Copyright © 2022 Shawn A. Cosby

The right of S. A. Cosby to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in the USA in 2022 by

Flatiron Books

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

This eBook edition published in Great Britain in 2022 by

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN: 978 1 4722 9911 6

Cover credit © Patrick Insole.

Cover design by Patrick Insole

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About the Author

S. A. Cosby is an Anthony Award–winning writer from southeastern Virginia. He is the author of the New York Times bestseller Razorblade Tears, which was a New York Times Notable Book, a Goodreads Choice Award finalist, and a finalist for the Southern Book Prize and was named to best-of-the-year lists by outlets including NPR, Time magazine, and The Washington Post; Blacktop Wasteland, which won the Los Angeles Times Book Prize, was a New York Times Notable Book, and was named a best book of the year by NPR, The Guardian, and Library Journal, among others; and My Darkest Prayer.

Twitter: @blacklionking73

About the Book

Whether it’s working at his cousin’s funeral home or tossing around the local riffraff at his favourite bar, Nathan Waymaker is a man who knows how to handle the bodies. A former marine and sheriff’s deputy, Nathan has built a reputation in his small Southern town as a man who can help when all other avenues have been exhausted. When a beloved local minister is found dead, his parishioners ask Nathan to make sure the death isn’t swept under the rug.

What starts out as an easy payday soon descends into a maze of mayhem filled with wannabe gangsters, vicious crime lords, porn stars, crooked police officers, and a particularly treacherous preacher and his mysterious wife. Nathan must use all his skills and some of his wit to navigate the murky waters of small-town corruption – even as dark secrets of his own threaten to come to the surface.

Praise for S. A. Cosby

‘Superb . . . Cuts right to the heart of the most important questions of our times’

Michael Connelly

‘The very definition of a white-knuckle ride’

Ian Rankin

‘Cosby’s prose barrels along like a pick-up still angry it’s not a Ferrari, and his phrase-making is up there with the great artists of noir’

The Times

‘It’s a rare trick to combine violence with social commentary, but Cosby pulls it off’

Mail on Sunday

‘Raw, powerful and pacey, Razorblade Tears more than fulfils the promise of Cosby’s superb debut’

Guardian

‘A stellar performance’

Sunday Times Crime Club

‘This is as close to a thriller masterpiece as it is possible to get’

Daily Mail

‘Razorblade Tears practically taunts you every time you try to put it down’

New York Times

‘Utterly brilliant This book is a mirror. It shows us our world as it is. Masterful’

Will Dean

‘S.A. Cosby is one of the best crime fiction writers working today’

TIME, The 100 Must-Read Books of 2021

Praise for S. A. Cosby

‘Sensationally good’

Lee Child

‘I loved Blacktop Wasteland ’

Stephen King

‘Every once in a while a writer comes along with an incredible voice . . . add S. A. Cosby to that list’

Steve Cavanagh

‘Stunning. Can’t remember the last time I read such a powerful crime novel’

Mark Billingham

‘The book will leave you breathless, but also desperate to know where Cosby will take us next’

Laura Lippman

‘S. A. Cosby is a welcome, refreshing new voice in crime literature’

Dennis Lehane

‘Spectacular. . . . a voice as stark and distinctive as Elmore Leonard’s, and a humanity that touches the soul.’

Daily Mail

‘Elmore Leonard, wherever you are, you’ve got competition . . . S.A. Cosby has reappeared as one of the most muscular, distinctive, grab-you-by-both-ears voices in American crime fiction’

Washington Post

‘. . . S. A. Cosby reinvents the American crime novel.’

Walter Mosley

ALSO BY S. A. COSBY:

Blacktop Wasteland

Razorblade Tears

Dedicated to my grandfather . . .

For my grandfather, Isaac Smith Sr., who taught me that doing the right thing is never easy, but it’s always worth it

INTRODUCTION

Hey, come here, let me tell you a story.

That’s the simple proposition every writer offers you when you pick up a book. It’s the offer I’m making you right now. It’s a promise, made since we sat around campfires or painted scenes on cave walls. A tradition as old as storytelling itself.

What you’re holding in your hands is my first serious attempt at making that offer. It’s the first time I metaphorically sat down in front of a crackling flame and bade you listen.

Let me tell you a story. . . .

