Thrillers & Suspense
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The Family Plot: A Novel
"Exceedingly entertaining." -The New York Times
"Umbrella Academy meets Tana French. Dark, claustrophobic, and beautifully written." -Andrea Bartz, author of We Were Never Here
From the author of The Winter Sister and Behind the Red Door, a family obsessed with true crime gathers to bury their patriarch-only to find another body already in his grave.
At twenty-six, Dahlia Lighthouse is haunted by her upbringing. Raised in a secluded island mansion deep in the woods and kept isolated by her true crime-obsessed parents, she is unable to move beyond the disappearance of her twin brother, Andy, when they were sixteen.
After several years away and following her father's death, Dahlia returns to the house, where the family makes a gruesome discovery: buried in their father's plot is another body-Andy's, his skull split open with an ax.
Dahlia is quick to blame Andy's murder on the serial killer who terrorized the island for decades, while the rest of her family reacts to the revelation in unsettling ways. Her brother, Charlie, pours his energy into creating a family memorial museum, highlighting their research into the lives of famous murder victims; her sister, Tate, forges ahead with her popular dioramas portraying crime scenes; and their mother affects a cheerfully domestic facade, becoming unrecognizable as the woman who performed murder reenactments for her children. As Dahlia grapples with her own grief and horror, she realizes that her eccentric family, and the mansion itself, may hold the answers to what happened to her twin.
"Umbrella Academy meets Tana French. Dark, claustrophobic, and beautifully written." -Andrea Bartz, author of We Were Never Here
From the author of The Winter Sister and Behind the Red Door, a family obsessed with true crime gathers to bury their patriarch-only to find another body already in his grave.
At twenty-six, Dahlia Lighthouse is haunted by her upbringing. Raised in a secluded island mansion deep in the woods and kept isolated by her true crime-obsessed parents, she is unable to move beyond the disappearance of her twin brother, Andy, when they were sixteen.
After several years away and following her father's death, Dahlia returns to the house, where the family makes a gruesome discovery: buried in their father's plot is another body-Andy's, his skull split open with an ax.
Dahlia is quick to blame Andy's murder on the serial killer who terrorized the island for decades, while the rest of her family reacts to the revelation in unsettling ways. Her brother, Charlie, pours his energy into creating a family memorial museum, highlighting their research into the lives of famous murder victims; her sister, Tate, forges ahead with her popular dioramas portraying crime scenes; and their mother affects a cheerfully domestic facade, becoming unrecognizable as the woman who performed murder reenactments for her children. As Dahlia grapples with her own grief and horror, she realizes that her eccentric family, and the mansion itself, may hold the answers to what happened to her twin.
Editorial Reviews
Chapter One one
My parents named me Dahlia, after the Black Dahlia-that actress whose body was cleaved in half, left in grass as sharp as scalpels, a permanent smile sliced onto her face-and when I first learned her story at four years old, I assumed a knife would one day carve me up. My namesake was part of me, my future doomed by her violent death. That meant my oldest brother, Charlie, who had escaped the Lindbergh baby's fate by living past age two, would still be abducted someday. My sister, Tate, would follow in her own namesake's footsteps, become a movie star, then become a body in a pool of blood. And my twin brother, Andy, named for Lizzie Borden's father-I was sure his head was destined for the ax.
It didn't take me long to shed that belief, to understand that our names were just one of the many ways we honored victims of murder. But even after I stopped expecting us all to be killed, Andy insisted our family was "unnatural," that the way we were raised wasn't right.
I still don't know where he got that idea; back then, the life we lived in our drafty, secluded mansion was the only kind of life we knew.
Now, I'm standing in front of it, the home he ran away from on our sixteenth birthday-two years before we were scheduled to get our inheritance ("Leaving Money," as Charlie called it), and three before I left myself, having waited there, certain my twin would return, for as long as I could. I used to sit at the bottom of the stairs, gaze pinned to the door, hoping he'd walk through it again, tell me all my missing him was for nothing.
