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THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER From the author of Survive the Night and Final Girls comes a tense and twisty thriller about a summer camp that’s impossible to forget—no matter how hard you try. Two Truths and a Lie. Vivian, Natalie, Allison, and Emma played it all the time in their cabin at Camp Nightingale. But the games ended the night Emma sleepily watched the others sneak out into the darkness. The last she—or anyone—saw of the teenagers was Vivian closing the cabin door behind her, hushing Emma with a finger pressed to her lips.... Fifteen years later, Emma is a rising star in the New York art scene, turning her past into paintings—massive canvases filled with dark leaves and gnarled branches over ghostly shapes in white dresses. When the paintings catch the attention of the wealthy owner of Camp Nightingale, she implores Emma to come back to the newly reopened camp as a painting instructor. Despite her guilt and anxiety—or maybe because of them—Emma agrees to revisit her past. Nightingale looks the same as it did all those years ago, haunted by a midnight-dark lake and familiar faces. Emma is even assigned to the same cabin she slept in as a teenager, although the security camera pointed at her door is a disturbing new addition.
As cryptic clues about the camp's origins begin to surface, Emma attempts to find out what really happened to her friends. But her closure could come at a deadly price.
THE INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER From the author of Survive the Night and Final Girls comes a tense and twisty thriller about a summer camp that’s impossible to forget—no matter how hard you try. Two Truths and a Lie. Vivian, Natalie, Allison, and Emma played it all the time in their cabin at Camp Nightingale. But the games ended the night Emma sleepily watched the others sneak out into the darkness. The last she—or anyone—saw of the teenagers was Vivian closing the cabin door behind her, hushing Emma with a finger pressed to her lips.... Fifteen years later, Emma is a rising star in the New York art scene, turning her past into paintings—massive canvases filled with dark leaves and gnarled branches over ghostly shapes in white dresses. When the paintings catch the attention of the wealthy owner of Camp Nightingale, she implores Emma to come back to the newly reopened camp as a painting instructor. Despite her guilt and anxiety—or maybe because of them—Emma agrees to revisit her past. Nightingale looks the same as it did all those years ago, haunted by a midnight-dark lake and familiar faces. Emma is even assigned to the same cabin she slept in as a teenager, although the security camera pointed at her door is a disturbing new addition.
As cryptic clues about the camp's origins begin to surface, Emma attempts to find out what really happened to her friends. But her closure could come at a deadly price.
En raison de restrictions imposées par l'éditeur, la bibliothèque n'est pas en mesure d'acheter des exemplaires supplémentaires de ce titre et nous vous présentons toutes nos excuses si la liste d'attente est longue. N'oubliez pas de regarder s'il existe d'autres exemplaires, car d'autres éditions sont peut-être disponibles.
En raison de restrictions imposées par l'éditeur, la bibliothèque n'est pas en mesure d'acheter des exemplaires supplémentaires de ce titre et nous vous présentons toutes nos excuses si la liste d'attente est longue. N'oubliez pas de regarder s'il existe d'autres exemplaires, car d'autres éditions sont peut-être disponibles.
Extraits-
From the book
1
I paint the girls in the same order.
Vivian first.
Then Natalie.
Allison is last, even though she was first to leave the cabin and therefore technically the first to disappear.
My paintings are typically large. Massive, really. As big as a barn door, Randall likes to say. Yet the girls are always small. Inconsequential marks on a canvas that's alarmingly wide.
Their arrival heralds the second stage of a painting, after I've laid down a background of earth and sky in hues with appropriately dark names. Spider black. Shadow gray. Blood red.
And midnight blue, of course. In my paintings, there's always a bit of midnight.
Then come the girls, sometimes clustered together, sometimes scattered to far-flung corners of the canvas. I put them in white dresses that flare at the hems, as if they're running from something. They're usually turned so all that can be seen of them is their hair trailing behind them as they flee. On the rare occasions when I do paint a glimpse of their faces, it's only the slimmest of profiles, nothing more than a single curved brushstroke.
I create the woods last, using a putty knife to slather paint onto the canvas in wide, unwieldy strokes. This process can take days, even weeks, me slightly dizzy from fumes as I glob on more paint, layer upon layer, keeping it thick.
I've heard Randall boast to potential buyers that my surfaces are like Van Gogh's, with paint cresting as high as an inch off the canvas. I prefer to think I paint like nature, where true smoothness is a myth, especially in the woods. The chipped ridges of tree bark. The speckle of moss on rock. Several autumns' worth of leaves coating the ground. That's the nature I try to capture with my scrapes and bumps and whorls of paint.
So I add more and more, each wall-size canvas slowly succumbing to the forest of my imagination. Thick. Forbidding. Crowded with danger. The trees loom, dark and menacing. Vines don't creep so much as coil, their loops tightening into choke holds. Underbrush covers the forest floor. Leaves blot out the sky.
I paint until there's not a bare patch left on the canvas and the girls have been consumed by the forest, buried among the trees and vines and leaves, rendered invisible. Only then do I know a painting is finished, using the tip of a brush handle to swirl my name into the lower right-hand corner.
Emma Davis.
That same name, in that same borderline-illegible script, now graces a wall of the gallery, greeting visitors as they pass through the hulking sliding doors of this former warehouse in the Meatpacking District. Every other wall is filled with paintings. My paintings. Twenty-seven of them.
