Updated Jan. 29, 2026, 10:32 a.m. ET
Couples in Freida McFadden’s books seldom get sunshine and rainbows.
The queen of psychological thrillers will soon publish a new book about the dark side of happily ever after. “The Divorce” comes out May 26, McFadden and publisher Poisoned Pen Press revealed to USA TODAY exclusively. In this story, the end of a seemingly perfect marriage sets one woman down a path of obsession and destruction.
McFadden is known for throwing a wrench in familial bliss with twisty stories such as the new “Dear Debbie,” “The Tenant” and “The Housemaid,” recently adapted into a film starring Sydney Sweeney and Amanda Seyfried.
Keep reading for a first look at the cover and chapter one of “The Divorce.”
See the cover for Freida McFadden’s new book, ‘The Divorce’
“The Divorce” vows to bring readers a “subversive, tense and pulse-pounding” plot about two women who go head-to-head over happily ever after.
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The story follows Naomi, whose “quintessential love story” ends abruptly after her husband kicks her out. Amid expensive divorce proceedings, she also finds out he’s shacking up with a 20-something. Naomi becomes fixated on his new girlfriend, uncovering secrets that lead her down a dangerous path.
“‘The Divorce’ begins with a simple question: what happens when your partner in life decides to blow up everything you once had together? And more importantly, would you sit back and let them or would you take matters into your own hands?” McFadden tells USA TODAY in a statement. “I hope my upcoming book keeps you guessing, turning pages late into the night and questioning everything you thought you knew! Please enjoy the ride!”
‘The Divorce’ by Freida McFadden: Chapter One
NAOMI
My first clue that something is wrong is that my garage door won’t open.
We have one of those “intelligent” garage doors that senses my Lexus when I pull into the driveway, rolling up the door at the exact moment to prevent collision with my front fender. The garage door is a feature my husband proudly showed me when we moved into this house, joking that it was smarter than I am, and in all the years I’ve lived here, it’s never proven him wrong.
Until today.
I throw my Lexus into park and stare at the garage door, as if it’s a puzzle I have to solve. There’s a way to open it manually − I’m sure of it. I have a distinct memory of Jeremy telling me that if it didn’t open automatically, all I would have to do is −
“Mommy?” Teddy’s babyish voice pipes up from the back seat. “Is the door broken?”
I turn to look at my son, still wearing his white uniform from the karate class I just picked him up from. He is strapped into a car seat in the back, even though at five years old, he’s getting a little big to be sitting in one. He looks almost comically big for it, but I read that in the case of a rollover accident, there is nothing safer. And our pediatrician recommended the car seat until age six, so I ignore the eye rolls from some of the other women at kindergarten pickup.
“I don’t think so,” I say.
“Then why won’t it open?”
Excellent question.
I glance over at the house, where the lights are on inside, signaling that Jeremy is home from work. That’s almost as surprising as the garage door not opening, since he rarely makes it home before the very moment we’re sitting down to dinner, and often much later. He’s at least an hour early tonight.
My husband manages a hedge fund in the city, and he works harder than anyone I know, but I respect the fact that even if he has to sometimes miss our family dinner, he is home every single night to put Teddy to bed. Aside from the occasional business trip, of course.
“Daddy will help us figure it out,” I tell Teddy.
Teddy nods in agreement. As far as he concerned, there is nothing his father can’t do. If someone needed to fly around the earth backward to turn back time, Teddy would volunteer Jeremy for the task.
I climb out of the car, tugging at the yoga pants that always seem to ride up into my butt crack. Then I contort my body into the back seat to release Teddy from his harness, and he rewards me with a gap-toothed grin. He recently lost his first baby tooth, followed by a second soon after, and then two more. He was over-the-moon excited after looking enviously at all the other kids in his class who had already lost teeth, but I mourned the loss of that first one as yet another sign of my precious little boy growing up.
Teddy grabs his SpongeBob backpack, which I’m pretty sure weighs as much as he does, if not slightly more. We head over to the front door of our house, Teddy tilted backward as he attempts to hold up the weight of his backpack. When I put my hand on the doorknob, it doesn’t turn, and I swear under my breath.
“You said a bad word, Mommy!” Teddy declares, simultaneously aghast and titillated.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to.”
“What’s wrong?” he demands to know.
“The door is locked.”
“Why?”
I fumble around in my purse, searching for my keys. Considering I always come in through the garage, where the door is never locked, I rarely use them. But I’m pretty sure they’re in here somewhere. “I don’t know.”
“What are you doing now?”
I look up from my purse and flash Teddy what I hope is a patient smile. Sometimes I think my son expects a running narration of everything that I do, and for the most part, I try to provide it. Teddy’s kindergarten teacher told me that he had the best vocabulary in the class, and I think it’s because I’m always talking to him. “I’m finding my house keys.”
“Are they in your purse?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
Oh my God, where are they? I shove aside a mini water bottle and what feels like the giant rock that Teddy picked up at the park last week and asked me to save because he thought it was “cool.” And then, thank God, my fingers close around my key chain. I pull it out triumphantly. “Ta-da!”
Obligingly, Teddy claps.
Whatever is wrong with the garage door, we can save it for later. As always, the parking was out of control at the karate school, which is in a strip mall shared by about a dozen other shops. I drove around the lot for several minutes before locating a spot, just in time for the clouds that had been hovering all afternoon to break open. Over an hour later, my hair is still damp, and my shoes squelch with each step. I want nothing more than a quiet evening with my family.
I fit my key into the lock, but the lock doesn’t turn. That’s… strange. When I am certain that this key is not functional, I pull it out. I examine the key ring, which contains only two keys. One is the key for the house, and the other is the key for my old medical practice, which I gave up when I decided to be a stay-at-home mom for Teddy. No regrets, but I saved my spare key for nostalgic reasons. In any case, that is definitely not the key to my house. Although I try it, just in case.
Nope. I’ve got two keys, and neither one of them opens the door to the house.
That’s when I notice something else. The lock on the door is shinier than I remember it. It looks, in fact, brand-new. But to my knowledge, we haven’t changed this lock in years. Not since I’ve been living here.
That’s my second clue that something is very wrong.
Clare Mulroy is USA TODAY’s Books Reporter, where she covers buzzy releases, chats with authors and dives into the culture of reading. Find her on Instagram, subscribe to our weekly Books newsletter or tell her what you’re reading at cmulroy@usatoday.com.
