What Hank's Writing? During Pre-Launch Jitters, an introduction

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: ​​I'm so excited, I just can’t hide it (yes, I am singing) because next week at this time,THE HOUSE GUEST will be in bookstores, and on shelves, and online, and, I deeply profoundly hope, in your hot little hands. So far, so good. It’s an Amazon Editors’ Pick for Best Mystery Thriller and Suspense, and was (so far) up to number 7 (yes, 7!) in new releases of psychological suspense. (It actually went to 6, but hey. This photo is handy.)

It got a starred review from Library Journal, which called it “binge-worthy!" And Publishers Weekly raved “Ryan is a master of suspense.” So that's very very very wonderful.

It does not, however, take away one bit of nerves. It really doesn't.

So in What We're Writing week, let me introduce you to the main character of THE HOUSE GUEST, Alyssa Macallen. Alyssa is reeling and baffled because her husband of eight years, to whom she thought she was happily married, has walked out. Without explanation, and without answering any questions about it. Just... gone. Why?

Even more, she's fearful that Bill, the powerful affluent and quite manipulative Bill, is scheming to ruin her. Why? She has no idea.

Though she is living alone in their gorgeous house right now, she knows Bill has been coming inside when she's not home. He has control of the alarm system, so she leaves her own special traps throughout. A flower on the front step. A vase in a certain place. And a few other things. (And you'll have to read more about that.)

One night, after a solitary miserable drink in a neighborhood hotel bar, Alyssa meets someone who seems even sadder than she does. And Alyssa decides that instead of wallowing in her own grief, she'll offer help to someone else. And here's a little bit of that.


From THE HOUSE GUEST

She’d tried to help people too, starting in law school, but Bill had persuaded her to leave. Not really persuaded, she corrected herself, she’d swooned with wanting him. Being Bill’s wife, she’d soon learned, was a job in itself. No bar exam, but in this privileged world there were other tests, constant and sometimes intimidatingly puzzling tests. Tests of manners and money, of actions and clothing and hierarchy. Still, she hadn’t missed law school, or her friends from back then, not for a second. Not for eight years at least.

Then, a few months ago, Bill had grown—complicated. Moody. Seemed to become more high-strung, wielding his power. Criticizing her, snappish and belittling. Accusing her of being forgetful, pouncing on her mistakes. Closing his study door. She’d written it off as business, something in Bill-money-world.

She’d tried to be patient. But she couldn’t resist. She’d looked them up, the symptoms. How to know if your husband is cheating. Embarrassed but obsessed, she’d taken the quizzes in Marie Claire and Psychology Today. Moody, yes. Dismissive, yes. Changed, yes. Demeaning, vague, volatile. Yes yes yes.

On a scale of one to ten, does he seem to be trying to bait you? Does he go out of his way to taunt you? Scare you? Ten, she checked the box. Ten.

At least Bill never hit her. Never physically harmed her. Not like Bree.

Bree.

She trudged upstairs, thinking of the woman in the bar. Alyssa knew unhappiness when she saw it. After tonight’s conversation, tentative steps on emotional thin ice, Bree let Alyssa pay for her wine, thanked her politely, then said goodbye. Alyssa had written her own phone number on a napkin, and slid it across the zinc bar to Bree. “Call me if you need anything. Really.” Alyssa had hesitated, fearing it might seem too forward. Too aggressive. Too intrusive.

But men did that without a second thought.

Bree had accepted the napkin, tucking it into a pocket, but had not offered her own number in return. And with a wave, she’d walked away, leaving Alyssa alone again.

Now Alyssa washed her face, drew on a big soft t-shirt. Sliding under the covers, she put her phone on the white bedside table, and plugged it in to charge.

She promised herself she’d stop being paranoid, stop wishing for secret messages, start facing reality. She closed her eyes, resolute. She thought of Bree, alone in that not-quite-seedy hotel, equally apprehensive and ambivalent. Why were women always the ones who were harmed?

The sounds of the night surrounded her, the sounds of her solitude, and her anxiety. Had someone moved the tulips? No one had stepped on the front-steps flower, so how could they– --Bill--have gotten in?

A million ways, her mind rebuked her. Instead of sheep, she counted fears, individual nameless fears. She was afraid to go to sleep—what if she’d missed something? What if someone was inside? What was Bill trying to do? But if she stayed awake, there was danger in every sound. Sixty-five hundred square feet, and a guest house. And every square foot was paved with uncertainty.


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Talk about every step paved with uncertainty—welcome to pre-launch week! But this sets up a few things: not only Alyssa’s situation, but women helping women, female empowerment maybe in the works, a double standard for men and women. 

 THE HOUSE GUEST has been called Gaslight meets Thelma & Louise meets Strangers on a Train.

Reds and readers, what would you predict that means? (And cross your fingers for me! I cannot do it without you, wonderful ones!)