“ A stylish, highly original and completely addictive take on du Maurier’s Rebecca. Read it! ”
Shari Lapena, bestselling author of THE COUPLE NEXT DOOR
“ The Winters is a beautifully crafted, haunting thriller that defies expectations at every turn. I read straight through, breathless to the killer final pages. A brilliant achievement. ”
Sarah Pinborough, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Her Eyes
“ A sharp and wickedly vivid novel - Lisa Gabriele spins a tight, gasping mystery from the confines of a picturesque home. As a result, The Winters is both a gripping thriller and an acute story of female resilience. ”
Danya Kukafka, author of Girl in Snow
“ From the brilliant first line to the shattering conclusion, The Winters will draw you in and leave you breathless. Gorgeous prose, well-drawn characters, and a spellbinding story make this a must read. ”
Liv Constantine, author of The Last Mrs. Parrish
“ Gabriele's chutzpah in reinventing a much-loved novel brings considerable risk, but the results are satisfying, both as metafiction and as a sharp exercise in psychological suspense. ”
October 15, 2018
October 15, 2018
Find your local bookstore at booksellers.org.au
Last night Rebekah tried to murder me again. It had been a while since I’d had that dream, not since we left Asherley, a place I called home for one winter and the bitterest part of spring, the dream only ever recurring when Max was gone and I’d find myself alone with Dani.
As always, the dream begins with Asherley in the distance, shining from afar in a bright clearing. There is no greenhouse, nor boathouse, just a stand of red canoes stabbed into the pebbly beach. In fact, the Asherley of my dream looks more like it might have back in its whaling days, when from the highest turret you could still spot tall ships dotting Gardiners Bay.
Overpowered by the urge to be inside the house again, I pass easily through the thicket of forest that surrounds the property. I want so badly to wander its wood-paneled halls, to feel its plush red carpets beneath my bare feet, to move my fingers in the play of sun through the stained-glass windows, but an invisible force keeps me out. I’m relegated to the bay, where I float like a sad specter, made to watch those who still haunt Asherley act out the same strange pantomime.Continue Reading