Thrillers & Suspense
![Catherine Steadman - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_catherine_steadman.jpg)
The Disappearing Act: A Novel
From the New York Times bestselling author of Something in the Water and Mr. Nobody comes "an unputdownable mystery about the nightmares that abound in the pursuit of Hollywood dreams" (Caroline Kepnes, author of the You series).
"Stylish, riveting, hugely atmospheric-I couldn't put it down."-Lucy Foley, author of The Guest List
A woman has gone missing. But did she ever really exist?
A leading British actress hoping to make a splash in America flies to Los Angeles for the grueling gauntlet known as pilot season, a time when every network and film studio looking to fill the rosters of their new shows entice a fresh batch of young hopefuls-anxious, desperate, and willing to do whatever it takes to make it.
Instead, Mia Eliot, a fish out of water in the ruthlessly competitive and faceless world of back-to-back auditioning, discovers the sinister side of Hollywood when she becomes the last person to see Emily, a newfound friend. Standing out in a conveyor-belt world of fellow aspiring stars, Emily mysteriously disappears following an audition, after asking Mia to do a simple favor. But nothing is simple. Nothing is as is seems. And nothing prepares Mia for a startling truth: In a city where dreams really do come true, nightmares can follow.
"Stylish, riveting, hugely atmospheric-I couldn't put it down."-Lucy Foley, author of The Guest List
A woman has gone missing. But did she ever really exist?
A leading British actress hoping to make a splash in America flies to Los Angeles for the grueling gauntlet known as pilot season, a time when every network and film studio looking to fill the rosters of their new shows entice a fresh batch of young hopefuls-anxious, desperate, and willing to do whatever it takes to make it.
Instead, Mia Eliot, a fish out of water in the ruthlessly competitive and faceless world of back-to-back auditioning, discovers the sinister side of Hollywood when she becomes the last person to see Emily, a newfound friend. Standing out in a conveyor-belt world of fellow aspiring stars, Emily mysteriously disappears following an audition, after asking Mia to do a simple favor. But nothing is simple. Nothing is as is seems. And nothing prepares Mia for a startling truth: In a city where dreams really do come true, nightmares can follow.
Editorial Reviews
"Page-turning . . . tackles the dark side of Hollywood."-Entertainment Weekly (The Best Thrillers)
"Stylish, riveting, hugely atmospheric-I couldn't put it down."-Lucy Foley, New York Times bestselling author of The Guest List
"Auditions, screen tests, cutthroat competition: Catherine Steadman is familiar with the challenges of the acting biz. . . . Her perspective as an actress and a writer bring realism to this novel, as she dips into Hollywood's murky waters. . . . In any good noir novel, an atmospheric locale is vital, and Steadman richly evokes Los Angeles ‘in all its monstrous glory.' . . . Reading The Disappearing Act is much like watching a suspenseful film."-The Washington Post
"The cutthroat world of Hollywood proves to be downright deadly in The Disappearing Act."-PopSugar
"Catherine Steadman's The Disappearing Act is pure catnip for the soul. It's my favorite Steadman book yet."-Caroline Kepnes, New York Times bestselling author of the You series
"Another page-turning winner from Catherine Steadman . . . ingenious and intriguing, with a fascinating insight into the acting world."-B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors
"From gifting suites to the casting couch, Catherine Steadman delves beneath L.A.'s superficial gloss to present the darker side of Hollywood with all the brutal authenticity of someone who has lived it. Immersive prose and an obsessive drive to discover the truth make for an angsty, compelling read in this pacey tale of shifting identities, ambitious starlets and cynical execs. Glamour, greed and gaslighting-the perfect summer read!"-Har...
"Stylish, riveting, hugely atmospheric-I couldn't put it down."-Lucy Foley, New York Times bestselling author of The Guest List
"Auditions, screen tests, cutthroat competition: Catherine Steadman is familiar with the challenges of the acting biz. . . . Her perspective as an actress and a writer bring realism to this novel, as she dips into Hollywood's murky waters. . . . In any good noir novel, an atmospheric locale is vital, and Steadman richly evokes Los Angeles ‘in all its monstrous glory.' . . . Reading The Disappearing Act is much like watching a suspenseful film."-The Washington Post
"The cutthroat world of Hollywood proves to be downright deadly in The Disappearing Act."-PopSugar
"Catherine Steadman's The Disappearing Act is pure catnip for the soul. It's my favorite Steadman book yet."-Caroline Kepnes, New York Times bestselling author of the You series
"Another page-turning winner from Catherine Steadman . . . ingenious and intriguing, with a fascinating insight into the acting world."-B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors
"From gifting suites to the casting couch, Catherine Steadman delves beneath L.A.'s superficial gloss to present the darker side of Hollywood with all the brutal authenticity of someone who has lived it. Immersive prose and an obsessive drive to discover the truth make for an angsty, compelling read in this pacey tale of shifting identities, ambitious starlets and cynical execs. Glamour, greed and gaslighting-the perfect summer read!"-Har...
