Excerpt from Whidbey by T Kira Madden, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

What do you do, exactly?

Rich nodded his head like he was thinking. He said: Boats. Marina stuff.

He slapped the book down next to him, then buried his face in both hands, breathing in hard. He flicked the tip of his nose with a thumb. Sniffed. Outside the glass doors of the ferry, a little girl on the deck threw pieces of bread, or crackers, at some gulls that curved down to them. Behind her, the clouds parted a Magic 8 Ball blue.

Well, Rich said, looking up at me. He looked calm, almost sedated. You want me to kill him for you?

I glared at him. His stubble, his dry knuckles. I imagined him snapping off gloves, a dirtied spade, wiping prints from a revolver with a soft, meshy cloth. Then I imagined Calvin—bound and blood battered—screaming for his life in a ditch near the Everglades. A gator would finish him. It was all ridiculous.

I can do it for you, Rich said. It'd be my honor. Even the score in this small way. For the sun-hat nice girls.

He leaned back and crossed one foot over a knee. I crossed mine too. The children in the aisle were gathered by their parents. Backpacks and strollers. Arms flung around necks.

No one would ever connect us—who could connect us? I'd have no reason to kill this guy. But I could. Easy, without a hitch, trust me I could.

What are those people eating? I said. Rich looked outside, where I pointed. The birds multiplied and the little girl screamed. Orange life buoys clung to the deck gates, quivered brightly and weakly as the boat moved.

Probably chowder bowls, he said.

They love chowder here.

It'd be fun actually, Rich said. Taking your guy away.

I liked that he wouldn't drop it. That he was asking something of me. A permission. He needed me to play along, to assuage some want. I knew what that looked like.

I told you, I was going to kill him, I said.

You don't have it.

I can be scary, I said. Ask anyone who knows me.

I don't know anyone who knows you. Then, after a pause, he said, You couldn't scare anything.

I scare.

Scare me now, Rich said. Come on. Gimme your best. Scare me good.

I looked out the window to the water, the deep blue mat studded with white. An identical ferry passing by. Mount Rainier glowing like a postcard. I once went on a date with a woman who said she'd never get serious with someone who rolled a suitcase. That it was a lazy, humiliating thing to do—to not hold a suitcase by the handle, a proper handsome Samsonite from long ago, luggage with dignity. I didn't know how to scare this man. I never would.

Are you lying? he said.

I'm not.

You seem like a liar. I just need his name. Gateway to Grace. Give the name. After this we never met. You'll never hear from me again.

Give me your name, I said.

Rich Amani, he said. Do you trust that I'm a good person?

Absolutely not.

I respect that, he said. That's fair.

Do you think I'm a good person? I asked. Out of the ferry's loudspeaker, words clanged, indecipherable. The boat slowed even more. The island: closer.

Good and nice aren't the same, he shrugged. Does he deserve to die?

He doesn't deserve to live.

That's the same thing, Rich said.

I don't think it is, actually.

Say it, Rich said. Just say it out loud. It's good for you.

Passengers opened the doors to exit. Cold air trailed through the room, and I pulled my jacket tighter to my chest. The ride was ending, a ramp ahead lowering to the boat, bridging to the rest of my life.

I said, Every day, when I wake up, it's the first thing I wish for. Him gone.

Well, give the name, then. If you want me to.

I stared at Rich and he stared back. A dare with our eyes, who'd break first. That Disney villain scar, his twisting bag of clothes—I smiled, caught myself, straightened back up, serious now. Scary. Something mirrored between us, but he still didn't think I could.

Excerpted from Whidbey by T Kira Madden. Copyright © 2026 by T Kira Madden. Excerpted by permission of Mariner Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.