Nothing More to Tell - Softcover

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Karen M. McManus is a #1 New York Times and international bestselling author of young adult thrillers. Her books include the One of Us Is Lying series, which has been turned into a television show on Peacock, as well as the standalone novels Two Can Keep a Secret, The Cousins, You’ll Be the Death of Me, and Nothing More to Tell. Karen's critically acclaimed, award-winning work has been translated into more than forty languages.

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From #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying comes a new page-turning mystery. Be sure to keep your friends close . . . and your secrets closer.

Four years ago, Brynn left Saint Ambrose School following the shocking murder of her favorite teacher―a story that made headlines after the teacher’s body was found by three Saint Ambrose students in the woods behind their school. The case was never solved. Now that Brynn is moving home and starting her dream internship at a true-crime show, she’s determined to find out what really happened.

The kids who found Mr. Larkin are her way in, and her ex–best friend, Tripp Talbot, was one of them. Without his account of events, the other two kids might have gone down for Mr. Larkin’s murder―but instead, thanks to Tripp, they're now at the top of the Saint Ambrose social pyramid. His friends have never forgotten what Tripp did for them that day, and neither has he. Just like he hasn’t forgotten that everything he told the police was a lie.

Digging into the past is bound to shake up the present, and as Brynn begins to investigate what happened in the woods that day, she begins to uncover secrets that might change everything―about Saint Ambrose, about Mr. Larkin, and about her ex-best friend, Tripp Talbot.

Four years ago someone got away with murder. The most terrifying part is that they never left.

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Chapter One

Brynn

“Do you have a favorite crime?”

The girl sitting beside me in the spacious reception area asks the question so brightly, with such a wide smile, that I’m positive I must have misheard her. “A favorite what?” I ask.

“Crime,” she says, still smiling.

Okay. Did not mishear. “In general, or--” I start cautiously.

“From the show,” she says, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. Which is fair. I should have known what she meant, considering we’re sitting in the middle of temporary office space for Motive.

I try to recover. “Oh, yeah, of course. Hard to pick. They’re all so . . .” What’s the right word here? “Compelling.”

“I’m obsessed with the Story case,” she says, and bam--she’s off. I’m impressed by all the rich detail she remembers from a show that aired more than a year ago. She’s obviously a Motive expert, whereas I’m a more recent convert to the true-crime arm of journalism. Truth be told, I wasn’t expecting to land an interview for this internship. My application was . . . unconventional, to say the least.

Desperate times and all that.

Less than two months ago, in October of my senior year, my life was fully on track. I was living in Chicago, editor in chief of the school paper, applying early decision to my dream school, Northwestern. Two of my best friends planned on staying local too, so we were already dreaming about getting an apartment together. And then: one disaster after the other. I was fired from the paper, wait-listed at Northwestern, and informed by my parents that Dad’s job was transferring him back to company headquarters.

Which meant returning to my hometown of Sturgis, Massachusetts, and moving into the house my parents had been renting to my uncle Nick since we’d left. “It’ll be a fresh start,” Mom said, conveniently forgetting the part where I’d been desperate to leave four years ago.

Since then, I’ve been scrambling to find some kind of internship that might make Northwestern take a second look at me. My first half dozen rejections were all short, impersonal form letters. Nobody had the guts to say what they were really thinking: Dear Ms. Gallagher, since your most-viewed article as editor of the school paper was a compilation of dick pics, you are not suitable for this position.

To be clear, I neither took nor posted the dick pics. I’m just the loser who left the newspaper office door unlocked and forgot to log out of the main laptop. It doesn’t really matter, though, because my name was in the byline that got screenshotted a thousand times and eventually ended up on BuzzFeed with the headline windy city school scandal: prank or pornography?

Both, obviously. After the seventh polite rejection, it occurred to me that when something like that is your number one result in a Google search, there’s no point trying to hide it. So when I applied to Motive, I took a different tack.

The girl beside me is still talking, wrapping up an impressively in-depth analysis of the Story family saga. “Where do you go to school?” she asks. She’s wearing a cute moto jacket over a graphic T-shirt and black jeans, and it comforts me that we’re dressed somewhat alike. “I’m a sophomore at Emerson. Majoring in media arts with a minor in journalism, but I’m thinking about flipping those.”

“I’m still in high school,” I say.

“Really?” Her eyes pop. “Wow, I didn’t realize this internship was even open to high school students.”

“I was surprised too,” I say.

Motive wasn’t on the list of internships I’d compiled with my former guidance counselor’s help; my fourteen-year-old sister, Ellie, and I came across it when we were combing through Boston.com. Until we did a Google search on Motive, I hadn’t realized that the show’s host, Carly Diaz, had temporarily relocated from New York to Boston last summer to be near a sick parent. Motive isn’t a household name, exactly, but it’s a buzzy, upstart true-crime show. Right now the show only airs on a small cable station, but there are rumors that it might get picked up by one of the big streamers soon.

The Boston.com article was headlined carly diaz makes and breaks her own rules, accompanied by a photo of Carly in a bright pink trench coat, standing arms akimbo in the middle of Newbury Street. She didn’t look like the kind of person who’d judge you for a public setback; she looked more like the kind of person who’d expect you to own it.

“So do you work for your school paper?” the girl asks.

Way to twist the knife, Emerson Girl. “Not currently, no.”

“Really?” Her brow furrows. “Then how--”

“Brynn Gallagher?” the receptionist calls. “Carly will see you now.”

“Carly?” Emerson Girl’s eyes widen as I scramble to my feet. “Whoa. I didn’t know she was doing the interviews herself.”

“Here goes nothing,” I say. Suddenly Emerson Girl and her endless questions feel like a safe harbor, and I smile at her like she’s an old friend as I loop my messenger bag over my shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

She gives me a thumbs-up. “You got this.”

I follow the receptionist down a short, narrow hallway into a large conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Back Bay. I can’t focus on the view, though, because Carly Diaz gets up from her chair at the end of the table with a megawatt smile, extending her hand toward me. “Brynn, welcome,” she says.

I’m so flustered that I almost say You’re welcome in return but manage to catch myself just in time. “Thank you,” I say, grasping her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.” The phrase larger than life springs to mind, even though Carly would be tiny without her four-inch heels. But she radiates energy, like she’s lit from within. Her dark hair is impossibly thick and shiny, her makeup is impeccable, and she’s wearing such a simple yet elegant dress that it makes me want to throw out my entire wardrobe and start over.

“Please, have a seat,” Carly says, settling back into her chair as the receptionist slips into the hallway. “Help yourself to a drink if you’d like.”

Glass tumblers are in front of us, on either side of a pitcher that’s filled to the brim with water and ice. I weigh my slight thirst against the strong possibility of spilling the glass’s contents all over myself or, worse yet, the laptop beside Carly. “No thanks, I’m good.”

Carly folds her hands in front of her, and I can’t help but notice her rings. She’s wearing one on almost every finger, all bold designs in rich gold. Her nails are glossy with dark red polish and perfectly shaped, but short. “All right,” she says, smirking a little. “You know why you’re here, right?”

“For an interview?” I ask hopefully.

“Sure.” The smirk gets bigger. “We received almost five hundred resumes for this internship. Mostly local college and grad students, but a few willing to relocate for the opportunity.” My heart sinks a little as she adds, “It’s hard to stand out when there’s that much competition, but I have to admit, I’ve never come across an application quite like yours. One of my producers, Lindzi, saw it first and forwarded it right away.”

Carly...