Sorry for Your Loss

by Georgia McVeigh

Genres: General Fiction; Women's Fiction; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

The story of two people, both as magnetic as they are dangerous, who get caught in an electric game of cat and mouse

The question is, Who is the predator and who is the prey?

Meet Iris: a dark soul with a propensity for obsession, still reeling from a recent loss, who relies on a local grief group to keep her grounded and out of trouble. And now meet Jack: a cagey widower who shows up at a meeting one night and jolts both of them back to life.

From the moment Jack first takes a shabby plastic chair in the circle, he is positively dashing. And Iris can’t help but feel that fate has brought them together.

But their chance encounter sends them racing through a series of hairpin twists where nothing is as it seems and no one plays by the rules. As Iris is drawn deeper into Jack’s world, she begins to realize that her own deceptions may be no match—or maybe they're the perfect match?—for all the dirty secrets Jack has been hiding.

Edgy, intricately plotted, and totally chilling, Sorry for Your Loss is a blistering psychological thriller for fans of Ashley Elston, Ana Reyes, and Ashley Audrain.

Release date: March 31, 2026

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 320

Sample

One

When I think back, I see chairs arranged in a circle. Small, hard, and plastic, they come in a range of primary colors, blotches of forced brightness in the otherwise drab, depressing space. Linoleum floors with chewing gum trodden into nondescript disks, a battered corkboard bearing peeling posters. The room has only two windows. The view through the streaked, dirty glass is of the car park.

This room has an assortment of uses. Knitting clubs, the local playgroup, dodgeball. More often than not, the chairs remain stacked against the wall. Towers of clashing reds and blues packed away to create more space for these joyful activities.

As far as I know, the circular formation is unique to Tuesday evenings. Unique to our particular group. The circle, you see, is a symbol of many things. It represents beginnings; it represents endings. Our group, obviously, is more concerned with the latter.

I would have liked some ambient noise to mask my entry: the rustle of a coat perhaps, or the low rumble of voices. Instead, there is only the whump of the swinging door settling behind me, the squeak of my rubber soles against the floor. Here, "silent as the grave" is not just an expression; it's a mantra.

Fiona purses her lips as I take my seat. I sense, rather than see, that she's glaring at me, so I take my time to shrug out of my coat and settle myself on the chair. I don't make a habit of being late, but we've played this game a few times. It's important, I've discovered, to keep Fiona on her toes.

Only when I have finished rubbing sanitizer into my hands does Fiona clear her throat and shuffle her papers with a self-importance that is astonishing for a woman whose greatest achievement is the death of her husband. The smell of rubbing alcohol is sharp in the air.

"Now that we're all here, let's make a start, shall we?"

I don't dislike Fiona. I admire her tenacity. Not many people have the stomach to profit from other people's despair, yet she does it with an enthusiasm that borders on relish. She's got a strong nose for business, and the personality to boot. If it weren't antifeminist, you'd likely describe her as a battle-ax, but it is, so I won't. There is a whisper of Miss Trunchbull about her, though. All of which is why, today, I'm alarmed to see her ample bosom inflating in a way that might almost be described as flirtatious, an unseemly pink flush spreading into those already ruddy cheeks.

"You might notice," she says in a sugary voice I've never heard before, "that we have a new member joining us today."

She gestures to a man on the other side of the circle. I can't believe I didn't notice him before. We don't often get new members, and it's always an exciting diversion from the usual order of play: tears and long, meandering monologues that most of us have heard fifteen times before. Personally, I like to mix it up a bit when I speak. Critical to keep your audience engaged.

The reason for Fiona's sickening personality shift is instantly obvious. He's very attractive. Even though he's sitting down, I can tell he's tall. There's a nice symmetry to his face, too, and he has a full head of hair (which, when a man has suffered a loss, is not a guarantee). If I weren't here under such tragic circumstances, I might even be tempted myself.

The man seems unbothered by our scrutiny, which is not always the case. I like to think we can be quite intimidating as a pack, and there have been occasions when new members have crumbled under the weight of our unsmiling stares. We don't mess around here. This is a serious group for serious loss.