My first gallery show.
Randall has gone all out for the opening party, turning the place into a sort of urban forest. There are rust-colored walls and birch trees cut from a forest in New Jersey arranged in tasteful clumps. Ethereal house music throbs discreetly in the background. The lighting suggests October even though it's a week until St. Patrick's Day and outside the streets are piled with dirty slush.
The gallery is packed, though. I'll give Randall that. Collectors, critics, and lookyloos elbow for space in front of the canvases, champagne glasses in hand, reaching every so often for the mushroom-and-goat-cheese croquettes that float by. Already I've been introduced to dozens of people whose names I've instantly forgotten. People of importance. Important enough for Randall to whisper who they are in my ear as I shake their hands.
"From the Times," he says of a woman dressed head to toe in shades of purple. Of a man in an impeccably tailored suit...
Critiques-
May 1, 2018 More psychological suspense from the author of Final Girls (2017).Anyone who grew up watching horror movies in the 1980s knows that summer camp can be a dangerous place. It certainly was for Emma Davis during her first stay at Camp Nightingale. The other three girls in her cabin disappeared one night, never to return. Fifteen years have passed, years in which Emma has revisited this ordeal again and again through her work as a painter. When she's offered another opportunity to spend a summer at the camp, Emma barely hesitates. She's ostensibly there to serve as an art instructor, but her real mission is to finally find out what happened to her friends. Thrillers are, by their very nature, formulaic. Sager met the demands of the genre while offering a fresh, anxiety-inducing story in Final Girls. The author is less successful here. Part of the problem is the pacing. It's so slow that the reader has ample time to notice how contrived the novel's setup is. Emma is clearly unwell, so her decision to go back to the site of her trauma makes some sense, but it's hard to believe that the camp's owners would want her back, especially since she played a pivotal role in turning one of them into a suspect and nearly ruining his life. As a first-person narrator, Emma withholds a lot of information, which feels fake and frustrating; moreover, the revelations--when they come--are hardly worth the wait. And it's hard to trust an author who gets so many details wrong. For example, Emma's first summer at Camp Nightingale would have been around 2003 or so. It beggars belief that a 13-year-old millennial wouldn't be amply prepared for her first period, but that's what Sager wants readers to think. There's a contemporary scene in which girls walk by in a cloud of baby powder, Noxzema, and strawberry-scented shampoo, imagery that is intensely evocative of the 1970s and '80s--not so much 2018. The novel is shot through with such discordant moments, moments that lift us right out of the narrative and shatter the suspense.Sophomore slump.
COPYRIGHT(2018) Kirkus Reviews, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
May 21, 2018 The pseudonymous Sager follows his well-received debut, 2017’s Final Girls, with another gripping thriller. Tragedy strikes Camp Nightingale in Upstate New York when three girls vanish from their cabin in the middle of the night, leaving their younger roommate, Emma Davis, behind. Fifteen years later, Emma—an artist who constantly relives their disappearance through her paintings—is determined to uncover the mystery of her friends’ fate. When Camp Nightingale reopens for the first time since that summer, she returns as an instructor and is haunted by the past and possibly something even more sinister. Suspicion abounds as Emma’s memories of that summer lead her to hidden clues left behind in the wake of the girls’ disappearance. Sager intricately interweaves the past and present as Emma investigates further, realizing that not everyone she once knew can be trusted. A major twist toward the end compensates for the triteness of one of the big reveals. Sager remains a writer to watch. Agent: Michelle Brower, Aevitas Creative Management.
Starred review from June 1, 2018 The summer that Emma Davis spent at Camp Nightingale began like a dream come true but ended in tragedy when her cabin-mates, Vivian, Natalie, and Allison, disappeared. Distraught, Emma accused Nightingale's owner's son of harming the girls, and the camp closed under a cloud of suspicion. Now an up-and-coming artist in New York, Emma is haunted by both the disappearances and guilt over her accusation; she's unable to paint anything other than the missing girls covered in tangled forest-scapes and is tortured by hallucinations of Vivian. When Franny Harris-White, Camp Nightingale's owner, asks her to return as the art instructor for the camp's reopening, Emma agrees, determined to finally uncover what happened to her friends. Her return to the camp brings back the past in full force: Emma is assigned to her old cabin with three girls painfully reminiscent of her friends; her sightings of Vivian intensify; and everyone, from the Harris-Whites to the camp's staff, views her with suspicion. Through the lens of Emma's growing paranoia, whispered campfire tales of the massacre buried in Camp Nightingale's past gain horrifying significance. Sager's second thriller is as tense and twisty as his best-selling Final Girls (2017), but this one is even more polished, with gut-wrenching plot surprises skillfully camouflaged by Emma's paranoia and confusion, the increasingly creepy setting, and a cast of intriguingly secretive characters.(Reprinted with permission of Booklist, copyright 2018, American Library Association.)
February 1, 2018
Having made a strong showing with last year's Final Girls, the pseudonymous Sager returns with another edgy thriller featuring young women in trouble. When up-and-coming artist Emma is invited to be a painting counselor at Camp Nightingale, she welcomes the opportunity to come to terms; years back, three of her cabin mates vanished there. But the atmosphere is pretty unsettling.
Copyright 2018 Library Journal, LLC Used with permission.
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