In this new romance from USA TODAY bestselling author Letizia Lorini, a crime podcast host must solve a chilling serial killer case while navigating an unexpected romance with her mysterious next-door neighbor.
Scarlett Moore doesn’t do romance.
She’s made a name for herself narrating gritty crime fiction on a local podcast. But when her boss hands her the reins to the network’s romance show, Scarlett finds herself neck-deep in swoony love stories on top of her usual murder plots.
Then someone begins reenacting the chilling crimes she discusses on air, down to the last twisted detail.
Determined to protect her small town, Scarlett launches her own investigation. But the line between reality and fiction blurs even more when Rafael Gray—the brooding bad boy who disappeared five years ago—unexpectedly returns. Suddenly, her life reads like a romance novel filled with every trope she used to mock, with Rafael playing the dangerously irresistible lead.
He's perfect in every way...except last time, he broke her heart, and now he’s the prime suspect in the string of brutal murders.
Will this be the love story she never saw coming, or is it a killer kind of romance?
Release date:
January 13, 2026
Publisher:
Gallery Books
Print pages:
448
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the moment in a romance novel when fate decides, “let’s shake things up”
“Rooo.”
“Shut up,” I croak. Sherlock’s version of a meow is the last thing I want to hear after two hours of sleep.
“Rooo.”
“I said shut up.”
Sherlock’s tail tickles the tip of my nose, then his butt is on my face. “Rooo!” he insists.
“You can’t be that hungry.” I push him off my face, then blink one eye open and find his yellow-green eyes staring back at me, unimpressed. I scratch the back of his neck, my fingers sinking into the black fur. “I don’t care—too tired.”
I close my eyes again, but I can feel him staring in that judgmental way only a cat can manage, so with a groan, I drag myself up into a seated position. I guess I’m also late for work, so I can’t resent him too much.
I grab my phone and scroll through the notifications. Nothing. I stumble out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s shirt. Sherlock brushes against my leg, yowling as I head to the kitchen. Once he’s fed, I fumble for the coffee machine, only to find it blinking “low water.”
Great.
I fill it, waiting impatiently as it burbles, then pour myself half a mug. I grab my phone again and check through the notifications I’ve gotten in the last ten minutes—none. Maybe I should text him.
Yeah. You know what? I can. I will.
I open up my conversation with Ethan and stare at the screen. The last bubble is green—sent by me—and so is the one before. The last message he sent reads “Bet,” which left me puzzled for a good five minutes. It’s like he’s learned a new language since he turned fourteen. I hesitate for a while longer, then type.
Scarlett
Hey! It’s been a while. How’s school?
Nah. He won’t answer that. I glance at the haphazardly hung poster that reads, “Dysfunction: Just another word for family,” with a doodle of a crooked house, then study the screen again.
Scarlett
It’s my birthday! I’d love to talk if you have the time. Maybe after school? Or we could grab dinner. Or lunch. Or anything, really. If you’re free! No pressure. Love you!
I run a hand over my face, delete almost everything and send:
Scarlett
I’d love to chat if you’re free!
Sherlock lets out a disapproving “Roo,” his eyes trained on me as I shuffle to the bathroom, tripping over my half-zipped pants and dodging the piles of laundry lining the floor. I stuff my phone and keys into my purse and bolt for the door, praying I remembered deodorant.
The warm summer air carries the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. The sun kisses my cheeks, making me loosen my cardigan as I descend the steps. But the peace of the suburbs is quickly interrupted by the neighbor across the street.
“Scarlett!” Mrs. Prattle—Brattle, actually, though everyone knows her as Mrs. Prattle—calls as she hurries over. Despite her age, she’s as spry as ever, with her short silver hair pinned back and deep wrinkles that crinkle when she’s gossiping. “Did you hear about John Gray, dear?”
Looking for my car keys in the impossible mess of my oversize handbag, I side-glance at the Grays’ place, right beside mine. “Hey, Mrs. Pr—Brattle.” Keys in hand, I point at my car. “Sorry, I’m late for work.”
“I would have never imagined,” she says, reaching my side with a determined step. She falls into pace with me as I walk to the car, her foldable shopping cart rattling behind her. “You know, Maria—the hairdresser with the tattoos—said she saw him the day before. Looked as healthy as a horse, she said.”
