Novels by Janey

The front door clicked shut at 2 AM. Priska didn’t turn on the lights. She didn’t want to see how empty the house felt after everything. “Mommy?” Dary’s voice was small from the balcony. The girls were behind him, rubbing their eyes. Priska dropped her bag and forced a smile. “Hey babies. You’re up.”“Why are we home so late?” Dary asked. “And why were we in that big metal box? It was scary.”Priska’s throat tightened. She knelt down and pulled all three of them into a hug. “Bad people made a mistake,” she said. “But it’s over now. You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”“But you were crying in the car,” one of the girls whispered. Priska swallowed hard. “Mommy had a nightmare. It’s gone now.”They didn’t believe her, kids always knew but they let it go, yawning and trailing back to bed. Once the house was quiet again, Priska sank onto the couch in the living room. This was the house she and Voy bought together. The house he never saw finished. The house Rachel said didn’t bel

The car tore toward the Port of Oakland, tires screaming every time Priska changed lanes. Voy watched her, quiet for once. His eyes tracked her hands on the wheel, the way her knuckles were white. “Slow down,” he said. “If you crash, we don’t save anyone.” Priska didn’t answer. She couldn’t because every second felt like her kids were slipping further away. Another message hit her phone. The same number. No photo this time. Just text: _You’re wasting time. They’re already on the ship.Priska threw the phone into the passenger seat. “They’re on the ship, Voy! What are we even doing?” Voy leaned forward. “Priska, look at me.” She glanced over, breathing hard. “Do you think I really died?” he asked. The question hit her like a slap. “What kind of question is that right now?” she snapped. “My kids are missing and you’re asking me that?” “Answer me,” he said. “Do you think I really died three years ago?” Priska’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because for the f

It wasn't even up to thirty minutes and priska had reached the school already.I got a message from the school that my kids are here she thundered.“Where are my kids?” Priska’s voice hit the ER desk hard enough to make the nurse flinch. “Mrs. Ricks? They were picked up twelve minutes ago with their father’s authorization.” Priska stared. “What do you mean by their father’s authorization? My husband died three years ago. So who authorized the picking of the kids?” The nurse looked down at the log, confused. “The signature here says V. Ricks.” Priska went still. “Voy Ricks? Dead for eight months. I don’t understand. This doesn’t look real. My husband has been dead for three years now, and the school was aware. Who gives out children on a signature that I’m not understanding? This whole scenario—please, you people should explain it to me. You, the school, know that the dad to the kids is dead. So how come a dad authorized the signature to pick up the kids? Are you hiding som

I told you this was going to scare her off and now she's panicking.Rachel didn’t go home. She got into her car, pulled out of Priska’s driveway, and the moment the gate shut behind her, she drove past a big lorry and parked her small SUV behind it. Hidden. If Priska looked out the window, she’d think Rachel had driven out of the estate completely. Rachel picked up her phone, dialed the same number, and said it straight: “We’re going to keep her away from the warehouse. Three hours from now, she shouldn’t be anywhere near it. She shouldn’t have anything to do with the warehouse right now.” The voice on the other end didn’t argue. Just said, “Good.” Rachel hung up and sat still, watching Priska’s house from behind the lorry. She was scared. But not for Priska. She was scared Priska would figure it out before the three hours were up.Inside, Priska wasn’t sitting still. The moment Rachel’s car disappeared, she went straight to Voy’s office. The room smelled like dust a

"Voy died three years ago," Priska said. "So if you had told me you saw someone who looked like him, at least that’s understandable. But telling me that you saw Voy and you spoke with him?" Priska fired back at Rachel. "I don't even know why you're acting like he didn't divorce you three weeks before he died" "You're an ex wife so don't do above the title Rachel said." "Ouch", you shouldn't have said this priska said to Rachel. Then you just have to believe me. "I’m not lying," Rachel said. "Is there any other person who has that particular birthmark by the side of the eye? If it’s not Voy, there is nobody who would see your husband and not recognize him. I know what I’m talking about." "Shut the fuck up," Priska said. "How did... wait, wait, wait, hold on. Don’t tell me.... ummm wait a minute." She was stammering now. "Did you see a ghost? Because what are you even saying? Were you not at his funeral three years ago? I mean, Voy is dead. You can’t tell me you saw him

