Mystery
![Paula McLain - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001JP1GSU.jpg)
When the Stars Go Dark: A Novel
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • GOOD MORNING AMERICA BUZZ PICK • "A total departure for the author of The Paris Wife, McLain's emotionally intense and exceptionally well-written thriller entwines its fictional crime with real cases."-People (Book of the Week)
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY MARIE CLAIRE • "The kind of heart-pounding conclusion that thriller fans crave . . . In the end, a book full of darkness lands with a message of hope."-The New York Times Book Review
"This mystery will keep you guessing, and stay with you long after you finish. Dive in."-Daily Skimm
Anna Hart is a seasoned missing persons detective in San Francisco with far too much knowledge of the darkest side of human nature. When tragedy strikes her personal life, Anna, desperate and numb, flees to the Northern California village of Mendocino to grieve. She lived there as a child with her beloved foster parents, and now she believes it might be the only place left for her. Yet the day she arrives, she learns that a local teenage girl has gone missing.
The crime feels frighteningly reminiscent of the most crucial time in Anna's childhood, when the unsolved murder of a young girl touched Mendocino and changed the community forever. As past and present collide, Anna realizes that she has been led to this moment. The most difficult lessons of her life have given her insight into how victims come into contact with violent predators. As Anna becomes obsessed with saving the missing girl, she must accept that true courage means getting out of her own way and learning to let others in.
Weaving together actual cases of missing persons, trauma theory, and a hint of the metaphysical, this propulsive and deeply affecting novel tells a story of fate, necessary redemption, and what it takes, when the worst happens, to reclaim our lives-and our faith in one another.
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY MARIE CLAIRE • "The kind of heart-pounding conclusion that thriller fans crave . . . In the end, a book full of darkness lands with a message of hope."-The New York Times Book Review
"This mystery will keep you guessing, and stay with you long after you finish. Dive in."-Daily Skimm
Anna Hart is a seasoned missing persons detective in San Francisco with far too much knowledge of the darkest side of human nature. When tragedy strikes her personal life, Anna, desperate and numb, flees to the Northern California village of Mendocino to grieve. She lived there as a child with her beloved foster parents, and now she believes it might be the only place left for her. Yet the day she arrives, she learns that a local teenage girl has gone missing.
The crime feels frighteningly reminiscent of the most crucial time in Anna's childhood, when the unsolved murder of a young girl touched Mendocino and changed the community forever. As past and present collide, Anna realizes that she has been led to this moment. The most difficult lessons of her life have given her insight into how victims come into contact with violent predators. As Anna becomes obsessed with saving the missing girl, she must accept that true courage means getting out of her own way and learning to let others in.
Weaving together actual cases of missing persons, trauma theory, and a hint of the metaphysical, this propulsive and deeply affecting novel tells a story of fate, necessary redemption, and what it takes, when the worst happens, to reclaim our lives-and our faith in one another.
Editorial Reviews
"This genre-bending novel [is an] absolutely incredible literary thriller about the human journey."-Good Morning America
"Fueled by pure high anxiety . . . When the Stars Go Dark is an atmospheric and intricately plotted suspense novel."-The Washington Post
"The twisty plot keeps the pages flying, and Paula McLain's lyrical and poetic prose reveals insight after insight about the human heart, making this riveting read not only an engrossing psychological thriller, but crime fiction of the highest order."-Lisa Scottoline, author of Someone Knows
"When the Stars Go Dark is a beautifully written, sharply observed literary thriller with an extraordinary, unforgettable heroine. An unflinching look at the long shadow cast by trauma and the resilience it takes to survive, this is a novel of both great sadness and great beauty."-Kristin Hannah, author of The Four Winds
"Paula McLain has created a vulnerable, intelligent, unforgettable protagonist whose interior life is as interesting as the mysteries she has to solve. When the Stars Go Dark is my favorite kind of book. I'll recommend it far and wide."-Liz Moore, author of Long Bright River
"Lyrical and beautiful . . . a riveting deep dive into trauma, survival, and obsession. With her deeply flawed and utterly compelling heroine, elegant prose, and layered, twisting story, Paula McLain has penned an extraordinary novel of literary suspense, as gripping as it is unique and unforgettable."-Lisa Unger, author of Confessions on the 7:45
"With this breathtaking novel, Paula McLain proves she can do anything. Exquisitely written, immersive, and atmospheric, When the Stars Go Dark is a tour de force of literary suspense."-Christina Baker Kline, author of The Exiles
"Paula McLain, already established as the master of the historical novel, now explodes into crime fiction with a richly satisfying, tremendously moving mystery-haunting, poignant, lyrical, urgent."-Chris Pavone, author of The Paris Diversion
"Fantastically propulsive and deeply atmospheric, this novel grabs you from the very first page. Paula McLain has proven to be a masterful storyteller no matter the genre."-Aimee Molloy, author of The Perfect Mother
"This melancholy but gripping tale uses backstory and flashbacks to propel the mystery forward. Part suspense, part self-discovery tale, this first attempt at crime fiction from historical fiction author McLain (The Paris Wife) is hard to resist. Fans of the author's other works will not be disappointed."-Library Journal
"[A] stunning crime n...
