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The Poison Tree

The Poison Tree

3.9 36
by Erin Kelly

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From an incredible new voice in psychological suspense, a novel about the secrets that remain after a final bohemian summer of excess turns deadly.

This taut psychological thriller begins when Karen and her nine-year- old daughter, Alice, pick up Rex from a ten-year stint in prison for murder. Flash back to the sultry summer in 1990s London when Karen


From an incredible new voice in psychological suspense, a novel about the secrets that remain after a final bohemian summer of excess turns deadly.

This taut psychological thriller begins when Karen and her nine-year- old daughter, Alice, pick up Rex from a ten-year stint in prison for murder. Flash back to the sultry summer in 1990s London when Karen, a straight-A student on the verge of college graduation, first meets the exotic, flamboyant Biba and joins her louche life in a crumbling mansion in Highgate. She begins a relationship with Biba's enigmatic and protective older brother, Rex, and falls into a blissful rhythm of sex, alcohol, and endless summer nights. Naïvely, Karen assumes her newfound happiness will last forever. But Biba and Rex have a complicated family history-one of abandonment, suicide, and crippling guilt-and Karen's summer of freedom is about to end in blood.

When old ghosts come back to destroy the life it has taken Karen a decade to build, she has everything to lose. She will do whatever it takes to protect her family and keep her secret. Alternating between the fragile present and the lingering past with a shocker of an ending, The Poison Tree is a brilliant suspense debut that will appeal to readers of Kate Atkinson, Donna Tartt, and Tana French.

Editorial Reviews

Maureen Corrigan
In its intensity and overwhelming sense of loss, the voice-over that opens Erin Kelly's terrific first suspense novel…is most directly reminiscent of the unnamed narrator of Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca…Karen Clarke, like du Maurier's heroine, is a nice person who has had terrible things happen to her because of a Bad Girl who wouldn't play fair and insisted on scooping up all the men and attention. But just as Rebecca has enthralled generations of female readers with its story of a mousy maiden's triumph over her glamorous beyond-the-grave rival, The Poison Tree also offers the twisted pleasures of vengeance within its eerie narrative.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
British author Kelly deftly weaves past and present in her highly satisfying debut novel of psychological suspense, which reveals how a convicted murderer came to be released after serving 10 years in prison. In 1993, the naïve yet brilliant Karen receives a scholarship to London's Queen Charlotte's College, where she's beguiled by Biba Capel, an iconoclastic and edgy drama student, who soon introduces Karen to her strange older brother, Rex. Karen joins sister and brother at the grand but deteriorating Capel family house in Highgate, with its several unconventional tenants. The three throw disorderly parties that enrage the neighbors, but they succeed in creating their own Edenic existence until the unwanted intrusion of Biba's hostile lover. Though melodrama looms, including a double homicide, the tension never wanes, and the ensuing horror comes as a major shock. The surprises don't end until the last page of this twisted tale with its wonderfully evocative London atmosphere. 5-city author tour. (Jan.)
From the Publisher

“A terrific suspense debut, reminiscent of another British woman's auspicious bow: Daphne DuMaurier's Rebecca. The shadows gather until the ending looms like a threatening figure. This one gets the writer's ultimate bit of praise: I wish I had written it.”
Stephen King

“A compelling creeper . . . More please, Ms. Kelly! Quickly!”
The Washington Post

“There is a brooding sense of impending doom and imminent danger. . . . [T]he explosive ending, its revelations about the threesome and the lengths to which people will go to preserve or take what's theirs, makes THE POISON TREE a rich and satisfying pleasure.”
USA Today

Library Journal
It should have been an idyllic summer for Karen Clarke. Having just finished university, Karen is at loose ends while she tries to figure out what she wants from life. Her gift for languages brings her into contact with free-spirited Biba, who lives in a crumbling London mansion with her brother Rex and an assortment of other bohemian characters. Karen is happy at last to be experiencing some of the craziness she thought college would bring, but as the summer progresses she realizes Biba and Rex have their own issues. First novelist Kelly intersperses the events of that long-ago summer when everything changed with Karen's present-day life as the mother of nine-year-old Alice as she brings Rex home from a ten-year stint in prison. VERDICT The advance blurbs for Kelly's debut describe it as brooding, atmospheric, and gothic—all accurate adjectives. Tension in this psychological thriller builds slowly, piece by ever more suspenseful piece. Fans of Sophie Hannah's domestic suspense novels will enjoy this gracefully written effort. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 9/15/10.]—Jane Jorgenson, Madison P.L., WI
Kirkus Reviews

British journalist Erin Kelly's debut suspense novel is a richly shaded work crammed with atmosphere, quirky characters and intricate plotting.

