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Table of Contents
About The Book
“Amy Pease proves herself a master of modern literary crime fiction.” —Danielle Trussoni, New York Times bestselling author
From the award-winning author of the “riveting debut” (People) Northwoods, a mother-son law enforcement team confront buried secrets in their small town as they work to expose a conspiracy that goes far beyond the tight-knit community.
Deputy Sheriff Eli North has spent the last year getting his life back together. He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol, he’s working through his PTSD from his military deployment, and he’s repairing his most important relationships. When an undercover informant disappears and all signs point to murder, Eli must expose the dark underbelly of his idyllic Wisconsin small town while safeguarding his newfound stability.
Then, with the unexpected arrival of FBI Agent Alyssa Mason, Eli and his mother, the sheriff, are pulled deeper into a violent criminal network built on the backs of the lost and forgotten.
As the case deepens, loyalties fracture and the line between justice and survival begins to blur. In a town where everyone has something to hide, exposing the truth may cost them everything.
From the award-winning author of the “riveting debut” (People) Northwoods, a mother-son law enforcement team confront buried secrets in their small town as they work to expose a conspiracy that goes far beyond the tight-knit community.
Deputy Sheriff Eli North has spent the last year getting his life back together. He hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol, he’s working through his PTSD from his military deployment, and he’s repairing his most important relationships. When an undercover informant disappears and all signs point to murder, Eli must expose the dark underbelly of his idyllic Wisconsin small town while safeguarding his newfound stability.
Then, with the unexpected arrival of FBI Agent Alyssa Mason, Eli and his mother, the sheriff, are pulled deeper into a violent criminal network built on the backs of the lost and forgotten.
As the case deepens, loyalties fracture and the line between justice and survival begins to blur. In a town where everyone has something to hide, exposing the truth may cost them everything.
Excerpt
Chapter 1 1
March
“My name isn’t Tiffany.”
The social worker flinched, put a perfectly manicured hand to her throat, as if Trinity would leap across the desk and start swinging.
Cheerful voices filtered in from the hallway—a granddaughter’s third birthday party, speculation on the weather—then moved on.
The woman—Sandra, according to the nameplate—glanced at the desktop phone, then back at Trinity. “If you can’t keep your tone respectful, I’ll have to call security.”
“I’m not—” Trinity closed her eyes.
It was never the security guards who kept the riffraff out of places like Wildwood Clinic. It was the Sandras—middle-aged women in cardigans, stationed behind reception desks or tucked into little offices like this one, with framed family photos, potted plants still wearing their gift ribbons, and wooden plaques painted with sayings about kindness. Smiling, benevolent gatekeepers ready to cut you down if you stepped an inch out of line. This particular Sandra seemed the type who lived for moments like this—when she could clutch her pearls and call for backup.
“I’m sorry,” said Trinity. “It’s just that—”
It was just that she was desperate.
A six-hour drive from Chicago with a friend of a friend who’d tried to put his hand down her pants before they’d even crossed the Wisconsin border. Nothing to eat since yesterday morning. Jeans still damp from washing them in a gas station sink last night.
Two years since her parents had kicked her out over a baggie of weed in her sock drawer.
Two years since her first OxyContin.
And everything—everything—had come apart.
She had fifty bucks and three tablets of Oxy stashed in her bra, and nothing else.
Almost nothing.
She dug into her backpack. “I have insurance. Here’s my card.”
It had taken days of phone calls, online forms that wouldn’t load, and endless bureaucratic roadblocks. When the card finally came, it had felt like a rare victory.
Sandra looked at the laminated square as if had come from a dumpster, but at least her appetite for calling security seemed to have waned. She sniffed. “The Wildwood Clinic Addiction Medicine Program is world-renowned. There are a lot of… people … who want to get their treatment here, and we can’t take everyone.”
Trinity felt the first needle prick of fear.
This woman was saying no. Not later. Not when a spot opens up.
