The
Escape Room by Megan Goldin
Synopsis:
In Megan Goldin's unforgettable
debut, The Escape Room, four young Wall Street rising stars
discover the price of ambition when an escape room challenge turns into a
lethal game of revenge.
Welcome to the escape room. Your goal is simple. Get out alive.
Welcome to the escape room. Your goal is simple. Get out alive.
In the lucrative world of finance, Vincent, Jules,
Sylvie, and Sam are at the top of their game. They’ve mastered the art of the
deal and celebrate their success in style—but a life of extreme luxury always comes
at a cost.
Invited to participate in an escape room as a
team-building exercise, the ferociously competitive co-workers crowd into the
elevator of a high rise building, eager to prove themselves. But when the
lights go off and the doors stay shut, it quickly becomes clear that this is no
ordinary competition: they’re caught in a dangerous game of survival.
Trapped in the dark, the colleagues must put aside
their bitter rivalries and work together to solve cryptic clues to break free.
But as the game begins to reveal the team’s darkest secrets, they realize
there’s a price to be paid for the terrible deeds they committed in their
ruthless climb up the corporate ladder. As tempers fray, and the clues turn
deadly, they must solve one final chilling puzzle: which one of them will kill
in order to survive?
MY REVIEW:
The Escape Room by Megan Goldin
This book was sooo good. Very thrilling and had me engaged from the very start. Vincent, Jules, Sylvie and Sam are at the top of financing and the amount of hours that they work is unreal let alone all the pressure. But the money and prestige that goes with it is worth it to them. They get a cryptic txt saying to go to the escape room and it is mandatory. So they get into the elevator and that is when the games begin. They have to solve cryptic messages and we end up finding out secrets about all of them which in turn they also find out about each other.
You also will meet 2 other people throughout the book that were a part of the financing group and how some of the team turn their backs on them.
This book is filled with intrigue and it goes back and forth also with the other 2 characters that are not in the elevator, and what happened to them. I could not put this book down.
I want to thank ST. Martin's and NetGalley for letting me read this for an honest review.
View all my reviews
This book was sooo good. Very thrilling and had me engaged from the very start. Vincent, Jules, Sylvie and Sam are at the top of financing and the amount of hours that they work is unreal let alone all the pressure. But the money and prestige that goes with it is worth it to them. They get a cryptic txt saying to go to the escape room and it is mandatory. So they get into the elevator and that is when the games begin. They have to solve cryptic messages and we end up finding out secrets about all of them which in turn they also find out about each other.
You also will meet 2 other people throughout the book that were a part of the financing group and how some of the team turn their backs on them.
This book is filled with intrigue and it goes back and forth also with the other 2 characters that are not in the elevator, and what happened to them. I could not put this book down.
I want to thank ST. Martin's and NetGalley for letting me read this for an honest review.
View all my reviews
PROLOGUE
It was Miguel who called 911 at 4:07 a.m. on an icy Sunday morning. The young security guard spoke in an unsteady voice, fear disguised by cocky nonchalance.
Miguel had been an aspiring bodybuilder until he
injured his back lifting boxes in a warehouse job and had to take night- shift
work guarding a luxury office tower in the final stages of construction. He had
a muscular physique, dark hair, and a cleft in his chin.
He was conducting a cursory inspection when a scream
rang out. At first, he didn’t hear a thing. Hip- hop music blasted through the
oversize headphones he wore as he swept his flashlight across the dark recesses
of the lobby.
The beam flicked across the classical faces of
reproduction Greek busts cast in metal and inset into niches in the walls. They
evoked an eerie otherworldliness, which gave the place the aura of a mausoleum.
Miguel paused his music to search for a fresh play
list of songs. It was then that he heard the tail end of a muffled scream.
The sound was so unexpected that he instinctively
froze. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard strange noises at night, whether it
was the screech of tomcats brawling or the whine of construction cranes
buffeted by wind. Silence followed. Miguel chided himself for his childish
reaction.
He pressed PLAY to listen to a new song and was
immediately assaulted by the explosive beat of a tune doing the rounds at the
dance clubs where he hung out with friends.
Still, something in the screech he’d heard a moment
before rattled him enough for him to be extra diligent.
