Excerpt from Hungry Ghosts by Kevin Jared Hosein, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Where the hell was he? Why had he left in such a hurry? Was he with another woman? It wasn't her first time entertaining the latter thought, but it had always seemed improbable. Something was off with him when it came to women. He spoke of alcohol and contraband tobacco and exotic wild meats and other earthly delights, but never of former lovers. She suspected him of being a virgin when they had met – even though he was close to his forties. He had the habit of picking his skin, so he had scabs on his shoulders and chest, and because of this, he always kept his shirt on during the act. Maybe if he had talked to her about this habit then she would've had historical context. Without conversation, it could never be anything more than grotesquerie.

The most important question now: was Dalton Changoor dead?

It filled her with dread to think about it. Not for his sake, but hers. If something had come for him, it was only a matter of time before it would get to her as well. The shadows never discriminate.

Behind that dread was the nascent sense of a silver lining, like this same slivered moon in the dark night. Was she free of him now? She once tried to love him but ended up only loving what he owned – and what she hoped would be hers as well. The thought made her anxious and feverish and giddy. But what if he wasn't dead? What if he were out there bleeding, waiting for a rescue team? She wondered, how would a wife's actions be construed were she to not report her husband's absence? He did leave a note. She'd have to report it, just not now. But then what? Return to a life governed by a painting? If he was indeed in trouble, he'd know how to get out of it. Or maybe not. Who knew what would be his fate? Only God could tell. And maybe it was best to wait until God was willing to tell.

She climbed into bed and pulled the blanket over her feet.

* * *

The howling woke her up. She reached for the red biscuit tin and tinderbox, set them on the nightstand. Parted the drapes, looked outside. The grounds illuminated with phantasmal moonlight. Something odd and anomalous in the distance, sticking out from the branches of an old mango tree. At first, she believed it to be an owl. But it was too big to be an owl.

Whatever it was – it was moving upwards now. A strange feeling budded in her. A humming in the flesh, like a thousand cicadas were trilling inside her bones. Slow, deliberate movements like a wolf spider as it crept up the tree. Kept moving until it reached the very top. She couldn't make out the figure – it was all shadow – but whatever it was, it was balancing on the topmost branch, like an angel atop a Christmas tree. The dogs still howling, hidden in the shadows of the boughs.

She lit a firecracker and tossed it out of the window. The sharp burst sent the dogs running. Sent the bats flying. But the figure did not budge. The Smith & Wesson was in the nightstand drawer, already loaded in case of a last resort. Because a last resort rarely gives you the courage to hold a bullet without dropping it. She made sure the safety was off before stuffing it under her pillow, but she needed another weapon. One that she could swing. She went into the kitchen and found an empty wine bottle below the sink. With one great arc, the thick base could brain a bodybuilder.

When she returned to the window, the figure was gone.

But whatever silver lining there may have been was obscured now. Surfacing now was a grave feeling of melancholy, like some dark zone had begun to swallow up the Northern Range. And it was slowly making its way to her, where she lived, where she slept. If Dalton was dead, who killed him? For what reason – or did it even matter? Money? He kept a large sum in a padlocked iron box. He had even more with Western Union and Barclays. Revenge? Revenge is inherited, and she was the heiress to it all.

Excerpted from Hungry Ghosts by Kevin Jared Hosein. Copyright © 2023 by Kevin Jared Hosein. Excerpted by permission of Ecco. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.