Trinity looked around. Original art on the walls. Furniture made of wood, not plastic. A serenity not found in the free clinics and community-run support programs she’d tried in Chicago. The trappings of wealth. Not for people like her.
Just the latest in an endless succession of doors slammed in her face. Only, now she was far from home. Nowhere to go. No one to call.
“There must be some way I could—”
“I wish I had a better answer for you, Tiffany. I really do.”
Trinity didn’t correct the name this time. Just sat, stunned, while Sandra reached into her drawer and pulled out a brochure.
“There’s a place in town. A sober living facility called Pathways. I believe they’re accepting new clients.” She pushed it across the desk like it was a pink slip.
Trinity didn’t touch the brochure, just leaned over to study the front page—glossy smiles on carefully diverse faces, set against a backdrop of a Brooklyn-style brownstone, the likes of which did not exist in rural Wisconsin.
She should take the brochure and leave quietly. Find an unoccupied park bench or vacant doorway, and sit and wait for whatever came next.
Or maybe she would scream.
Maybe she would stand up and tell this woman to go to hell. That yes, she was an addict, and yes, she’d messed up—but she was twenty-three years old and not ready to quit trying. Not yet.
And then she’d be dragged off by security and searched for weapons and drugs and any remnants of self-worth, conveniently within sight of all the good, respectable people here to get care.
Trinity got to her feet, felt a moment’s satisfaction when Sandra’s head rocked back at the sudden movement. She pushed the brochure back across the desk, and the woman glanced at it in confusion, as if it was a stack of gold bars instead of a useless piece of paper.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
Trinity shouldered her backpack. “I’m good, thanks.”
Sandra scowled, then after a moment gave Trinity a nasty little smile. “I’ll just make a note that you declined additional services.” She scribbled something on Trinity’s application, then folded her hands on the desk and took a cleansing breath. “Well, best of luck to you, Tiffany.”
“My name is Trinity.”
She turned to walk out—she would leave with her head held high, even if she’d fallen lower than she ever thought possible. But her foot caught on the chair leg and she fell.
Hard.
Her knees cracked against the floor and her backpack flew forward. Items scattered across the floor—a pencil, a tampon, a hairbrush. She scrambled forward and shoved everything back into the bag with trembling hands. Sandra would think she was intoxicated. Call security after all. Or worse, the cops. All Trinity’s self-righteous anger vanished. She didn’t have prescriptions for the pills in her possession, and with her record, any cop would be justified in arresting her.
She couldn’t go to jail. Not again. She was out of chances and nearly out of time.
She got to her feet, picked up her backpack, and braced herself for Sandra’s scorn, or worse.
She needn’t have worried.
Sandra had already turned her back and was busy at her computer, as if Trinity had never existed. Somehow, it would have been less painful if security had dragged her out.
The Pathways Sober Living brochure still sat on the desk, its glossy surface catching the overhead light. Maybe the place wasn’t so bad. Maybe it could be enough. She hesitated, then reached for the brochure and, without looking at it, shoved it into her coat pocket and left.
March
“My name isn’t Tiffany.”
The social worker flinched, put a perfectly manicured hand to her throat, as if Trinity would leap across the desk and start swinging.
Cheerful voices filtered in from the hallway—a granddaughter’s third birthday party, speculation on the weather—then moved on.
The woman—Sandra, according to the nameplate—glanced at the desktop phone, then back at Trinity. “If you can’t keep your tone respectful, I’ll have to call security.”
“I’m not—” Trinity closed her eyes.
It was never the security guards who kept the riffraff out of places like Wildwood Clinic. It was the Sandras—middle-aged women in cardigans, stationed behind reception desks or tucked into little offices like this one, with framed family photos, potted plants still wearing their gift ribbons, and wooden plaques painted with sayings about kindness. Smiling, benevolent gatekeepers ready to cut you down if you stepped an inch out of line. This particular Sandra seemed the type who lived for moments like this—when she could clutch her pearls and call for backup.
“I’m sorry,” said Trinity. “It’s just that—”
It was just that she was desperate.
