In this rollicking sequel to A Serial Killer's Guide to Marriage, two (mostly) reformed serial killers discover something more deadly than murder: a midlife crisis.
“As funny as it is familiar . . . A perfect read for anyone who has ever tried to maintain a hobby while raising a toddler.”—Tasha Coryell, author of Matchmaking for Psychopaths
Homework. Housework. Homicide. You can do it all!
Hazel and Fox have it all: two children, a beautiful home, and a late-night habit of eliminating people who deserve it. Yet work-life balance is hard when you want to kill bad men but raise good kids.
With a school mum tyrant on Haze's case, and Fox struggling with performance anxiety after a botched kill, things are spiraling. Therapy isn't helping, and bullet journaling has taken on a whole new meaning. . . .
But when they accidentally draw a dangerous group to their doorstep, the couple must pull it together—and fast. Because surviving in suburbia is no longer just a challenge. Now it's a real fight for their family's lives.
And it turns out, self-help starts with staying alive.
Release date:
June 16, 2026
Publisher:
Bantam
Print pages:
352
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“The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round.”
The song had been playing on repeat for the last half hour. Fox turned off the engine and it went blissfully quiet. We were parked inside an empty petrol station forecourt off the A329. It was 12:27 a.m. on a rainy Tuesday night and sensible people were tucked up at home.
“I’m telling you this is crazy.” Fox shook his head.
“We have to do this.”
He gripped the steering wheel. “It’s just a poo.”
“It’s a poonami. Look at him!”
Fox turned round and glanced at our four-month-old son, who was strapped into his car seat and staring at us wide-eyed. A telltale brown stain darkened the whole front of his white Baby-gro. If it was like that at the front, I shuddered to think how annihilated the back was going to be.
“He seems fine with it.”
“He is now, but how long for? What if he kicks off when we’re right in the middle of it?”
“There must be a spare nappy in there?” Fox gestured to the black holdall by my feet.
I rifled through it. A large knife, duct tape, a blowtorch, three screwdrivers of varying sizes, a roll of bin bags.
“It’s only an hour round trip; I didn’t think he’d need one.” I briefly considered fashioning something together out of a bin bag and duct tape.
“This is your fault for trying to multitask.” Fox put on an annoyingly good English accent. “He loves the car. He’ll settle in the car.”
“He was screaming when we dropped Bibi at Jenny’s. I couldn’t ask her to look after him like that.”
“I think she, of anyone, would’ve understood.”
“I can be in and out of there in five minutes. Eight, tops.”
Fox sighed and looked around the empty forecourt. “Okay. Do it. I’ll try and fix it tomorrow.”
I paused with my hand on the car door handle. “Tomorrow? Shouldn’t you fix it tonight?”
“As it is, we’ll be lucky to be in bed by 2 a.m. And we’ll get maybe an hour and a half before he kicks off again. You seriously—”
“I just thought if you were being so paranoid, you’d want to fix it as soon as possible.”
Fox rubbed his right eye. “I do. I just . . . I don’t think I can. I’m so tired I can barely see straight.”
I took a breath. “We always knew this was going to be tough . . .”
“. . . But it’s worth it.” Fox finished what had been our mantra for the last few months. He reached over and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back and got out of the car. I caught a glimpse of myself in the wing mirror and winced. My hair was piled up on my head in a knotty mum bun and I had panda eyes from where my mascara had smudged. I’d pulled on Fox’s old hoodie as we were leaving the house, and could now see it had a large spit-up stain on the right shoulder.
I unstrapped Reggie from his car seat while breathing only through my mouth and held him in my outstretched arms as I walked briskly toward the petrol station shop.
Fox
It was going to be fine. I was overreacting. It was a small detour. The chances of anyone noticing us, anyone even interacting with us, were tiny. A one percent chance.
I looked out as a white car pulled into the forecourt. I blinked several times. I was getting myself so worked up I was clearly hallucinating, because that car looked like it had blue and yellow checks along the side of it. And blue lights on top. I blinked again. The word “POLICE” was printed across the hood. It was there. Definitely.
Okay, calm. Think calm thoughts.
I tried to ignore my rising heart rate. We were just a normal couple. Out for a drive at midnight. With a baby.
