What if everything you know about the worst night of your life turns out not to be true?

Nine years ago, with the world’s eyes on her, Charlie Colbert fled. The press and the police called Charlie a “witness” to the nightmarish events at her elite graduate school on Christmas Eve—events known to the public as “Scarlet Christmas”—though Charlie knows she was much more than that.

Now, Charlie has meticulously rebuilt her life: She’s the editor-in-chief of a major magazine, engaged to the golden child of the publishing industry, and hell-bent on never, ever letting her guard down again. But when a buzzy film made by one of Charlie’s former classmates threatens to shatter everything she’s worked for, Charlie realizes how much she’s changed in nine years. Now, she’s not going to let anything—not even the people she once loved most—get in her way.

Don't just take our word for it...

“As twisty a thriller as you’re likely to read this year, a propulsive dive into the dark secrets we keep buried, even from ourselves, and the lengths to which we will go to keep it there.”
— BookTrib

” Witty, tightly plotted, knife-sharp, and utterly immersive,  Everyone Who Can Forgive Me Is Dead had me flaking on plans to squeeze in one more chapter. Fans of Jessica Knoll and Megan Miranda, meet your new favorite author.”
– Andrea Bartz, New York Times bestselling author of The Spare Room

“Jenny Hollander has written an intoxicatingly sharp thriller. Everyone Who Can Forgive Me Is Dead deftly explores trauma and the dark things we believe ourselves capable of. I never wanted to stop reading it, and I can’t wait for Hollander’s next novel.”
– Clémence Michallon, internationally bestselling author of The Quiet Tenant

Taste the very first page

Dr. Nazari’s Office, Seven Years Earlier

Everyone who was there, or pretends they were there, says the same thing: the tabloids got it wrong. But they didn’t, not really.

The articles said: Charlotte Colbert escaped unscathed. Which is true. While the others were in surgery or stretched out in the morgue, I was in the shower, scrubbing their blood from my neck and shoulders. The others were carried out; I walked out—or, more accurately, according to the photos, I was walked out, a paramedic hooked under each arm.

But I don’t remember it. Which is why I’m here, as it happens.

They wrote: There were no signs. That’s true, too, unless you knew what you were looking for. Which I didn’t. I was twenty-three, for God’s sake, charmed and clumsily in love. I didn’t know shit.

They wrote, gleefully, about the bloody handprints on the white walls, the crack as the body—bodies—struck the ground. The reams of ivy that clung to the hundred-year-old building. True. True. True.

(That fucking ivy has nothing to do with anything. But this was never a story about murder, was it? Not for them. It was about pedigreed kids with blue eyes and Carroll University School of Journalism’s six- figure price tag. The death toll, that was a bonus.)

Sometimes they wrote, Charlotte Colbert, victim, and sometimes they wrote, Charlotte Colbert, survivor, like they couldn’t make up their minds.

The first thing you should know, Dr. Nazari, is that neither of those things are true.