In the third installment of the suspenseful Miriam Black series, Miriam is on the road again, having transitioned from “thief” to “killer.” Hired by a wealthy businessman, Miriam heads down to Florida to practice the one thing she’s good at: knowing when people are going to die. In her vision she sees the businessman murdered by another’s hand and on the wall written in blood is a message just for her: She’s expected… "Visceral and often brutal - vibrates with emotional rawness that helps to paint a bleak, unrelenting picture of life on the edge." -Publishers Weekly "fast, ferocious, sharp as a switchblade and fucking fantastic" -Lauren Beukes, author of "Zoo City" and "The Shining Girls" "Wendig's surefooted prose means that this ride is well worth sticking your thumb out for." - SFX Magazine "If you're looking for a sassy, hard-boiled thriller with a paranormal slant, Wendig has established himself as the go-to man." - The Guardian Chuck Wendig is a novelist, screenwriter and game designer. He's the author of many novels, including but not limited to: Blackbirds, Atlanta Burns, Zer0es, and the YA Heartland series. He is the author of the upcoming Star Wars: Aftermath, and is co-writer of the the Emmy-nominated digital narrative Collapsus. He was a finalist for the John W. Campbell award for Best New Writer. He currently lives in the forests of Pennsyltucky with wife, son, and red dog. The Cormorant ONE PUT A RING ON IT The engagement ring is burning a hole in Andrew’s pocket. That’s how it feels, like it’ll burn through the fabric and drop off into the dirty snow of the sidewalk, maybe roll into the sewer grate and disappear into the slurry below. And if that were to happen, how would he feel? He’d feel horrible. He loves Sarah. He wants to marry Sarah. But he can’t marry her with this ring. A ring too big for her perfect porcelain fingers. A big ring with a diamond too small. A ring he inherited from his mother. Still. The ring’s like a loaded gun. He’s almost proposed five times in the last couple weeks. Part of him thinks, Just propose, you can get the ring resized, get a new diamond later. Before the wedding. Which won’t be for a year anyway. Oh, God, unless she wants to get married soon . . . But no. He has to do this right. Her father thinks Andrew does everything half-ass. And her father means the world to her. Andrew has to make this a good show. The ring has to impress her, but more important, it has to impress her father. The problem: Even Sarah doesn’t know how bad Andrew’s got it right now. He’s got a good job at a brokerage here in Philly, but he’s thirty thousand in credit card debt. Not to mention the car loan. And the student loans from b-school and from grad school. And the rent. The gas bill. The trash bill. The this bill. The that bill. He’s got a little money in his pocket but, really, he’s broke. Which is why he’s out here now. In Kensington at quarter till eleven on a Wednesday night. Walking through a pissy wet snowfall—fat, clumpy flakes not drifting so much as plopping to the earth. His nice shoes white from the road salt. His socks wet from the slush. Derek at work said, “You want a diamond cheap, I know a place.” Derek said, “It’s in Kensington.” and Andrew said, “Oh, hell no, Kenzo? Really?” He said that if he goes down there, he’ll get stabbed. Or strangled. “Isn’t the Kensington Strangler still around down there?” Derek just laughed. “That’s old news. Crime’s down. It’s fine. You want the diamond cheap, or you want to pay jewelry store prices?” Andrew thought but did not say, “I want to pay jewelry store prices.” He just can’t afford to. And so, a pawn shop. Derek said, “It’s called K&P Moneyloan Pawn, except they don’t speak a lot of English and they misspelled Moneyloan so it says Moneylawn, so at least you’ll know you have the right place.” Andrew thought he’d get there right after work, six, maybe seven o’clock. But suddenly the team of in-house lawyers demanded a new meeting at work, and meetings are like black holes: They eat up the hours, they suck in the light, they gorge on his produc­tivity. Next thing he knew, it was past ten o’clock and he still had to get to Kensington. The pawn shop was still open. Thank God. The guy behind the counter— a guy Derek said was Indian (“Curry Indian, not Wounded Knee Indian”) but that Andrew thinks is Sri Lankan— showed him the diamonds and everything looked good; the prices were low enough he almost wondered if they were real, and there he had a small panic attack because wasn’t he supposed to remember something about the three Cs? Color, clarity, cut and . . . was there a fourth C? Crap! Whatever. He’s no expert. Neither is Sarah. He picked a princess-cut diamond that looked—well, it looked pretty. It caught the light. It felt heavy. Sharp, too, like it could cut a hole in the storefront window. So there he stood in a dingy, cracked-floor pawn shop, the too-bright fluorescents above hummi