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Something in the Water

A Novel

A shocking discovery on a honeymoon in paradise changes the lives of a picture-perfect couple in this taut psychological thriller debut—for readers of Ruth Ware, Paula Hawkins, and Shari Lapena.

“A psychological thriller that captivated me from page one. What unfolds makes for a wild, page-turning ride! It’s the perfect beach read!”—Reese Witherspoon (Reese’s Book Club x Hello Sunshine book pick)


If you could make one simple choice that would change your life forever, would you?


Erin is a documentary filmmaker on the brink of a professional breakthrough, Mark a handsome investment banker with big plans. Passionately in love, they embark on a dream honeymoon to the tropical island of Bora Bora, where they enjoy the sun, the sand, and each other. Then, while scuba diving in the crystal blue sea, they find something in the water. . . .


Could the life of your dreams be the stuff of nightmares?


Suddenly the newlyweds must make a dangerous choice: to speak out or to protect their secret. After all, if no one else knows, who would be hurt? Their decision will trigger a devastating chain of events. . . .


Have you ever wondered how long it takes to dig a grave?


Wonder no longer. Catherine Steadman’s enthralling voice shines throughout this spellbinding debut novel. With piercing insight and fascinating twists,
Something in the Water challenges the reader to confront the hopes we desperately cling to, the ideals we’re tempted to abandon, and the perfect lies we tell ourselves.

Praise for Something in the Water

“Superbly written, clever and gripping.”
—B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors 

“Deliciously dramatic.”
—Entertainment Weekly 

“Thrilling . . . the perfect beach read.”

“A dark glittering gem of a thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Arresting . . . deftly paced, elegantly chilly . . . [Catherine] Steadman brings . . . wit, timing and intelligence to this novel. . . .
Something in the Water is a proper page-turner.”
—The New York Times
Catherine Steadman is an actress and writer based in North London, UK. She has appeared in leading roles on British television as well as on stage in the West End. In 2016 she was nominated for a Laurence Olivier Award for Best Actress in a Supporting Role for her performance in
Oppenheimer. She is best known in the United States for her role as Mabel Lane Fox in
Downton Abbey. She grew up in the New Forest, UK, and lives with a small dog and an average-sized man.
Something in the Water is her first novel.
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    Saturday, October 1

    The Grave

    Have you ever wondered how long it takes to dig a grave? Wonder no longer. It takes an age. However long you think it takes, double that.

    I’m sure you’ve seen it in movies: the hero, gun to his head perhaps, as he sweats and grunts his way deeper and deeper into the earth until he’s standing six feet down in his own grave. Or the two hapless crooks who argue and quip in the hilarious madcap chaos as they shovel frantically, dirt flying skyward with cartoonish ease.

    It’s not like that. It’s hard. Nothing about it is easy. The ground is solid and heavy and slow. It’s so fucking hard.

    And it’s boring. And long. And it has to be done.

    The stress, the adrenaline, the desperate animal need to do it, sustains you for about twenty minutes. Then you crash.

    Your muscles yawn against the bones in your arms and legs. Skin to bone, bone to skin. Your heart aches from the aftermath of the adrenal shock, your blood sugar drops, you hit the wall. A full-­body hit. But you know, you know with crystal clarity, that high or low, exhausted or not, that hole’s getting dug.

    Then you kick into another gear. It’s that halfway point in a marathon when the novelty has worn off and you’ve just got to finish the joyless bloody thing. You’ve invested; you’re all in. You’ve told all your friends you’d do it, you made them pledge donations to some charity or other, one you have only a vague passing connection to. They guiltily promised more money than they really wanted to give, feeling obligated because of some bike ride or other they might have done at university, the details of which they bore you with every time they get drunk. I’m still talking about the marathon, stick with me. And then you went out every evening, on your own, shins throbbing, headphones in, building up miles, for this. So that you can fight yourself, fight with your body, right there, in that moment, in that stark moment, and see who wins. And no one but you is watching. And no one but you really cares. It’s just you and yourself trying to survive. That is what digging a grave feels like, like the music has stopped but you can’t stop dancing. Because if you stop dancing, you die.

    So you keep digging. You do it, because the alternative is far worse than digging a never-­ending fucking hole in the hard compacted soil with a shovel you found in some old man’s shed.

    As you dig you see colors drift across your eyes: phosphenes caused by metabolic stimulation of neurons in the visual cortex due to low oxygenation and low glucose. Your ears roar with blood: low blood pressure caused by dehydration and overexertion. But your thoughts? Your thoughts skim across the still pool of your consciousness, only occasionally glancing the surface. Gone before you can grasp them. Your mind is completely blank. The central nervous system treats this overexertion as a fight-­or-­flight situation; exercise-­induced neurogenesis, along with that ever-­popular sports mag favorite, “exercise-­induced endorphin release,” acts to both inhibit your brain and protect it from the sustained pain and stress of what you are doing.

