Reputation : a novel /

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

In this perfectly-paced new novel from Sara Shepard, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Pretty Little Liars , the women of a tight-knit college town learn through gossip, scandal, betrayal, and even murder, who their neighbors and husbands really are.

Aldrich University is rocked to its core when a hacker dumps 40,000 people's e-mails--the entire faculty, staff, students, alums--onto an easily searchable database. Rumors and affairs immediately leak, but things turn explosive when Kit Manning's handsome husband, Dr. Greg Strasser, is found murdered. Kit's sister, Willa, returns for the funeral, setting foot in a hometown she fled fifteen years ago, after a night she wishes she could forget. As an investigative reporter, Willa knows something isn't right about the night Greg was killed, and she's determined to find the truth. What she doesn't expect is that everyone has something to hide. And with a killer on the loose, Willa and Kit must figure out who killed Greg before someone else is murdered.

Told from multiple points of view, Reputation is full of twists, turns, and shocking reveals. It's a story of intrigue, sabotage, and the secrets we keep--and how far we go to keep them hidden. Number one bestseller Sara Shepard is at the top of her game in this brand-new adult novel.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

1   KIT   Monday, April 24, 2017   I've already had two strong martinis before hitting the rooftop bar at the Hotel Monaco in Old City, Philadelphia, which isn't like me at all. But my foundation's clients, the very reason I'm on this business trip? They bailed on me at the last minute. Decided to go to a horse show instead. I tried to insinuate myself into their outing-not that I wanted to go to a horse show-but either they didn't get my hint or they didn't want my company.   I take my job very seriously. I raise money for Aldrich University, one of the best private colleges in the whole United States-it's up there with the Harvards and Stanfords of the world, and actually tougher to get into. Ever since my first husband passed away, I've been the university's leading ensnarer of Big Fish Donors. I seek out alumnae far and wide, vetting their newly minted positions as heads of hospitals or as CEOs, tracking the science prizes they've recently won, making it my business to know if the books they've written have hit the New York Times Best Sellers list. And then I pounce, stroking their egos, showering them with praise, reminding them of the prestigious academic roots from which they hail and that the right thing to do, when enjoying their kind of wealth and success, is to give back. I get a rush when I receive a huge check from a new donor-it's my version of doing drugs. So when I find out that Dr. and Mrs. Robert Hawser of Devon, Pennsylvania, will be watching dressage instead of coming out with Kit Manning-Strasser of Aldrich University Charitable Giving for some wining and dining, I take it pretty damn hard.   Have I done something wrong? I'm not even the one who groomed these people-it was Lynn Godfrey, a pushy, grating, competitive woman from my department. I consider calling her and chewing her out, but I don't chew people out. I am graceful and humble and know when to back off. Next week, I will reach out to the Hawsers again. I will be kind and forgiving and gracious. We will start over.   But right now I have nothing to do in Philadelphia. I've checked in with my airline: All flights back to Pittsburgh tonight are booked. I don't feel like seeing the Liberty Bell. I don't feel like walking down South Street. I could finalize the plans for the Aldrich Giving Gala this Wednesday, but the party is such a well-oiled machine that there isn't much to do.   I've never been great with idle hands.   I uncap the first airplane-size vodka bottle in my room and call my daughters. First, I reach sweet, cheerful Sienna in her dorm room (she's an Aldrich freshman, and I've interrupted a study session). After a forty-two-second conversation in which Sienna profusely apologizes for not being able to speak longer, I then speak to quiet, sullen sixteen-year-old Aurora. She's at home but getting ready to go out. "Where?" I ask, suspicious. It's a school night. Aurora assures me she's just going to Sophie's house to study for a physics test, nothing to freak out over.   