Katie and Eric Knox have dedicated their lives to their fifteen-year-old daughter Devon, a gymnastics prodigy and Olympic hopeful. But when a violent death rocks their close-knit gym community just weeks before an all-important competition, everything the Knoxes have worked so hard for feels suddenly at risk. As rumors swirl among the other parents, revealing hidden plots and allegiances, Katie tries frantically to hold her family together while also finding herself drawn, irresistibly, to the crime itself, and the dark corners it threatens to illuminate.
You Will Know Me is a breathless rollercoaster of a novel about the desperate limits of desire, jealousy, and ambition.
Learn about the inspiration behind You Will Know Me at Entertainment Weekly.
Stephen King gives a shoutout to You Will Know Me.
"No American is writing more audacious crime fiction than Megan Abbott." –Tom Nolan, WSJ
You Will Know Me chosen one of Best Books of 2016 by NPR, the Wall Street Journal, the Boston Globe, Time Out NY, the Washington Post, Google, Publishers Weekly and Kirkus Reviews.
"The twinned thrill and peril of teen-age sexuality… recurs in subtle ways throughout the book… [Abbott's] prose, and her focus on teen-age desire, ambition, and secrecy, have a broad, cinematic appeal."— New Yorker
"Mesmerizing and nerve-jangling "— Boston Globe
"Worthy of the gold… a masterful thriller… a terrific accompaniment to this summer's Olympic frenzy."— NPR Fresh Air
"Brilliant…Beneath the glittering carapace of Abbott's lush, skillful, subtle writing, it's impossible to know what we're supposed to think… All of this Abbott pulls off with breathtaking skill." — New York Times Book Review (Editor's Choice)
"Our laureate of female adolescence...Abbott's finest novel thus far."— USA Today
"A book with the taut and muscular ruthlessness of a gymnast, a book that disorients with eerie counter-melodies... YOU WILL KNOW ME takes swift, unsettling, apparently effortless flight." — NPR.org
"Brilliant and disturbing...[a] richly textured and chameleonic book."— Wall Street Journal
"Taut and raw, this is a mesmerizing story from a master of suspense." — People
"[Abbott] is in top form in this novel. She resumes her customary role of black cat, opaque and unblinking, filling her readers with queasy suspicion at every turn." – New York Times
Also, read Megan's "By the Book" in the New York Times Book Review
"Ingenious… a masterful tale that's both suspenseful and an eerily accurate portrait of the way teenage and parental cliques operate….It's Abbott's psychological smarts that make "You Will Know Me" such a standout. " Washington Post
"The underlying tension she sustains is so beautifully unbearable… Scene by scene and moment to moment, she keeps you on edge — the same way "Breaking Bad" did, without the meth or machismo…un-put-downable… Abbott is a literary descendant of Richard Yates [and] John Cheever. " – Chicago Tribune
"Abbott just keeps raising the bar." – New York Magazine
"What puts flesh on the bones of Abbott's flying cheetah of suspense is her insight into parenting, marriage and various sorts of interpersonal rivalry… Abbott [is] above other writers in this genre, making her something of a Stephen King, whose work hangs right on the edge of the literary while making your skin crawl." – Newsday
"A literary stylist… [Abbott's] books are driven as much by intricate character development and rhythmic sentences as they are by plot. They could easily be shelved with literary fiction." -- Wall Street Journal
Read a Roundtable discussion on thriller writing with Megan, James Patterson and Blake Crouch in the Wall Street Journal
“Women Are Writing the Best Crime Novels” —The Atlantic
“Are We in the Golden Age of Women Crime Writers?” —Independent (UK)
“After Agatha Christie: Female Crime Writers Delve Deep Into Women’s Worst Fears” —The Guardian
In Style: Books You Need to Read in July
One of Entertainment Weekly’s Ten Must-Reads of the Summer
Glamour’s Best Reads of the Summer
New York Daily News’s Books Everyone Will Be Talking About This Summer
One of Publisher’s Weekly Best Books of the Summer
One of Elle’s Summer Books Everyone Will Be Talking About
Read Megan’s interview about You Will Know Me in Library Journal
“Almost unbearably tense, chilling and addictive, You Will Know Me deftly transports the reader to the hyper-competitive arena of gymnastics where the dreams and aspirations of not just families but entire communities rest on the slender shoulders of one teenage girl. Exceptional.”