I was the only one who missed him. Mom read his note-The only way out is to never come back-and swallowed hard. "Your brother's chosen his own path," she said, swiping at her tears as if that was the end of it. Dad stomped around the house for a while, grumbling about the hunting trip Andy had skipped out on. "He's a coward, that twin of yours," Dad told me, as if Andy belonged to me alone. And then there was Charlie and Tate, who were visiting when we found the note. They'd come all this way for our sixteenth birthday, but they left without helping me look for him, Charlie claiming he had an audition, Tate trailing after him like always. Which left just me, alone in my anguish for years after that, lighting the candles with Mom and Dad, saying the Honoring prayer that I've since learned they created themselves.
Dad died the other day. That's why I've come back. And I'm hoping this will be the thing that brings Andy back, too. Maybe he's already inside, listening for my footsteps. Maybe I can stop my...
My parents named me Dahlia, after the Black Dahlia-that actress whose body was cleaved in half, left in grass as sharp as scalpels, a permanent smile sliced onto her face-and when I first learned her story at four years old, I assumed a knife would one day carve me up. My namesake was part of me, my future doomed by her violent death. That meant my oldest brother, Charlie, who had escaped the Lindbergh baby's fate by living past age two, would still be abducted someday. My sister, Tate, would follow in her own namesake's footsteps, become a movie star, then become a body in a pool of blood. And my twin brother, Andy, named for Lizzie Borden's father-I was sure his head was destined for the ax.
It didn't take me long to shed that belief, to understand that our names were just one of the many ways we honored victims of murder. But even after I stopped expecting us all to be killed, Andy insisted our family was "unnatural," that the way we were raised wasn't right.
I still don't know where he got that idea; back then, the life we lived in our drafty, secluded mansion was the only kind of life we knew.
Now, I'm standing in front of it, the home he ran away from on our sixteenth birthday-two years before we were scheduled to get our inheritance ("Leaving Money," as Charlie called it), and three before I left myself, having waited there, certain my twin would return, for as long as I could. I used to sit at the bottom of the stairs, gaze pinned to the door, hoping he'd walk through it again, tell me all my missing him was for nothing.
I was the only one who missed him. Mom read his note-The only way out is to never come back-and swallowed hard. "Your brother's chosen his own path," she said, swiping at her tears as if that was the end of it. Dad stomped around the house for a while, grumbling about the hunting trip Andy had skipped out on. "He's a coward, that twin of yours," Dad told me, as if Andy belonged to me alone. And then there was Charlie and Tate, who were visiting when we found the note. They'd come all this way for our sixteenth birthday, but they left without helping me look for him, Charlie claiming he had an audition, Tate trailing after him like always. Which left just me, alone in my anguish for years after that, lighting the candles with Mom and Dad, saying the Honoring prayer that I've since learned they created themselves.
Dad died the other day. That's why I've come back. And I'm hoping this will be the thing that brings Andy back, too. Maybe he's already inside, listening for my footsteps. Maybe I can stop my...
Readers Top Reviews
Bristol Book Blog
This could have been a five star read. It took me less than 12 hours to read, because it was intriguing from the outset and I struggled to put it down. It was well-written and included interesting realistic characters, but the story waivered. I just think there was too much going on for there to be a consistent plot. And the ending and twist (who done it and who covered it up and why) was easy to guess from the start. In fact hardened crime fans will likely be disappointed with how simple it was to figure out. So if you're expecting to be blown away by these things go for something else.
Kindle Bristol B
A rather macabre page turner about the family of the death mansion. A little suspension of reality is required but the story has many interesting characters and is suspenseful in the pursuit of the killer.
Faith Nikki IanKi
A stunning, deep, multilayered crime fiction novel. It drew me right in and doesn’t let go. Megan Collins is perhaps one of the best in the genre. She is a master at creating dysfunctional families and the complexities within them.
J. MedinaWier’s F
This started off so strong, especially with such an interesting premise. The story drug on a bit and the ending fell a bit flat for me, there was not enough to keep my interest unfortunately.