Readers Top Reviews
Zoe Cervantes
I loved this book, a great crime novel but also better written than most and very interesting premise.
lisaZoe Cervantes
This is the first book I’ve read by Catherine Steadman and it is safe to say I will be buying the lot! What a fantastic author! Her writing style pulls you in instantly and keeps you hooked until the end and even then leaves you wanting more!
ShazlisaZoe Cerva
A gripping story well told. Lots of twists and turns which keeps the story moving along at a good pace. Highly recommended
shopper 729Mrs
I read her first book and recommended it to everyone! This book I can't begin to recommend to anyone. It was incredibly boring and the actress was a ding bat, with always forgetting things and acting flaky. I was pretty unimpressed and I was so looking forward to reading it. When I finally made it to the end, I was disappointed. Just boring.
Kindle PetuniaAm
Heroine was a complete joke. Stupid, dumb, naive, not sure. And always obsessing about a dead actress? That got old very fast. Story did not make sense. And the ending was just too too melodramatic but there were enough twists to get me to finish. Just so superficial.
Short Excerpt Teaser
The Good with the Bad
Friday, February 5
Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't disappear. There's nothing you can do to melt back into the crowd around you no matter how hard you wish you could.
The tube carriage rattles and jolts around us as we clatter along the tracks deep beneath the streets of London. And I feel it again, the familiar tug of the stranger's eyes on me, staring.
I've been in their house. Or at least they think I have, but I don't know them. We're friends already, or we're enemies, but I don't know which. I'm part of some story they love or hate. I'm part of the story of who they are. They've rooted for me, cried with me, we've shared so much, and now I am right here in front of them. Of course they're going to stare. I'm the unreal made real.
On the fringes of my awareness I feel the figure finally break the connection and whisper to the person beside them. I try to focus on my novel, to let my breath deepen and the story wash over me once more.
All those gazes, like robins alighting on me and fluttering away, wary but interested. I know people always stare at one another on the tube. But these days it's different.
The carriage rattles on shuddering around us.
Since the show started airing, four weeks ago, I'm lucky to get through any journey without some kind of interaction from strangers. A shy smile. A tap on the shoulder. A selfie. A handshake. A late-night drunken gush. Or a hastily scrawled note. And sometimes even, quite confusingly, a scowl.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I love my job. I genuinely can't believe how lucky I am. But sometimes it feels like I'm at the wedding of a couple I don't really know. My face aching from meeting so many well-meaning and complicated strangers, while the whole time all I want to do is bob to the bathroom so I can get away and finally relax.
I don't feel threatened by attention, exactly, I know I'm safe.
Although, of course, it's not always safe. I learned that the hard way, a month ago, when the police showed up in my living room after countless calls and emails, finally taking notice when my agent stepped in.
He'd been waiting outside the theater, every night. Not particularly strange or concerning. Just an ordinary man.
I'd leave the stage door tired from work. I'd gone straight from filming on Eyre into A Doll's House in the West End. At first he just wanted a signed program, and then a chat, and then longer chats that got harder to leave until finally he was following me to the tube station still talking. I had to start leaving with friends. I had to be chaperoned. One day he couldn't stop crying, this stranger in his fifties. He just walked behind me and my friend, silent tears dripping down his slack face. His name was Shaun. I'd tried to sort it out with the police myself but it wasn't until my agent received a package that they took it seriously. He was just a stalker. Not even a stalker really, just a lonely man trying to make friends. I told the police that, of course, but they insisted on following it up, issuing an official warning. I think his wife had died recently.
They wouldn't tell me what was in the package he sent. I jokingly asked if it was a head, and they all laughed, so I guess it can't have been a head. I felt guilty about what happened; the friendlier I had been, the worse it had gotten and the more I strengthened his perceived connection to me. I hope he's doing better now. I wish they'd just told me what was in the package straightaway, though; instead I spent a week imagining the absolute worst. Weird photos. Skin. Teeth. Something his wife had owned. It was just a stuffed toy in the end and a slightly unsettling poem. But it's hard not to think the worst when you're trying not to think the worst.
