Nobody Dies By Accident In Harrow Falls - Paperback
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In Harrow Falls, the spirits are never wrong.
Every Sunday the circle gathers in Eudora Marsh's warm parlor, and sometimes the voice in the dark names a person who is going to die. Weeks later, that person dies. A fall. A drowning. A strong man's heart stopped quietly in his sleep. The mill doctor signs the certificate, the town shakes its head at the sadness of it, and everyone carries a casserole to the widow.
Marion Reese knows better. She has spent sixteen years tearing the curtains off fraudulent mediums, and she came to this dying mill town because a woman named Cora Halligan wrote and begged her to come. Cora was pulled out of the wheel pit three days before Marion's train arrived. Misadventure, the constable said. The ice is treacherous this time of year.
Cora left a notebook sewn into the lining of her coat. A column of the dead. Pressed flowers gone brown between the pages. And one word, written again and again down the years: garden.
It takes Marion far too long to understand what she is looking at.
The prophecies are not predictions. They are orders. The flowers are names. And the whole town has been paying for them, in coin and in grief, for thirty years.
But the woman who built this thing has been watching Marion for a very long while. She knows what Marion was before she was famous. She knows about the back room, and the low lamp, and the small girl who said whatever the hand on her neck told her to say.
And she knows one thing more, which she has not yet decided whether to tell.
The river freezes in November. It will not hold past February. And when it breaks, everything in Harrow Falls comes up with it.
Scarlett Knox writes psychological thrillers and dark, slow-burn
romances. She lives on the coast of Maine in a small wooden house
with bad locks and a good kettle, and she is most often found
writing in the corner of a public library where the librarians
have stopped asking what she is working on.
She came to fiction late. For most of her thirties she worked in
corporate law in Boston, where she spent a great deal of time
watching very intelligent women translate themselves into smaller
versions of themselves to get a sentence into the room. She left
in her thirty-eighth year. She did not, to the surprise of no one
in her family, ever go back.
Her first novel was written longhand in a series of cheap notebooks
in the year after her mother's death, and remains, by her own
admission, in a drawer where it deserves to be. I LOVE MY HUSBAND'S
KILLER is the book she had to write before she could write the rest
of them.
She is interested in the long quiet decisions women make in their
own kitchens at strange hours, in the bad architectures of long
marriages, and in the question of who gets to write the story when
the man who has been writing it for fifteen years is no longer in
the room. She is also interested, against her better judgment,
in love.
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