The Cousins

Thương hiệu: Karen M. McManus
Tình trạng: Mới
Bán tại: Mỹ
Thời gian hàng dự kiến
Vận chuyển Tiêu chuẩn
Nếu quý khách thực hiện thanh toán trong hôm nay. Dự kiến hàng sẽ về đến Việt Nam từ 29-12-2021 đến 01-01-2022.
Vận chuyển Siêu Tốc
Nếu quý khách thực hiện thanh toán trong hôm nay. Dự kiến hàng sẽ về đến Việt Nam trong ngày 25-12-2021.
Dự kiến hàng sẽ về đến Việt Nam trong ngày 29-12-2021 nếu quý khách thực hiện thanh toán trong hôm nay.
Được bán bởi:
Duy nhất tại Giaonhan247
Mua sắm không giới hạn
Mua hộ tất cả các sản phẩm từ website TMĐT lớn ở Mỹ và các nước khác ở nhiều lĩnh vực công nghệ, sức khỏe, gia dụng, thời trang…
Bảo vệ người mua
Bảo hiểm 100% số tiền đặt mua. Đảm bảo giao dịch, bảo vệ người mua, hỗ trợ khiếu kiện với người bán, các rủi ro phát sinh sẽ được Giaonhan247 giải quyết.
Liên tục cập nhật hành trình
Hệ thống theo dõi tiến trình vận chuyển rõ ràng giúp Khách Hàng dễ dàng theo dõi hành trình đơn hàng xuyên suốt từ lúc thanh toán đến khi nhận hàng.
Đổi trả xuyên biên giới
Hãy để Giaonhan247 giúp bạn trả lại người bán nếu sản phẩm thực tế không đúng như thông tin mô tả.
Ưu đãi theo cấp thành viên
Chính sách chiết khấu đặt biệt cho từng cấp thành viên, ngoài ra có có nhiều ưu đãi hấp dẫn theo từng cấp khi trở thành thành viên thân thiết.
Đội ngũ tư vấn tận tâm
Cung cấp, giải đáp thông tin chính xác khi mua hàng. Hỗ trợ Khách Hàng liên hệ với người bán để kiểm tra thông tin sản phẩm trước khi Khách Hàng quyết định tiến hành thanh toán.
Giá tạm tính về Việt Nam
777,353 đ
1,009,549 đ | 23% OFF
802,103 đ
1,041,692 đ | 23% OFF
Thông số sản phẩm
Delacorte Press (December 1, 2020)
336 pages
Reading age
14 - 17 years
Lexile measure
Grade level
9 - 12
Item Weight
1 pounds
5.88 x 1.12 x 8.43 inches
Best Sellers Rank
#5,432 in Books (See Top 100 in Books) #16 in Teen & Young Adult Mysteries & Detective Stories #24 in Teen & Young Adult Friendship Fiction #34 in Teen & Young Adult Thrillers & Suspense (Books)
Customer Reviews
4.4 out of 5 stars 3,938Reviews
Thông tin sản phẩm The Cousins
Thương hiệu Karen M. McManus là cái tên nổi tiếng được rất nhiều khách hàng trên thế giới chọn lựa. Với kiểu dáng đẹp mắt, sang trọng, sản phẩm The Cousins là sự lựa chọn hoàn hảo nếu bạn đang tìm mua một món Literature & Fiction cho riêng mình.
Là một sản phẩm hoàn toàn mới của vì vậy bạn có thể tham khảo các đánh giá của khách mua hàng trước và yên tâm hơn khi chọn mua sản phẩm này.
Sản phẩm The Cousins đang được bán với giá ưu đãi là $20.94 tại nước Mỹ.
Mức giá này bao gồm: Giá gốc sản phẩm đang bán trên Amazon là $13.72 + với thuế vùng $5.99+ Phí ship nội địa $1.23.
Với khối lượng khoảng 1.2 pounds, Giaonhan247 sẽ nhanh chóng giao món hàng này về tay bạn. Dự kiến hàng sẽ về đến Việt Nam từ 29-12-2021 đến 01-01-2022 nếu quý khách thực hiện thanh toán trong hôm nay.
Ngoài ra, bạn còn được giảm 2% phí dịch vụ khi thanh toán trước toàn bộ đơn hàng và 1% giá trị đơn hàng khi thanh toán bằng VNPay. Nhanh tay đặt mua ngay hôm nay để được giảm thêm 10% phí dịch vụ từ Giaonhan247 và mức giá ưu đãi nhất từ sàn thương mại điện tử hàng đầu thế giới Amazon!
Giá sản phẩm trên đã được Giaonhan247 bao gồm đầy đủ thuế theo luật hiện hành. Nếu có thắc mắc khi mua hàng, bạn có thể gọi vào số Hotline 1900 545 584 và Email [email protected]

