Welcome to my showcase for NOTHING EVER HAPPENS HERE which is been hosted by HarperCollins and Harlequin
Nothing Ever Happens Here
By Seraphina Nova Glass
On Sale: February 11, 2025
ISBN: 9781525831591
Graydon House Paperback
Price: $18.99
Buy Links:
HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/nothing-
ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass?variant=42521060835362
Amazon: https://www.amazon.ca/s?k=9781525836725&tag=hcg-02-20
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nothing-
ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass/1145581324?ean=9781525836725
Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/everyone-knows-
something-a-thriller-original-seraphina-nova-glass/21448569?ean=9781525836725
Excerpt - Nothing Ever Happens Here
3
Florence
Fifteen Months Later I read a story on the internet about how elderly people without hobbies are
among the saddest sacks on earth, although I’m sure I have that wrong and
they didn’t use the word “sacks.” Anyway, it went on to say how having hobbies
could greatly reduce one’s chances of developing dementia. They didn’t give a
percentage and I would have liked a percentage, because if it’s only a one percent
chance reduction, well then, why bother? But I guess they wouldn’t have written
the whole article, in that case, or used the words “greatly reduce one’s chances” f
or that matter either, would they? So I decided I would like a hobby.
So, when I Googled “how to start a hobby” the first advice given was to break it i
nto small steps so you’re not overwhelmed. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t Google how
to embezzle diamonds from the Russian mafia, I was simply thinking I might take
up cookie making or something. How could I get overwhelmed? Anyway…then I
learned that professional cookie decorators call themselves “cookiers” and I
just found the term so irritating I gave up on the whole thing.
Then Millie told me I could knit with her and I told Millie that she’s shamefully
cliché, and how does she not have carpal tunnel by now? And it’s not really a
hobby, is it? She’d be sitting in front of the television watching Bonanza with or
without her knitting in hand, so it’s quite mindless, and I don’t think a hobby
should be mindless. Bernie has taken up winemaking, but his room smells like
a boiled egg, so I don’t think he’s doing it right. It’s still at the top of my list,
though.
Gardening was a contender too. I was quite the gardener once, but the snow
won’t melt until April, so that seems a long wait. I could be dead by
then for all I know. But then Herb said I should make a podcast about
gardening and share my wisdom with the world. This intrigued me—
because I was once a news announcer on public radio, and in a
way it’s a perfect idea. My love for plants and helping people learn,
hmm. But how would one even begin? I just showed up and talked
into a mic at the station, and that was long ago. I would need to
figure out a lot of things, but learning it all would keep me busy,
and maybe that’s a hobby all in itself. I was almost sold on the idea.
But then something very serendipitous happened. I was at
Murph Moyer’s f
uneral, which was such a sad occasion since Murph had just had a hair
transplant he was very excited about, and had planned a trip to the
Bahamas to swim with the pigs. I guess that’s a thing…
He even bought a bottle of spray tan on Amazon, and then just
like that, a fall on the ice on his way down to The Angry Trout for a
pint one night and that was it. And now he looks orange in his casket,
poor Murph, and he never even got to put his new hair to good use. It’s like
that these days, though. When you get to e our age, you start receiving
invitations to a lot more funerals. And part of you gets used to it, but the main
part of you never does.
At the reception, I was chatting with Rosie and Susan by the punch bowl. We were
sitting in metal folding chairs and holding little slices of white cake on napkins
when I noticed Winny pouring a long pull of scotch into a Santa Claus coffee
mug and sitting by herself next to a fake ficus in need of dusting. She was
hunched over her drink, and I saw her dot her eye with the corner of a napkin,
so I excused myself and went to sit with her.
I could tell it wasn’t her first scotch because she had a glassy-eyed look and
loose lips, but that’s a good thing. It was easy to get her to confide in me and
tell me why she’d missed our bridge game last Tuesday and what in the world
was the matter. I mean, I know her husband passed only a couple of months ago,
of course. But he’d been battling severe diabetes complications and was
in the hospital for who knows how long. He was even left unable to speak after
a diabetes-induced stroke. Lord help him. It was a mercy, really, him passing.
It was very expected. So I am quite surprised at what Winny tells me—
that she thinks her husband was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes.
ell, I had to set my punch on the floor next to me and rest my hand on
my heart a moment.
“Sweetheart, why would you say that? Otis was so sick, bless him,”
I say to her, placing my hands on her knees. I thought she lost the plot,
if I’m honest, but I was still going to be sympathetic. She picks at Santa’s
chipping glitter beard and talks into her lap.
