The perfect stranger

Megan Miranda

Book - 2017

"In the masterful follow-up to the runaway hit All the Missing Girls--a "fiendishly plotted thriller" (Publishers Weekly)--a journalist sets out to find a missing friend, a friend who may never have existed at all. Confronted by a restraining order and the threat of a lawsuit, failed journalist Leah Stevens needs to get out of Boston when she runs into an old friend, Emmy Grey, who has just left a troubled relationship. Emmy proposes they move to rural Pennsylvania, where Leah can get a teaching position and both women can start again. But their new start is threatened when a woman with an eerie resemblance to Leah is assaulted by the lake, and Emmy disappears days later. Determined to find Emmy, Leah cooperates with Kyle D...onovan, a handsome young police officer on the case. As they investigate her friend's life for clues, Leah begins to wonder: did she ever really know Emmy at all? With no friends, family, or a digital footprint, the police begin to suspect that there is no Emmy Grey. Soon Leah's credibility is at stake, and she is forced to revisit her past: the article that ruined her career. To save herself, Leah must uncover the truth about Emmy Grey--and along the way, confront her old demons, find out who she can really trust, and clear her own name. Everyone in this rural Pennsylvanian town has something to hide--including Leah herself. How do you uncover the truth when you are busy hiding your own?"--

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Subjects
Genres
Thrillers (Fiction)
Detective and mystery fiction
Suspense fiction
Mystery fiction
Published
New York : Simon & Schuster 2017.
Language
English
Main Author
Megan Miranda (author)
Edition
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition
Physical Description
337 pages ; 24 cm
ISBN
9781501107993
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

An excellent second novel of psychological suspense (after All the Missing Girls, 2016) from best-selling teen author Miranda. So many young women, so many unfortunate choices. Two young women in particular, badly in need of a fresh start, leave the big city behind and relocate to western Pennsylvania. Their first misstep is renting a creepy house with sliding glass doors for a front entry, and hidden crawl spaces. One of the women goes missing, and the other finds herself hard-pressed to provide the police with any actual proof of her housemate's existence, particularly after a car is dredged out of the lake with her boyfriend's body in it, and the sudden realization that her name came from a vodka bottle. Good thing there is a handsome and understanding police officer assigned to the case, one who has made his own unfortunate choices. Highly recommended for fans of Alafair Burke, Gillian Flynn, and Lisa Lutz, and for all readers who like their female characters clever and resourceful, even when their best friends become their worst nightmares.--Murphy, Jane Copyright 2017 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Fans of Gillian Flynn, Chevy Stevens, and Jennifer McMahon will devour this relentlessly paced and deftly plotted thriller. A new beginning is exactly what Leah Stevens needs after a devastating incident shatters her journalism career in Boston. She is cajoled along by her former roommate, Emmy Grey, and both women find a second chance in a small Pennsylvania community. Things turn sour when a young woman with an unnerving resemblance to Leah is found, bludgeoned, near death, less than a mile from Leah's home, and Emmy has suddenly disappeared. Leah contacts the police, but the resulting search comes up fruitless; everything she thought she knew about Emmy comes into question. With steeled certainty that Emmy is indeed real, finding her becomes imperative to maintaining Leah's sanity, safety, and reputation. An irresistible and riveting page-turner, Miranda (All the Missing Girls) weaves several mysteries together, leading to the intricate climax. The story moves at a feverish, unfaltering pace, keeping readers just as perplexed as the characters. (May) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Eight years ago, when journalist Leah needed a place to stay, Emmy was her salvation-a friend who took her in, listened to her, and defended her. It was a strong friendship based on trust and support-or so Leah thought. Now, when they both need a fresh start, their paths cross again. From this serendipitous meeting, the two friends decide to move to rural Pennsylvania to reconnect and renew. Then a local woman is attacked at the lake, Emmy goes missing, and all of Leah's journalistic instincts go into overdrive. As she and handsome detective Kyle Donovan start to uncover clues, it seems as if Emmy isn't who she said she was. Does she even exist? With her own past now being questioned, Leah is put on the defense and has to find Emmy in order to clear herself. -VERDICT YA author -Miranda, who moved into the adult market with All the Missing Girls, proves she isn't a one-hit wonder with this exciting thriller. Its twisty tale with many layers-a little romance, great writing, and an awesome story line-will keep psychological suspense fans turning the pages.[See Prepub Alert, 11/26/16.]--Marianne Fitzgerald, Severna Park H.S., MD © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

