REESE’S BOOK CLUB PICK • FROM THE #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF BIG LITTLE LIES, THE RUNAWAY PHENOMENON THAT INSPIRED THE MEGAHIT HBO SERIES
In this highly anticipated sequel, Liane Moriarty examines the complexities of modern women’s lives, shining light on family dynamics and long-hidden truths with wit and compassion. Whether you’ve read Big Little Lies or not, this is the perfect novel for longtime fans and new readers alike.
“Equal parts juicy, gripping, and impossible to put down . . . I loved diving back into the lives of these unforgettable characters.”—Freida McFadden, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Housemaid
The last time we saw the women of Big Little Lies—Madeline, Celeste, Jane, Renata, and Bonnie—their children were five years old. If someone wasn’t invited to a birthday party, feelings were hurt. But ten years have passed and the kids are in high school, navigating all of the drama that accompanies teendom (goodbye playdates, hello drugs, sex, and alcohol).
When the high school principal receives a threatening package in the mail, word quickly spreads throughout the community and parents are in an uproar. But Madeline, Celeste, Jane, Renata, and Bonnie have other things to worry about. Celeste’s mother-in-law, Mary Louise, is behaving oddly—is it old-age forgetfulness and bluntness or something more sinister? Madeline is facing perhaps the biggest challenge of her life, Jane is at a dangerous fork in her marriage, Bonnie has realized there’s only so much solace in yoga. And Renata? Renata is living her best life—revenge is sweet.
When a stranger begins lurking around the school asking supposedly innocent questions, this tightly connected group of women must finally face the full repercussions of the big little truths they have and haven’t shared with their kids. Because the stakes are now much higher than not being invited to an ice-skating party—and the ice has never been thinner for any of them.
Release date:
August 25, 2026
Publisher:
Crown
Print pages:
464
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It was a soft-breezed spring morning on the Pirriwee Peninsula north of Sydney. Bright yellow native wattle lined the winding coastal road. Jacarandas blossomed lush-purple against a cloudless blue sky. Chicks warbled adorably in their nests. A protective magpie, alert to potential predators, swooped like a missile at the helmeted head of an innocent cyclist.
The morning rush was still underway at the beloved beachside café Blue Blues, but the beach itself was quiet. A small dog pelted across the flat, firm sand, followed by its guilty owner, leash in hand. Surf conditions were “clean and peaky.” The main swell was from the east.
A handful of gray-haired surfers sat astride bobbing boards and shielded their eyes to watch a pod of dolphins leap and dive like a line of music across the horizon. Just past the point, unseen by the surfers, a whale ferried her rambunctious firstborn calf through the coastal waters of the “Humpback Highway.”
At Pirriwee’s beachfront park, a circle of new mothers sat cross-legged on picnic blankets, cradling tiny babies and speaking plaintively of sleep schedules, while a nearby tai chi class of senior citizens painted invisible rainbows in the air, smiled at the babies, and remembered their own.
Then: a sudden discordant flash of noise and movement.
Footsteps pounded like galloping racehorses.
The new mothers clasped their babies close as a pack of teenagers ran through the park.
Not really a pack. They were not wolves, and there were only six of them: three girls and three boys. It just seemed like more. Their legs were so long. Their emotions so seemingly outsized. They bolted down the concrete steps and onto the beach, where they collapsed on the sand, shrieking as if they’d reached safety or crossed an invisible finish line. They were empty-handed except for one boy, who hugged a laptop to his chest. One of them burst into tears, or laughter. It was hard to tell. It seemed possible they were drunk.
The high school where these students were enrolled, and where they should have been at that time, was a ten-minute walk uphill from the beach. Students were pouring noisily out of classrooms like concertgoers attempting to leave a venue. They clogged the hallways and stairwells. It was “Tech-Free Tuesday,” so everyone was being discreet about their device usage.
Mrs. Lottie Wang, Pirriwee High’s administrator and executive assistant to the principal, sat at the reception desk sorting the mail.
