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One of Us Is Dead

One of Us Is Dead By Jeneva Rose Summary

The story of a close-knit group of wealthy Buckhead women whose lives are connected in a web of secrets and lies, One of Us Is Dead is a compulsive, stay-up-all-night read. Where everyone is both suspect and victim and the twists keep coming, this is one of those books that is impossible to put down until the final page is turned. Author of The Perfect Marriage, Jeneva Rose has written another gripping thriller you won't want to miss.

The highly anticipated new thriller from the bestselling author of The Perfect Marriage.

Opulence. Sex. Betrayal … Sometimes friendship can be deadly.

Meet the women of Buckhead—a place of expensive cars, huge houses, and competitive friendships.

Shannon was once the queen bee of Buckhead. But she’s been unceremoniously dumped by Bryce, her politician husband. When Bryce replaces her with a much younger woman, Shannon sets out to take revenge …

Crystal has stepped into Shannon’s old shoes. A young, innocent Texan girl, she simply has no idea what she’s up against …

Olivia has waited years to take Shannon’s crown as the unofficial queen of Buckhead. Finally, her moment has come. But to take her rightful place, she will need to use every backstabbing, manipulative, underhand trick in the book …

Jenny owns Glow, the most exclusive salon in town. Jenny knows all her clients’ secrets and darkest desires. But will she ever tell?

Who amongst these women will be clever enough to survive Buckhead—and who will wind up dead? They say that friendships can be complex, but no one said it could ever be this deadly.

About the Author

JENEVA ROSE is the bestselling author of The Perfect Marriage, which has been published in nearly a dozen languages and optioned for film. Originally from Wisconsin, she currently lives in Chicago with her husband and stubborn English bulldog. One of Us Is Dead is her third novel.

One of Us Is Dead By Jeneva Rose Introduction

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.



“I’ve spent thousands of hours working on these women. I’ve primped, waxed, cut, painted, spray-tanned, powdered, and massaged them. I know almost every inch of their bodies. But I also know their demons—their deepest, darkest secrets. The things we try to bury beneath the surface so as not to show the world the doppelgänger lurking within us. So, am I surprised something like this happened? Not even in the slightest. I figured it would. It was just a matter of time.” I readjust myself, crossing one leg over the other beneath the table.

Across from me sits Detective Frank Sanford, a stern-looking middle-aged man with hard facial features and broad shoulders. He’s your classic blue-collar detective. Despite the suit and tie he’s wearing, his appearance is anything but polished and put together. His red-rimmed eyes give away the fact that he works far too many hours and gets far too little sleep. We have more in common than he’ll ever know.

“How do you know their deepest, darkest secrets, Jenny? I mean, are you their therapist too? I thought you were a hair stylist,” Detective Sanford asks, jutting out his chiseled chin covered in stubble. His eyes tighten, staring intently at me as he pauses his note-taking and waits for an answer. We’re sitting across from each other in a well-lit interrogation room. The air is stale and cold, and I can’t tell if the room is trying to match the aura of the detective or the other way around.

“I’m both, in a way. I don’t know how much time you’ve spent inside salons, Detective Sanford, but women talk.” I cross my arms in front of my chest, holding his gaze. “Especially when they’re sitting in a salon chair with nothing but time on their hands.”

I know this man has never set foot inside a salon, and not just based on his own level of self-care. The truth is, I know more about my clients than I do my own family, especially this group of women. I see each of them multiple times a week. They have cash to burn—or at least their husbands do—and they can afford to pour resources into fighting the greatest war of their lives: the one against the effects of time on the human body.

“I see, and you’re the owner of Glow Beauty Bar, correct?” He gently taps his pencil on the table.

“The one and only.” I nod.

He picks his pencil back up and jots down a couple more notes, careful not to miss anything.

“And how long have you owned the salon?”

My eyes wander for a moment as I recall when I purchased it. “About five years now.”

“And have these women been your clients the whole time?” He creases his brow.

“No. They didn’t become my clients until around three years ago. Glow wasn’t always the salon it is today.”

He writes down a couple more notes and circles something on the paper. I catch a glimpse of the words within the circle: Glow Past?

“I see. So, you’ve known these women for three years, and you’re not surprised that any of this happened?” He raises his thick, dark eyebrows.

