“A rollercoaster ride of a toxic tale of neighbors from hell. Brilliantly pacey and wonderfully written with a lovely big twist. Highly recommended.”
– Neil Lancaster, author of Dead Man’s Grave

“A stunning, thought-provoking, and morally challenging read. It had me guessing until the ingenious reveal—a world-class story.”
– Graham Bartlett, author of Bad For Good

“Intelligent, clever, poignant, sharp, and thought-provoking, right through to the perfect final line.”
– Andrea Mara, author of All Her Fault

Salma had always sworn that she would never end up in a place like this. “It’s a bit like purgatory,” she had joked when they first came to see the house in a harried half hour before work one morning. The estate agent, a hawkish woman with a watchful gaze, had herded them from room to room and Salma had murmured politely, even commenting on this or that “lovely feature” as she and Bilal locked eyes, amusement passing between them.

They had agreed to view it only because there was a gap between their other bookings and the agent had pushed this property. It was in a neat cul-de-sac on the eastern reaches of the Central Line. It was built seven years ago, said the agent, and still had the bright, bland feel of a new development. There was a dizzying amount of brickwork and even its name, the mononymous “Blenheim,” felt like an artless attempt at class, like petrol stop perfume or “Guccci” shades. Upstairs, out of the agent’s earshot, they had giggled about the perfect lawn.

“Do you think neighborhood watch will knock down your door if it grows above two inches?” said Bilal.

Salma fought a smile. “We’re being snobby,” she said but with laughter in her voice…