Before the murders, work was going well. My last novel, In the Dying Light, remained on the Times’ Best Seller list for 248 weeks. Everything you see on screen, from our seaside mansion filled with framed copies of my book covers, to our antique letter opener collection, I owe to my readers. I’m also devoted to my three suspicious children and grizzled husband with a substance abuse issue. His name is Keith, and he’s very unemployed. It hasn’t been easy getting here, but I’m proud to have built this life, page by gripping page.
Then the bodies started washing ashore. First was my son’s fiancée, who also turned out to be Keith’s mistress. Next came our maid’s uncle, known in the credits as Mobster #2—he seemed so dear but evidently got tangled up with the wrong crowd. Now, a network of scandals threatens to tear apart our bucolic town. Worst of all? I’m on deadline to deliver a manuscript that is, at the moment, a total mess. I haven’t strung together a decent sentence in eight episodes. Mitzi Dixon, my hotshot agent, is barking up my ass, and Hulu has just ordered another two seasons.
