A GOOD MAN
by P.J. McIlvaine
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BLURB
Decades after a brutal childhood trauma,
a famous novelist finds his life shattered once again, in this unsettling
psychological mystery thriller.
After years of turmoil, Brooks Anderson is sober and has a stable life with his
wife and two kids. He should be enjoying life, but the persistent nightmares
and sleepwalking tell a different story.
As hard as he’s tried, Brooks can’t run away from the defining event of his
life: the senseless murders of his mother and brother during a vacation in
Montauk. An eight-year-old Brooks was the sole survivor of the carnage, which
left him in a catatonic state. He buried his pain and eventually overcame his
demons. Or so he believed.
Now an unscrupulous journalist is threatening to write about the deaths.
Fearful that the truth will be twisted to suit sordid ends, Brooks decides to
write his own book, despite the grave misgivings of his agent, wife, and
father.
However, when the journalist is brutally killed, Brooks finds himself in the
authorities’ crosshairs. To prove his innocence and exorcise the past, he digs
deeper into his psyche and that fateful summer. His relentless pursuit of the
truth soon leads Brooks down a slippery slope that challenges everything—and
brings him face-to-face with the real monster of Montauk . .
Excerpt:
(part of chapter one)
CHAPTER ONE
Sheldon
Adler, my agent at Crown-Hawkins and my brother from another mother, is late as
usual. No fucking surprise there. When you’re meeting Sheldon, you
have to tack on an hour at least. I’m at our usual table at La Bonne
Grenouille, the best little French bistro in Manhattan that no one has ever
heard of, sipping a glass of ice-cold watermelon seltzer. Sheldon has been
my literary agent—no, make that literary savior—since he read my first
published short story that didn’t involve erect penises in The New
Yorker. He contacted me out of the blue and suggested Hey, why don’t
you write a book and I’ll sell it? I wrote Fallen Angels in
twenty-four days in a drug haze. When it was finally published, it sold
less than two hundred copies, but Sheldon was so fucking proud you would’ve
thought it sold two million. I resigned myself to being a
failure. Months later, the book was plucked out of obscurity by the senior
literary critic of The New York Times and nominated for a
Pulitzer. A tabloid dubbed me “The Heroin Hemingway.” The name stuck,
even though I’ve been sober and drug-free for more than twenty-five years.
Sheldon got
me my first million-dollar advance. He’s the wolf that other wolves hire,
and his reputation is well-earned. My biggest supporter, he stayed with me
through the lean, mean years when I wrote truly terrible books. Despite my
abysmal marital track record, I’m extremely loyal. I wouldn’t dream of
leaving Sheldon and believe me, other agents have tried to poach me. And
unless I did or said something unacceptable that blew up on social media—which
is why I don’t have any social media accounts—Sheldon wouldn’t kick me to the
curb or toss me under the bus. All my skeletons are out there. Well,
most of them.
A portly man
with a vague resemblance to the great Mafia chronicler Mario Puzo, Sheldon
huffs his way to our table. I can’t say it to his face, but Sheldon needs
to lose forty—make that fifty—pounds, if not for himself, then for his young children. I’m
sixty-five and I can still fit into the jeans I wore when I was
nineteen. It takes discipline and willpower, of which I have plenty to
spare.
After we
order and exchange our typical innocuous pleasantries about the weather,
politics, and soccer, for we’re both rabid fans, Sheldon downs a gin and
tonic. It’s his first of the day and not his last. “Brooks, how is
the book coming along?” he booms in a guttural Brooklyn accent that has
other diners turning their heads.
“Great,” I
reply cheerfully. “It couldn’t be going any better. Gold, pure gold.”
He tilts his
head. “Cassie says you haven’t been sleeping well.”
Cassie’s my
third and—if I have anything to say about it—last wife. She interviewed me
for a puff piece and months later, when the pregnancy test was positive, I knew
I’d met my Waterloo, no thanks to Abba. An abortion was out of the
question. Now we have two children under six, our lives are a
merry-go-round of sweet chaos. Last fall, I had a vasectomy so there will
be no more miniature Andersons polluting the planet.
I finish my
seltzer and signal for another. “You know I never sleep well when I’m
writing. I do my best work after midnight.” In the old days, that
didn’t necessarily apply to writing.
The waitress
delivers our meals: me, a grilled chicken Caesar salad with extra feta, and
Sheldon a porterhouse with crispy julienne potatoes and parmesan creamed
spinach. I eye his steak with unconcealed envy, but Cassie’s always after
me to eat healthier. I sigh and add more dressing to my salad. Cassie
would be pleased.
“Yeah, I
know. You have the constitution of fucking Secretariat. You did drugs
with Keith Richards and Lou Reed.” Sheldon cut into his steak; it’s not
just blue, it’s bloody raw. Just looking at it makes me queasy. “But
this is different. You’re writing about your goddamn family.”
“I can be
objective.”
