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Summary
Summary
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * In the tradition of The Girl on the Train, The Woman in Cabin 10, and Gone Girl comes an enthralling psychological thriller that spins one woman's seemingly good fortune, and another woman's mysterious fate, through a kaleidoscope of duplicity, death, and deception.
SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE DIRECTED BY RON HOWARD
Please make a list of every possession you consider essential to your life.
The request seems odd, even intrusive--and for the two women who answer, the consequences are devastating.
EMMA
Reeling from a traumatic break-in, Emma wants a new place to live. But none of the apartments she sees are affordable or feel safe. Until One Folgate Street. The house is an architectural masterpiece: a minimalist design of pale stone, plate glass, and soaring ceilings. But there are rules. The enigmatic architect who designed the house retains full control: no books, no throw pillows, no photos or clutter or personal effects of any kind. The space is intended to transform its occupant--and it does.
JANE
After a personal tragedy, Jane needs a fresh start. When she finds One Folgate Street she is instantly drawn to the space--and to its aloof but seductive creator. Moving in, Jane soon learns about the untimely death of the home's previous tenant, a woman similar to Jane in age and appearance. As Jane tries to untangle truth from lies, she unwittingly follows the same patterns, makes the same choices, crosses paths with the same people, and experiences the same terror, as the girl before.
Praise for The Girl Before
"Dazzling, startling, and above all cunning--a pitch-perfect novel of psychological suspense." --Lee Child
" The Girl Before generates a fast pace. . . . [J. P.] Delaney intersperses ethics questions on stand-alone pages throughout the book. . . . The single most ingenious touch is that we're not provided either woman's answers." --The New York Times
"J. P. Delaney builds the suspense." -- Vanity Fair
"Immediate guarantee: You will not be able to put this book down. . . . Fans of Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train will realize that there's not only more where that came from, but it's also more thrilling." -- American Booksellers Association
Author Notes
The New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Before and Believe Me , JP Delaney has previously written fiction under other names.
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Jane Cavendish and Emma Williams, searching London for a cheap safe place to live, are entranced by what appears to be a bargain, a unique minimalist house automatically controlled by cutting-edge technology. Both are equally entranced by the house's architect, Edward Monkford, a darkly handsome control freak who demands that voluminous stipulations be met before he turns over the Fitbit-like wristband that automatically opens the front door. The first of many twists in this psychological thriller from Delaney is that, though both perspectives are written in the present tense, Emma's takes place in the past. Actors Fox (reading Jane's sections) and Williams (reading Emma's sections) move the frequently shifting plot along at a swift clip, clearly distinguishing the differing emotions of the two main characters even as they go through their similar paces. The amazing automated house, almost as prominent as its inhabitants, does everything but speak. But while Fox and Williams are not called upon to give voice to the brick-and-mortar character, they are totally successful in capturing the atmosphere that the cold, indifferent, slightly terrifying building creates. A Ballantine hardcover. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* There's a new girl in town. And if you think that Girl-titled thrillers have exhausted themselves, think again. The Girl Before is a masterfully crafted spellbinder that bringsa whole new dimension to the premise. There are actually two girls, Emma and Jane. Emma is relocating after a traumatic assault, and the only place that makes her feel safe is the amazing house at One Folgate Street, a minimalist-design masterpiece that comes at a price she can afford. The only catch is that the architect and landlord has an extensive list of rules that forbid any personalization. The enigmatic Edward Monkford's vision is of a space designed to transform the tenant rather than the space itself being transformed. And transformative, it is, indeed. Next comes Jane, with her own trauma. After moving in, she learns about Emma's untimely death and is told she strongly resembles Emma in age and appearance. Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she investigates, all the time following the same path to terror as the girl before. The tables turn, and turn again, and the ending is guaranteed to both astonish and satisfy the reader. JP Delaney is the pseudonym of a best-selling fiction writer. The book is being published in 35 countries, and a film version is in the hands of Ron Howard. A must.--Murphy, Jane Copyright 2016 Booklist
New York Review of Books Review
