You'll Be Sorry

by Lisa Gardner

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

From a #1 New York Times bestselling author comes a gripping, edge-of-your-seat standalone that chills: A newlywed couple each with their own secrets. An abandoned luxury lodge with a horrific decades-old mystery. And a small mountain town where everyone believes they know everything about their neighbors…except they don’t.

For Raquel and Theo Collins, it appeared to be love at first sight. Raquel, a renowned interior designer, and Theo, a brash financial wizard met and married in a matter of months, only to confront a terrible tragedy. Now, unbearably aware of the distance between them, they’ve come to a remote town in New Hampshire to begin anew.

Perched on a ledge with stunning views, the Dixon’s family lodge was once a crown jewel of the mountains. Until late one August night, when both parents and their four children vanished, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints, and a mystery that has endured for thirty years. Now, its latest occupants, the Collinses, are arriving, and the former grand lodge is once more stirring to life.

For Amanda Grady, following in her father’s footsteps as the recently appointed Shereford police chief, it’s good to see a fresh start for the derelict Dixon place. However, not everyone is happy about a new family in the old home and its hidden past may have returned with a vengeance.

When a stray dog leads to the discovery of a skeleton on the property, Raquel and Theo face a daunting choice of what to believe, who to trust, and how to survive. Because in the tiny village of Shereford the time has come. The local residents, the new neighbors, and the fledgling police chief must work together to unravel the terrifying events that happened one night thirty years ago, or…

You’ll be sorry.

Release date: August 4, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Shereford, New Hampshire, 1998

The locals called him Dog. Nobody knew where the pale-Lab-ish-looking canine had come from. Maybe abandoned by a tourist, or at one time lost on a nearby hiking trail. Attempts to get close enough to check for tags failed. So did the lure of warm shelter and cozy domestic life.

Dog did Dog. Over time, the six hundred residents of the tiny mountain town of Shereford agreed. Shopkeepers left out bowls of water. Restaurant owners offered up nightly scraps. Among neighbors, it became something of an honor to wake up in the morning to discover Dog had chosen their front porch for the night.

Of course, there were those who chased him away, worried he’d attack their children—or worse, breed with their own precious four-legged darlings.

Dog did no such thing. Dog did Dog. And as months passed, his staunch independence and regal bearing made him something of a local star. Tourists started asking about him, hopeful for a sighting or, even better, a photo. Sometimes Dog was accommodating. Sometimes Dog was not. No amount of offered treats or pretty words made a difference.

Then, the Dixons returned for the season.

One of the founding families with roots that traced back to the 1700s, the current generation was Dave Dixon; his wife, Janet; and their four boisterous children. Most of the year they resided in New York, but they spent each summer on the old family farm, which included dozens of acres of prime mountain real estate and one massive timber-framed lodge with breathtaking views. Half the community eyed the young family indulgently, while the other half muttered “entitled” as the four high-spirited kids ransacked the bins of penny candy at the general store, chased each other around tables at the local diner, and by and large ran amok through the town commons.

Which is where twelve-year-old Henry, ten-year-old Violet, eight-year-old Josie, and six-year-old William met Dog.

Henry, as the oldest, ordered his siblings to stay back. No collar meant stray. Stray meant rabies. Violet, on the other hand, was already making cooing noises while Josie wanted to know what rabies was. William settled the matter by darting forward and throwing his arms around Dog’s neck.

Which is how Dog became a Dixon.

Dave Dixon had magical memories of his childhood summers on the family property, exploring trails, climbing boulders, and chasing foxes with his numerous cousins by day; catching fireflies, roasting marshmallows, and swimming in moonlit ponds come night.

Fortunately, his four kids took after him, happily tumbling out the front door each morning, returning only when it was time to eat. That made Dave fall in love with his hometown all over again. Where else in the world could you do such a thing, he’d extol to his wife, Janet. Especially these days, when stranger danger was everywhere. But in this quaint little village tucked away at the northern tip of the Presidential Range, with its white-steepled church and four-room schoolhouse, where neighbors knew one another by name and nobody bothered to lock their front doors, this, the tiny town of Shereford, was the perfect place to be a kid.

