We’re so excited to bring you the cover reveal for S. Gonzales’ The Law of Inertia AND a short excerpt from Chapter One! But first, here’s the blurb to give you a little idea of what the book is about:

When James’s boyfriend died by suicide, a foster kid with a checkered past, no one asked too many questions. But to James, the so-called facts are just the first of many mysteries. And when the very person who can answer his questions goes missing, James wonders what else is being hidden.

After all, innocent people don’t run.

And without further ado,

the cover we’ve all been waiting for!

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Stuff You Need to Know:

Genre: suspense

Length: 353 pages

Identities represented: the main character, Ash, is bisexual, and James is gay. Two characters have diagnosed Major Depressive Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. This book is #OwnVoices for mental illness, and is influenced by the author’s previous experiences, as well as being inspired by a true story.

Content warnings: discussions of mental illness and suicide, child abuse, on-page self-harm and on-page panic attacks.

The Law of Inertia releases on October 9th!

Add to GoodReads / Pre-order from IndieBound 

Don’t go yet! We also have an

exclusive except from Chapter One…

ASHTON

The first two times I tried to die, I survived.

But I’ll tell you something only two people know.

When I did die, I wasn’t trying to at all.

* * *

ONE

Louise
September 2018

“Do you know how many Elliot Taylors there are in this damn country?”

As soon as those words came out of his mouth, the hot guy in the video had my attention.

I leaned back in my desk chair, turned the sound up on the clip, and called over my shoulder. “Hey. Look what Saras tagged me in.”

Elliot Taylor, who was sprawled out on my unmade bed with one headphone in, snapped his head up to watch. “I’ve spent most of the last year trying to find him. He’s disappeared into nowhere, though. So I thought I’d ask strangers on the internet to help me. I have a message for Elliot Taylor. Dark hair, blue eyes, tall. Anyway, I know that’s not super descriptive, but he’ll know he’s the right one when he sees me. I wanna talk to him about his brother, Ash.”

I was too busy watching the clip, narrated by a slim Asian guy sitting crossed-legged on a picnic table, to notice Elliot’s reaction to it at first.

It was only when Elliot sucked in his breath that he ended up on my radar. He was clutching his iPhone with white knuckles and staring at my laptop screen like the creepy girl from The Ring had appeared on it.

“I’ve needed to talk to him for a long time now, but he’s conveniently dropped off the face of the earth,” the guy in the video went on, fiddling with the drawstrings of his forest green hoodie. Going by his accent, he lived somewhere down south. “Ash was my best friend, and he killed himself last year. And I think Elliot and I both know pieces of what happened on Ash’s last day. If we collaborate, we might get the full story.”

Elliot was breathing too loudly for my liking. He sounded like an emphysemic with a microphone. I raised an eyebrow at him. “You all good?”

In the background, the clip continued. “Elliot disappeared right after Ash’s funeral. Nobody knows where he is or how to contact him. But I’d sure as hell like some closure. If you can share this video, or tag any Elliot Taylors, or anyone who might know an Elliot Taylor, you might be able to help me find him. And Elliot, if you’re watching this, please. Talk to me. For both our sakes. You know where to find me.”

The video cut off. Elliot didn’t say a word. And this was Elliot. Silence wasn’t really his thing. Plus, he’d barely blinked since the video began. Because that wasn’t suspicious at all.

“Is it you?” I asked, spinning my chair around to face him.

He stared at the screen for a few more seconds before crashing back to reality. “No.”

“No?” I repeated flatly. I wouldn’t have bought that even if he was a good actor. Which, by the way, he was not.

“I’ve never seen that guy in my life.”

Sure thing, Elliot. Totally. “Uh-huh. So why do you look like that?”

“Like what?” he asked. He turned back to his phone and flicked through it so quickly there was no way in hell he could read the screen.

Interesting. “You didn’t tell me you had a brother,” I said.

“I don’t. I didn’t.”

“Elliot.”

“What? It’s a common name, like the guy said.”

“Tall, dark haired, blue eyed, Elliot Taylor—he even has your accent—okay, you’re shaking.”

