Excerpt from Let's Not Do That Again by Grant Ginder, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

At first, the man with the camera worries that his friend has made a mistake. The girl stares at them blankly, her eyes wide and green and full. But a moment later—aha, there it is: the devilish curl of her lips. The glint of her perfect, American teeth.

Morning Briefing

The phone rings three times, which for Nancy Harrison is two times too many.

"Good morning, Nancy."

"Cate."

"I was about to call you."

"What the fuck is this email?"

"So, you've seen it. Are you sure it's her?"

Nancy presses the phone against her shoulder and brings her laptop within an inch of her nose.

"Oh, it's her, all right. I'd know those cheekbones anywhere."

"How? Or, why?"

"Because they're my cheekbones, Cate. I gave her those cheekbones."

A cup of coffee steams on the kitchen counter. On the table behind her, a banana languishes, peeled and utterly ignored. Nancy runs both hands through her hair and turns toward the television, where the Today show plays on mute. Cataclysmic fires in California and protests in Paris. The two hosts, smiling as they make sense of a senseless world.

From the hall outside the apartment comes an abominable crash: the sound of a wall being torn down.

"Jesus, what was that?" Cate says.

"They're installing the new trash-compacting system."

"They're actually doing it?"

"They're actually doing it. Ten years I've spent as president of this building's co-op board, and I've finally convinced these idiots that there's a more efficient way to get rid of their tampons and chicken bones than putting them in a bag and waiting for a porter to pick them up."

"Well, good for you, Nancy." Cate pauses. "I thought you said Greta was taking cooking classes."

"That's what she told me she was doing." Nancy rubs her palm against her cheek and stares at Greta's face. "That little brat. I loved Fouquet's."

Cate clears her throat.

"The good news is that the Time more or less buried it. I mean, it's on the home page, but you have to scroll down to see it. The other outlets … well, there's a gallery at the Met named after your mother-in-law, Nancy—"

"My ex-mother-in-law."

"—and this election is going to determine who controls the Senate. So, unfortunately, your daughter mugging for the camera as she destroys property in France is not exactly a story the Post is going to pass up. We need to decide how to respond."

Nancy ignores her. She moves the cursor over Greta's neck and Greta's thin arms. Greta's dusty, untied shoes.

"She's supposed to be learning how to separate egg whites. She's supposed to be making fucking coq au vin."

"It was a protest over the new EU trade deal. Has Greta ever expressed interest in international economics?"

"International economics? Cate, have you met my daughter? Why the hell would she be at that?"

"I have no idea, but the internet is coming up with some theories."

The Today show cuts to a commercial, and Nancy sips from her coffee. It's hot and nearly scalds her throat. This was supposed to be easy, she thinks. An open Senate seat, an endorsement from the president—this was supposed to be easy. She takes a bigger sip.

"Talk to me about polls," she says. "What are they telling us?"

"Gallup has Carmichael ahead by four points. He's still killing us with boomers."

"And I've got videos of my daughter throwing champagne bottles through windows on the other side of the Atlantic. Shit."

She returns to the laptop and the video of Greta. Cate had sent it to her this morning, attached to an email that had as its subject line pls advise. The quality is coarse, grainy; Cate said that it ran on a French news channel six hours ago. Since then, it's spread like wildfire. Fox, the Post, the Daily News, New York, Vogue. And despite the blurred focus, the sun's blanching glare, there's no doubt the woman in the picture is Greta. At first, Nancy wasn't able to speak, she simply stared at the image, the slow drip of the coffee machine breaking the silence. Seven floors below her, Central Park unfurled itself, the tops of trees poking through a blanket of October fog. On the other side of the East River, beyond Roosevelt Island and the rooftops of Queens, a plane descended toward LaGuardia Airport. She felt exposed, and angry, and above all else guilty. Walking to the window, she recalled a night three months ago, in July. A dinner, here in this apartment, not at the small table in the kitchen but in the dining room, on the other side of the wall. Waiters in stiff white coats; Greta drunk in gold heels; Nancy, grabbing her wrist and dragging her into the foyer.

Excerpted from Let's Not Do That Again by Grant Ginder. Copyright © 2022 by Grant Ginder. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.