Excerpt from Eight Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Okay," I said.

"Is now good?"

"Sure," I said, thinking she wanted to talk on the phone, but instead she told me she'd be right over and disconnected the line. I stood for a moment, phone in hand, imagining what an FBI agent named Gwen would look like. Her voice on the phone had been raspy, so I imagined her to be nearing retirement, an imposing, humorless woman in a tan raincoat.

A few minutes later Agent Mulvey pushed through the door, looking very different from how I'd imagined her. She was in her thirties, if that, and wearing jeans that were tucked into forest green boots, plus a puffy winter jacket and a white knit hat with a pom-pom on it. She stomped her boots on the welcome mat, removed her hat, and came across to the checkout counter. I came around to meet her, and she reached out a hand. She had a firm handshake, but her hand was clammy.

"Agent Mulvey?" I asked.

"Yes, hi." Snowflakes were melting on her green coat, leaving behind dark spots. She briefly shook her head—the ends of her thin, blond hair were wet. "I'm surprised you're still open," she said.

"I'm just about to close up, actually."

"Oh," she said. She had a leather bag slung over one shoulder and she lifted the strap over her head, then unzipped her jacket. "You have some time, though?"

"I do. And I'm curious. Should we talk back in my office?"

She turned back and glanced at the front door. The tendons in her neck popped out against her white skin. "Will you be able to hear if a customer comes in?" she said.

"I don't think that'll happen, but, yes, I'll be able to hear. It's this way."

My office was more of a nook at the back of the store. I got Agent Mulvey a chair and went around the desk and sat in my leather recliner, its stuffing bulging out from the seams. I positioned myself so that I could see her between two stacks of books. "I'm sorry," I said. "I forgot to ask you if you wanted anything? There's still some coffee in the pot."

"No, I'm fine," she said, removing her jacket and putting her leather bag, more of a briefcase, really, on the floor by her side. She wore a black crewneck sweater under the coat. Now that I could really see her, I realized it wasn't just her skin that was pale. It was all of her: the color of her hair; her lips; her eyelids, almost translucent; even her glasses with their thin wire rims almost disappeared into her face. It was hard to know exactly what she looked like, almost like some artist had rubbed a thumb across her features to blur them. "Before we start, I'd like to ask you to please not discuss anything we are about to talk about with anyone. Some of it is public record but some of it is not."

"Now I'm really curious," I said, aware that my heart rate had accelerated. "And, yes, absolutely, I won't tell anyone."

"Great, thank you," she said, and she seemed to settle in her chair, her shoulders dropping, her head squaring with mine.

"Have you heard about Robin Callahan?" she asked.

Robin Callahan was a local news anchor who, a year and a half ago, had been found shot in her home in Concord, about twenty-five miles northwest of Boston. It had been the leading local news story since it had happened, and despite a suspicious ex-husband, no arrests had been made. "About the murder?" I said. "Of course."

"And what about Jay Bradshaw?"

I thought for a moment, then shook my head. "I don't think so."

"He lived in Dennis on the Cape. In August he was found beaten to death in his garage."

"No," I said.

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Then what about Ethan Byrd?"

"That name rings a bell."

"He was a college student from UMass Lowell who went missing over a year ago."

"Okay, right." I did remember this case, although I couldn't remember any of the details.

"He was found buried in a state park in Ashland, where he was from, about three weeks after he'd gone missing."

Excerpted from Eight Perfect Murders by Peter Swanson. Copyright © 2020 by Peter Swanson. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.