After her journalism career goes up in flames, a young woman reconnects with an old friend in an attempt to start anew only to become embroiled in a series of increasingly violent crimes.Leah Stevens thought life as a reporter in Boston couldn't get better until a story on college suicides goes sideways in the worst way and she resigns before things get uglier. Floundering professionally and personally, Leah runs into her former roommate Emmy Grey, whom she hasn't seen in eight years, and after a vodka-fueled night more in line with a network television show than anything resembling real life, the pair decides to start over in western Pennsylvania. The nominally qualified Leah teaches school, and Emmy works sporadically in a fleabag motel. Soon a woman is found by the lake, beaten almost to death and bearing an unnerving resemblance to Leah. The obvious suspect is Davis Cobb, the school's basketball coach who's also fond of drunk-dialing Leah. Not wanting her past to come to light, Leah skirts the cops' questions but becomes increasingly worried when Emmy doesn't show up for days on end. Though her friend isn't always reliable, disappearing without a word is unusual, so Leah starts digging, becoming more unnerved the more she tries to piece together Emmy's life, and discovers it is built on lies. With the police skeptical of her story and Leah beginning to doubt her own sanity, Miranda (All the Missing Girls, 2016, etc.) doubles down on the tragic back story angle, to the overall detriment of an otherwise solid plot. Familiar elements shuffled around can make for an entertaining read, but in the end, the pieces will still be just that: familiar. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