I know not everyone is strange. But some people are.
At the next stop as I gather my things and disembark, a few eyes follow but when I surface at Green Park and the cold February air hits me, cooling my flaming cheeks, I chalk today's trip up as a success. No incidents this time, no drunken football chants demanding I "Say it! Say it!"
Who knew Jane Eyre had a catchphrase?
Who knew Arsenal supporters read Brontë?
And yes, in case you're wondering-much to my shame-reader, I said it.
"You're late," my agent, Cynthia, smirks as I plonk down into the restaurant seat opposite her.
"Sorry. Tube," I counter.
She's already ordered us two glasses of champagne. I eye the chilled bubbles in front of me greedily. "Are we celebrating, again?" I half joke as I shrug off my coat, but her silence makes me raise my gaze.
...
Friday, February 5
Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't disappear. There's nothing you can do to melt back into the crowd around you no matter how hard you wish you could.
The tube carriage rattles and jolts around us as we clatter along the tracks deep beneath the streets of London. And I feel it again, the familiar tug of the stranger's eyes on me, staring.
I've been in their house. Or at least they think I have, but I don't know them. We're friends already, or we're enemies, but I don't know which. I'm part of some story they love or hate. I'm part of the story of who they are. They've rooted for me, cried with me, we've shared so much, and now I am right here in front of them. Of course they're going to stare. I'm the unreal made real.
On the fringes of my awareness I feel the figure finally break the connection and whisper to the person beside them. I try to focus on my novel, to let my breath deepen and the story wash over me once more.
All those gazes, like robins alighting on me and fluttering away, wary but interested. I know people always stare at one another on the tube. But these days it's different.
The carriage rattles on shuddering around us.
Since the show started airing, four weeks ago, I'm lucky to get through any journey without some kind of interaction from strangers. A shy smile. A tap on the shoulder. A selfie. A handshake. A late-night drunken gush. Or a hastily scrawled note. And sometimes even, quite confusingly, a scowl.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I love my job. I genuinely can't believe how lucky I am. But sometimes it feels like I'm at the wedding of a couple I don't really know. My face aching from meeting so many well-meaning and complicated strangers, while the whole time all I want to do is bob to the bathroom so I can get away and finally relax.
I don't feel threatened by attention, exactly, I know I'm safe.
Although, of course, it's not always safe. I learned that the hard way, a month ago, when the police showed up in my living room after countless calls and emails, finally taking notice when my agent stepped in.
He'd been waiting outside the theater, every night. Not particularly strange or concerning. Just an ordinary man.
I'd leave the stage door tired from work. I'd gone straight from filming on Eyre into A Doll's House in the West End. At first he just wanted a signed program, and then a chat, and then longer chats that got harder to leave until finally he was following me to the tube station still talking. I had to start leaving with friends. I had to be chaperoned. One day he couldn't stop crying, this stranger in his fifties. He just walked behind me and my friend, silent tears dripping down his slack face. His name was Shaun. I'd tried to sort it out with the police myself but it wasn't until my agent received a package that they took it seriously. He was just a stalker. Not even a stalker really, just a lonely man trying to make friends. I told the police that, of course, but they insisted on following it up, issuing an official warning. I think his wife had died recently.
They wouldn't tell me what was in the package he sent. I jokingly asked if it was a head, and they all laughed, so I guess it can't have been a head. I felt guilty about what happened; the friendlier I had been, the worse it had gotten and the more I strengthened his perceived connection to me. I hope he's doing better now. I wish they'd just told me what was in the package straightaway, though; instead I spent a week imagining the absolute worst. Weird photos. Skin. Teeth. Something his wife had owned. It was just a stuffed toy in the end and a slightly unsettling poem. But it's hard not to think the worst when you're trying not to think the worst.
I know not everyone is strange. But some people are.
At the next stop as I gather my things and disembark, a few eyes follow but when I surface at Green Park and the cold February air hits me, cooling my flaming cheeks, I chalk today's trip up as a success. No incidents this time, no drunken football chants demanding I "Say it! Say it!"
Who knew Jane Eyre had a catchphrase?
Who knew Arsenal supporters read Brontë?
And yes, in case you're wondering-much to my shame-reader, I said it.
"You're late," my agent, Cynthia, smirks as I plonk down into the restaurant seat opposite her.
"Sorry. Tube," I counter.
She's already ordered us two glasses of champagne. I eye the chilled bubbles in front of me greedily. "Are we celebrating, again?" I half joke as I shrug off my coat, but her silence makes me raise my gaze.
...
