From the author of the breakout thriller Every Last Fear, comes Alex Finlay's electrifying next audiobook The Night Shift, about a pair of small-town murders fifteen years apart—and the ties that bind them.
“The night was expected to bring tragedy.” So begins one of the most highly-anticipated thrillers in recent years.
It’s New Year’s Eve 1999. Y2K is expected to end in chaos: planes falling from the sky, elevators plunging to earth, world markets collapsing. A digital apocalypse. None of that happens. But at a Blockbuster Video in New Jersey, four teenagers working late at the store are attacked. Only one inexplicably survives. Police quickly identify a suspect, the boyfriend of one of the victims, who flees and is never seen again.
Fifteen years later, more teenage employees are attacked at an ice cream store in the same town, and again only one makes it out alive.
In the aftermath of the latest crime, three lives intersect: the lone survivor of the Blockbuster massacre who’s forced to relive the horrors of her tragedy; the brother of the fugitive accused, who’s convinced the police have the wrong suspect; and FBI agent Sarah Keller who must delve into the secrets of both nights—stirring up memories of teen love and lies—to uncover the truth about murders on the night shift.
Twisty, poignant, and redemptive, The Night Shift is a story about the legacy of trauma and how the broken can come out on the other side, and it solidifies Finlay as one of the new leading voices in the world of thrillers.
A Macmillan Audio production from Minotaur Books
Release date:
March 1, 2022
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
368
Reader says this book is...: entertaining story (1) satisfying ending (1) suspenseful (2) terrific writing (2) unputdownable (1) action-packed (1)
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Alex Finlay adds to an impressive string of first class thrillers with The Night Shift, a wildly entertaining story built upon a pair of nearly identical late night slaughters of ice cream store employees. The killings occur fifteen years apart, and each leaves a single survivor, who share a common memory of a whispered message from their unknown assailant. Finlay weaves the tale primarily through the eyes of three characters, two of whom are the survivors, with the other an appealing FBI agent who is determined to solve both crimes. Finlay’s characters are extremely well draw...
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Alex Finlay adds to an impressive string of first class thrillers with The Night Shift, a wildly entertaining story built upon a pair of nearly identical late night slaughters of ice cream store employees. The killings occur fifteen years apart, and each leaves a single survivor, who share a common memory of a whispered message from their unknown assailant. Finlay weaves the tale primarily through the eyes of three characters, two of whom are the survivors, with the other an appealing FBI agent who is determined to solve both crimes. Finlay’s characters are extremely well drawn, complete with layers of complexity that make them interesting and keep us fully invested in their plights. The well-crafted plot unspools smoothly, with enough twists and turns to keep us guessing right to the end. Finlay’s writing is tight and direct, and the buildup of tension through the final chapters will keep you on the edge of yours seat … or awake all night.
Ella pops a Xanax as she waits for the valet to take her keys. Driving into Manhattan always stresses her out. The frenetic confluence of cabbies rage-driving, cops jetting by with sirens blaring, pedestrians all but challenging you to run them over as they step defiantly into the street.
What the fuck is she doing here?
Last time, she’d promised herself that it would be the last time.
A young guy in a bellhop uniform stands at her window now. She hums down the glass.
“Checking in?” he asks. He’s in his twenties and gives her the once-over.
“No, just meeting a friend.”
He nods as if enjoying the euphemism. Sure, in that outfit, a friend.
Ella slips out of the car and palms the kid a five. She catches him stealing a look at the bill, unimpressed.
Give her a break. She’s a therapist making $30K a year, for fuck’s sake, not some businessman on an expense account.
Inside the marble lobby of the Carlyle hotel, she makes a beeline for the bar. Against all sound medical judgment—she’d taken a pharmacology class at Wellesley—she pops another tiny blue pill.
She feels eyes on her as she enters the mahogany room. Faux old-money decor and the din of Franz Liszt from the gray-haired pianist trying not to look defeated at the culmination of his music career.
Ella should talk. She’s barely making her half of the rent, coming into the city so she won’t bump into one of her fiancé’s friends. Or a client from her fledgling practice. She thinks about sixteen-year-old Layla from their session that morning. She’s cutting herself again. Layla didn’t need to explain why. Ella understands.
Surveying the bar, Ella snags the look of a man in an expensive suit holding a tumbler of Scotch. They always drink Scotch. And love to talk about it. The special barrels this, the unique region that. Beyond the Scotch prattle, most tend to have a pale band of skin on their left ring finger. Ella doesn’t bother to take off her engagement ring. The Scotch guys don’t care.
The man smiles at her.
He’ll do.
Ella is always surprised how easy it is. She doesn’t need Tinder when she has this black dress.
So she goes to meet her new friend.