Not too bad a place to be a parent, either, Janet always thought as she tucked herself into her favorite lounge chair on the front porch, another battered paperback in hand. With four kids generally off in search of witches and one husband down at the fishing pond, Janet got to spend most afternoons doing exactly what she loved best: reading the latest thriller/romance/mystery/historical novel. She checked them out from the local library by the dozens.

To complete the merry family: Dog. Dog running with kids, sleeping with kids, eating with kids. Even tolerating baths by kids (their mom’s condition for Dog to enter the house). Dog and children, children and Dog, romping through the great outdoors as the hot, steamy days of July gave way to cooler nights in August, as meadows burst with waves of wildflowers while the first sumac bushes turned bloodred with the promise of fall.

Third week of August, Janet closed her final book and turned her attention to the arduous process of packing up the house. Dave tended to some final maintenance in anticipation of the coming winter, while the children busied themselves with cramming in every last minute of fun before the dreaded return to school.

Even Dog understood the scent of change in the air as he faithfully alternated between Henry and William’s and Violet and Josie’s bedrooms each night, because the Dog who’d belonged to no one now belonged to everyone, which was actually kinda nice.

Until the last weekend in August, when the sky grew thick with roiling clouds and the air crackled with impending lightning. Henry laughed at the hair standing up on his arms, while William whimpered at the uncomfortable feel. Dave built up the fireplace while Violet and Josie helped Janet round up the candles for the power outage that was sure to follow.

Trees whipping. Wind howling.

The mountains hunkered down as if the entire forest were holding its breath for the violence to come.

Then, a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a resounding boom of thunder and a giant cracking noise directly outside.

The power flickered, went out.

And the entire Dixon family was never seen again.

Betty Jenkins, Shereford’s postmistress, first noticed Dog as she was locking up at five. The familiar canine was loping through the village center, stopping at each parked car and business door, whining softly. Vehicle by vehicle, establishment by establishment, almost like he was looking for someone.

When she turned toward him, he made an immediate beeline in her direction. Now his whine was more pronounced and his distress more apparent. So was the dark red blood drying on his pale fur.

Betty opened the tiny post office back up and invited Dog inside. For once, he followed. Then she called Chief Grady.

Shereford had a three-person police force: one full-time chief, one full-time officer, one part-time uniform. Just because the town was small didn’t mean things didn’t happen. Motor vehicle accidents, for one; moose versus car rarely turned out well for either party. Not to mention petty thefts, domestic assaults, and a fairly constant number of drunk-and-disorderlies.

But policing was more than law and order, Chief Grady liked to remind people. He and his officers weren’t sitting behind desks waiting for crimes to happen. They were out and about, interacting with the locals, taking the time to learn about their lives. It wasn’t just managing a community, it was being part of it.

Which is why Chief Grady immediately understood Betty’s worry. He’d barely pulled up to the post office before Dog was outside, staring expectantly. Chief opened the passenger side door. Dog hopped straight in.

They headed to the Dixon property together.

First thing Chief noticed while making the long, winding drive up to Widow’s Ledge was the amount of debris everywhere. The power company had worked through the night to get electricity restored, but the storm’s damage had been significant. Felled trees, washed-out roads, downed branches. Nearing the end of the Dixons’ snaking driveway, he spotted a massive oak with its trunk splintered and bark scorched. Lightning strike for sure.

Something about the raw violence made it all the more foreboding when he turned off his engine, climbed out of his vehicle—wincing slightly as the motion tugged at the fresh row of stitches in his shoulder—and heard…nothing.

No chirping birds. No buzzing insects. No rustling leaves. Just silence.

Mother Nature was never this quiet.

Slowly, he rounded to the passenger side, opening the door for Dog. Chief Grady already had his hand on the butt of his service weapon. It’d been a long time since he’d felt the need to do that. Probably not since his time with the Manchester PD, when crack ruled the streets and you never knew what was going to happen when you made a traffic stop, served a warrant, or canvassed a city block.