Mô tả sản phẩm

From the Publisher

THE COUSINS by Karen McManus

Book, thriller suspense friendship thrillers mystery books for teens mystery books mystery thriller
One of Us Is Lying by Karen M. McManusOne Of Us is Next by Karen M. McManusOne of Us is Lying (TV Series Tie-In Edition)One Of Us is Lying and One Of Us is Next Boxed Set by Karen M. McManus
One of Us Is Lying One of Us Is NextOne of Us Is Lying TV Series Tie-In EditionKaren M. McManus 2-Book Box Set
Read the fast-paced story of the Bayview Four! Four teenager's lives unwind after being the only witnesses to their classmate's suspected murder. The electrifying sequel to One of Us Is Lying. A TV tie-in edition with a cover featuring your favorite characters from the Peacock series streaming now! One of Us Is Lying & One of Us Is Next
Two Can Keep A Secret by Karen M. McManusYou'll Be the Death of Me by Karen McManus
Two Can Keep a SecretYou'll Be the Death of Me
Don’t miss Karen McManus's other pulse-pounding thrillers! A small town begins to relive its dark past after a girl goes missing before homecoming. Three friends relive an epic ditch day, and it goes horribly—and fatally—wrong.

Product Description

#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER From the bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying comes your next obsession. You'll never feel the same about family again.

Milly, Aubrey, and Jonah Story are cousins, but they barely know each another, and they've never even met their grandmother. Rich and reclusive, she disinherited their parents before they were born. So when they each receive a letter inviting them to work at her island resort for the summer, they're surprised . . . and curious.

Their parents are all clear on one point--not going is not an option. This could be the opportunity to get back into Grandmother's good graces. But when the cousins arrive on the island, it's immediately clear that she has different plans for them. And the longer they stay, the more they realize how mysterious--and dark--their family's past is.

The entire Story family has secrets. Whatever pulled them apart years ago isn't over--and this summer, the cousins will learn everything.
Fans of the hit thriller that started it all can watch the secrets of the Bayview Four be revealed in the One of Us is Lying TV series now streaming on NBC's Peacock!

From School Library Journal

Gr 9 Up—Wealthy, eccentric Mildred Story disinherited her children via a one-line letter: "You know what you did." Years later, a similarly dispassionate missive invites her three teenage grandchildren to work at her remote, luxurious island resort for the summer so she can get to know them. Milly, Aubrey, and Jonah Story barely know each other, but their parents all see an opportunity to get back into their mother's good graces—and a share of the fabulous Story fortune. When the cousins arrive at Gull Cove Island, their grandmother doesn't seem at all pleased that they're there and goes out of her way to avoid them. They settle into their jobs and get to know each other better, but everyone they meet seems to have a dark secret connected to the Story family's strange, hidden history. The twists come fast and furious after a relatively slow start to McManus's (One of Us Is Lying) latest. One of the cousins is half Japanese, and the others are all white. VERDICT The ultimate resolution will require a hefty suspension of disbelief, but fans of YA suspense won't mind. Give to readers who enjoyed the author's other works or E. Lockhart's We Were Liars.—Stephanie Klose, Library Journal


Every twist is gasp-inducing…. Another McManus novel worth pulling an all-nighter for.” — Kirkus Reviews

"The twists come fast and furious." — SLJ

"McManus ( One of Us Is Lying) once again crafts a taut, multilayered mystery.... [She] weaves past and present to take readers on a well-paced, twisty ride that will hold readers rapt till the last page.” — Publishers Weekly
" Masterfully plotted and packed with her trademark twists, fans will be utterly hooked." — The Bookseller
“A slow-burn, uneasy beginning ultimately makes way for a frantically paced end peppered with twists that genre fans will happily take in stride. . . . Fans of McManus's previous offerings and of mysteries steeped in family dramatics will be eager for this."  —Booklist

About the Author

Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, Two Can Keep a Secret, One of Us Is Next, and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One



I’m late for dinner again, but this time it’s not my fault. There’s a mansplainer in my way.


