Hideaway by Nicole Lundrigan


byNicole Lundrigan

Paperback | July 9, 2019

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"Authentic, disturbing and unbearably tense, Hideaway will leave you reeling." --Shari Lapena, #1 internationally bestselling author of The Couple Next Door

Gloria Janes appears to be a doting suburban mother and loving wife. But beyond her canary-yellow door, Gloria controls her husband, Telly, as well as seven-year-old Maisy and her older brother Rowan, through a disorienting cycle of adoration and banishment.

When Telly leaves, Gloria turns on Rowan. He runs away, finding unlikely refuge with a homeless man named Carl, with whom he forms the kind of bond he has never found with his parents. After they are menaced by strangers, Rowan follows Carl to an isolated cottage, where he accidentally sets off a burst of heightened paranoia in Carl, and their adventure takes a dark turn.

Gloria is publicly desperate for the safe return of her son while privately plotting ever wilder ways to lure Telly home for good. Her behaviour grows more erratic and her manipulation of Maisy begins to seem dedicated toward an outcome that only she can see. The two storylines drive relentlessly toward a climax that is both shocking and emotionally riveting.

Suspenseful, unsettling, and masterful, Hideaway explores the secrets of a troubled family and illuminates an unlikely hero and a source of unexpected strength.
NICOLE LUNDRIGAN is the author of six critically acclaimed novels, including The Substitute and Glass Boys. Her work has appeared on best of the year selections of The Globe and Mail, Amazon.ca, and Now magazine. She grew up in Newfoundland, and now lives in Toronto.
Title:HideawayFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:336 pages, 8.98 X 6.26 X 0.9 inShipping dimensions:336 pages, 8.98 X 6.26 X 0.9 inPublished:July 9, 2019Publisher:Penguin CanadaLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0735237816

ISBN - 13:9780735237810

Appropriate for ages: All ages

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Read from the Book

ROWAN I could tell by her face. She knew what I’d done. The school counselor had said he wouldn’t tell Gloria, but one glance at my mother and I was sure she’d gotten a phone call. When I walked down Pinchkiss Circle she was standing in front of our house holding a hammer and a piece of wood. As I got closer, I could see she’d painted a single misspelled word right in the middle of it.   THEIF.   I wasn’t expecting that.   The whole meeting with the counselor had been no big deal. That was what I’d thought, anyway. He wanted to talk about the change in my “family structure,” which meant Telly walking out on me and my little sister last month. Gloria had tried to hide it, but once our neighbor Mrs. Spooner noticed Telly’s truck was gone all the time, everyone soon found out. “Rowan, I know school’s almost over,” the counselor had said, “but I want to end on a positive. You’ve been upset, that’s clear, but some people do really construc­tive things with their anger.”   I didn’t know what he meant. Was I supposed to build something? Tear something down?   Then he asked if I had “good buddies to lean on.”   I shook my head.   “Boys to pal around with?”   I shook my head again. The fact was, I didn’t have a single friend. Besides Darrell, an older kid who lived a few houses up from us on the circle. Sometimes he’d invite me over for a soda, or to see his motorcycle.   The counselor leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk. He was wear­ing a skinny purple tie. It matched the purple frame on his glasses. “What about the future? What do you dream about?”   “At night?” I asked. I didn’t mention how he’d just ended three of the last four sentences in prepositions. That would really bug Mrs. Spooner. She was also my language arts teacher.   “No, in general. What are your aspirations?”   I told him I wanted to fix my skin. Maybe that would help me find some “good buddies to lean on.” People were afraid I was contagious. Even the teachers never came too close. Well, besides Mrs. Spooner. The only person who actually liked my spots was Maisy. Ever since she was little she’d thought there was a map growing out through me. That I was the key to some trea­sure. Sometimes when Gloria said mean things, I’d find a tiny note on torn paper under my pillow. “You ar beeutifell.” Even though it was weird for Maisy to say that to her brother, I kept every one.   “What other things? What makes you happy, Rowan?”   I didn’t tell him my idea of getting on a train and going back to find Gran. Which was impossible now, because Gran was dead. Instead I told the counselor about my dream of hitting a home run. Having that bat in my hands, swinging it as hard as I could, and striking the fat round ball out of the park. The crowd always leapt up from the stands and screamed and roared.   “Do you imagine that a lot?” he said.   “Yeah. I do. All the time.”   “Maybe we should start a team in September. Get uniforms. I could coach.”   I stared down at my hands. There was a neat white island over the bottom part of my thumb.   “The school might fund it.”   “Still,” I said. He thought I was worried about money. “I don’t think it ’d work.”   “Why not?”   I shrugged. I didn’t mention that in my dream I was the only one on the team. And I certainly didn’t mention that when I looked down at the bat it was often a blur of red. Bits of bone and broken teeth. Sometimes in my imagination the ball was just a ball, but most times it was a head. Sound of a melon smashing as the swinging bat tore it straight off. My stomach filling up with satisfaction.   Mrs. Spooner always told me I had a creative mind.   “Well,” the counselor said, “at least you’ve got a supportive mom. Even with your dad gone, she’s on your side. We’ve got to count our blessings, right?”   “Yeah.” I nodded and smiled. “I’m pretty lucky. You won’t tell her about what I took, right?”   “Stole, you mean.”   “Stole,” I whispered.   “I’ll have to think about it, Rowan. Leave it with me.”   I’d thought that meant he wouldn’t call. But as I got closer to home, Gloria was staring at me. One foot up on the steps leading to the front porch. Maisy was nowhere to be seen. She’d already walked home from school with her friend Shar. She could be out playing, or she could be hiding away. She was like that, vanishing at the first sign of trouble.   “Get over here,” Gloria said.   I dragged my feet.   “I’m at the end of my rope with you. Do you know that? The very end of it.” She spoke in a low growl. Gloria never yelled outside.   I looked down at my sneakers. They were covered in a fine film of dust from our driveway. “Sorry,” I said.   “Sorry? Sorry? That’s all you got to say? I’ve never been so ashamed. Grabbing chocolate bars out of some teacher’s purse? Like you don’t get enough to eat at home? And everyone nosing around in our business. That woman, that, that Mrs. Spooner, and now some school counselor calling me. Talking about Telly running off. Because nothing ever went wrong in their perfect lives.”   “I said I was sorry, Gloria.”   “Oh, buddy boy. You’re going to be sorry.”   I expected her to walk up our driveway and stop at the bottom of Pinchkiss Circle. I thought she’d make me stand beside the rain gutter so our neighbors could see the sign. But instead she went in the opposite direc­tion. She strode across the fresh green grass and stepped into the woods.   As I followed behind her I noticed Maisy, tucked into the furthest corner of the deck that was built off the side of our house. Our dog, Chicken, was snoring beside her. She watched me with her blue eyes, her round face frowning. I knew what she was thinking. Don’t go. Don’t go in there. I waved, made a weak attempt at a cartwheel to make her smile. Then I ran to catch up with Gloria.   When I entered the woods, my heart sped up a bit. I called out, “Isn’t this the wrong way, Gloria?” As far back as I could remember, Maisy and I had called our parents by their first names. Gloria said it was modern, pro­gressive. Our mother was always Gloria. And our dad was always Telly.   She ignored my question, just kept marching forward, her new blond hair bouncing, the sign jammed into her armpit. I had to rush to keep up. One of Gloria’s steps was two of mine. We went further and further into the woods.   “This is just dumb!” I yelled. “Someone’s supposed to see me, aren’t they?”   She snickered, said over her shoulder, “You know, lots of wolves live in here.” Her voice was cheerful.   I laughed. “I’m thirteen, Gloria. That dumb stuff doesn’t scare me anymore.”   She swept past branches and stomped over mossy logs. Gloria had thick legs. “Telly almost caught one once. Enormous ugly thing. Fur all stuck down. They like to hunt when it’s dark.”   “So?” I said.   “Green eyes show up first. Then you hear them sniffing and scratching.”   “Oh.” A squirt of sickness shot through my guts. Around me the shad­ows were long and narrow.   After a lot of walking, Gloria stopped. The trees had grown thicker and the ground was spongy under my feet. She turned in a slow circle, then lifted the sign. Dug a nail from her pocket and fixed it to a trunk. Three hard slams with the hammer. “Stand there,” she said.   “There?”   “That’s what I said, didn’t I? Under your sign.” I didn’t understand why we were in the woods. Weeks ago, Gloria told us about a girl she saw outside the front door of Stafford’s department store. Apparently, the kid had taken a baby soother because her brother was crying. As punishment, her mother taped construction paper to her T-shirt with a message that read, “Do not trust me. I rob stuff.” I thought Gloria was going to do the same thing. So the neighbors could gawk. “This doesn’t make sense. Nobody lives in here.”   “How do you know?”   “Because it’s just trees, Gloria. And squirrels.”   She looked me right in the eye. “Wait and see, mister,” she said. “No-body don’t mean no-thing. Try not to breathe when you hear one of them. They’ll smell you a mile away.”   Then she left me standing under the sign. She wound her way back through the trees, and I could hear her humming a tune. The notes of her music vanished just seconds before she did.   I stood there, waiting. My stomach groaned. It had to be dinnertime by now. Glori

