{"product_id":"the-new-neighbors-isbn-9780451490452","title":"The New Neighbors","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Girl Before\u003c\/i\u003e meets \u003ci\u003eThe Couple Next Door\u003c\/i\u003e in a Hitchcockian thriller about a couple who moves into their dream neighborhood only to discover nothing is as it seems...\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe perfect couple. The perfect house. The perfect crime.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLondoners Jack and Syd found their dream home: lots of space, a great location, and a friendly owner who wanted a young couple to have it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything is exactly what they hoped for when they move in--except Jack makes a disturbing discovery in the attic, and Syd begins to wonder about the girl next door. And they each keep the other in the dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA mistake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBecause someone has just been killed outside their back door, and now the police are watching them. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis is their chance to prove they're innocent--or to get away with murder. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eWhose story do you believe?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe New Neighbors\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “An intricate, powerful, and deeply unsettling thriller about the profound ways in which cruelty can change its survivors, and the creeping fear that nothing—not your home, not love, not even your own mind—is as rock-solid and impregnable as we all want to believe.”—Tana French, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Trespasser\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“This terrifying thriller sent shivers through me!”—Jane Corry, author of \u003ci\u003eMy Husband's Wife\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“A raw, tightly wound thrill ride, a nightmare scenario about a home purchase that goes horribly wrong. And then some. This is a fast-paced, intense, and creepy novel that you won't be able to put down until you reach the end.”—David Bell, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBring Her Home\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A masterpiece of duplicity, a psychological thriller of the highest order, in which the characters not only lie to each other and to everyone around them, they lie to themselves. With two highly unreliable narrators digging themselves deeper in every chapter, fans of he said\/she said suspense will love this tense and gripping story. Highly recommended!”—Karen Dionne, author \u003ci\u003eThe Marsh King's Daughter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This twisty tale steadily builds suspense.”—\u003ci\u003eGood Housekeeping\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Lelic's latest is riveting enough to keep readers turning the pages as he leaves them guessing. Skillfully crafted, the intricate plot is filled with raw, honest emotion...this spellbinding thrill of a read will keep readers on the edge of their seats.”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e“The New Neighbors\u003c\/i\u003e is about as difficult a book to put down as you can find...Simon Lelic’s writing is simply ingenious, and you will have to decide who’s the victim in this story.”—BookReporter.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A bundle of creepy chills...Read it.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Observer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Deeply creepy...This clever, twisting plot, told in convincing voices, will haunt you in the very best way.”—\u003ci\u003eSunday Mirror\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eSimon Lelic \u003c\/b\u003eis a former journalist and the author of the award-winning \u003ci\u003eA Thousand Cuts\u003c\/i\u003e as well as the critically acclaimed \u003ci\u003eThe Facility\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Child Who\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eThe New Neighbors\u003c\/i\u003e is his first psychological thriller, inspired by a love of Alfred Hitchcock and Stephen King. Simon lives with his wife and three children.Chapter one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jack\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The police were outside again last night. I watched them in the      alleyway from the spare-bedroom window. They couldn't have seen      me. I'm fairly sure they couldn't have seen me. And so what if      they had? It's not like I was doing anything wrong. It's perfectly      natural, isn't it? Like the way motorists slow down to get a view      of an accident. Probably the police would have assumed it odd if I      hadn't been watching. I mean, I couldn't tell from where I was      standing, but I bet the rest of our neighbors were all watching,      too. All with their lights off. All cloaked discreetly by their      curtains. What I didn't like was the impression I had that      everyone out there was also looking discreetly at me. That the      police being out there, at that time of night, was all just a      show. A reminder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e God, this is hard. Harder than I thought it would be. It's knowing      where to begin as much as anything. I'm not Syd. I know what she      thinks, what conclusions she's drawn already, but I don't process      things the way she does. If she had gone first, I don't know where      we would have ended up, and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have had a      clue about where to go next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I guess for me the only logical place to start is the day we first      saw the house. This was back in April. It's September now. The      fourteenth. At 3:17 in the morning, to be precise. Syd's in bed,      but I couldn't sleep even if I wanted to. I doubt she's sleeping      either, to be honest. I don't think she's slept properly in weeks.      Me, I drop off easily enough. Every night I don't think I'm going      to, but it's exhaustion, I suppose, the weight of worry. Tonight,      though, our decision made, I just wanted to get on with it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There's a lot to get through and not a lot of time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The open house day, then. I suppose it has to be, though thereÕs      very little about the day itself that was unusual. I recall how      busy it was, how many people, when the time came,      narrow-shouldered their way through the front door. Because there      was a queue, you see. Not a line, but one of those messy,      I-was-here-first scrums you see at bus stops. WeÕd arrived forty      minutes early and already there were half a dozen couples ahead of      us.