–Paula Hawkins, author of the #1 bestseller The Girl on the Train
“Gritty, graphic, and yet beautiful and dreamlike in the way the story unfolds, You Will Know Me comes barreling at you with all the power and urgency of a high-speed train, as Abbott asserts herself as one of the greatest crime writers of our time.”
–Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl
“That rarefied sweet spot between unnerving psychological suspense and a family drama with heart, You Will Know Me induces equal parts dread and unease, empathy and warmth. The pages couldn’t turn fast enough as I dug deeper into the peculiar and fascinating Knox-family world, trying to figure out who was lying, who was telling the truth, and who was dangerous. Luscious writing, a timely and unique premise, and an ending that will haunt you all summer long.”
–Jessica Knoll, New York Times bestselling author of The Luckiest Girl Alive
“Is there anything Megan Abbott can’t do? We will have to wait for the answer to that question because You Will Know Me continues her formidable winning streak. This story of an ordinary family with an extraordinary child is gorgeously written, psychologically astute, a page-turner that forces you to slow down and savor every word. And, yes—please forgive me—she totally sticks the landing.”
—Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author of After I’m Gone
"Abbott has a knack for dissecting the dark, beating heart of the most all-American activity... Her Dare Me (2012) brought a Fight Club intensity to cheerleading. This equally dazzling tale [is]....vivid, troubling, and powerful-and Abbott totally sticks the landing."
—Booklist, Starred Review
Go Devon! Knox Rox! Next Stop: Elite Qualifiers!
BelStars 4-Ever! Regional Champs!
The vinyl banners rippled from the air vent, the restaurant roiling with parents, the bobbing of gymnast heads, music gushing from the weighty speakers keeled on the window ledges.
Slung around Devon's neck were three medals, two silver and one gold, her first regional-champion title on the vault.
"I'm so proud of you, sweetie," Katie whispered in her daughter's ear. "You can do anything."
Later, Katie would come to think of that night as the key to everything that came after, the secret code.
But at the time, it was just another party, a celebration like dozens of others, all to honor their exceptional fifteen-year-old daughter.
In six months, Devon would compete in Elite Qualifiers and, after years of bruising toil and hamstring tears and twenty-five thousand dollars in credit-card debt and one fateful misstep at her last qualifier, would at last assume the mantle of Senior Elite. From there, anything felt possible.
Everything was glowing: the disco ball spinning above, and the Sterno lights flickering under the kebabs and lomi-lomi atop long tables skirted with raffia, candles in coconut shells and pineapples that Katie had helped hollow out with ice cream scoopers.
Everyone was wearing leis in honor of the booster club's Polynesian theme, and Katie spotted Devon smelling hers, the only one made with real orchids, purple and green, the exalted Coach T. having draped it over her head as she walked under the thatched arch to great applause. Hail our Devon, he'd intoned, that big voice of his, for the future of BelStars rests on these powerful shoulders!
It was the giddiest Katie had ever seen her daughter. Maybe it was the night, or the plastic cup of rum-spiked punch Eric let her have, offering some small release from the tight pincers that held her constantly.
In a corner, her son, Drew, sat with two other quiet fourth-grade boys, eating frozen bananas dipped in chocolate, their heads craned over handheld games. He was quieter than usual, scolded earlier for spilling, or pouring, chocolate milk all over Devon's perfectly softened good-luck grips.