MEDICAL MYSTERIES CAN be so messy, what with all those untidy body parts and slippery viscera. THE HOLLOW MEN (Pegasus Crime, $25.95), a first novel by the pseudonymous Rob McCarthy, delivers its gruesome details in the authentic voice of the medical student McCarthy happens to be. The stage is set at John Ruskin University Hospital in London, where Harry Kent, on duty at the Accident & Emergency department and on police call as a medical examiner, saves the life of Solomon Idris, a desperate teenager shot by trigger-happy cops during a bungled hostage standoff at a fast-food restaurant. Harry has his quirks. ("Every hospital had its speed addicts ... but Harry was careful.") And he's not proud of having betrayed his best friend. ("Long story short, I slept with his wife.") But he's heroic in a crisis and obsessively devoted to some of his sadder cases, like Zara, his name for an unidentified girl who's been comatose since 2011. When she arrived at the hospital, her hair had been shocking pink and as it grew out Harry made sure it was dyed the same color. Because he regards his nerve-racking job with a certain sense of awe and his professional efforts with a degree of modesty, Harry is much more complicated than the conventional fearless hero. Maybe that's because he secretly feels like one of T. S. Eliot's hollow men, forever searching for something to fill his empty soul. That would also explain why he feels responsible for people like Zara and Idris, who have no one else "to speak for them." Whatever his sins, Harry doesn't deserve to be made a scapegoat when someone tries to murder Idris - for what reason, no one knows - as he lies helpless in the hospital in a coma. And although the plot, centered on violent youth gangs in depressed areas, is fairly predictable, it's presented with jarring realism and zero sentimentality. McCarthy's piercing view of the fortified world of a big metropolitan hospital reflects the perspective of an insider who may sometimes wish he weren't so close to the action. COULD YOU LIVE without kittens? How about books? Could you live without books? In THE GIRL BEFORE (Ballantine, $27), J P Delaney offers a diabolical choice - a chance to live in the house of your dreams if you renounce almost all material attachments. Both Jane Cavendish and the property's previous tenant, Emma Matthews, have made considerable sacrifices to live at 1 Folgate Street, an extraordinary ultraminimalist mansion ("a compact cube of pale stone") that comes with some 200 restrictive rules of occupancy, set by the architect. The bans on children, pets and loud parties are only the beginning; tenants are forbidden to introduce so much as a throw pillow into this austere environment, which is electronically programmed to monitor itself. Unsurprisingly, that hyperattentiveness also distinguishes the architect, Edward Monkford, who romances both women, giving them identical jewels and introducing them to cosmopolitan delights like eating live seafood. There's a distinct creepiness to this claustrophobic story, but in time common sense triumphs; what initially felt deliciously sinister eventually seems schematic and just plain sadistic. IT'S THE "SEASON OF GRAY" in Randall Silvis's chilly suspense novel TWO DAYS GONE (Sourcebooks Landmark, paper, $15.99), a wintry time when "surliness prevails" in the northwestern wedge of Pennsylvania. There a wanted man hides in the woods, "numb with cold and hunger and disbelief." The fugitive is Tom Huston, a locally well-liked novelist who fled his house two days earlier, leaving his wife and three children slaughtered in their beds. Now Sgt. Ryan DeMarco has been charged with directing the hunt for a man he has come to know as a friend. Silvis tells his parallel stories - of Huston's mad wanderings in the forest and DeMarco's reluctant dragnet - with finely tuned sensitivity. The novelist uses brute willpower to close his mind to painful reality, while the policeman struggles to understand his quarry by reading Huston's notes for an unfinished novel. "How much of the voice was artifice and how much a reflection of the man?" DeMarco wonders. He asks the same question of himself, then supplies his own answer. "We are all made up," he says. "We are only real at night." JOANNE HARRIS DELIVERS mischief and murder to an English prep school in DIFFERENT CLASS (Touchstone, $26), a delightfully malicious view of privileged students with overly active imaginations. The novel's alarming events are mostly related by Roy Straitley, a crotchety Latin master with a droll sense of humor and a partiality for students who are "rebels and clowns." In deference to the new reformist headmaster at St. Oswald's Grammar School for Boys, Straitley will deign to invite visiting parents into his office, "much as folklore dictates we should invite a vampire before he can feed." He draws the line, though, at trivializing the classics department or (God forbid!) consolidating with Mulberry House, a school for girls. But, as we learn from the diary of someone with a disturbing taste for torturing animals, more dangerous forces lie elsewhere. Years earlier, Harry Clarke, a charismatic English teacher, had been unfairly accused of pederasty and charged with murder. But, thanks to Straitley, we now know where to look for the true spawn of Satan.
