Kill Creatures

Coming Jul 07, 2026

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of Wilder Girls comes another dark thriller about jealousy, desire, and revenge, with a twist ending that needs to be talked about—hailed as “an ode to the knife-sharp edges of teenage friendship” (Ava Reid, author of A Study in Drowning).

Last year, Nan’s three best friends ventured into the canyons near their small town and never returned. Now one of them is back, and Nan can’t believe it…because she’s the one who killed them.

A YALSA BEST FICTION FOR YOUNG ADULTS BOOK OF THE YEAR • A BOOKPAGE BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

Last summer, Luce, Edie, Jane, and Nan took a boat out for one final swim in the river. It was a perfect summer night.

But the only one who returned that night was Nan. Edie, Jane, and Luce disappeared, and Nan’s story has always been the same: She has no idea what happened. The girls went ahead, and it was as though they vanished into thin air.

Now, one year later, all of Saltcedar has gathered at the river for a memorial. Nan even recreated the outfit she wore that fateful day last summer. And when Luce climbs out of the water, no one is more surprised than Nan.

Because Nan killed her. Right before she killed Edie and Jane.

Now

Start with this, with a bruise-blue sky. Then the clouds gathered low on the horizon, their bellies bloodshot with sunset. And last, the billboard frame and the picture stretched across it: three girls wearing summer smiles. Edie, Jane, and Luce. My best friends, my favorites. Saltcedar’s, too, now that they’re gone.

For the first few days after they put the billboard up, there was almost always someone here in its shadow. Praying, sometimes, or leaving behind wildflower bouquets. Today it’s just me, heat rippling off the road as I balance astride my bike. I came to say goodbye. To take a moment for the four of us before it’s all lit candles and bullshit speeches down at the vigil.

“You’d hate it,” I whisper to them. The crowds, the noise. The marina’s too busy to launch from. And you need reservations at Bullfrog’s now; tourists steal our table every night.

I know some people are happy about it. It’s the most activity the town has seen in years. Finally, Saltcedar looks like the pictures in those brochures--sunburned teenagers in life jackets, little kids diving off the backs of houseboats while their parents watch from the upper decks, drinks in hand. But these people don’t care that the lake is going dry. They don’t care that there’s a half-built neighborhood abandoned at the end of my street. They just care that a year ago exactly, my best friends wandered into the dark and let Saltcedar Canyon swallow them whole.

A shaft of sunlight sneaks past the corner of the billboard. I lift a hand to block it. Blink hard as the gas station beyond swims into focus. Through the window, I can see Glen at the register, his face lit up red by the Budweiser sign on the wall. He’s wearing one of the T-shirts that the vigil volunteers have been handing out all week. Same picture as the billboard printed across his chest, same text underneath: Bring Them Home. He’s probably about to close up and head down to the lake. I’d better hurry, or I’ll be one of the last to arrive.

I kick off on my bike. Listen to the crunch of grit under the tires. The road forks at a signpost, one side splitting left through my neighborhood of prefab houses. I stay straight, toward the rest of town. Coast easy and free down the hill, eyes drifting shut. If I listen hard, I can feel the girls with me, the air curving around their bodies. They’re everywhere. In the lodge lobby, Jane waving as the elevator doors close between her and us. On my front steps, Edie’s head bent over her phone as she waits for me to do up my laces. At the water’s edge, Luce pointing toward the canyon arch.

Somewhere behind me, a car engine rumbles, getting closer. I swing to the side and pedal harder. None of those memories will count for much if I’m late.

The lodge parking lot is off to the right, already almost full with out-of-state plates. A man I don’t recognize is waiting near the entrance next to a table stacked high with candles. I ignore the one he holds out to me. Keep going, slip between two pickups toward the far side of the lot where Mr. and Mrs. Bristow are standing, sweat patches stark against their white vigil T-shirts.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Jane’s parents in person, but some things haven’t changed. The sunscreen on Mr. Bristow’s forehead, not quite rubbed in. The glint of Mrs. Bristow’s wedding ring as she twists it absently around her knuckle. She’s got her hair pulled back--heavy and dark like her daughter’s. Jane used to lie out in the boat as we drifted, her hair spread long and gleaming over Luce’s lap. Gathering sunlight in its strands until it was too hot to touch.

I leave my bike leaning against somebody’s back bumper. Wipe my clammy palms dry on my shorts before I close the last gap between me and Jane’s parents. “Hi,” I say, skirting another group of volunteers. “Sorry, I know I’m late.”