“Uh-huh.” I open the car door, then check the time on my phone. “Really, Mrs. Brattle, I—”
“Did you see the undertaker? Handsome fella, huh?” she continues, turning to my old gray Toyota.
“Undertaker?” I freeze. “You don’t mean…”
“Oh, John Gray passed last week, darling. They just found him dead in his home yesterday.”
What? “I’m so… sorry,” I say almost automatically. Truth be told, I must be the only person in town who never liked that man. It always felt like his affable smile was nothing more than a mask.
Still, he’s been my next-door neighbor all my life.
“I wonder if his son will show up for the funeral,” Mrs. Prattle says.
My shoulders stiffen instantly. “He won’t.” Noticing the curl of her lips, I casually flip my hair off my shoulder. “I mean, I don’t know, of course, but he hasn’t been around for so long that…”
Her eyes glimmer, the unmistakable sign of gossip being detected. “I didn’t know you two were close.”
“We weren’t,” I rush out. “We never even spoke a word to each other.” Okay, that might be suspiciously exaggerated. “Besides ‘hello’ and whatnot.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, I’m—” I point at the car.
“Go, dear. Go,” she says, though she doesn’t move to leave. Instead, she lowers her voice, leaning in closer. “But don’t think I didn’t notice what day it is.” She takes a small envelope out of her bag and hands it over.
“Mrs. Brattle,” I half-heartedly complain.
“I know, I know. You don’t celebrate your birthday. But it’s just a small gift, and I won’t tell anyone.”
Pretty sure that means the whole town already knows.
She waves off my thank-you, and I drop onto the seat, then check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Good God. My bangs are a brown tangled mess, and yesterday’s eyeliner is smudged.
I run my fingers through my hair, trying to tame it into some semblance of order. Setting the envelope down, I take out my concealer and mascara.
Once I’m as presentable as I can manage, I start the car and pull out of the parking spot, the old piece of junk creaking as if it can barely sustain its weight.
I turn on the stereo system and connect my phone. It’s Friday, which means the latest episode of my podcast aired last night. I open Spotify, and my shoulders relax as soon as the familiar intro music plays.
One episode a week for half a decade, and this feeling doesn’t get old.
Welcome to Murders & Manuscripts, the podcast where we delve into the darkest corners of crime fiction. I’m your host, Scarlett Moore, and today we’re unraveling the chilling tale of The Thornwood Butcher by Cameron Slate, a story that will send shivers down your spine and keep you on the edge of your seat.
Thornwood is a quaint village, the kind you’d see in postcards—peaceful, picturesque, and seemingly perfect. But beneath this serene facade lies a dark, twisted secret waiting to be uncovered.
Our story begins with a grisly discovery: Dr. Margaret Fairchild, a respected historian who had been kidnapped during a stroll with her dog, is found dead in her cottage. Her body is a horrifying sight—tied to a chair, her mouth filled with dirt and wildflowers, her throat slit, and her eyes replaced with small wooden animal figures. Scattered around her are blood-spattered manuscripts and artifacts. On the wall, a message written in blood: “The past never dies.”
My phone beeps with an incoming text, which causes the Bluetooth connection to stutter, so I give the stereo the usual swat.
—shocking murder has rocked our small town of Willowbrook, Connecticut.
I lower the volume, cursing the Jurassic car for switching to the radio, before I register the words of the host.
Catherine Blake, a professor at UML, was found dead in her home late last night. Details are still emerging, but police sources describe a scene too gruesome to believe.
A murder? Here?
I turn up the volume, my curiosity piqued.
Blake was last seen walking her dog. When her daughter called and received no answer, she went to her mother’s residence and found her body.
Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. This murder has sent shock waves through our small community, and everyone is advised to stay vigilant.
When someone honks behind me, I realize the light has turned green, and I resume driving, thoughts still scattered.
There’s hardly any crime in Willowbrook. A town with only five thousand people, where we all know one another, isn’t supposed to have murders. This will affect the community—the sense of safety that’s always been so strong here, the way neighbors leave their doors unlocked and let their kids play outside until dusk.
I drive all the way to the office, hardly aware of what’s around me until I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine.
After fetching my bag, I enter the building and check my messages, unable to help the slight disappointment that settles in my chest when I notice it’s not Ethan.
Paige
Free tonight? We could use an extra at the Single Mingle event.
