Genre Fiction
![Erin Kate Ryan - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0987ZKXVL.jpg)
Quantum Girl Theory: A Novel
Part detective novel, part ghost story, this brilliant debut asks a tantalizing question: What really happens when a girl goes missing?
"A thrilling, many-faceted, gothic novel: Erin Kate Ryan's Quantum Girl Theory belongs in the same company as the work of Shirley Jackson and Carmen Maria Machado."-Kelly Link, author of Get in Trouble
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-CrimeReads
Mary Garrett has a gift for finding missing girls, a special kind of clairvoyance she calls "the sight." Lured by a poster and the promise of a reward, she arrives at a small town in the Jim Crow South to discover that not one but three girls have vanished-two of whom are Black, and whose disappearances have gone uninvestigated outside their own community. She sets out to find them.
As it turns out, Mary is herself a "missing girl." In another life, she was a Bennington College sophomore named Paula Jean Welden, who disappeared one night in 1946. The case captivated the nation's imagination, triggering front-page headlines, scores of dubious sightings, and a wave of speculation: Who was Paula Jean, really, and why had she disappeared?
As Mary's search for the three missing girls intensifies, so do the glimpses of Paula Jean's other possible lives: She is a circus showgirl hiding from her past, a literary forger on the verge of being caught, a McCarthy-era informant in love with a woman she meets in a Communist cell. With the signals multiplying, the locals beginning to resent her presence, and threats coming from all sides, Mary wonders whether she can trust anyone-most of all herself.
Both a captivating mystery and a powerful thought experiment, Quantum Girl Theory spins out a new way of seeing those who seem to disappear before our eyes.
"A thrilling, many-faceted, gothic novel: Erin Kate Ryan's Quantum Girl Theory belongs in the same company as the work of Shirley Jackson and Carmen Maria Machado."-Kelly Link, author of Get in Trouble
ONE OF THE MOST ANTICIPATED BOOKS OF 2022-CrimeReads
Mary Garrett has a gift for finding missing girls, a special kind of clairvoyance she calls "the sight." Lured by a poster and the promise of a reward, she arrives at a small town in the Jim Crow South to discover that not one but three girls have vanished-two of whom are Black, and whose disappearances have gone uninvestigated outside their own community. She sets out to find them.
As it turns out, Mary is herself a "missing girl." In another life, she was a Bennington College sophomore named Paula Jean Welden, who disappeared one night in 1946. The case captivated the nation's imagination, triggering front-page headlines, scores of dubious sightings, and a wave of speculation: Who was Paula Jean, really, and why had she disappeared?
As Mary's search for the three missing girls intensifies, so do the glimpses of Paula Jean's other possible lives: She is a circus showgirl hiding from her past, a literary forger on the verge of being caught, a McCarthy-era informant in love with a woman she meets in a Communist cell. With the signals multiplying, the locals beginning to resent her presence, and threats coming from all sides, Mary wonders whether she can trust anyone-most of all herself.
Both a captivating mystery and a powerful thought experiment, Quantum Girl Theory spins out a new way of seeing those who seem to disappear before our eyes.
Editorial Reviews
"Quantum Girl Theory is a doubly impressive feat-a dark, dizzying mystery about the fate of three missing girls in 1960s North Carolina studded with a series of elegant meditations on loss, violence and identity. It stayed with me long after I put it down."-Alexandra Andrews, author of Who Is Maud Dixon?
"Clever and imaginative, Quantum Girl Theory is a dazzling, dizzyingly fresh take on the missing person narrative, a novel full of insight into the lives of girls and women."-Karen Thompson Walker, author of The Age of Miracles
"Clever and imaginative, Quantum Girl Theory is a dazzling, dizzyingly fresh take on the missing person narrative, a novel full of insight into the lives of girls and women."-Karen Thompson Walker, author of The Age of Miracles
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Spells for Sinners, Part One
Bladen County, North Carolina, 1961
Mary missed her connection in Fayetteville and, still marked from the creases in the bus seat and stinking of diesel, sweet-talked her way into the pickup truck of a lanky Dublin kid headed home for supper. The boy moved to scooch his little brother out of the cab to make room. Mary patted her palm on the open window and leaned against the door to keep the younger boy from opening it.
