The Last Murder at the End of the World

by Stuart Turton

They’ve been eating boiled vegetables and broths for the last three weeks, and her stomach is considering leaving her for somebody with a better palate.

Children always ask this question. They’re more perceptive than adults. His curiosity will dim eventually. Adults are allergic to complication.

Her thoughts are all arriving at once, like ten people trying to squeeze through a narrow door.

he was the typical billionaire’s son, spoiled and spiteful, flailing through the world, mistaking notoriety for success.

Five golden orioles are nesting amid the mess, singing their hearts out, trying to chip away at the misery holding everything together.

Humans are never more thrilling than when they’re under pressure like this. Electricity is crackling through her brain; epinephrine and cortisol are coursing through her bloodstream. It’s an incredible alchemy of sentience and biology—evolution at its freewheeling best.