Editorial Reviews

“Authentic, disturbing and unbearably tense, Hideaway will leave you reeling.” —Shari Lapena, #1 internationally bestselling author of The Couple Next DoorOne of:Chatelaine''s "The Most Suspenseful Thrillers Of Summer 2019" Toronto Star''s "Loan Stars: Canadian librarians’ top picks for July"NOW Toronto''s "The 14 best books to read in summer 2019"The Globe and Mail''s "The summer’s best books"Bustle''s "40 New Thrillers Out This Summer That Make The Perfect Vacation Reads"Post Media''s "Page-turners to take to the beach"Praise for Hideaway:"Lundrigan’s skillful depiction of the suffocating family dynamics keeps the reader turning the pages to the end."—Publishers Weekly"Hideaway is a potent exploration of abuse, desperation, coming of age, and broken trust...With her latest novel, Lundrigan proves she’s hit her stride"—Quill and Quire"In elegant, stylish prose, Lundrigan captures the bewilderment of childhood when it’s set against the backdrop of how awful adults can be. If ever there was a book that will hook you with hatred and love, Hideaway is it. With a great, tense finish, you’ll be desperate for the right characters to win. I loved Maisy as much as I do Scout Finch, and that’s saying something." —Roz Nay, internationally-bestselling author of Our Little Secret   "Lundrigan is a fearless writer, and has created an unforgettable, psychologically complex, smart, dark story in Hideaway. Questioning ideas of safety, truth, and responsibility, it''s a bone-chilling tale that goes places you''ll never expect - your heart will be racing by the final, shocking climax and you''ll never stop cheering for the irresistible child heroes Rowan and Maisy, even in the darkest moments." —Grace O’Connell, author of Be Ready for the Lightning and Magnified World   “Haunting, harrowing, and beautifully written, Hideaway splendidly showcases the unique talents of Nicole Lundrigan." —Ian Hamilton, bestselling author of the Ava Lee series   "There are few better at writing familial claustrophobia than Nicole Lundrigan, and in Hideaway she uses it to drive the suspense in a thriller about the idea of home, its comforts and entrapments." —Andrew Pyper, bestselling author of The Homecoming and The Demonologist