The second novel in the Lexingfield series. Can be read as a standalone.
In Still Water, Jack Holloway raced against time to find a killer. In Reflections, he has to live with what he found.
The investigation is over. The library on the corner of Main and Church is closed. The hand-lettered sign in the window says what the town already knows. What Lexingfield doesn't know yet is how to carry what comes after.
Reflections is told through the people left behind. A father who drives to the hardware store because the list is the only thing that gets him out of bed. A woman who bakes biscuits every Thursday because her hands need something to do. A wife who spent three years noticing something she could never quite name. A sheriff who counts to sixty at every death scene and has never asked himself why.
And woven between them, the story of how it all began. How a town's trust was built, used, and returned to it in pieces.
Each of them must now confront an impossible what do you do when the person who helped you survive your worst year is the reason you needed surviving?
Still Water asked who. Reflections asks what it costs to know.
A novel about grief, attention, and the terrifying distance between being known and being seen.
For readers of Alice Sebold, Tana French, and Chris Whitaker.
I write about people who watch from the edges of their own lives, and what happens when they finally let themselves be seen.
The settings vary. A Virginia town losing children to a river. A Washington family that has built its power on what nobody is supposed to notice. A city that runs on the suffering of people the world has forgotten. A wildlife biologist alone in a Cascades cabin with a man who refuses to stop looking at him.
Different worlds. The same obsession: how families shape us, how grief teaches us to disappear, and what it costs to finally come back into view.
I write under a pen name because the work matters more than the author. The novels favor precision over spectacle and reward readers who pay attention to what's left unsaid.