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My Secret to Tell

My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards
My Secret to Tell

My Secret to Tell

by Natalie D. Richards


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"As addictive as it is unpredictable."—Natasha Preston, New York Times bestselling author of The Twin and The Cellar

From Natalie D. Richards, the New York Times bestselling author of YA psychological thriller books, comes a romance suspense story about a girl who helps the boy next door—but he might be dangerous, perfect for fans of Megan Miranda and Karen McManus.

Emerson May is "the good girl." She's the perfect daughter, the caring friend, the animal shelter volunteer. But when her best friend's brother breaks into her room, his hands covered in blood, she doesn't scream or call the cops. Because when Deacon smiles at her, Emmie doesn't want to be good...

The whole town believes notorious troublemaker Deacon is guilty of assaulting his father. Only Emmie knows a secret that could set him free. But if she follows her heart, she could be trusting a killer...

You can't always trust the boy next door.

Perfect for readers who want:
  • Teenage mystery books
  • Page-turning romance
  • Edge-of-your-seat twists
  • Also by Natalie D. Richards:
    Five Total Strangers
    Six Months Later
    Gone Too Far
    One Was Lost
    We All Fall Down
    What You Hide

    Praise for My Secret to Tell:
    "Brimming with suspense and intrigue."—Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls
    "[R]eaders who enjoy heavy doses of psychological and romantic tension will not be disappointed."—VOYA
    "Plenty of fun and plenty to relate to in this coming-of-age romance with an adrenaline rush."—Kirkus Reviews

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    Product Details

    ISBN-13: 9781492615712
    Publisher: Sourcebooks
    Publication date: 10/06/2015
    Pages: 320
    Sales rank: 138,299
    Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)
    Lexile: HL610L (what's this?)
    Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

    About the Author

    After years as a professional paper-pusher, NATALIE D. RICHARDS decided to trade in reality for a life writing YA fiction. She lives in Ohio (Go Bucks!) with her husband, three children, and a ridiculously furry dog named Yeti. This is her second novel. Visit her on Twitter @natdrichards or at

    Read an Excerpt



    My name lands somewhere between a hiccup and a sob, and my feet stall out on the sidewalk in front of my house. I adjust my grip on the phone, hoping I misheard her tone. This doesn't sound like Chelsea. This voice is breathless. Frightened.

    "I'm here," I say. "What's up? You don't sound right."

    "I'm not." She takes a shuddery breath.

    My shirt's sticking to my back and cicadas are click-buzzing the end of another blistering day, but I go cold. Something's wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

    "It's my dad, Emmie," she says. I can tell she's crying.

    I grab my chest. It's too tight. Burning. "What happened?"

    Her words all tumble out on top of one another, interrupted by shaky breaths. I try to pick out pieces that make sense. "He's hurt-bleeding-we're behind the ambulance and I can't-he's not-someone attacked him."

    I start climbing the porch steps, because she'll need me. I'm her best friend, so I should be there. I need to change clothes and go. "You're on the way to the hospital, right? They'll help him there."

    Another sharp breath. "I don't know if they can. He's so bad. So bad."

    My heart clenches. "Where are you?"

    "We're almost there. Joel's with me."

    "Okay, good. I'm coming," I say, crossing my porch and hauling my front door open. "Let me just call Mom. I'll borrow the car."

    Chelsea's still crying when I storm down the hallway toward my bedroom. "Emmie, I can't find Deacon..."

    "Your brother never answers his phone," I say, pushing open my door. "I'll run by the docks first and-"

    "No. No, he was there. He was at the house."

    Chelsea makes a strangled sound, and I notice the liquid-thick heat in my bedroom. The kind of heat that tells me the air conditioner is broken. Or my window is open.

    My gaze drags to my fluttering white curtains, to the dark smudge on the windowsill.

    Chelsea's voice goes low and raspy. "He ran, Emmie. God, he was there with Dad. He was in the house, but he ran."

    I swivel with an invisible fist lodged in my throat. My bathroom door is open, a red-black smudge beneath the knob.

    My mouth goes dry, my pulse thumping slower than it should. Then I see the blood on the floor by my sink, and my heart tumbles end over end.

    "We're here. I'll call soon," Chelsea says and hangs up.

    I see him, his back to my tub and his dark head bowed on one bent knee. Oh God.

    He's covered in blood. It's on his legs, his hands. Dripping onto my white tile floor. He looks up, and my heart goes strangely steady.

    I take a breath that tastes like purpose.


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