Excerpt from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Why don't you just go eat some meat? We're not meant to live on vegetables alone, you know," says María, and takes a sip of white wine.

Looking grave, they all nod.

"But we don't have true canines," I point out.

They stare at me over their wineglasses.

"Carnivores all have canines."

They glance at each other, not sure what to do with me, and an embarrassing silence stretches between us.

This always happens. Everyone will be having a good chat until I say something wrong and feel as though I've been exposed as the alien in the group. Ta-da! Did you think I was one of you? Hahaha!

I don't know if it's because they're all the same age— two years older than I am—or because I joined their group late. Maybe it's something different and more profound. I don't remember whether I've always felt this way or if the feeling has gradually worsened.

"I know it sounds like the name of a cartoon character," says Helga. "But Zumba literally saved my life after pregnancy."

I take a big sip of red wine (rich in iron).

"Try walking more," says Sigrún. "I read somewhere that walking is—by far—the healthiest exercise. You just need to walk ten thousand steps a day!"

"What happened there?" Ásta points to the bruise on my chest.

I had specifically chosen a shirt that would cover it.

But now I look down and see that as I bend forward, my neckline is gaping, and the bruise is visible. It's a tiger stripe of dark purple.

I straighten and pull my collar up.

"Nothing." Which is technically true.

They look at each other with worry wrinkles between their eyebrows. Ta-da! Unmasked again!

Helga places a palm over my hand. "Was that Stefán?"

"No." I laugh.

"You know you can tell us anything," she says understandingly.

Their nods are full of grave disbelief.

I take another sip of red wine.

Two minutes of "happy hour" are left when I finish my drink. At the bar, I see a man. He's wearing a pale pink shirt (confident about his masculinity) and a blue, well-fitting jacket, and he's staring at me like he's seen a ghost.

I get embarrassed and look down at the drink list. When I look up again, he has half-turned away from me and is waving a credit card over a beer that the waiter is handing to him.

Then he looks back at me.

I'm trying to decide if I should smile politely or pretend not to see him, but I haven't figured out what to do when he turns away and walks with his beer to a nearby table. Around it, well-dressed men sit, stretched out in low chairs (why do men always have to take up so much space?) and laughing.

Excerpted from The Night Guest by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Copyright © 2024 by Hildur Knútsdóttir. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.