In Case I Go Missing - Hardcover

Swann, R. N.

 
9780593695333: In Case I Go Missing
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 059369533X ISBN 13: 9780593695333
Verlag: Viking Books for Young Readers, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder meets Fargo in this fast-paced YA mystery about a teen detective gone missing and her best friend who must finish her investigation.

Seventeen-year-old Fenny Allen has been Sarah Vincenty's sidekick for as long as she can remember, ever since the two of them solved the mystery of the stolen library books back in elementary school. Over the years, Sarah has ruffled a few feathers in their small town, building a reputation as both an amateur detective and a vigilante who has dispensed her own form of justice.

Now Sarah is missing. The police have written her off as yet another teen runaway, but Fenny is convinced that something more sinister has happened. When she discovers a binder Sarah left behind entitled In Case I Go Missing, Fenny learns that at the time of her disappearance, Sarah was investigating her biggest case yet.

Fenny knows that it's up to her to finish what Sarah had begun. As she and her friend Sam piece together the clues that Sarah left for them, they find themselves up against a decades-old mystery—one that links to the town's dark history. But is this binder a guide to finding Sarah—or are Fenny and Sam already too late?

The more the pair uncover, the clearer it becomes that those involved will go to great lengths to keep their secrets—even as far as murder.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

R. N. Swann graduated from the University of Iowa and is currently living in Baltimore with her two cats, Havoc and Toast. When she isn’t writing, she works in communications, listens to podcasts, and enjoys adding to her increasingly large collection of flavored tea.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter 1
The Engagement Party
DEPOSITION DRAFT 1: Allen v. the State of South Dakota
I, Fenris Jane Allen, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me ­God . . .
Oh, who am I kidding? There’s no point in writing it this way. I don’t know the legal jargon and all I’m going to do is confuse myself more.
The truth is, there are three things you need to know. The first is that the shared brownie in third grade created an inseparable bond between Sarah, Sam, and me. The second is that our investigation into Manny Mason unleashed our astonishing capacity for trouble, which grew with each passing year. And the ­third . . . The third is that I should have been with Sarah that night. If I had, maybe I wouldn’t be writing these words now.
The story contained in these pages is honest, complex, and, ultimately, tragic. It involves several bottles of orange spray paint, a missing girl, and a church that time forgot. It brings together eight people accused of the same murder, a town conspiracy, and a ­decades-​­old unsolved mystery.
This is not a happy story. It will not have a happy ending. This is my first and only warning.
My name is Fenny Allen, and this is my confession.
It was four thirty on a Sunday afternoon, and I was completely and utterly over it. It wasn’t because it was my fifth shift at Rivera’s Bakery that week. Or because I had poured half a bag of flour down my shirt. Or even because I had to remake over two hundred cupcakes for a ­two-​­year-​­old’s birthday party because they were “the wrong shade of pink.”
No. It was because Sam didn’t know how to let things go.
“Fenny, I’m serious,” Sam said to the back of my head as I boxed up the last cupcakes. “You can’t keep avoiding me! You promised you would come to this party weeks ago. C’mon, you know what tonight means to me!”
I slapped a piece of tape on the side of the cupcake box and glared when the cardboard edge popped up.
“I’ll do the project for both of you if that’s what it takes. Just tell me what book it’s on and I’ll write the report.”
I ripped off another, longer piece of tape and wrapped it around the bottom. The side popped up again less than two seconds later.
“Do you need me to beg? Because I’ll do it. I’ll get down on my hands and knees right now if that means you’ll pick up the phone and call her! You two are best friends!”
That was it. I ripped off a piece of tape as long as my arm and ­bear-​­hugged the box as I looped it around the cardboard, over and over, until the tape covered most of the purple surface. I took a step back, waiting, but it held. Then I blew a lock of hair out of my face and turned to Sam.
