The Serialist: A Novel
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A DARK AND STYLISH PAGE-TURNER FROM A BOLD NEW VOICE IN FICTION
Harry Bloch is a struggling writer who pumps out pulpy serial novels—from vampire books to detective stories—under various pseudonyms. But his life begins to imitate his fiction when he agrees to ghostwrite the memoir of Darian Clay, New York City’s infamous Photo Killer. Soon, three young women turn up dead, each one murdered in the Photo Killer’s gruesome signature style, and Harry must play detective in a real-life murder plot as he struggles to avoid becoming the killer’s next victim.
Witty, irreverent, and original, The Serialist is a love letter to books—from poetry to pornography—and proof that truth really can be stranger than fiction.
fought the urge to jump in, as I would at a dinner party during an awkward silence. Clay knit his fingers together and folded his hands in his lap and went on: “He had a darkroom down in the basement and he’d let me help out. Sometimes I’d sneak down there too when he wasn’t around. I liked the smell of the chemicals and that earthy basement kind of smell. It was small, dark. I don’t know, I felt safe there. And I liked seeing the prints form in the developer. Coming to life like underwater in
Jack Silver, the war correspondent/fashion photographer and vampire hunter, for whom she feels a deeper and more mature love. This situation is further complicated by the fact that Ivy once tried to turn Jack after a night of wild sex. Jack refused, trying instead to slice off Ivy’s head. She has hated him bitterly ever since. This complex love triangle/square/trapezoid? reflects Sasha’s own duality. She is half vampire and half human, and is constantly struggling between these two sides. It is
saw, a part that they only trusted me with. People don’t realize how deep that connection can be. But you do of course. You knew them all.” He sat forward. I could see the place where he’d nicked himself shaving, near the base of his throat. I could see food in his fake teeth. “You don’t happen to have that story with you, do you? The one about Sandra?” I jerked back, as if he’d tried to kiss me. “I didn’t fucking write it.” “OK, OK,” Flosky spoke up. “That’s enough. I don’t have time for this
gentrification swept out the drug dealers and thieves along with the poor people, artists and minorities, and Dora should have been safer than at any previous time in New York history. Perhaps she was just unlucky, or perhaps prosperity and an influx of fresh, eager youngsters drew its own more insidious brand of predator. It was in one of the student lounges that they thought Dani’s sister might have seen the poster offering generous pay for models plus free prints for their portfolios. She
“Hey!” Dani shouted and came clattering out, stopping abruptly when she saw Mrs. Fontaine. “Oh,” she said softly and backed up a step. I was afraid to look, but I prayed silently that her pants were completely zipped. I kept smiling at Mrs. Fontaine. “We were just on our way down,” I said. “Sorry,” she said, though who knows what for. “I thought of this.” She handed me the bag, without meeting my eyes. “I found it before and took it. I didn’t want the police to see. I know that’s wrong but I