He bent down to check the lock of the revolving lobby
door. It was bolted shut. He swept the flashlight across a pair of still
escalators and then, above his head, across the glass- walled mezzanine floor
that overlooked the lobby.
He checked behind the long reception desk of blond oak
slats and noticed that a black chair was at an odd angle, as if someone had
left in a hurry.
A stepladder was propped against a wall where the
lobby café was being set up alongside a water fountain that was not yet
functional. Plastic- wrapped café tables and chairs were piled up alongside it.
In the far corner, he shone his flashlight in the
direction of an elaborate model of the building complex shown to prospective
tenants by Realtors rushing to achieve occupancy targets in time for the
building’s opening the following month.
The model detailed an ambitious master plan to turn an
abandoned ware house district that had been a magnet for homeless people and
addicts into a high- end financial and shopping precinct. The first tower was
almost finished. A second was halfway through construction.
When Miguel turned around to face the elevator lobby,
he was struck by something so incongruent that he pushed his headphones off his
head and onto his shoulders.
The backlit green fluorescent light of an elevator
switch flickered in the dark. It suggested that an elevator was in use. That
was impossible, because he was the only person there.
In the sobriety of the silent echo that followed, he
convinced himself once again that his vague sense of unease was the
hallucination of a fatigued mind. There was nobody in the elevator for the
simple reason that the only people on- site on weekends were the security
guards. Two per shift. Except to night, Miguel was the only one on duty.
guards. Two per shift. Except to night, Miguel was the only one on duty.
When Stu had been a no- show for his shift, Miguel
figured he’d manage alone. The construction site was fenced off with towering
barbed- wire fences and a heavy- duty electric gate. Nobody came in or out
until the shift ended.
In the four months he’d worked there, the only
intruders he’d encountered were feral cats and rats scampering across
construction equipment in the middle of the night. Nothing ever happened during
the night shift.
That was what he liked about the job. He was able to
study and sleep and still get paid. Sometimes he’d sleep for a couple of hours
on the soft leather lobby sofa, which he found preferable to the lumpy
stretcher in the portable office where the guards took turns resting
between patrols. The CCTV cameras hadn’t been hooked up yet, so he could still get away with it.
between patrols. The CCTV cameras hadn’t been hooked up yet, so he could still get away with it.
From the main access road, the complex looked
completed. It had a driveway entry lined with young maples in planter boxes.
The lobby had been fitted out and furnished to impress prospective tenants who
came to view office space.
The second tower, facing the East River, looked
unmistakably like a construction site. It was wrapped with scaffolding.
Shipping containers storing building materials were arranged like colorful Lego
blocks in a muddy field alongside idle bulldozers and a crane.
Miguel removed keys from his belt to open the side
entrance to let himself out, when he heard a loud crack. It whipped through the
lobby with an intensity that made his ears ring.
Two more cracks followed. They were unmistakably the
sound of gunshots. He hit the ground and called 911. He was terrified the
shooter was making his way to the lobby but cocky enough to cover his fear with
bravado when he spoke.
“Something bad’s going down here.” He gave the 911
dispatcher the address. “You should get cops over here.”
Miguel figured from the skepticism in the dispatcher’s
cool voice that his call was being given priority right below the doughnut run.
His heart thumped like a drum as he waited for the
cops to arrive. You chicken shit, he berated himself as he took cover behind a
sofa. He exhaled into his shirt to muffle the sound of his rapid breathing. He
was afraid he would give away his position to the shooter.
A wave of relief washed over him when the lobby
finally lit up with a hazy blue strobe as a police car pulled in at the taxi
stand. Miguel went outside to meet the cops.
“What’s going on?” An older cop with a thick gut
hanging over his belted pants emerged from the front passenger seat.
“Beats me,” said Miguel. “I heard a scream. Inside the
building. Then I heard what I’m pretty sure were gunshots.”
“How many shots?” A younger cop came around the car to
meet him, snapping a wad of gum in his mouth.
“Two, maybe three shots. Then nothing.”
“Is anyone else around?” The older cop’s expression
was hidden under a thick gray mustache.
“They clear out the site on Friday night. No
construction workers. No nobody. Except me. I’m the night guard.”
“Then what makes you think there’s a shooter?”
“I heard a loud crack. Sure sounded like a gunshot.
Then two more. Came from somewhere up in the tower.”
“Maybe construction equipment fell? That possible?”
