The vote was unanimous - GH's reader panel made up of VIP Members all agreed that Not Quite Dead Yet deserved a place in the Good Books June Collection as Winner.

Our reviewers raved about this unusual crime novel, praising the humour, fast pace and lovable central character, Jet, who has seven days to solve her own ‘murder’ before complications from a violent attack kill her.

‘Really humorous and the countdown added intensity,’ said one VIP.

Read an extract here...



Jet turned up College Hill Road, saluting the skeleton hanging outside the Romanos’ at number 1, its limbs creaking and flailing in the fall breeze. Up the hill to number 10.

Home.

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This big obnoxious house that Dad had renovated and extended, and extended again. It stuck out against the normal houses on the street, against the Finneys’ directly opposite at number 7. Jet might just hate the Masons too, you know.

She jogged up the large ringed driveway, past her truck, giving it an affectionate pat on the cargo bed. A Ford F- 150 in powder blue. Mom thought Jet had bought it just to piss her off. Mom wasn’t totally wrong.

Just one jack- o’- lantern outside their red front door, but its eyes had blown out, gone dark. A bucket on the front step with a sign: Please help yourself. One candy per person. What world did her mom live in? Damn, the bucket was empty. Fuckers.

Jet searched her jacket pocket for her house keys, the Ring doorbell camera eyeing her, so she eyed it back, stuck out her tongue.

She unlocked the front door, and Reggie was at her feet in a rush of red fur and a helicopter tail, the happy squeaks he only made for her. He jumped up and pawed her knees.

‘Hello, hello, handsome. Who’s a good boy, huh?’

Jet bent to tickle him behind the ears. Those silly, long, English cocker spaniel ears.

The dog ran off, skittering around the corner and back two seconds later.

‘Oh, did you bring me some dirty socks?’ Jet said, thumbing his muzzle, the proud wiggle of his little body at the sacred offering. ‘Thank you so much, my absolute favorite.’

Jet closed the front door and moved through the hall; crisp white walls and Moroccan rugs, too neat, too styled, like a show home, and – man – was Jet in trouble every time she dared to treat it like a home, dropping crumbs or leaving her boots out. Through to the kitchen at the back of the house, Reggie trotting in behind her.

There was a plate of cookies on the kitchen island. Sophia had baked them, dropped them off earlier, black iced bats and orange pumpkins. Sophia did things like that. Baked. Jet picked up a bat, bit off its head. Damn, they were actually good. She finished it off, wiping her sticky fingers on one of the dish towels by the stove, a matching set of three: little marching lemons and oranges and avocados, because everything had to match in this house. Jet turned and passed the cookies again. Fuck it, actually; she took one of the pumpkins too, wandering through the wide, corniced archway into the living room.

Cookie in mouth, she reached into her pocket for her phone. Unlocked. Thumb finding Instagram before her eyes did. She bit off half the pumpkin, the sweet orange icing cloying against her tongue. Girls from school or college who were now married, having anniversaries and babies. Or no weddings and babies, but fancy dinners and sipping glasses of champagne to celebrate new jobs. That could have been Jet too, a humble-brag post about a big promotion at a firm with an acronym everyone pretended to recognize. If she hadn’t quit and left Boston overnight.

Jet finished off the cookie, sticky fingers against the screen. It didn’t matter. Jet had time to find the right thing; she had all the time in the world, remember? And then life would really begin, and when it did, you better believe she’d be shoving it down all of their throats in return. Just you wait.

Reggie stood in front of her, started to whine.

‘Sorry bud. Human cookies.’

The whine lowered, sinking into a growl.

‘Wh–’

A rush of feet behind.

A fast crack to the back of her head, the wet of splitting skin, crunch of skull.

The phone slips from her hands. No growl anymore but a scream. Jet should scream too but –

Another explosion, harder. The feel of blood, the sound of things breaking inside her head.

Someone’s killing her.

Jet can still think that, but she blinks and the light doesn’t come back and –

***

Woodstock Police Department, Woodstock, Vermont Emergency call log

Date: 10/31/2025

Time: 11:09 p.m.

DISPATCHER: This is 911, how can I help?

CALLER: Oh my god, oh my god, help! Send help!

DISPATCHER: Sir, please calm down. What service do you require?

CALLER: Fuck. Ambulance. Get an ambulance here. Police. She’s not moving, oh my god. No!

[screams in background]

DISPATCHER: Can you give me an address, sir?

CALLER: Yeah, fuck. It’s number 10, College Hill Road. Oh my god, Jet. No, please don’t be dead, please. Is she dead?

DISPATCHER: What’s happening over there?

CALLER: Someone’s attacked her. There’s blood everywhere. Her head. No, no, no.

[screams in background]

DISPATCHER: Is there anyone else with you at the scene?

CALLER: No, no, it’s just me and her. I found her, she wasn’t –

DISPATCHER: Who’s screaming?

CALLER: That’s the dog. This can’t be happening, no. Jet! Jet! Please don’t be dead, I’m begging you.

DISPATCHER: Can you check if she’s breathing?

CALLER: No, no, no. Jet, please.

DISPATCHER: Sir, what’s your name?

CALLER: Billy. Billy Finney.

DISPATCHER: Jack’s kid?

CALLER: Yeah.

DISPATCHER: OK, Billy. It’s me, Debbie, from the station. I need you to stop crying and stay calm for me, please. The ambulance is on its way. Help is coming. But I need you to check if she’s breathing, if there’s a pulse.

CALLER: There’s so much blood, I don’t . . . I can’t. Oh my god, Jet, no. Please god, no. She’s dead. Someone killed her. She’s dead. She’s dead.