"But Devon never gets in trouble," he'd said. "Not for sassing, or doing the treadmill when she's supposed to rest her knee. Not even for sneaking out at night."
"I never snuck out," Devon had insisted.
"You were dreaming," Katie had reminded him. He was always dreaming about his sister, saying he'd heard her, seen her doing things impossible and forbidden. Mom, Devon was on the roof, flying. Her bed was on fire, Dad. When he was little, he used to dream she had claws for feet.
"Buddy," Eric had said. "Let your sister have her night."
But Katie had whispered a promise to him: all the coconut cake and pineapple kebabs he wanted as long as he behaved.
By her second cocktail, fabric petals tickling her cheek, Katie had forgotten about Drew's misdeed, forgotten even about the uncomfortable moment, hours before at the stadium, a dozen rows ahead of them in the stands, that beet-faced dad in the GymDreamz cap, upset over his daughter's ranking, who'd shouted that disgusting thing (Devon Knox! Devon sucks c—), only stopping, midsentence, at his wife's glare.
But Eric had heard it. She could tell by the way his back stiffened, his jaw tightened.
She'd grabbed for his hand. Held it firmly.
But the moment passed, and now Eric stood at one of the banquet tables, carving the glistening ham, pink as a newborn.
Coach Teddy, a parasol'd mai tai impossibly dainty in his bear-paw hand, pulled Katie aside and said he was counting every second until July's qualifiers, when Devon would gain Senior Elite status and everyone would finally see.
"Because look at her," he said. "Just look at our once-and-future champ."
And Katie did, peering through the candy-colored crowd at the poppy and cobalt of Devon's jacket, its sparkling BelStars logo.
Less than five feet tall, a hard, smooth shell of a body. Hipless, breastless still, but the way she'd transformed her body in the last two years, thighs like trunks, shoulders and biceps straining her tank-top straps, staggered Katie.
"The world is hers now. Is yours. Is ours," Teddy said, then diving in for a loud rummy smack of a kiss flush on Katie's lips. "Just like I promised, Katie-did!"
Had that really happened?
It had, and it all made sense that night, the holy consummation of everything.
"I wish I could do what you do," Kirsten Siefert kept saying to Katie. "I want it for Jordan. I want to know everything you did. If it's not too late. Have you seen Jordan's breasts? But Tansy's only seven..."
The music boomed louder, and soon enough the adults started dancing, taking over the playlist from the endless thump and squeal of teen pop and club music, playing every song they'd loved fifteen years before, every opening chord releasing a chorus of Yeahs and Oh God, remember?
Later, she found herself dancing with Eric (which hadn't happened in years, since that night they'd snuck to the hotel bar after a TOPs meet, Devon and Drew asleep upstairs, that lounge singer inexplicably crooning "Smells Like Teen Spirit").
Eric had always been a terrific dancer, and the championship and the lanterned loveliness of the old catering hall—they all enlivened him, his smile and his fingers moving so delicately, his arm grabbing her so firmly, and didn't everyone in the hall look at them?
A thought came to her rum-soaked head, He's never loved me more than this. Because of Devon. Because of Devon. Something else I owe Devon.
Then, the starry new arrivals: Coach's niece Hailey, yanking at the hand of that boyfriend of hers, Ryan Beck, both of them so tanned and love-blissed.
This would be the piece that mattered most later, months later when Ryan was gone. She would think of their arrival and wonder why she hadn't seen it all coming. But who could have seen anything at all that night but their bright-spangled beauty?
Hailey, the favored junior tumbling coach, blond and magnificent, a towering five feet seven, and Ryan, whose appearance sent all the girls into satellites of whispered frenzy.
"The only one here more handsome than your husband," said Becca Plonski, laughing.
The music kept getting louder, the Forbidden Tiki playlist spinning, and Greg Siefert corralled Katie, pitcher of blue Hawaiians in one hand, reaching for hers with the other, and he was telling a story about Eric shouting at some man in the parking lot.