Certified_Book_Ne
3.5 Rounded to 3 This was a quick and mostly enjoyable read. I loved the premise of this one as I am a crime fiction fan and enjoy true crime shows and books. This one isn't bad but it's also not great. There are a few parts that are repetitive to the point of annoyance but I'm sure that's just a personal irritation. I did enjoy the way it plays out at the end even though I had a feeling it was going to play out in some twisted way like that. I did not see Andy's killer being who it was though and that fit really well into the storyline. Overall, not a bad read and one I'd say grab if you enjoy crime fiction and family drama.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One one
My parents named me Dahlia, after the Black Dahlia-that actress whose body was cleaved in half, left in grass as sharp as scalpels, a permanent smile sliced onto her face-and when I first learned her story at four years old, I assumed a knife would one day carve me up. My namesake was part of me, my future doomed by her violent death. That meant my oldest brother, Charlie, who had escaped the Lindbergh baby's fate by living past age two, would still be abducted someday. My sister, Tate, would follow in her own namesake's footsteps, become a movie star, then become a body in a pool of blood. And my twin brother, Andy, named for Lizzie Borden's father-I was sure his head was destined for the ax.
It didn't take me long to shed that belief, to understand that our names were just one of the many ways we honored victims of murder. But even after I stopped expecting us all to be killed, Andy insisted our family was "unnatural," that the way we were raised wasn't right.
I still don't know where he got that idea; back then, the life we lived in our drafty, secluded mansion was the only kind of life we knew.
Now, I'm standing in front of it, the home he ran away from on our sixteenth birthday-two years before we were scheduled to get our inheritance ("Leaving Money," as Charlie called it), and three before I left myself, having waited there, certain my twin would return, for as long as I could. I used to sit at the bottom of the stairs, gaze pinned to the door, hoping he'd walk through it again, tell me all my missing him was for nothing.
I was the only one who missed him. Mom read his note-The only way out is to never come back-and swallowed hard. "Your brother's chosen his own path," she said, swiping at her tears as if that was the end of it. Dad stomped around the house for a while, grumbling about the hunting trip Andy had skipped out on. "He's a coward, that twin of yours," Dad told me, as if Andy belonged to me alone. And then there was Charlie and Tate, who were visiting when we found the note. They'd come all this way for our sixteenth birthday, but they left without helping me look for him, Charlie claiming he had an audition, Tate trailing after him like always. Which left just me, alone in my anguish for years after that, lighting the candles with Mom and Dad, saying the Honoring prayer that I've since learned they created themselves.
Dad died the other day. That's why I've come back. And I'm hoping this will be the thing that brings Andy back, too. Maybe he's already inside, listening for my footsteps. Maybe I can stop my internet searches. Every week, I look for my brother on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Greta, who runs the café beneath my tiny apartment, has taught me all the tricks on social media, but still, my searches come back each time with nothing.
Today, I took the long way up from the ferry, watching the rocky shore recede below me as I climbed higher toward the center of Blackburn Island, where our house looms stony and colorless in front of the woods. For minutes now, I've been staring at those skeletal trees, remembering how Andy used to whack at them, how he'd pick up his ax whenever something flared inside him-and how almost anything could set him off: Dad quizzing him about hunting rifles; Mom teaching us about Ted Bundy's victims; Tate sketching her namesake, Sharon. For all the hours Andy and I spent locked to each other's hips-hiding in the credenza to jump out at Mom; distracting our groundskeeper with leaf pile forts-I never understood why he'd spring out of the house sometimes and pick up the ax that leaned against the shed. And when he told me, over and over, that our family was unnatural, that we needed the outside world, needed to trust people beyond each other, I didn't understand that, either.
The November wind is icy on the back of my neck, pushing me closer to the front door. Dead leaves skitter around my feet as if welcoming me home.
