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‘I’m Mopping Up Vomit…When I Notice Her Watching Me’ — Read a Sneak Peek From Ashley Flowers’ New Novel (Exclusive)
‘The Missing Half,’ which hits shelves this spring, follows two women who can’t let go of their vanished family members. Read an exclusive excerpt here
John Bragg; Bantam Books
Author and podcaster Ashley Flowers and ‘The Missing Half’
True crime podcaster and author Ashley Flowers is back with a new crime novel and PEOPLE has an exclusive first look.
The Missing Half, which comes out on May 6, 2025, follows two women haunted by their respective sisters’ unsolved disappearances. Because two brains are better than one, they band together to find out how their family members could have vanished.
“I can’t wait for fans to experience The Missing Half — it’s a story I think they’ll truly get lost in,” Flowers tells PEOPLE exclusively. “This book is so special to me because it lets me explore the thrill of uncovering mysteries in a way that feels lighter than my day job but still deeply connected to my passion for mysteries. It’s been an exciting challenge to figure out how to keep the savviest sleuth guessing until the very last page.”
The Crime Junkie podcast co-host and audiochuck founder also previously told PEOPLE she wanted this book to highlight “the bond between sisters as well as the lengths people will go to — both good and bad — for a family member.”
“This storyline allowed me to delve into the complexities of sibling relationships and how secrets can shape, strengthen or destroy them,” she explains. “I wanted to explore the nuances of loyalty and betrayal, and how our closest connections can sometimes be the most mysterious and challenging to navigate.”
Hooked yet? Read an exclusive excerpt from The Missing Half, below.
Bantam Books
‘The Missing Half’ by Ashley Flowers
I’m mopping up vomit by the claw machine when I notice her watching me.
She’s sitting in a booth where the tables end and the arcade begins, near the old pinball machines no one uses anymore. In her early to mid-30s, with the slightly haggard look of a parent, she fits our customer mold here at Funland, the go-to birthday destination for every preteen in Mishawaka, Ind. But there’s none of the usual evidence of kids around her table, no gnawed-on cheese sticks or packet of wet wipes or discarded action figures. Just a half-drunk soda. When she notices me looking, she nods, then turns away.
There’s something off about the gesture that makes me think she’s nervous, like a bad PI going for casual. I keep watching to see if she’s checking up on a kid in the throng of the arcade, but she just stares at the side of her drink, rubbing her thumb against the glass. Our dinner options are greasy pizza or rubbery burgers, the undersides of the tables are speckled with wads of gum and the background noise is the shouting voices of children. If she doesn’t have kids, what the hell is she doing here?
The woman flicks her gaze in my direction and then away again.
The hair on the back of my neck rises.
I do a last few rushed swipes at the puddle of yellow sick, rinse out the mop and bucket so I can stow them back in the cleaning supplies closet, then scan the place for my manager, Brad. I spot the back of his head as he makes his way over to the computer where we ring up customer bills and half walk, half jog to catch up with him. “Hey, Brad?”
He turns, an affable smile spreading across his face. “Nic, hey. What’s up?”
Brad Andrews gave me my job at Funland eight years ago, back when I was working summers in high school, out of sheer nepotism. He was the best man in my parents’ wedding, and growing up, our families vacationed together every summer. He and his wife, Sandy, are more of an uncle and aunt to me than those related by blood. Neither of us could have foreseen how long I’d be here though, and sometimes our relationship shows the wear.
John Bragg
Podcaster and author Ashley Flowers
“That woman.” I nod in her direction. “I think she’s here alone. We may want to keep an eye on her.”
“What woman?” Brad peers over my head. “That one in the blue?”
“She doesn’t have any kids here.” I don’t need to elaborate. We get a certain kind at Funland every once in a while — childless middle-aged men whose eyes linger too long. We usually ask those people to leave.
“She looks pretty harmless to me. A little lonely, maybe, but harmless. Don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes. Brad’s brand of sexism manifests as an unwavering faith in the fairness of the fairer sex. He probably thinks his wife, Sandy, doesn’t masturbate when he’s away, or ever fantasize about a one-night stand with the young cashier at the grocery store. The idea of a female with actual bad intentions would gobsmack him.
“She was watching me.” I regret the words before I finish saying them.
He glances over in the woman’s direction again, but she’s looking at her drink. “Are you sure?”
“You know what, never mind. I’m probably just…” The end of my sentence hangs in the air between us. Brad doesn’t need me to tell him my paranoia and suspicion are habit. He was there seven years ago when my life flipped upside down, and he’s seen me almost every day since.
“You sure? I can go and check it out if you—”
“No,” I say. “It’s fine.” I know he’s just offering for the brownie points anyway.
Brad studies my face. “You doing okay, Nic?” “I’m fine.”
“It’s just — I know you have a lot on your plate right now, what with the … program and all that.”
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At first, I tried to keep the details of my “program” quiet, but my hometown is small, and a DWI is a juicy piece of gossip. Plus, I never had a shot of keeping it from Brad. He and my dad have a beer together every week. “I’m fine,” I say again.
“Good. Good.” Brad bobs his head. “Well, listen. You’ll let me know if you need anything, yeah? If you ever want to talk …”
I soften a little at this, but we both know I won’t take him up on it. Between working this job to pay off the state fine, going to my weekly AA meeting, preparing for my appearance in court and fulfilling my mandatory community service at the local animal shelter, I don’t exactly have the emotional bandwidth for a heart-to-heart. But more than that, I learned years ago that numbness is better than pain. I’ve been not talking for so long, I’m not sure I’d even know how to start.
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My gaze flicks to the woman in blue, but she’s gone, her table empty, her drink still half-full. Did she see me talking to the manager and leave before we could kick her out? Stop, I tell my churning mind. You’re being paranoid.
“I should probably get back to it,” I say to Brad.
He claps my shoulder. “You should come over for dinner soon. Sandy would love to see you.”
As he turns to walk away, I scan the place one last time for the woman, but she’s nowhere to be found.
Excerpted from THE MISSING HALF copyright © 2025 by Ashley Flowers. Used by permission of Bantam, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
The Missing Half will be published on May 6, 2025, and is now available for preorder wherever books are sold.
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