The Origin of When the Dead Remember 

As strange as it may sound, When the Dead Remember came to life by connecting dots I didn’t yet realize I was plotting.

At the time, I had just finished writing Fate Falls Hard and was deep in the querying process—waiting, hoping, and trying not to let the uncertainty hollow me out. To distract myself from the constant cycle of submissions and silence, I began outlining something new. I didn’t have a plot yet. I only knew I wanted the story to take place in West Palm Beach.

We had moved there a couple of years earlier, after leaving New York City, and chose to live downtown. We weren’t ready to give up the rhythms we’d grown accustomed to—the ability to walk to restaurants, the library, the market, doctors’ offices, the grocery store. The weather made it easy, almost indulgent, to stay in motion year-round. While much of the country endured snow and bitter cold, I often felt as though we’d slipped quietly into a different reality altogether.

It was, without question, one of the most enjoyable living situations we’d ever experienced.

And yet.

Over time, my imagination began to wander inside the walls of our twenty-story high-rise. Elevators, hallways, shared spaces—places meant for convenience and community—started to feel like fertile ground for something more unsettling. There were always unfamiliar faces: residents coming and going, neighbors glimpsed briefly in the mailroom or by the pool. My mind, as it tends to do, began filling in the blanks with stories of its own.

Like Juniper, I’m a creature of habit. My days begin with exercise, and having a gym just an elevator ride away made routine effortless. Morning after morning on the treadmill, I started noticing patterns—not just my own, but everyone else’s. The same people at the same times. The same dogs on the same routes. Preferences: coffee shops or juice bars. Predictable rituals unfolding day after day.

That’s when the idea took hold.

What if the very routines that steady us—the small, comforting structures we rely on—also make us vulnerable? What if grief, exhaustion, or distraction softens our awareness just enough for something to slip past unnoticed? What if memory itself becomes unreliable, not through spectacle, but through quiet erosion?

From those questions, When the Dead Remember began to take shape—a story rooted in familiar spaces, ordinary habits, and the unsettling realization that what keeps us grounded can also be used against us. Because when grief loosens one’s grip on reality, memory doesn’t just fade—it remembers in its own way.