“Something wasn’t right there,” she says with a haunted look on her face.
“What do you mean, love?” I ask, trying to look in her eyes so she’s
forced to look back at me, but she continues to mumble. And I suppose I
would speak quietly too if I were saying the crazy thing she was about to say.
“Someone there killed him,” she whispers.
“At the hospital?”
“Yes, Florence. I… Yes. I’m not just—I’m not crazy. I’m not making shit up.”
“Of course you’re not, dear,” I say, but I don’t really mean it.
“Well, did you tell the police?” I ask, because what else does one
ask in this sort of situation? “Of course, but they don’t believe me.
I can tell. They say they’ll ‘have a look,’ whatever that means, but
I know when I’m being condescended to. They will not have a look.
Plus that old detective Riley has a head full of chipped beef. Has he ever
helped anyone solve anything in this town?” she asks, becoming louder
and more agitated as she goes. She puts her mug down and takes
a deep breath.
To be fair, the only crime I can remember happening in the last few years
in this town, besides petty bike theft or drunk fistfights, is the tragedy
that happened to Mack and Shelby that terrible night last year, but I can’t
blame Riley for that. It absolutely baffled everyone. He does have a head
full of chipped beef though, I’ll give her that.
“Why would you think something like that, love? You know
all of the hospital workers,” I say, which is a given. She pretty much
knows everyone around here. “You think one of them hurt Otis? That’s…”
I stop, because I don’t know what to say. It’s absurd and makes me worry
for Winny. I wonder if she’s gone around telling other people this sort of thing.
“He told me,” she says, and since I know he was unable to speak, now
I really zip my lip and just look over at the bottle of scotch on the refreshments
table with a longing gaze, wondering how to kindly extract myself from
the conversation.
“Something’s goin’ on around here, Flor. Something is happening. First Shel
and Mack, and poor Leo wherever the hell he really is. Now this.” It’s strange
to hear someone say “poor Leo,” because the general, mostly unspoken
consensus is that he’s a rat bastard who ghosted his wife. I hope I’m using
that term correctly. Ghosted. Anyway, I wonder if it would be rude to lean over
and pick a few cucumber sandwiches off of the table while she’s talking. I do
hate to be rude, but I really am famished, and I know Liddy Wingfield made them,
and she uses the pimento cream cheese on them, which is a dream.
Before I can decide, Winny leans in conspiratorially.
“Can I show you something?” she asks.
“Of course,” I agree, giving up on my chance for a cucumber sandwich
as she motions for me to follow her. The reception is at Dusty Waltman’s
house because he and Murph were very good friends. I suppose he’s a nice
enough man, I just can’t get past the urge to take a bottle of Pledge and a
washrag after him each time I hear the name Dusty. Not his fault, I suppose,
and his house is quite tidy, although too drafty for my taste.
Even so, I follow Winny down his front hall with the brown plaid wallpaper and
creaky wood floors, and we pull our coats from a pile of other sad-looking black
and navy down coats draped over an old steamer trunk near the door and walk
out into the frozen air. It’s so cold the snow is having trouble trying to fall, and it
swirls around the lampposts in light, icy specks. Before I can complain about
freezing to death, I hear “My Heart Will Go On” start to play inside, and now
I’m happy to be out here, so I give her a minute as I shift from foot to foot and
blow on my hands while she pulls something from her pocket. Why do they play
songs like that at funerals? Everyone is already sad, and now I can hear sobs
from inside. I hope they play “Another One Bites the Dust” at my funeral.
And have
it at a Dave & Buster’s, where everyone will get free mojitos and play free
SkeeBall,
and not in a drafty house with peely wallpaper and stale sheet cake.
Winny finally fishes out whatever it is she’s been digging for, then
shoves the
pieces of a ripped-up sheet of paper at me. I take it, examining it and have
no idea what the hell she’s playing at.
“What is it?” I ask. She takes the papers back, swipes a layer of snow
off of Dusty’s porch swing, and sits. I sit next to her, and she lays them
out on her knees.