Mr. Bristow sees me first. “Not at all,” he says, and waves me closer. “You’re right on time.”

Next to him, Mrs. Bristow doesn’t look up. She’s poring over a clipboard, her mouth moving silently as she reads something off it. Her speech for the vigil, maybe. Is she nervous? Sure, there’ll be cameras there, reporters and news trucks, but you’d think she’d be used to that after the press tour she and her husband have done on Jane’s behalf.

Mr. Bristow nudges her. “Carrie? Carrie, it’s Jane’s friend.”

“Hmm?” She meets my eyes, and for a moment I think she doesn’t recognize me, but then she blinks, seems to wake from a long midnight. “Oh, Nan. You’re here.”

She wraps me up in a hug. I lean in, let her tuck my head against her neck the way she might if I were Jane. Is she remembering the same thing I am? Six or seven summers back, me waiting in the shade with my dad to meet Mom after her shift at the lodge front desk. Jane climbing out of the Bristows’ rental SUV, her mother’s words carrying across the pavement: “See, there’s a girl your age.”

Jane waved at me then. It took me days to work up the nerve to wave back.

“It’s good to see you, sweetheart,” she says as she releases me. “Gosh, were you this tall last summer?”

“I think so.” I smile uneasily. She’s doing her best to seem normal, but her eyes are red and her voice is hoarse. It’s painfully obvious she’s been crying. I look away, gesture to the crowd. “This is all . . . There’s so many people here for them. You must be really pleased.”

“Of course,” Mr. Bristow says. “It’s a testament to the girls.”

“Is there anything you need?” Mrs. Bristow asks, all but interrupting him. There’s a hunger in her stare, like she wishes she hadn’t let go of me. “We have water and sunblock over by the lodge entrance, and-- Oh, you need a T-shirt.” She flags down a passing volunteer. “Can we get Nan a shirt? What size are you, honey? A medium? Let’s get you a medium, yeah.”

Moments later a T-shirt is thrust into my hands, so fresh out of the box that the creases where it was folded are still sharp. I crumple it up against my ribs. Make sure I can’t see any of the girls’ faces.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll change before the marina.”

“Speaking of,” Mr. Bristow interjects, “we should head down. The Gales are already there.”

I’m not surprised they aren’t here with the Bristows. Edie’s parents used to get along so well with Jane’s. In those first few months after the girls disappeared, they did everything as a quartet--every interview, every press conference. But Saltcedar rich isn’t Salt Lake City rich. Before long, it was only the Bristows flying to New York and LA. Only the Bristows appearing on national TV, only Jane that anyone was talking about. I don’t think the Gales would ever admit to being angry, but they don’t have to; everybody knows they are anyway.

Still, it could be worse. At least they tried. Luce’s dad couldn’t even do that.

“What about Mr. Allard?” I ask. “Is he here?”

Mrs. Bristow’s smile goes stiff, her eyes darting to the crowd milling around us. “Kent was invited,” she says, too politely. “I’m not sure he’ll be able to make it, though.”

I think we’re all hoping he won’t. Whenever Kent Allard shows up, he brings trouble with him. Shouting, crying. Stories and ghosts and the smell of alcohol.

I guess I understand it. Luce’s mom left spring of last year, and then Luce disappeared that summer. Both Allard women gone by the time the cold came, and Kent so ruined by it that even the police left him alone after a while.

Mr. Bristow’s hand lands on my shoulder for a second, startling me. “What about your parents, Nan? I don’t think I’ve seen them yet.”

“My mom’s working,” I say. She’ll be inside at the lodge’s front desk, waiting for the parking lot to empty out before she comes down to the lake. “I’m not sure if my dad will make it. He said he’ll try, but he might have to cover someone’s shift.”

Dad works three hours away in Bryce, just like half the people in this town. He’s a ranger with the national park--so was Luce’s dad, until they fired him last spring--and he’s home so rarely that I don’t always recognize his truck in the driveway.

“Well,” Mrs. Bristow says, “tell your mom to take two candles. She can light one for him if he’s running late.”

“I’m sure she will.” I smile, aiming for reassuring. “Don’t worry. Everything’s gonna be great. They’ll love it.”

For a moment we lock eyes, and I know neither of us is sure exactly who I mean. Her mouth opens, a question, maybe, taking shape, but a volunteer calls to her, waving her over.

“I’m sorry, Nan. If you’ll excuse us?”

