The new neighbor A novel

In the new thriller from the author of You Can Run (2021), Cleveland has carefully constructed a story about Beth Bradford, a CIA counterintelligence analyst who's trying to identify a traitor living in a quiet suburban cul-de-sac--or, and the narrative makes this seem like a distinct possibility, perhaps Beth is becoming steadily more ensnared by a paranoid delusion. The author, a former CIA analyst specializing in counterintelligence, uses her insider knowledge of tradecraft and the workings of the CIA to imbue the novel with realism; in Beth Bradford, she's created a character of substantial complexity. We want Beth to unmask the traitor known as The Neighbor, but, at the same time, we see some of the things Beth does, and they seem like the actions of someone who's definitely confused. Full of surprises and revelations, steeped in paranoia and fear, this is a thriller that keeps readers guessing right up until the final moments. A sequel is hinted at and much to be desired.

At the start of this clever national security cyberwar thriller cum suburban status-envy mystery from bestseller Cleveland (You Can Run), CIA counterintelligence analyst Beth Bradford drops her youngest child off at college, then sees her life unravel. As she mourns the sale of the suburban Virginia house where she raised her family, her husband announces he's leaving her. She's sidelined at work, shunted into a training role instead of continuing her 15-year pursuit of a U.S.-based covert Iranian operative known as "The Neighbor." Dazed by the speed at which everything in her life is upended, she cultivates an increasingly unhealthy obsession with the new occupants of her old house, Madeline and Josh Sterling, conflating her personal crisis with an off-the-books investigation of the Neighbor's identity. She digs into the Sterlings' backgrounds, sets up surveillance of a cul-de-sac in her old neighborhood, and appears increasingly unhinged to her friends and former neighbors. The strong plot takes several convincing twists that vindicate Beth's initially outlandish suspicions as it builds toward a well-paced, if not entirely surprising, conclusion. Cleveland consistently entertains. Agent: David Gernert, Gernert Co. (July)

"How well do any of us know our neighbors?" This question anchors Cleveland's latest novel as a CIA analyst fights against the clock to keep Iranian intelligence from infiltrating the Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System. Beth Bradford's life is in transition: Her youngest son has just started college, and she and her husband are moving out of the house where all three of their kids grew up, away from the McLean, Virginia, neighborhood where their best friends still live. Their marriage is also fading; Beth's only solace is that she will have more time to devote to preventing Iranian intelligence from infiltrating the network using an asset only known as "The Neighbor." Despite her almost 20 years on the case, however, she is suddenly reassigned to a teaching gig, losing her high-level security clearance and her professional raison d'être. The last bit of intelligence she (surreptitiously) accesses is a short message: "The Neighbor has found a new cul-de-sac." Determined to figure out the identity of The Neighbor before national security is compromised, she begins to surveill her old neighborhood, noticing for the first time how most of her friends, in addition to the woman who bought her house, have their own secrets and could potentially be guilty. But no one will believe her; her family, friends, and co-workers chalk up her suspicions to midlife crisis paranoia. Will she uncover the identity of The Neighbor before it's too late? Despite a rather predictable pattern--no one seems to understand that Beth's concern is rooted in more than her chaotic life changes--there are a number of satisfying twists in the second half of the book. To answer the rhetorical question: No, it's clear that we never really know our neighbors--or our own families--but must rely only on ourselves. A stark takeaway, yes, but that doesn't make it wrong. Cleveland engenders deep paranoia for the susceptibility of U.S. intelligence--under the guise of entertainment. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

