From New York Times bestseller Courtney Cole, writing as Courtney Evan Tate, comes the psychological thriller that will keep readers up turning pages long into the night, SUCH DARK THINGS! "Written in breathless style, this page-turner relies on quick thrills, surprise twists...[for] readers seeking a fast entertaining tale..."(Publishers Weekly).Grab your copy of SUCH DARK THINGS today!

A HORRIFIC RECURRING NIGHTMARE IS THREATENING TO STEAL HER SANITY…

Dr. Corinne Cabot is living the American dream. She’s a successful ER physician in Chicago who’s married to a handsome husband. Together they live in a charming house in the suburbs. But appearances can be deceiving—and what no one can see is Corinne’s dark past. Troubling gaps in her memory mean she recalls little about a haunting event in her life years ago that changed everything.

She remembers only being in the house the night two people were found murdered. Her father was there, too. Now her father is in prison; she hasn’t been in contact in years. Repressing that terrifying memory has caused Corinne moments of paranoia and panic. Sometimes she thinks she sees things that aren’t there, hears words that haven’t been spoken. Or have they? She fears she may be losing her mind, unable to determine what’s real and what’s not.

So when she senses her husband’s growing distance, she thinks she’s imagining things. She writes her suspicions off to fatigue, overwork, anything to explain what she can’t accept—that her life really isn’t what it seems.

Excerpt

I miss you. I hate this place.

The text is from my wife.

My head falls back on the pillows, my hand grazing the empty side of the bed. The sheets there are cold. Corinne should be there next to me, her breath even and strong, her hair splayed out on the pillow, her warmth leaching into my body.

But she’s not.

I don’t know how she got access to her phone.

I miss you, too, babe, I answer. Um. How do you have your phone? Isn’t that against the rules?

They aren’t supposed to use their cellphones at Reflections since the devices are considered a distraction from treatment. As a therapist myself, I can’t say I disagree with that theory.

I had a bad night, so the day nurse is giving me 5 min to chat with you.

My gut contracts at that, at the notion that she has to get “permission” to talk with me, and once again I wonder if we’re doing the right thing. If I’m doing the right thing. I pushed hard for her to admit herself, so that I wouldn’t have to do it against her will.

But the idea of Corinne in a mental hospital kills me.

Are you ok now? I ask.

Her answer is immediate. Not really. I’m ready to come home.

She adds a smiley face, but I know she’s not feeling smiley. No one in her situation would.

It’ll be ok, I assure her again, as I have four thousand other times this week. I promise.

I’ll take your word for it, she replies, and if I concentrate, I can almost see the wry expression on her face as she types. Her blue eyes will be wide, her brow furrowed. I smile. I love you, Ju.

I love you, too.

I gotta go, she tells me. My five minutes are up. See you Saturday?

Yes! I answer. I’ll be there.

Who would’ve ever thought I’d have to schedule a visit to my wife within a two-hour visiting window? Not me. Not her. In fact, not anyone who knows us.

But it’s our reality.

I burrow my head under my pillow, as though if I tunnel far enough into my bed, this new reality will escape me. It doesn’t, though. The image of finding my wife the way I did, in a pool of blood and insanity, will stay with me for the rest of my life.

I’ll never be able to un-see it.

My dog whines two minutes later, saving me from the memory, her bladder having shrunk with her old age.

“Just a minute, girl,” I mumble. “Give me a few minutes.”

She can’t wait, though, and I eventually haul myself out of bed, trudging out into the October cold, opening the back door.

Artie ambles out and relieves herself, taking her time. She sniffs at this and that, and I know she can’t see what she’s doing. Her eyes are cloudy with cataracts, and she can’t hear a thing.

“Come on, girl,” I call to her, loudly, shivering. “Get in here. It’s cold.”

When she’s good and ready, she returns to the house, and after I feed her breakfast, I throw some clothes on. I go running every morning. It used to be for fitness reasons only, but now it is also to relieve stress.

Lord knows, these days I’ve got an excess amount of that.

I run my normal route, through the running trails at the park, through the trees. I can see my breath and my shoes crunch through the dead leaves drifted into piles on the ground. One foot in front of the other, pounding down the path, because this is something I can control. I can run and run and run, until all thoughts evade me, pushed out of my brain by the simple and basal need for oxygen. The need to breathe.

The human body is interesting in that way. It will allow your mind to play its games, right up to the point where the basic need to live overtakes all else. My lungs burn more and more. I ignore it as long as I can.

It’s only when they feel about to burst that I finally stop, my hands on my knees as I pull air into my lungs. It takes several long minutes of thinking about nothing but breathing before I come back to the present.

Back to reality.

The Chicago traffic hums in the distance, as people race to work, but I’m removed from it here. This park is secluded and quiet, tranquil and removed. It’s a nature reserve, and if you close your eyes, you truly feel like you’re alone in the middle of nowhere.

Until a twig behind me snaps.

Startled, I whirl around.

I scan the tree line and the moving limbs, and there’s not another human soul here. The wind blows and bites at my face, and there’s nothing out there but the sun rising in the distance.

I’m alone, as I always am on this trail at this hour.

No one is here, and Corinne’s paranoia has affected me.

I wasn’t alone, Jude! she’d told me, babbling until she lost consciousness in the ambulance. I wasn’t alone.

But everyone knows she was. The alarm hadn’t been tripped. No one had broken in. It’s understandable why she’s paranoid, after living through what she did so long ago, but the fact remains, she has grown paranoid.

She had been alone that night.

Just as I’m alone now.

Jesus, Jude, I mutter to myself, and I take long steps, jogging toward home, even now fighting the urge to glance over my shoulder. I’m being a dumbass. I take the porch steps two at a time.

My house is a mausoleum without my wife, enormous and quiet, and I hate it. I didn’t get married for this.

I’m resentful of my own thoughts as I shower and shave, the fog steaming up the bathroom mirrors. Corinne isn’t here to remind me to turn on the exhaust fan, so I don’t.

With her gone, I do everything as I always would. Something in my head tells me not to change anything, because to change things while she’s gone might set her back.

I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m not going to chance it.

I let the bathroom steam up.

None of this is Corinne’s fault. The very fleeting resentful thought that I had just means I’m a selfish bastard. I’m in a beautiful home in the suburbs, and my wife is in a psych ward. Even worse, I pray every day that she won’t remember everything that put her there.

Because I’m a prick.

I feel like even more of a prick when my phone dings a second later and the woman who sent the text is not my wife.

You doing ok? I miss you.

Guilt billows through me like storm clouds, through my gut into my chest. So much of this is her fault, this woman who isn’t my wife, and while I should stay far, far away from her, I can’t. For so many complicated reasons, I can’t.

I sigh as I head out the door to start my day.

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About the Author

Courtney Evan Tate is the nom de plume for New York Times bestselling author, Courtney Cole. Courtney Evan Tate is her darker side... the side that explores shadowy places.

Courtney lives in Florida with her husband and kids. She has a passion for raising drug addiction awareness, the Marine Corp (her middle son is a Marine) and being introspective on the human condition.

To learn more about her, you can visit www.courtneycolewrites.com.