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But that wasn't uncommon. Not for a house viewing in London. The      strange thing was that it wasn't just the house that was up for      sale. Whoever bought it would also be buying everything the house      contained. And once Syd and I had got inside, we saw that the      entire place was stuffed with junk. Actual      dragged-home-from-the-dump junk. Books, too, and clothes, coats,      pictures on every square inch of wall, boxes stacked heedless of      shape or size, plus furniture big and small in every crevice. It      was like a live-in, life-and-death version of Jenga.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh, and birds. Clearly the current owner was into dead stuff.      Taxidermy-doing it, hoarding it, I couldn't tell. There was a      hawk, a seagull, even a pigeon amid the scattered flock. Syd must      have noticed them, too. I remember being surprised that she didn't      turn around the moment she did see them and walk straight out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The story the estate agent gave us was that the owner had met a      woman on the Internet. She lived in Australia, apparently, and      he'd dropped everything to run off and be with her. Just like      that. He'd been approaching retirement age anyway, but even so he      chucked in his job, abandoned his friends and signed over his      house-dead pets and all-to the estate agent to sell as one bumper      package. Which made a good sales pitch, I suppose, and accounted      for the state of the place-but personally, right from the off, I      just couldn't see it. I mean, what sort of person would do that?      And-setting the storybook explanation aside for a moment-why?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So, yes, that was odd, and for me more than a bit off-putting.      Maybe it wouldn't have bothered me so much if I'd fallen for the      house itself. I mean, the layout wasn't a problem, and there was      more than enough space (living room, kitchen, separate dining      room, plus one, two, three bedrooms-not including the unconverted      attic). The building, though-it was creepy. There's no other word      to describe it. The garden was overgrown and the paintwork about      as attractive as a skin complaint. The house stood alone      (\"detached,\" marveled the brochure) as though it had been shunned.      There was a row of terraced houses on one side, huddled together      as though for safety, and a block of flats with its back turned on      the other. It looked-and felt-somehow ostracized.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So I suppose all I'm saying is I didn't like the place. All that      junk, the building itself-it just felt wrong. The problem I had      was that Syd was clearly smitten. I knew she would be. She knew      she would be; it was Syd who'd found the house on the Internet and      who'd insisted we arrive at least half an hour early.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"So-oo,\" I remember her saying to me, once we'd finally finished      looking around. \"What do you think?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We were in the living room, beside the fireplace. I remember this      older guy kept staring at me from across the room. I was      conspicuous in trainers and a T-shirt, whereas all the other      blokes my age wore a collar, pressed jeans and polished brogues.      They were City types, basically, or-like the man who kept      staring-fathers of spoiled little rich kids. And probably that was      the other thing that was stopping me sharing Syd's enthusiasm. It      had taken Syd and me more than two years to scrimp enough for a      deposit, whereas most of the couples we were up against had likely      earned theirs from a single bonus. So on that playing field, with      London rules-how could the two of us be expected to compete?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I think it's like The Hunger Games,\" I answered uncomfortably.      What I meant was that bit in the film before the action starts,      where the contestants are drifting around, pretending to be      friends-to be allies or whatever-when really they're just itching      to kill the crap out of one another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Syd looked at me blankly. I knew for a fact she'd seen the movie      at the cinema, but her memory about stuff like that isn't the      greatest. She smoked a lot when she was younger, and I'm not      talking Marlboro Lights. She did a lot of drugs, actually. I'm not      saying I've never dabbled myself, but there're certain people they      affect more than others. Syd had a difficult upbringing.      Horrendous, actually-so bad that she's still never told me the      whole story. And when, later on, she had her troubles, the drugs,      I reckon, played a part. She says they didn't. She says all the      damage had already been done. But weed, coke, pills, what have      you-that stuff definitely leaves a mark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Just . . . all these people,\" I explained. \"I mean, I knew      there'd be other interest, but nothing like this.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Syd slipped her hands around my waist. \"Forget about everyone else      for a moment. What do you think about the house?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I paused for half a second too long. \"I like it,\" I said at last.      \"I do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But . . . nothing. It's just . . . it's kind of dark, that's      all.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I think Syd assumed I was merely playing my role, in house-hunting      as well as in life. Syd dishes out her affection as though she's      sharing Skittles, whereas I trail stoically beside her, kicking      tires and knuckle-tapping walls. It's rare that I know what I'm      wary about exactly (What's actually supposed to happen when you      kick a tire, other than the reverberation in your toes?), but it's      a part I've somehow settled into. It's what men do, I've learned      from somewhere. My father, probably, who could suck the joy out of      riding on a rollercoaster. Plus, as I say, Syd definitely needs a      counterweight. It's why we're so good together. She stops me      gazing at my feet so much; I stop her floating off into the sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's just the weather,\" Syd countered. \"All these people. Plus,      have you seen all of this stuff?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I was half expecting her then to mention those birds. She didn't.