Excerpt from We Could Be Anyone by Anna-Marie McLemore, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

LOLA

I knew why people came to The Coterie.

They came for discretion. No photographs or photographers were allowed up here except for a few times a season, and only with the express permission of the resort's hosts.

They came for luxury. The sheets were fine enough that film actresses swore they prevented wrinkles. Original paintings by Goya or Gainsborough lined even the most infrequently used hallways. Rumor had it that the women bathed in champagne and the men polished their boots with it.

Perhaps most of all, they came so they could lord it over everyone else; an invitation here was so coveted that they could spend the rest of the season twisting the knife. But I suppose you had to be there. Or, Oh, but I've already said too much. We really like to keep things private up there. Or, I wish you'd been there to see it yourself.

Then there was me, the uninvited guest. I was here for revenge.

Papá always thought I had no patience. You don't know how to wait for anything, mija, he would say with a laugh as I stared at frost-covered ground, annoyed that the first flowers weren't yet breaking through. Or when I walked around tripping in a secondhand dress because I wanted to wear it right away, not wait for Mamá to hem it.

I wished they could see me now.

I'd learned the truth about The Coterie months ago, and ever since, my rage had been growing into a living thing, ravenous inside me. I knew if I didn't do something, it would eat me alive. But it had to be the right something. It had to be perfect.

My revenge would be a work of art.

So I'd been coming here for weeks, preparing one detail at a time, like polished knives set out on a lace tablecloth.

I danced past the stained-glass panels on the lower floor, quickly and gracefully enough that anyone inside would wonder if they really saw that strange silhouette crossing the windows.

I sprinkled perfume along the thresholds, a scent that was sweet and out of fashion. Today's socialites swanned around in clouds of rose or violet. None of them were wearing anything like this. The spiced vanilla would call up some past era, perfect to suggest a haunting.

I hid in the bushes and reached out a hand as a woman passed by. As soon as my cold fingers grazed her neck, she ran screaming across the gardens. Once she'd calmed herself, I could see her wondering if she'd imagined the whole thing.

And thanks to the resort's hurried construction, I even found a few places where I could pry the trim of a window away from its casing. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to let in a few chilling drafts.

When it came to fake hauntings, I was an expert. By the time I was finished, no one at The Coterie would be able to sleep. We'd be able to get anything we wanted out of the owner. Bixby Fairfax may have owned half the movie studios in Hollywood and half the newspapers on the West Coast. He may have been able to bring down politicians with a well-placed phone call. He may have had a silver-screen beauty on his arm. But none of that would stop me from bleeding him dry.

The sun was just beginning to outline the hills in amber, my cue to leave the resort. Hauntings were best faked in the blue hours. Broad daylight had a way of bleaching the mystery and intrigue out of everything.

I did have one more stop to make, through a side door and into a quiet hallway. Detours into the main building were always risky, but I needed something I could pawn. Fast enough to replace the car fare I had secretly borrowed from my brother early this morning.

The Coterie was so cluttered with precious objects that Fairfax stored half of them in the attics, still in their shipping crates. As long as I avoided the central foyer, I could keep from being seen, and I could take a souvenir without anyone being the wiser. I'd done it many times before. My brother's last birthday present had been a book so beautiful it would've been a crime not to give it a more loving home.

Excerpted from We Could Be Anyone by Anna-Marie McLemore. Copyright © 2026 by Anna-Marie McLemore. Excerpted by permission of Feiwel & Friends. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.