Heather Gudenkauf
On Sale Date: November 4, 2025
9780778360049, 0778360040
Trade Paperback
$18.99 USD, $24.99 CAD
Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
320 pages
About the Book:
A couple’s gender reveal party turns deadly and everyone is a suspect in
this gripping thriller from the New York Times bestselling
author of The Overnight Guest.
Is it a boy or a girl? They would die to know…
Madeline and Wes Drake have invited two hundred of their closest friends and
family to their sprawling horse ranch for the most anticipated event of the
year: a “pistols and pearls” gender reveal party so sensational it is sure to
make headlines. But the party descends into chaos when the celebratory
explosive misfires, leaving one woman dead and a trail of secrets.
As the aftershocks of the bloody party ripple across the small town, Agent
Jamie Saldano is brought on the scene to investigate. Battling his own demons
from the past, Saldano unearths a web of deceit spun around the Drakes. The
appearance of some unexpected houseguests only deepens the mystery. And as
tensions mount, it becomes clear that the explosion wasn’t just an unlucky
accident. But who was the target, and why? As the shadow of a killer looms, the
happy parents-to-be must unravel the truth before it’s too late.
About the Author:
Heather Gudenkauf is the critically acclaimed author of several novels, including the New York Times bestsellers The Weight of Silence, The Overnight Guest and Everyone Is Watching. She lives in Iowa with her husband and children.
Social Links:
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Buy Links:
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Perfect-Hosts-Novel-Heather-Gudenkauf-ebook/dp/B0DQQ9BRLR
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AppleBooks: https://books.apple.com/us/book/the-perfect-hosts/id6739534386
MADELINE
“Madeline,” comes Wes’s voice, tinny and
faraway-sounding. “Are you okay?”
She is lying flat on her back, the
air still hazy with smoke. Is she? Is she okay? The ringing in her ears is
fading, and she can hear again. In the distance she can hear sirens. Help is
coming. Madeline does a mental scan of her body. Nothing seems broken, but her
head is pounding. She touches her hairline, expecting her fingers to come back
with blood, but instead they find an egg- sized lump. She tries to remember
exactly what happened. Wes pulled the trigger, and the truck exploded. An
explosion, that’s what it was. Something had gone wrong with the reveal. The
baby. Oh God, is the baby okay? She presses her palms against her belly.
“Madeline, Madeline,” comes Wes’s
voice again, this time more insistent. His frantic face comes into view.
“Shhh,” Madeline orders. “Please be
quiet.” She needs to lie completely still, has to concentrate so she can feel
the baby move. She. The baby is a girl, Madeline thinks, remembering the wisps
of pink smoke she saw among the fiery black cloud. Her little girl will kick
her in the bladder, one of her favorite moves, any second now. There is
nothing. No cartwheels or wiggles. Nothing.
Wes kneels beside her and slips his
hand into hers. “Help is coming. Stay put. Don’t move.”
Madeline nods as hot tears roll
down her cheeks. “What happened?”
“It must have been the truck,” Wes
says. “It must have triggered a bigger explosion.”
“But how?” Madeline asks. “You said
it was safe . . . Is anyone hurt?”
“It was. It was supposed to be.” He
shakes his head, be- wildered. “I don’t know what happened.”
Madeline struggles into a sitting
position and looks around. Charred lumber litters the lawn. The canopy over the
dining tables has collapsed and is covered in dancing flames that a handful of
guests and waitstaff are trying to smother with what- ever is handy: cowboy
hats, table linens, an old horse blanket. Other guests are gathered in small,
tight clusters, holding on to one another. Some sit in the grass crying, others
stand slack- faced, as if in shock. Through the smoke a rodeo clown appears,
his brightly colored clothing now blackened with soot and his makeup running
down his sweaty face. The clown is helping the photographer, who is bleeding
from the head. But it is the old storage barn that Madeline finds herself
fixated on. Huge f lames shoot from the hayloft window and the roof. Someone
pulls a hose from one of the horse barns, and suddenly buckets and containers
of all sizes appear. Others, including Johanna’s husband, Dalton, are running
toward the burning barn and tossing water onto the structure. They know that
one wayward spark could ignite the house or, worse, the barns filled with her
beloved horses.