I mix the next drink as I dial Greg, my second husband of two years. Our conversation is short and about nothing but the basics. I don't tell him that my clients have bailed on me because, well, it isn't the picture of myself I want to paint. Greg doesn't ask me why I sound so down because that isn't the man he wants to be for me . . . though I believed he did, once. I confirm I am alive. He tells me the same. I remind him that the giving gala is in two days. It's kind of like an adult prom, the university's biggest fund-raiser of the year, and Greg is a no-brainer choice for my date, not that I'm exactly looking forward to it.   My phone pings shortly after I hang up with him. When I look down, it's a text from an unlisted number.   Get ready.   That's all it says. Frowning, I write back: Who is this?   No answer. A chill runs up my spine. Get ready for what?   A loud horn honk outside startles me. I turn and notice that my window curtains are flung open, affording me a view of the rooftops and the bridge beyond. A pigeon flaps from a nearby roost. I have a tingling sensation that I'm being watched.   I leap up and yank the blinds closed. I need out of this hotel room. I want company, noise, and maybe another drink. The closest place is the hotel's rooftop bar.         "You should try a naughty mule," says a voice beside me after I slide onto a barstool.   A man sits catty-corner to me on one of the gray couches, half-hidden behind a large marble post. I'm irked that he's been eavesdropping. I've been debating with the bartender-a discerning, fiftyish man with half-mast eyes who is pretentiously overdressed in a three-piece suit-between a Moscow mule and a gimlet. After that strange, anonymous, cryptic text I'd received in my room, the last thing I want are random eyes on me.   But my eavesdropper smiles jovially enough. I twist around to get a better look at him. By the way his legs stretch from the couch, I can tell that he's quite tall. His face is square and friendly, and his dark hair curls over his oxford collar. The corners of his eyes turn down in a way that seems trustworthy, and he has a big, wide, straight smile, with good, square teeth. He looks like a preppy, naughty schoolboy, as if he might be hiding a slingshot behind his back. I notice he's wearing Vans sneakers instead of loafers with his suit. Still dressed for my meeting, I am wearing Yves Saint Laurent pumps that paralyze my toes.   "It's vodka mixed with jalape-o and cayenne pepper," Schoolboy explains, holding up a copper mug. "If you like spicy, you won't find anything better."   My eyelashes lower, then lift. "What makes you think I like spicy?"   One eyebrow rises. His eyes drift down to my exposed legs, my high heels. "Do you?" he asks, in a voice that, unless I'm crazy, oozes with flirtation.   "Wouldn't you like to know," I shoot back. Then I chastise myself. Kit Manning-Strasser is not a woman who flirts with random men in hotel bars. I catch the bartender's eye. "Just a Tanqueray and tonic, please."   The bartender turns to mix it up, with a smirk on his face. He sets down my cocktail silently, and I swear I hear him snicker. My cheeks are on fire; even a sip of the drink can't extinguish the heat.   As the bartender turns away, there's a voice behind me: "Don't mind Bertram. He's a judgmental prick."   Schoolboy again. I can feel his gaze on my back as though it's a heat lamp. "You know him?" I ask nonchalantly.   "Nope. Just met him today. But I can tell. I'm good at reading people."   I pretend to be interested in the flickering votive candle on the bar. I'm still trying to process why this man thought I like spicy things. Or perhaps this is his line to every woman he meets.   Schoolboy interprets some tiny movement I've made as a cue to slip off the couch and take the stool next to mine. "I'm Patrick," he says, those crinkly, downturned eyes slow, careful magnets drawing me toward him.   "Kit," I answer.   He does not offer his hand to shake, so I don't offer mine, either. "So are you here on business?" I coolly ask.   He holds up a palm to say, Halt. "Come now. We're going to have that conversation?"   I blink. "Pardon?"   "We're at a hotel. We don't know each other. We can make boring chitchat, or we could actually have an interesting talk." He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. He has nice forearms, I notice. Muscular. He's also not wearing a wedding band.   "And what, in your estimation, is an interesting talk?" I ask. "You want to talk about politics? Global warming? Health care?"   "I want to talk about who we really want to be." His eyes gleam. "It's a game I play when I travel. It's not often that we get the opportunity to be someone other than ourselves, you know? I'm not going to tell you where I'm actually from, but where I want to be from. You won't tell me what you actually do for a living, but what you want to do, in your wildest dreams."   