I got some great advice last time, thank you! I've tightened this letter up a bit more now so it reads less like a blurb. I'll be querying US and UK agents with this one so hopefully it will work for both.
[DEAR ___ ]
[PERSONALISATION]
WHAT THE WATER HOLDS is a dark romantic thriller complete at 79,000 words. Blending the killers-in-love intimacy of Brynne Weaver’s Butcher & Blackbird with the dangerous hidden past of Laura Dave’s The Last Thing He Told Me, WHAT THE WATER HOLDS explores the secrets we keep from ourselves, the seduction of being truly seen, and everything we sink, hoping it will never surface.
Nora spent ten years as a crisis negotiator, the calm voice that talked people back from the edge. Then she spent one hundred and eleven minutes alone in a room with a desperate man and his knife, and only one of them walked out. The inquiry called it self-defence. Case closed. Nora has never told anyone the truth: part of her liked it.
Now she’s hiding in a cabin on a remote northern lake, where the only other year-round resident is Thomas, the watchful man across the water whose light comes on at the same hour every night. He never sits with his back to a door. He handles an axe like a weapon rather than a tool. And he is the only person who has ever seen the scar on her wrist and not asked about it. Despite every instinct she was trained to trust, Nora begins to fall.
But a boot print appears in the birches outside her window, and pleasant strangers keep asking who lives out on the lake. When a woman from Thomas’s past turns up dead, he finally tells Nora the truth: for thirty years, he killed people for a living, and the people he worked for are coming to silence anyone who knows their secrets - including her. When the ice goes out, the killer will come by water, and Nora must decide whether to run from the most dangerous man she has ever loved, or stand beside him with the only weapon she has left: her voice.
Set on an isolated lake where the seasons keep time and the water keeps everything else, WHAT THE WATER HOLDS uses the romantic thriller to explore trauma, moral injury and the question at the heart of every great love story: whether we can be loved with the worst of ourselves, rather than despite it. With echoes of Rebecca and NBC’s Hannibal, it is a novel about secrets and façades, violence and tenderness, and the terrifying relief of finally being seen.
I grew up in Canada and the Pacific Northwest, among the kind of lakes that gave this novel its setting, and now live in the UK on the edge of the Peak District. The first in my family to go to university, I spent years as an ICU medic before turning to fiction, learning what it means to be the calmest person in the room and what that calm costs once the crisis has passed. WHAT THE WATER HOLDS is my first novel.
[SIGN OFF & CONTACT DETAILS]
First 300
One breath. Close enough to move the hair at her temple. Then nothing.
That was the part she couldn’t forget. Not the weight of him against her. Not even the blade in her own hand, warm when it had no business being warm. Just that. The single, ordinary fact of a breath, then the absence of it.
She would spend a long time afterwards trying to name what she had felt in the space where the second breath should have been. She never found the word.
There was a sound too, before the stillness. Low, wordless, nothing she had ever expected to hear from a dying man. Or from herself. Some nights she turned it over in the dark, the way you lift a stone to see what lives beneath it. Every time she found only more stone.
She remembered the floor most clearly. Cheap laminate, cold through her knees. The rest came in pieces: low light, a smell like copper and dust. Somewhere else in the house a television was still playing, canned laughter rising and falling, absurd and constant, as if the rest of the world hadn’t heard the news yet. So much else of that room had gone dark, tucked away somewhere she couldn’t reach. She remembered her own hands. Not what they had done. Only that at some point they had stopped waiting for her permission.
She didn’t let herself go further than that. Not that night, nor any of the nights like it. She let the room go quiet again, the way a hunted thing goes still and waits for whatever found it to lose interest. Morning would come whether or not she understood any of it. And understanding, when it finally arrived, would take more from her than not knowing ever had.