Sheldon puts
his fork down. “Not about this, Brooks. Come on. The
cold-blooded executions of your mother and brother—”
I suddenly
lose my appetite. Sheldon means well. Cassie does, too. But this
quasi-intervention is the last thing I need. “Sheldon, you know as well as
Cassie that I had no choice. I wasn’t going to let that fucking
guttersnipe drag my mother through the mud.” The fucking guttersnipe in
question is Marshall Reagan (no relation to the former president), a douchebag
posing as a journalist. His brand is writing scandalous, unauthorized
biographies of the rich and famous because he knows he can get away with
it. No dirt, no sleaze, is beneath him. And when he can’t find
anything salacious, he makes shit up and pulls it out of his ass like saltwater
taffy.
“You don’t
know that.”
“Oh, but I
do know. I know exactly the angle he’d take. That my mother was
having an affair with Julian.” Julian Broadhurst, born in Lancaster,
England, in 1942. An artist who was supposedly the protégé of Peter
Max. Julian had long blond hair and drove a robin’s-egg-blue Aston Martin. Palmer
and I loathed him. “And when Mom wanted to end it, he killed her. But
that wasn’t enough, fuck no. When my brother tried to protect her, Julian
killed him, too.” I shake my head, the bile percolating like a fresh pot
of coffee. “My mother was brilliant. Graduated from Mount Holyoke
with honors. And she was utterly devoted to my father. To
us. The idea that she’d have a summer fling with that bohemian scumbag—” I
choke on the words (or is it a sliver of chicken that went down the wrong
pipe?). “And you know damn well that when that cocksucker Reagan’s done
tarring and feathering her, he’ll start in on my father, who has been nothing
less than a fucking saint. Saint Bernard.” I rap my fist on the
table. “It’s fucking ludicrous.”
Sheldon
nods, sympathy oozing from every pore. “All I’m saying is that you have a
lot on your plate. The book. The next book. Your father’s
gala. You’re writing a speech for that, right? Jesus fucking Christ,
Brooks. You’re not Superman. It’s bound to take a toll on you.”
“So, what
are you suggesting? I can’t return the advance. It’s already
spent.” Six million gone in a heartbeat. Lawyers. Trust
funds. The new house in Water Mill. And I was finally able to get my
ex-wives off my back with a tidy lump sum. For the first time in years, no
alimony to shill out every goddamn month. All thanks to Sheldon, who
hadn’t budged an inch during the multi-house book auction. He earned his
commission ten times over.
“No one’s
suggesting that. That’s crazy.” Sheldon’s halfway through his steak. “But
we can ask to push the deadline back by a couple of months.”
“No.” I’m
a stubborn son of a bitch. If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s living
up to my contractual obligations. I’ve never missed a deadline. I
could be fucking pushing up daisies and I’d still deliver.
Sheldon
sighs. “Why are you being so goddamn obstinate?”
“I’m well
into the book now, it’s just a matter of research.”
“Really?” He
gives me a side-eye. “Cassie says you’ve barely written the first
chapter.”
I’m annoyed. Mostly because Cassie’s right. “It’s all in my head, Sheldon. Don’t worry.”
Author Info
PJ McIlvaine
is a prolific and creative children’s author/screenwriter/writer/journalist.
PJ will have
two books coming out in 2023: A GOOD MAN, a gritty adult contemporary psych
thriller from Bloodhound Books and THE CURIOUS CONUNDRUM OF CHARLEMAGNE CROSS,
a young adult alternate history adventure set in Victorian London from Orange
Blossom Books.
PJ's debut
middle-grade supernatural historical mystery adventure VIOLET YORKE, GILDED
GIRL: GHOSTS IN THE CLOSET (Darkstroke Books, April 2022) is about a poor
little rich girl in NYC 1912 who sees ghosts.
PJ’s debut
picture book LITTLE LENA AND THE BIG TABLE (June 2019, Big Belly Book Co.),
with illustrations by Leila Nabih, is about a determined little girl tired of
eating with her annoying cousins at the kid’s table, only to discover that the
big table isn’t much better. She has another picture book, DRAGON ROAR
(MacLaren-Cochrane Publishing, October 2021) artwork by Logan Rogers, about a
lonely, sick dragon who has lost his mighty roar, and the brave village girl
who helps him find it again.
PJ is also a
co-host and founding member of #PBPitch, the premiere Twitter pitch party for
picture book creators.
PJ has been
published in numerous outlets including The New York Times and Newsday, and is
a regular contributor for The Children’s Book Insider newsletter (paid
firewall), writing about the path to publication and interviews with
established and debut kid lit authors.
PJ lives on
Eastern Long Island with her family and furbaby Luna.
Website | Twitter | Instagram | TikTok | Goodreads | BookBub
Giveaway Details:
1 winner
will receive a finished copy of A GOOD MAN, US Only.
Ends August
29th, midnight EST.
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