Library Journal Review
What if you could rent an architectural showplace, a futuristic house with state-of-the-art amenities, for the same price as a moderate apartment? As with many deals that seem too good to be true, the house at One Folgate Street had many strings attached in its rental contract, including a forced minimalist lifestyle and a stark lack of privacy. This psychological thriller by a best-selling pseudonymous author alternates between the stories of Jane, the current tenant, and Emma, the previous tenant, during the time that they inhabited the house. Both women began their residences in a vulnerable state, after each had faced a life-altering experience. The uncanny parallels between Jane and Emma and their obsessive architect-landlord's late wife are quickly discovered and hardly seem coincidental. As each woman draws closer to the eccentric architect, the lines are blurred and it becomes increasingly difficult to discern whether the house offers sanctuary or imminent danger. Verdict This haunting Big Brother-esque novel will consume psychological thriller enthusiasts and keep them thinking long after the final page. Fans of Paula Hawkins's The Girl on the Train should add it to their winter reading lists. [See Prepub Alert, 7/18/16; January 2017 top LibraryReads pick.]-Mary Todd Chesnut, Northern Kentucky Univ. Lib., Highland Heights © Copyright 2016. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1. Please make a list of every possession you consider essential to your life. Then: Emma It's a lovely little flat, the agent says with what could almost pass for genuine enthusiasm. Close to the amenities. And there's that private bit of roof. That could become a sun terrace, subject of course to the landlord's consent. Nice, Simon agrees, trying not to catch my eye. I'd known the flat was no good as soon as I walked in and saw that six-foot stretch of roof below one of the windows. Si knows it too but he doesn't want to tell the agent, or at least not so soon it'll seem rude. He might even hope that if I listen to the man's stupid patter long enough I'll waver. The agent's Simon's kind of guy: sharp, brash, eager. He probably reads the magazine Simon works for. They were exchanging sports chat before we even got up the stairs. And here you have a decent-sized bedroom, the agent's saying. With ample-- It's no good, I interrupt, cutting short the charade. It's not right for us. The agent raises his eyebrows. You can't be too choosy in this market, he says. This'll be gone by tonight. Five viewings today, and it's not even on our website yet. It's not secure enough, I say flatly. Shall we go? There are locks on all the windows, he points out, plus a Chubb on the door. Of course, you could install a burglar alarm, if security's a particular concern. I don't think the landlord would have any objection. He's talking across me now, to Simon. Particular concern. He might as well have said, Oh, is the girlfriend a bit of a drama queen? I'll wait outside, I say, turning to leave. Realizing he's blundered, the agent adds, If it's the area that's the problem, perhaps you should have a look farther west. We already have, Simon says. It's all out of our budget. Apart from the ones the size of a tea bag. He's trying to keep the frustration out of his voice, but the fact that he needs to riles me even more. There's a one-bedroom in Queen's Park, the agent says. A bit grotty, but . . . We looked at it, Simon says. In the end we felt it was just a bit too close to that estate. His tone makes it clear that we means "she." Or there's a third-floor just come on in Kilburn-- That too. There was a drainpipe next to one of the windows. The agent looks puzzled. Someone could have climbed it, Simon explains. Right. Well, the rental season's only just started. Perhaps if you wait a bit. The agent has clearly decided we're time-wasters: He too is sidling toward the door. I go and stand outside, on the landing, so he won't come near me. We've already given notice on our old place, I hear Simon say. We're running out of options. He lowers his voice. Look, mate, we were burgled. Five weeks ago. Two men broke in and threatened Emma with a knife. You can see why she'd be a bit jumpy. Oh, the agent says. Shit. If someone did that to my girlfriend I don't know what I'd do. Look, this