Erased

by Kiersten Modglin

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

Althea Ralston:
Author.
Professor.
Icon.
Liar.

Fifteen years ago, Lila Parks was a bright, eager student at Havenport University—handpicked and mentored by the legendary Professor Ralston.

Lila believed in Ralston’s message.
She trusted her.
Worshipped her.

Then, everything fell apart.

Behind the curtain of Ralston’s carefully crafted illusion, the truth was impossible to ignore: Lila’s mentor built her empire on deception and betrayal.

Today, the world sees Althea Ralston as a legend. Lila only sees the lie.

When an invitation to celebrate Ralston’s lifetime of achievement calls Lila back to Havenport, she knows she shouldn’t go. But this might be her only chance to confront the woman who destroyed her.

Surrounded by thousands of Ralston’s adoring fans and the ghosts of her past at Addison Hall, Lila begins to dig for proof of what she learned back then, of the monsters buried beneath that perfect smile. What she uncovers is darker—and far more sinister—than she ever expected.

To expose Ralston for what she truly is, Lila finds herself in a downward spiral of paranoia and suspicion, desperately searching for the key to toppling Ralston’s meticulous house of cards. But with every wrong turn, she finds herself closer to crumbling her own world instead.

Set against a gothic campus cloaked in ivy and secrets, this chilling, slow-burn suspense from two-million-copy bestselling author Kiersten Modglin explores the blurred line between manipulation and brilliance—and what it costs to finally speak the truth.

Release date: March 20, 2026

Publisher: Bitter House Publishing

Print pages: 287

Sample

CHAPTER ONE Smile. Instinctual. My lips slip without thought. Who decided showing our teeth is a sign of submission anyway? A sign of kindness? A way to say we’re not a threat? In the animal world, it’s quite the opposite. And what are we, if not animals, anyway? Still, I smile. I smile as I sit across from the literary agent telling me, yet again, this story just isn’t the one. Whatever this mystical, never reachable one may be, apparently, I’m unable to create it. My stories—no matter the praise heaped onto them by the same agents rejecting them—are never quite right. “Anyway,” she says, her perfect blonde bob swaying as she moves her hands to speak. Her teeth are bleached to perfection, and the slight lines around her eyes only make her look more qualified for this role. To be the one on that side of the table. The one telling me, ”No.” “I do hope you’ll keep in touch and let me know about your next one.” She pauses, giving me a serious, empathetic look. “You have real potential, Lila. I know you’ll get there.” “Would you consider a revise and resubmit? Maybe there’s something I could change or…” But she’s already shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I rarely offer R and Rs and only when there’s something specific I need changed in order for it to work. This project feels too…out of my wheelhouse all around. I wish I had better news, but it just isn’t for me.” “Oh. Right. Okay.” My lips quiver, fighting to maintain the smile still plastered across them. “Well, thank you for the consideration,” I mutter before pushing back from the table. “It was lovely to meet you.” She holds out her hand to shake mine, and I can’t resist. She just shot down my dream, just said the story I’ve spent the last three years of my life perfecting isn’t for her, and I’m supposed to be polite? She could change everything, give me everything, but she won’t. I walk from the restaurant stiff as a board, barely holding it together. The second I reach the fresh air of the street, I release a heavy breath, shaking my hands out at my sides. It is what it is. Rejection is the life of an artist. I’ve always known that. Stephen King had a nail on his wall filled with paper rejections. Every book I’ve ever loved, every author who has ever inspired me, was rejected somewhere along the line. I’m earning my dues. This has become my ritual for each and every rejection. It doesn’t make it sting any less, but it helps to feel less alone. When my phone buzzes, I’m expecting a text from Nora—a fellow writer