Marisha Pessl

**I wrote this account one year after I'd found Hannah dead.** I thought I'd managed to erase all traces of that night within myself. But I was wrong. Every night when I tried to sleep, I'd close my eyes and see her again, exactly as I found her, hanging from a pine tree by an orange elctrical cord, her neck twisted like a tulip stem, her eyes seeing nothing. Or else that was the problem. They'd seen everything.

This mesmerizing debut, uncannily uniting the trials of a postmodern upbringing with a murder mystery, heralds the arrival of a vibrant new voice in literary fiction.