But now…

Nearly six p.m. on a Thursday night, when the sun was just starting to wane and cast the mountains into shadow…

Dog bounded straight up the steps to the wraparound porch. He whined in earnest, interspersed with low huffs, as if he was trying to gain attention but worried about the consequences.

Chief Grady took a few more minutes. Gazed at the property around him. A ramshackle gray barn turned garage, one of the last original structures from the family farm, was tucked back a hundred feet from the house. Doors appeared shut, making it difficult to tell if there were vehicles or people inside. But no flickers of movement. No faint sound of an intruder shuffling about.

He perused the surrounding woods with equal scrutiny. The Dixons had left the property mostly natural, eschewing lawn and paved parking for a crushed bluestone circular drive, accented by a few ornamental shrubs in the middle, while a generous border of native wildflowers framed the house.

Kind of plants and flowers that should be attracting birds and bees and all sorts of random, noisy critters.

Except again, not a single chirp, buzz, or squawk.

Grady had never experienced anything quite like it. And it was fucking freaking him out.

He turned sideways, instinctively making himself a smaller target as he boarded the steps to the main house. Following in Dog’s wake, he approached the front door.

It yawned slightly open. Say, wide enough for a canine to fit through.

He noticed a smear of blood low on the frame, about dog height.

He hesitated. Stopped once more to listen for the sounds of ordinary family life, maybe the clamor of two adults and four kids getting ready to sit down for dinner. Or, given the chills racing up his spine, perhaps a soft moan or muffled crying.

But still, nothing.

He unsnapped his holster, drew his weapon.

Chief Grady had been a cop all his life, from big city to small town. He knew instinct mattered as much as anything when it came to returning home alive. Given he’d left urban policing for the sake of his wife and five-year-old daughter, no way he was going to ignore the warnings screaming through his head right now.

Staying to the hinged side of the door. Pushing it slowly open with the barrel of his service pistol. Peering into the dusk-washed interior, muscles tense, gaze intent.

Dog had disappeared. Just a clack of nails on hardwood as the canine swept his way through the house. That soft, anxious whine. The occasional low huff.

Chief Grady opened the door all the way, fully exposing the vast living area, with its high vaulted ceiling and impressive timber beams. The room was dominated by a stone fireplace, framed on both sides by walls of glass that were angled forward like the prow of a ship, as if the home itself were ready to sail off the cliff into the great unknown.

Even this time of evening, the first blush of pink staining the horizon, the windows let in enough light to illuminate the interior. Grady could discern an obviously well-loved leather sectional dotted with embroidered pillows, a rectangular coffee table half-covered by a recently started jigsaw puzzle, as well as a clutch of strategically placed candles next to the table lamps.

A normal family room scene, sans the family.

Dog’s steps, now clacking from the second floor, where a long hallway led to the bedrooms.

Grady carefully swept his way through the main living area, sticking to the perimeter to minimize contamination. He noted many things at once: The smoky scent of a recent fire in the fireplace. Drinking glasses dotting various surfaces—four smaller cups, probably belonging to the kids; two wineglasses, probably belonging to the adults. A cluttered dining room table, one end covered in an assortment of metal building pieces he recognized from his own days with Erector sets. The other end bore a cheese and cracker platter, partially consumed. As in started. But not finished. Because…

Grady shivered, mentally chided himself not to be an idiot, shivered again.

It wasn’t just the silence that was getting to him now. The house felt wrong. Too empty. There were signs of family everywhere and yet no family. Like the house was no longer a home, but theater staging from a particularly ominous play.

He already knew he wouldn’t like how this one ended.

Exploring the kitchen with its butler’s pantry and walk-in dry goods room. Carefully working his way down to the basement, quickly inventorying the unfinished space. One last section of the house to sweep, up, up, up to the second-floor bedrooms. He eased down the long, increasingly shadowed hallway. Six bedrooms in total. Two of those were outfitted with bunk beds. One for the girls, one for the boys, with a Jack-and-Jill bath in between. The entire adjoined space was a study in chaos, with clothing, shoes, towels, and toys strewn in every direction. Kids at work, no doubt about it.