On Sale: February 11, 2025
ISBN: 9781525831591
Graydon House Paperback
Price: $18.99
Buy Links:
HarperCollins: https://www.harpercollins.com/products/nothing-
ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass?variant=42521060835362
Amazon: https://www.amazon.ca/s?k=9781525836725&tag=hcg-02-20
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nothing-
ever-happens-here-seraphina-nova-glass/1145581324?ean=9781525836725
Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/everyone-knows-
something-a-thriller-original-seraphina-nova-glass/21448569?ean=9781525836725
Excerpt - Nothing Ever Happens Here
3
Florence
Fifteen Months Later I read a story on the internet about how elderly people without hobbies are
among the saddest sacks on earth, although I’m sure I have that wrong and
they didn’t use the word “sacks.” Anyway, it went on to say how having hobbies
could greatly reduce one’s chances of developing dementia. They didn’t give a
percentage and I would have liked a percentage, because if it’s only a one percent
chance reduction, well then, why bother? But I guess they wouldn’t have written
the whole article, in that case, or used the words “greatly reduce one’s chances” f
or that matter either, would they? So I decided I would like a hobby.
So, when I Googled “how to start a hobby” the first advice given was to break it i
nto small steps so you’re not overwhelmed. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t Google how
to embezzle diamonds from the Russian mafia, I was simply thinking I might take
up cookie making or something. How could I get overwhelmed? Anyway…then I
learned that professional cookie decorators call themselves “cookiers” and I
just found the term so irritating I gave up on the whole thing.
Then Millie told me I could knit with her and I told Millie that she’s shamefully
cliché, and how does she not have carpal tunnel by now? And it’s not really a
hobby, is it? She’d be sitting in front of the television watching Bonanza with or
without her knitting in hand, so it’s quite mindless, and I don’t think a hobby
should be mindless. Bernie has taken up winemaking, but his room smells like
a boiled egg, so I don’t think he’s doing it right. It’s still at the top of my list,
though.
Gardening was a contender too. I was quite the gardener once, but the snow
won’t melt until April, so that seems a long wait. I could be dead by
then for all I know. But then Herb said I should make a podcast about
gardening and share my wisdom with the world. This intrigued me—
because I was once a news announcer on public radio, and in a
way it’s a perfect idea. My love for plants and helping people learn,
hmm. But how would one even begin? I just showed up and talked
into a mic at the station, and that was long ago. I would need to
figure out a lot of things, but learning it all would keep me busy,
and maybe that’s a hobby all in itself. I was almost sold on the idea.
But then something very serendipitous happened. I was at
Murph Moyer’s f
uneral, which was such a sad occasion since Murph had just had a hair
transplant he was very excited about, and had planned a trip to the
Bahamas to swim with the pigs. I guess that’s a thing…
He even bought a bottle of spray tan on Amazon, and then just
like that, a fall on the ice on his way down to The Angry Trout for a
pint one night and that was it. And now he looks orange in his casket,
poor Murph, and he never even got to put his new hair to good use. It’s like
that these days, though. When you get to e our age, you start receiving
invitations to a lot more funerals. And part of you gets used to it, but the main
part of you never does.
At the reception, I was chatting with Rosie and Susan by the punch bowl. We were
sitting in metal folding chairs and holding little slices of white cake on napkins
when I noticed Winny pouring a long pull of scotch into a Santa Claus coffee
mug and sitting by herself next to a fake ficus in need of dusting. She was
hunched over her drink, and I saw her dot her eye with the corner of a napkin,
so I excused myself and went to sit with her.
I could tell it wasn’t her first scotch because she had a glassy-eyed look and
loose lips, but that’s a good thing. It was easy to get her to confide in me and
tell me why she’d missed our bridge game last Tuesday and what in the world
was the matter. I mean, I know her husband passed only a couple of months ago,
of course. But he’d been battling severe diabetes complications and was
in the hospital for who knows how long. He was even left unable to speak after
a diabetes-induced stroke. Lord help him. It was a mercy, really, him passing.
It was very expected. So I am quite surprised at what Winny tells me—
that she thinks her husband was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes.
ell, I had to set my punch on the floor next to me and rest my hand on
my heart a moment.
“Sweetheart, why would you say that? Otis was so sick, bless him,”
I say to her, placing my hands on her knees. I thought she lost the plot,
if I’m honest, but I was still going to be sympathetic. She picks at Santa’s
chipping glitter beard and talks into her lap.
“Something wasn’t right there,” she says with a haunted look on her face.
“What do you mean, love?” I ask, trying to look in her eyes so she’s
forced to look back at me, but she continues to mumble. And I suppose I
would speak quietly too if I were saying the crazy thing she was about to say.
“Someone there killed him,” she whispers.
“At the hospital?”
“Yes, Florence. I… Yes. I’m not just—I’m not crazy. I’m not making shit up.”
“Of course you’re not, dear,” I say, but I don’t really mean it.
“Well, did you tell the police?” I ask, because what else does one
ask in this sort of situation? “Of course, but they don’t believe me.
