In this riveting psychological thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of All the Wrong Places , a dementia patient reveals a deadly secret—and one woman must decide whether to believe her. “An epic murder mystery . . . This novel is a delight, tugging at your heartstrings as it explores the grief, insecurities, and beauty that come with aging.”— Oprah Daily (Best Books of the Fall) Reeling from her husband’s death and best friend’s dementia diagnosis, seventy-six-year-old Linda Davidson feels lost and alone. Her beloved daughter Kleo and son-in-law Mick have moved into her house to keep her company, but the constant bickering quickly turns their presence into yet another worry on Linda’s long list. Eager to escape the tension at home, Linda goes to visit her friend at Legacy Place, a memory care facility for the elderly, where she meets Jenny Cooper, a ninety-two-year-old dementia patient who makes a shocking confession: she kills people. Linda dismisses the so-called secret as the confusion of an ailing mind, but Jenny seems strangely lucid during their visits as she recounts stories of her many victims—mostly men who hurt her. Then a fellow patient at Legacy Place dies. Everyone else sees it as the natural death of a sick old man, but Linda can’t help but wonder: is there any chance Jenny’s telling the truth? “An epic murder mystery . . . This novel is a delight, tugging at your heartstrings as it explores the grief, insecurities, and beauty that come with aging.” — Oprah Daily (Best Books of the Fall) “Enough suspense to keep readers turning the pages so quickly that they risk paper cuts . . . another fine novel from this talented storyteller.” — Booklist “Death, dementia, marital problems, abuse and humor . . . While they don’t seem to go together, in Fielding’s extremely capable hands, they combine for a delightfully fascinating read.” — Bookreporter “Excellent . . . This is an intense novel you do not want to put down. Joy Fielding has written another winner.” — Red Carpet Crash “[Joy] Fielding’s excellent latest nestles a murder mystery inside a witty novel of friendship and loss. . . . Punchy, surprising, and sweet in equal measure, this tale of twisted sisterhood is a home run.” — Publishers Weekly, starred review Joy Fielding is the New York Times bestselling author of The Housekeeper, Cul-de-sac, All the Wrong Places, The Bad Daughter, She’s Not There, Someone Is Watching, Charley’s Web, Heartstopper, Mad River Road, See Jane Run, and other acclaimed novels. She divides her time between Toronto and Palm Beach, Florida. CHAPTER ONE “Psst . . .” The word pings against the back of my ear like a well-aimed pebble. I turn toward the sound, see nothing but the long corridor stretched out behind me. There is no one there. I shrug, take another step. “Psst . . .” Really? I stop, my eyes scanning the area. Is someone crouched behind one of the plush purple velvet sofas in the nearby lounge? And if so, aren’t we a little old to be playing such games? “Hello?” I say, more question than greeting, my body twisting toward the empty visitors’ lounge to my right, then over toward the deserted nurses’ station on my left, ultimately completing a full circle. I am about to throw up my hands, as if to say, “I give up,” when I see her. No wonder I missed her, I think. She is tiny, her skin almost the same shade as the concrete pillar her frail body is leaning against, her uncombed hair a perfect match for her ghostly pallor. If she were any less substantial, she’d be invisible, I think, then laugh, wondering if that’s how the younger generation sees me. Or doesn’t see me. I’m no spring chicken, after all. Seventy-six, as of a month ago. Well past the age when women become invisible to most of the outside world. And this woman is at least a decade my senior, I estimate. Although that could be just wishful thinking, I’m forced to concede. “Are you talking to me?” I ask, hearing echoes of Robert De Niro’s famous line from the movie Taxi Driver as I take a few trepid steps toward her. And how long has it been since that movie came out? Twenty, thirty years? Longer? I stop, startled to realize that I’m nervous, although I have no idea why. What can this frail old woman possibly do to me? She can’t weigh more than ninety pounds, and I’m easily a hundred and thirty-five. Okay, closer to a hundred and forty, according to the last time I got weighed, although I’m still considered slim for my five-foot, nine-inch frame. Okay, five feet, eight and a quarter inches. I’ve lost almost an inch since the last time I was measured. Pounds gained; inches lost. Getting shorter and wider. “Nothing to be concerned about,” my doctor has assured me. “I’m not worried.” And why should he be? At barely fifty, he’s years away from his best-before date. I, on the other hand, am circling cautiously around mine. Yes, everyone says I look much younger than my age; I exercise, have regular facials and