13 May 2026
* THE NEW NOVEL FROM THE PRIZE-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE MIDNIGHT KING *
‘A brilliantly unsettling piece of purest American Gothic’ – JAMES OSWALD
‘The master of the small-town thriller at the top of his game’ – JANICE HALLETT
‘An atmospheric thriller. I loved this book’ – SARAH PINBOROUGH
Two children lost. The wrong one found.
The town of Aurora is waiting to die. A few miles away a deep seam of coal burns underground, the fire creeping closer ever year. Businesses close. Families leave. Hope dwindles.
And then one day, nine-year-old Danny Yates comes back from the dead. He walks into town half-starved and silent, ten months after he and his best friend Will Keefe were presumed drowned. But when Danny does finally speak, he swears that he’s not Danny anymore. He’s Will.
Danny’s mother is convinced that her boy has come back wrong, and that the town itself is now at risk from whatever dark force returned her son. Chief of Police John Deacon is more interested in how the sinister disappearance of two boys could have been written off as a tragic accident, and who was responsible. What happened to Danny to make him take on his friend’s name, his personality? And does Danny’s return mean there’s a chance that Will is still alive?
The first half of the game had been uneventful. A risky two-point conversion midway through the second quarter was about as good as it got. The Vipers were ahead by five, but the Panthers were hungry. Aurora wasn’t careful, Fairmont would eat that slim lead for supper.
A sharp whistle and a roar from the crowd as he entered. Half-time. People jumped to their feet to grab a hot dog and visit the restrooms. John smiled and nodded at them as he slid through, working his way towards his usual seat. Midway up the east side, about as close to the middle of the crowd as you could get. He spotted Patty before she saw him; she was wearing the Vipers top she’d left in the car for after dinner.
She’d always been more into all this than he was. For Patty, coming here was about representation. It was important, she’d say, that as a teacher she was seen to support the students. She’d point out kids on the field she’d taught in elementary school, which ones had eaten paste, which ones would probably end up becoming senators, and it gave John another perspective on Aurora, and on his wife, and he enjoyed all of that very much.
‘Evening, Mrs Deacon.’
Patty looked over at him and smiled. ‘That was quicker than I thought. Everything all right with Emily?’
He collapsed into the empty seat next to her. ‘Not really. I’ll tell you about it later. How’s the game?’
‘Fine. A decent conversion in the second quarter.’
‘I caught that on way here.’ He blew out air. ‘Jesus, how can it still be this hot? It’s nearly October for crying out loud.’
‘Weatherman says it’s going to be another couple days before it breaks. Maybe even a week.’
John grunted. ‘I’ll have lost a couple pounds in sweat by then.’ He glanced at Patty. ‘And don’t say I could do with losing them.’
His wife rested her head on his shoulder. ‘I wasn’t going to say anything.’
John laughed and kissed the top of her head, then moved off into the crowd towards the concession stands. He was halfway there when he heard it. Faint enough that it might have been his ears playing tricks, or perhaps something wholly innocent – a bird call, or a whine from the aging PA system. But others around him were pausing now, they were turning to look. They had heard it too.
The sound of someone screaming.
John quickened his pace. Away from the concession stands, back towards the parking lot. He thought of Kasey, sat in his car working, and he wondered if the officer had heard it too.
‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, pushing his way firmly through a group of people, their heads turned in the direction of the sound. ‘Make some room please.’
There was a side entrance to the stadium coming up. He rounded a corner and saw it ahead of him. A ramp that looped down to the exit. A small figure was hobbling along it.
‘Oh God,’ John said.
It was a boy. Dressed in jeans and a grey t-shirt, with blood on his face and down his front and his eyes fluttering, open and closed, open and closed. His hands grasping feebly at the railing. His legs shaking with each step.
John ran for him. He made it halfway before the boy collapsed. Laying on the ramp, he started twitching, his limbs jerking in some kind of spasm.
He was nine years old. John had never been good at guessing kid’s ages but he was sure about that. Because the boy on the ground was Danny Yates. And John knew he didn’t turn ten for another month.
