The #1 In seven days Jet Mason will be dead. Jet is the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Woodstock, Vermont. Twenty-seven years old, she’s still waiting for her life to begin. Until Halloween night, when Jet is violently attacked by an unseen intruder. She suffers a catastrophic head injury. The doctor is certain that within a week, the injury will trigger a deadly aneurysm. Jet has never thought of herself as having enemies. But now she looks at everyone in a new light: her family, her former best friend turned sister-in-law, her ex-boyfriend. She has at most seven days, and as her condition deteriorates she has only her childhood friend Billy for help. But nevertheless, she’s absolutely determined to finally finish something: Jet is going to solve her own murder.

Autorentext

Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide and a hit Netflix series. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing and graduated with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.

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**GOOD MORNING AMERICA BOOK CLUB PICK • The #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder—now a hit Netflix series—returns with her first novel for adults: an “irresistible” (The Washington Post) thriller about a young woman trying to solve her own murder, “full of the writer’s signature twists and turns” (People).

“This truly unique premise snowballs into a roller-coaster ride of page-turning suspense and knock-out twists!”—Freida McFadden, author of The Housemaid
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In seven days, Jet Mason will be dead.

Jet is the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in Woodstock, Vermont. Twenty-seven years old and back home, she’s still waiting for her life to begin. I’ll do it later, she always says. She has time.

Until Halloween night, when she is violently attacked by an unseen intruder, suffering a catastrophic head injury. Doctors are certain that within a week, the injury will trigger a fatal aneurysm. To her parents’ dismay, Jet rejects an extremely risky operation in order to guarantee herself at least a few more days.

Jet never thought of herself as having enemies. But now, in the one week she has left, she looks at everyone in a new light: her family, her former best friend turned sister-in-law, her ex-boyfriend.

As her condition deteriorates, she reconnects with her childhood friend Billy, the only one willing to help her. With Billy at her side, she’s absolutely determined to finally finish something:

Jet is going to solve her own murder.

Leseprobe
One

Dead gray skin, rotted away to show off the stringy sinews of muscle below. Sunken, rubbery sockets around sparkling hazel eyes. Those were actually hers, though; they moved as she studied herself. Decaying corn-­on-­the-­cob teeth with gore stuck in the spaces between. What did zombies eat again? Just brains, or they weren’t fussy about the other guts too? Probably didn’t enjoy the candy apple she’d had earlier.

Jet watched her reflection in the funhouse mirror, her dead face—­sorry—­her undead face. OK, she’d worn the mask for three whole minutes, so Mom couldn’t complain and now Jet couldn’t breathe; hot toffee air that turned wet against the rubber, sticking it to her skin. She pulled the mask off. Still pale, slightly less gray, though, but the mirror elongated her round face, distorting her thick brows and upturned nose. Her short blond hair was sticking up now; static buzzed against her hand as she flattened it.

“Jet?”

“—­Damn.” She flinched. The mirror warped his face behind her, squashed his muscular frame into accordion ripples, but Jet knew his voice. Of f***ing course. JJ Lim. But not with his usual black swept-­back hair and clear tawny skin. He wore a garish red wig and denim overalls over a striped shirt, train-­track gashes drawn on his face. Chucky. They’d watched that movie together on their third date.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he sniffed, awkward.

“It’s Halloween, that’s the point.” More awkward. Jet walked away without looking at the unwarped him, past a stall of pumpkin pies and apple bread. Just $5!!! yelled the chalkboard sign.

“It’s . . .” JJ slipped off his wig and stumbled after her, through a group of freshly face-­painted kids. Why was he following her? She’d given them both an easy out. Again. “Sorry,” he continued, “I was wondering. I just . . .”

Well, this was fun. Jet was super glad she’d come to the Halloween Fair now. The whole of Woodstock, Vermont, swarming The Green in the middle of town, and she’d managed to run into the one person she didn’t want to see.

“Trick-­or-­treat!” a small vampire yelled up at her.

Jet hoped he’d choke on his slobbery fangs. Were kids always this annoying, or did the sugar rush bring it out of them? It was past ten now; when did parents put children to bed these days? Not f***ing early enough.

She picked up her pace, but JJ didn’t give up.

“Jet, please.” He reached out for her arm. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Jet stopped, sighed. Something meant them, didn’t it? And they weren’t a them anymore, not for months. “I can’t right now.” Lie. “I’m helping my parents run the fundraising booth.” Bigger lie. “Did Henry draw those scars for you?” Change the subject.

JJ narrowed his sharp eyes. “Please, Jet, it’s important.”

“Oh, important,” Jet snorted, “like when you said I was the best you could hope for . . . in Woodstock. Such a poet, J.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that. And it’s not about us, it’s—­”

“—­Hey buddy, think you dropped this,” a voice said over JJ’s shoulder, saving her. It was her brother, Luke, bending to retrieve the crumpled red wig from the grass. Pinpricks of string lights reflected in his matching hazel eyes as he straightened up and squared up, passing JJ the wig.

JJ took it, and finally took the hint too, losing himself in the crowd.

“Saved you,” Luke said.

Jet would never admit it. She was about to tell Luke so when he punched her in the shoulder, aiming for the dead-­arm spot. He missed. But—­also—­he was f***ing thirty and a dad now. When would the punching stop?

Jet didn’t react, a lesson all sisters learned one way or another. It annoyed them more.

Luke grinned, sharpening his jaw. Actually, his whole head somehow—­he’d had his honey-­brown hair cut too short again; no honey, just fuzz. But Sophia liked it that way, apparently. And—­great—­here she was now, holding baby Cameron dressed as an unhappy pumpkin.

“Was that JJ?” Sophia asked, slotting in beside Luke, hip to hip, claiming her husband back. She was dressed as Catwoman, tall and lithe in a tight leather suit that would be unforgiving on Jet’s shorter, curvier frame. Remember when they used to share clothes, when they were teenagers? Back when they were the ones joined at the hip. Until Sophia got tall and Jet got boobs.

“Didn’t JJ get t…