The police car parked right next to us. Would a normal man with nothing to hide turn and look at it? My mind wasn’t working properly. I just kept staring straight ahead. Out the corner of my eye, I saw two police officers get out of the car. I gripped the steering wheel. Was I about to get a knock on the window? Would they ask me to get out? What could they know?
They hovered. I could feel them standing looking at me. I leaned over and twiddled with the radio. When I sat back upright, both men were walking toward the petrol station shop.
Haze’s mobile was still in the car. It didn’t matter. She would see them soon enough.
Chapter Two
Haze
I’d used nearly half a packet of baby wipes, but Reggie was finally clean and once again sweet-smelling. I binned the destroyed Baby-gro. Reggie was now rocking nothing but a clean nappy and a cardigan. I stuffed the pack of nappies and baby wipes back into the plastic shopping bag.
I walked back into the shop and past the refrigerated section. That reminded me—milk. We’d run out. I picked up a large carton, and then headed toward the counter, grabbing a loaf of bread, a handful of chocolate bars, and a bag of crisps on the way.
Reggie was balanced on my hip. The cashier beeped everything through. I turned to the sound of the petrol station door opening. Two police officers walked in.
F***.
F***ing.
F***.
I could picture just how freaked out Fox must be right now. When you failed to prepare, prepare to fail. I gritted my teeth and tried not to think about how ridiculous it would be if, after everything, it was a poo explosion that ruined us.
Reggie, no doubt sensing the difference in tension in my grip, wriggled and let out a little cry. I jigged him up and down on my hip. “Shhhh, shhhh, now.”
I swiped my card.
“Do you want another bag?” The cashier was talking to me.
“No. It’s fine.” I scooped everything off the counter into my bag with the wipes and nappies.
I spun around and gave a small nod to the police officers. Just a normal mother. Grocery shopping after midnight. With a partially dressed baby.
I walked out of the door and tried to not run to the car.
As I got closer, I saw it. The back of the boot had a small smear of what looked like a red handprint. How had we missed that? The forecourt’s lighting was illuminating it. It shone out like a beacon. I reached into the bag and pulled out the baby wipes.
I was two meters from the car when I heard a loud voice behind me.
“Excuse me! Madam?”
I stopped and spun around on my heel, fixed grin in place. “Yes?”
The police officer took a step toward me. “You forgot your card.” He held out my debit card.
“Thank you, officer.” I took it from him and looked up at his face. As long as he kept looking at me and not the car, my hope was he wouldn’t spot the handprint shining out from our minivan’s silver bodywork.
“You’re out late with a little one.”
“Teething. He just won’t settle unless we’re in the car. It’s messed up his whole bedtime routine. And I know he should be self-soothing, but it’s just so tricky to not give in.” I wanted to bore the officer with such inane baby chat that he’d be begging me to leave. “The car just rocks them so perfectly, and when they’re teething they’re total monsters, it’s just—”
“Tell me about it! I’ve got one the same age. Our first. It’s amazing, isn’t it? Exhausting, but amazing. Have you tried the teething granules? I think they’re much better at soothing than the gels.”
“I . . . Yes. You’re right. Definitely much better.”
“And Sophie the Giraffe. She’s been a lifesaver for our little one.”
How the hell did I manage to get stopped by a proud first-time father?
“Good old Sophie!” I jigged Reggie on my hip. He let out a little squawk. “I’d better get him in.”
The police officer looked at Reggie. “Poor little lad is probably cold.” Was he now looking at me with actual judgment? Assessing my parenting? He leaned to look over my shoulder at our minivan.
“Poonami!” I cried out, trying to turn his attention back to me. “Annihilated his clothes.”
“Of course.” His face relaxed. “Unbelievable how much can come out of them.” The second police officer was now out of the shop and heading toward their car.
“Is he about four months? How many hours is he managing between feeds?”
I gritted my teeth. “Three, sometimes four. I’m too tired to count.”
“We need to go!” shouted the other officer. He looked a good fifteen years older than the proud dad.
“Just comparing nightly routines!”
The other officer muttered something under his breath as he got into the driver’s seat.
“We’re on four to five hours now,” the man said. “And once he even slept through the night. I—”
Reggie let out a small cry at the fact I’d stopped jigging him. “I’d better get him home.” I turned toward our van. “Have a good night!”
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