I can tell. They say they’ll ‘have a look,’ whatever that means, but
I know when I’m being condescended to. They will not have a look.
Plus that old detective Riley has a head full of chipped beef. Has he ever
helped anyone solve anything in this town?” she asks, becoming louder
and more agitated as she goes. She puts her mug down and takes
a deep breath.
To be fair, the only crime I can remember happening in the last few years
in this town, besides petty bike theft or drunk fistfights, is the tragedy
that happened to Mack and Shelby that terrible night last year, but I can’t
blame Riley for that. It absolutely baffled everyone. He does have a head
full of chipped beef though, I’ll give her that.
“Why would you think something like that, love? You know
all of the hospital workers,” I say, which is a given. She pretty much
knows everyone around here. “You think one of them hurt Otis? That’s…”
I stop, because I don’t know what to say. It’s absurd and makes me worry
for Winny. I wonder if she’s gone around telling other people this sort of thing.
“He told me,” she says, and since I know he was unable to speak, now
I really zip my lip and just look over at the bottle of scotch on the refreshments
table with a longing gaze, wondering how to kindly extract myself from
the conversation.
“Something’s goin’ on around here, Flor. Something is happening. First Shel
and Mack, and poor Leo wherever the hell he really is. Now this.” It’s strange
to hear someone say “poor Leo,” because the general, mostly unspoken
consensus is that he’s a rat bastard who ghosted his wife. I hope I’m using
that term correctly. Ghosted. Anyway, I wonder if it would be rude to lean over
and pick a few cucumber sandwiches off of the table while she’s talking. I do
hate to be rude, but I really am famished, and I know Liddy Wingfield made them,
and she uses the pimento cream cheese on them, which is a dream.
Before I can decide, Winny leans in conspiratorially.
“Can I show you something?” she asks.
“Of course,” I agree, giving up on my chance for a cucumber sandwich
as she motions for me to follow her. The reception is at Dusty Waltman’s
house because he and Murph were very good friends. I suppose he’s a nice
enough man, I just can’t get past the urge to take a bottle of Pledge and a
washrag after him each time I hear the name Dusty. Not his fault, I suppose,
and his house is quite tidy, although too drafty for my taste.
Even so, I follow Winny down his front hall with the brown plaid wallpaper and
creaky wood floors, and we pull our coats from a pile of other sad-looking black
and navy down coats draped over an old steamer trunk near the door and walk
out into the frozen air. It’s so cold the snow is having trouble trying to fall, and it
swirls around the lampposts in light, icy specks. Before I can complain about
freezing to death, I hear “My Heart Will Go On” start to play inside, and now
I’m happy to be out here, so I give her a minute as I shift from foot to foot and
blow on my hands while she pulls something from her pocket. Why do they play
songs like that at funerals? Everyone is already sad, and now I can hear sobs
from inside. I hope they play “Another One Bites the Dust” at my funeral.
And have
it at a Dave & Buster’s, where everyone will get free mojitos and play free
SkeeBall,
and not in a drafty house with peely wallpaper and stale sheet cake.
Winny finally fishes out whatever it is she’s been digging for, then
shoves the
pieces of a ripped-up sheet of paper at me. I take it, examining it and have
no idea what the hell she’s playing at.
“What is it?” I ask. She takes the papers back, swipes a layer of snow
off of Dusty’s porch swing, and sits. I sit next to her, and she lays them
out on her knees.
“Look,” she says, and I do. I see a scrap with the words “Help me” scrawled across it, and another that reads “Trying to kill me.” But the words before it are torn away. She stares at me, waiting for a response. “Well, what is this?” I ask. “Otis wrote it. Look! This is the clearest one.” She puts a scrap on top of the others. It says, “You have to tell someone what’s happening here.” The last part says, “Warn Mack and Shel…” but the end of her name is torn away.
“See,” she says, “and then it stops, like he couldn’t finish.”
“I don’t… Why is this in scraps? Why would he write this?” I’m shivering from the cold, and my words come out in white puffs.
“All I can think is that he was trying to get this note to me. Maybe something happened when I went home that last night, because he was gone by morning and he never had a chance to give it to me. And then I think back to all the people who were in the room when I was there, and maybe he couldn’t risk giving it to me then, but I was there so much it’s all a blur. I can’t keep it all straight. I found it just a few days ago in the wooly sweater he always wore over his hospital gown. It was sitting in a bag for weeks and then I went through it all and… God. He was begging for help. I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe he didn’t want someone to find he’d written it—someone he was afraid of. I don’t know,” she says, tears welling in her eyes as she pushes the paper shreds back into her pocket.