A faint thread of red suffused Miguel’s face as he
contemplated the possibility that he’d panicked over nothing. They moved into
the lobby to check things out, but he was feeling less confident than when he’d
called 911. “I’m pretty sure they—” He stopped speaking as they
all heard the unmistakable sound of a descending elevator.
all heard the unmistakable sound of a descending elevator.
“I thought you said there was nobody here,” said the
older cop.
“There isn’t.”
“Could have fooled me,” said the second cop. They
moved through to the elevator lobby. A light above the elevator doors was
flashing to indicate an elevator’s imminent arrival. “Someone’s here.”
“The building opens for business in a few weeks,” said
Miguel. “Nobody’s supposed to be here.”
The cops drew their guns from their holsters and stood
in front of the elevator doors in a shooting stance— slightly crouched, legs
apart. One of the cops gestured furiously for Miguel to move out of the way.
Miguel stepped back. He hovered near an abstract metal sculpture
set into the wall at the dead end of the elevator lobby.
set into the wall at the dead end of the elevator lobby.
A bell chimed. The elevator heaved as it arrived.
The doors parted with a slow hiss. Miguel swallowed
hard as the gap widened. He strained to see what was going on. The cops were
blocking his line of sight and he was at too sharp an angle to see much.
“Police,” shouted both cops in unison. “Put your
weapon down.”
Miguel instinctively pressed himself against the wall.
He flinched as the first round of bullets was fired. There were too many shots
to count. His ears rang so badly, it took him a moment to realize the police
had stopped firing. They’d lowered their weapons and were shouting something.
He didn’t know what. He couldn’t hear a thing over the ringing in his ears.
Miguel saw the younger cop talk into his radio. The
cop’s mouth opened and closed. Miguel couldn’t make out the words. Gradually,
his hearing returned and he heard the tail end of a stream of NYPD jargon.
He
couldn’t understand most of what was said. Something about “nonresponsive” and
needing “a bus,” which he assumed meant an ambulance. Miguel watched a trickle
of blood run along the marble floor until it formed a puddle. He edged closer.
He glimpsed blood splatter on the wall of the elevator. He took one more step.
Finally, he could see inside the elevator. He immediately regretted it. He’d
never seen so much blood in all his life.
ONE
THE
ELEVATOR
Thirty-four Hours Earlier
Vincent was the last to arrive. His dark overcoat
flared behind him as he strode through the lobby. The other three were standing
in an informal huddle by a leather sofa. They didn’t notice Vincent come in.
They were on their phones, with their backs to the entrance, preoccupied with
emails and silent contemplation as to why they had been called to a last-minute
meeting on a Friday night at an out-of-the-way office building in the South
Bronx.
Vincent observed them from a distance as he walked
across the lobby toward them. Over the years, the four of them had spent more
time together than apart. Vincent knew them almost better than he knew himself.
He knew their secrets, and their lies. There were times when he could honestly
say that he’d never despised anyone more than these three people. He suspected
they all shared the sentiment. Yet they needed one another. Their fates had
been joined together long before.
Sylvie’s face bore its usual expression, a few degrees
short of a resting-bitch face. With her cover-girl looks and dark blond hair
pinned in a topknot that drew attention to her green eyes, Sylvie looked like
the catwalk model that she’d been when she was a teenager. She was irritated by
being called to an unscheduled meeting when she had to pack for Paris, but she
didn’t let it show on her face. She studiously kept a faint upward tilt to her
lips. It was a practice drummed into her over many years working in a
male-dominated profession. Men could snarl or look angry with impunity; women
had to smile serenely regardless of the provocation.
To her right stood Sam, wearing a charcoal suit with a
white shirt and a black tie. His stubble matched the dark blond of his closely
cropped hair. His jaw twitched from the knot of anxiety in his guts. He’d felt
stabbing pains ever since his wife, Kim, telephoned during the drive over. She
was furious that he wouldn’t make the flight to Antigua because he was
attending an unscheduled meeting. She hated the fact that his work always took
precedence over her and the girls.
