Cate Holahan ’02 Spins a Suspense Novel About a Missing Teen

The book: Alice Ingold is not just missing, she’s been kidnapped. The story is all over the news. Instead of a ransom, her captors have a riddle that needs to be solved, transforming the investigation into a nationwide scavenger hunt being played by the entire country. Alice’s parents Catherine and Brian are desperate to bring their daughter home, but they don’t agree on the best way to do it. With each new clue, a complex picture of the crime develops. The Kidnapping of Alice Ingold (Thomas & Mercer) is a twisty suspense novel about the hunt for a missing teen and America’s obsession with true crime.

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The author: Cate Holahan ’02 earned her undergraduate degree from Princeton in politics and an MFA in dramatic writing from New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts. She is a USA Today bestselling author and screenwriter and the author of six novels, including Her Three Lives and Dark Turns. She’s also written two original movies, Deadly Estate and Midnight Hustle. A former journalist and TV producer, her work has appeared in BusinessWeek Magazine, The Boston Globe, and MSN Money, among other outlets.

Excerpt:

Liza Ring

The Day Before

The ransom note promised to be the easy part. We agreed to keep it simple: a frank recap of what happened, followed by a single demand. This is what we did. This is what must be done to undo it. Period. No need to belabor the why. Any discussion of motive will have the press labeling our letter a manifesto, and manifestos are contrivances of incels and mass shooters, embittered idiots lacking ideas.

Not us.

We’re thinkers. Plotters. Opposites of the easily amused, screen-addicted stereotype slapped on our generation like an expiration date. That cohort may have accepted the GoFundMe future our elders intend to leave behind. But our parents forgot sticking us in extra math classes and SAT prep courses. If nothing else, we’ve learned the dire need to outthink the competition.

Is it any wonder, then, that I’m unsatisfied with our plan?

I sit at the table, staring at blue lines segmenting yellow paper, my thoughts flitting from outcome to outcome, an Adderall-starved brain unable to adhere to a course of action. Surely more planning is required to guarantee success. Myriad decisions must be reexamined. Stress tested.

The writing, for one.

“We should type this. The cops can match my chicken scratch.”

He exhales. My boyfriend isn’t performing exasperation so much as playing for time. He suggested handwriting for aesthetics rather than any concrete reason. The idea of going analog appeals to him.

“Print servers keep records,” he says, alighting on an argument. “Cops can trace it faster than handwriting, especially if you use your left like we discussed.”

Showing is better than telling. I pick up a pen with my nondominant hand and scrawl the first letter of a sentence. It’s a D, though it looks more like a toddler’s attempt at a triangle; Shel Silverstein’s Missing Piece before hard knocks whittled it into the Big O.

I tap the sad rendering. “They’ll get an expert to say the spikes are signs of sociopathy.”

He smirks at me. “That’s the least of what they’ll say.”

He’s not wrong. Still, I rip the paper from the pad and crumple it in my fist, a meager show of power. I’m stronger than a sheet of loose leaf, despite my knees shaking beneath the table. “We can’t have the media sidetracked,” I say, picking up my case. “Typing makes it generic. And if we print off a library machine, they’ll never tie it to us. This’ll be a proverbial needle in a haystack.”

He grins. “That’s an odd expression, isn’t it? Needles in hay?”

“Sorry. A decent job in this market.”

His mouth shrinks as he pulls a backpack off a neighboring chair. A flash of metal accompanies the zip of the fastener’s teeth unlocking. For a nanosecond, I expect a gun.

My laptop appears instead: a MacBook Pro with a quirky sticker in the corner to make it identifiable and less obnoxiously sleek.

He opens the computer. “Say we did type this thing. You don’t think it’s hypocritical?”

“No one’s advocating a return to the Stone Age.”

He ruffles the front of his dark hair. The desk light catches on red streaks, highlighting the green in his eyes. Those eyes! They impress me too much. Opalescent. Piercing. Valuing beauty is like fawning over inherited wealth. It bestows unearned credit on an accident of birth or, worse, the vain use of disposable income. Even so, the sight of him transforms my blood into champagne, fizzy, headed straight to my brain.

His long fingers rest atop the keyboard. “Ready?”

My legs continue to bounce. Until today, everything’s been hypothetical. Writing makes this real.

I stand to steady my limbs, then lean over the back of his chair. He smells like my shampoo. When he emerged from the bathroom this morning, my towel wrapped around his torso, I briefly considered calling the whole thing off. Would it be so immoral to shack up together? Two bohemians unbothered by the outside world with no greater purpose than reveling in nature and each other?

I knew the answer, and so did he.

“Like we discussed?” He stares at me, unwavering. Cowardice is a luxury he’s never been able to afford.

I gulp down a breath. The blank document shines on screen. Its image blurs, replaced by a face. I see her pale cheeks. Her tears.

“You alright?” His brow furrows. Empathy. The better reason I fell for him.

“Yeah.”

“Because if you have doubts, I’d understand. She’s—”

“A spoiled trust fund baby without a clue.”

“Still.”

I stiffen my spine. Dwelling on her doesn’t make this easier. This isn’t about her, anyway. It’s far more about him.

“The more abrupt, the more they’ll understand we’re not open to negotiation.” I take another breath and point at the computer.

He repositions his hands over the keys. “We should start with the date.”

“Tomorrow’s?” The word comes out like a question.

His typing answers it. I watch the month, day, and year materialize in the screen’s right-hand corner: September 9, 2025. Tomorrow, then.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Ingold,” I begin. “We took your daughter.”

Excerpted from The Kidnapping of Alice Ingold by Cate Holahan. Copyright © 2025 Catherine Holahan. Printed with permission of the publisher Thomas & Mercer an Imprint of Amazon Publishing.

Reviews:

“Cate Holahan is one of the best suspense writers working today, hands down, and The Kidnapping of Alice Ingold reaffirms that. Full of compelling characters and ingenious twists, this is the kind of book you clear your schedule for.” — Rob Hart, author of Assassins Anonymous

“A timely, twisty page turner of a parent’s worst nightmare and a future that should concern us all.” — Robert Dugoni, author of Her Deadly Game