“Can you walk?” Wes asks. “We have
to get you away from here.”
Madeline nods, and Wes helps her to
her feet. She is barefoot. The blast had lifted her in the air and knocked her
flip-flops clear off her feet. Madeline, leaning against Wes, winces with each
step, the rough ground pricking at the soles of her feet. He leads her to the
meadow, a safe distance from the burning barn, but still close enough for her
to see what’s happening. Some of Madeline’s earlier numbness is beginning to
wear away, and the enormity of what has happened begins to descend.
“Go,” Madeline says, knowing they
need as many hands as possible.
Wes shakes his head. “No,” he says.
“I’m not leaving you.” “I’m fine,” she says, but is she? She fell hard, and
still the baby hasn’t moved.
Madeline scans the crowd. “Where’s
Johanna?” she asks. “Have you seen her?”
“I haven’t,” Wes says. “But I’m
sure she’s around here somewhere. Have you seen Dix?”
“No,” Madeline says. The last she
saw Dix was just before he handed the microphone to Wes. “Go,” Madeline
repeats. “Really, I’m fine. I just have to get my bearings,” she assures him
when he turns his gaze to her doubtfully. “Go help, find your brother. And
check on the horses.”
“You wait here,” Wes says. “Don’t
move from this spot, and I’ll come back and find you.” He squeezes her hand and
kisses her cheek before darting away and disappearing into a cloud of black
smoke.
Madeline continues to eye the
property for any sign of Johanna’s long dark braid, her suede skirt. In the
distance the wail of sirens grows closer. Help is coming. The meadow to the
left of the house was being used as a makeshift parking lot for the guests’
vehicles. One wayward spark from the fire landing on the stubbled field could
set off a chain reaction where upward of a hundred cars and trucks, tanks
filled with gasoline and diesel, sit idly.
The air is filled with inky smoke
blotting out the face of the mountain and the setting sun. A fire truck pulls
through the side yard, crushing Madeline’s lavender and Russian sage, its
massive tires carving deep ruts in the soil. Madeline barely notices—it’s what
she sees as a group of guests part to let the truck through that causes her
breath to lodge in her throat. A woman lies on the ground, her arm thrown over
her face, while someone presses a blood-soaked cloth to her abdomen. One by
one, Madeline registers the carnage. Someone is doing CPR on Gary Wilson, the
president of the bank that holds their mortgage. One of her equestrian students
is wandering aimlessly through the smoke, tears running down her face. A
fifteen-hundred- pound bull has escaped the rodeo paddock and is trotting
toward the mountains. She sees Mellie, the young waitress, running and screaming,
fire dancing up the front of her legs. A partygoer tackles her, smothering the
flames with his body.
This is bad. So very bad. Madeline
fights the urge to vomit. She wants to help. But how? Water, Madeline thinks.
She can pass out bottles of water, try and keep the guests calm and reassure
them that help is here, that everything is going to be okay. On unsteady feet
she moves toward the party barn, where she knows there is plenty of bottled
water, but someone grabs her arm. Mia. “Have you seen Sully?” she asks
tearfully, her arm hanging at an odd angle. “I can’t find him.”
Madeline shakes her head. “I’ll
help look for him,” she promises. “You’re hurt. Sit down.”
Mia shakes her head. “I need
Sully,” she says thickly and stumbles away. There are too many injured and not
enough emergency personnel.
The fire truck has come to an
abrupt stop. Two firefighters are urging those guests who jumped in to try to
put out the fire to move away from the blaze. With machinelike efficiency, they
unroll the hoses.
Madeline is mesmerized by the
flames that roll across the roof of the barn, the dense cloud of smoke, the
roar of lumber being eaten by the flames. She moves closer, unnoticed by the
firefighters, her face growing pink from the heat. Madeline vaguely becomes
aware of more sirens and shouts of “Over here” and “Please help!” More help has
arrived. The spray of water hisses and snarls as it strikes flames and wood.
The barn turns into a living thing then, twisting and groaning until it
collapses in on itself, turning to a big heap of charred lumber with sooty farm
equipment peeking out here and there.
Excerpted
from The Perfect Hosts by Heather Gudenkauf, Copyright © 2025 by Heather
Gudenkauf. Published by Park Row Books
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