The Last Mrs Parrish

A gripping, addictive psychological suspense thriller with a shocking twist - a Reese Witherspoon pick!

How far would you go to make all your dreams come true?

Amber Patterson is tired of being a nobody: an invisible woman who melts into the background. She deserves more. She deserves a life of wealth, luxury and leisure.

Daphne Parrish is the golden girl of Bishops Harbor, Connecticut. With her model looks, her picture-perfect mansion and her millionaire husband, Jackson, she has everything Amber wants.

Amber's envy could eat her alive-if she didn't have a plan. Before long, she has become Daphne's closest friend, and is catching the eye of Jackson. But a skeleton from her past could destroy everything, and if discovered, Amber's well-laid plan may end in disaster...

Auteur

Liv Constantine

Texte du rabat

A new mesmerising debut novel that's full of twists and turns, from two new voices in psychological suspense. Will appeal to fans of Shari Lapena and Liane Moriarty.

Résumé
The sequel to The Last Mrs Parrish New York Times bestseller The Next Mrs Parrish is out now! A Reese Witherspoon book club pick! Perfect for fans of Freida McFadden, Lisa Jewell and Shari Lapena

Échantillon de lecture
The Coffin Maker’s First Coffin
The town of Allora was famous for two things. The first was its flying fish, and the second was the beauty of its winding streets. Tourists came from all over the country to watch the fish fly out of the sea while artists came to paint, in pigment, the bright houses that rose like steps up Allora Hill. There were so many colors that the artists did not have enough pigments to paint them, and it was rumored (at least by the Finestra sisters) that the great artist, Giuseppe Vernice, had invented a whole new color just to paint the roof of their house.

“Splendid Yolk, it was called,” Rosa Finestra said to anyone who would listen.

“Derived from the crushed eye of a peacock feather,” Clara Finestra added with a wise nod.

Yet though the sisters gushed about their bright home, the one next door was even brighter.

Alberto Cavello’s house was the highest house on the hill. If you went any higher, you would reach the graveyard at the top. It stood like a bright azure jewel glistening across the sea. And it wasn’t just bright. It was loud. It was loud when Alberto and his wife, Violetta, moved in. It grew louder when their first child, a girl named Anna Marie, was born; louder still when their son, Antonio, came into the world; and even louder when a little miracle named Aida wailed for the first time within its bright walls.

Alberto was a carpenter, the best in all of Allora. During the day he would build beds, tables and chairs for his paying clients, and at night he would build toys for his children.

With each new toy Alberto made, a new sound filled the house: squeals of delight as Anna Marie jumped off her spinning chair, screams of anger as Aida cried for Antonio to give back her favorite doll, and cries of “Gallop on! Gallop on!” as this same Antonio raced his wooden horse up and down the stairs.

Their house remained bright, loud and bustling for seven happy years until the sickness came.
 
The sickness appeared in the coldest month of winter, but it did not reach Allora until spring.

The first to fall ill were the men working on a new railway that linked Allora to the north, then the doctors who tended them and the artists who had come to paint the town. Only one family was wealthy enough to flee. The mayor took himself and his family on a long holiday to a place the sickness had not reached.

“Good luck!” he cried over his fat shoulder as a plush coach drawn by six white stallions carried them far away.

In the beginning, the dead were buried in the graveyard—one, then two, then three to a single plot—but as the sickness spread, other measures had to be taken.

A gate was built at the back of the graveyard and a thin staircase carved into the stone with steps leading down to the water. No longer buried, the dead were wrapped in blankets and cast out into the violent, surging sea.

As the number of dead mounted and the number of living fell, the cobbled streets of Allora grew quiet. Houses went unpainted, and shutters, once thrown open to greet spring, were pulled tightly closed. Even the Finestra sisters didn’t poke their big noses out.

Just like the unfinished paintings that lay abandoned in the streets, the town of Allora itself began to fade.

*
 
The sickness rose up the hill—house by house—until it finally reached Alberto’s home.

It took the eldest child first. Alberto spotted the purple mark behind Anna Marie’s left ear as she read a book in her favorite chair. Then Antonio fell ill. While he was ailing in his bed, the mark came upon little Aida.

Violetta and Alberto tended to each child as they fell sick. They kissed them when they cried, hugged them when they whimpered, and when the time came for each of them to leave this world behind, they answered, “Yes, of course: one day, we will meet again.”

Keeping her promise, Violetta joined them two days later. The plague bearers came to collect their bodies that evening, but Alberto wouldn’t let them.

“I can’t,” he had said to the two men waiting at the front door. “I can’t let you throw them away. Not into that cruel sea.” Even from where he stood outside the highest house on Allora Hill, Alberto could see foam shooting up from where the waves crashed against the gray stones below. He could not bear to think of his family thrown in there.

“You must get rid of them somehow,” the men had replied. “You can’t let them stay inside. It will spread the sickness quicker.”

“I’ll bury them.”

“All the coffin makers are dead. We collected the last one this morning.”

“Then I’ll make their coffins myself.”

And that is what Alberto did. He went into his workshop and for the first time built something for the dead instead of the living. He carved a coffin for his wife, a coffin for his eldest
daughter, a coffin for his only son, and a coffin for little Aida. Each was smaller than the one before and, like Babushka dolls, could fit inside the other.

When the coffins were finished and his family buried, Alberto returned to his workshop and began to make his own. But by the time he finished, the plague had left the town. The mayor returned from his holiday, the Finestra sisters reopened their shutters, and people passed gaily up and down the streets of Allora once more.

But instead of joining them, Alberto sat beside his coffin every day, alone, waiting for the purple mark to come back and claim him too.

The Boy and the Bird
Thirty Years Later
The boy stared out the window of the train. Steam billowed out of the chimneys and drifted up into the mountains. The boy had never seen mountains so tall or so wild. They reached above the clouds and stretched farther than his eyes could see.

“You’ll be flying out there in no time,” the boy whispered to a small bird peering out of his pocket. She was enjoying the view too. “As soon as your wing is better, you’ll be able to fly to the top of the tallest mountain in the world.”

“Twrp,” the bird said with a small nod of her head. When the boy first found her, two months before, she had been black all over. But now sometimes, when the sun shone on her wings or when she ate a particularly tasty treat, her feathers would flash gold or silver or green in the light. Today, they were flashing all three. She must…