{"product_id":"the-only-one-who-knows-isbn-9780593599983","title":"The Only One Who Knows","description":"\u003cb\u003eA disgraced TV news reporter returns to her violent hometown to investigate a series of deadly shark attacks in this nail-biting suspense novel from the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger Upstairs\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A gothic coastal noir about generational violence and the cyclical nature of predation, \u003ci\u003eThe Only One Who Knows \u003c\/i\u003eis visceral, haunting, and impossible to look away from.”—Carter Wilson, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eTell Me What You Did\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSomething is lurking below the surface . . . and it’s hungry.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith her polished persona as a morning show co-host, Minnow Greenwood seems to have it all. But behind the camera, something’s about to break. When a public meltdown shatters her facade, Minnow flees back to Kangaroo Bay—a grimy fishing town on Australia’s southern coast, where locals vanish and something deadly hunts in the water.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn her first night back, a horrifying shark attack rocks the town, adding another body to the unsettling list of deaths and disappearances. Then a former colleague arrives to investigate, so she reluctantly teams up with him to find answers for herself and keep her own dark secrets buried.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut with danger closing in, Minnow must unearth her town’s deadly past—and face the darkness festering inside her—before she becomes the next to disappear.“Lisa Matlin’s prose is as beautiful as it is brutal, cutting straight to the bone as Minnow unravels the secrets her family and her town have spent decades trying to bury. Minnow is a deeply flawed but fiercely resilient protagonist, so real she feels like she might bleed through the page. A gothic coastal noir about generational violence and the cyclical nature of predation, \u003ci\u003eThe Only One Who Knows\u003c\/i\u003e is visceral, haunting, and impossible to look away from.”\u003cb\u003e—Carter Wilson, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eTell Me What You Did\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An exquisitely dark story about what lurks beneath the surface and the weight of secrets and lies—original and unexpected. Lisa Matlin knows how spin a tale. Just when you thought it was safe to crack open one of the summer’s top beach reads, Matlin will leave you reeling—and eager to turn the page.”\u003cb\u003e—Alex Finlay, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eParents Weekend\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A story as visceral as a shark bite, \u003ci\u003eThe Only One Who Knows\u003c\/i\u003e is an utterly compelling family saga wrapped in a tantalizing, impossible-to-put-down mystery that makes it clear the monsters to fear most aren’t the ones swimming in the ocean but those on land who are closest to us. Deep character work makes this a must-read for any fan of high-caliber suspense. Highly recommended!”\u003cb\u003e—Jamie Day, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Block Party\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“As a lover of shark movies and dogs, I loved this book. I spent the whole time trying to guess who the real predators were, the sharks, the men, or the narrator herself. It’s a great vacation read, just be careful when you go in the water.”\u003cb\u003e—Tasha Coryell, author of \u003ci\u003eMatchmaking for Psychopaths\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eLisa M. Matlin \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Only One Who Knows \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Stranger Upstairs\u003c\/i\u003e. She was a guitarist in a rock band before switching from songwriting to story writing. She lives in Melbourne, Australia, with her dogs. She’s probably rewatching \u003ci\u003eThe Walking Dead\u003c\/i\u003e right now and trying not to laugh at her own jokes. Matlin is a passionate mental health advocate and your dog’s number-one fan.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere’s what the TV producers of \u003ci\u003eMorning, Sunshine!\u003c\/i\u003e want you to know about their three co-hosts:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy Marriot is a grandmotherly TV veteran of fifty-­seven years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLynny Stewart is her hooting sidekick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMelanie (me) is the new kid on the block. The timid voice of reason to Joy’s \u003ci\u003eopinions\u003c\/i\u003e and Lynny’s nonstop shrieking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere’s what they \u003ci\u003edon’t\u003c\/i\u003e want you to know:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of us tiptoes out to the staff parking lot to enjoy an early-­afternoon pounding from the sports reporter who is definitely \u003ci\u003enot\u003c\/i\u003e her husband. (Lynny.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of us released a Paleo cookbook three years ago and pledged 15 percent of the profits to a cancer charity. They’re still waiting for the money. (Joy.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne of us is staring at a terrifying text from her fiancé and stuffing her palm against her mouth to hold back the screams. That one is hanging on \u003ci\u003eby a f***ing thread.\u003c\/i\u003e (Me.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI sit stiffly on the edge of the white leather couch, angling my phone away from the bustling set designers as I read my fiancé’s text over and over. The studio lights are bright and burning hot, but I’ve never felt so cold. Somewhere in the darkness the director yells, “Showtime in five minutes, people!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI stare at my boots, hyperventilating. I cannot sit through \u003ci\u003etwo entire hours\u003c\/i\u003e of this live taping and pretend to give a damn about this morning’s news when my own life has just gone to hell in one text.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything is a blur of noise, color, and movement. Aqua skirt. Red hair teased to maximum height. Skin stretched so tight it looks like it hurts. Joy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBright pink and plunging blouse. Lemony perfume and a shrieking laugh. Lynny.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy co-­hosts sink onto the couch beside me, crossing their legs like synchronized swimmers. Their stilettos gleam under the studio lights, the heels so thin and sharp, you could use them to play darts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy shirt is seashell white and buttoned so tightly at my throat, it hurts each time I swallow. My culottes are hideously ugly and the color of iced coffee. My suede ankle boots are blocks of concrete.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhite. Camel. Neutral. That’s me. I’m the one brought in once a week to, in the producer’s words, “connect with the Gen Y crowd.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s not working. The ratings are appalling, and the network has no money. I only got this job because I knew the right people, and no one else could stomach Joy’s on-­air bullying like I do. But I’m an expert at blending into the wall and the couch until the threat disappears. Survival instincts I carried over from childhood.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnderneath my neutral shirt and neutral bra is a stinging rash with raised red bumps. Hives, my doctor said. \u003ci\u003eHave you been stressed lately?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy sips at a coffee as bitter and boiling as she is. She’s the first of us to reach for a tissue when a Z-­list reality star brims with dutiful tears. The first to pat their knee and cut to a commercial while staring grimly into the camera, only to reappear smiling three minutes later. How can you trust someone who shuts off their emotions like a light switch?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLynny opens her cavernous mouth wide while the makeup artist applies another coat of gloss. She’s forty-­two, shrill as a whistle and easily bored, and I’m pretty sure she loves gossip and screwing the sports reporter more than her four children.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLook at them, these two brightly colored fish. Seventy years of showbiz experience between them. They gleam. They preen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd they scheme.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou have to hand it to these pretty, dirty bitches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Two minutes!” someone yells out, and I jump. My co-­hosts stare at me like they’ve just remembered I’m here. That’s me. I’m so agreeable, so \u003ci\u003eneutral,\u003c\/i\u003e I might as well be the couch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLynny practically shoves the makeup artist away and inches over, her whole body an exclamation mark. Instinctively, I place my phone face down in my lap. My entire body trembles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Melanie, dear!” she yells, as if she’s surprised to see me. I’ve sat beside her once a week from 5 to 7 a.m. for nearly four months now. “And where were \u003ci\u003eyou\u003c\/i\u003e this morning, missy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI missed the morning briefing. All of it. I stumbled into the makeup chair five minutes ago, stumbled out again, sat on the couch, and received the worst text of my life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe doesn’t wait for me to answer, that’s how short her attention span is. “How’s that \u003ci\u003egorgeous\u003c\/i\u003e man of yours?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOliver is my fiancé of three months, boyfriend of seven, a meteorologist on a rival network, one that actually has money. He proposed to me right on this couch, live on air, despite me telling him repeatedly that I hate surprises. My fiancé loves grand gestures, but it was at that moment I realized that none of them were for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hesitated for long enough that Lynny cried out, “Melanie! Put the poor dear out of his misery!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay . . .” I finally stammered. “Sure.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOliver drove us home in steaming silence and didn’t talk to me for two days. That was not the first red flag I ignored.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“He’s \u003ci\u003egood\u003c\/i\u003e!” My voice cracks and I blurt something to cover it up. “Busy. We’re both so busy lately.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe are indeed busy. \u003ci\u003eI\u003c\/i\u003e am, anyway. I left him again this week.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You hold on to that one,” Lynny says, giving me a playful tap on the arm. “He’s a keeper.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike hell he is. But it’s one thing to want to leave. It’s another thing entirely when it’s eleven o’clock on a Friday night and your fiancé is screaming at you, again, because you looked at the Uber driver too long, and your dress is too short, and you’re suddenly, startlingly aware that your confident, assertive fiancé is actually a controlling shithead who’s stealing pieces of you little by little and you’ve allowed it. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaybe you weren’t even fully aware. I wasn’t. But that night, I looked into my fiancé’s eyes, and I saw my father. And I stumbled outside, exhausted and desperate, because I don’t fight. I don’t flight. I just freeze, and yes, I hate myself for it. In the movies, the woman packs up her shit, leaves the house, and drains the joint account. Begins again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut it’s been three days since I left, and all I’ve done is survive. I left in a daze and spent the last two nights in a hotel, lying on a double bed, staring at nothing. \u003ci\u003eI didn’t even think to take Jessie.\u003c\/i\u003e That’s how crazy I was. How crazy it makes you. It must have been how my mum felt. I think I finally understand how she could leave us behind. \u003ci\u003eI understand now, Mum. I understand and I’m sorry.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thirty seconds!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSmears of color. Hot lights. Cold hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll I can think about is the text I sent Oliver this morning as I sat on the edge of the hotel bed. \u003ci\u003eI’m coming back to get Jessie.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd his response:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re not taking Jessie.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel like I’m choking. He bought Jessie, our golden retriever, as an engagement present. He’s walked her twice in three months and snaps at her when she gets underfoot. Poor Jessie is always flustered around him. So am I. I suspect now that Oliver just wanted the image of Jessie and of me. A compliant wife and a golden puppy for the shitty tabloid interviews he wanted us to pose for. And I wanted somebody who didn’t see my chronic people pleasing as an open door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou’re not taking Jessie.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Good morning, sunshines!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShit, we’re live. I glance into the camera, my face tight and terrified.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy wriggles in her seat, booming, “Some \u003ci\u003ebreaking\u003c\/i\u003e news this morning . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI feel like I’ve dunked my head underwater. Color, movement, lights, \u003ci\u003eyou’re not taking Jessie.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then I hear something clearly, Joy reciting, “Beasts from the deep!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI raise my head, staring at the flickering images of a grimy beach town.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy heart freezes. I know this place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoy booms, “A second shark has been spotted off a Victorian beach in four days. A great white shark was spotted just meters from the shore in Kangaroo Bay, a small fishing town on the East Coast.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLynny chimes in, “The last fatal shark attack took place off the coast of Sydney in 2021. A local man, Keith Walsh, was swimming in shallow waters when he was attacked by a great white shark . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . Melanie?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe studio is silent as Joy calls my name. Her voice is round and soft, a bubble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What?” My voice is rough and heavy, a brick.Author of The Stranger Upstairs","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304100843749,"sku":"NP9780593599983","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593599983.jpg?v=1767740804","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-only-one-who-knows-isbn-9780593599983","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}