Rachel Hawkins is ready to sweep readers into The Storm.
The bestselling author returns with her new thriller, which hits shelves Jan. 6, and Entertainment Weekly has your first look at the cover, as well as an exclusive excerpt.
The novel, Hawkins’ first since 2024’s The Heiress, takes readers to St. Medard’s Bay, Ala., a town infamous for three things: the devastating hurricanes that regularly sweep through; the Rosalie Inn, a century-old hotel that has withstood every storm; and Lo Bailey, a local girl accused of murdering her lover, political scion Landon Fitzroy, during 1984’s Hurricane Marie.
St. Martin’s Press
Cover of ‘The Storm’ by Rachel Hawkins
Geneva Corliss, the current owner of the Rosalie Inn, sees a business opportunity when a writer inquires about coming to town to research the crime for a book, hoping a hit true crime story will boost their bottom line. But writer August Fletcher doesn’t arrive alone. Instead, he brings Lo Bailey herself, claiming to be there to clear her name.
Yet the closer that Geneva gets to both Lo and August, the more she suspects that Lo’s return is more about vengeance than restoring her good name. Things come to a head as yet another monster storm barrels to St. Medard’s, and Geneva learns that Lo’s secrets extend far beyond what really happened to Landon Fitzroy.
Check out the cover above, as well as a letter to readers from Hawkins below, and read on for a taste of the riveting first chapter.
St. Martin’s Press
Letter to the reader from author Rachel Hawkins
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The Storm excerpt
“Any other fires need putting out?” I ask her. “Was Carla able to get that red wine stain out in Room 121? Oh, and did the Bakers ever email back? I know we always hold 211 for them for the 4th of July, but I’d really love to go ahead and get that on the books officially.”
“They did,” Edie tells me, and something in her voice makes the sip of coffee I just took—delicious and rich mere seconds ago—go bitter in my mouth.
“And?”
“And they regret to tell us their daughter booked the whole family an Airbnb in Orange Beach for the 4th this year, but they’re going to try and swing by to say hello.”
My stomach drops, my skin turning cold despite the balmy morning. The Bakers always booked the whole week of the 4th. Even with the loyalty discount I gave them, that was nearly two thousand dollars that I’d been counting on this summer. Two thousand dollars I’d already spent, if I were being honest.
“F—,” I mutter, and Edie leans over, clinking her mug against mine.
“Before you get too down about that, another email came in last night, too. Check it out.”
She reaches for the iPad that’s sitting in a nearby rocking chair, it’s cheap plastic case cracking, the “PROPERY OF THE ROSALIE INN” label peeling off the back.
I open the email app, my eyes briefly snagging on the Bakers’ reply—Hi, Geneva! So sorry not to have replied earlier—before seeing another message with the subject: “Long term stay, July-?”
I scan the email quickly, almost afraid to hope.
August Fletcher, a writer from California, interested in an open-ended stay starting the first of July, not sure how long, definitely a month, but possibly until September.
September.
Even with a long-term stay discount—my dad had been big on discounts, I was sadly learning—that would be a significant bit of money. Enough to pay down at least one of the credit cards, secure a couple more months for Mom at Hope House, get a little breathing room.
My mind is still running numbers as I half-read the rest of the message.
This guy, August, is working on a book; would love to learn more about local history while here; wants to talk about the Inn, and the hurricanes––specifically, Hurricane Marie in 1984.
That part pulls me out of my “once again having a credit score over 500” fantasies.
Lots of hurricanes have hit St. Medard’s Bay over the years. It’s practically what we’re famous for, and The Rosalie Inn is a big part of that: the only beachfront building to survive the wind and waves for decades, the freak structure that’s somehow always standing when the water recedes. Maybe it’s missing a chunk of roof or a bunch of windows, but it’s whole and upright when other, seemingly sturdier buildings are a pile of flattened lumber.
We even have pictures in the lobby, framed shots of the hotel in the aftermath of the storms, a little placard on the bottom reading, Hurricane Delphine- 1965, Hurricane Audrey- 1977, that kind of thing.
Hurricane Marie, though…
That’s the one that nearly got us. I don’t remember it, of course—I was born in February of ’85, six months after it hit—but Dad talked about it a lot. How a small sailboat ended up in the courtyard, its mast jutting through an upstairs window. How the whole front porch was ripped cleanly off, like some giant fish had swallowed it and taken it back out to sea.
How they’d been struggling to put the inn and their lives back together while reporters invaded the town, because one of the victims was a politician’s son, and it turned out he’d been in St. Medard’s Bay visiting his teenage mistress, a local girl. They’d been without power for nearly a month, Mom had said, no running water for nearly as long, but all anyone had been able to talk about was Mrs. Bailey’s gorgeous daughter, Gloria, and the Governor’s son—and how that Governor was saying he wasn’t so sure his son had actually died in the hurricane at all…
I’m about to hit reply, not even bothering to finish the rest of the email because this August Fletcher could say he was coming to St. Medard’s Bay to write a book on how to best sacrifice virgins under the blood moon, and I would’ve happily taken his money, but then I see a couple of lines near the bottom.
Due to the short notice, I’m willing to pay twice your regular rates, which, if I’m honest, seem too low for such a gorgeous place in such a picturesque location!
Our rates are low, much lower than what other places nearby charge—lower than what we charged even a few years ago—but it was the only thing I could think of to keep the inn at least half full during the summer. We’re at $200/night when other places start around $500 during the high season. $400 a night for an open-ended stay?
My heart starts beating a little faster as I take in the final line of the email.
Full disclosure: I’m also willing to pay a little more because there’s a chance my presence there might spook the locals: I’ll be looking into the death of Landon Fitzroy, so there’s a true crime element to this book (in case you find such things distasteful!).
I almost laugh. My phone is currently loaded up with podcasts with titles like And Then They Were Gone, or Two Girls, One Murder. Dateline is in heavy rotation on the tiny TV in my Airstream. Immediately, I can see that the death of this Landon Fitzroy would make for a good story. The storm, the mystery surrounding his injuries, the scandal with the teenage mistress…
Hell, that might be more than a book. That might be a Netflix series that launches a thousand Reddit theories. And where there are true crime nerds, there might just be money.
So no, I don’t find true crime distasteful, but I do wonder: Do I want my family business to become famous for its connection to a notorious death?
I nearly snort at myself. Worrying about the morality of the whole thing is for people who don’t have three maxed out credit cards and a repayment plan with the IRS.
And even if the book comes to f—all, the money he’s offering for his stay might just help keep us afloat through the off-season.
So yeah. After months—years, really—of bad news, even this little glimmer is shiny enough for me, and as I reply to August Fletcher’s email, I realize I’m smiling.
From The Storm by Rachel Hawkins. Copyright (c) 2026 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
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