One Three Weeks Earlier "Perfect," I say, eyeing Tyler through the viewfinder of my Nikon, pressing down gently on the shutter release. I lower the camera, check the image captured on the screen. Tyler's smiling broadly, bathed in early morning sunlight, leaning on the handle of his rolling suitcase, the freshly painted front door behind him, the stone planters on either side bursting with late summer color. It's true, it's the perfect shot, Instagram-worthy, if I were into that sort of thing. The last picture I'll snap of one of my kids in front of the home where we raised them. But it shouldn't be the last, should it? Perfect as it is, it's all wrong. Tyler's already walking past me, heading toward the driveway, suitcase in tow. "One more," I say. He turns. "Really, Mom?" "Right there, with the cul-de-sac behind you." He smiles again for the camera, this time with a touch of exasperation, and I get the shot. I lower the camera and check the screen. Better. There's the for sale sign in the yard, under contract tacked to the top. But I can Photoshop that out. "It's just an empty street," Tyler says, looking out at the loop. I follow his gaze. The Kanes' and the Johnsons' and the O'Malleys'. Softly lit houses, lush lawns, mature landscaping. Everything quiet, everything perfect. And he's right--the street is empty. "Well, now it is," I say. He continues on down the path to the driveway, suitcase wheels clacking over the breaks in the concrete. In the driveway, Mike's starting the car, the engine sputtering softly. Everyone's ready but me. I'm still staring at the loop of pavement, and in my mind's eye it becomes full again. Figures appear, almost ghostly at first, but gradually coming into focus. Children on bikes, some still with training wheels; others drawing with sidewalk chalk; the younger ones toddling around, unsteady on their feet. Their mothers, sitting in lawn chairs arrayed in a half circle, chatting and laughing-- "Mom!" comes Tyler's voice from the driveway, and the figures vanish. The cul-de-sac is empty once again. "Coming." I start walking toward the driveway, and can't help but steal one last glance at the street. That scene was so clear in my mind I would have sworn it was real. It's a two-and-a-half-hour drive to the University of Virginia, another half hour to wait for a parking space to open up. When it finally does, the three of us make our way to Tyler's dorm, an old brick building near the center of campus, past a courtyard with big shade trees. The room itself is small, a typical dorm room, with two of everything: extra-long twin beds, desks, dressers, all the furniture solid and well worn. We're the first to arrive. I start unpacking while Mike and Tyler head down to the car for more boxes. Place stacks of clothes into the dresser drawers. Books and school supplies on the desk. I'm placing a couple of pairs of shoes into one of the small closets when they walk back in, maneuvering the TV box through the door. "I don't need you to unpack," Tyler says to me as they set down the box on the carpeted floor, leaning it against the dresser. "I want to." The door opens before he can object, drawing our attention. A skinny teenage boy with a smattering of acne stands in the doorway. Must be the new roommate. He and Tyler have chatted online, followed each other's social media accounts, but they haven't met in person yet. "Hey," the boy says, lifting a hand awkwardly. "Sweetheart, can you walk all the way through the door, please?" comes a terse voice behind him. He steps forward into the room, and a woman follows, giant-sized Target shopping bags in each hand. Two blond grade-school-age girls trail behind her, sullen looks on their faces, bickering. She shakes her head at me. "Kids." She rolls her eyes, then adds, "Hi. I'm Beth." "Well, that'll be easy to remember," I say. "I'm Beth, too." "No way." She must be the mother, but she's young. Mid to late thirties, maybe. Tight-fitting workout clothes, hair that looks freshly styled, flawless makeup, not that she needs it. I'm instantly conscious of my own appearance. Loose-fitting clothes, air-dried hair, ChapStick. And my age. I have a decade on her, at least. We might have the name in common, but the similarities end there. "Where are y'all from?" she asks. "Near DC. McLean." I watch for any spark of recognition. In the DC area, McLean is synonymous with Langley, which inevitably leads to questions about the CIA. Fortunately, though, her expression remains blank, and I don't need to be evasive about my career. "What about you?" "Richmond." One of the girls elbows the other, who instantly shouts, "Mom!" "Girls, cut it out," she says curtly. Then, to me, "I should have brought their iPads." The room, already small, now feels almost claustrophobic. The two boys are helping Mike pull the TV out of the box; there's barely room for the three of them between the two beds. "It's a madhouse out there," she says to me, moving the shopping bags to the unclaimed side of the room. "Sure is." "Would have left earlier if I'd known." She shakes her head. "Rookie mistake." I smile. She reaches into one of the shopping bags, pulls out an unopened set of sheets, then a new pack of smart plugs, the same kind the kids talked us into getting at home. Everything's controlled with a voice now, or an app. "Is this your first time, too?" she asks. "Sending someone off to college?" "Actually, third. Our girls are already out of college." "Yeah?" she says, pulling out a plastic-wrapped pillow, then reaching back into the bag. It looks like she raided the back-to-school section of the store. "What are they doing now?" "My oldest is a teacher. She just got married in June." "No way." She pauses and looks at me, a boxed Bluetooth speaker in her hands. "Gosh, you might have grandchildren soon." The words are cringeworthy. I'm not old enough for that. And Aubrey's too young to be married, let alone have kids. I mean, she's the age I was when I had her, but still. "Well, they want to get a house first. Settle down. But they're looking for one, so it might not be long. . . ." I realize I'm rambling. "And my younger daughter just graduated from Georgetown in May. Took a job as a travel reporter. She moved to London last month." "How exciting. What a summer for your family." What a summer, indeed. "And your girls? How old are they?" "Ten and eight. We're still in the gymnastics and soccer stage of life." The girls are sitting on the bare mattress of one of the twin-sized beds, still looking petulant. The older one says something quietly to the younger one, who immediately says, "No I didn't!" "Girls," she scolds, turning toward them. "I said enough." She turns back to me. "So you're going home to a quiet house." She gives a wry laugh. "Lucky you." I force a smile. It's really hot in here. Mike and the two boys have the TV out of the box now, packing material strewn about. She's opening up the second shopping bag. I check my watch. Ten minutes until eleven. "Well, I think Tyler's things are mostly unpacked, so I'll get out of here, give you all some space to move around." "Tight quarters in here, huh?" "No kidding. It was really nice to meet you." "Likewise," she says with a smile. I turn toward Mike. "I'm going to wait outside. Come get me when you and Tyler are ready for lunch, okay?" "Sure." Tyler's focused on unwrapping cables and cords, doesn't even look up. I watch him for a moment, then turn and let myself out of the room. I sit on an empty bench under a large shade tree, just outside the entrance to the dorm. The air is fresh and pleasantly cool, and the leaves are rustling softly. I pull my phone from my purse, open up the HomeWatch app. A live feed appears. It's from the default camera, the one mounted above our front door, looking down at the porch, and the street beyond. Street's empty, porch is empty. Everything's quiet. I set down the phone on the bench beside me and watch the passersby. Anxious teenagers, parents loaded down with boxes and suitcases and shopping bags. New beginnings for some, chapters closing for others. Bittersweet. Excerpted from The New Neighbor: A Novel by Karen Cleveland 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.