"I like the fresh air," she said, and tossed her twine-tied valise into the empty truck bed. She dug through her pocketbook for a scarf. "I will take a hand up, though."
The pickup was newish, still shiny under the bus depot streetlamp. Mary settled herself atop her case and tied the scarf over her wilting French pleat. She used a folded reward poster to clean the road grime from beneath her nails, then ate a mealy apple from her pocketbook, the last of her travel food. She threw the apple core into a field of great black crows and swiveled the band of her watch-5:46. The boy was a conscientious driver and took her the whole way to the Starkings' house in Elizabethtown. After he hoisted her down from the back, Mary offered to write a note to his ma to help explain his tardiness for dinner, to which he aw-shucks'ed and that's-mighty-nice-but-no-thank-you-ma'am'ed. She waited for the truck to turn the corner before she approached the Starkings' door.
Mary would normally have figured a way to take a room in town, to brush her teeth before landing on the doorstep of the family of a missing child. With her ancient broken bag, she looked the part of traveling salesman, a closer cut than she cared for. Mary slid the valise behind the grayed porch swing. A layer of lace and the reflection from the setting sun blocked her view into the front window. She caught movement, though, the brush of a skirt hem. Mary rang the doorbell.
She let up on the bell at the creak of advancing footsteps. Her hand was in her cardigan pocket, gripping the rolled reward poster. An unease was building in her gut. The door cracked open.
It was so black inside the house that at first Mary couldn't see who had answered the door. Her eyes at last found a lined and sun-browned face wearing a neutral expression. The man, white, dressed in a rolled-sleeve work shirt, opened the door a bit wider, filling the gap with his chest. He was chewing, Mary realized, and he didn't offer a greeting.
"Mr. Starking?" She spoke clearly, not trying to hide her New England accent. "I'm Mary Garrett. I'm hoping I can help you find your daughter." She reached out her hand to shake his, and the man slowly returned the gesture. His palm was a deep brown in the creases, not dirty but stained, and he smelled of meat and melted butter.
"You down from Raleigh?" he said through his mouthful, hand still on hers. Mary could hear the scrape of fork on plate inside the house, a woman clearing her throat.
"No, sir. I was traveling in Baltimore and I read about your girl. I have experience with these cases, and I'd like to be of assistance in looking for Polly." The reward poster, pulled down from a bus shelter in Richmond, noted a seven-thousand-dollar reward. Enough to set her right for three full years.
Starking held her hand still and finally swallowed his mouthful. "What kind of assistance is that?"
"I have a deep women's intuition, Mr. Starking, and dozens of families have found my services quite valuable. With time to acquaint myself with Polly, I'll be able to provide a great deal of insight to the case. Bring Polly home safe." Mary no longer needed to think as she ran through her customary speech and focused instead on the tension in Mr. Starking's jaw, fluttering like moth wings.
Starking stepped forward, crowding Mary on the porch. She minced back and pulled her hand free from his.
"You telling me you're a lady detective or that you're a clairvoyant?" he asked, so tall above Mary's head that she settled her gaze on his Adam's apple. The evening's stubble was poking forth from his ruddy skin, sharp black hairs that would burn with hard contact, that could rub soft cheeks and necks raw from the friction of it.
"I wouldn't put it in those terms, Mr. Starking." But if he paid her, she'd let him call her whatever he wanted.
"My grandmama was clairvoyant," he said over her, and palmed at his neck. "She had a real gift-burdened her tremendously. Angel at her back, she called it."
Mary waited, hand over wrist, clasped at her waist. She shifted back to give herself more room from the man, swiveled her watch with pointy fingers.
"You can help find our Paul?" Starking's gruffness gave way to a pleading tone.
The name h...
