From the award-winning, bestselling author of Station Eleven and Sea of Tranquility, “a gripping story, full of moral ambiguities, where deception and betrayal become the norm, and where the expression ‘a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma’ is lifted to new heights” (St. Louis Post-Dispatch ). Everyone Anton Waker grew up with is corrupt. His parents dealt in stolen goods, and he was a successful purveyor of forged documents until he abandoned it all in his early twenties, determined to live a normal life, complete with career, apartment, and a fiancée who knows nothing of his criminal beginnings. He’s on the verge of finally getting married when Aria—his cousin and former partner in crime—blackmails him into helping her with one last job. Anton considers the task a small price for future freedom. But as he sets off for an Italian honeymoon, it soon becomes clear that the ghosts of his past can't be left behind so easily, and that the task Aria requires will cost him more than he could ever imagine. Look for Emily St. John Mandel’s bestselling new novel, Sea of Tranquility ! “A gripping story, full of moral ambiguities, where deception and betrayal become the norm, and where the expression ‘ a riddle wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma’ is lifted to new heights.” — St. Louis Post-Dispatch  “Brilliant.” — The Boston Globe    “Something far rarer than the classic noir opening suggestions. . . . Eminently satisfying.” — The Washington Post   “Big in concept, flawless in tone, The Singer’s Gun is a tender and astounding tour de force.” — Mystery Scene   “Mandel’s talent is clearly visible from the get-go.” — Los Angeles Times “Recklessly entertaining. . . . A modern morality tale.” — The New York Journal of Books   “A nail-biting thriller overflowing with high-stakes issues such as blackmail, theft, fraud and human trafficking.” — BookPage   “Intriguing and suspenseful.” — Library Journal   “ Mandel’s second novel is an extraordinarily written meditation on identity, chance and choice. . . . Nothing short of breathtaking.” — The Howard County Times   “Gripping.” — Booklist EMILY ST. JOHN MANDEL's five previous novels include The Glass Hotel and Station Eleven, which was a finalist for a National Book Award and the PEN/Faulkner Award for Fiction and has been translated into thirty-five languages. She lives in New York City. In an office on the bright sharp edge of New York, glass tower, Alexandra Broden was listening to a telephone conversation. The recording lasted no longer than ten seconds, but she listened to it five or six times before she took off her headphones. It was five thirty in the afternoon, and she had been working since seven a.m. She closed her eyes for a moment, pressed her fingertips to her forehead, and realized that she could still hear the conversation in her head. The recording began with a click: the sound of a woman picking up her telephone, which had been tapped the day before the call came in. A man’s voice: It’s done. There is a sound on the tape here—the woman’s sharp intake of breath—but all she says in reply is Thank you. We’ll speak again soon. He disconnects and she hangs up three seconds later. The woman’s name was Aria Waker, and the call had taken place fifteen days earlier. The incoming call came from an Italian cell phone but proved otherwise untraceable. Police were at Aria’s apartment forty minutes after the call went through, but she was already gone and she never came back again. *   Broden walked down the hall for a coffee, talked about the baseball season with a colleague for a few minutes, returned to her office and listened to the recording one last time before she made the call. “Is that it?” she asked when the detective answered. “That’s it, Al.” “Please don’t call me that. And you think they’re talking about Anton Waker?” “If you’d seen what his parents were like the morning after that call came through, you wouldn’t ask me that question,” the detective said. “How’s the investigation going?” “Horribly. No one knows anything. No one even knows the dead girl’s name.” The detective sighed. “At least it’s not as bad as the last shipping container we dealt with,” he said. “I suppose I should be grateful that only one girl died this time. Listen, I’m going to talk to the parents.” “I tried that two weeks ago. They’re useless,” said the detective, “but be my guest.” *   On the drive over the Williamsburg Bridge, Broden kept the radio off. She called her six-year-old daughter from the car. Tova was home from school, baking cookies with her nanny, and she wanted to know what time her mother would be home. “Before bedtime,” Broden said, hoping this was true. On the far side of the river she drove down into Brooklyn, graffiti-tagged warehouses rising up around her as the off-ramp lowered her into the streets, and she circled for a while before she found the store: an old brick warehouse on a cor