Jules stood slightly away from the other two, sucking
on a peppermint candy to disguise the alcohol on his breath. He wore a suave
burgundy-and-navy silk tie that made his Gypsy eyes burn with intensity. His
dark hair was brushed back in the style of a fifties movie star. He usually
drank vodka because it was odorless and didn’t make his face flush, but now his
cheeks were ruddy in a tell-tale sign he’d been drinking. The minibar in his
chauffeured car was out of vodka, so he’d had to make do with whiskey on the
ride over. The empty bottles were still rattling around in his briefcase.
As they waited for their meeting, they all had the
same paranoid notion that they’d been brought to a satellite office to be
retrenched. Their careers would be assassinated silently, away from the watercooler
gossips at the head office.
It was how they would have done it if the positions
were reversed. A Friday-evening meeting at an out-of-the-way office, concluding
with a retrenchment package and a nondisclosure agreement signed and sealed.
The firm was considering unprecedented layoffs, and
they were acutely aware they had red targets on their backs. They said none of
this to one another. They kept their eyes downcast as they worked on their
phones, unaware they were the only ones in the lobby. Just as they hadn’t paid
much mind to the cranes and construction fencing on their way in.
Sam checked his bank account while he waited. The
negative balance made him queasy. He’d wiped out all the cash in his account
that morning paying Kim’s credit-card bill. If he lost his job, then the
floodgates would open. He could survive two to three months without work; after
that, he’d have to sell assets. That alone would destroy him financially. He
was leveraged to the hilt. Some of his assets were worth less now than when
he’d bought them.
The last time Sam had received a credit-card bill that
huge, he’d immediately lowered Kim’s credit limit. Kim found out when her
payment for an eleven-thousand-dollar Hermès handbag was rejected at the
Madison Avenue store in front of her friends. She was mortified. They had a
huge blowup that night, and he reluctantly restored her credit limit. Now he
paid all her bills without a word of complaint. Even if it meant taking out
bridging loans. Even if it meant constantly feeling on the verge of a heart
attack.
Sam knew that Kim spent money as much for attention as
out of boredom. She complained that Sam was never around to help with the
twins. He’d had to point out that they’d hired a maid to give her all the help
she needed. Three maids, to be truthful. Three within the space of two years.
The third had walked out in tears a week ago due to Kim’s erratic temper.
Kim was never satisfied with anything. If Sam gave Kim
a platinum necklace, she wanted it in gold. If he took her to London, she
wanted Paris. If he bought her a BMW, she wanted a Porsche.
Satisfying her unceasing demands was doable when his
job prospects were good, but the firm had lost a major account, and since
Christmas word had spread of an impending restructure. Everyone knew that was a
euphemism for layoffs.
Sam never doubted that Kim would leave him if he
couldn’t support her lifestyle anymore. She’d demand full custody of the girls
and she’d raise them to hate him. Kim forgave most of his transgressions, she
could even live with his infidelities, but she never forgave failure.
It was Sam who first heard the footsteps sounding
through the vast lobby. The long, hurried strides of a man running late to a
meeting. Sam swung around as their boss arrived. Vincent’s square jaw was tight
and his broad shoulders were tense as he joined them without saying a word.
“You almost didn’t make it,” observed Sylvie.
“The traffic was terrible.” Vincent ran his hand over
his overcoat pocket in the habit of a man who had recently stopped smoking.
Instead of cigarettes, he took out a pair of glasses, which he put on to
examine the message on his phone. “Are you all aware of the purpose of this
meeting?”
“The email invite from HR wasn’t exactly brimming with
information,” said Sam. “You said in your text message it was compulsory for us
to attend. That it took precedence over everything else. Well, we’re all here.
So maybe now you can enlighten us, Vincent. What’s so important that I had to
delay my trip to Antigua?”
“Who here has done an escape-room challenge before?”
Vincent asked.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam said. “I abandoned
my wife on her dream vacation to participate in a team-building activity! This
is bullshit, Vincent. It’s goddamn bullshit and you know it.”
“It will take an hour,” said Vincent calmly. “Next
Friday is bonus day. I’m sure that we all agree that it’s smart to be on our
best behavior before bonus day, especially in the current climate.”
“Let’s do it,” said Sylvie, sighing. Her flight to
Paris was at midnight. She still had plenty of time to get home and pack.
Vincent led them to a brightly lit elevator with its doors wide open. Inside
were mirrored walls and an alabaster marble floor.
They stepped inside. The steel doors shut behind them
before they could turn around.