The corner master suite was tidier, clothes hung, bed made, but still, toothbrushes plunked next to the double sinks, hairbrush positioned to one side, a small collection of moisturizers lined up before the mirror. If anyone had packed up personal possessions for a road trip, Grady wasn’t seeing it.

Easing back out of the room. Feeling his heart pound harder, though he couldn’t have said why.

The two rooms at the other end of the hall were shuttered, shades tightly drawn. Guest rooms, Grady deduced. Same with the final bathroom. Final check, same empty result. Which left him with…

Nothing.

Grady retreated down the stairs. Time to make a call. County sheriff? State police? Hell, local medium? He honestly had no idea what resources one needed for a scene such as this.

Dog had headed back outside. No longer whining. No longer woofing. It made Grady feel worse, like he failed a concerned family member. There was nothing about this that was good.

Dammit.

The sun was almost all the way down now, casting the entire interior into shadow. Grady returned to the entryway, holstered his weapon, snapped on the overhead lights. Least power seemed to be back.

Which was when he spotted the first stain, what he’d missed from the beginning given the dark hue of the hardwood floor. It looked almost like a splotch of mud, except there was another and then another and then another.

By the time Grady hunkered down and truly understood what he was seeing, he was doubly grateful he’d kept to the side during his search.

Because now, clearly illuminated by the overhead lights, he could see zigzagging patterns, as if someone had dashed pell-mell through the house.

Leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints.

Grady glanced around the empty great room one last time. The half-eaten snacks. Recently poured drinks. Barely touched puzzle.

As if a family of six had been sitting right here, eating right here, laughing right here.

Then, in the next instant…

Grady got on his radio and reported in to dispatch.

On the front porch, Dog began a mournful howl.

Amanda Grady had never meant to follow in her father’s footsteps. Growing up in a small town where your dad is the local police chief isn’t exactly a good time. Maybe briefly, in grade school, when six- and seven-year-olds were enthralled with shiny badges and commanding uniforms. Come middle school, forget it.

Shereford, by virtue of its limited size, sent its teenagers off to a collective high school two towns over. Sigh of relief. Finally, Mandy could be Mandy.

Nope. First day, her father insisted on dropping her off in his cruiser. Then he stood there in full uniform, giving the dead-man’s stare to anyone who so much as glanced in her direction.

Mandy had cried that night. Possibly every night for most of high school. Then, being the sensible sort, she’d gotten the hell out of Dodge. Fuck small-town life. Fuck nosy neighbors and claustrophobic community. For that matter, fuck her family.

Every teenager has that moment. Mandy took her rebellion all the way to New York City, where she ultimately became a tattoo artist while dating only men with criminal records and women with interesting piercings.

Her father had a conniption, but in his dad-like way, he did an excellent job of radiating disapproval without ever saying a word. Her mother was much more practical. “Certainly, you must be you. Be as much you as you can handle. And then, when you remember you’re also part us, you know where we’ll be.”

Mandy returned to the fold seven years and several heartbreaks later. But no real regrets. She stood by that, though her mother took most of the credit. Of course, Mandy had to be a hundred percent Mandy. Then and only then could Mandy grow into the rest of herself. Welcome home, Mandy.

There were times Mandy was definitely grinding her teeth through these exchanges.

But yeah, she returned to Shereford. Bartended in the winter. Took up landscaping work in the summer. Skied and hiked in between. Dating scene sucked. Forget there being other twentysomethings. The outdoor adventurers from her class had long taken off for Colorado or Utah, places with “real mountains,” while the brainiacs had headed for Boston, and everyone else had gone everywhere else. Basically, no one who grew up in Shereford stayed in Shereford.

And yet, here she was, working three jobs at any given time, while dating online because the local pond was beyond overfished.

Her dad died.

Chief Ian Grady. Bastion of the community. Not just revered and partially feared—as any good cop should be—but also beloved. Mandy could never figure out who cried more, her, her mother, or the endless trail of neighbors streaming in and out of their house. It felt like it went on forever but was probably more like five days.