“Mildred? That’s a grandmother’s name. But not even a cool grandmother.” He says it like he thinks he’s being clever. Like in all my seventeen years, no one else has ever noticed that my name isn’t the fashionable kind of classic. It took a Wall Street investment banker with slicked-back hair and a pinkie ring to render that particular bit of social commentary.


I sip the dregs of my seltzer. “I was, in fact, named after my grandmother,” I say.


I’m at a steak house in midtown at six o’clock on a rainy April evening, doing my best to blend with the happy hour crowd. It’s a game my friends and I play sometimes; we go to restaurant bars so we don’t have to worry about getting carded at the door. We wear our simplest dresses and extra makeup. We order seltzer water with lime--“in a small glass, please, I’m not that thirsty”--and gulp it down until there’s almost nothing left. Then we wait to see if anyone offers to buy us a drink.


Somebody always does.


Pinkie Ring smiles, his teeth almost fluorescent in the dim light. He must take his whitening regimen very seriously. “I like it. Quite a contrast for such a beautiful young woman.” He edges closer, and I catch a headache-inducing whiff of strong cologne. “You have a very interesting look. Where are you from?”


Ugh. That’s marginally better than the What are you? question I get sometimes, but still gross. “New York,” I say pointedly. “You?”


“I mean originally,” he clarifies, and that’s it. I’m done.


“New York,” I repeat, and stand up from my stool. It’s just as well he didn’t talk to me until I was about to leave, because a cocktail before dinner wasn’t one of my better ideas. I catch my friend Chloe’s eye across the room and wave good-bye, but before I can extract myself, Pinkie Ring tips his glass toward mine. “Can I get you another of whatever that is?”


“No thank you. I’m meeting someone.”


He pulls back, brow furrowed. Very furrowed. In a behind-on-his-Botox sort of way. He also has creases lining his cheeks and crinkles around his eyes. He’s way too old to be hitting on me, even if I were the college student I occasionally pretend to be. “What are you wasting my time for, then?” he grunts, his gaze already roving over my shoulder.


Chloe likes the happy hour game because, she says, high school boys are immature. Which is true. But sometimes I think we might be better off not knowing how much worse they can get.


I pluck the lime out of my drink and squeeze it. I’m not aiming for his eye, exactly, but I’m still a little disappointed when the juice spatters only his collar. “Sorry,” I say sweetly, dropping the lime into the glass and setting it on the bar. “Normally I wouldn’t bother. But it’s so dark in here. When you first came over, I thought you were my dad.”


As if. My dad is way better-looking, and also: not a creep. Pinkie Ring’s mouth drops open, but I scoot past him and out the door before he can reply.


The restaurant I’m going to is just across the street, and the hostess smiles when I come through the door. “Can I help you?”


“I’m meeting someone for dinner? Allison?”


Her gaze drops to the book in front of her and a small crease appears between her eyes. “I’m not seeing--”


“Story-Takahashi?” I try. My parents have an unusually amicable divorce, and Exhibit A is that Mom continues to use both last names. “Well, it’s still your name,” she’d said four years ago when the divorce was finalized. “And I’ve gotten used to it.”


The crease between the hostess’s eyes deepens. “I don’t see that either.”


“Just Story, then?” I try. “Like in a book?”


Her brow clears. “Oh! Yes, there you are. Right this way.”


She grabs two menus and winds her way between white-covered tables until we reach a corner booth. The wall beside it is mirrored, and the woman sitting on one side is sipping a glass of white wine while surreptitiously checking out her reflection, smoothing flyaways in her dark bun that only she can see.


I drop into the seat across from her as the hostess places oversized red menus in front of us. “So it’s Story tonight?” I ask.