and one of the clients of the agent who just rejected my manuscript. She’s the reason we had the meeting in the first place, after putting in a good word for me. Which means she’s the reason I just spent twenty-four dollars on a bagel and a coffee I didn’t touch just to get rejected in person. I wonder if she knows yet. I don’t want her pity. I can’t handle it right now. I almost don’t check the notification. Almost. But I do. And when I glance down at my phone, I stop in my tracks. You are cordially invited: A Celebration Honoring Professor Althea Ralston’s Lifetime of Achievement My throat fills with the sharp, bitter taste of metal, my breathing loud in my ears. My hands shake as I open the email. Dear Ms. Parks, We are honored to invite you to a special ceremony celebrating the extraordinary work and legacy of Dr. Althea Ralston. The world knows her as a renowned feminist, beloved author, and trailblazing voice in gender and social justice, but those of us who know her best call her Professor Ralston—friend, mentor, guide. Join us in celebrating all that she is and thanking her for all she has done. Date: Saturday, November 8, 2025 Time: 6:30pm CT Location: Phoenix Auditorium, Havenport University IF YOU’RE AVAILABLE—We’d be honored to have you join us starting Saturday, November 1st for RALSTON WEEK, a full week of specially curated days leading up to the ceremony, all designed to celebrate Professor Ralston’s tireless efforts to improve not only our campus and city, but our world. Featuring academic panels, a live podcast taping, art showcases, a feminism-in-action teach-in, a fireside chat with Professor Ralston and a surprise guest, mentorship roundtables, pop-up bookstores, a special ceremony on the Equity Walk where Professor Ralston’s honorary plaque will be placed, and much, much more! Professor Ralston’s work as a writer, podcaster, professor, philanthropist, and fearless advocate has shaped the next generation of thinkers and doers. From the classroom to the public square, her influence is far-reaching—and this event will mark a momentous celebration of her lifetime of achievements thus far. (Professor Ralston would be upset if we didn’t mention she’s not going anywhere just yet.) The events and ceremony will be filmed as part of an upcoming documentary chronicling Professor Ralston’s life, work, and impact. If you would like to be interviewed or contribute to the documentary in any way, please respond to this email with a signed copy of the attached media release. We hope you’ll join us as we honor a feminist icon whose voice continues to inspire critical thought, bold action, and deep compassion. If you wish to attend, kindly RSVP to [email protected] With appreciation, Rachel Berg Assistant to Dean Carlyle Havenport University I read through the email twice, the words swimming through my chest like tiny shards of ice. …fearless advocate… …influence is far-reaching… ….renowned feminist, beloved author, and trailblazing voice… …feminist icon… …friend, mentor, guide… Once, I saw Professor Ralston as the world sees her. Now, her shiny façade is tarnished. I lift a finger, hesitating for only a moment, and delete the email, anger simmering in my gut. How could they possibly think I’d want to attend? Did Ralston give them my name? Why would she? I feel sick. When I reach my apartment, I call Mom, but she doesn’t answer. Probably busy. I need a distraction to keep the centipedes from crawling under my skin, the thoughts from driving me to madness. Inside, I open my laptop, intent on working on my newest book. I should text Nora and give her an update. It’s not her fault my book wasn’t good enough. She’s been a true friend to me throughout this process. I swallow, staring at the address bar, waiting for me to give it a direction. I try to think of anything else, to direct my thoughts anywhere else, but I can’t. I’ve spent so many years trying to forget about Ralston, trying to strike her name from my memory, and here she is, waltzing right into my inbox without warning. I don’t try to fight it as I open the tab to search for flights, though I do pay the extra for insurance. Just in case I need to cancel. Just in case I find my dignity between now and then.

