The Expats: A Novel
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An incredibly twisty and sophisticated New York Times bestselling thriller about a woman and her family living abroad from an Edgar and Anthony Award-winning author.
Kate Moore is a working mother, struggling to make ends meet, to raise children, to keep a spark in her marriage . . . and to maintain an increasingly unbearable life-defining secret. So when her husband is offered a lucrative job in Luxembourg, she jumps at the chance to leave behind her double-life, to start anew.
She begins to reinvent herself as an expat, finding her way in a language she doesn’t speak, doing the housewifely things she’s never before done—playdates and coffee mornings, daily cooking and never-ending laundry. Meanwhile, her husband works incessantly, at a job Kate has never understood, for a banking client she’s not allowed to know. He’s becoming distant and evasive; she’s getting lonely and bored.
Then another American couple arrives. Kate soon becomes suspicious that these people are not who they say they are, and she’s terrified that her own past is catching up to her. So Kate begins to dig, to peel back the layers of deception that surround her. She discovers fake offices and shell corporations and a hidden gun, a mysterious farmhouse and numbered accounts with bewildering sums of money, and finally unravels the mind-boggling long-play con that threatens her family, her marriage, and her life.
Stylish and sophisticated, fiercely intelligent and expertly crafted, The Expats proves Chris Pavone to be a writer of tremendous talent.
with floral-print bedclothes and plush white towels. At the other end is the closet where they keep the luggage. Kate turns the battered brass knob that’s set into the ornately molded plate that’s screwed to the gleaming creamy paint of the paneled closet door. The large pieces are stacked one upon the other on the floor, a trunk and two full-sized suitcases. These big things are what they use to pack for the summer on the Côte d’Azur, or a few weeks in Umbria. But what she pulls down are two
Europe. For us and for the kids: to go everywhere, see everything. So let’s see Berlin. Jake can get back to his ABCs on Wednesday.” Kate knew that she didn’t have a moral leg to stand on. Her position was indefensible, and she hated defending it, pretending that something was for the children’s good when it was really just something she needed. Or just wanted. This was the specific type of dreadful feeling that she’d hoped to avoid by quitting the Company. The exact type of lie for which she’d
checking account every month, and not withdrawing anything abnormal. Someone was paying him to do something. Who? And then of course there was the non-coincidence that Julia and Bill were FBI tasked to Interpol, in all likelihood investigating either herself or Dexter. Why? Kate felt like she’d lived for so long when no one knew the truth about her, about who she was. Now the tables were turned, and all these people were arrayed on the other side, unknown, unknowable. What she did know,
phone in this towel, to mute the beep when she unplugged it. She returned to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, scrolling through contacts and memos and recent calls, any application that provided an opportunity to type and save a string of digits or letters. She discovered that he hadn’t made any calls during his day in London. As she scrolled through his list of calls made or received during the past sixty days, she discovered that Dexter had never made any international calls whatsoever
cell, and despite earlier assurances to the contrary from the Mumbai customer representative of her service provider based in Colorado, there was no dialing code, no combination of digits, no change to network settings, no anything she could do that would enable her French-designed Taiwan-produced Virginia-procured mobile telephone to make or receive calls here, in Europe. It had been simpler when there had been other people to handle the tech aspects of her life. But what was apparently not on