* * *
A few hours later, her phone chimes. She’s in a hotel room now, the only light from under the door. On these frolics, she always sets the alarm for 5 a.m. It avoids awkward morning-after talk.
But it isn’t the sound of the alarm. It’s an incoming call. She extracts herself from under Rick’s hairy arm. She wonders if that’s his real name. He looks like a Rick. Though he probably thought she looks like a Candy. Something sweet but bad for you. Much like her old friend, whose name she borrowed. She always uses their names. Candy, Mandy, Katie. She has no idea why.
“Hello,” she whispers into the phone. She scuttles quietly to the bathroom, scooping up the black dress off the floor. The marble is cool under her feet.
“Ella, I’m sorry to call this late. It’s Dale.”
“Mr. Steadman?” After all these years she can’t bring herself to call him by his first name. You’re always a kid to the teachers in your life. She hasn’t spoken to him in a year, not since her former teacher and now principal at her old high school had her meet with students in the wake of a school shooting in a neighboring township. “Is everything okay?” She feels drumbeats in her chest. Why would he be calling at this hour? Could it be? Could they finally have caught him? No, good news rarely arrives in a wee-hours call.
“Something awful has happened. I know it’s asking a lot. But can you come to RWJ?”
Come to the hospital? Now?
Before she can ask, Mr. Steadman says, “There’s been a—one of my students needs your help.”
She wants to protest. Wants to make an excuse. But she can’t. Not after everything Mr. Steadman has done for her.
“Sure, of course,” she says. “I’m visiting a friend in the city. I can get there in about an hour.”
“I wouldn’t drag you out here if I thought there was someone else who could…” He trails off.
Ella’s head is swirling. She’s exhausted. Still tipsy. Confused. She composes herself. “Can you tell me what this is about?”
Mr. Steadman’s voice catches. “Four girls were attacked at an ice cream shop in Linden. Only one survived. She needs someone who understands, who can—”
“I’m on my way,” Ella says killing the line, knowing she’s uniquely qualified to help this girl.
Knowing what it’s like to be the only one who made it out alive.
CHAPTER 2
The parking lot of the Robert Wood Johnson University Hospital is covered in a spring fog. The lot is nearly empty save for a gathering of police cars. A woman in scrubs paces outside the front doors, talking on a cell phone.
Ella grips the steering wheel even though she’s parked, and looks down at her pale, bare legs. She debates going home to change into something more professional. But Mr. Steadman sounded uncharacteristically rattled. He’s usually a rock.
She takes a look at herself in the visor mirror, thumbs her smeared eye makeup. Climbing out of the car, she decides the fuck-me heels are a bit much. She reaches back for her gym bag, pulls out her sneakers.
The woman in scrubs is still pacing out front. Ella sees her discreetly put a fist to her mouth, suck in a deep breath, followed by a plume of vape mist.
We all have our secrets.
The receptionist inside barely gives her a second look. The woman has probably seen it all working the ER night shift. Ella once dated a med student who’d done an ER residency rotation, and he regaled her with tales of the guy with a Barbie stuck up his ass, the PCP fiend who’d eaten two of his own fingers during a bad trip, the construction worker with a nail deep in his brain yet still conscious and talking. A therapist in nightclub attire probably didn’t make the Top 10 for weird.
The receptionist says something into the phone, then waves Ella inside the treatment area. The door makes a jarring buzz and Ella walks into a large room bathed in fluorescent light, beeping and voices echoing from behind beds surrounded by blue curtains. At the far end, she sees Mr. Steadman talking to a group of white guys. Three uniformed police officers and a stern-looking man with a mustache whose polo shirt is tucked tight into his jeans. He and Mr. Steadman seem to be having a disagreement.
For a split second, Ella feels a flight instinct. A memory slithers into her head, the procession of cops, doctors, and social workers asking the same questions. Did you get a look at him? What do you remember? Did he touch you? She looks at the floor for a moment, trying to collect herself, then catches a glimpse of her bare thighs again and is transported back to the exam room, her legs in stirrups.
Ella had been nonresponsive after the attack. The hospital’s psych team was unsuccessful, and Ella’s parents were at a loss. The school sent over Mr. Steadman. He wasn’t trained in trauma response, he was merely the fill-in for a guidance counselor out on maternity leave. The cool teacher. Young, good-looking. The one the moms fawned over. At the same time, he was capable, no-nonsense, the kind of person who you wanted in charge, which is probably why they later made him the school’s principal.
Mr. Steadman sees her and gives a small wave. He doesn’t react to the muffled screams coming from a curtained room near the huddle of men. A doctor emerges from the room, grimacing. He says something to the group gathered with Mr. Steadman, shaking his head. Mr. Steadman puts a reassuring hand on the doctor’s shoulder, then walks over to Ella.