This man, however, raises his hand in an almost lazy acknowledgment of our attention. Bereavement suits him. The three-day-old stubble gives him a rugged, unruly quality, and his suit hangs from him in a way that only emphasizes his lithe frame. I bet he's pure muscle underneath-

I stop myself there. It's easy to become carried away in these sorts of situations, and I must keep my mind on the matter at hand: Freddie.

"This is Jack," Fiona says, and simpers. Christ, even her cleavage is flushed now.

"Hi, Jack," we chorus back in a monotone, to show how sad and solemn we are. Fiona looks as though she'd quite like to ask us to do it once more, with feeling.

"Do you feel comfortable sharing who you've lost, Jack?"

He clears his throat: a gruff, deep rumble. God, he's good-looking. Rita's clocked it, too, now. She's staring at him, sucking in her cheeks in a way that makes her look not unlike an odd, inverted hamster, but at least she had the foresight to put makeup on. I look like shit. I have, admittedly, let myself go somewhat in the last few months.

"Sure," Jack says, and as a collective we sit up a little straighter. There's a certain presence to him that even the men in our group-Charlie and Matt-have picked up on. With a single word, he's commanded our attention in a way that's almost enviable. I study his body language. He's leaning forward slightly, as though he's drawing us into his confidence. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap for sincerity, his brows pulled together for seriousness. It's good. Very good. "I'm here," he continues, "because I lost my wife, Alice. She died of cancer earlier this year. Sixth of June."

It takes me a moment to compute what he's said. I'm so focused on the clarity of his delivery, the projection of his voice, that the date does not immediately register. But when it does, my heart gives a little leap of excitement.

"Did you say sixth of June?" The eagerness has leached into my voice-not a good look-and I tone it down instantly. "Sorry." I clear my throat. That's better. Duller, deader. "It's just, that's the date I lost my partner, Freddie. Sixth of June, this year."

Jack looks at me for the first time, and I experience a lurch of intense desire. "I'm so sorry to hear that," he says. Then he looks away again, and it feels like the sun has slipped behind a cloud.

"Thank you, Iris." Fiona's dropped all pretense now. To be fair, I have broken a cardinal rule: We do not, under any circumstances, interrupt another member when they're speaking. I glance at Jack. He's new. He won't know the difference.

Fiona tries to claw back her composure and fails miserably. "That was very brave, Jack. Well done," she says, with a chip of ice in her tone.

"I'm just going to do a little rundown of the way this particular bereavement group works, and then we'll go round in a circle and introduce ourselves. I'm Fiona and I'm the group leader. Any concerns, come straight to me, yes?" She's hitting her stride now. She loves new members almost as much as I do.

Fiona lost her own husband ten years ago and, in the wake of his death, wrote a nearly successful self-help book, which she flogs to all new members like it's the much-anticipated new chapter of the Bible. She now turns a profit by giving talks about her healing process, and I am beginning to wonder if losing her husband isn't the best thing that ever happened to her.

"This is a safe space. I want you to be able to share your feelings, whatever they may be, in a nonjudgmental way. It's important to note that we are a social bereavement group; this is not group therapy, nor is it purporting to be. The aim is to bring people who have suffered a loss together-but bear in mind that not everyone will have experienced the same type of loss as you. We just ask that you are patient: Others' experience may differ from your own, but that doesn't make their feelings any less valid. Understood?" She says all of this very fast, as though she is the voice-over for a radio jingle and is trying to fit the terms and conditions into the designated eight-second time slot at the end.

Jack nods, and Fiona turns to me.

"Iris, since you were so keen to interject, you can start."

It feels, suddenly, like a lot is resting on what I say next. For one thing, I'm a little put out by the success of Jack's introduction. He played it perfectly: a tough act to follow. For another, I need him to notice me again. That look he gave me: Something long dormant stirred. And that's without even touching on the elephant in the room. His wife, dying on the exact same day as Freddie. I mean, really. What are the chances? It's like it was meant to be.

So, obviously, what I say next is critical. I have just this one chance to impress him. To impress upon him that I am someone worth more than a fleeting glance.

I start by leaning forward. It's a good trick, one I'll bank for future use if this is a success. I wait until the shuffling of feet has ceased, until all eyes in the room are fixed on me. I emit a deep, labored sigh. Just to remind everyone why we're here.

