You may know Jaime Parker Stickle from her coverage of crime from both the fictional and nonfictional sides of things. She’s the author of two novels, including 2025’s Vicious Cycle, about a onetime journalist conducting her own investigation into an unsettling crime, and the podcaster behind the series The Girl With the Same Name. This month brings with it the release of Take Hart, a follow-up to her previous book following protagonist Corey Tracey-Lieberman as she investigates a disappearance. We’re pleased to present an excerpt from Take Hart.
Evan walks over to me with Jacob in his arms and bear-hugs the three of us together. “Aren’t you going to welcome me home?” he says.
“Welcome home,” I say. He looks at me and smiles, but something is different with his smile. He doesn’t smell the same either. A new shampoo or aftershave. He squeezes my upper arm tight as I pull out of the embrace.
“You’re so muscular, and that short hair—maybe you could have a new career as a stunt woman. Maybe you can throw me around,” Evan says. He looks at me suggestively.
“Is that a compliment?” I ask. What an asshole. It’s exactly something my mother and father would say. I want to throw up. I wonder if Jacob is telepathic. They say children and their mothers can read each other’s minds and feelings. I try to turn off my brain. Dial it back to neutral.
“It’s a joke. I was teasing, lighten up. I just need time to get used to this new look.” Evan locks eyes with me again. I see something different—it’s hesitation. Maybe distrust. “Listen, I’m going to take my bag upstairs and unpack. I’ll take Jacob with me. Then, let’s go out to get some dinner, okay?”
I watch him hold Jacob and lift his suitcase with his free hand. He’s right. I could probably hold Jacob and carry that bag too. I am strong, and I do like that about myself. I lie down on the couch and close my eyes for a minute. The Klonopin is working. I’m light and floaty. I could sleep.
Evan just moved back in. It takes effort to lift myself up when I just want to lean into the calming cradle of the antianxiety pill. But I push myself off the couch and walk up the stairs. One step at a time with purpose. I’m concentrating, holding the wrought iron banister as I go. I get to the top, and I see Jacob on my bed, staring at his dad with adoration and love. I sit on the top step of the staircase and cry. This is it. This is the rest of my life. I did this to me, to us. All of us.