“No. Don’t let them fool you, Detective. Individually, they’re genuine and they can be kind . . . but when you put them in a room together, these women are downright toxic.”


three weeks before the murder

Olivia plopped her tight, skinny ass in my chair and dropped her oversized Hermes bag on the ground. Her long, lush mahogany hair brushed my face as she tossed it over her shoulder without a care. Thanks to me, it was full of the perfect number of lowlights and highlights. She was dressed in a red jumpsuit that left little to the imagination.

Olivia always wore red in some variation, whether it was her whole outfit, a bold lip, or an eye-catching accessory. Red was her power color, her security blanket. And she’d never be caught dead walking in anything other than a pair of red-bottomed Louboutin’s.

As I wrapped a freshly cleaned cape around her, Olivia stared at herself in the mirror with pure and utter admiration. She turned her head from side to side observing her perfectly sculpted nose, overinjected plump lips, and high cheekbones. If a brown-haired Barbie doll were blown up to life-size, it would look just like Olivia. I could tell she was pleased with her appearance as she gave herself a slight smirk, revealing veneers so bright they could challenge a hundred-watt light bulb.

I’d been her hairstylist, makeup artist, nail technician, waxer, tanner, lash artist, and so much more for years, and as time progressed, I had noticed that her lips kept getting plumper, her cheekbones higher, and her skin smoother. Like tectonic plates, her face was always shifting.

“What are we doing today?” I asked as I gently ran a comb through her soft hair while looking at her in the mirror. I already knew what she wanted, but Customer Service 101 dictates you always let the client tell you what they want. So I waited for her to tell me. She held up her finger at me while she typed vigorously into her phone.

Olivia and I were opposites in every way. While her hair was dark and long, mine was strawberry blond, wavy, and fell right at my shoulders. Her facial features were hard and cutting. Mine were soft and rounded. Her eyes were rich like milk chocolate. Mine were a cool blue. Her face was free of any beauty marks, while mine was speckled with freckles. She set her phone in her lap, briefly looked at me, and then returned her gaze to the single most important thing in Olivia’s life: Olivia.

“Roots and trim, and I’ll need a wax. Dean is coming home tonight.” There was a sparkle in her eye and a bit of giddiness in her voice, like a schoolgirl talking about her first crush. Dean and Olivia Petrov had been married for over a decade, and it surprised me that they still had a flame of passion between them. Then again, toxic relationships are great for extreme highs and lows.

“Well, then, we’ll have to make sure you’re absolutely perfect for him.”

“I’m already perfect for him,” Olivia snarked.

I smiled and nodded. I had learned over the years that this was the best way to handle difficult clients, and Olivia held the title of the most difficult.

“But you always make me better than perfect,” she added.

Olivia had a true talent for complimenting herself before she complimented others. She was the same with kind words and insults. I coined the term “kinsults” thanks to her. It was like she had created a cruel language all her own. You wouldn’t even realize she was insulting you, because they were wrapped up like a present, complete with a nice bow.

The best part about my job was making women feel good about themselves. I loved the way their faces lit up after I was finished with them. “Beauty glow” is what I liked to call it, hence the name of my salon, Glow Beauty Bar. Olivia was one of those rare clients that always had that glow, so it wasn’t as fun making her over, but she tipped well and her beauty treatments had single-handedly paid off the mortgage on my apartment above the salon.

“What do you and Dean have planned tonight?” I asked.

Olivia looked up from her phone. “A little of this and a little of that.” She winked.

She always thought she was so cryptic, but her text messages revealed exactly what she was up to tonight. I nodded and returned to mixing up the dye.

“I love your freckles, Jenny. But have you ever considered wearing a full-coverage foundation?” Olivia’s eyes scanned my face.


“I used to, but freckles are in,” I said with a smile. “Women even draw them on now.”

She shrugged and returned her eyes to her phone, scrolling through her highly edited Instagram photos. “If you say so.”

Although I loved where my business was at now, sometimes I thought it was easier in the old days. I never used to have to deal with high-maintenance clients. I opened Glow Beauty Bar five years ago. It had always been my dream to own a boutique full-service salon, but things weren’t as glamorous as I had hoped. I started off with peeling paint and a hodgepodge of used furniture and old salon equipment, and the client list consisted of errant old women that would wander in off the street.

I continued to struggle until one day, about three years ago, Olivia came into my salon with a hair emergency. Apparently, her regular hairstylist had up and moved to New York City, so she tried out another salon that completely botched her dye job. I was her saving grace. She got word out to her elite friends about me, and my salon transformed from a barely-making-it-by cheap salon to a full-service beauty bar for the upper-class women of Buckhead. I added two tanning beds, a spray tan machine, a pedicure and manicure area, a waxing room, a makeup bar, a sitting area, and a wine and champagne bar.