"It was great, it was great. That one who'd been talking trash about our Devon. And Eric just let him have it. Hell, I was glad to see it."
…But Katie was drunk, and it didn't register, the music loud in a way that reminded her of when loud music was an urgent necessity, a full-body sensation, and the next thing she knew she was back at the punch bowl and Greg was limboing with Hailey, freckled and game.
Then came the part that seemed like nothing at the time. Months later, after Ryan was gone, its meaning would change, as if by magic, every time Katie thought about it:
Ryan, dark-haired and grinning, took Katie's hand, spun her once, twice, three times, to a power ballad she remembered from age fourteen, an art-class infatuation, a fumbled encounter behind the shop room, then another girl and her heart breaking.
Before she knew it, though, Hailey was grabbing him back, a wink and a gleam in her eye like, Don't you dare, he's mine!
At some point, she lost Devon, but there was Eric talking to Gwen Weaver on the chilly loading dock, sharing a purloined cigarette and laughing like they'd been shouting for hours.
Everyone was smoking, it turned out. She'd even caught Ryan sneaking a puff in the hallway, the back door propped open, the cold air giving her goose bumps.
Ryan, who smelled like soap and had the nicked, brambled hands of a cook.
Finally, she and Eric shared one last dance before everything broke, and pressing against his shirt she smelled candle wax and a dozen perfumes; he was teasing her about the coconut husk furred onto her chest from the dance with Greg Siefert, or Bobby, or Ryan, who'd since been charged with making something called a momtini, carrying a tray for all the ladies.
"He is a momtini," whispered Kirsten Siefert, nearly rubbing her hands.
Crushed cocktail parasols gathered on the sills and crumpled leis in the corners like parade remnants catching on her feet, heels too high, too narrow, and she found Devon in the restroom, washing her face, washing all the performance makeup away.
Turning to her mother, she looked oddly blank.
For a second, Katie wondered about that look, but the second passed, and then there was more dancing, and more visits to the punch bowl, and the next morning she would puzzle over when she'd even been outside, finding grass blades between her toes, dried mud on the pad of her foot.
The ride home, Devon covered her head and wouldn't speak, and they thought she'd probably had more than one glass of punch but left her to it.
And then Drew, gorged on coconut cake, threw up into Katie's hands.
But none of it mattered, everything felt wonderful and she and Eric laughed and laughed.
The morning after the party, Katie turned over and saw a violet smear on her pillowcase.
It took her a while to remember. After midnight, trundling Drew across the ice-ribbed parking lot and into the car, Eric still inside, trying to find Devon, saying final good-byes.
A tap on the shoulder and it was Ryan Beck again. Smiling that chipped-front-tooth smile.
"Devon's?" he asked. Dangling from his open palm was a familiar lei, purple and green orchids, petals shredded. "I found it over by the dumpsters."
"What a shame," Katie said, feeling it more sharply than she should, blaming it on the rum. "Thanks."
He draped it over her head, its dampness tickling her, his sneakers nearly slipping on the rimy concrete. A squeak, a skid. Later, she would wonder if he'd slipped like that on Ash Road seconds before he died, his sneakers on the sandy gravel as the headlights came.
"Careful," Katie said, a catch in her voice. "It's not safe."
"Nothing ever is," he said, winking, his white T glowing under the lights, backing away, into the dark of the emptying lot. "Good night, Mrs. Knox. Good night."* * *
For U.S. media inquiries:
Please contact Sabrina Callahan (Publicity) at Little, Brown at 212.364.1437 or sabrina.callahan(at)hbgusa.com.
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Format: Hardcover Book
Price: $26.00 US/$31.50 CAN
On Sale Date: 07/26/2016
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Hardback 978-1-4472-2635- 2 £14.99
Ebook 978-1-5098-0265-4 £9.99
Trade paperback 978-1-5098-1727-6 £13.99
On Sale Date: 06/30/2016