Massive cardiac event, Mandy learned, was code for one day the person you love most in the world is alive and healthy, and the next instant, he’s not.

And you’ll never be the same again.

Within a matter of months, Mandy had moved back in with her mom, who suddenly couldn’t seem to remember to eat or pay bills or, some days, get out of bed.

In the beginning, Mandy assumed it was due to depression, but then when other troubling symptoms appeared…

Mandy laid her mother to rest next to her father almost exactly one year later.

Twenty-nine years old. No family ties. No personal obligations.

She could go anywhere. Do anything. Be anyone.

Which is why even she questioned her desire to suddenly take night classes in criminal justice, finishing up her on-again, off-again pursuit of a college degree, while also spending time hanging out on the shooting range with the other local cops, many of whom remembered her from when she was “this tall” and spoke of her father with such awe she couldn’t decide if she was honoring his memory or castigating herself. Maybe she longed for the sense of security she’d always felt in his presence. Slowly but surely, however, she came to realize she could now find it in herself.

Either way, when her father’s successor, a total misogynistic SOB, was forced to resign due to a criminal indictment (his own), it seemed perfectly logical for Mandy to step up.

Most likely out of respect for her dad, the locals welcomed her with open arms.

She tried very hard not to cry when she was being sworn in. Tried to picture her father and his stiff upper lip. Be their friend, while retaining your objectivity. A good cop is close to his community, but he’s always the outsider looking in.

Five years later, she remained faithful to Chief Grady’s stewardship. Every traffic stop or home visit was an exercise in WWMFD? What would my father do?

She wasn’t quite that dependent anymore, but she’d be lying if she said Ian Grady didn’t cast a long shadow.

Which made the news that the old Dixon property had finally sold particularly interesting. Not just because the two-hundred-fifty-year-old family homestead was changing hands, but because everyone knew why the expansive Dixon clan, with their dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins, had all agreed to give it up. After what had happened thirty years ago to Dave, Janet, and their four kids…

None of the rest of the family had ever been able to step foot on the property again. Which still hadn’t made the sale a slam dunk when it hit the real estate market. The grand home might have a multimillion-dollar view, but it also had an infamous past.

There’d been some lookers in the beginning, but no takers. Then as years had stretched into decades with the property falling further into neglect, then disrepair, then flat-out decay, not to mention becoming the Halloween attraction of choice for local teens…

Town opinions were split between people with nostalgia over their own misspent youths double-dog daring each other to step over the threshold, and those who wanted to tear it down before anyone (one of our kids) got hurt (or pregnant).

Then, lo and behold, five months ago, the estate went under contract in a single afternoon. Cash deal, according to the rumors. One brief inspection later, bada bing, bada boom, the Dixon house had a family again.

Word on the street: Young couple in their thirties. Bigwigs from Boston. Possibly looking to turn the place into a high-end B and B. He was an investment guru, she was an interior decorator. They had to be either positively brilliant at their jobs to have had so much financial success at their modest ages or trust funders to take on such a money pit.

They had only just arrived in person, though an entire hive of contractors—electrical, plumbing, HVAC—had been buzzing around the property for months. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Arrogant Massholes, no doubt about it, claimed some.

Others were simply curious. What kind of couple thought a notorious crime scene (one that still appeared in rotation on the True Crime Network no less!) would be a good home, let alone business model?

Mandy included herself among the genuinely intrigued.

Which was why she was driving up to the old homestead to welcome the newcomers in person.

And check out, one more time, the unsolved mystery that had haunted her father to the grave.

Mandy had to give the couple credit: Stick season in New England—the time from the last autumn leaf falling to the first snowflake flying—wasn’t for just anyone. Everywhere you looked, brown, brown, hey, more brown. Compared to the magical white-capped peaks of winter, lush green of summer, and glorious copper hues of fall, stick season was, well, stick season. If the newbies could handle the frigid temps, stark views, and genuine isolation of a remote tourist town sans tourists, maybe they were cut out for Shereford after all.