Karen Clarke's perfectly ordinary life changes forever the day she spots an unusual girl writing a message on the corkboard in the hall of the London college where Karen studies linguistics. Biba Capel, a bohemian acting student, needs a tutor to help her with a German song she must learn for a production in which she's appearing. Karen offers to help and before she realizes what has happened, she has been transported to a world she never knew existed. Instead of the flat occupied by her three stuffy school chums, Karen discovers that Biba and her brother, Rex, live in an old, crumbling mansion bordering a stretch of woods. When Karen's boyfriend breaks up with her and her roommates set off for a summer in France without inviting Karen, she moves in with the Capel siblings and becomes an indelible participant in the dark and tragic events that shape their lives and bind them together forever. Told through flashbacks interwoven with scenes from the present, the book opens with Rex being released from prison, into Karen's waiting arms. But the occasion is stressful: Karen has a secret and she's terrified that someone will uncover it. The skillful intertwining of both the present and the past, which Kelly infuses with a mounting sense of urgency, is seamless.

A well-turned story that will linger in readers' minds.

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Penguin Publishing Group
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Read an Excerpt


I let the telephone fall from my hand. Panic first cripples and then revives me. My fingertips tingle as they feel their way around the coffee table, scrabbling first for my car keys and then for my cell phone. I seem to have eight limbs as I try to get dressed in the dark, pulling on my coat and a pair of oversize sheepskin boots that I usually wear as slippers. At the threshold I hesitate for a second, then rush back to my desk and fumble in the drawer for my passport and a credit card that I keep for emergencies. I pull the door behind me in silence, although blood roars and rushes in my ears. With shaking hands I double-lock it: whether to keep someone in or to keep someone out, I can’t know yet.

Outside, I tiptoe, but there is a crack and a squelch as I flatten a snail beneath my sole, and when I tread in a puddle by the gate, cold water seeps through the soft suede and licks unpleasantly at my bare toes.

In the dark interior of the car I turn the key in the ignition and wince as the air blows icy cold, dispersing the fluffy clouds of my breath. My hands are so cold they feel wet; I am relieved to find a pair of woolen gloves bundled in my left pocket. Before put ting them on, I use my cell phone to cover the last caller’s tracks. I call the house phone, wait for the click of connection, and hang up before it has a chance to ring. The windshield is opaque with frost and I do not have time to wait for the heaters to defog the glass. I wipe a porthole in the passenger window and squint back into the dark recess of the bedroom window. If he had heard me, the light would be on by now. He would be silhouetted at the window, mouthing my name. Would that stop me? Would anything?

The car is pointed directly at the front of the house. If I turn the headlights on, they will shine into the window, so with no beams to guide me and only a smeared handprint of visibility through the windows, I pull out into the road. Only when I have guessed my way to the end of our lane do I switch on the full beam. The countryside is frosted and stark. Naked hedgerows cast eerie shapes in front of me and the high banks of the narrow road throw up shadows that take human form. The dead, the missing, and the missed surround me now, passive spirits who have become active ghosts. I am afraid to glance behind. They pursue me as I drive aggressively, suicidally, mounting the grass verge when I take a blind bend much too fast. The seatbelt digs into the flesh between my breasts as I make an emergency stop to avoid hitting the truck that suddenly looms in front of me. It’s a filthy vehicle of indeterminate color, tools loose in the back, moving so slowly that the driver must be drunk. I have no option but to slow to a crawl behind him.

I ought to use this enforced pause for rational thought. But there is nothing rational about this situation. I am driving alone in pajamas and wet, clammy boots on a country lane in the middle of the night. Nobody knows where I am or why. I had only been thinking of the others, but for the first time it strikes me that my own safety might be compromised if I continue.

