Last Act Lies

From the editors

A prop gun that isn't, and a narrator who knows more than she says

Mr. Harrison's drama club is staging a Victorian murder mystery by a forgotten 1920s playwright. In the final scene Jane Mills is meant to fire a toy gun at Dominic Vance. The narrator watches from backstage, three months into a secret romance with him. Once the shot proves real, Detective Morrison moves in, and the girl in the wings has more to protect than anyone.

The first chapter builds dread from small things: velvet seats, mothers holding up phones, and an orange-tipped toy gun right where it should be. The play's plot about a man caught between loyalty and love echoes the real one. Short chapters move quickly through police interviews and a trial. The level, controlled voice is quietly unsettling.

For older teens and adults who like school-set thrillers narrated from somewhere close to the crime.

Perfect for: Dark high-school thrillers · Narrators with something to hide · A fast weekend read

What’s inside

1. Opening Night
2. The Question
3. A Father’s Fear
4. The Suspects
5. The Diary
6. The Secret
7. Jane Mills
8. The Choice
9. The Phone
10. The Evidence
11. Watching the Wheels Turn
12. The Trial
13. Jane in Prison
14. Aftermath
15. The Reopening
16. The Mother
17. Destruction
18. Unraveling
19. The Weight
20. Testimony
21. Appeal
22. The Investigator
23. Interrogation
24. Confession
25. The Truth
26. The Breaking Point
27. Exposure
28. The Last Secret

Read the opening

The auditorium smells like old velvet and anticipation. I’ve been standing backstage for forty minutes, watching the audience file in. The drama club mothers clutching their phones, ready to record. The students from school in clusters, texting during the opening scene. The older couples—grandparents, probably—settling into the uncomfortable seats with the kind of resigned patience that comes with years of school plays. It’s a Tuesday night. The turnout is better than Mr. Harrison expected. He’s been talking about the ticket sales all week, how word of mouth has been spreading, how people actually want to see this production of a Victorian murder mystery written by some obscure playwright from the 1920s. I’m not here because of the play. I’m here because Dominic asked me to watch. Because I wanted to see him on stage, knowing that the only other people who would be aware that I was watching—aware that I cared—would be the two of us. The play begins at 7:30. The lights dim in the auditorium. Backstage, the energy shifts. Mr. Harrison stops pacing. The actors stop checking their costumes. The stage manager checks her headset one last time. Dominic is in the green room, running lines with his hand in his pockets, the way he always does. He sees me watching and his eyes flicker—just for a second—with something that might be recognition. Might be affection. Definitely something that would give us away if anyone was paying attention. But no one is paying attention. That’s the gift of being invisible in plain sight. That’s what we’ve learned over three months. The first act…

The sample pages on this site continue the opening — and the full book is available in print.