The Perfect Stranger CHAPTER 1 Character, Emmy called it, the quirks that came with the house: the nonexistent water pressure in the shower; the illogical layout. From the front porch, our house had large sliding glass doors that led directly to the living room and kitchen, a hallway beyond with two bedrooms and a bathroom to share. The main door was at the other end of the hall and faced the woods, like the house had been laid down with the right dimensions but the wrong orientation. Probably the nicest thing I can say about the house was that it's mine. But even that's not exactly true. It's my name on the lease, my food in the refrigerator, my glass cleanser that wipes the pollen residue from the sliding glass doors. The house still belongs to someone else, though. The furniture, too. I didn't bring much with me when I left my last place. Wasn't much, once I got down to it, that was mine to take from the one-bedroom in the Prudential Center of Boston. Bar stools that wouldn't fit under a standard table. Two dressers, a couch, and a bed, which would cost more to move than to replace. Sometimes I wondered if it was just my mother's words in my head, making me see this place, and my choice to be here, as something less than. Before leaving Boston, I'd tried to spin the story for my mother, slanting this major life change as an active decision, opting to appeal to her sense of charity and decency--both for my benefit and for hers. I once heard her introduce me and my sister to her friends: "Rebecca helps the ones who can be saved, and Leah gives a voice to those who cannot." So I imagined how she might frame this for her friends: My daughter is taking a sabbatical. To help children in need. If anyone could sell it, she could. I made it seem like my idea to begin with, not that I had latched myself on to someone else's plan because I had nowhere else to go. Not because the longer I stood still, the more I felt the net closing in. Emmy and I had already sent in our deposit, and I'd been floating through the weeks, imagining this new version of the world waiting for me. But even then, I'd steeled myself for the call. Timed it so I knew my mother would be on her way to her standing coffee date with The Girls. Practiced my narrative, preemptively preparing counterpoints: I quit my job, and I'm leaving Boston. I'm going to teach high school, already have a position lined up. Western Pennsylvania. You know there are whole areas of the country right here in America that are in need, right? No, I won't be alone. Remember Emmy? My roommate while I was interning after college? She's coming with me. The first thing my mother said was: "I don't remember any Emmy." As if this were the most important fact. But that was how she worked, picking at the details until the foundation finally gave, from nowhere. And yet her method of inquiry was also how we knew we had a secure base, that we weren't basing our plans on a dream that would inevitably crumble under pressure. I moved the phone to my other shoulder. "I lived with her after college." A pause, but I could hear her thoughts in the silence: You mean after you didn't get the job you thought you'd have after graduation, took an unpaid internship instead, and had no place to live? "I thought you were staying with . . . what was her name again? The girl with the red hair? Your roommate from college?" "Paige," I said, picturing not only her but Aaron, as I always did. "And that was just for a little while." "I see," she said slowly. "I'm not asking for your permission, Ma." Except I kind of was. She knew it. I knew it. "Come home, Leah. Come home and let's talk about it." Her guidance had kept my sister and me on a high-achieving track since middle school. She had used her own missteps in life to protect us. She had raised two independently successful daughters. A status I now seemed to be putting in jeopardy. "So, what," she said, changing the angle of approach, "you just walked in one day and quit?" "Yes," I said. "And you're doing this why?" I closed my eyes and imagined for a moment that we were different people who could say things like Because I'm in trouble, so much trouble, before straightening my spine and giving her my speech. "Because I want to make a difference. Not just take facts and report them. I'm not doing anything at the paper but stroking my own ego. There's a shortage of teachers, Mom. I could really make an impact." "Yes, but in western Pennsylvania?" The way she said it told me everything I needed to know. When Emmy suggested it, western Pennsylvania seemed like a different version of the world I knew, with a different version of myself--which, at the time, was exactly what I needed. But my mother's world was in the shape of a horseshoe. It stretched from New York City to Boston, swooping up all of Massachusetts inside the arch (but bypassing Connecticut entirely). She was the epicenter in western Massachusetts, and she'd successfully sent a daughter to the edge of each arch, and the world was right and complete. Any place else, in contrast, would be seen as a varying degree of failure. My family was really only one generation out from a life that looked like this: a rental house with shitty plumbing, a roommate out of necessity, a town with a forgettable name, a job but no career. When my father left us, I wasn't really old enough to appreciate the impact. But I knew there existed a time when we were unprepared and at the whim of the generosity of those around us. Those were the limbo years--the ones she never talked about, a time she now pretends never existed. To her, this probably sounded a lot like sliding backward. "Great teachers are needed everywhere," I said. She paused, then seemed to concede with a slow and drawn-out "Yes." I hung up, vindicated, then felt the twinge. She was not conceding. Great teachers are needed everywhere, yes, but you are not that. She didn't mean it as an insult, exactly. My sister and I were both valedictorians, both National Merit Scholars, both early admissions to the college of our respective choice. It wasn't unreasonable that she would question this decision--especially coming out of thin air. I quit, I had told her. This was not a lie, but a technicality--the truth being that it was the safest option, for both the paper and me. The truth was, I had no job in the only thing I'd trained in, no foreseeable one, and no chance of one. The truth was I was glad she had given me the blandest name, the type of name I'd hated growing up. A girl who could blend in and never stand out. A name in a roster anywhere. EMMY'S CAR STILL WASN'T back when I was ready to leave for school. This was not too unusual. She worked the night shift, and she'd been seeing some guy named Jim--who sounded, on the phone, like he had smoke perpetually coating his lungs. I thought he wasn't nearly good enough for Emmy; that she was sliding backward in some intangible way, like me. But I cut her some slack because I understood how it could be out here, how the calm could instead feel like an absence--and that sometimes you just wanted someone to see you. Other than weekends, we could miss each other for days at a time. But it was Thursday, and I needed to pay the rent. She usually left me money on the table, underneath the painted stone garden gnome that she'd found and used as a centerpiece. I lifted the gnome by his red hat just to double-check, revealing nothing but a few stray crumbs. Her lateness on the rent was also not too unusual. I left her a sticky note beside the corded phone, our designated spot. I wrote RENT DUE in large print, stuck it on the wood-paneled wall. She'd taken all the other notes from earlier in the week--the SEE ELECTRIC BILL, the MICROWAVE BROKEN, the MICROWAVE FIXED. I opened the sliding doors, hit the lights at the entrance, rummaged in my bag for my car keys--and realized I'd forgotten my cell. A gust of wind came in through the door as I turned around, and I watched the yellow slip of paper--RENT DUE--flutter down and slip behind the wood stand where we stacked the mail. I crouched down and saw the accumulated mess underneath. A pile of sticky notes. CALL JIM right side up but half covered by another square. A few others, facedown. Not taken by Emmy after all but lost between the wall and the furniture during the passing weeks. Emmy didn't have a cell because her old one was still with her ex, on his phone plan, and she didn't want an easy way for him to trace her. The idea of not owning a cell phone left me feeling almost naked, but she said it was nice not to be at anyone's beck and call. It had seemed so Emmy at the time--quirky and endearing--but now seemed both irrational and selfish. I left the notes on the kitchen table instead. Propped them up against the garden gnome. Tried to think of how many days it had been since I'd last seen her. I added another note: CALL ME. Decided to throw out the rest, so it wouldn't get lost in the shuffle. Excerpted from Watch Me Go by Megan Miranda 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.