Basically, anything they wanted, I delivered. There’s a waiting list to even become a client here now, and I only accept twenty-five full-time clients. By full-time, I mean my clients agree to have a minimum of eight services a month. If they fail to do so, they’re terminated as a client, or at least relegated to the waiting list. It’s very exclusive and very expensive.

“Are you adding facials anytime soon?” Olivia pulled at her skin. It didn’t move. Her face never moved, thanks to her frequent Botox sessions.

“I hadn’t considered it,” I said.

“This is exactly why you need me. Someone to think about the bigger picture. You should hire an aesthetician. Some of your clients are going to be in serious need of antiaging treatments soon, like Shannon.” Olivia attempted to raise an eyebrow, but instead, her eyes half squinted.

I gave her a small smile and directed my focus back to her hair. Olivia thought she was the sole owner of Glow. Unfortunately, she was an angel investor, but I hoped that within three years I’d buy her share out. She was far too demanding. I was grateful she had saved the salon, but in a way, she had used it to propel her social status. This place had become my clients’ personal hangout, their home away from their mansions. Olivia and her friends treated it like their own living room, hosting book clubs, wine nights, hangouts for gossip, and committee meetings.

Her phone vibrated, and she picked it back up, typing vigorously. I read texts here and there as I began applying the dye to her roots. If my clients weren’t talking to me, they were making calls or texting. Always fearful of missing out on the next hot piece of gossip. It was hard not to pay attention, not to put things together, not to figure out what was happening among these women.

“So, where has Dean been?” I asked.

The second-best part of my job was chatting with my clients. They told me everything—sometimes not intentionally, but they did. Their hopes, dreams, failures, worries, problems, insecurities . . . everything. I really enjoyed getting to know them. I liked feeling like I was a part of their lives, even if I wasn’t. It made work feel less like work and more like I was just hanging out every day. I was good at asking questions, and I was great at listening. I hated any attention on me, so it was a good match, because my clients loved to talk, especially about themselves.

“Oh . . . ummm . . . actually, I’m not sure,” she said. “He’s like a stray dog sometimes. Can’t keep track of him,” she added with a laugh.

Olivia and Dean were two of the most influential and powerful people in Buckhead, so for them, it was all about keeping up appearances. Even though I had known her for three years, I didn’t have a clue what Dean did for a living, and I don’t think she did either. As long as she kept getting her allowance, I don’t think she cared. Rumor had it that he was into some sort of shady smuggling business, but if you asked him, he’d tell you it’s supply chain.

“Speaking of stray dogs, are there any in your life?” She smiled.

I continued to paint her roots with the rich dye, which smelled like ammonia. It wasn’t a smell most people liked, but I did. It was comforting.

“No, none for me. This salon is my life.” I glanced around, taking it all in.

Five years from its inception, Glow is now clean and modern with hardwood floors throughout, exceptional track lighting, and the newest and most expensive salon equipment. There are black velvet floor-to-ceiling curtains separating the reception area from the rest of the salon. No one gets past those curtains unless you’re a client or an employee. Nonclients speak of this place like it’s the throne room at Buckingham Palace.

“Oh, sweetie. You can’t make a building your whole life,” she said with a chuckle. “And that says a lot, coming from me. I’d sell my soul for a Crocodile Birkin. Oh, you probably don’t even know what that is, which is for the best. You have simpler things to focus on.”


I gave a tight-lipped smile and began trimming her ends. She had just had a trim last week, so it was quite unnecessary, but she was the one with the Black AmEx. Her phone buzzed again, and I glanced down, seeing it was a text from someone named Bryce’s Midlife Crisis.

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One of Us Is Dead

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Product details:

EditionInternational Edition
Posted onApril 26, 2022
Page Count318 pages
AuthorJeneva Rose

One of Us Is Dead By Jeneva Rose PDF Free Download - HUB PDF

The story of a close-knit group of wealthy Buckhead women whose lives are connected in a web of secrets and lies, One of Us Is Dead is a compulsive, stay-up-all-night read. Where everyone is both suspect and victim and the twists keep coming, this is one of those books that is impossible to put down until the final page is turned. Author of The Perfect Marriage, Jeneva Rose has written another gripping thriller you won't want to miss.


Author: Jeneva Rose

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