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's an attic, too,\" I said. \"If the rest of the place is like      this, what must it be like up there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Syd glanced toward the ceiling. I joined her, worrying in that      moment whether the whole building was liable to suddenly cave in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Well,\" said Syd, \"we'll just have to hire a van or something. A      man. Assuming we can still afford it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She smiled then and tucked a stray strand of hair behind a      perfectly formed ear. In the house in which I grew up there was      this blossom tree outside my bedroom window. Cherry, apple, I've      no idea. It flowered pink but never actually bore any fruit. The      leaves, though, were this deep, rosewood brown, which came aglow      when caught by the light. Syd's hair, which she never dyes, is      exactly the same color.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Jack? I'm not going to make you live somewhere you don't want to.      If you really don't like it, then let's just leave.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It wasn't a guilt trip. Syd truly meant what she'd said. So maybe      I should have said something. Maybe I could have put an end to it      all then and there.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We did leave . . . but in the end we put in an offer as well. Just      for the hell of it. And, I'll admit, because Syd was clearly head      over heels and I wanted her to be happy. Besides, what harm could      it do? I didn't love the place, but I didn't hate it exactly-and      anyway we couldn't afford it. The mortgage we had agreed wouldn't      even get us to the asking price, and the details stipulated offers      over. So there was no way we'd get it, not given the level of      interest. All those people, with all their money . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I felt safe because we shouldn't have had a chance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Chapter two\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sydney\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Jesus Christ. I knew this would be a bad idea. I fucking knew it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e First off, this isn't a ghost story. OK? Let's make that very      fucking clear. The house stood alone as though shunned. Who do you      think you are, Jack-Stephen King? Creepy house, creepy      furnishings, a happy(ish) couple moving in all dumb and cheerful.      All the elements are there. If this really were a Stephen King      novel, there'd be cats turning into zombies by chapter three.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I say again, this isn't a ghost story. It's . . . I don't know      what this is. That's why I'm writing it. That's why we are. Right,      Jack? Isn't that what we agreed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I know what he's trying to do. He wants you to think that we're      just spooked, that we've imagined the whole entire thing. Or that      I have. (The drugs, Jack? Really?) But the clues. The reminders or      whatever you want to call them. I have them right here in my desk      drawer. And this thing on the surface in front of me. Looking at      me. Staring at me. I don't want to, but if I chose to I could      reach out and touch it. It's real. Like the blood; that was real      too. Remember the blood, Jack? How I wished we'd both of us      imagined that!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He's in denial, that's what it is. He's trying to act like none of      this is happening. Part of Jack's problem is he can't stand the      idea of people thinking badly of him. He gets all hot and sweaty      if someone tells him off for putting his feet up on the train. So      this . . . what this looks like . . . he can't handle it. Not that      I'm handling it either but at least I'm acknowledging it's      happening. Because it's like a horror story, I'll admit. I've seen      things out of the corner of my eye and imagined things I know      weren't really there. But that . . . it's just . . . it's part of      it. You see that, Jack, don't you? Surely you must fucking see      that!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm so angry right now I don't know if there's any point in my      going on. I mean, if buying the house was my idea, then writing      this was most definitely Jack's. I let him talk me into it but      only because it was better than doing nothing. That's what I      thought, anyway. Now? Now I'm not so sure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Oh, and just for your information, Jack, of course I dye my      fucking hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And Skittles. Skittles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I need a cigarette. I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So IÕve been for a walk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Around the common, I was about to type, but in reality to the      newsagent's for a ten-pack of Marlboros. Reds. I smoked two in a      row standing on the corner-a shooter of nicotine and traffic      fumes. There's nothing like a breath of fresh air to calm the      nerves, don't you find?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't usually swear like that, I promise. I swear, more than      most people my age (more than most paratroopers, probably), but      not, what? Let me count. Four f-bombs in just the first few      paragraphs. It's just . . . I'm nervous. I'm freaking out, in      fact. Soon enough you'll understand why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But what I've decided is, maybe I'm overreacting. To what Jack      wrote, I mean, not to what's been happening to us. In those      circumstances I think I've been pretty fucking calm. (OK, that's      it, I promise. No more swear words for the rest of this entry.      Breathe, Sydney. Think yoga.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My first reaction was, this isn't a confessional. How dare you      talk so glibly about my past? How dare you be so bloody      judgmental? (Is bloody a swear word? My rule's going to be, if      I've heard it on EastEnders it doesn't count.) Like the drugs:      there're certain people they affect more than others. What Jack      means is, how could you have been so stupid, Syd? After everything      that happened to you, how could you have allowed yourself to fall      into that trap? What Jack doesn't understand-what I'm not sure      he's ever understood-is how desperate I was to feel something      other than what I felt. For a way out. Any way out. When you're      caught inside a dungeon, even the faintest flicker in the dark is      like a promise of daylight. And if it turns out not to be, if it      turns out instead to be a burning staircase . . . Well, you take      your chances anyway.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300266168549,"sku":"NP9780451490452","price":16.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451490452.jpg?v=1767740678","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-new-neighbors-isbn-9780451490452","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}