A glance at my speedometer tells me that we are traveling at twelve miles an hour. I toot and flash, but by the cold blue glow in his cab I see that he is making a phone call. I map the road ahead in my mind. I have driven it so often that I know every pothole, kink, and curve. I take a deep breath, crunch the gears, and plunge blindly into the passing place I calculate is just to my right. The driver of a black car coming in the opposite direction has had the same idea and we skim each other as we pass, with a sickening screech of metal on metal. I accelerate. Let him chase me if he wants to make something of it. My left-hand mirror is wrenched from its casing and falls to dangle lifelessly at the side from a lone wire, like a severed limb attached to its body by a single vein. The retreating driver sounds his horn angrily, the Doppler effect making it drop a forlorn semitone as it continues in the direction of my house. The truck is between us and it is too late to turn and see if the driver was alone or carrying a passenger, if it was a regular car or a taxi.

I pick up my crazy pace. Only a speed camera, predicted by a luminous sign, persuades my foot to the brake. On the borders of the town the scrubby roadside edges give way to narrow pavements and trees thin out to accommodate houses, a pub, a gas station. Lampposts appear, imitation Victorian globes like a parade of tiny moons, and I realize with a corresponding lucidity that this is it. The event I have been expecting and dreading for a third of my life is finally here.

It suddenly feels very hot inside the car. My hands are sweating inside my gloves, my eyes are dry, and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I have given up so much and done so many terrible things already for the sake of my family that I can only keep going. I do not know what is going to happen to us. I am frightened, but I feel strong. I have the strength of a woman who has everything to lose.


I try to see the city through his eyes. It has been only ten years, but London has changed. Will he notice the subtle developments of the last decade? Does he register the lack of telephone boxes or the proliferation of Polish grocers? What about the plugged-in pedestrians with white wires connecting their ears to their pockets? The red circles on the road that welcome us into and usher us out of the congestion zone? I’m dying to know what he is thinking. His eyes, though, are fixed on the sycamore pods and leaves stuck under the windshield wipers. Running commentary has never been his style, but this silence is unnerving.

Alice is talking enough for the three of us, a high-pitched stream of consciousness that spills from the backseat. She has made this journey from southeast London to our home on the Suffolk coast four times a year, every year of her life. She loves traveling home through town, preferring to inch through dirty streets rather than cruise around the highway, even though it adds hours onto our journey. I always save this route for a special treat, when her behavior throughout our visit has been particularly good, or when she and Rex have found saying good-bye harder than usual. Sometimes I drive through town when I need to think, knowing that Alice’s nose will remain pressed against the glass as the car crawls from suburb to inner city to suburb again, that the questions she asks will be about what that man is selling or what that building is, rather than another discussion about why Daddy has to live so far away.

But this afternoon’s detour isn’t at Alice’s request. As we creep along Holloway Road, her favorite part of the journey, her focus is inside the car. She does not seem to mind her demotion from the front seat to the back. She ignores the Caribbean barbershop she loves to wave at and the metallic, space-age university building we saw being built, panel by shiny blue panel. We even pass the grimy cell phone store that holds such a strange fascination for her without the usual argument about when she will be old enough for her own telephone. We stop at a red light and with a click and a giggle she slides out of her seatbelt and squeezes between the driver and passenger seats. Her twiggy fingers weave in and out of Rex’s hair, tugging it, massaging his scalp, shampooing it and revealing silver threads around his ears and temples. She shoots out rapid-fire questions one after the other without waiting for answers.

“Will you take me to school when I go back next week? Will you drive Mum’s car or are we going to have two? Lara’s mum and dad have a car each but she still walks to school. Don’t you think—oh my God, you can come swimming now! What’s your best stroke? Mine’s front crawl. Will you take me swimming?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” says Rex, and Alice kisses the top of his head. Her knees fold forward and nudge the gearshift while an elbow knocks against my head as I try to negotiate the Archway traffic circle. I shout at her when I had sworn I wouldn’t, not today. She shrugs off my scolding. The car swings to the left as I take the exit for the Great North Road. Rex crosses his legs, folds his arms, and shifts in his seat. He knows where I’m going. Perhaps he was expecting it. Perhaps, like me, he needs this one last visit to the past before we can build our future.

Archway Road is unusually clear, and the three of us cruise underneath the bridge in the long, low autumn dazzle. The neighborhood has been gentrified in the decade since we lived here. We pass a designer baby boutique where a thrift store used to be. The liquor store that would sell us two bottles of nasty wine for five pounds, even at three in the morning, has now been upgraded to a wine merchant, and even the old pubs and restaurants look cleaner and brighter than I remember them: more plate glass, fewer metal shutters. But Archway still has some way to go, I think, as I swerve to avoid chunks of glass exploded from a bus stop window and scattered across the street like ice cubes.

