The Sound($17.99Value)

Description

A British nanny looking for a low-key summer finds buried secrets, murderous attention, and unexpected romance when she visits the Nantucket Sound. The Nantucket Sound is a beachfront playground for the privileged and elite, where the sunny days are filled with scenic bike rides, backyard picnics, and bonfire parties. But all Ren Kingston—a visiting Brit still reeling from heartbreak—really wants is a quiet summer as a nanny for one of Nantucket’s wealthy families. Getting acquainted with handsome Jeremy and his young group of trust fund, private school kids was not part of the plan. Neither was befriending the local bad boy whose reputation is more dangerous than charming. After a dead body is found next to The Sound’s postcard-perfect view, Ren starts to wonder where the real threat lies. Because it’s becoming clear that her newfound “friends” are much more than they seem. They’re hiding secrets. Secrets that Ren wants no part of. But once The Sound has you in its current, it won’t want to let you go… The Sound will immediately grab readers and it will not relinquish its hold until the last page. Alderson has created characters that feel so real they could step out of the book. Her descriptions of life on Nantucket make this a fun summer read while her skillful weaving of the story makes it a great book for fans of mystery, suspense, and even romance. ― VOYA Having spent most of her life in London, Sarah Alderson quit her job in the nonprofit sector in 2009 and took off on a round the world trip with her husband and princess-obsessed daughter. After several months in India, Singapore, Australia and the US, they settled in Bali, where Sarah now spends her days writing by the pool and trying to machete open coconuts without severing a limb. She is the author of The Sound ; Hunting Lila and its sequel, Losing Lila ; and the paranormal trilogy Fated , Severed , and Shadowed . The Sound 1 I’ve never held a baby, so when he hands me this squalling red thing I just stare at it. “Can you take Braiden?” he says. The baby has a name. This doesn’t make holding it any less terrifying. But I reach out and say “sure” and next thing I know I’m holding a baby. And mother of all surprises, the baby—Braiden—stops crying. He not only stops crying, he reaches for my hair with fat little fists, tugs on a loose strand, and gurgles happily at me. I am holding a baby. I grin. The whole way here on the plane I have been preparing for this moment. The moment where my summer plan of nannying falls apart like a stage set collapsing as the people I’m nannying for discover that my only experience of children is having been one once (and technically, legally, I suppose, still being one). But now I’m holding the baby and it’s not screaming and I haven’t dropped it on its head yet, and I’m thinking as I bounce him up and down that maybe, just maybe, I can get away with it so they don’t throw me out and send me back to England on the next flight. “See, he loves you,” the dad says. “I’ll be back in just one second.” And he disappears. I stare after him in a state of mild panic. It’s one thing to hold a baby and another thing entirely to be left holding the baby. “Okay, okay, Braiden,” I start to say in a singsong voice that I’ve never in my life used before. “I can do this, I can do this.” I drop my voice back to its normal range. The baby’s face is now scrunching up and going bright red and he’s looking kind of startled. Probably, I think, because his dad has just handed him to a complete stranger and walked off. “He’s doing a number two.” I turn around. “Hey,” I say to the little girl with red hair who’s just appeared in the doorway. “You must be . . .” “Brodie,” she finishes, then points at her brother. “He’s doing a number two.” I glance back at Braiden, who is now fist-pumping wildly and thrashing his legs against my stomach. “Oh,” I say as the stench hits my nostrils. Nice. I think of how I am going to describe this moment later to Megan. Pooed on by a baby within minutes of arriving. She’d tell me with a wryly arched eyebrow that one way or another I always get shat on. “You need a diaper,” Brodie informs me, crossing her hands over her chest and squinting up at me. “You want to show me where they are?” I ask, thinking that maybe I can also get her to show me how to change it. Because I don’t have a clue. I should have YouTubed all these things before I left, but for one reason or another I didn’t. Brodie leads me into a bedroom—belonging to her parents, I assume, because there’s a double bed on top of which are a couple of half-unpacked suitcases, a laptop case, a newspaper, and a stack of folders. Brodie reaches a freckled arm into a changing bag on the floor and pulls out a stash of diapers, a tub of something that looks alarmingly medical, and some baby wipes. She puts them on the bed and stares at me expectantly. I clear space, pushing the laptop far, far out of the way and won