Orient, seated at the toe of the north leg of Long Island, ebbs and flows with the seasons. When the days start to grow, the first SUVs begin to roll in, filled with beach towels, croquet sets, and the summering multitudes of nearby New York City. But when the season reaches its close and the swell recedes, a town remains in its wake.
This is the real Orient, the one that stood on its lawn, gardening trowel hung low at its side, eyes squinting against the sun, as Mills Chevern rode into town in Paul Benchley's passenger seat on that last day of summer. Who is this foster kid? Where did he come from? Why did Paul, that nice, lonely, middle-aged neighbour bring him here to our quiet streets? It's not long after Mills rolls in that all hell breaks loose: the local handyman is found bloated to bursting in the bay, an elderly neighbour is discovered face-down in her garage, and a grotesque creature washes up on shore.
As the town swarms with fear, Mills (we're certain that's not his real name) finds himself the chief suspect in a riddle of violent deaths, one he must solve before his own time runs out.
Just as the spinning bulb of the Orient lighthouse illuminates the town's darkest corners, Bollen's swift, piercing prose shines its unflinching light on a community in turmoil. Expansive in its scope, precise in its movement, and haunting at its core, Orient sweeps you, heart pounding, eyes wide, and gasping for more, into its world.