might be a long shot, but . . . His voice trails off. Yes? Simon says. Has anyone at the office mentioned One Folgate Street to you? I don't think so. Has it just come on? Not exactly, no. The agent seems unsure whether to pursue this or not. But it's available? Simon persists. Technically, yes, the agent says. And it's a fantastic property. Absolutely fantastic. In a different league from this. But the landlord's . . . to say he's particular would be putting it mildly. What area? Simon asks. Hampstead, the agent says. Well, more like Hendon. But it's really quiet. Em? Simon calls. I go back inside. We might as well take a look, I say. We're halfway there now. The agent nods. I'll stop by the office, he says, see if I can locate the details. It's been a while since I showed anyone around, actually. It's not a place that would suit just anyone. But I think it might be right up your street. Sorry, no pun intended. Now: Jane "That's the last one." The agent, whose name is Camilla, drums her fingers on the steering wheel of her Smart car. "So really, it's time to make up our minds." I sigh. The flat we've just viewed, in a run-down mansion block off West End Lane, is the only one in my price range. And I'd just about persuaded myself it was all right--ignoring the peeling wallpaper, the faint smell of someone else's cooking seeping up from the flat below, the poky bedroom and the mold spattered across the unventilated bathroom--until I'd heard a bell being rung nearby, an old-fashioned hand bell, and the place was suddenly filled with the noise of children. Going to the window, I found myself looking down at a school. I could see into a room being used by a toddler group, the windows hung with cutouts of paper bunnies and geese. Pain tugged at my insides. "I think I'll pass on this one," I managed to say. "Really?" Camilla seemed surprised. "Is it the school? The previous tenants said they rather liked the sound of children playing." "Though not so much they decided to stay." I turned away. "Shall we go?" Now Camilla leaves a long, tactical silence as she drives us back to her office. Eventually she says, "If nothing we saw today took your fancy, we might have to think about upping your budget." "Unfortunately, my budget can't budge," I say drily, looking out the window. "Then you might have to be a bit less picky," she says tartly. "About that last one. There are . . . personal reasons why I can't live next to a school. Not right now." I see her eyes going to my stomach, still a little flabby from my pregnancy, and her eyes widen as she makes the connection. "Oh," she says. Camilla isn't quite as dim as she looks, for which I'm grateful. She doesn't need me to spell it out. Instead, she seems to come to a decision. "Look, there is one other place. We're not really meant to show it without the owner's express permission, but occasionally we do anyway. It freaks some people out, but personally I think it's amazing." "An amazing property on my budget? We're not talking about a houseboat, are we?" "God, no. Almost the opposite. A modern building in Hendon. A whole house--only one bedroom, but loads of space. The owner is the architect. He's actually really famous. Do you ever buy clothes at Wanderer?" "Wanderer . . ." In my previous life, when I had money and a proper, well-paid job, I did sometimes go into the Wanderer shop on Bond Street, a terrifyingly minimalist space where a handful of eye-wateringly expensive dresses were laid out on thick stone slabs like sacrificial virgins, and the sales assistants all dressed in black kimonos. "Occasionally. Why?" "The Monkford Partnership designs all their stores. He's what they call a techno-minimalist or something. Lots of hidden gadgetry, but otherwise everything's completely bare." She shoots me a look. "I should warn you, some people find his style a bit . . . austere." "I can cope with that." "And . . ." "Yes?" I prompt, when she doesn't go on. "It's not a straightforward landlord-tenant agreement," she says hesitantly. "Meaning?" "I think," she says, flicking down her indicator and moving into the left-hand lane, "we should take a look at the property first, see if you fall in love with it. Then I'll explain the drawbacks." Excerpted from The Girl Before by J. P. Delaney All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