"Fueled by pure high anxiety . . . When the Stars Go Dark is an atmospheric and intricately plotted suspense novel."-The Washington Post
"The twisty plot keeps the pages flying, and Paula McLain's lyrical and poetic prose reveals insight after insight about the human heart, making this riveting read not only an engrossing psychological thriller, but crime fiction of the highest order."-Lisa Scottoline, author of Someone Knows
"When the Stars Go Dark is a beautifully written, sharply observed literary thriller with an extraordinary, unforgettable heroine. An unflinching look at the long shadow cast by trauma and the resilience it takes to survive, this is a novel of both great sadness and great beauty."-Kristin Hannah, author of The Four Winds
"Paula McLain has created a vulnerable, intelligent, unforgettable protagonist whose interior life is as interesting as the mysteries she has to solve. When the Stars Go Dark is my favorite kind of book. I'll recommend it far and wide."-Liz Moore, author of Long Bright River
"Lyrical and beautiful . . . a riveting deep dive into trauma, survival, and obsession. With her deeply flawed and utterly compelling heroine, elegant prose, and layered, twisting story, Paula McLain has penned an extraordinary novel of literary suspense, as gripping as it is unique and unforgettable."-Lisa Unger, author of Confessions on the 7:45
"With this breathtaking novel, Paula McLain proves she can do anything. Exquisitely written, immersive, and atmospheric, When the Stars Go Dark is a tour de force of literary suspense."-Christina Baker Kline, author of The Exiles
"Paula McLain, already established as the master of the historical novel, now explodes into crime fiction with a richly satisfying, tremendously moving mystery-haunting, poignant, lyrical, urgent."-Chris Pavone, author of The Paris Diversion
"Fantastically propulsive and deeply atmospheric, this novel grabs you from the very first page. Paula McLain has proven to be a masterful storyteller no matter the genre."-Aimee Molloy, author of The Perfect Mother
"This melancholy but gripping tale uses backstory and flashbacks to propel the mystery forward. Part suspense, part self-discovery tale, this first attempt at crime fiction from historical fiction author McLain (The Paris Wife) is hard to resist. Fans of the author's other works will not be disappointed."-Library Journal
"[A] stunning crime n...
Readers Top Reviews
Iain ShepherdLind
There are plenty of books about lost children but the special angle she brings to this is the viewpoint of children brought up in broken homes or in care. Reading the blurb about the author, we can see that this is something she knows about. And it is well written.
MM BuyerIain Shep
This is a challenging review to write because I normally engage with the story to enjoy the book but did not enjoy the subject matter and, the death of children (not missing persons). However, the author did an excellent job in writing this novel, the writing is fluid and the author gripped me and wouldn’t let me go until I finished the book despite it being a difficult read. The story was based on some true stories involving children, but I have to say it was expertly and sensitively dealt with. That is gifted storytelling and for that reason I have given it a rating of 4. Anna Hart, a seasoned detective in missing persons, is dealing with her own personal tragedy and taking time out. Not working, losing a child and now her husband she sets off to California for some space and to start the process of rebuilding her life. Meeting an old friend Will Flood, Anna is drawn into solving the case of another missing girl Cameron Curtis. The story is totally gripping in parts whilst the detectives are up against the clock in trying to find Cameron, because most people know that over 70% of children are killed in the first 3-5 hours apparently. Although I didn’t relate to the death of children, the plot, the characters, and the landscape were skillfully woven and vividly depicted throughout the book. I also read the story about one of the victims after reading “When the stars go dark” and so found it disturbing that one of these children died at the hands of a true monster, who even mocked the parents in the court room. He is still on death row today. It is good to hear that justice was done and these murders didn’t add to the shelves of unsolved cases. A fantastic book if you can deal with the subject matter, because justice is done !!!