TWO
SARA
HALL
It’s remarkable what a Windsor knot divulges about a
man. Richie’s Italian silk tie was a brash shade of red, with thin gold stripes
running on a diagonal. It was the tie of a man whose arrogance was dwarfed only
by his ego.
In truth, I didn’t need to look at his tie to know
that Richie was a douche. The dead giveaway was that when I entered the
interview room, a nervous smile on my pink matte painted lips, he didn’t bother
to greet me. Or even to stand up from the leather chair where he sat and
surveyed me as I entered the room.
While I categorized Richie as a first-class creep the
moment I set eyes on him, I was acutely aware that I needed to impress him if I
was to have any chance of getting the job. I introduced myself and reached out
confidently to shake his hand. He shook my hand with a grip that was tighter
than necessary—a reminder, perhaps, that he could crush my career aspirations
as easily as he could break the bones in my delicate hand.
He introduced himself as Richard Worthington. The
third, if you don’t mind. He had a two-hundred-dollar haircut, a custom shave,
and hands that were softer than butter. He was in his late twenties, around
five years older than I was.
When we were done shaking hands, Richie leaned back in
his chair and surveyed me with a touch of amusement as I settled into my seat
across the table.
“You can take off your jacket and relax,” he said. “We
try to keep interviews informal here.”
I took off my jacket and left it folded over the back
of the chair next to me as I wondered what he saw when he looked at me. Did he
see a struggling business-school graduate with a newly minted MBA that didn’t
appear to be worth the paper it was written on? Or was he perceptive enough to
see an intelligent, accomplished young woman? Glossy brown hair cut to a
professional shoulder length, serious gray eyes, wearing a brand-new designer
suit she couldn’t afford and borrowed Louboutin shoes that were a half size too
small and pinched her toes.
I took a deep breath and tried to project the poise
and confidence necessary to show him that I was the best candidate. Finally I
had a chance at getting my dream job on Wall Street. I would do everything that
I could humanly do not to screw it up.
Richie wore a dark gray suit with a fitted white
shirt. His cuff links were Hermès, arranged so that the H insignia
was clearly visible. On his wrist was an Audemars Piguet watch, a thirty-grand
piece that told everyone who cared that he was the very model of a Wall Street
player.
Richie left me on the edge of my seat, waiting
awkwardly, as he read over my résumé. Paper rustled as he scanned the neatly
formatted sheets that summed up my life in two pages. I had the impression that
he was looking at it for the first time. When he was done, he examined me over
the top of the pages with the lascivious expression of a john sizing up girls
at a Nevada whorehouse.
THREE
THE ELEVATOR
THE ELEVATOR
All the lights in the elevator turned off at once. It
happened the moment the doors shut. One moment they were in a brightly lit
elevator; the next they were in pitch- darkness. They were as good as blind,
save for the weak fluorescent glow from a small display above the steel doors
showing the floor number.
Jules stumbled toward the elevator control panel. He
pressed the button to open the doors. The darkness was suffocating him. He had
to get out. The elevator shot up before anything happened. The jolt was
unexpected. Jules lost his footing and fell against the wall with a thud.
As the elevator accelerated upward, they assumed the
lights would be restored at any moment. In every other respect, the elevator
was working fine. It was ascending smoothly. The green display above the door
was showing the changing floor numbers. There was no reason why it should be
dark.
Without realizing it, they shifted toward one another,
drawn together by a primordial fear of the dark and the unknown dangers that
lurked within it. Jules fumbled for his phone and turned on the flashlight
setting so that he could see what he was doing. He frantically pressed the
buttons for upcoming floors. They didn’t appear to respond to the insistent
pressure of his thumb.
“It’s probably an express,” explained Sylvie. “I saw a sign in the lobby that said something about the elevator running express until the seventieth floor.”
“It’s probably an express,” explained Sylvie. “I saw a sign in the lobby that said something about the elevator running express until the seventieth floor.”
Jules pressed the button for the seventieth floor. And
the seventy-first. And, for good measure, the seventy- second, as well. The
buttons immediately lit up one after the other, each button backlit in green.
Jules silently counted the remaining floors. All he could think about
was getting out.
was getting out.
He loosened his tie to alleviate the tightness in his
chest. He’d never considered himself claustrophobic, but he’d had an issue with
confined spaces ever since he was a child. He once left summer camp early, in
hysterics after being accidentally locked in a toilet stall for a few minutes.
