Benjamin Stevenson

When the Australian Mystery Writers’ Society invited me to their crime-writing festival aboard the Ghan, the famous train between Darwin and Adelaide, I was hoping for some inspiration for my second book. Fiction, this time: I needed a break from real people killing each other. Obviously, that didn’t pan out. The program is a who’s who of crime writing royalty: the debut writer (me!) the forensic science writer the blockbuster writer the legal thriller writer the literary writer the psychological suspense writer But when one of us is murdered, the remaining authors quickly turn into five detectives. Together, we should know how to solve a crime. Of course, we should also know how to commit one. How can you find a killer when all the suspects know how to get away with murder?

Benjamin Stevenson returns with a Christmas addition to his bestselling, “deviously good fun” (Nita Prose), Ernest Cunningham mysteries. Unwrap all the Christmas staples: presents, family, an impossible murder or two, and a deadly advent calendar of clues. If Knives Out and The Thursday Murder Club kissed under the mistletoe. My name’s Ernest Cunningham. I used to be a fan of reading Golden Age murder mysteries, until I found myself with a haphazard career getting stuck in the middle of real-life ones. I’d hoped, this Christmas, that any self-respecting murderer would kick their feet up and take it easy over the holidays. I was wrong. So here I am, backstage at the show of world-famous magician Rylan Blaze, whose benefactor has just been murdered. My suspects are all professional tricksters: masters of the art of misdirection. THE MAGICIAN THE ASSISTANT THE EXECUTIVE THE HYPNOTIST THE IDENTICAL TWIN THE COUNSELLOR THE TECH My clues are even more abstract: A suspect covered in blood, without a memory of how it got there. A murder committed without setting foot inside the room where it happens. And an advent calendar. Because, you know, it’s Christmas. If I can see through the illusions, I know I can solve it. After all, a good murder is just like a magic trick, isn’t it?

Every object has a ghost. There is a small yellow backpack - half unzipped, mouth yawning to the pavement, contents strewn around it (a banana, an exercise book, a pair of scissors) - abandoned on a suburban footpath. Ten feet away, the rubber stamp of tyres, resisting clamped brakes, mount the curb and cut across the path. The tracks come to an end at a crippled stop sign. The street, a tree-lined suburban road dappled in late-afternoon sunlight, is calm. But anyone walking past can feel the ghosts: the prickle on the back of their necks that tells them something happened here. The story of a vehicle careening to a halt. Of a child’s backpack left in a hurry. That intuition all comes before they take a closer look, and see there is dark, dry red on the scissor’s blade. The ghosts are screaming now; the scene’s memory turns violent. And as the passers-by raise their phones to answer the question what is your emergency? They see more red. Between the tyre-tracks and the blood. There are two words, hastily scrawled on the sidewalk. Written in blood. FIND US.

From the bestselling author of Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone, a fiendishly fun locked room (train) murder mystery that "offers a tip of the hat to the great Agatha Christie novel while at the same time being a modern reinvention of it" (Nita Prose)— perfect for fans of Richard Osman and Anthony Horowitz.

Everyone in my family has killed someone. Some of us, the high achievers, have killed more than once. I'm not trying to be dramatic, but it is the truth. Some of us are good, others are bad, and some just unfortunate. I'm Ernest Cunningham. Call me Ern or Ernie. I wish I'd killed whoever decided our family reunion should be at a ski resort, but it's a little more complicated than that. Have I killed someone? Yes. I have. Who was it? Let's get started. EVERYONE IN MY FAMILY HAS KILLED SOMEONE My brother My stepsister My wife My father My mother My sister-in-law My uncle My stepfather My aunt Me

"An outstanding debut-confident, compelling, with a surprise around every corner. I loved it." —Jane Harper, New York Times bestselling author of The DryProducer Jack Quick knows how to frame a story. So says Curtis Wade, the subject of Jack's new true crime docuseries, convicted of a young woman's murder four years prior. In the eyes of Jack's viewers, flimsy evidence and police bias influenced the final verdict...even though, off screen, Jack himself has his doubts. But when the series finale is wildly successful, a retrial sees Curtis walk free. And then another victim turns up dead.To set things right, Jack goes back to the sleepy vineyard town where it all began, bent on discovering what really happened. Because behind the many stories he tells, the truth is Jack's last chance. He may have sprung a killer from jail, but he's also the one that can send him back. NOTE: This was first published in Australia with the title Greenlight, reissued UK: She Lies in the Vines, US: Trust Me When I Lie.

Four years ago, in the small town of Birravale, Eliza Daley was murdered. Within hours, her killer was caught. Wasn't he? So reads the opening titles of Jack Quick's new true-crime documentary. A skilled producer, Jack knows that the bigger the conspiracy, the higher the ratings - and he claims Curtis Wade was convicted on flimsy evidence and shoddy police work. Millions of viewers agree. Just before the final episode, Jack uncovers a minor detail that may prove Curtis guilty after all. Convinced it will ruin his show, Jack disposes of the evidence and delivers the finale unedited, leading to Curtis's eventual release. Then a new victim is found bearing horrifying similarities to the original murder. Has Jack just helped a killer walk free? Determined to set things right, Jack returns to Birravale looking for answers. But with his own secrets lurking just beneath the surface, Jack knows more than anyone what a fine line it is between fact and fiction. Between life and death. Now there's only one option left. The truth.