Struggling mystery author Claire Denman is enjoying a relaxing vacation at her brother's secluded house in the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia after helping a wealthy elderly woman move her cats across the country. The woman happens to be the wife of the man Claire had an affair with 30 years ago and she happens to be renting Claire's brother's rental property next door. Claire's days are filled with writing poetry, birdwatching, and exploring the nearby town. But then strange things begin to occur on the property. Claire finds messes she doesn't remember making, objects start to go missing, and entire days are seemingly missing from Claire's memory. So, when the elderly lady is found murdered, how can Claire be sure she wasn't somehow involved? The Last Unsuitable Man is a slow-burn thriller filled with twists that no one--least of all the victim--could see coming.

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She became aware of a rhythmic tapping sound, the sound a branch hitting a house would make.

Tap, tap, tap. It was coming from around the back of the house. Finished stacking the wood, she turned to face the invisible sea and listened.

The mist moved sluggishly around her, altering the shapes of trees, shrubs and ferns, making some recede while others seemed to advance. The sun was well hidden and now she felt heavy and dull. Tap, tap, tap.

She plodded past the garage door to the right of the house. If something was rubbing on its exterior, Steve might want her to check it; he kept his houses, inside and out, in such good condition.

She turned left and scanned along the back of the house, located the source of the tapping. With a cry she stumbled forward.

Jane was hanging by her neck, her head down-turned, arms slack. One shoe (and afterwards Claire wondered that she had seen the shoe so clearly), a tasselled beige loafer, slapped against one of the wooden pillars that supported the balcony above. The other shoe lay on the concrete deck.

With a moan, Claire lunged forward, caught the legs and lifted, hoping, hoping, that by this manoeuvre, by releasing the body’s weight from its neck, Jane might revive.

The body was unexpectedly light. Claire, her face pressed into Jane’s thighs, inhaled the foreign smell of other people’s clothes: washed in different detergents, worn with different perfumes, containing the essences of their sweat, and gagged.

She became aware of the feel of the woman’s legs in her hands. Even someone as old as Jane shouldn’t have flesh that crumpled and gave under pressure. She let go and looked up.

The dummy hung by a rope someone had looped around the balcony railing. Where Claire had clasped it around its legs could be seen the indentations made by her hands. Its yellow plastic bag head, one from the local supermarket on which had been drawn coarse features in thick black ink, looked down at her.

She took a step back, one foot half on, half off, the deck, and fell backwards. A bramble broke most of her fall, but not before she hit her head on a mossy rock surrounded by ferns.