Kindle MM BuyerI
This is a hauntingly beautiful book that explores family relationships, abandoned children robbed of their childhoods, and sexual abuse. Even if you have never been sexually assaulted, you can relate to the characters who have been abused as children and the adults they have become. Well done Paula McCain!
King HillKindle
There's a lot of talk today about storytelling, but few authors really delivery storytelling at this level. Pulling from her own experiences, Paula McLain wove mystery into the characters of this great story, transforming a whodunit into a who-and-why-dunit.
SDKatKing HillKin
I LOVED this book! I devoured it over a long weekend. In fairness, I have loved everyone of the author's books, and I wasn't sure how I would feel about her going from historical fiction to semi-autobiographical thriller. But she nailed it! I loved the shorter chapters and the weaving in and out of past and present characters. This writing is of course, excellent, but the plot development and suspense was masterfully executed. I highly recommend this book.
Short Excerpt Teaser
(one)
The night feels shredded as I leave the city, through perforated mist, a crumbling September sky. Behind me, Potrero Hill is a stretch of dead beach, all of San Francisco unconscious or oblivious. Above the cloud line, an eerie yellow sphere is rising. It's the moon, gigantic and overstuffed, the color of lemonade. I can't stop watching it roll higher and higher, saturated with brightness, like a wound. Or like a door lit entirely by pain.
No one is coming to save me. No one can save anyone, though once I believed differently. I believed all sorts of things, but now I see the only way forward is to begin with nothing, or whatever is less than nothing. I have myself and no one else. I have the road and the snaking mist. I have this tortured moon.
I drive until I stop seeing familiar landmarks, stop looking in my rearview to see if someone is following me. In Santa Rosa, the Travelodge is tucked behind a superstore parking lot, the whole swath of it empty and overlit, like a swimming pool at night with no one in it. When I ring the bell, the night manager makes a noise from a back room and then comes out cheerfully, wiping her hands on her bright cotton dress.
"How are you?" she asks. The world's most innocuous question, impossible to answer.
"Fine."
She holds out the registration card and a purple pen, the dimpled flesh under her arm unfurling like a wing. I feel her looking at my face, my hair. She watches my hands, reading upside down. "Anna Louise Hart. That's sure a pretty name."
"What?"
"Don't you think so, baby?" Her voice has the Caribbean in it, a rich, warm slant that makes me think she calls everyone "baby," even me.
It's hard work not to flinch at her kindness, to stand in the greenish cast of the fluorescent bulb and write down the number of my license plate. To talk to her as if we're just any two people anywhere, carrying on without a single sorrow.
She finally gives me my key, and I go to my room, shutting the door behind me with relief. Inside there's a bed and a lamp and one of those oddly placed chairs no one ever sits in. Bad lighting flattens everything into dull rectangles, the tasteless carpet and plastic-looking bedspread, the curtains missing their hooks.
I set down my duffel in the center of the bed, take out my Glock 19 and tuck it under the stiff pillow, feeling reassured to have it nearby, as if it's an old friend of mine. I suppose it is. Then I grab a change of clothes, and start the shower, taking care to avoid the mirror as I undress, except to look at my breasts, which have hardened into stones. The right is hot to the touch, with a blistered red mound surrounding the nipple. I run the water in the shower as hot as it will go and stand there, being burned alive, with no relief at all.
When I climb out, dripping, I hold a washcloth under the faucet before microwaving it, sodden, until it smokes. The heat feels volcanic as I press it hard against myself, singeing my hands as I bend double over the toilet bowl, still naked. The loose flesh around my waist feels as rubbery and soft against my arms as a deflated life raft.
With wet hair, I walk to the all-night drugstore, buying ACE bandages and a breast pump, ziplock bags, and a forty-ounce bottle of Mexican beer. They only have a hand pump in stock, awkward and time-consuming. Back in my room, the heavy outmoded television throws splayed shadows on the bare wall. I pump with the sound off on a Spanish soap opera, trying to distract myself from the ache of the suction. The actors make exaggerated movements and faces, confessing things to one another while I labor on one breast and then the other, filling the reservoir twice and then emptying the milk into the baggies I label 9/21/93.
I know I should flush it all, but I can't make myself do it. Instead, I hold the bags for a long minute, registering their meaning before tucking them into the freezer of the small convenience unit and closing the door, and thinking only briefly about the housekeeper who will find them, or some roadstrung trucker looking for ice and feeling repulsed. The milk tells a whole sordid story, though I can't imagine any stranger correctly guessing at the plot. I'm having a hard time understanding it myself, and I'm the main character; I'm writing it.