Mandy had made enough rounds of the property during her time—especially in October—to know the grounds well. It was still faintly surprising to see a souped-up black Porsche SUV parked directly outside the tired-looking structure, let alone signs of cleanup around the immediate exterior. Piles of brush and forest debris, topped with several smaller, chainsawed limbs. So Mr. and Mrs. Boston had some DIY enthusiasm. Hard to make a go of it in these parts if you didn’t.

Toward the rear of the property had once stood the original Dixon barn, repurposed by later generations into a garage. It had collapsed ten years ago after a particularly brutal winter of record snowfalls. Though again, that was subject to debate. The old timers claimed anything built by the original settlers was made to last. The size of the support beams, hand-hewn from oak back in the days when the trees were trees and the men were men, blah, blah, blah. Nah, they liked to postulate, the barn didn’t cave in from yet another New Hampshire winter. It simply surrendered. Cast off by the Dixon family, it lost its heart.

Or succumbed to the weight of its own failure? Mandy always wondered. Because if it had been built by Dixon hands to safely shelter those of Dixon blood, well, thirty years ago it hadn’t exactly gotten the job done.

She parked behind the Porsche, bracing herself for the early winter bite. First big storm of the season was forecasted for end of week, a true nor’easter, possibly dumping up to eighteen inches. No doubt about it, winter was coming.

Another deep breath, then she popped open her door and stepped out of her vehicle.

And encountered the new couple in person, already waiting for her on the front porch. His smile was broad and welcoming, hers fainter but still polite. While both of them…

Could there be two more beautiful people in the world? Tall, dark, athletic meets sultry, feminine sex appeal. He had perfectly chiseled features accented by an artfully cultivated five-o’clock shadow. She had stunning hazel eyes framed by tumbling locks of russet-colored hair. Both were clad in Aspen chic: cashmere sweaters, down vests, and form-fitting pants. Her ensemble was in shades of brown, his in blue, as in earth meets sky.

Mandy actually paused midstep. Wait till the locals get a look at this, she thought.

Followed by, so this is who would buy a fixer-upper with a multimillion-dollar view and blood-soaked past. A couple too rich and pretty to give a damn.

Their funeral, she thought. Then she truly wished she’d picked a different expression.

Theo.” He greeted her first, extending his hand as Mandy gingerly climbed onto the front porch, navigating several missing boards. “For Theodore. Because, you know, Thaddeus would’ve been too much.”

He flashed that dimple again, and Mandy nearly tripped. Dear Lord, no man should be that handsome…charming…dynamic. She had to forcefully resist pinching him to ensure he was flesh and blood.

“Raquel.” The wife gave Mandy a knowing look. “Yes, he really is quite obnoxious. The trick is not to make eye contact. When we’re arguing, I purposefully stare at his earlobe just so I have a shot at winning.”

Mandy thought Mrs. Collins was one to talk. The woman, probably around Mandy’s age, seemed more restrained than her husband, but that was only fair. If both of them exuded his wattage, it’d be like peering at the sun.

“Chief Grady,” Mandy managed belatedly. “Just wanted to introduce myself in person, see how you were settling in.”

“Grady.” The wife tilted her head. “We know that name…”

“The news articles,” Theo provided. “From, you know, the incident.”

Ah, so that was going to be their euphemism for the missing family of six who mysteriously vanished from this couple’s now home sweet home, leaving behind only a trail of bloody footprints and an enduring mystery.

“Chief Grady,” Raquel murmured in agreement. “But you’re too young…”

“My father.”

“That explains it.” Theo, all good cheer. “Come on in. You’re welcome to check out the place. And us, of course. We seem to have garnered some interest.”

Mandy removed her hat, following them into the yawning interior, and immediately saw their point—the long farmer’s table parked in the dining room was covered with various casseroles, baked goods, and fresh floral bouquets.

“Small pond, new fishes,” Mandy explained, nodding her head in their direction.

She couldn’t help but look around. Last time. . .