Spells for Sinners, Part One
Bladen County, North Carolina, 1961
Mary missed her connection in Fayetteville and, still marked from the creases in the bus seat and stinking of diesel, sweet-talked her way into the pickup truck of a lanky Dublin kid headed home for supper. The boy moved to scooch his little brother out of the cab to make room. Mary patted her palm on the open window and leaned against the door to keep the younger boy from opening it.
"I like the fresh air," she said, and tossed her twine-tied valise into the empty truck bed. She dug through her pocketbook for a scarf. "I will take a hand up, though."
The pickup was newish, still shiny under the bus depot streetlamp. Mary settled herself atop her case and tied the scarf over her wilting French pleat. She used a folded reward poster to clean the road grime from beneath her nails, then ate a mealy apple from her pocketbook, the last of her travel food. She threw the apple core into a field of great black crows and swiveled the band of her watch-5:46. The boy was a conscientious driver and took her the whole way to the Starkings' house in Elizabethtown. After he hoisted her down from the back, Mary offered to write a note to his ma to help explain his tardiness for dinner, to which he aw-shucks'ed and that's-mighty-nice-but-no-thank-you-ma'am'ed. She waited for the truck to turn the corner before she approached the Starkings' door.
Mary would normally have figured a way to take a room in town, to brush her teeth before landing on the doorstep of the family of a missing child. With her ancient broken bag, she looked the part of traveling salesman, a closer cut than she cared for. Mary slid the valise behind the grayed porch swing. A layer of lace and the reflection from the setting sun blocked her view into the front window. She caught movement, though, the brush of a skirt hem. Mary rang the doorbell.
She let up on the bell at the creak of advancing footsteps. Her hand was in her cardigan pocket, gripping the rolled reward poster. An unease was building in her gut. The door cracked open.
It was so black inside the house that at first Mary couldn't see who had answered the door. Her eyes at last found a lined and sun-browned face wearing a neutral expression. The man, white, dressed in a rolled-sleeve work shirt, opened the door a bit wider, filling the gap with his chest. He was chewing, Mary realized, and he didn't offer a greeting.
"Mr. Starking?" She spoke clearly, not trying to hide her New England accent. "I'm Mary Garrett. I'm hoping I can help you find your daughter." She reached out her hand to shake his, and the man slowly returned the gesture. His palm was a deep brown in the creases, not dirty but stained, and he smelled of meat and melted butter.
"You down from Raleigh?" he said through his mouthful, hand still on hers. Mary could hear the scrape of fork on plate inside the house, a woman clearing her throat.
"No, sir. I was traveling in Baltimore and I read about your girl. I have experience with these cases, and I'd like to be of assistance in looking for Polly." The reward poster, pulled down from a bus shelter in Richmond, noted a seven-thousand-dollar reward. Enough to set her right for three full years.
Starking held her hand still and finally swallowed his mouthful. "What kind of assistance is that?"
"I have a deep women's intuition, Mr. Starking, and dozens of families have found my services quite valuable. With time to acquaint myself with Polly, I'll be able to provide a great deal of insight to the case. Bring Polly home safe." Mary no longer needed to think as she ran through her customary speech and focused instead on the tension in Mr. Starking's jaw, fluttering like moth wings.
Starking stepped forward, crowding Mary on the porch. She minced back and pulled her hand free from his.
"You telling me you're a lady detective or that you're a clairvoyant?" he asked, so tall above Mary's head that she settled her gaze on his Adam's apple. The evening's stubble was poking forth from his ruddy skin, sharp black hairs that would burn with hard contact, that could rub soft cheeks and necks raw from the friction of it.
"I wouldn't put it in those terms, Mr. Starking." But if he paid her, she'd let him call her whatever he wanted.
"My grandmama was clairvoyant," he said over her, and palmed at his neck. "She had a real gift-burdened her tremendously. Angel at her back, she called it."
Mary waited, hand over wrist, clasped at her waist. She shifted back to give herself more room from the man, swiveled her watch with pointy fingers.
"You can help find our Paul?" Starking's gruffness gave way to a pleading tone.
The name h...