A Tiffany lamp, perhaps authentic, sends glittering trapezoids across the marble bar. Out a long set of floor-to-ceiling windows, a rooftop deck beckons, though it is too cold to venture outside. I think of that line from "Eleanor Rigby," one of my mother's favorite songs. The title character puts on the face she keeps in a jar by the door whenever there are visitors. Who is Eleanor when she doesn't have to be Eleanor? Who am I when I don't have to be Kit Manning-Strasser?   "Interesting." I turn away slightly. "Except I'm not feeling very creative tonight, I'm afraid."   "It's not a matter of creativity. It's about looking into yourself. Knowing yourself. So you're saying you don't know yourself?"   In the background, the soft, unobtrusive electronica song ends, and another begins. Kit Manning-Strasser, I want to tell him, is not a woman who has these conversations. But it does beg a question: Do I know myself? Do I know what I want?   I think of all I have. But I also think of all the wrong paths I've taken. I think of how hard I pretend. Everything I haven't said. Everything I've wanted. Everything I've gained and lost.   "Fine," I say slowly, without quite realizing it. I settle back in my seat, and I ask him the very same question. "Where you are traveling from, Patrick?"   His eyes sparkle. "A little town in the South of France. It's known for its lemons. You?"   "Marrakesh," I answer, because I went there once with my parents when my father was on sabbatical-just a few years before I had to identify my mother's mangled body in the morgue after a drunk driver T-boned her car at ninety miles an hour. Marrakesh was the most magical place I've ever been. I've always meant to go back, and though my new husband has the cash to make such a trip happen, it's a little exotic for his taste. "And what do you do?"   "I'm a weather pilot. I fly into the center of hurricanes." He answers swiftly, like he's done this before. "And on the weekends, I race antique cars professionally. Preferably around old, crumbling cities with lots of tight turns."   "So you like danger." I crunch down on a piece of ice. "Thrills."   One eyebrow lifts again. "You could say that. And what do you do, Kit?"   I think of Pulp Fiction, which my sister, Willa, and I used to watch obsessively in high school, especially in those months after our mother died. "I'm the keeper of the meaning of life. It's in a box in my room right now, and I have to guard it with my life. I get paid very handsomely for doing so."   "Did they let you in on what the meaning of life is?" Patrick asks.   I nod mysteriously. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."   "So you're a woman who likes to hold all the cards, then."   I shrug. "I like certainty."   Our eyes meet. Even in our lies, we have told one another something real.   There is lime residue in my teeth. The bartender has his back to us now, perhaps having written us off as flirtatious philanderers. And then Patrick-is that even his real name?-glances at my left hand and says, "And what's your husband like?"   I turn my fat diamond ring to the inside of my palm. "Actually, I'm a widow." This isn't a lie. "Do you have a husband? A wife?"   There is something about the way he's looking at me that makes me feel scooped out and raw. "Neither."   Is he serious, or is this just what he wants to be true? I'm not sure which answer I want more.   We have two more drinks and spin tales about ourselves. He has jet-setters for parents. I have distant relations to royals. I say I committed a few stealthy murders in my youth. Patrick says he was once shot off into space and spent days in orbit before NASA figured out he was missing. Midway into drink number three, we turn somber. Patrick tells me he has never fallen in love and isn't sure love is real. I tell him that I have, when I was young, but then I discovered it's a fallacy. This is actually my truth, which I know isn't the rules, but I'm tipsy, and Patrick is inching closer to me with every word he breathes, and something is happening, something I can't quite understand.   Naughty, the cautious part of my brain reminds me again and again. I'm married to a handsome, successful man. I have two smart, successful teenage daughters. From an outsider's perspective, I have it all. But here in the darkness of this strange bar, it all feels so far away. When I look back at that life, the one I'd been steeped in only twelve hours before, it's that Kit who seems false, not this one.   Patrick's chili-infused breath could ignite a forest fire. He looks at me as though he's known me forever. I'm so dazzled, and I wonder if he somehow has. "And what, royal murderess keeper-of-truth, do you want to do right now?" he asks. Excerpted from Reputation: A Novel by Sara Shepard All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