A six-hour drive from Chicago with a friend of a friend who’d tried to put his hand down her pants before they’d even crossed the Wisconsin border. Nothing to eat since yesterday morning. Jeans still damp from washing them in a gas station sink last night.
Two years since her parents had kicked her out over a baggie of weed in her sock drawer.
Two years since her first OxyContin.
And everything—everything—had come apart.
She had fifty bucks and three tablets of Oxy stashed in her bra, and nothing else.
Almost nothing.
She dug into her backpack. “I have insurance. Here’s my card.”
It had taken days of phone calls, online forms that wouldn’t load, and endless bureaucratic roadblocks. When the card finally came, it had felt like a rare victory.
Sandra looked at the laminated square as if had come from a dumpster, but at least her appetite for calling security seemed to have waned. She sniffed. “The Wildwood Clinic Addiction Medicine Program is world-renowned. There are a lot of… people … who want to get their treatment here, and we can’t take everyone.”
Trinity felt the first needle prick of fear.
This woman was saying no. Not later. Not when a spot opens up.
Trinity looked around. Original art on the walls. Furniture made of wood, not plastic. A serenity not found in the free clinics and community-run support programs she’d tried in Chicago. The trappings of wealth. Not for people like her.
Just the latest in an endless succession of doors slammed in her face. Only, now she was far from home. Nowhere to go. No one to call.
“There must be some way I could—”
“I wish I had a better answer for you, Tiffany. I really do.”
Trinity didn’t correct the name this time. Just sat, stunned, while Sandra reached into her drawer and pulled out a brochure.
“There’s a place in town. A sober living facility called Pathways. I believe they’re accepting new clients.” She pushed it across the desk like it was a pink slip.
Trinity didn’t touch the brochure, just leaned over to study the front page—glossy smiles on carefully diverse faces, set against a backdrop of a Brooklyn-style brownstone, the likes of which did not exist in rural Wisconsin.
She should take the brochure and leave quietly. Find an unoccupied park bench or vacant doorway, and sit and wait for whatever came next.
Or maybe she would scream.
Maybe she would stand up and tell this woman to go to hell. That yes, she was an addict, and yes, she’d messed up—but she was twenty-three years old and not ready to quit trying. Not yet.
And then she’d be dragged off by security and searched for weapons and drugs and any remnants of self-worth, conveniently within sight of all the good, respectable people here to get care.
Trinity got to her feet, felt a moment’s satisfaction when Sandra’s head rocked back at the sudden movement. She pushed the brochure back across the desk, and the woman glanced at it in confusion, as if it was a stack of gold bars instead of a useless piece of paper.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
Trinity shouldered her backpack. “I’m good, thanks.”
Sandra scowled, then after a moment gave Trinity a nasty little smile. “I’ll just make a note that you declined additional services.” She scribbled something on Trinity’s application, then folded her hands on the desk and took a cleansing breath. “Well, best of luck to you, Tiffany.”
“My name is Trinity.”
She turned to walk out—she would leave with her head held high, even if she’d fallen lower than she ever thought possible. But her foot caught on the chair leg and she fell.
Hard.
Her knees cracked against the floor and her backpack flew forward. Items scattered across the floor—a pencil, a tampon, a hairbrush. She scrambled forward and shoved everything back into the bag with trembling hands. Sandra would think she was intoxicated. Call security after all. Or worse, the cops. All Trinity’s self-righteous anger vanished. She didn’t have prescriptions for the pills in her possession, and with her record, any cop would be justified in arresting her.
She couldn’t go to jail. Not again. She was out of chances and nearly out of time.
She got to her feet, picked up her backpack, and braced herself for Sandra’s scorn, or worse.
She needn’t have worried.
Sandra had already turned her back and was busy at her computer, as if Trinity had never existed. Somehow, it would have been less painful if security had dragged her out.