“Liar,” I mumble as I wave at the receptionist, then rush into the elevator just before the door closes.
Scarlett
That so? And it’s not a ploy to get me to celebrate my birthday?
Paige
Omg, that’s true! Happy birthday!
“The worst liar in the world,” I say at my phone. She does this all the time—drags me to one of her parties with the promise of work, then insists I have fun instead. It reminds me of why she’s one of only three friends I have: friends are a lot of work.
Scarlett
Fine. Send me the address. Since it’s not a birthday party, I’ll show up in sweats.
Paige
Sounds great. See you tonight.
Liar.
I walk up the stairs and enter Booked It headquarters, where the air hums with energy and the faint scent of coffee lingers. The host of Space & Storycraft, Sarah, waves at me from behind her desk, cluttered with sci-fi books and a half-empty coffee cup, and in the recording studio, the soft glow of monitors peeks through the open door. Damien, host of Wizards & Words, looks up, and as my gaze narrows to the farthest corner of the room, I notice my favorite sound engineer—and the only one I know—Theo.
I move on to Celeste’s office, the last door on the right.
“Celeste?” I ask as I knock on the half-open door.
“Yes?” I open the door to see Celeste’s sleek dark hair, cut in a sharp bob, as she bends over her computer. “Scarlett! Come in, come in.”
I enter the cozy, cluttered room, with shelves crammed full of books and folders stacked haphazardly on every available surface. “Sorry I’m late, it’s been a crazy—”
“Wow, you look terrible.”
“Thanks,” I say flatly. She’s always impeccably dressed, today in a tailored charcoal suit. I don’t know how she does it—not with a husband and two kids—but she always finds time for makeup, too. If you showed anyone in town a picture of thin black-rimmed glasses and bold red lipstick, they’d say it was Celeste. “Didn’t sleep much.”
She hums. “Someone interesting keeping you up at night?”
“Four men, actually.” I take out The Midnight Gentlemen from my bag. “Murderous but distinguished.”
She laughs, turning slightly in her chair. “Don’t worry. Love will come when it’s time. And then you’ll wish it had taken longer to find you.”
I’m not worried, but I’m tired of pointing it out. “Everything good at home?”
“Oh, absolutely. Steve is my rock.” She turns to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of the town center, then to the bookcase, locating the mug she’s abandoned on a top shelf. “Last night’s episode was your best yet. The Thornwood Butcher. Couldn’t agree more with your review—we need more voices like Slate.”
“Best book I’ve read in a while,” I offer, fidgeting with my hands. “So, hmm… you wanted to see me?”
“Yes, right,” she says as she focuses her attention on me. I’ve known her my whole life, but under her scrutiny, even my hands turn clammy. “Twenty-three, huh? Can I say happy birthday?”
Oh God. Seriously? “Mrs. Brattle already wished me a happy birthday and gave me an envelope filled with cash I’m sure the whole town contributed to. So…” I stand, motioning to leave.
“Wait—I want to give you a raise!”
I turn to her, eyebrows skyrocketing. “Oh.” I walk back. “In that case…” I say as I slump back into the chair.
“Here. How does this sound?” she asks, holding out a paper.
I read through the contract, my mouth opening as I notice this is far more than a raise—this is twice my current salary. Does this mean…
“I know you’ve wanted to come on full-time for a while now, but what I said remains true,” she rushes out. “We can’t afford more weekly episodes of Murders & Manuscripts. You know the podcast hasn’t exactly been thriving for the last couple of years.”
“Okay,” I say, excitement dampened. “Then why the raise?”
“Because I have an opening, and I’d like you to consider it.”
I watch as she walks to the big bookshelf beside the desk, then returns and drops a thick folder in front of me. Reading the words scribbled on it, I shake my head. “No. No way.”
“Scarlett, wait—”
“Romance books?” I squeal. “Do you want to kill me?”
“Passion & Pages is our best-performing podcast. And now that Tanya is leaving, I’ll need to hire someone else.”
“So do it. I don’t—”
She leans forward over her desk and grabs my hand. “You have a mortgage to pay, Scarlett. And I know that you’ve been picking up odd jobs around town.” She points down at the folder. “Is romance really worse than that?”
It probably is. I honestly can’t tell, because I’ve never read one. “Look, Celeste. This isn’t just about whether I like it. I don’t know the first thing about love.”