    Exhaustion is a fantastic emotional leveler. Running or digging.

    Around the forty-­five-­minute mark I decide six feet is an unrealistic depth for this grave. I will not manage to dig down to six feet. I’m five foot six. How would I even climb out? I would literally have dug myself into a hole.

    According to a 2014 YouGov survey, five foot six is the ideal height for a British woman. Apparently that is the height that the average British man would prefer his partner to be. So, lucky me. Lucky Mark. God, I wish Mark were here.

    So if I’m not digging six feet under, how far under? How deep is deep enough?

    Bodies tend to get found because of poor burial. I don’t want that to happen. I really don’t. That would definitely not be the outcome I’m after. And a poor burial, like a poor anything else really, comes down to three things:

    1. Lack of time

    2. Lack of initiative

    3. Lack of care

    In terms of time: I have three to six hours to do this. Three hours is my conservative estimate. Six hours is the daylight I have left. I have time.

    I believe I have initiative; two brains are better than one. I hope. I just need to work through this step by step.

    And number three: care? God, do I care. I care. More than I have ever cared in my entire life.


    Three feet is the minimum depth recommended by the ICCM (Institute of Cemetery and Crematorium Management). I know this because I Googled it. I Googled it before I started digging. See, initiative. Care. I squatted down next to the body, wet leaves and mud malty underfoot, and I Googled how to bury a body. I Googled this on the body’s burner phone. If they do find the body . . . they won’t find the body . . . and manage to retrieve the data . . . they won’t retrieve the data . . . then this search history is going to make fantastic reading.

    Two full hours in, I stop digging. The hole is just over three feet deep. I don’t have a tape measure, but I remember that three feet is around crotch height. The height of the highest jump I managed on the horse-­riding vacation I took before I left for university twelve years ago. An eighteenth-­birthday present. Weird what sticks in the memory, isn’t it? But here I am, waist-­deep in a grave, remembering a gymkhana. I got second prize, by the way. I was very happy with it.

    Anyway, I’ve dug approximately three feet deep, two feet wide, six feet long. Yes, that took two hours.

    To reiterate: digging a grave is very hard.

    Just to put this into perspective for you, this hole, my two-­hour hole, is: 3 ft x 2 ft x 6 ft, which is 36 cubic feet of soil, which is 1 cubic meter of soil, which is 1.5 tons of soil. And that—­that—­is the weight of a hatchback car or a fully grown beluga whale or the average hippopotamus. I have moved the equivalent of that up and slightly to the left of where it was before. And this grave is only three feet deep.

    I look across the mud at the mound and slowly hoist myself out, forearms trembling under my own weight. The body lies across from me under a torn tarpaulin, its brilliant cobalt a slash of color against the brown forest floor. I’d found it abandoned, hanging like a veil from a branch, back toward the layby, in quiet communion with an abandoned fridge. The fridge’s small freezer-­box door creaking calmly in the breeze. Dumped.

    There’s something so sad about abandoned objects, isn’t there? Desolate. But kind of beautiful. I suppose, in a sense, I’ve come to abandon a body.

    The fridge has been here a while—­I know this because I saw it from the car window as we drove past here three months ago, and nobody has come for it yet. We were on our way back to London from Norfolk, Mark and I, after celebrating our anniversary, and here the fridge still is months later. Odd to think so much has happened—­to me, to us—­in that time, but nothing has changed here. As if this spot were adrift from time, a holding area. It has that feel. Perhaps no one has been here since the fridge owner was here, and God knows how long ago that might have been. The fridge looks distinctly seventies—­you know, in that bricky way. Bricky, Kubricky. A monolith in a damp English wood. Obsolete. Three months it’s been here at least and no collection, no men from the dump. No one comes here, that’s clear. Except us. No council workers, no disgruntled locals to write letters to the council, no early morning dog walkers to stumble across my quarry. This was the safest place I could think of. So here we are. It will take a while for it all to settle, the soil. But I think the fridge and I have enough time.

    I look it over, the crumpled-­tarp mound. Underneath lie flesh, skin, bone, teeth. Three and a half hours dead.

    I wonder if he’s still warm. My husband. Warm to the touch. I Google it. Either way, I don’t want the shock.


    Okay, the arms and legs should be cold to the touch but the main body will still be warm. Okay then.

    I take a long, full exhalation.

    Okay, here we go. . . .

    I stop. Wait.

    I don’t know why, but I clear his burner phone’s search history. It’s pointless, I know; the phone’s untraceable and after a couple of hours in the damp October ground it won’t work anyway. But then, maybe it will. I place the burner back in his coat pocket and slip his personal iPhone out of his chest pocket. It’s on airplane mode.

    I look through the photo library. Us. Tears well and then streak in two hot dribbles down my face.

    I fully remove the tarp, exposing everything it conceals. I wipe the phone for prints, return it to its warm chest pocket, and brace my knees to drag.

    I’m not a bad person. Or maybe I am. Maybe you should decide?

