Reading The Lake House

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Secret Keeper comes a “moody, suspenseful page-turner” ( People , Best Book Pick) filled with mystery and spellbinding secrets.

Living on her family’s idyllic lakeside estate in Cornwall, England, Alice Edevane is a bright, inquisitive, and precociously talented sixteen-year-old who loves to write stories.

One midsummer’s eve, after a beautiful party drawing hundreds of guests to the estate has ended, the Edevanes discover that their youngest child, eleven-month-old Theo, has vanished without a trace. He is never found, and the family is torn apart, the house abandoned.

Decades later, Alice is living in London, having enjoyed a long successful career as a novelist. Miles away, Sadie Sparrow, a young detective in the London police force, is staying at her grandfather’s house in Cornwall. While out walking one day, she stumbles upon the old Edevane estate—now crumbling and covered with vines. Her curiosity is sparked, setting off a series of events that will bring her and Alice together and reveal shocking truths about a past long gone...yet more present than ever.

A lush, atmospheric tale of intertwined destinies from a masterful storyteller, The Lake House is an enthralling, thoroughly satisfying read.

Review

"Morton's moody, suspenseful latest is the perfect page-turner for a chilly night." -- People Magazine The Best Books of the Fall ( The Lake House ) ― People

"..a rich and almost magical good old-fashioned tale...a fabulous addition to her work...whisks the reader away into another world...The Lake House is the perfect read for cold, dark nights" Ft. Worth Star Telegram (The Lake House) ― Ft. Worth Star Telegram

"Skillful, suspenseful, surprising...a perfect read for ...dark winter evenings...Morton is a master of suspense" The Philadelphia Inquirer (The Lake House) ― The Philadelphia Inquirer

"..a stunning, well-woven mystery that will keep readers hooked through myriad twists and turns. There are secrets within secrets in this story, and every time readers think they've figured it out, something new will be revealed." -- San Diego Book Review (The Lake House) ― San Diego Book Review

"Compelling...Morton's plotting is impeccable, and her finely wrought characters...are as surprised as readers will be by the astonishing conclusion." -- Publisher's Weekly *** (The Lake House) ― Publisher's Weekly

"Brilliant...delivers the satisfactions of all her bestsellers since debuting with The House at Riverton...perfect books for just about every reader." -- Library Journal (The Lake House) ― Library Journal

"In the latest from Morton, secrets from the past come to light in the present, a theme that is the author’s specialty…. Missing babies, maternal sacrifice, and secrets, secrets, secrets—Morton offers generous clues, only to peel back deeper layers just when the truth seems close…not short on heart-wrenching choices and rich characters ." -- Booklist (The Lake House) ― Booklist

About the Author

Kate Morton is the award-winning, New York Times bestselling author of The House at Riverton , The Forgotten Garden , The Distant Hours , The Secret Keeper , The Lake House , and The Clockmaker’s Daughter. Her books are published in 34 languages and have been #1 bestsellers worldwide. She is a native Australian, holds degrees in dramatic art and English literature. She lives with her family in London and Australia.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The Lake House

1

CORNWALL, AUGUST 1933

The rain was heavy now and the hem of her dress was splattered with mud. She’d have to hide it afterwards; no one could know that she’d been out.

Clouds covered the moon, a stroke of luck she didn’t deserve, and she made her way through the thick, black night as quickly as she could. She’d come earlier to dig the hole, but only now, under veil of darkness, would she finish the job. Rain stippled the surface of the trout stream, drummed relentlessly on the earth beside it. Something bolted through the bracken nearby, but she didn’t flinch, didn’t stop. She’d been in and out of the woods all her life and knew the way by heart.

Back when it first happened, she’d considered confessing, and perhaps, in the beginning, she might have. She’d missed her chance, though, and now it was too late. Too much had happened: the search parties, the policemen, the articles in the newspapers pleading for information. There was no one she could tell, no way to fix it, no way they would ever forgive her. The only thing left was to bury the evidence.

She reached the place she’d chosen. The bag, with its box inside, was surprisingly heavy and it was a relief to put it down. On hands and knees, she pulled away the camouflage of ferns and branches. The smell of sodden soil was overwhelming, of wood mouse and mushrooms, of other moldering things. Her father had told her once that generations had walked these woods and been buried deep beneath the heavy earth. It made him glad, she knew, to think of it that way. He found comfort in the continuity of nature, believing that the stability of the long past had the power to alleviate present troubles. And maybe in some cases it had, but not this time, not these troubles.

She lowered the bag into the hole and for a split second the moon seemed to peer from behind a cloud. Tears threatened as she scooped the dirt back, but she fought them. To cry, here and now, was an indulgence she refused to grant herself. She patted the ground flat, slapped her hands against it, and stomped down hard with her boots until she was out of breath.

There. It was done.

It crossed her mind that she should say something before she left this lonely place. Something about the death of innocence, the deep remorse that would follow her always; but she didn’t. The inclination made her feel ashamed.

She made her way back quickly through the woods, careful to avoid the boathouse and its memories. Dawn was breaking as she reached the house; the rain was light. The lake’s water lapped at its banks and the last of the nightingales called farewell. The blackcaps and warblers were waking, and far in the distance a horse whinnied. She didn’t know it then, but she would never be rid of them, those sounds; they would follow her from this place, this time, invading her dreams and nightmares, reminding her always of what she had done.