Neither of us has been here for over a decade but I can still drive this street, anticipate those lights, make these gear changes, on autopilot. I could do it with my eyes shut. For a reckless second, I’m tempted to try, to close my eyes and lock the wheel on a right curve. But I make the double turn into Queenswood Lane wide-eyed and unblinking. The noise of the city falls away as we enter the secret sliver of wildwood, where the ancient trees muffle the sirens and the screeches of the street and the half-hidden houses occupy a dark green private universe, cushioned by money as much as by trunk and bough and leaf. I drive carefully between the expensive cars, their side-view mirrors tucked into their bodies in case someone unfamiliar with the road drives too quickly and knocks into one. But I am more familiar with this lane than any other road, including the one I grew up on and the one I live on now. It’s the setting for most of my memories and all of my nightmares. I know every old brick wall, every bump in the road, every lamppost. The 1860s apartment block with its Italianate walled garden still sits alongside that glass-and-concrete bubble, someone’s vision of the future from the 1960s that would never make it past the conservation society today. Stern Victorian town houses tower over a pastel-colored fairy-tale mansion. Their windows glower down at us.

I deliberately don’t look toward the last house, the place where everything happened, before the street surrenders to the trees. I focus on the road as the leafy tunnel swallows this car for the first time and park with the house behind me, telling Alice that Mummy and Daddy need to stretch their legs. She tumbles out of the car and skips into the trees, her tracksuit a flash of pink through half-undressed branches. The little red lights in the heels of her sneakers wink at us like tiny eyes.

“Don’t go too far!” I call. We watch as she drags her feet through the fallen leaves, tracing letters with her toes, staining the hem of her trousers with flakes of wet bark and leaf mold. She doesn’t know it, but she’s playing yards away from the spot where she was conceived. Rex speaks first.

“It’s got to be done, I suppose.” He circles the car to open my door. I get out and point the key at the car, and it locks with a pow-pow noise. Rex raises an eyebrow. “Very swish,” he says, taking the key from me and examining it as though it contains an entire album of high-energy dance tracks. I close my eyes to make the turn, and when I open them, there it is. Exactly where we left it, I think—although where could it have gone? The four-story town house surrounded not by cars and concrete but by lime and plane and birch and oak; half stucco, half gray brick, it really belongs on the end of a terrace in Islington or Hackney. Its incongruity is one of the things that always made its presence on the edge of the forest so magical. It has changed, of course. It looks naked, cleaner and more metropolitan than ever now that someone has pulled down the dark green ivy that covered all of the side wall and half the front one and found its way in through the windows in the summertime. The creamy stucco gleams, not a single peel or crack in the paint. It looks innocent. But then, so do I.

The flaked black paint on the front door has been replaced by flawless turquoise gloss, and the golden lion door knocker gleams. The steep front steps—formerly a death trap of long-dead herbs tufting out of broken terra-cotta pots, lone roller skates, empty wine bottles, and never-to-be-read free local newspapers—have also been restored, and instead the door is flanked by two perfectly symmetrical bay trees with twisted stems in aluminum pots. Six recycling boxes are stacked neatly and discreetly behind a magnolia tree in the front garden. Instead of the nonworking bell pull which no one ever bothered with, there are six buzzers. The first time I ever came here, I spent ten minutes looking for just such a row of doorbells bearing different names. It didn’t occur to me that people my age could live in the whole of this building rather than occupy an apartment within it. I don’t need to get any closer to know how the place has changed on the inside. Without peering through the white-shuttered windows, I know exactly how the interiors of these apartments will look: coir or sisal carpeting, because the battered floorboards were beyond restoration even for the most dedicated property developer. The black and white hall will have been renovated, an original feature that will have added value to the house price. It was in terrible condition when we lived there, and afterward, there was that terrible stain.

There will be magnolia walls with flat-screen television sets flush against them, stainless steel kitchens, each boxy white bedroom with its own frosted-glass bathroom. It had been sold, but not until a long time after the police and the press had gone. The redevelopment had begun as soon as the yellow incident tape had been taken down and the cameras and reporters had moved on. Only then did the real estate agents begin to throng the house. I had often imagined the swarm of suits trampling polystyrene and paper coffee cups discarded by reporters, looking beyond the building’s grisly history, seeing only the rare opportunity to sell a sensitively converted character property in a highly desirable location, situated seconds from the Tube and on the edge of the historic Queen’s Wood.