Little Sammy from room 3B had grown up since our elementary school days. He’d hit a growth spurt when he turned sixteen last year and now hovered at least a head taller than me. Between his height, the gangly limbs that he still hadn’t adjusted to, and his uncontrolled mess of hair, he looked like one of those inflatable tube men outside of car washes.
“Sam, if I call Sarah, the only thing I’m telling her is where to shove it. And if you don’t get out of here, I’m going to tell you the same thing.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the apple strudel is burning.”
“But—” The rest of his sentence was cut short by the swinging door as I walked into the break room. I immediately twisted to my left, narrowly avoiding the poorly placed staircase that led to the upper level where my boss, Roberta Rivera, lived.
Most of the bakery had these odd additions: Our ovens were built into the remnants of an old fireplace, there were no less than three “front doors” that had been boarded up (including one that led into the refrigerator), and I was fairly sure our tables had been made from ­torn-​­down walls. Perks of a small town: You worked with what you had.
Roberta was sitting at the table beside the stairs and raised her eyebrows as she marked something on her bills. She didn’t mention my unsanctioned break, but considering I had worked at Rivera’s Bakery for over a year, she was used to my rather erratic job performance.
“I didn’t know we started selling apple strudel.”
I pulled out a Coke from the mini fridge, popped the top, and slumped down at the table beside her. “I’m hoping if I’m back here long enough, he’ll just leave. He sent me over eighty texts today alone. He doesn’t get that I’m not calling Sarah this time.” Roberta hummed noncommittally.
“I mean it,” I continued. “This is the fourth time she’s bailed on me, and our English project still isn’t done. I’m not killing myself to do all the work three days before it’s due.”
These days, it felt like we were always fighting. About how Sarah skipped out on plans, like our annual New Year’s Eve party, or didn’t return my texts, or kept in touch with her shitty ex‑boyfriend. We would argue and I would end up apologizing instead of her. Not this time. I was done.
Sam didn’t get that our fight wasn’t about the project. It was about the message Sarah was sending. We weren’t her priorities anymore.
Roberta finally looked up from her bills. Bright purple glasses clung to the tip of her nose, threatening to slip free. Her dark skin was just starting to crease, and she constantly fiddled with her hands when she was distracted. It meant her pen kept a steady, tapping rhythm, even though she had stopped writing.
“Fenny,” she said in that tone I hated. Not even my mother could make me feel so much guilt in a single word. “Sam isn’t at fault here. So why are you punishing him?”
“Because he always has to play peacemaker and I’m sick of making peace when I’m not wrong.” I took another sip of my Coke. “Believe me, he’ll be just as pissed when she doesn’t show up to his brother’s engagement party tonight.”
“You don’t know she won’t. Besides, is it so wrong to want your best friends to get along?” She glanced over at the door. Through the glass window, I saw Sam’s lengthy shadow pacing across the bakery floor. “You’re not the only one Sarah is hurting.”
Her dark eyes were gentle, but they made me squirm. She was right. I wasn’t the only one that Sarah had been avoiding, and with Sam’s brother back in town, could I really blame Sam for pushing us to get along?
I left my Coke sitting on the table, ignoring the way Roberta smiled to herself as I walked back into the bakery.
Sam was still pacing, his long limbs flexing like a nervous colt with every step, but he raised an eyebrow when he saw me. “How’s the apple strudel?”
I leaned my elbows across the counter, as close to Sam as I could get without crossing the glass. “I’m not calling Sarah. You know why. So please, please, let it go.” Sam glanced down, sufficiently cowed. Before I knew what I was doing, I pulled out a brownie from the display case and tucked it into his hand.
“On the house.” I exhaled. “I’ll see you tonight, okay? If Sarah doesn’t show ­up . . . we’ll deal with it then.”
Sam held the brownie in his hand like a tiny, precious thing. To him, it was. Brownies had always been a reminder of our friendship, so he knew what it meant. An apology. Some of the tension in his...

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Verlag
Viking Books for Young Readers
Erscheinungsdatum
2026
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
059369533X
ISBN 13 
9780593695333
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
400
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
VTech Electronics Europe B.V
https://www.vtech-jouets.com/

Fahrenheitstraat 22
DC Weert
6003
Niederlande

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