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"I'VE ALWAYS WISHED FOR MORE ARTISTIC TALENT. WELL, MURDER CAN BE AN ART, TOO. THE POWER TO KILL CAN BE JUST AS SATISFYING AS THE POWER TO CREATE."
ROPE ( ALFRED HITCHCOCK, 1948 )
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【 S Y N O P S I S 】
INHIBITION. YOU CAN'T RELY ON IT TO SOLVE A CRIME...
crime is rare but fruitful in the damp college town of emerson. young and unconventional, head-detective victor lancaster solves every homicide he's assigned with a ribbon-wrapped flourish, jamming it into his catacombs without a second thought.
yet after the gruesome, high-profile murder of a high school senior one volatile spring, victor gets entangled with the underworld of emerson academy—a festering, untreated wound plagued by the state's most powerful people. with wealth and its connections at every corner, all leads trail to nowhere; the problem is, in a case that lacks solid evidence and has only one unapproachable prime suspect, the only place to turn to is inhibition.
inhibition. the only place it'll take him is towards the very place he'd been avoiding: back to his own time at the academy and the true ugliness of its history, wrapped up in nine years of pretty denial.
...UNLESS THE SUSPECT LURKS IN YOUR OWN HOLLOWNESS.
O R
(in which a lonely man's only murder clue is a memory, and only friend is insanity.)
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【 G E N R E 】
DARK ACADEMIA | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER | MELODRAMA | NOIR | THE OBSESSED ARTIST
【 I N S P I R A T I O N 】
TRUE EVENTS | MACBETH | THE SECRET HISTORY | THE RAVEN CYCLE | KILL YOUR DARLINGS | THE GREAT GATSBY | THE QUEEN'S GAMBIT
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the author.
OR, IN SIMPLER TERMS, plagiarism is a sin and a crime. put even a quarter of the mental, emotional, and physical labor that i put into my work, into yours, you'll find that you wouldn't want it to be stolen either. that being said, sink that low and my ride-or-die friend group will be after you. and also my mom will call your mom and you'll be uninvited from my birthday party.
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TO THE DUSTY, SHOE-BOX SIZED LIBRARY ON CAMPUS, WHERE WE LOCKED EYES OVER OUR CREASED COPIES OF MACBETH, THE SOMBER, LATE AFTERNOON SILENCES SHATTERED ONLY BY OUR MUFFLED CACKLING AT EVERY DEATH SCENE. TO MAKING SHAKESPEARE PROUD.
TO THE MAN I THOUGHT I FELL IN LOVE WITH, WHOSE ECHOES EXIST IN EVERY MAN IN THIS BOOK. YOU COULDN'T LOVE ME BUT YOU WERE PROUD OF ME, AND IT WAS ENOUGH. I WISH I COULD RID YOU OF YOUR FEAR OF DYING ALONE, BUT THE BEST I CAN DO IS MAKING SURE YOU NEVER DIE AT ALL, NOT REALLY.
TO THE OCTOBER I MADE MY RELIGION; THE LAMPLIGHT IN THE STUDY AND THE TREES OUTSIDE THE WINDOW. THE LINES ON MY OXFORDS REMEMBER YOU.
TO THOSE OF US WHO HAVE A SICK FASCINATION WITH WHAT KILLS US. TO THE OBSESSIONS THAT EAT US RAW AND EAT US WHOLE.
TO THOSE OF US DESPERATE TO BURY OUR PAST UNDERGROUND AND PRAY IT REMAINS DEAD.
AND LASTLY, TO ME. BECAUSE I WROTE THE DAMN THING.