The violent physical reaction I was half-expecting—a swoon, or a full faint, or even vomiting—doesn’t come. Rex too is calm, indecipherable, and it’s he who has the most, and the most gruesome, memories of this place. It was his home for twenty-four years and mine for only one summer. Alice breaks the reverie, dropping five feet from a tree I hadn’t noticed her climb, bored now, asking Rex for a can of Coke because she knows I’ll say no. I shrug and let him decide. Tonight, we’ll sit down and establish some ground rules for dealing with Alice before she becomes hopelessly, irretrievably spoiled. But today, I’ll let Rex play the indulgent father. One day won’t hurt.

She gets her drink, but not from the newsstand near Highgate Tube; I bet it’s still owned by the same family. They might not recognize me, but of course they would remember Rex. They would have sold enough newspapers with him on the front page. Instead, we drive up Muswell Hill Road and I let Rex and Alice jump out and into a more anonymous convenience store. Did I ever go there? The fruits and vegetables piled up in front of the shop, their dull skins patiently absorbing the fumes from my exhaust, do nothing to jog my memory. Rex and Alice are in there for a while, and it’s not until she emerges, red-faced and holding out her hand, that I realize I haven’t given him any money.

Before we’ve even reached the North Circular Road that links Rex’s old part of London to his new home, Alice has slipped out of her seatbelt again and is lying across the seat, kicking at the air, singing to herself and spilling sticky cola all over her clothes and the car seat. Ten years fall away and I remember another journey on this road. It was the day Rex’s credit card arrived, and we celebrated by driving to the supermarket to stock up on all the food and drink we could cram into my little Fiat. Rex sat beside me losing a wrestling match with the sunroof, while Biba took up the whole of the backseat, so Guy can’t have been with us. She dangled a cigarette out of the left-hand window, her feet poking out of the right-hand one in a desperate attempt to cool down. I can feel the gummy heat of that summer now. I remember the prickle of my heat rash and the way the sweat from my body made my cheap purple T-shirt bleed dye onto my skin like an all-over bruise. I remember the way perspiration gave Rex a permanent kiss-curl in the middle of his forehead, like Superman. I can still see the crisscross sunburn lines on Biba’s back. A pink leg comes between me and the rearview mirror.

“Put your seatbelt on, Alice,” I say. She walks her feet up onto the ceiling, printing a thin layer of leaf mold in the shape of her shoes across the pale gray ceiling. She’s testing me and I fail. “I said, put your fucking seatbelt on, Alice!” Or did I say something else? Rex looks at me in horror while Alice, more interested in the unfolding drama than offended by my swearing, is suddenly silent and upright.

“What did you call her?” he says in a whisper, and at the same time Alice asks, “Who’s Biba?”

Meet the Author

Erin Kelly read English and European literature at Warwick University and has worked as a freelance journalist for more than ten years. She has written for The Sunday Times, The Sunday Telegraph, The Daily Mail, Psychologies, Red, Elle, Marie Claire, Cosmopolitan, and Glamour. She lives in North London with her husband and daughter.