My mother waits until the hostess leaves to answer. “I wasn’t in the mood to repeat myself,” she sighs, and I raise a brow. Mom usually makes a point of pushing back on anyone who acts like they can’t figure out how to spell or pronounce Dad’s Japanese last name.


“Why?” I ask, even though I know she won’t tell me. There are multiple levels of Milly criticism to get through first.


She puts her glass down, causing almost a dozen gold bangles to jingle on her wrist. My mother is vice president of public relations for a jewelry company, and wearing the season’s must-haves is one of the perks of her job. She eyes me up and down, taking in my heavier-than-usual makeup and navy sheath. “Where are you coming from that you’re so dressed up?”


The bar across the street. “A gallery thing with Chloe,” I lie. Chloe’s mother owns an art gallery uptown, and our friends spend a lot of time there. Allegedly.


Mom picks up her glass again. Sips, flicks her eyes toward the mirror, pats her hair. When it’s down it falls in dark waves, but, as she likes to tell me, pregnancy changed its texture from smooth to coarse. I’m pretty sure she’s never forgiven me for that. “I thought you were studying for finals.”


“I was. Before.”


Her knuckles turn white around the glass, and I wait for it. Milly, you cannot exit your junior year with less than a B average. You’re on the cusp of mediocrity, and your father and I have invested far too much for you to waste your opportunity like that.


If I were even a little musically inclined, I’d start a band called Cusp of Mediocrity in honor of Mom’s favorite warning. I’ve been hearing some version of that speech for three years. Prescott Academy churns out Ivy League students like some kind of blue-blood factory, and it’s the bane of my mother’s existence that I’m always ranked solidly in the bottom half of my class.


The lecture doesn’t come, though. Instead, Mom reaches out her free hand and pats mine. Stiffly, like she’s a marionette with a novice handler. “Well, you look very pretty.”


Instantly, I’m on the defensive. It’s strange enough that my mother wanted to meet me for dinner, but she never compliments me. Or touches me. All of this suddenly feels like a setup for something I’d rather not hear. “Are you sick?” I blurt out. “Is Dad?”


She blinks and withdraws her hand. “What? No! Why would you ask that?”


“Then why--” I break off as a smiling server appears beside the table, filling our water glasses from a silver pitcher.


“And how are you ladies this evening? Can I tell you about our specials?”


I study Mom covertly over the top of my menu as the server rattles them off. She’s definitely tense, still clutching her near-empty wineglass in a death grip, but I realize now that I was wrong to expect bad news. Her dark-blue eyes are bright, and the corners of her mouth are almost turned up. She’s anticipating something, not dreading it. I try to imagine what might make my mother happy besides me magically A-plussing my way to valedictorian at Prescott Academy.


Money. That’s all it could be. Mom’s life revolves around it--or more specifically, around not having enough of it. My parents both have good jobs, and my dad, despite being remarried, has always been generous with child support. His new wife, Surya, is the total opposite of a wicked stepmother in all possible ways, including finances. She’s never begrudged Mom the big checks he sends every month.


But good doesn’t cut it when you’re trying to keep up in Manhattan. And it’s not what my mother grew up with.


A job promotion, I decide. That must be it. Which is excellent news, except for the part where she’s going to remind me that she got it through hard work and oh, by the way, why can’t I work harder at literally everything.


“I’ll have the Caesar salad with chicken. No anchovies, dressing on the side,” Mom says, handing her menu to the server without really looking at him. “And another glass of the Langlois-Chateau, please.”


“Very good. And the young lady?”


“Bone-in rib eye, medium rare, and a jumbo baked potato,” I tell him. I might as well get a good meal out of whatever’s about to go down.


When he leaves, my mother drains her wineglass and I gulp my water. My bladder’s already full from the seltzer at the bar, and I’m about to excuse myself for the restroom when Mom says, “I got the most interesting letter today.”


There it is. “Oh?” I wait, but when she doesn’t continue, I prod, “From who?”


“Whom,” she corrects automatically. Her fingers trace the base of her glass as her lips curve up another half notch. “From your grandmother.”


I blink at her. “From Baba?” Why that merits this kind of buildup, I have no idea. Granted, my grandmother doesn’t contact Mom often, but it’s not unprecedented. Baba is the type of person who likes to forward articles she’s read to anyone she thinks might be interested, and she still does that with Mom postdivorce.