Damien died peacefully in his sleep at the age of eighty-two. Linda was beside him when it happened. She called the family immediately. They gathered at the hospital. Alexander. Sophia. Gabriel. Their children. Their grandchildren. They stood around Damien's body and grieved. But they also celebrated. Damien had lived a full life. He'd done important work. He'd loved deeply. He'd transformed himself and, in doing so, transformed countless other people. The funeral was attended by hundreds of people. People from the foundation. People whose lives had been changed by his work. Journalists who'd covered his story. Academics who'd studied his case. His children spoke about his journey. About how he'd started as a man trying to control everything and ended as a man committed to accountability and truth. Alexander spoke about learning to help people from his father's modeling of accountability. Sophia spoke about having a brother-in-law who'd genuinely tried to underst

Ten years after Emma's death, the merged foundation faced an unexpected crisis. An investigative journalist uncovered evidence that one of the foundation's board members had been embezzling funds. It wasn't a massive amount. But it was enough to raise questions about the foundation's oversight. The board member's name was David Martinez. He'd been on the board for five years. He seemed trustworthy. He seemed committed to the work. But he'd been siphoning money into a personal account. Over two hundred thousand dollars. When confronted, David confessed immediately. "I needed the money," he said. "My daughter has medical issues. The treatment isn't covered by insurance. I panicked." Alexander listened to David's explanation and felt something familiar. It was the same desperation that had driven Marcus to embezzlement years ago. The same desperation that had driven Dr. Chen to steal. It was the desperation of people trying to survive in a system that didn't provide f

Jennifer became part of the family's work. She shared her mother's story publicly. She became an advocate for people whose parents had been erased by family secrets. She also connected with other potential family members who'd been hidden away. She helped them come forward. She helped them demand acknowledgment. The Cross family's official history was being rewritten. What had been presented as a legacy of respectability was now revealed as a legacy of secrecy, abuse, and deliberate erasure. It was painful. But it was honest. Young Emma, Alexander's daughter, became interested in the family's history. At thirteen years old, she asked her father if she could help with the foundation work. "I want to understand what happened," she said. "I want to understand why my great-great-grandmother hurt so many people. I want to make sure I don't repeat those patterns." Alexander brought his daughter to volunteer at the merged foundation. She worked with counselors. She list

The publication of Damien's addendum caused significant upheaval. Other victims of Margaret's cover-ups came forward. Women who'd been silenced. People whose cases had been buried. Families whose pain had been ignored. They filed lawsuits against Margaret's estate. They demanded acknowledgment. They demanded justice. The Cross family's reputation, which had been slowly rehabilitating through Damien's work, was damaged again. Some people questioned whether Damien was exploiting his family's crimes for profit. Whether he was obsessed with exposing darkness instead of moving forward. He received hate mail from family members who felt he was destroying their legacy. But he also received letters from people saying his honesty had finally given them permission to speak their own truths. Alexander called Damien after the addendum was published. "We need to do something," Alexander said. "We need to create a way for victims to come forward. We need to establish a fund to hel

Damien received the letter on a Tuesday morning. It was postmarked from a prison in California. The return address read: Claire Winters. His heart stopped. He hadn't heard from Claire in over fifteen years. Not since her release from the psychiatric facility. He opened the letter carefully. Dear Damien, I know you probably don't want to hear from me. I know I have no right to contact you after everything I did. But I needed to write this letter. I needed to tell you something. I'm dying. I have cancer. The doctors say I have maybe six months. And as I'm facing the end of my life, I realize I need to make amends for what I did to you and Emma. I need to tell you the truth about some things. I've been in therapy for years. I've processed my obsession. I've understood how sick I was. But there are things I never told anyone. Things I think you deserve to know. Would you be willing to meet with me? Not for my sake. But for yours. There are things you should know.

Six months after Emma's death, her final book was published posthumously. It was a collection of essays she'd dictated during her final months. Essays about living. About dying. About meaning-making in the face of mortality. The book was titled "Still Creating: Reflections on Art, Illness, and Legacy." It became a bestseller immediately. Universities assigned it to classes. Therapists recommended it to patients. Damien established the Emma Vale-Chen Foundation for Disabled Artists. It provided grants to artists living with chronic illness who wanted to continue their creative work. The foundation received thousands of applications in its first year. Alexander expanded his work in trauma recovery. He incorporated his mother's teachings into his practice. He started a podcast where he interviewed people about their trauma and recovery journeys. The podcast became unexpectedly popular. He dedicated it to his mother. "This is the work she taught me," he said. "This is th