    But I should definitely explain. And to explain I need to go back. Back to that anniversary morning, three months ago.
In den Warenkorb



Einband Taschenbuch
Seitenzahl 384
Erscheinungsdatum 09.04.2019
Sprache Englisch
ISBN 978-1-5247-9767-6
Verlag Ballantine Books Inc.
Maße (L/B/H) 20.3/13.1/2.5 cm
Gewicht 310 g
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Buch (Taschenbuch, Englisch)
Fr. 16.90
Fr. 16.90
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inkl. gesetzl. MwSt.
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3 Bewertungen

Teilweise 08/15
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden am 09.07.2019
Bewertet: Einband: Taschenbuch

Man soll sich ja vor seinen Wünschen in Acht nehmen, weil sie sich erfüllen könnten. Gleiches gilt sicher auch für manchen großen Fund, den man macht. Zumindest hier, bei diesem Thriller, sorgt der Fund einer Tasche für Entwicklungen, die nicht alle unbeschadet überstehen. Ganz im Gegenteil, denn schon auf den ersten Seiten erfä... Man soll sich ja vor seinen Wünschen in Acht nehmen, weil sie sich erfüllen könnten. Gleiches gilt sicher auch für manchen großen Fund, den man macht. Zumindest hier, bei diesem Thriller, sorgt der Fund einer Tasche für Entwicklungen, die nicht alle unbeschadet überstehen. Ganz im Gegenteil, denn schon auf den ersten Seiten erfährt der Leser, dass die Erzählerin gerade dabei ist ihren Mann zu vergraben. Wie es dazu gekommen ist, erzählt das Buch. Vorab: An sich ist es eine gute, wenn auch nicht neue Idee, mit einer relativ netten Protagonistin/Erzählerin, aber komplett überzeugt hat es mich dennoch nicht. Der Beginn ist, nach dem Prolog, etwas schleppend. Man lernt die Protagonisten kennen und ihre Beziehung zu ihrem Verlobten und späteren Mann Mark aus Erins Sicht. Erin, noch immer nicht ganz von ihrem Jugendtrauma erholt, ist Dokumentarfilmerin und unheimlich in den gutaussehenden Investmentbanker verliebt, doch es bleibt nicht eitel Sonnenschein. Kurz vor der Hochzeit verliert Mark seinen Job und ist sehr unzufrieden. Erin versucht ihr Bestes, um ihn bei Laune zu halten und nebenbei ihrer Arbeit nachzugehen. Dieser Part, bis es endlich in die Flitterwochen nach Bora Bora geht, hat sich viel zu lang gezogen, vor allem auch die erste Klasse Beschreibungen im Flugzeug… Irgendwann einmal finden die beiden endlich „Something in the water“ und damit nimmt das Schicksal seinen Lauf. Erin und Mark versuchen ihren Fund für sich zu nutzen und werden dabei vor große Hürden gestellt. Viele Situationen sind brenzlig, sie könnten beide im Gefängnis landen und darüber hinaus wird möglicherweise von bösen Menschen nach ihnen gesucht. Die Beziehung scheint zu bröckeln und die beiden werden irgendwie immer habgieriger, sodass man – man erinnert sich an den Prolog mit dem Vergraben des Ehemannes – eine ziemlich gute Vorstellung davon hat, was kommen wird. Trotzdem gibt es manche Überraschung, besonders eine davon fand ich an den Haaren herbeigezogen. Der Schreibstil ist – erst einmal in Fahrt gekommen – sehr rund und gut zu lesen, sodass man nach dem etwas holprigen Beginn und trotz aller Kritik das Buch kaum mehr weglegen möchte. Nach dem Ende war ich aber leider nicht richtig überzeugt (ich möchte nicht spoilern, aber ich hatte es genau kommen sehen und das war schon ziemlich schade. Ich hatte auf etwas anderes als 08/15 gehofft…) An sich ist das Buch nicht so schlecht, aber mit etwas Abstand muss man schon festhalten, dass es sehr vorhersehbar ist, manche Wendung zu unglaubwürdig erscheint und es einfach nicht immer logisch ist.

the new must-read psycho thriller
von einer Kundin/einem Kunden am 26.08.2018
Bewertet: Format: eBook (ePUB)

At the beginning we get to know that Erin is carving her fresh married husband. Though they were married since at least six month. Then the story starts three month before their marriage. Erin and Marc are a good looking dream couple and they wanted to have children soon. So what changed the situation between them? Is it caused ... At the beginning we get to know that Erin is carving her fresh married husband. Though they were married since at least six month. Then the story starts three month before their marriage. Erin and Marc are a good looking dream couple and they wanted to have children soon. So what changed the situation between them? Is it caused by Erins new film project about prison inmates? Or is it caused by Marcs sudden unemployment as investor. Well, I don't spoil the story if I say that it is caused by Something in the water. Enjoy the wonderfull written diving scenes in Bora Bora.