A wealthy woman suspects something is off about the luxurious complex she lives in . . . and she is right, in this riveting domestic-suspense novel from international bestselling author Alexandra Burt. Donna Pryor lives in the lap of luxury. She spends her days in a beautifully appointed condo. Her every whim is catered to by a dedicated staff, and she does not want for anything. Except for news of her adult daughter. Or an ex-husband who takes her calls. Donna knows something is wrong, but she can't quite put her finger on it. As her life of privilege starts to feel more and more like a prison, the facade she has depended on begins to crumble. Somewhere in the ruins is the truth, and the closer Donna Pryor gets to it, the more likely it is to destroy her. Praise for Shadow Garden “Alexandra Burt's latest is a haunted and haunting read, rendered with her usual gift for psychological detail in stunningly atmospheric prose. In the gothic tradition of Rebecca , The Yellow Wallpaper , and The Bad Seed , Shadow Garden plunges readers into a clammy, chilly fog on every page. I won't soon forget the ending, and neither will you."--Amy Gentry, bestselling author of Good as Gone and Last Woman Standing     “Shadow Garden is a beautifully haunting novel about an outwardly successful but privately troubled family. I was gripped from the start, entranced by the evocative writing and the complex characters. It’s the sort of story that stays with you, long after you’ve reached the final page and closed the book.”—Emma Rous, USA Today Bestselling author of The Au Pair     “Alexandra Burt's, Shadow Garden , is a haunting, cautionary tale of a family's descent into madness; exposing the darkness that lies beneath the comforting facade of wealth, privilege and a mother's obsessive love.”--Kathleen Kent, New York Times bestselling author of The Heretic's Daughter       “Just when you think you know which way is up, another member of the Pryor family steps in to prove you wrong. Shadow Garden  is a gripping, head-spinning tale that left me feeling like I’d caught the madness on its pages. A delicious, devious ride.”--Stephanie Wrobel, author of Darling Rose Gold     "Domestic horror is at its scariest when seen ‘through a glass, darkly.’ Such is the predicament for Donna Pryor, whose best intentions at finding clarity are hobbled not by schemes, but by truths too horrible for the mind to handle. Burt’s writing is sensual and mysterious―verdant paths lined with haunting fog. Perfect for anyone who loves getting lost in the maze of memory, or interested in the stories that we tell, mostly to ourselves."--Robert Ashcroft, author of Megarothke “…[an] intimate, often lyrical thriller….Fans of domestic suspense will be satisfied.”—Publishers Weekly Alexandra Burt is a freelance translator and the international bestselling author of Remember Mia and The Good Daughter . After years of writing classes and gluttonous reading, her short fiction appeared in fiction journals and literary reviews. 1 Donna Through the thicket of trees, the faint amber lights of a building appear. The sign catches me by surprise as if it isn’t meant to be seen by just anyone. Like a hurried deer crossing the road it materializes and below it, bushy sky-­blue hydrangeas the size of human heads thrive. Golden letters come into focus. Shadow Garden. How strange. All those years I’ve lived here but I never knew this place existed. “You think I’ll get better soon?” I turn and look at Edward, my husband. I shouldn’t notice the heavy metal-­alloy femoral head in my left hip but it weighs me down in more ways than one. Since the accident things have been difficult between us. Edward stares straight ahead. His face hadn’t been touched by a razor in months, not until this morning, when he decided to stop hiding behind a full beard. I study the profile of the face that has emerged, exposed and on the verge of being unfamiliar. A spot by his upper lip, a small blood-­speckled wound from the razor blade. His fitted suit is no longer snug and I resist telling him to have the garment altered. I have become good at swallowing my words by visualizing pulling an imaginary zipper across my mouth. A gate shuts behind us. I search for words to accurately explain myself but I’m distracted by shiny kaleidoscopic grackles of purple, green, and blue iridescence foraging with long dark bills. They peck at shamrock-­green grass blades, have taken over the walkways and the shrubberies, they dot the lawn, sit perched on rims of copper fountains, bobbing their heads. As we pass them, the flock scatters off into nearby trees. In the fading light, their yellow eyes stand out in the otherwise emerald landscape. They settle nearby, invisible to the eye, but their calls are unnerving like the sound of buzzing power lines. I look out the car window so Edward doesn’t see me tearing up. He hates tears. They unravel him, do him in. He’