She leans back in her reclining chair with a dismissive gesture. “Well, it’s not like you’re a murder expert.”
No, but I’m the daughter of a cop and an assistant district attorney. Other kids got fairy tales while I begged my dad to tell me about how the police caught the San Francisco Strangler one more time. I read my first crime fic when I was ten, and I never stopped. I’ve watched all the documentaries, listened to every single podcast out there.
You know what I’ve never done? Watched rom-coms. Listened to love songs or daydreamed about boys.
I’m not the right person for this job.
But the money, a tired little voice in my head says. How can I say no to stability? Celeste is right: I have a mortgage to pay. And it’s for a run-down mess that could be turned into a house if I had some money to invest in it.
“Look, why don’t you try it out? A couple of episodes—just to see how you do. And if it doesn’t work out”—she makes a decisive gesture through the air—“we forget all about it.”
I’m pretty sure I’ll regret this, but I can’t say no without even trying. I owe it to my back, destroyed after five years of on-and-off waitressing. “Okay.”
Celeste claps. “Oh, thank God. This will be amazing, you’ll see.”
“Your expectations worry me.”
“You’ll do great, Scarlett.”
Slapping my thighs, I stand. “Okay, well, it sounds like I have a podcast to study.”
“You do. I’ll make sure your salary information is updated.” She smiles. “Oh, and Scarlett?”
“Yes?”
“Make it ten times better than Tanya’s, please?”
I ignore the dread gripping my throat. “I’ll do my best, boss.”
I walk out of the office, hand already wrapped around my phone. In the main room, I expect to be hit by the usual activity, but instead of the crowd buzzing from one side of the room to the other, all my colleagues are clustered around Damien’s computer, their faces tense and focused.
Theo, standing a little apart, offers me a hesitant wave. His glasses are slightly askew, which always makes me smile, and a mop of curly blond hair falls just above the frames. “All good with Celeste?”
“Yep.” I check my latest notifications. Nothing from Ethan. “Did you know Tanya is leaving?”
“She told me yesterday.” His shoulder bumps against mine. “Hey.”
Happy birthday, his expression says. With a smile of my own, I thank him. Which reminds me… “Is Paige planning a surprise party?”
“Huh? N-no.”
I was wrong. Paige is a terrible liar, but Theo is definitely a worse one. “Theo?” I insist.
He sheepishly looks away, then shrugs one shoulder. “She’s planned that event for tonight. Single Mingle.”
“Which she wants me to work at?”
He holds on for about four more seconds before finally folding. “No. She just wants you to have a good time.”
There. I knew it. That doesn’t mean I get to skip it, though. I can’t stand the inhuman pitch of Paige’s voice when she’s disappointed. “Single Mingle? Good God.” I drop into the closest chair. “Are you going?”
He watches me through the thick lenses. “Do I have to?”
“Hell yes, you have to. Single Mingle sounds like hell, but one built specifically to bring me down. I could use a friendly face.”
He squints. “Not ready for love yet, then?”
After I make a “hmph” sound, my gaze drifts to our colleagues, still gathered around Damien’s desk. “What’s going on?”
Theo turns. “Oh, yeah. I still can’t believe it. There’s been a murder in town.” He gestures toward the computer. “The Willowbrook Whistle just ran their story.”
I stand and walk to the desk, leaning in over Damien’s head to read the article’s headline on the screen: “Police Respond to Horrifying Murder in Willowbrook.”
Stomach tightening, I quickly scroll through the text, grasping bits of information here and there about the victim’s background, until I get to the details of the murder.
In a shocking turn of events, Catherine Blake’s body was found tied to a chair in her home, her throat brutally slit and disturbing cuts surrounding her eyes. Authorities believe the horrific attack may have occurred once she came back home from work.
The victim’s body was littered with flowers and dirt, and a chilling message was scrawled in blood on the wall. Investigators are now exploring the possibility that Catherine’s murder was ritualistic, potentially linked to a local religious cult.
My blood runs cold as I absorb the details. Is it me, or… a slit throat, flowers and dirt, a message written in blood on the wall? Either I’m losing my mind or this is almost exactly the murder that happened in The Thornwood Butcher, the book whose review aired on my podcast last night.
Straightening, I look back at Theo, lips parted. “What the fuck?”
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