“No. Your other grandmother.”


“What?” Now I’m truly confused. “You got a letter from--Mildred?”


I don’t have a nickname for my mother’s mother. She’s not Grandma or Mimi or Nana or anything to me, because I’ve never met her.


“I did.” The server returns with Mom’s wine, and she takes a long, grateful sip. I sit in silence, unable to wrap my head around what she just told me. My maternal grandmother loomed large over my childhood, but as more of a fairy-tale figure than an actual person: the wealthy widow of Abraham Story, whose great-something-grandfather came over on the Mayflower. My ancestors are more interesting than any history book: the family made a fortune in whaling, lost most of it in railroad stocks, and eventually sank what was left into buying up real estate on a crappy little island off the coast of Massachusetts.


Gull Cove Island was a little-known haven for artists and hippies until Abraham Story turned it into what it is today: a place where rich and semifamous people spend ridiculous amounts of money pretending they’re getting back to nature.


My mother and her three brothers grew up on a giant beachfront estate named Catmint House, riding horses and attending black-tie parties like they were the princess and princes of Gull Cove Island. There’s a picture on our apartment mantel of Mom when she was eighteen, stepping out of a limousine on her way to the Summer Gala her parents threw every year at their resort. Her hair is piled high, and she’s wearing a white ball gown and a gorgeous diamond teardrop necklace. Mildred gave that necklace to my mother when she turned seventeen, and I used to think Mom would pass it along to me when I hit the same birthday.


Didn’t happen. Even though Mom never wears it herself.


My grandfather died when Mom was a senior in high school. Two years later, Mildred disowned all of her children. She cut them off both financially and personally, with no explanation except for a single-sentence letter sent two weeks before Christmas through her lawyer, a man named Donald Camden who’d known Mom and her brothers their entire lives:


You know what you did.


Mom has always insisted that she has no clue what Mildred meant. “The four of us had gotten . . . selfish, I suppose,” she’d tell me. “We were all in college then, starting our own lives. Mother was lonely with Father gone, and she begged us to visit all the time. But we didn’t want to go.” She calls her parents that, Mother and Father, like the heroine in a Victorian novel. “None of us came back for Thanksgiving that year. We’d all made other plans. She was furious, but . . .” Mom always got a pensive, faraway look on her face then. “That’s such a small thing. Hardly unforgivable.”


If Abraham Story hadn’t set up educational trusts for Mom and her brothers, they might not have graduated college. Once they did, though, they were on their own. At first, they regularly tried to reestablish contact with Mildred. They hounded Donald Camden, whose only response was the occasional email reiterating her decision. They sent invitations to their weddings, and announcements when their kids were born. They even took turns showing up on Gull Cove Island, where my grandmother still lives, but she would never see or speak to them. I used to imagine that one day she’d waltz into our apartment, dripping diamonds and furs, and announce that she’d come for me, her namesake. She’d whisk me to a toy store and let me buy whatever I wanted, then hand me a sack of money to bring home to my parents.


I’m pretty sure my mother had the same fantasy. Why else would you saddle a twenty-first-century girl with a name like Mildred? But my grandmother, with the help of Donald Camden, stonewalled her children at every turn. Eventually, they stopped trying.


Mom is looking at me expectantly, and I realize she’s waiting for an answer. “You got a letter from Mildred?” I ask.


She nods, then clears her throat before answering. “Well. To be more precise, you did.”


“I did?” My vocabulary has shrunk to almost nothing in the past five minutes.


“The envelope was addressed to me, but the letter was for you.”


A decade-old image pops into my head: me with my long-lost grandmother, filling a shopping cart to the rim with stuffed animals while dressed like we’re going to the opera. Tiaras and all. I push the thought aside and grope for more words. “Is she . . . Does she . . . Why?”


My mother reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope, then pushes it across the table toward me. “Maybe you should just read it.”


I lift the flap and pull out a folded sheet of thick, cream-colored paper that smells faintly of lilac. The top is engraved with the initials MMS--Mildred Margaret Story. Our names are almost exactly the same, except mine has Takahashi at the end. The short paragraphs are typewritten, followed by a cramped, spidery signature.


So sánh