It's been seven years since I last stepped foot on this porch, even though when I left at nineteen I didn't go far. My apartment on the mainland is a quarter mile from the ferry, easy access should Andy ever return, but when I first moved there, Greta acted like I was from a distant, mythical place. I can't believe you grew up on Blackburn Island, she said. I'm obsessed with the Blackburn Killer. I have every article that's ever mentioned him, and I spend hours a day on message boards, discussing all the theories. Oh my god, did you know any of the victims?
I could recit...
My parents named me Dahlia, after the Black Dahlia-that actress whose body was cleaved in half, left in grass as sharp as scalpels, a permanent smile sliced onto her face-and when I first learned her story at four years old, I assumed a knife would one day carve me up. My namesake was part of me, my future doomed by her violent death. That meant my oldest brother, Charlie, who had escaped the Lindbergh baby's fate by living past age two, would still be abducted someday. My sister, Tate, would follow in her own namesake's footsteps, become a movie star, then become a body in a pool of blood. And my twin brother, Andy, named for Lizzie Borden's father-I was sure his head was destined for the ax.
It didn't take me long to shed that belief, to understand that our names were just one of the many ways we honored victims of murder. But even after I stopped expecting us all to be killed, Andy insisted our family was "unnatural," that the way we were raised wasn't right.
I still don't know where he got that idea; back then, the life we lived in our drafty, secluded mansion was the only kind of life we knew.
Now, I'm standing in front of it, the home he ran away from on our sixteenth birthday-two years before we were scheduled to get our inheritance ("Leaving Money," as Charlie called it), and three before I left myself, having waited there, certain my twin would return, for as long as I could. I used to sit at the bottom of the stairs, gaze pinned to the door, hoping he'd walk through it again, tell me all my missing him was for nothing.
I was the only one who missed him. Mom read his note-The only way out is to never come back-and swallowed hard. "Your brother's chosen his own path," she said, swiping at her tears as if that was the end of it. Dad stomped around the house for a while, grumbling about the hunting trip Andy had skipped out on. "He's a coward, that twin of yours," Dad told me, as if Andy belonged to me alone. And then there was Charlie and Tate, who were visiting when we found the note. They'd come all this way for our sixteenth birthday, but they left without helping me look for him, Charlie claiming he had an audition, Tate trailing after him like always. Which left just me, alone in my anguish for years after that, lighting the candles with Mom and Dad, saying the Honoring prayer that I've since learned they created themselves.
Dad died the other day. That's why I've come back. And I'm hoping this will be the thing that brings Andy back, too. Maybe he's already inside, listening for my footsteps. Maybe I can stop my internet searches. Every week, I look for my brother on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Greta, who runs the café beneath my tiny apartment, has taught me all the tricks on social media, but still, my searches come back each time with nothing.
Today, I took the long way up from the ferry, watching the rocky shore recede below me as I climbed higher toward the center of Blackburn Island, where our house looms stony and colorless in front of the woods. For minutes now, I've been staring at those skeletal trees, remembering how Andy used to whack at them, how he'd pick up his ax whenever something flared inside him-and how almost anything could set him off: Dad quizzing him about hunting rifles; Mom teaching us about Ted Bundy's victims; Tate sketching her namesake, Sharon. For all the hours Andy and I spent locked to each other's hips-hiding in the credenza to jump out at Mom; distracting our groundskeeper with leaf pile forts-I never understood why he'd spring out of the house sometimes and pick up the ax that leaned against the shed. And when he told me, over and over, that our family was unnatural, that we needed the outside world, needed to trust people beyond each other, I didn't understand that, either.
The November wind is icy on the back of my neck, pushing me closer to the front door. Dead leaves skitter around my feet as if welcoming me home.
It's been seven years since I last stepped foot on this porch, even though when I left at nineteen I didn't go far. My apartment on the mainland is a quarter mile from the ferry, easy access should Andy ever return, but when I first moved there, Greta acted like I was from a distant, mythical place. I can't believe you grew up on Blackburn Island, she said. I'm obsessed with the Blackburn Killer. I have every article that's ever mentioned him, and I spend hours a day on message boards, discussing all the theories. Oh my god, did you know any of the victims?
I could recit...
