The Meadowbrook Murders

“Utterly impossible to put down.” —Sloan Harlow, New York Times bestselling author of Everything We Never Said

“Smart and twisty. As much about a devastating murder as it is about friendship, secrets, and loyalty, with a searing reveal that feels both clever and inevitable in the best way.” —Joelle Wellington, author of The Blonde Dies First and Their Vicious Game

"An unputdownable boarding school thriller. Fast-paced with compelling dual perspectives, The Meadowbrook Murders kept me up far past my bedtime. I devoured it!" —Alexa Donne, Edgar Award–nominated author of Pretty Dead Queens & The Ivies

"A clever, multi-layered mystery that surprised at every turn, The Meadowbrook Murders proves Jessica Goodman keeps getting better with every book." —Kara Thomas, author of The Cheerleaders

"Fast-paced and expertly plotted, with a climax as emotional as it is satisfying, The Meadowbrook Murders proves once again that Jessica Goodman is a YA thriller genius." —Jordyn Taylor, award-winning author of The Revenge Game

"Readers beware: prepare for a sleepless night ahead. Once you start The Meadowbrook Murders, you’re not going to want to put it down. Jessica Goodman’s latest thriller is fantastic, with an opening that made me literally gasp out loud, a dark academia setting, and fully formed, sympathetic characters. I absolutely loved this book!" —Liz Lawson, New York Times bestselling author of THE AGATHAS series

"A fast-paced, attention-grabbing boarding school murder mystery." —Kirkus

"This page-turner belongs in the hands of mystery enthusiasts and fans of modern-day whodunits." —BCCB

"Taut and suspenseful, the academic thriller wields an unexpected villain, revealing the seamier aspects of wealth and privilege and the painful realities of complex friendships. Believable characters with distinct personalities enhance this gripping race to whodunit." —Booklist

"A cutthroat boarding school story." —SLJJessica Goodman is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Meadowbrook Murders, The Counselors, The Legacies, They’ll Never Catch Us, and They Wish They Were Us. She is the former op-ed editor at Cosmopolitan magazine. Her work has also been published in Marie Claire, Entertainment Weekly, The Cut, and Glamour.

Follow Jessica on Instagram @jessicagoodman.My bare feet hit the floor and I rub my eyes as I swing open the door into the common room, my vision blurry from sleep. I bump into my desk before finding my way to the ­baby-​­blue mini fridge. Sarah had surprised me with it last week when we moved in. She had already filled it with our ­favorites—​­cans of Diet Coke, little glass pots of French yogurts, single servings of hummus and guacamole. Students aren’t supposed to have their own appliances in the dorms, but Sarah shrugged when I brought up the rule.
“No one stopped me.” She smiled and began explaining the ­color-​­coded labels she made to keep the groceries or­ganized.
I swing the door open and reach inside for a plastic cup of iced coffee, saved from yesterday’s outing into town.
It’s watery and too sweet. But it’ll do until I get to the dining hall.
I knock on Sarah’s door. “Sar? You up?”
No one answers.
“Cool silent treatment, but can we talk about last night?”
I take a sip from the straw, then another, everything around me a little fuzzy. The curtains are drawn, and the room is dark, but sun peeks through the corners. The digital clock below our TV flashes 8:00. Shit. I overslept. Senior Sanction is in an hour. A full day of welcome rituals reserved for our class, while we’re still the only ones on campus. Maybe Sarah left for breakfast already, didn’t wake me up as part of her I’m‑­pissed‑­at‑­you campaign.
I pad back into my room and fumble as I call Sarah. The line goes straight to voicemail. Her recorded message rings in my ear and my shoulders tense. She ran a ­six-​­foot extension cord from the outlet near her door to make sure she could charge her phone right next to her bed while she slept, said she’d rather die than wake up with less than 20 percent battery.
“Sarah?” I call again, stepping into the common space.
That’s when I notice it.
The stench.
The rotten smell of iron. Pungent and everywhere, lodged in my throat. My nostrils. My stomach.
My heart pounds as I dial Sarah again, wait for a ring that doesn’t come.
“I can’t come to the phone right ­now . . .” her voice bleats in my ear.
Suddenly I’m lightheaded, like I can barely breathe. Because once the rest of the room comes into focus, I realize it’s not only the odor that’s odd.