"I'm Iris." Nailed it. The perfect combination of sorrow and fortitude. "As I mentioned just now-sorry, Fiona-I lost my partner, Freddie, on the same date. Sixth of June." A small, wary chuckle. As though I can't believe the coincidence of it. Which, to be fair, I can't. Jack sits up straighter. I've got him on the line; now I just need to land the finish. "What I didn't mention"-pause for another, shaky breath to emphasize the aforementioned fortitude-"is that Freddie wasn't just my boyfriend. He was my fiancé. He'd asked me to marry him a few days before he died."

Is there anything more tragic than a love cut short? It's sad to lose your wife, sure, but by that point all those little idiosyncrasies that you found so adorable at the beginning have begun to grate. But an engagement ended by an untimely death? That's peak tragedy. That's the death of hope itself.

The others clearly think so, too. Rita's hand is clamped over her mouth in shock. I think I see the glaze of tears in her eyes, though admittedly that's not entirely unusual for her. Jack's eyebrows have knitted together in sympathy. I take a risk then: I press my tongue hard to the roof of my mouth and give him my most winning smile. I haven't used it in nearly six months, but it's all coming back to me now. In response Jack gives me a small, uncertain smile, but at least he's still looking at me.

Only Fiona does not look entirely convinced.

"But . . . you're not wearing a ring?" she says. I don't appreciate the challenge in her tone.

"A ring is a patriarchal construct, Fiona. It feeds into the idea that a man owns a woman."

But there was a ring.

And I would have worn it.

Two

I try to keep thoughts of Freddie to a minimum. It's not that I don't care. I do. But it's distressing to dwell on just how close I came to happiness. To companionship. That feeling of having someone there. He always seemed to know when I'd had a long day, like we were connected by some invisible thread. He'd put a bracing hand on my shoulder, just to let me know he cared, or send a thoughtful message: You OK?

I'm painfully aware, however, that rehashing every peak and trough of the relationship is not conducive to moving on. That's how you slip into bitterness. And, on the whole, I'm adept at keeping memories of Freddie at bay. I keep busy and work hard. I avoid silence. When things get really tough, I clean.

It may not surprise you to hear that the one place I struggle with thoughts of Freddie is the grief group, though not for the reasons you might think. It's more of a pacing issue than any deep-buried emotion dredged up by someone else's melancholic speech. The truth is that bereavement groups are really quite slow. So slow, there have been occasions when I have no doubt the corpse of those they're mourning would get to the point faster.

And we are currently suffering through another painful silence from our least eloquent participant: Charlie. After my shock confession, it's an abrupt return to the mundane, and-judging by the distant expressions-not a particularly welcome one.

Tonight, though, it's not Freddie occupying my thoughts, but Jack. My little speech went down better than I could have predicted. Every so often, we catch each other's eye. Jack always looks away quickly, but not before I've clocked it. We are an hour into the session, and he has looked at me twenty times already. That's got to mean something.

The last time I felt excitement like this was at the start of my relationship with Freddie. I was languishing then, too, stuck in the hellish normality of daily life. Looking back, I think I was a bit lost. Floating through early adulthood without point or purpose. Freddie changed that. He changed everything.

It's all coming back to me now, like a rusty cog slotting into place. The smile I gave Jack earlier was over-the-top. I won't make that mistake again. It's crucial I don't come across as too keen. Take the game out of it, and they lose interest instantly. A little nugget of advice that my brain has kept tucked away all these months, as though it knew I might need it again. Yes, it's all returning to me now.

I pretend not to notice Jack taking me in. I fight the urge to cover my hair. I haven't washed it for three days. My roots are an abomination. I'll have to deal with them before next week. I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, rest my hands softly in my lap. I cock my head, gaze fixed firmly on Charlie, and pretend to be absorbed in his prevailing silence, which is no easy feat.

It never ceases to amaze me, the effect male attention can have. I feel more alive tonight than I have in weeks, though I appreciate this is probably the wrong forum in which to boast about vitality. Don't get me wrong, I don't condone wrapping one's entire sense of self around the male gaze, but we all know it feels good, even if it is taboo to admit it. It's nice to be looked at again. Particularly when it's by someone like Jack.