• The Absurdity of Cure
    The Manhattan Medical Center was a cathedral of white marble and sterile air, a place where death was treated as a technical error. Dr. Leo was the center of its universe. He was a man of contradictions: he possessed the most precise surgical hands in the Western Hemisphere, but he suffered from a form of social anxiety that made him communicate primarily through handwritten notes and a series...
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  • No Fish to Eat
    No Fish to Eat DIANE KOWALSKI worked the register at a Family Dollar on West Federal Street in Youngstown, Ohio, and she had been working the register at a Family Dollar on West Federal Street in Youngstown, Ohio since 2009, which is to say that for five years she had stood in the same place, wearing the same blue vest, scanning the same items, and listening to the same register beep in the...
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  • The Coal Dark
    The timber cracked. That was the first thing. A dry, percussive snap that echoed through the abandoned shaft like a gunshot in a library. Ray Kowalski was three levels down in an old coal mine on the edge of Youngstown, Ohio, looking for copper wire to sell for scrap. The crack came from above. He looked up. The world came down. A steel I-beam—part of the mine's original support structure, bent...
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  • The Sovereign's Scalpel
    The skyline of New York was a jagged graph of ambition and greed, and at the very top sat the Vane Medical Tower. Dr. Julian Vane did not operate from a clinic; he operated from a throne of brushed steel and reinforced glass. In the eyes of the public, he was the most gifted surgeon of the century, a man who could repair a heart as easily as a watchmaker fixes a spring. In reality, Julian was a...
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  • The Cutting Room Floor
    I The first time I met Jack Morrison, he was standing in the doorway of a screening room in Tribeca, watching the same five minutes of footage on a loop while drinking coffee that had gone cold three hours ago. "You're the community liaison," he said. Not a question. "I'm Daisy Brooks. And you're the guy who told me to stop talking and let the footage speak for itself." He nodded toward the...
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  • Heater
    The trailer was cold again. Not the kind of cold that a coat fixes, but the kind that gets into your bones and stays there until spring, if spring ever comes. I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago and a stack of utility bills spread out in front of me like a hand of cards I didn't want to play. The heating bill was three hundred dollars. Three...
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  • The Society of Masks
    The letter arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the colour of dried blood and addressed in a handwriting so elegant it might have been printed rather than written. Miss Clara Ashworth The Ashworth Boarding House Bloomsbury, London It was from the Masked Literary Society, an organization of which Miss Clara Ashworth had never before heard, inviting her -- a woman, an illustrator, the daughter...
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  • The Last Gilded Night
    ACT I -- SETUP The invitation arrived on a card so thick it could have stopped a bullet. Dorothy "Dot" Mercer held it up to the studio light and read the embossed letters: Mr. and Mrs. Archibald Vance request the pleasure of Dorothy Mercer's company at a dinner celebrating the upcoming engagement of Archibald Francis Vance to Miss Eleanor Phelps. October fourteenth, seven o'clock. The Vance...
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  • The review was due on a Thursday. Julian Vane knew this because his editor, Miriam Sato, had sent him three emails about it, each one more restrained than the last, which in Miriam's vocabulary meant each one more furious.
    The subject of the review was a building called The Meridian—a private residence in Cambridge designed by Sebastian Cross, an architect who had not been seen in public for two years and whose last published work was a monograph titled Asymmetric Spaces that consisted entirely of floor plans with no photographs and a single essay of twelve pages that concluded with the sentence: "The most honest...
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  • The Season's End
    I Eleanor Hartwell was thirty-one years old, which in the society of Regency England meant she was considered past her prime for marriage. This was a fact she had accepted with the same calm resignation with which she accepted the other inconvenient truths of her world: that women could not vote, could not serve on juries, could not earn degrees, and could not — most inconveniently — own their...
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