Reviews provided by Syndetics

Publishers Weekly Review

The murder of cardiac surgeon Greg Strasser in the home he shared with his fund-raiser wife, Kit Manning-Strasser, and his two stepdaughters propels this exceptional suspense novel from Shepard (The Elizas). Days earlier, a massive hack of the email system of Pittsburgh's Aldrich University revealed explicit correspondence from the victim's secret affair. Sharing the narration are a number of women whom Greg's death touches, including Kit; Kit's jealous, opportunistic coworker, Lynn Godfrey; Greg's colleague, nurse, and new mother Laura Apatrea; and Kit's distant sister, investigative reporter Willa Manning, who confronts her own history while helping to exonerate Kit. By giving each woman more than sufficient motivation to have killed Greg (Lynn and Laura also have reason to suspect their spouses) and making them sympathetic, the author ensures that the reader is pulled between revulsion and the urge to accept each one's self-justifications for her behavior. In this viscerally satisfying thriller, Shepard forces readers to contemplate the inescapable aftereffects of impulsive poor choices. Agent: Andy McNicol, WME. (Dec.)

Booklist Review

In this fifth adult novel (after The Elizas, 2018) from the New York Times best-selling author of the YA series Pretty Little Liars, the smug women of a college town learn who their colleagues and husbands really are after elite Aldrich University's emails are hacked. Everyone's bad judgment and misdeeds, including those of faculty, staff, students, and alums, are available for the world to see. The initial gasps turn sinister as both petty and deadly acts of revenge are played out. Shepard throws every cliché imaginable at the reader and then artfully massages them into a brilliant narrative told in the voices of the many women involved in the story who, having managed to make victims of one sort or another of themselves, all emerge victorious, each in her own fashion. Kit Manning's surgeon husband, outed as a total lech, is found murdered, and Kit's reputation is further battered by the reemergence of rumors that the surgeon allowed Kit's first husband die on the operating table. Kit's sister reluctantly returns to help, despite the painful and secret memories she holds of Aldrich. Everyone is hiding a closetful of secrets, which, when finally revealed, provide some excellent misdirection and a few OMG moments, until one final and shocking truth emerges. Fans of domestic suspense will devour this one.--Jane Murphy Copyright 2010 Booklist

Kirkus Book Review

When a mysterious hacker exposes sensitive emails at Aldrich University, everyone's secrets are laid bare to public scrutiny. But no one saw surgeon Greg Strasser's murder coming.The data breach reveals Blue Hill, Pennsylvania, to be a veritable Peyton Place of disgrace, including extramarital affairs, testing scandals, and fraternity rape accusations. Hidden in Greg's trash folder are emails to a "Lolita Bovary" that cast him as certainly a philanderer and quite possibly a pedophile. After the Aldrich Giving Gala, Greg's wife, Kit, awakens from a drunken stupor to discover him stabbed in the kitchen. Could she have killed him out of rage? Or perhaps it was Kit's ambitious co-worker Lynn, eager to push Kit off the corporate ladder by framing her for murder? Then again, where was Lynn's husband that night? And who is Lolita? Kit's daughter, Sienna, is certainly sad about her stepfather's death, but her friend Raina's grief seems suspiciously excessive. Meanwhile, Kit's sister, Willa, is back in town. An investigative reporter with secrets in her own past, Willa is loath to stay a minute past the funeral reception, but how can she refuse to help Kit stay out of jail? With nods to Big Little Lies as well as her own Pretty Little Liars series, Shepard (The Elizas, 2018, etc.) brilliantly hides the identity of the true villain in the gaps between characters. An Agatha Christie for the 21st century, Shepard masterfully crafts a prestigious town rife with hidden temptation and sin. So Willa gets her chance to play Miss Marple, albeit a much younger, hipper version, and her sleuthing deftly exposes unexpected links between characters. From chapter to chapter, Shepard's plotting breathlessly careens between characters, with each cliffhanger swiftly answered by another, ratcheting up the stakes until the killer is finally unmasked.A fast-paced, twisty-turny mystery perfect for a cozy weekend read. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Author notes provided by Syndetics

Sara Shepard is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Pretty Little Liars series, The Lying Game, The Heiresses , The Elizas , and The Perfectionists .