“Why else would it be torn up?” she asks before I even have a chance to respond to all this shocking information. “I mean, that’s all that makes sense, right? For why it’s torn up? It’s like he was afraid of someone finding it, I mean why else? He was trying to warn me—to get help, and he was afraid the person who was after him would find it. I know how that sounds, but I have gone over this a million times in my head, and what other reason could there be?”
“Shit” is all I manage to say.
“My poor Otis, I couldn’t help him and he was all alone there with someone trying to hurt him. But who would want to hurt Otis? I mean, who in the world?” she says, and that’s exactly what I was going to ask.
“And you told all of this to Detective Riley?” I ask.
“Yeah right. What do you think he’d say—that Otis had a stroke and we didn’t know the extent of the damage, so this was probably some delusion or paranoia?” she says, and he would have a point, of course. “But I know my Otis, and he seemed different those last days. I know, of course, a stroke makes people different, but I still know him, Florence. I know him, and I saw his eyes change. Now I think it was fear, not just being sick, but…this…” She half motions to the papers in her pocket.
“I can’t let it go. I can’t have his cries for help literally in my hand and blow it off as paranoia. I need to find out the truth. And fine, people can think whatever they want about me, but what about Mack…and poor Shelby Dawson. It was a warning to them too.”
“You think he meant they’re in danger?” I ask. She closes her eyes and blows a cone of white mist into the frozen air, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“This could all be connected,” I sort of mumble to myself, thinking about any reason why, even if he was suffering from some delusion, he would bring Mack and Shelby into it. That’s pretty specific for a delusional man’s imaginings. Winny holds her head in her hands and I put my arm around her shoulder. We shiver together for a few moments.
“I believe you,” I say.
“You do?” she asks, straightening up and looking at me with wet, desperate eyes.
“If there’s some motherfucker out there responsible for this, we’re gonna find him,” I say. She puts her arms around me and cries while I hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.
And that’s the moment everything was set in motion. I didn’t know it then, but hunting a killer would become my new hobby, not gardening, as it turns out.
Excerpted from NOTHING EVER HAPPENS HERE by Seraphina Nova Glass. Copyright © 2025 by Seraphina Nova Glass. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.
About the Book:
“A charming cast of characters, a twisty mystery, and a diabolical killer make Nothing Ever Happens Here impossible to put down. A riveting page-turner with a sly sense of humor.” —Robyn Harding, internationally bestselling author of The Haters
Nothing ever happens in small towns…
When Shelby Dawson survives a harrowing attack that should have left her dead, she tries to move past it—for herself, and for her family. Fifteen months later, with the help of her best friend, Mackenzie, she finally feels safe again in the snowy Minnesota town she calls home. But when an anonymous note appears on her windshield bearing the same threats her attacker made, Shelby realizes that her nightmare has only just begun.
As new evidence surfaces, and a group of well-meaning senior citizens accidentally makes the case go viral online, the situation quickly goes from bad to worse. And with suspicious accidents targeting those closest to her happening all over town, Shelby can’t shake the feeling that she’s being watched. Fighting to stay one step ahead of disaster, she finds herself asking the question on everyone’s lips: Who attacked her that night?
But Shelby isn’t the only one with questions. Mackenzie’s husband, Leo, vanished without a trace on that terrible night, and over a year later, no one knows why. Until a deep dive into his finances reveals a history of debts, mismanaged funds, and hidden accounts—one of which is still active. Their suspicion that Leo is still alive only complicates things further, though, and when another person connected to Shelby goes missing, she’s caught in a race against time before her attacker becomes a killer.
Social Links:
Author Website: https://www.seraphinanovaglass.com/
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/seraphinanovaglass/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8061717.Seraphina_Nova_Glass
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/seraphinasnovaglass/
About the Author: Seraphina Nova Glass is an assistant professor of instruction and playwright in residence at the University of Texas, Arlington, where she teaches film studies and playwriting. Her novel On A Quiet Street was nominated for an Edgar Award, was a New York Times Summer Read, an Amazon Bestseller and Editor’s Pick, and also featured in the Boston Globe and Bustle. Publishers Weekly has named her “a writer to watch.” She’s also an award-winning playwright and holds an MFA degree in dramatic writing from Smith College and a second MFA in directing from the University of Idaho. She is a proud dog mom and loves to travel the world with her husband. She resides in Dallas, Texas.
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