“Tall is a stretch. And I’m not shaking. We have to go to work soon.”

Oh, masterful subject change there.

Elliot and I worked at the same restaurant—Bruno’s. We met there when he first moved to town. Back then, he’d been all quiet, withdrawn, and, in my opinion, mysterious. I’d started following him around like a pre-fame Kim Kardashian clinging to Paris Hilton as soon as I met him. We clicked straight away. Well, I clicked with him. Can clicking be one sided? Anyway, he realised he wasn’t going to shake me, so he put up with me. Eventually, that tolerance turned into affection. Over a year later, and he loved me back. At least, I figured he must, because he spent half the week inviting himself over to hang, so.

“No,” I said, shooting to my feet and standing to bar my doorway. I was a goalkeeper for three years. He could try getting past. “No, you stay right there.”

Elliot gave me a weary look. “Louise, we’ll be late.” He tried to push his way past me. I stood my ground stubbornly though, and we had a Western film style standoff. At least, we did for three seconds, until Elliot ducked under my arms and darted down the hall. Okay, so maybe my football skills were rusty.

“Elliot,” I called out, chasing him through the hall and downstairs, where I almost went tail up on the tiles.

In the lounge room he passed my abuela, who sat perched on the couch by a pedestal fan with one of her Spanish tabloid magazines. Abuela and I shared a borderline obsession with celebrities, only none of the ones she cared about spoke English. “Elliot,” she said, lowering the magazine. “No running inside. You break something.”

He stopped in his tracks, spun around, and gave her a grin. “Sorry, Chari—Louise is terrorising me.” It’s a testament to how into Elliot Abuela is that she let him call her Chari instead of Rosario. She thinks he’s devastatingly handsome. Eh. To each their own.

She turned to me with large, accusing brown eyes. Oh, hell no. Abuela always took Elliot’s side. She fell for charm way too easily. No one ever taught Abuela she didn’t need a man when she was a little girl, and it made her weak. “Louisa, eres tan mala que me vas a matar!”

So, I could barely speak any Spanish, and half the time I didn’t have the foggiest idea what my grandmother was on about. But in the six months that she’d been living with us, I’d become pretty good at figuring out the difference between her “I’m pretending to be angry” voice and her “I’m seriously pissed off with you” voice. This was one of the former. No big.

“We’re going to work now,” Elliot said, grabbing my wrist.

Abuela looked crestfallen. “You no stay for dinner?”

My Abuela was the epitome of a true Spanish housewife. Refer back to the aforementioned upbringing, if you will. Basically, she derived most of her self-worth from how fat we got off her cooking. The rest from how diligently she could stay on top of the grey hairs that highlighted her shoulder-length mane of thick, dark curls.

Nineteen-forties Spain didn’t sound like it led the way in the girl-power movement, put it that way.

Mum, with her superhuman metabolism, scandalised Abuela by failing to get any larger than a size six, no matter how much she fed her. So inconsiderate of her, really. As for me, I lost the genetic lottery by inheriting Abuela’s figure instead of Mum’s. I put on three pounds if I even looked at croquetas for too long. A week or so ago, Abuela had pointed out with some sort of sick satisfaction that I’d gone up a dress size since she’d moved in with us. I still hadn’t forgiven her for it. She could take her well-meaning compliments and shove them in—

“No time,” Elliot said. He tried to pull me outside, but I yanked my hand back.

“I have to get my uniform, you idiot.”

He tutted. “I’m not the one who made it halfway out the door before deciding to grab my uniform.”

The sheer sass on this guy. I scowled at him and ran upstairs to change. As a general rule, I tried to spend as little time in the Bruno’s uniform as possible. I mean, black trousers, closed shoes and a boxy collared shirt the colour of a sewer rat? Adriana Lima herself couldn’t make that work.

By the time I came back down, Elliot was in the middle of a cheerful conversation with Abuela about his flatmate and cousin, Bea, who was busy slugging through her first year of uni. Then, as soon as we left the house, he hijacked the conversation by launching into a story about some rude customer. No way had he conveniently forgotten about the video. Nice try, though.

I decided to give him a break and let it go.

For now, anyway.