An innocent night of fun takes a shocking turn in Not That I Could Tell, the next page-turner from Jessica Strawser.
When a group of neighborhood women gathers, wine in hand, around a fire pit where their backyards meet one Saturday night, most of them are just ecstatic to have discovered that their baby monitors reach that far. It’s a rare kid-free night, and they’re giddy with it. They drink too much, and the conversation turns personal.
By Monday morning, one of them is gone.
Everyone knows something about everyone else in the quirky small Ohio town of Yellow Springs, but no one can make sense of the disappearance. Kristin was a sociable twin mom, college administrator, and doctor’s wife who didn’t seem all that bothered by her impending divorce―and the investigation turns up more questions than answers, with her husband, Paul, at the center. For her closest neighbor, Clara, the incident triggers memories she thought she’d put behind her―and when she’s unable to extract herself from the widening circle of scrutiny, her own suspicions quickly grow. But the neighborhood’s newest addition, Izzy, is determined not to jump to any conclusions―especially since she’s dealing with a crisis of her own.
As the police investigation goes from a media circus to a cold case, the neighbors are forced to reexamine what’s going on behind their own closed doors―and to ask how well anyone really knows anyone else.
Jessica Strawser’s NOT THAT I COULD TELL was inspired by a tragic turn in her own life when she lost her best friend. It’s a touching, gripping story rife with suspense about a woman’s disappearance. Picked as a March Book of the Month Club pick and a Best Book of March by Barnes & Noble, the novel has already picked up a lot of buzz and I can’t wait to read it myself. While it’s not out until March 27th, I’m thrilled to share an excerpt with you today!
Maybe you’ve had this experience: waiting for someone who’s late coming home. Really late. You call and call their phone, and there’s no answer. Your mind starts to conjure stories of disaster. A patch of black ice. A jackknifed semitruck. A drunk driver. You look out the window every five minutes. You tell yourself you’re being silly. You recheck your phone to make sure you haven’t missed a call. You turn on the porch light as it grows dark, praying you won’t see a police cruiser pull up to deliver bad news. You stare at the TV, not seeing. You pour a glass of water, realizing your mouth has gone dry.
There’s a simple explanation. They come home and tell you so. A dead cell phone battery. A traffic jam. Briefly, you wonder what caused it—maybe another person was in the accident that moments ago seemed such a certain possibility. But it doesn’t matter anymore, not really. It wasn’t your person. Your worry dissolves. It’s easily forgotten. By morning, you’re bickering again.
I used to be that way. A real basket case. Drove my husband crazy when he’d walk through the door and I’d rush at him, all, “Where have you been and why didn’t you call and don’t you know how worried I was?” Then one day, I finally pulled myself together. I was too tired for neurotic, needless worry. I didn’t wait up.