I never thought I could be a novelist. The enormity of writing an actual book filled me with incalculable terror, as it should. Writing a book is such a daunting endeavor that thousands attempt it year after year and yet only a few actually write the words “The End.”

For me, the thing that scared me the most was the idea that I couldn’t sustain a reader’s interest for 250 pages. In 2017 I was a fairly passable short story writer. I’d been published multiple times in a magazine called Thuglit, created by the great gregarious bard of crime fiction Todd Robinson. I’d even had a story get a mention in an edition of Best American Mystery and Suspense. The short story was where I felt comfortable.

But comfortable is to art what sugar is to tea. Too much and you ruin it.

I was terrified of writing a novel but I desperately wanted to write a novel. I know that sounds somewhat contradictory, but I was finding that I was increasingly chafing under the limits inherent to short fiction. I wanted to tell more nuanced, complex stories. And four thousand words just wasn’t going to cut it. As fate would have it, I had a chance to travel to New York City in the summer of 2017 and got to meet Todd Robinson in person. As we sat in a bar in the East Village and sipped some very good whiskey, we talked about stories and storytelling and the specifics of the kind of stories we both like to tell and, more important, the kind of books we like to read.

At some point (I think it was around the fifth whiskey), Todd said, “Look, don’t you work in a funeral home? That’s a ready-made story factory. You got this. What’s the worst that happens—it stinks? Write the damn book.”

To which I responded with an articulate “Huh . . .”

That conversation is still as vivid in my mind as it was that long-ago summer night. I had stories to tell. I had the desire to tell them and the only person stopping me from sharing them was . . . me.

So I went back to my hotel room and wrote the first three chapters of what would become My Darkest Prayer longhand on hotel stationery. I read it on the train as I returned to Virginia and slowly came around to the idea that it wasn’t half bad.

I’m still of that opinion.

Are there growing pains apparent in the narrative? Are there some parts that are rough-hewn like the head of a splitting maul? Is it a good first effort?

Yes, yes, and I think so.

I think what you will find in this book—apart from quite a few interesting characters, some compelling villains, and more than a few Southern colloquialisms—is the shadow of a writer finding his place. Finding his seat around the campfire.

I hope you enjoy this tale of loss and love and the cost of violence. Nathan and Skunk and Walt and the rest of the crew are some of my oldest friends. And like old friends, they were there before the halcyon days.

They have stayed with me through the good times and the bad times and I love them for it.

Well, that’s enough maudlin reminiscing. That’s not why you came here, is it?

Why don’t you take a seat?

Relax.

Let me tell you a story. . . .

S. A. Cosby

Gloucester, Virginia

April 2022

Revenge is a confession of pain.

—OLD LATIN PROVERB

PROLOGUE

I could see the headlights cut through the dark and the mist enveloping the cemetery. I knew Skunk was driving slow and easy because the lane was filled with potholes and ruts. The Gethsemane Baptist Church is located on the other side of the county near the North River. Digging a grave behind that church is like digging a well. Many years before I was even a gleam in my father’s eye the church elders purchased a field near a grove of twisted mulberry trees. The branches looked like dancing skeletons as they were illuminated by the headlights. I was standing near a freshly dug grave covered by two large pieces of plywood. I leaned on my short camping shovel like it was a cane. A folding stepladder lay at my feet.

Skunk pulled up and stopped his car so that his trunk was lined up with the edge of the grave. He got out and I heard his keys jangle as he unlocked the trunk. I expected to be assaulted by the stench, but we had sealed up the body well with duct tape and a thick tarp. We flipped the plywood over and exposed the gaping maw of the grave. Tomorrow the gravediggers would drop a 2,100-pound concrete vault in this hole. A few hours later a 280-pound casket would be lowered in the vault and the whole thing would be covered with about 100 pounds of dirt. The edges would be filled in and tamped down and then the gravediggers would move on to their next job. Only Skunk and I would know this was the final resting place for two dead souls. There was a hot greasy film in my throat like I had drunk shots of whiskey mixed with gasoline. My mouth was rapidly filling with spit. Skunk turned and stared at me.

“You all right, hoss?” he said. I gripped the shovel tight.

What I wanted to say was that I didn’t feel all right. I didn’t think I would ever feel all right again.

“Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get it done,” I said.