Just before dawn I wake feverish and take too many Advil, feeling my throat catch and burn around the capsules. A breaking-news banner is running across the bottom of the TV. forty-seven confirmed dead in big bayou, alabama. deadliest crash in amtrak history. Sometime in the middle of the night, a towboat on the Mobile River has gotten off course in heavy fog and driven a barge into the Big Bayou Canot Bridge, displacing the trac...
The night feels shredded as I leave the city, through perforated mist, a crumbling September sky. Behind me, Potrero Hill is a stretch of dead beach, all of San Francisco unconscious or oblivious. Above the cloud line, an eerie yellow sphere is rising. It's the moon, gigantic and overstuffed, the color of lemonade. I can't stop watching it roll higher and higher, saturated with brightness, like a wound. Or like a door lit entirely by pain.
No one is coming to save me. No one can save anyone, though once I believed differently. I believed all sorts of things, but now I see the only way forward is to begin with nothing, or whatever is less than nothing. I have myself and no one else. I have the road and the snaking mist. I have this tortured moon.
I drive until I stop seeing familiar landmarks, stop looking in my rearview to see if someone is following me. In Santa Rosa, the Travelodge is tucked behind a superstore parking lot, the whole swath of it empty and overlit, like a swimming pool at night with no one in it. When I ring the bell, the night manager makes a noise from a back room and then comes out cheerfully, wiping her hands on her bright cotton dress.
"How are you?" she asks. The world's most innocuous question, impossible to answer.
"Fine."
She holds out the registration card and a purple pen, the dimpled flesh under her arm unfurling like a wing. I feel her looking at my face, my hair. She watches my hands, reading upside down. "Anna Louise Hart. That's sure a pretty name."
"What?"
"Don't you think so, baby?" Her voice has the Caribbean in it, a rich, warm slant that makes me think she calls everyone "baby," even me.
It's hard work not to flinch at her kindness, to stand in the greenish cast of the fluorescent bulb and write down the number of my license plate. To talk to her as if we're just any two people anywhere, carrying on without a single sorrow.
She finally gives me my key, and I go to my room, shutting the door behind me with relief. Inside there's a bed and a lamp and one of those oddly placed chairs no one ever sits in. Bad lighting flattens everything into dull rectangles, the tasteless carpet and plastic-looking bedspread, the curtains missing their hooks.
I set down my duffel in the center of the bed, take out my Glock 19 and tuck it under the stiff pillow, feeling reassured to have it nearby, as if it's an old friend of mine. I suppose it is. Then I grab a change of clothes, and start the shower, taking care to avoid the mirror as I undress, except to look at my breasts, which have hardened into stones. The right is hot to the touch, with a blistered red mound surrounding the nipple. I run the water in the shower as hot as it will go and stand there, being burned alive, with no relief at all.
When I climb out, dripping, I hold a washcloth under the faucet before microwaving it, sodden, until it smokes. The heat feels volcanic as I press it hard against myself, singeing my hands as I bend double over the toilet bowl, still naked. The loose flesh around my waist feels as rubbery and soft against my arms as a deflated life raft.
With wet hair, I walk to the all-night drugstore, buying ACE bandages and a breast pump, ziplock bags, and a forty-ounce bottle of Mexican beer. They only have a hand pump in stock, awkward and time-consuming. Back in my room, the heavy outmoded television throws splayed shadows on the bare wall. I pump with the sound off on a Spanish soap opera, trying to distract myself from the ache of the suction. The actors make exaggerated movements and faces, confessing things to one another while I labor on one breast and then the other, filling the reservoir twice and then emptying the milk into the baggies I label 9/21/93.
I know I should flush it all, but I can't make myself do it. Instead, I hold the bags for a long minute, registering their meaning before tucking them into the freezer of the small convenience unit and closing the door, and thinking only briefly about the housekeeper who will find them, or some roadstrung trucker looking for ice and feeling repulsed. The milk tells a whole sordid story, though I can't imagine any stranger correctly guessing at the plot. I'm having a hard time understanding it myself, and I'm the main character; I'm writing it.
Just before dawn I wake feverish and take too many Advil, feeling my throat catch and burn around the capsules. A breaking-news banner is running across the bottom of the TV. forty-seven confirmed dead in big bayou, alabama. deadliest crash in amtrak history. Sometime in the middle of the night, a towboat on the Mobile River has gotten off course in heavy fog and driven a barge into the Big Bayou Canot Bridge, displacing the trac...