His mother told the camp leader that his overreaction was due to a childhood
trauma that left him somewhat claustrophobic and nervous in the dark.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ll be
taking the stairs on the way down,” Sam joked with fake nonchalance. “I’m not
getting back into this hunk of junk again.”
“Maybe the firm is locking us up in here until we
resign voluntarily,” Jules said drily. “It’ll save Stanhope a shitload of
money.” He swallowed hard. The elevator was approaching the fortieth floor.
They were halfway there. He had to hold it together for another thirty floors.
“It would be a mistake if the firm retrenched any of
us,” said Vincent. “I told the executive team as much when we met earlier this
week.” What Vincent didn’t mention was that several of the
leadership team had avoided looking at him during that meeting. That was when he knew the writing was on the wall.
“Why get rid of us? We’ve always made the firm plenty of money,” Sylvie said.
leadership team had avoided looking at him during that meeting. That was when he knew the writing was on the wall.
“Why get rid of us? We’ve always made the firm plenty of money,” Sylvie said.
“Until lately,” Vincent said pointedly.
They’d failed to secure two major deals in a row.
Those deals had both gone to a key competitor, who had inexplicably undercut
them each time. It made them wonder whether their competitor had inside
knowledge of their bids. The team’s revenue was lower than it had
been in years. For the first time ever, their jobs were vulnerable.
been in years. For the first time ever, their jobs were vulnerable.
“Are we getting fired, Vincent?” Jules asked as the
elevator continued rising. “Is that why we were summoned here? They must have
told you something.”
“I got the same generic meeting invite that you all
received,” Vincent responded. “It was only as I arrived that I received a text
with instructions to bring you all up to the eightieth floor for an escape room
challenge. The results of which, it said, would be used for ‘internal
consultations about future staff planning.’ Make of that what you will.”
“Sounds like they want to see how we perform tonight
before deciding what to do with us,” said Sylvie. “I’ve never done an escape
room. What exactly are we supposed to do?”
“It’s straightforward,” said Sam. “You’re locked in a
room and have to solve a series of clues to get out.”
“And on that basis they’re going to decide which of us
to fire?” Jules asked Vincent in the dark.
“I doubt it,” Vincent said. “The firm doesn’t work
that way.”
“Vincent’s right,” said Jules cynically. “Let’s take a
more optimistic tack. Maybe they’re using our escape room performance to
determine who to promote to Eric Miles’s job.” Eric had resigned before
Christmas under something of a cloud. They’d heard rumors the firm was going to
promote someone to the job internally. Such promotions were highly sought
after. At a time when their jobs were in jeopardy, it offered one of them a
potential career lifeline.
The green display above the door flashed the number
67. They had three more floors to go until the elevator finished the express
part of the ride. The elevator slowed down and came to a stop on the seventieth
floor. Jules exhaled in relief. He stepped forward in anticipation of the doors
opening. They remained shut.
He pressed the open button on the control panel.
Nothing happened. He pressed it again, holding it down for several seconds. The
doors still didn’t budge. He pressed the button three times in quick
succession. Nothing. Finally, in desperation, he pressed the red emergency
button. There was no response.
“It’s not working,” he said.
They looked up at the panel above the door that
displayed the floor numbers. It had an E on its screen. Error.
A small television monitor above the control panel
turned on. At first, they didn’t think much of it. They expected to see cable
news or a stock market update, the type of thing usually broadcast on elevator
monitors.
It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the
brightness of the white television screen. After another moment, a message
appeared in large black letters.
WELCOME
TO THE ESCAPE
ROOM. YOUR GOAL IS SIMPLE.
GET OUT ALIVE.
ROOM. YOUR GOAL IS SIMPLE.
GET OUT ALIVE.
From The Escape Room.
Copyright © 2019 by Megan Goldin and reprinted with permission from St.
Martin’s Press.
Author Bio:
MEGAN GOLDIN worked
as a correspondent for Reuters and other media outlets where she covered war,
peace, international terrorism and financial meltdowns in the Middle East and
Asia. She is now based in Melbourne, Australia where she raises three sons and
is a foster mum to Labrador puppies learning to be guide dogs. THE ESCAPE ROOM
is her debut novel.
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