Every Boyfriend I Bring Home Dies — Novel

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In a world where love is as fragile as a dumpling skin, Deborah Henson faces a chilling curse: every boyfriend she brings home dies after a meal with her mother. As the special task force investigates, the tension mounts. With each death, Deborah's hopes for a normal life with Richard Finch grow dimmer, trapped in a cycle of grief and suspicion. How can she embrace love when the very act of sharing a meal has become a harbinger of tragedy?

Haunted by the weight of tradition and the fear of losing yet another chance at happiness, Deborah must navigate the fragile threads of family loyalty and the growing whispers of the community. Her mother, desperate and fearful, clings to their home, but with each investigation, the walls close in tighter. Are they victims of a cruel twist of fate, or is there something darker lurking beneath the surface of their seemingly innocent lives?

As the investigation unfolds, secrets begin to unravel. Could the answer to their nightmare lie within their own family history? Or is the real threat something far more sinister, stalking Deborah with every boyfriend she dares to love? The stakes are high, and time is running out.

Every Boyfriend I Bring Home DiesChapter 1

I'd had three boyfriends in total, and every single one of them dropped dead after eating my mother's dumplings.

The authorities assembled a special task force just to investigate their deaths. They spent six solid months tearing my home apart, turning every corner inside out, and still couldn't find a single shred of evidence.

The whole ordeal left me too terrified to date anyone for two full years.

In the third year, I finally crawled out from under that shadow and started seeing someone new.

But after losing three boyfriends, the fear never really left me. I didn't dare bring my new boyfriend, Richard Finch, home to meet my mother.

He was the one who kept pushing for it. He wanted to talk marriage, kept insisting, wore me down day after day until I finally agreed to take him home.

This time, following our family's tradition, my mother made dumplings again.

We'd barely finished eating when I stepped away to use the bathroom. That's when I heard my mother scream.

"No! Not again!"

I ran out and the color drained from my face.

Richard, who had been perfectly fine just minutes ago, sat rigid on the couch. His body was stiff. His skin was cold.