The Guest

1

This was August. The ocean was warm, and warmer every day.

Alex waited for a set to finish before making her way into the water, slogging through until it was deep enough to dive. A bout of strong swimming and she was out, beyond the break. The surface was calm.

From here, the sand was immaculate. The light the famous light made it all look honeyed and mild: the dark European green of the scrub trees, the dune grasses that moved in whispery Unison. The cars in the parking lot. Even the seagulls swarming a trash can.

On the shore, the towels were occupied by placid beachgoers. A man tanned to the color of expensive luggage let out a yawn, a young mother watched her children run back and forth to the waterline.

What would they see if they looked at Alex?

In the water, she was just like everyone else. Nothing strange about a young woman, swimming alone. No way to tell whether she belonged here or didn t.

When Simon had first taken her to the beach, he d kicked off his shoes at the entrance. Everyone did, apparently: there were shoes and sandals piled up by the low wood railing. No one takes them? Alex asked. Simon raised his eyebrows. Who would take someone s shoes?

But that had been Alex s immediate thought how easy it would be to take things, out here. All sorts of things. The bikes leaning against the fence. The bags unattended on towels. The cars left unlocked, no one wanting to carry their keys on the beach. A system that existed only because everyone believed they were among people like themselves.

Before Alex left for the beach, she had swallowed one of Simon s painkillers, a leftover from a long-ago back surgery, and already the familiar mental gauze had descended, the surrounding salt water another narcotic. Her heart beat pleasantly, noticeably, in her chest. Why did being in the ocean make you feel like such a good human? She floated on her back, her body moving a little in the push and pull, her eyes closed against the

Emma Cline is the New York Times bestselling author of The Girls and the story collection Daddy. The Girls was a finalist for the Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize, the National Book Critics Circle’s John Leonard Prize, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. It was a New York Times Editors’ Choice and the winner of the Shirley Jackson Award. Cline’s stories have been published in The New Yorker, Granta, The Paris Review, and The Best American Short Stories. She received the Plimpton Prize from The Paris Review and an O. Henry Award, and was chosen as one of Granta’s Best Young American Novelists.

Cline s writing at its very best hypnotically propulsive, viscerally disquieting, and moving in the most unpredictable ways. Financial Times

Sultry and engrossing, with a note of menace, [The Guest] [is a] gorgeously smart affair whose deceptive lightness conceals strange depths and an arresting originality. The Guardian

Cline confirms her reputation as the literary prophet of women on the brink. Esquire

Pitch-perfect . . . Full of suspense and subterfuge . . . Cline has written a thriller about trying to
get by, a summer read for the precariat. The Nation

Cline quietly continues to be one of the best and most discomfiting young writers working today. Entertainment Weekly

Cline generates an impressive amount of intrigue . . . The descriptions are frequently bracing and acute, sharpened to icepicks by a stance of amoral neutrality. The Wall Street Journal

A wonderfully suspenseful examination of luxury, delusion, class and fear. Minneapolis Star-Tribune

Young, beautiful Alex is . . . a grifter wandering through a pricey, dreamlike summer playground looking for her next mark. Cline s exquisite writing makes us care in spite of ourselves. People

Enthralling . . . Who needs living when you ve got The Guest in your bag? Jezebel

Emma Cline serves glitz and unease. Vanity Fair

In her first novel since 2016 s runaway hit The Girls Emma Cline returns with another story of sex and manipulation . . . Philadelphia Inquirer

A smoldering thriller that explores desire and deception. The Washington Post

[Cline has] skill with language . . . [and] shimmering insights into complexities of womanhood and desire. Los Angeles Review of Books

Cline is a master of depicting the nefarious and atmospheric menace that often lurks adjacent to our most glittery environments, and she does so here with subdued but no less cutting aplomb.