 

CHAPTER TWO The stone archway of Havenport University rises in front of me, just as ivy-covered and proud as it was fifteen years ago. I used to think it was so beautiful, so prestigious. Now it just reminds me of everything it represents. Everything it hides. I pull my suitcase over the uneven sidewalk and stare at the crest carved into the gate, under “Havenport.” Veritas. Potestas. Vox. Truth. Power. Voice. The irony burns in my chest with vengeance. I want to laugh, it’s so ridiculous. So unfair. Nothing here has changed, and nothing ever will. The quad is still a checkerboard of old bricks and manicured grass. Everything on the outside is perfect, beautiful even. None of the cracks show. The lush grass is framed by Gothic buildings, everything pretending to be centuries older than it actually is. The air smells damp, like moss and rain. Like youth. Like everything that was once mine. I pass a group of undergrads lounging on the steps of The Beacon Pavilion, their faces sunlit and easy, and for just a moment, I feel the weight of time hit me square in the chest. I used to be those kids. Used to believe this was all there was—this place, these people. Used to believe everything would be good. Beautiful. Fair. The pavilion used to mean so much to me. Years ago, I sat just feet away from where I stand now, listening to the greatest visionaries of my youth speak. I cried during speeches about the promise of tomorrow, cheered when they reminded us that our futures were bright and we could change the world. Back then, I really believed it. Now, I’m thirty-seven, and none of my dreams have come true. In this place, time swells. Dilates. Everything here feels eternal. Like it will always be this good, we will always feel this powerful. I know better. I pass the Catalyst Hub—Havenport’s name for the student center—and the Bonnie Yates Memorial Library on my way without paying either much attention. Someday Ralston will have a place here named for her, too. The thought hits me at once, taking my breath away. The painful truth of it. It’s inevitable. Of course she will. Probably sooner than later. The path curves past the central green, and that’s when I see it. The banner. It stretches across the breezeway at the head of the Equity Walk, a deep purple for the school’s color, with bold white letters: Ralston Week: Honoring a Legacy of Truth and Inspiration Below it, students in matching plum-colored T-shirts are handing out glossy programs and tote bags with her face printed on them. Althea Ralston. Her eyes seem to find me even while inanimate. She’s still beautiful, even in that brightly colored, artistic portrait—reminiscent of an Andy Warhol painting—one hand raised mid-lecture like she’s throwing glitter into the crowd, dusting them with her sparkling light. Two women walk past me, talking under their breath, and I get a closer look at the tote bags. Close enough to see that the quote under her portrait reads, “They tried to erase us, but we won’t let them.” I stop walking, my palms slick with sweat. There are students taking selfies in front of the banner. A few wear enamel pins shaped like tiny compasses—Ralston’s signature symbol. Always pointing toward the truth. The irony of it all makes my stomach clench. She built her entire career on the idea of navigating truth, on building tables for women who had never been offered a seat at one. On giving a voice to the voiceless. But I know what’s buried under that polished image. She lies. Cheats. Steals. She destroys people. She destroyed me. And got celebrated for it. And now, here I am to witness the crowning of a fraud. I shouldn’t be here. I stop, contemplating turning back. I don’t know why I agreed to come anyway. I should’ve left that email in my trash folder where it belonged. I should’ve just said no. Or said nothing at all. She’d never have been bothered by my absence. I dry my hands on my jeans. I don’t know why I came. Maybe I needed to see it all again for myself, to understand how the lie has grown so big no one even questions it anymore. Or maybe I just hope someone will. Someone braver than I was. Am. With that, I square my shoulders and continue. I’m already here. I may as well get a glimpse of her. If nothing else, I need to bear witness to what this has become. I need to know. To remind myself of what she is. The housing office is up ahead, looking just the way I remember: a squat brick building with stained-glass windows too small to belong to churches and too decorative for classrooms. Inside, a student worker in a Ralston Week polo hands me a key attached to a faded leather tag. Everything has to look old. Expensive. Even when it isn’t. His dark skin is youthful and untouched yet by time as he smiles at me and offers up a Ralston tote bag. I pretend not to notice the gesture, turning away quickly as though I’m distracted. He doesn’t offer a map or guidance to find my dorm as I make my way to the door, just a warning. “Watch your step—some of the stairwells in the alumni housing aren’t fully reinforced yet.” He seems to rethink his words. “They’re safe, I mean. Just…you know, be careful.” Lovely. The leather tag lets me know my temporary housing—or as they’ve chosen to call it in the welcome letter from the event coordinator, Historic Alumni Lodging—is Addison Hall, a building in the southeast corner of campus. If I remember correctly, it’s near the Prism Gallery which was constructed during my first two years of college and showcases feminist art. Everything about this place sells a story, a lie. Including the neatly trimmed and well-maintained landscaping that leads to Addison Hall. I snort when it finally comes into view, remembering. Ahh, yes. Right. The complex is a ghost town full of peeling paint and rotting wood trim, a building that appears to have to hold its breath, so it doesn’t collapse. No wonder it’s so vague in my memory. It was student housing before my time and had already been condemned before I arrived. They’ve made attempts to clean it up, it’s obvious, but I suspect they’re only opening it now because it’s the fall semester, and they don’t have any other housing available for the massive guest list Ralston must’ve given them. I force that thought away before it can take root in my brain. The wondering. The questions that have been on my mind for months now. Did Ralston invite me herself? Did she put my name on the list? Or was I only chosen because I was one of her prized students once? Such wondering could drive me mad. My room is on the second floor, and the stairs creak under my weight. The halls bustle with other arrivals, many wearing shirts with Ralston’s picture or her quotes on them, others carrying her books clutched tightly to their chest. The hallway smells of fresh paint, with a hint of mildew. My room is cramped, with a twin bed, a desk bolted to the floor, a tall, narrow dresser, and a too-small mirror on the wall. There’s no bathroom or laundry in the rooms themselves. I’ll be back to using a communal facility. But it’s clean, at least. I drop my bag on the bed, exhaling. My entire body buzzes with an emotion I can’t quite understand. Part of me wants to run, part of me dreads seeing her. Part of me is ready. I’ve been waiting fifteen years for this moment—something deep inside of me knowing it would come. That I’d find myself back here, find myself facing her again. Ralston is somewhere on this campus. Maybe already doing press, shaking hands, signing books. Her fans are out in full force, ready to laud her for all she’s done. It’s almost religious—the reverence, the hunger for proximity to her. The way they quote her, follow her, trust her. People want to believe her. To believe in her. They want her to be everything she claims to be. Maybe that’s why it has worked for so long. Sometimes all it takes for something to be true is for enough people to believe it is. I was one of them once, one of the blind. The enamored. I believed her. Looked up to her. Trusted her. I let her lead me, and I followed with blind faith. She was everything I wanted to be someday. But now I know better. I know the truth, and I know all the lies. ...