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The Poison Tree: A Novel 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 36 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A very well written psychological thriller! The characters were very well developed and the plot kept me guessing until the end. This book would make an amazing movie. I loved the back and forth between present and past, well written dialogue as well as the vivid descriptions of the various settings. Did not want this book to end while I was reading it- it was that good!!!
RosieMcB More than 1 year ago
I thoroughly enjoyed this book. I was as mesmorized by the Capels as the main character, Karen, was. This book kept my interest from start to finish and the ending was a nice twist. I eagerly await the next novel from the author.
Lynie More than 1 year ago
It's 1990s London and Karen Clarke is a straight A college student with a long summer and bright future ahead of her when she meets aspiring actress Biba Capel at Queen Charlotte's College. This chance meeting changes Karen's life forever. Her middle class upbringing and dedication to her studies are swiftly swept away as she becomes enamored with Biba and her bohemian lifestyle. She soon joins Biba and Biba's brother Rex in their crumbling family home amid the emotional turmoil of their lives; lives filled with drugs, alcohol and lost days that can only end in tragedy in this psychological thriller. As Ms. Kelly deftly weaves the past and present, we fast forward ten years as THE POISON TREE begins; Karen and her nine-year-old daughter arrive to pick up Rex from prison where he's spent the last decade for murder. The author never drops the ball as the suspense and tension build in this well written novel, right up to the dramatic ending. Ms. Kelly's writing has been compared to that of Donna Tartt, but while reading THE POISON TREE I also found it reminiscent of BOYS AND GIRLS TOGETHER, a coming of age novel from the '60s by William Goldman. This is a wondeful first novel and I highly recommend this psychological thriller! Lynn Kimmerle
harstan More than 1 year ago
A decade after they first met, Karen, accompanied by her nine year old daughter Alice the chatterbox; pick up Rex after he spent the past ten years in prison convicted of murder. Karen reflects back to 1993 when her life radically changed. It started innocently with her receiving a scholarship to attend Queen Charlotte's College in London. At the school, she meets drama student Biba Capel, whose off beat behavior fascinates the scholarship student. Biba introduces her new friend to her even odder older brother Rex. ----- The siblings invite Karen to come to their family house, a deteriorating but at one time incredible home in Highgate. There Karen meets an assortment of strange renters. The trio tosses wild party that alienates their neighbors, but none of them care as the feel they reside in paradise. However, the serpent arrives when Biba's lover crashes the idyllic Utopia. Soon murder joins the mix. ---- The Poison Tree is a terrific twisting British psychological thriller as the audience is hooked to learn how Rex is freed after ten years behind bars for murder. Karen is a strong protagonist who though frightened understands the stakes that she has "everything to lose" including the happiness that she thought would be forever with Rex. Filled with spins, Erin Kelly's suspense laden tale is a fabulous way to open 2011. ---- Harriet Klausner
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Great book that delves wonderfully into the character's whirlwind enticing yet maddening personalities.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This was a well-written and intriguing book. I was fascinated by the characters - gifted, but unassuming Karen, neuotic Rex, and Biba, whose behavior and beauty command attention. Even those charcters who played small roles were well-developed by the author, and therefore interesting and real to me. Absolutely recommend.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Loved this book right to the end.
Judith Hampel More than 1 year ago
enjoyed the drama great ending
kherbrand More than 1 year ago
About the book: Karen was just an unassuming straight-A student in linguistics when she met Biba. She was finishing her senior year, and though she had the same roommates through college, she didn't feel like they were really friends. Meeting Biba seemed to be fate, as Biba was posting an ad for a German tutor when Karen happened to come upon her. She was immediately entranced. Biba hired her and invited her to a party at her house. Biba was an aspiring actress and lived a carefree life with her brother, Rex, in a rundown house in Highgate. The house had had a variety of tenants and Karen was soon to become it's latest. Their lifestyle was so foreign to the one that Karen knew that she couldn't help but embrace it in her desire to belong. She had never had a friend like Biba and felt alive in her presence. Her dad had told her she needed at leasst one summer to not work and enjoy herself before she started her "life". Little did she know that this last summer would effect her life and her choices in ways that she never could have dreamed. The story starts out with Karen picking up Rex as he is released from prison. They are going to try to make a go of it with their 9 year old daughter Alice. Secrets and choices are immediately alluded to as Karen tries to protect Alice from the secrets that sent Rex to prison as well as one secret that only Karen seems to know. We learn all about Karen, Rex and Biba through flashbacks that take you through the last summer they were all together. That carefree summer living in Highgate. Karen learns that Rex and Biba have had a troubled childhood marked with suicide and abandonment. The two of them are very close and Rex protects his sister with a fierceness that rivals a mama bear. Somewhere along the way, with the beer and drugs and sex, Karen and Rex fall into an unlikely relationship. Some rash decisions made by all change all their lives. My thoughts: This book was a wonderful debut by Erin Kelly. The flashbacks unfold with just the right speed and the groundwork is laid out for a surprising ending that I didn't see coming. The London setting and surrounding areas are perfect and the author does a good job of making you feel like you are there (not that I have ever been - but it is definitely as I imagined it). She weaves the story around these three to the point where one is inseparable from the other. Every choice and decision that was made lead to the inevitable conclusion. Great story! Highly recommended!
Teach1831 More than 1 year ago
but the ending earns it four stars!!
SJW446 More than 1 year ago
I really enjoyed this book! I can't wait to see what else the author has written!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent book, great characters and a real treat of an ending!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Well written and entertainig. Good character development. Really good psychological thriller.
gmalilac More than 1 year ago
I found this book rather dull and did not like the format. That's unusual for me, as I have been known to read the phone directory when nothing else is available.
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