Get the first look at a killer thriller you won’t want to miss this fall! Coming September 2024, Sandra Block’s novel will be here just in time for spooky season. Make sure you place your preorders and get ahead of the game on this spine-chilling, psychological thriller.
The Bachelorette Party by Sandra Block
Alex is an intern at a leading investigative news outlet and soon-to-be married to her seemingly impeccable fiancé. But soon she finds herself ensnared in a horrifying scenario during a bachelorette weekend tailored to her fascination with a notorious murderer, the 666 Killer. Stranded in a snowbound, eerie lodge with a history of bloody murder, she awakens to the disappearance of her friends and incriminating bloodstains. With no one to help her, she uses her true crime expertise to unravel this mystery, unaware of the harrowing revelation that awaits.
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Excerpt
Get excited for the book now with this excerpt you won’t want to miss!
CHAPTER ONE
NOW
I yank off the crown.
Embossed with the finest plastic diamonds reading Bougie Bachelorette, the thing not only looks ridiculous, it’s giving me a headache.
“Come on, Alex,” Melody says, turning to me from the front seat. “You’re the bachelorette. You have to wear it.”
“Maybe later,” I lie, since she took the time to buy the monstrosity.
Lainey turns the car key a few times, and the engine putters precariously before finally catching. “Gotta look at that starter,” she says, with a grimace.
This does not bode well.
We’re in Lainey’s used Kia, which is about as sexy as it sounds. But Melody doesn’t know how to drive and Jay needed his car, so we didn’t have much choice in the matter.
Pulling out of my parking ramp, we make a few turns, then start crawling down the streets of Manhattan.
Tourists crowd the Saks Fifth Avenue Christmas windows, a kitschy throwback in this CGI-dominated world. A block later, a line snakes around the American Girl store, moms and daughters holding hands, dolls dangling everywhere. The soft snow has thickened into soggy flakes, clogging the air, making the city look like a postcard.
“This car sucks in the snow,” Lainey says, frowning at the windshield.
“Come on,” Melody trills. She’s an actress—she trills a lot. “It’s an adventure.”
Lainey snorts, and I commiserate with her lack of excitement. It’s only a month before the wedding, and I’m way behind on my 666 Killer profile. But Melody guilt-tripped me, saying this would be our last hurrah as single ladies, and Lainey didn’thave many free weekends with basketball. Oddly enough, it was Jay who made the final push. He’s from Australia, where “hen parties” are more of a thing. “You’ve known them forever,” he said. “They’re your best friends. Go crazy. Do it up. Get the policeman strippers or whatever.”
I had to laugh at that one. Melody would possibly allow male strippers in the name of female empowerment, but Lainey has zero interest in men, let alone naked men.
At least it’s just the three of us. A blowout at some random bar would have been worse. I am not, and have never been, a party girl.
“Can you please just tell me where we’re going?” I ask, leaning forward closer to their seats.
“Then it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” Lainey answers. I look to Melody, who answers with a zipped-lips motion.
With a resigned sigh, I lean back again, fiddling with my seatbelt before remembering it doesn’t work.
In the front seats, my friends look comical, Lainey’s head well above the headrest and Melody’s well below. Melody and Lainey are opposites. Lainey is White, skinny, boyish, and proudly six feet. Melody is Chinese-American, buxom with a Betty Boop quality, and proudly four feet eleven. Lainey has a low, gruff voice; Melody a high-pitched, inces- santly cheerful one. Lainey would be Grumpy (if Grumpy were six feet), and Melody would be Happy (if Happy harped on intersectional feminism).
I don’t think there’s a suitable dwarf for me, since I’m not dopey or bashful, and sneezy and sleepy are hardly personality traits. I suppose I’m the median, in height and hair color, at least. I’ve always been the middle child, the peacemaker, ever since our first days as roommates at UConn.
Jay is right, I’ve known them forever.
“A hint,” I say, butting my head in between their seats. “Just give me a little hint.”
They exchange glances. “It involves your internship,” Melody says. “Primary research.”
“Primary research?” I ask, baffled. I drum my fingers on the cold velour seat. “For the 666 Killer?” I rest my elbows on the back of their seats. “Are we visiting him?”
“Um. No, Alex.” Melody throws me a look. “We are not visiting your serial killer.”
“He’s not my serial killer,” I correct her.
They answer with silence, which speaks volumes.
So, okay.
Ever since I took on the project, the tenth anniversary of the 666 Killings, I’ll admit to being a tad obsessed with Eric Myers. Jay complained about the “disturbing” pictures covering our bedroom floor during my investigation phase. But I was just gathering clues from the murder scene, clues that were possibly (unlikely) missed by the detectives. Stab wounds, defensive wounds, a torn necklace, the butterfly pendant stained in blood.
About Sandra Block
Sandra A. Block graduated from college at Harvard, then returned to her native land of Buffalo, New York for medical training and never left. She is a practicing neurologist and proud Sabres fan, and lives at home with her husband, two children, and impetuous yellow lab. Her work has been published in the Washington Post. Little Black Lies was her debut, a finalist in the International Thriller Awards.
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