I barely have time to nod before she and Mr. Bristow are heading for the lot entrance. A group of volunteers parts to let them pass. Silence carried with them, but it only lasts a moment before the noise starts up again. People everywhere, checking lists, carrying boxes, and all the while, wearing those damn T-shirts. No matter where I turn, there they are--Edie, Luce, and Jane. Their awful, empty smiles.

I look down at the T-shirt Mrs. Bristow gave me. I should duck into the lodge bathroom and slip it on. Leave the shirt I’m wearing in my mom’s staff locker, go down to the beach dressed like everyone else. Light my candle and send my little paper boat out onto the water.

But I can’t. When I got up this morning, there wasn’t any choice. I put on cutoffs, sandals, and one of my dad’s old button-ups hanging open over my bathing suit. Just like what I was wearing the day the girls disappeared, to make sure they recognize me when I go to say goodbye.

I drop the shirt in a box of spares on my way out of the parking lot. Back out to the road, the lake spread below. Already the shore is thick with onlookers. I can hear music playing, faint on the wind. Jane’s favorite song. I remember she sang it that day, in the canyon. Stood there by the water’s edge with her eyes closed as her voice echoed off the stone. If I went back, would I hear it still? Would I find them all there waiting for me?

Is that what you want? a voice like Luce’s whispers in my head.

I lift my chin, let the wind slice across my neck. Of course, I tell her. I miss you. I love you all so much.

She laughs, low and long, and as I start down toward the lake, I hear her answer. Yeah, right, she says. Yeah fucking right.

Now

The vigil should have started by now. It’s been an hour since I arrived at the lake’s edge, since a volunteer herded me up onto the deck at Bullfrog’s and left me to wait with all the other VIPs. That’s what we are, really. That’s what this is. A fucking luxury box for family and friends, set apart from the rest of the crowd that’s jockeying on the beach for the best view. I lean against the deck railing, try to count the people gathered below. It’s more than I’ve ever seen in Saltcedar before, and that’s not including everyone watching from the boats dotted across the lake. They’ve been out there since the sun came up. Swimming, Jet Skiing. Having a perfect summer day before dropping anchor for the night’s entertainment.

I check behind me, searching for the Bristows or the Gales. Nothing yet. They’re probably still waiting inside the restaurant. Bullfrog’s dining room is cramped and the whole place smells like stale beer, from its uneven floor to the life preservers hanging on the walls. But at least it’s private. Quiet too. If only they’d invited me to join them.

Instead I’m out here listening to the crowd, to plastic scraping across the deck as a volunteer sets up rows of white folding chairs. To the feedback shriek from the microphone as someone plugs it in. I won’t be using it. I won’t be standing up there, telling everyone about my best friends. They didn’t ask me to speak--

No, they asked me not to speak. What were they afraid they’d hear?

“Nan? Has anyone seen Nan?”

I turn in time to see my dad cutting across the deck. Tall, broad shouldered, and still wearing his park ranger uniform. He must’ve sped the whole way from Bryce to make it in time.

“Dad,” I call. “Over here.”

His eyes find mine, and he smiles. Too wide to be appropriate, but nobody will care. Everybody loves Don Carver.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, joining me at the deck railing. “There you are.”

He gives me a hug. I go loose, let his body hold mine up. Mom’s been busy at the lodge all day, and I don’t mind being alone--I can handle myself--but it’s a relief to see him all the same.

“Hi,” I say. My arms tight around his waist, his badge digging into my cheek. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“I said I would be, didn’t I?”

Yeah, but that’s never meant much. Especially not this past year.

I pull away. Will myself to stand tall. “How’d you make it in time?”

“One of the officers coming down escorted me. Put on his lights and told me to stay behind him.” Dad laughs. “I think we did about ninety-five the whole way.” He shakes his head, staring past me to the lake beyond. “God, this is something, huh?”

He keeps talking, but I’m not listening. One of the officers coming down, he said. Down here? To Saltcedar?

The police haven’t had much presence in town since they called off the search. A February press conference, the old sheriff working hard not to say what most people had decided was the truth by then--that if the canyon hadn’t killed them that summer, the winter certainly had. After that, the cruisers stopped parking at the foot of my driveway. I slept through the night without police lights waking me up. And then Sheriff Perris retired, and the new sheriff took office, and I figured it was as over as it was ever going to be.

But sure enough, now that I know to look for them, I can spot at least two police boats out on the lake, bobbing side by side. Glistening white hulls, each one marked by a pair of small blue flags.