“Thanks for coming. I’m sorry to interrupt your night,” Steadman says, the only acknowledgment of her getup.
He fills her in. After midnight, the teenage employees of the Dairy Creamery were found murdered in the back room of the ice cream shop. The mother of two of the girls, sisters, got worried when they didn’t return home from their shift and didn’t respond to texts. The mother is sedated now.
“There was a survivor?” Ella knows the answer. It’s why she’s here.
Mr. Steadman nods. “A student at my school. She didn’t work there. We think she was just a customer. Maybe interrupted him.” Mr. Steadman takes a cleansing breath. “I was hoping you could talk to her. The doctors and detectives aren’t getting anywhere. She’s—well, you’ll see. The Union County prosecutor called me, since…”
He doesn’t need to complete the sentence, the reason clear: because it worked for Ella after Blockbuster.
“But she won’t talk with me or anyone else or let the doctors examine her. I hoped you could try before they’re forced to sedate her.”
“I’m not sure I have the—”
“You’re our best hope. And I won’t be able to hold them off for much longer.” Mr. Steadman directs his gaze to the man in the polo and jeans, a detective, she presumes, who undoubtedly is itching to interview the girl. A killer’s on the loose.
“What’s her name?”
“Jessica Duvall, but she goes by Jesse.”
“Where are her parents? Won’t she talk to them?”
“She’s in foster care. I’m not sure why. She’s new to my school, and they don’t give us much information.”
The murmuring from the huddle of cops grows louder. They’re looking at Ella.
She takes a deep breath and steps into the room.
CHAPTER 3 KELLER
Sarah Keller reaches for her phone, which is pinging on the nightstand. Three texts at 5:30 a.m. She’s been lying awake for an hour anyway. Feeling the two sets of feet inside her belly kicking wildly, fallout from the Thai food last night. She spent those sixty minutes listening to Bob snore. Worrying about keeping up with her job and money when the twins arrive. In their five-year marriage, she’s never known Bob to lie awake about anything. Not a worrier, her husband.
She reads the texts from her boss.
Locals need assistance.
Union County.
That’s unusual. The FBI usually doesn’t get involved with local law enforcement unless it’s something big—terrorism, kidnapping, or the like—and Keller’s still a relatively junior agent.
Another text pings. A link to a news story. She feels a flutter in her chest as she reads the details, which are still sketchy. A mass killing at an ice cream store in Linden, three dead. A possible survivor.
She taps out a return text.
Sure, need me there right now?
There’s a long delay as the dots pulse while he types. He likely thumbed out an annoyed response—of course, now—then erased it. A good boss deletes annoyed messages before sending them. And despite his cold, Swiss-banker demeanor, Stan Webb is a good boss.
As she struggles to get her giant, eight-month-pregnant body out of the bed, the text finally arrives.
Yes.
Always an economy of words with Stan. She’ll call him from the car.
After showering—a precarious endeavor of stepping into the tub without crashing to the floor—Keller puts on her maternity suit, one of two that still fits. She smells something coming from the kitchen. She’s not one to buy into old wives’ tales about pregnancy, but her senses really are heightened.
Bob’s out of bed and washing a pan in the sink. On the small kitchen table, he’s set a plate with scrambled eggs and grilled tomatoes on a bagel. All month he’s been preparing recipes from a website catering to pregnant women.
“You didn’t have to get up,” she says.
“When Clarice Starling gets a text at five in the morning, I know I’d better cook or my bambinos will only get a PowerBar to keep ’em going.” He pulls back the chair for her to sit.
“I’ve gotta run. Stan needs me to—”
“Ah, ah, ah, when Stan has two humans in his belly he can tell you to hurry up.” Bob sits across from her. He has bags under his eyes and looks ragged.
“What time did you get home last night?” she asks. He’s a soundman at a recording studio, his schedule at the whim of the artists.
“Three or so,” he says. “A rowdy polka band,” he adds, as if that explains the late night. She doesn’t know if he’s kidding. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
“You shouldn’t have gotten up, I can get my own—”
“I almost forgot, I made you something.” He jumps out of his chair and retrieves a thermos from the counter.
“Please, not the pregnancy smoothie you’ve been going on about?”
He raises his eyebrows up and down.
When she finishes the bagel, Bob helps her out of the chair.
“I’m pregnant, not incapacitated, you know.”
Bob doesn’t reply. He kneels so he’s facing her belly. Looking down at his bald head—the dome surrounded by the doughnut of hair that is ironic without him intending it to be—Keller feels a surge of warmth run through her.
“Take care of your mama, little Feebies,” Bob tells her tummy.
Keller has never discharged her firearm in the line of duty, yet her husband treats her like she’s a serial-killer hunter.
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