the type of old that doesn’t really notice the world around her—I’m pretty sure she’s already forgotten that I’m in the elevator. I could give her a heart attack if I wanted. Grab her shoulder, scream, and watch her drop like a fainting goat. That image shouldn’t be funny to me, I know that, but I can’t help myself. Bad thoughts find me; I don’t go looking. The elevator stops and the doors open to the fourth floor. The woman gets off, and I have the small space, still fragrant with her hair spray, to myself.

Suddenly I feel the weight of all the decisions I’ve made leading to this point. It sits in my throat like bad acid reflux. My therapist tells me that we are the products of all the choices we’ve made in our lives, and each day is a new choice, a chance to reshape who and what we are. I will myself to step out of the elevator, to be someone different, to not do what I’ve come there for. Maybe I could join the old lady for a cup of tea, spray my own head with copious amounts of flammable chemicals. We could play bridge, become best friends. I’d call William, tell him it’s over.

The doors begin to close, and I reach out a hand to press the open button, my finger hovering over the plastic as I wait for myself to push forward, to watch the golden light fill the small white circle. But I don’t. I lower my hand. The doors hum shut.

—

I knock on the door of flat 502. After a few seconds of silence, it snaps open. And there he is, William, smile on his face, slight stubble gracing his angular chin, eyebrows straight over pale blue eyes. His hair is unkempt and slightly graying around the ears, and he’s wearing a white dress shirt tucked into jeans. On anyone else it would look ridiculous, but because he’s attractive, because he’s a brilliant professor, somehow it’s endearing.

“Jeanie,” he says. “There’s my girl.” He doesn’t mind that I’m ten minutes late; he’s just happy to see me. And his happiness is like measles—it’s airborne, highly contagious.

“How’s the conference?” I ask, stepping through the doorway. The room has a small living area, TV, kitchenette, and bedroom behind a partially closed door. From the window on the far side of the room, I can see the Thames and Saint Paul’s Cathedral—I make a mental note to visit the latter. I’m not religious, but I like the small inward feeling I get when standing beneath those stone pillars, the ancient holy art, and the great dome, which seems to rise endlessly toward the heavens.

“Oh, you know,” William says. “If you’ve been to one . . .” He waves a hand. He doesn’t want to talk about the conference, or business, even though I know he presented an important paper to important people. He doesn’t want to talk at all, actually. But I like to chitchat with him first, watch him squirm, wait for that moment when his patience is just tipping toward annoyance before I take my clothes off.

“Presentation went well?” I ask.

“It usually does,” he says in that confident way he has, like he doesn’t even know he’s being confident, like it’s this gut reaction he has to the world around him. Oddly enough, it’s part of what attracted me to him in the first place. The way he looks at you over the top of his glasses. How his gaze travels to the pit of your stomach and tells you that you are not, in fact, better than him. We’ve been doing this for fifteen years now, and that gaze still gets me. I need it like a fix.

“So,” he says, starting to move toward the bedroom.

“Tea?” I ask.

He pauses, deciding whether to force the issue or play my game. “Sure,” he says, going along with it. He goes to the small kitchenette and fills the kettle with tap water and sets the lid down with a satisfying tick. I was never a tea drinker before moving to the UK. Now, God, that little tick—it’s the sound of satisfaction, joy, hope.

“How long are you in London this time?” I ask.

He turns away from the kettle. He’s got a weird little smile on his face, like he’s copped to what I’m doing and won’t let me play any longer.

“Does it matter?” he asks.

“I’d like to know when you’ll be back home. Is there something wrong with that?”

“I don’t think you give a fuck,” he says. He’s trying to bait me. To excite me.

“Maybe I don’t,” I say. Well, shit, I’ve lost my modicum of power; now we’re playing his game. He has that skill. The ability to subvert expectations, to make you think you want one thing before revealing this other thing that, yes, oh, this other thing that you want so much more. Damn him. He reaches out and grabs my hand. I notice his wedding ring, and for the hundredth time—well, maybe not the hundredth—I picture his wife, Holly. I’ve met her a few times. She’s blonde and beautiful and pristine like a porcelain figurine. She makes me wonder why he bothers with me. That damn ring. I wish he’d take the stupid thing off. How hard could it be to slip it somewhere I can’t see before I arrive? But he never does. It’s another power play. He thinks he can do anything he wants.

But what does it matter? I let myself be led, don’t I? I’m even unzipping my jacket as we enter his bedroom. He closes the door and there’s another tick as the metal tongue of the latch slides into place. It’s a different sound this time, one with a more nefarious meaning. My sweater is up over my head now. Now his hands are on the back of my neck. Now my hands are on the brown belt holding up his light blue jeans. Before sliding into bed, I reach out and grab his hand and carefully slip the wedding ring off his ring finger. He looks at me, suspicious, but doesn’t say a word. I heft the weight of it in my palm for half a second, feeling his nerves radiate from his pores. The room feels gravy-heavy. Then I slide the ring over my thumb, a near-perfect fit.

I’m in control now.

The bed creaks beneath us.

In the kitchenette, the kettle begins to scream.

—

That evening for dinner, I buy myself fish and chips and a pint of Guinness at the nearest pub. The fries are extra greasy, and I make a mental note to do some...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Anchor
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2022
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593466861
• ISBN 13: 9780593466865
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 336
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar