{"product_id":"our-last-resort-isbn-9780593688748","title":"Our Last Resort:A Novel","description":"\u003cb\u003eA \u003ci\u003eUSA TODAY\u003c\/i\u003e BESTSELLER • From the bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Quiet Tenant \u003c\/i\u003ecomes an immersive new suspense novel: Fifteen years ago, Frida and her brother escaped a cult. Now her brother is the prime suspect in a murder investigation—and it isn’t the first time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The most jaw-dropping ride of the year.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMarie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Michallon masterfully weaves past cult abuse into a taut present-day procedural, blending psychological complexity with enough terror to make you white-knuckle your beach chair.”—\u003ci\u003eOprah Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eInnocence doesn't bail you out; it just makes you easier to trap.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFrida and Gabriel arrive seeking a fresh start at the stunning Ara Hotel in the secluded desert of Escalante, Utah. Once so close they were able to finish each other’s sentences, they’ve grown apart in recent years after a sudden, unspeakable tragedy. Now, at the luxe resort, they are ready to reconnect between dips in the pool and hikes on spectacular desert trails. It all feels like paradise—until the dead body of a beautiful young woman who was vacationing at the Ara with her powerful, much older husband is discovered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen the local police arrive and suspicion quickly falls on Gabriel, Frida is forced to revisit memories from their upbringing in a cloistered cult in upstate New York, their dramatic escape, and the scandal that followed. Frida’s belief in Gabriel’s innocence never wavered at the time, but now even she can’t ignore the evidence mounting against him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlternating between past and present timelines, \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e builds toward a shattering climax that uncovers the fate of the murdered Ara guest and poses the question: how well do we ever really know those we love? Multi-layered, gripping, and intense, Clémence Michallon’s latest suspense novel is a nail-biter until the last page, cementing her status as “one of the most daring, exciting new voices in psychological suspense.” (Lisa Jewell, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eIt Could Have Been Her\u003c\/i\u003e) | Praise for \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Terrific. . . . While billed as a thriller, \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort \u003c\/i\u003eis at least as much a story about family— however one chooses to define the word.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Michallon masterfully weaves past cult abuse into a taut present-day procedural, blending psychological complexity with enough terror to make you white-knuckle your beach chair.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOprah Daily\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nail-bitingly taut.\" \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBoston Globe\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Clémence Michallon has done it again. . . . With each novel, Michallon cements her place as one of the most spellbinding thriller writers of our time, and we’re already counting down to whatever she writes next.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Though she’s written only two novels, Clémence Michallon has already made a distinct impression with characters who exist on a different plane from the rest of us. . . . Michallon’s commitment to these characters is powerful and her plotting is elegant.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAir Mail\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clémence Michallon is a genuine talent, with a gift for unexpected angles, finding fresh ways of approaching even the darkest subjects that make them feel reinvigorated and daring. You come to Michallon for beautiful, thought-provoking prose and deep characterization. In \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e, she finds tenderness in a story about cults, dreaminess, and compassion in the lengths to which people will go to save themselves.” \u003cbr\u003e—Ashley Winstead, \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e-bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMidnight is the Darkest Hour\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Michallon does incredible work building both characters and tension…. The novel offers mystery aplenty, but at its core, there is a deep and compassionate humanity.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With a chilling cult backstory that feels ripped from the headlines and a complicated heroine you can't help rooting for, \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e is both an immersive mystery and a haunting exploration of just how far we'll go to protect those we hold most dear.”\u003cbr\u003e—Andrea Bartz,\u003ci\u003e New York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of\u003ci\u003e We Were Never Here \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Last Ferry Out\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Michallon deftly moves between three timelines to create a thriller centering on deeply flawed characters who had to learn quickly how to interact and live in the world and will do anything to keep each other safe…. This page-turner is a satisfying poolside read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Clémence Michallon lures readers in with a luxurious, lush setting, her beautiful prose and a distant crime before dropping a bombshell. Thought-provoking and shocking, \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resor\u003c\/i\u003et tests the bounds of family and reminds us that, no matter how hard we try, we can never forget our past. Readers will be thinking about this one for a long time! A perfect summer read.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003eMary Kubica, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eShe's Not Sorry\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Full of dark twists, shocking surprises, and strong messages about love, lies, loyalty, trust, suspicion, control, and connection.”\u003cb\u003e \u003cbr\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tale of childhood survival wrapped around a psychological whodunnit, \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e is a taut and twisty exploration of how far we might go to save the people we love the most. Clémence Michallon is the real deal; from her nuanced characters to her hypnotic prose, readers who enjoyed her dazzling debut will be delighted to find that her sophomore novel packs the same powerful punch.” \u003cbr\u003e—Stacy Willingham, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eForget Me Not\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] nail-biter. . . . Michallon nimbly balances pace, plot, and character, never skewing so literary that she alienates genre fans or so popcorn that the stakes feel flimsy. The result is a robust and memorable whodunit.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e | CLÉMENCE MICHALLON is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Quiet Tenant\u003c\/i\u003e, a \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e and international bestseller and nominee for the Hammett Prize. She’s also a freelance journalist whose work has appeared in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eTime Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Independent\u003c\/i\u003e, and more. Clémence was born and raised near Paris, has lived in New York since 2014, and became a U.S. citizen in 2022. \u003ci\u003eOur Last Resort\u003c\/i\u003e is her second thriller. She can be found on Instagram at clemencemichallon and on X at Clemence_Mcl. | \u003cb\u003e1 Escalante, Utah\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Fourth Night\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere are times when joy settles perfectly inside my body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe world twisted out of shape around me, years ago. My brain rewired itself to keep me safe. \u003ci\u003eCheck your door before bed,\u003c\/i\u003e it tells me. \u003ci\u003eOnce, twice, three times. Unlock the door to make sure it was locked. Then lock it again.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLook through the peephole. Make sure the stove is off. Is the dog okay? Is he breathing? Doesn’t matter that you’ve already checked. Do it one more time.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy mind: always anxious. My whole world like a dollhouse. I know where everything is, how everything works. No surprises.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhich makes the exceptions all the more vivid. Happiness sprouting in the unlikeliest places—­a green spray of ivy curling around barbed wire, flowers blooming on the grassy surface of a shallow grave.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLike now. Gabriel asleep in our shared suite, me on our private patio. Above, the desert sky.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn a few hours, the sun will rise. The hotel, our unlikely oasis of straight lines and modern architecture, will flood with natural light. Morning smells will waft through the air, the rich aroma of coffee, the fresh bursts of perfume, the sweet mist of sunscreen. The pool will shimmer, golden blue, like a mirage. Guests will head to breakfast in a sleepy shuffle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut for now, it’s all quiet. All mine. The insomniac’s privilege.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI reach in the pocket of my hoodie, pull a cigarette from the pack, click my lighter. Empty. I hesitate, then use the one provided by the hotel for the gas fireplace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFirst puff. A gust of wind teases the hem of my shorts, lifts it at the edge of the three white stripes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI’m not alone.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought cuts through my mind in a red slash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo voices disrupt the night’s quiet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know these voices. I’ve heard them intermittently over the past four days, rippling in hushed tones near the spa, in clipped sentences over the dinner table.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe young wife and her old husband.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI recognized them by the pool on our first day, from a \u003ci\u003e60 Minutes\u003c\/i\u003e segment I watched last year. Most of what I know about the world, I learned on TV.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look,” I told Gabriel, my elbow digging into his ribs. “That’s William Brenner.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he didn’t respond, I explained: “He’s a big tabloid guy. Wealthy. I think that’s his . . . third wife?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat a pairing they make. Sabrina Brenner, not yet thirty, her skin already tightened by injectables. Her long hair, shimmery platinum. Everything about her delicate and airy, a cloud of sweet perfume enveloping her, something evoking a state fair, the wholesome aromas of sugar and vanilla.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrailing her, the blunt shape of her husband. William Brenner radiates a bullish kind of confidence, from the shiny top of his balding skull to his professionally polished loafers. He’s got that smile, too—­the sly grin of a man who has never wanted for the company of ladies. Who knows himself to be not handsome, but charming, and who understands that \u003ci\u003echarming\u003c\/i\u003e is enough to get what he wants.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe \u003ci\u003e60 Minutes\u003c\/i\u003e segment was about the tabloid culture of the early 2000s, specifically the ways in which it ruined people’s lives. “People like good stories,” William Brenner had said, his bulk perched on an ornate armchair in his Upper East Side apartment. “And we are here to give them exactly that.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat’s he saying now?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy cigarette hisses softly as I stub it out on the sole of my sandal. The concept of tobacco does not exist at the Ara hotel, nor do ashtrays. Back inside, in the bathroom, I hold the cigarette butt under a thin stream of water, wrap it in toilet paper, and bury it in the trash can.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGabriel is still sleeping, curled in a fetal position. Like when we were kids: limbs tangled at his front, a knot of a boy shielding himself from the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI grab my key card and slip away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe voices lead me close to the edge of the compound, to the last patch of sandstone before the hotel ends and the desert begins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere they are. The Brenners.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSabrina paces away from her husband, still in the outfit she wore to dinner, the white satin, the high heels. She’s almost fluorescent in the moonlight, a glowing fish darting across the bottom of an aquarium, the sleek folds of her dress rippling like fins.