She opened a large yellow envelope addressed in black marker to the school principal, Dr. Ferdinand Seawright, whom she could hear in the adjoining office, talking loudly to himself as he sat at his desktop computer, which apparently did not fall within the category of “technology.”
This was Dr. Seawright’s first year at the school and Lottie had yet to adjust to his habit of speaking aloud as he typed, as if he were dictating the words to himself.
“Once again . . . my patience . . . wears thin,” he said.
Mine too, she thought.
“Parents should . . . be aware . . . this behavior is not condoned . . . is prohibited by the Pirriwee High School Code of Conduct,” he said.
Lottie sighed.
The yellow envelope contained a white Styrofoam box, a little smaller than a mobile phone box.
She used the point of a pair of scissors to break through the tape holding the two interlocking halves together and pulled them apart.
“Ew!” She recoiled.
A realistic-looking replica of a man’s finger, complete with a few black hairs and a nicely filed fingernail, was nestled in a rectangular cutout cavity in the bottom half of the box. How unnecessary and unpleasant and bad for the environment! The things companies did to get attention with their direct marketing promotions!
She looked for the accompanying letter, which she expected would say something “clever” like, Point your students in a different direction.
Anna Kennard, Head of Science, appeared at Lottie’s desk. “I’m sorry to keep bugging you, Lottie, but I really need to know about the roster for—” She stopped. “What’s that you’ve got?”
Lottie smiled up at her. “Oh, it’s just some promotional thing. It almost looks real, doesn’t it?”
“May I see it?”
Lottie handed her the bottom half of the box. Anna tipped it upside down and the finger fell free. It had been tightly cling-wrapped and sealed smooth like a school sandwich.
Anna carefully loosened and unraveled the cling wrap. She gave it a little shake. The finger rolled slowly onto its side.
Anna took a pen from the container on the reception desk marked Clean Pens, held it upside down, and tentatively prodded the finger.
It was soft, mottled, with splashes of dried blood below the knuckle.
“That’s a human finger,” declared Anna, and she pulled her blouse up to cover her nose. “Smells.”
“No.” Lottie pushed her chair back, away from the desk. “It can’t be.”
“No doubt at all,” said Anna. “It’s a real finger.”
Lottie shrieked. She stood and swayed on the spot. “I feel sick.” She had low blood pressure.
“Sit down,” said Anna reasonably.
“What’s going on?” Dr. Seawright emerged from his office just in time to catch Lottie under the armpits. Anna rushed to the other side of the desk and they carefully laid her on the floor. Dr. Seawright averted his eyes as Anna pulled Lottie’s skirt over her knees.
There was a discreet deep cough, and they looked up to see a whiskery fifteen-year-old holding a red behavior-monitoring card.
“Come back later, Ruben,” said Dr. Seawright. “Mrs. Wang is not well.”
He assumed the gormless expression on Ruben’s face related to the sight of Mrs. Wang’s knees. Anna Kennard was unaware that Ruben had witnessed her prodding of the human finger and therefore did not request his discretion, not that he would have given it. He was a gregarious child. His father was a distinguished public radio broadcaster, and so Ruben knew how to deliver breaking news without sensationalism or embellishment.
It needed none.
Within the hour, the entire school community was aware that someone had sent the principal a severed finger. Any doubts about the veracity of Ruben’s story disappeared when a police car was seen driving into the visitors’ parking area.
Phones across the Pirriwee Peninsula vibrated ecstatically with the ping-ping-ping of parent WhatsApp group notifications. These were caring, involved, hands-on parents, many of whom could have sent their children to private high schools but chose not to for worthy ideological reasons and were therefore entitled to VIP treatment for not spending the money they could so easily have afforded to spend. All they asked was transparency. If a severed finger had been sent to the school, they should be informed without delay.
Their children, meanwhile, were euphoric about this ghoulish interruption to their day, although some experienced nausea, and the theater kids, who felt things deeply, wept and fainted, or did their best to faint.
It was one of those days from their childhood every student would remember: that sunny spring day when somebody gave their school principal the finger.
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