The Pathways Sober Living brochure still sat on the desk, its glossy surface catching the overhead light. Maybe the place wasn’t so bad. Maybe it could be enough. She hesitated, then reached for the brochure and, without looking at it, shoved it into her coat pocket and left.
About The Author
Photograph by Paulius Musteikis
Amy Pease is the award-winning author of Northwoods and its sequel Wildwood, small-town thrillers rooted in the natural beauty and close-knit communities of her native Wisconsin. She writes emotionally rich, atmospheric stories across genres that explore the relationships that define us. A nationally recognized HIV specialist and longtime nurse practitioner, she is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin and the Madison Writer’s Studio. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and two children.
Product Details
- Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books (January 13, 2026)
- Length: 288 pages
- ISBN13: 9781668078723
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Raves and Reviews
"I loved this book. Interesting characters rooted in a place I could believe in, a great plot with enough tension to keep the pages turning, and tight, assured writing. I can't wait until the next one."
– Ann Cleeves, New York Times bestselling author of The Long Call and Vera Stanhope novels.
“With WILDWOOD, Amy Pease proves herself a master of modern literary crime fiction. This is a layered, unputdownable exploration of place, loyalty, and the cost of truth. The prose is luminous, the suspense quietly devastating. Pease writes with heart and gravity in equal measure.”
– Danielle Trussoni, New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of The Puzzle Box
"Dark, moody, and evocative....With powerful prose and unflinching insight, Amy Pease deftly unearths the depravity of human nature amid the tangled wilderness of the Northwoods to expose an insidious truth—even the sleepiest towns have shadowed underbellies."
– Hannah Morrissey, USA Today bestselling author of The Unlucky Ones
"Evocative, tense, and absolutely gorgeous! This heartbreakingly realistic rural noir will captivate you from page one. With intensely drawn characters, sophisticated emotional depth, and an atmospheric setting—this is part procedural, part family drama, and wholly immersive. As tough as CJ Box and as tender as Heather Gudenkauf, WILDWOOD again proves Amy Pease is a superbly powerful storyteller—and a truly lasting talent."
– Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author
"Tough and tender in equal measure, WILDWOOD lays bare the raw ache of addiction, the pain of modern loneliness, and a father's dogged devotion. At its heart is Deputy Sheriff Eli North, not the hardened cop of tropes & conventions, but a complex man in recovery, whose resilience and his own ghosts shape his detective work. A fascinating, totally unexpected, and gripping dive into rural crime storytelling."
– Margot Douaihy, bestselling author of SCORCHED GRACE, BLESSED WATER, and DIVINE
"Riveting…a suspenseful, well-paced peek into the dark currents running through Wisconsin’s otherwise bucolic northern woods….Will linger in readers’ minds long after the last page is turned."
– Annelise Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of the Monster Hunter Mysteries
"WILDWOOD is a gripping story of troubled people trying to do the right thing despite the enormous odds stacked against them. Within the pages of this rural crime novel with its working-class protagonists, Amy Pease has created something warm, wise, terrifying, and indescribably human. I hope to be reading the tales of Eli North - and his mom, Sheriff Marge North - for a very long time."
– Nick Petrie, author of THE DARK TIME
"Wildwood is a masterfully-crafted crime novel, a pitch-perfect blend of characters you want to root for, a propulsive plot with danger at every turn, and an evocatively chilling rural setting. Amy Pease’s follow up to Northwoods is sure to satisfy readers who want to catch up with Eli and Alyssa—or who are meeting them for the first time."
– Andrew DeYoung, author of STAY AWAY FROM HIM
"Pease weaves an immersive tale full of creeping dread, deftly exposing the dark underbelly of an idyllic Wisconsin resort town—all while proving a crime scene is even more compelling when the body is missing."
– Cayce Osborne, author of I KNOW WHAT YOU DID
“Pease impresses with her gritty second mystery featuring mother-son law-enforcement duo Marge and Eli North…Pease elevates her plotting with rich atmosphere and well-shaded characters. William Kent Krueger fans will want to check this out.”
– Publishers Weekly
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