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam staggers after her. He, too, is still in his dinner clothes, white button-­down and a suit, the fabric a little too thick for the desert.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStanding about twenty feet from them, I keep my shoulders hunched, hoping for invisibility.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry,” Sabrina says, in the voice of a woman who has been sorry for a long time—­always in vain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHas anyone else noticed?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHow Sabrina keeps herself out of her husband’s reach? How her gaze rises whenever he stands up? How she tracks his movements, no doubt the same way she monitors his moods?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh,” William growls. “Now you’re fucking sorry?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe snatches at his wife’s arm, misses, stumbles forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Stop lying to me.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSabrina raises her palms in front of her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I’m not lying to you. Let’s just go back to the—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam grabs her young wrists. A phantom pain buzzes through my right side: a pull at my shoulder years ago, my arm hanging limp afterward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam slurs: “You stupid whore.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI realize I’m holding my breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGet away from her. Leave her the fuck alone.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSabrina whips around to face her husband.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not stupid,” she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAll trace of apology has left her voice. This version of Sabrina is strong, willful, outraged on her own behalf.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam goes still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What did you just say?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I said, I’m not stup—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Sabrina moves to step past her husband, her gaze travels above him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe spots me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI think I see her shoulders tense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe must have assumed they were alone. Our fellow guests are safely tucked in their suites, asleep behind thick stone walls and triple-­pane windows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithin the compound, the Ara has created discrete, hushed bubbles for each set of guests. Our suites are standalone buildings, nestled at the end of individual walkways. Tables in the dining room are distanced, other people’s conversations reduced to a low hum. It’s a trick the hotel has been playing on us: assuring us that we don’t need to concern ourselves with the other guests, that we are safe from one another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor half a second, Sabrina considers me. Then she gives the faintest shake of the head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI understand. Back when I was a kid, the mothers grew irate if we called for help. Their voices rose, indignant: \u003ci\u003eWhat the hell do you think you’re doing?\u003c\/i\u003e If they were in a hitting mood, they hit harder. They made sure we regretted looking for a lifeline, every single time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWilliam follows his wife’s gaze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eShit.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI duck behind a large planter. There are dozens around the hotel: oval-­shaped, each the size of a small bathtub and housing a lone tree. The soil is hidden beneath a layer of decorative rocks. “A lot of trees in the desert manage to grow through cracks in the stone,” Catalina, the hotel’s manager, explained when she gave us a tour on the first day, her sleek, dark ponytail gleaming in the sunlight. “Our architect was very inspired by them.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese rocks aren’t ordinary, though. Nothing at the hotel is. “White marble chunks from Italy,” Catalina said. “You won’t find them anywhere else in the region.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI crouch as low as I can behind the planter and its expensive rocks. My heartbeat pulses in my ears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What are you looking at?” William asks, imperious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs the sound of his voice closer, or am I imagining it?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing. I’m not looking at anything.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill crouched, I inch behind a nearby wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLike a coward.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSabrina doesn’t want me to get involved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Leave me alone,” she tells her husband.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And what would you do, if I left you alone?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer answer is muffled as I sidestep back toward the suite. There are words I can’t make out, then: “I would thrive.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer tone is clear and self-­righteous. The tone of a woman who knows she contains limitless worlds, and who is sick of reining them in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomorrow, I’ll talk to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI won’t say anything about her husband. I’m not an idiot. But I’ll do what I’ve avoided for the past four days: I’ll introduce myself, ask her how her stay is going. I’ll make a comment about the weather.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ll let her know that someone’s here for her, that she has a friend if she wants one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTomorrow. In a few hours.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEverything’s easier in the daylight. We’re all braver in the morning.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48759497523429,"sku":"NP9780593688748","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593688748.jpg?v=1775598778","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/our-last-resort-isbn-9780593688748","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}