Get a Sneak Peek of Sally Hepworth's New Mystery 'Mad Mabel' (Excl)

Greetings, book lovers! New York Times bestselling author Sally Hepworth is known for sharp, suspenseful domestic thrillers—like The Good Sister and Darling Girls—and her forthcoming book, Mad Mabel, is another captivating page-turner. Mad Mabel (out April 13) follows 81-year-old Elsie Mabel Fitzpatrick—who may or may not be a murderer.

Living in a quiet suburb of Melbourne, Mabel’s neighbors have no idea that she was famously convicted of murder as a child. Now, decades later, a neighbor dies unexpectedly and Mabel’s past is exposed and she must defend herself against new accusations. Is Mabel actually mad or is she just deeply misunderstood?

Here, we have an exclusive sneak preview of the new mystery/thriller—on sale next week—just for Woman’s World readers!

‘Mad Mabel’ excerpt

I’d slept fitfully the night before. It had been difficult to get back to sleep after an upsetting dream about Joan, Peter, Cess and Ness, and the Italian Stallion. In my dream I sat in a room with them—all of them—while they interviewed me for the tell-all: Mad Mabel: In Her Own Words. But then the room became a courtroom, and all of them morphed into jurors as my sentence was being handed down and I was crying out for my mother who I couldn’t find anywhere.

The fist pounds against the door again and I wait for Persephone’s indignant little face to appear at my window. She wouldn’t see much through my sheers but she’d see enough to know I was awake. I make a mental note to tell her that waking up your bestie at the crack of dawn is a surefire way to keep you friendless. I may not be a great citizen, but I can offer her this public service.

But no face appears at the window.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick?”

I sit up straight. Not what I was expecting. The voice is unusually deep, like a radio presenter on a smutty channel, which rules out Persephone. I wonder, suddenly, if it could be the police? Perhaps someone in the neighborhood was burgled overnight and the police are “canvassing the area”? If that’s the case, I’ll send them to Joan’s house. Joan is hard of hearing and unlikely to have heard anything, but she’ll welcome their visit so she can mention that her nephew is a partner in a law firm.

“Just a minute,” I call out, wrapping my toweling dressing gown around my midsection. It’s full length, which means it barely covers my knees. I briefly check my reflection in the hall mirror on the way to the door and I’m delighted to find I look terrifying. My hair is sticking up at odd angles and the left side of my face has settled deep into its grooves after eight hours of sleeping on that side. Since about the age of 70 it might be noon before my face starts to look vaguely symmetrical.

“Adeem Anand.” The young man on my doorstep extends his hand like a gun.

He’s younger than I expected, given the depth of his voice. By the look of him I’d say he is twentysomething. He’s stocky and prematurely balding, but well-endowed in the eyebrow area, as if two fat caterpillars have taken up residence on his forehead. There is a pretty, nondescript blond woman by his side who looks to be similarly aged.

He waits. When I don’t take his hand, his bravado falters. “Uh . . . This is my colleague Libby Conquest.” He nods in her direction.

“Are you Elsie Fitzpatrick?”

“Why should I tell you?”

Adeem Anand glances at his counterpart. She doesn’t quite roll her eyes, but her facial expression conveys the effect.

“Ms. Fitzpatrick,” she says, “Adeem and I host a YouTube channel—AdLib. Have you heard of YouTube?”

“Of course,” I snap. It’s not a lie. I’ve heard of it. Couldn’t tell you how it works, or what it’s used for, but that wasn’t her question.

“Great,” she says. “Well, we have a channel on there where we dig into old crimes and we thought—”

I blame the early hour for my slowness.

Old crimes.

I try to shut the front door but Adeem blocks it with a meaty arm. “Ms. Fitzpatrick. We’d like to cover your side of the story. Sympathetically.”

“If you don’t let me shut this I’ll scream,” I say, even though I doubt my scream has much heft to it these days. If Persephone was here I’d get her to scream for me. The little barbarian has quite the set of lungs. It occurs to me that it’s the first time I’ve wanted the child around.

“Ads, for God’s sake, get your arm off the door.” Libby smacks at his arm with all the energy of a frustrated older sister. Adeem releases the door, immediately contrite.

I find myself disarmed by Libby’s interruption, so although Adeem has removed his arm from the door, I don’t close it right away.

Libby takes advantage of my hesitation. “I apologize for Adeem, Ms. Fitzpatrick.”

“I imagine you have to do that quite a lot,” I reply.

“You have no idea.”

“Hey—” he starts, but Libby silences him with a little hand gesture, closing her palm like the conductor of an orchestra. It’s impressive. I make a mental note to try it with Persephone.

“How did you find me?” I ask.

Libby says: “We’re investigative journalists, Ms. Fitzpatrick. I understand you go by your middle name, Elsie, and your mother’s maiden name, but your name is still legally Mabel Waller, so it wasn’t difficult. Yours was the second door we knocked on.”

“I’d definitely recommend you tighten up your security and unlist your address,” Adeem says, “given the new interest in your case.”

“My . . . case?”

“Adeem and I have spent a great deal of time studying the facts of your story. Personally I’ve always thought there was more to it than what was reported at the time. I mean, we know there was, considering you were never allowed to give your side. And now there’s been another death, it’s never been more important to clear your name.”

“I’m sorry . . . ?” They are talking too fast. Why do I need to clear my name?

“I’m afraid I’m lost. What the dickens are you talking about?”

“We read the article. As far as we’re concern—”

“What article?” My voice sounds sharper than intended.

They pause for a beat, surprised. “It was all over the internet yesterday. About your neighbor who died.”

It takes a second to land. Ishaan. Of course. But why was there an article about Ishaan? He keeled over, presumably from old age or heart failure—or possibly from Nugget’s attitude. It was sad, but not suspicious.

“For pity’s sake! Why is everyone so interested in the death of an irritating old bastard who lived for 93 long years? I’ve seen popes farewelled with less fanfare.”

Adeem pulls a device out of his rucksack—one of those rectangular things that seem to control young people’s brains—and taps away. A moment later, he turns the screen to face me.

82-YEAR-OLD CONVICTED MURDERER “MAD” MABEL WALLER QUESTIONED OVER THE SUSPICIOUS DEATH OF “NEMESIS” NEIGHBOR

I stare at the headline, and for a moment, everything is still. There it is—dragged out of the dark like a corpse from a swamp. Convicted murderer. Mad Mabel. I haven’t been called that—to my face—in a very long time, but one doesn’t forget how it feels…

Want to read the whole book? Mad Mabel is available now for preorder at BN.com and Amazon.com. On sale April 21!

From Mad Mabel by Sally Hepworth © 2026 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.; Mrs. Smart; St. Martins Press.

Copyright 2026 A360 Media

This story was originally published April 10, 2026 at 7:30 PM.