There’s a small, mischievous part of me that believes every crime novel should come with a magnifying glass and a wink.
As I put the finishing touches on DEEP END, I found myself doing something that would likely horrify a few of my more somber colleagues in the mystery world: I was hiding things. Not bodies—I’ve done enough of that over the years—but little narrative Easter eggs. Tiny, glinting surprises tucked into the folds of my story. The kind you don’t need to find in order to understand the plot, but which, if you do, might make you feel like you’ve just been let in on a private joke.
Coming May 5
Before anyone panics: no, I’m not talking about spoiler clues that unlock the mystery. I’m not that cruel. You won’t need a decoder ring or a graduate seminar in Franscellian minutiae to follow the story. But if you’ve read my previous work—especially DEAF ROW—or if you’re the sort of reader who lingers over a strangely familiar name, a throwaway line, or a suspiciously specific detail, you might stumble onto something that makes you pause and think, “Wait a minute …”
That pause? That’s the magic.
Writing crime fiction can be a dark business. We’re trafficking in betrayal, violence, secrets, and the messy architecture of human failure. It’s not exactly a laugh riot. And yet, I’ve always believed that humor—even subtle, sly humor—is not just permissible in this genre; it’s necessary.
Real life, even at its bleakest, is rarely humorless. I’ve covered horrific crimes as a journalist. I’ve sat with grieving families. I’ve walked through places where unspeakable things happened. And yet, inevitably, someone cracks a joke. Not out of disrespect, but out of survival. Humor is the pressure valve. It’s how we remind ourselves that we are still human, even when we are staring into the abyss.
So when I slip an Easter egg into DEEP END—and there are many—I’m not undermining the seriousness of the story. I’m honoring the complexity of the world it inhabits. A carefully chosen street name. A background character with a suspiciously familiar biography. A line of dialogue that echoes something from my own life or career. These are not distractions; they’re fingerprints. They’re me, standing just offstage, grinning.
There’s also something deliciously conspiratorial about it. Writing is a lonely business. You sit in a room with imaginary people, chat with them, and make them suffer for a living. Hiding an Easter egg feels like passing a note under the desk to the reader. It says, “Hey. You and I both know what’s going on here.” It builds a tiny bridge between us.
And if you miss them? Perfectly fine. The mystery still stands. The tension still coils. The stakes are still real.
But if you catch one—if you feel that flicker of recognition—I hope you’ll smile. Because that smile, in the middle of a story about darkness, is not accidental.
It’s intentional. It’s defiant.
And, frankly, it’s fun.
Which, in a genre that often takes itself very seriously, might be the most subversive act of all.
Pre-order DEEP END now!
Out May 5 wherever you buy books