The Butterfly Sister: A Novel

By Amy Gail Hansen

In The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen—a moving Gothic tale that intertwines mystery, madness, betrayal, love, and literature—a fragile young woman must silence the ghosts of her past.

Ten months after dropping out of all-girl Tarble College, Ruby Rousseau is still haunted by the memories of her senior year, a time marred by an affair with her English professor and a deep depression that caused her to question her sanity.

When a mysterious suitcase arrives bearing Ruby's name and address, she tries to return it to its rightful owner, Beth—a dorm-mate at Tarble—only to learn that Beth disappeared two days earlier.

With clues found in the luggage, including a tattered copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own, which Ruby believes instigated her madness, she sets out to uncover the truth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9780062234650

Amy Gail Hansen

A former English teacher, Amy Gail Hansen is a freelance writer and journalist living in suburban Chicago. This is her first novel.

Book preview

butterfly.jpg Chapter 1

Gwen could not have been more explicit at our first session: I was to cease reading books by or about women who killed themselves.

An unhealthy obsession, that’s what my therapist called it, and I was inclined to agree with Gwen’s diagnosis. There was, after all, no other logical explanation for the string of events that brought me to her office. Ghosts do not exist. I hadn’t done mushrooms. No brain tumor. I resigned myself to the fact that what I’d seen and done was a consequence of a compromised mental state.

Like other women writers before me, I had simply gone mad.

I left Gwen’s office that late December afternoon with a newfound interest in my bedroom bookcase. A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf went first, then The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, followed by Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper and Kate Chopin’s The Awakening. Hemingway took a beating too. In fact, any title remotely relating to mental imbalance found its way into the donation box, even those seemingly innocuous stories like Jane Eyre.

Could I afford to leave the madwoman in the attic lurking on my bookshelf?

But it was all in vain—the books, the antidepressants, the therapy sessions with Gwen. Even time’s wound-healing properties proved ineffective. Ten months later, my past was never more than one thought, one breath, one heartbeat away.

And then, on that particular October evening, it literally arrived at my doorstep.

Mom found me on the front porch swing that night, swaying with the initiative of a pendulum. Assessing my state of mind in a single glance from the driveway, she soon approached me, teacup in hand.

How many today, Ruby? she asked, handing me the mug.

I let the steam, the fruity tang of Earl Grey, tingle my nose. Bergamot, of course. A natural antidepressant.

Twelve, but nothing tragic, I said. Well, except for that sweetheart of a librarian Mrs. Talbot, the one who special ordered my books last summer?

She died? The one you said smelled like marshmallows? Mom sat beside me. She was still wearing her nurse’s scrubs, navy blue with periwinkle trim. Do you want to talk about it?

She was eighty-nine years old. I shrugged. I think it really was her time.

We sat silent for a beat, less the squeaking of the swing, while Mom churned her hands like a paddle through butter. I hoped she was just cold—still adjusting to Illinois’s chilly autumn evenings—and not worried.

I called in an order to Wu’s, she finally said.

You didn’t have to.

I wanted to.

Not cold, I thought. Worried. But I’m fine. Really.

She shrugged. Maybe I’m too tired to cook.

I wasn’t convinced. Annette Rousseau, my New Orleans–born mother, had absorbed the Creole recipes for gumbo and shrimp étouffée in utero; they had crossed the placenta line along with the oxygen. She was proof that you can take the girl out of New Orleans, but you can’t take the New Orleans out of the girl. Moving to the Midwest hadn’t changed the fact that she could make a roux the color of caramel, even at 3:00 A.M., even after a double shift at the hospital. And yet she’d ordered Mongolian beef and crab rangoon from Wu’s on Seventh Street—my comfort food.

You know, the hospital gift shop is hiring, she went on. A floral assistant. You like flowers.

But I love my job. It came out too emphatic, too defensive.

Mom raised an eyebrow, an arc so perfectly curved, so accusatory. We locked eyes, each of us trying to read the other’s thoughts. Looking at my mother was like looking at a computer-generated police sketch, an age-progressed version of myself. Our hair was not red, but auburn—a color reminiscent of autumn, football games, and hayrides. Where my curls held tight, though, hers hung loosely. Over time, her eyes had turned more of a hunter green than emerald.

"I’m worried about you, Ruby," she said. When do you see Gwen again?

I smiled at her rhyme, then let the grin fade. There was no joking when it came to my therapy sessions with Gwen.

This week, I told her, trying to look serious but not sad. On Thursday.

Well, she’s the professional. See what she says.

About?

About whether this obituary job is right for you. She patted my knee. All things considered.

I nodded, as if to say I would do just that. Truth was, I’d let the opportunity to tell Gwen about my new job pass two times already. Writing for a local newspaper had been Gwen’s brainchild. I needed to put my skill set back to use, she’d stressed. So I applied for the obit gig, the port of entry for budding journalists and the only position open at the Cook County Chronicle. My official title, obituary coordinator, meant that while journalists composed witty leads before deadline, I typed information into a template, modified errors in Associated Press style, and occasionally changed the euphemism passed away to died.

Perhaps Gwen would have applauded the fact that I got hired, but I feared she would psychoanalyze my choice. Was I punishing myself? Was writing about dead people some sort of self-imposed penance for my past sins, like one of the rings of Hell in Dante’s Inferno?

I didn’t want to answer that question.

Fortunately, Mom dropped the subject. And while I finished my tea we chatted about less pressing matters—like the new Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit opening at Chicago’s Art Institute—until a white van rounded the street corner not fifteen minutes later.

That’s got to be a new record, Mom said, rushing inside to get cash.

I approached the van, expecting to see Mr. Wu’s son—a seventeen-year-old with a toothy grin and the work ethic of someone who’d survived the Depression. I expected an olfactory delight, the unmistakable smell of grease and soy sauce when he opened the door. Instead, a woman in a khaki uniform stepped out; her ponytail, the color of a cardboard box, slipped through the back hole of an equally brown cap that shadowed her eyes. In lieu of slacks, she had feminized her look with culottes.

You Ruby Rousseau? Her accent—Boston or Brooklyn—made my name sound foreign to my own ears.

Before I could answer, she slid open the van door and lifted a suitcase from inside. "Betcha glad to see me. Or rather, this," she said, before setting the luggage before me with a thump, like a cat bringing its owner a dead mouse.

I rested my eyes on paisley print, swirls of red and gold and blue. I choked on the crisp fall air, my own saliva. That’s not mine.

Your name’s awnit.

I crouched beside the suitcase then and stroked the fabric, rigid like a heavily starched shirt. As if reading Braille, I ran a fingertip over the American Tourister emblem. And then I reached for the luggage tag and stared at my name and address in curvy script.

I soon felt my mother’s breath on my cheek. She was crouched beside me, thirty bucks in hand. Our eyes locked once more.

But it’s your handwriting, she whispered.

I let the tag fall and stood, even stepped back, as if to disown the suitcase through mere distance. This is a mistake. I borrowed this suitcase from a friend in college last year. She must have forgotten to take my tag off.

What’s ya friend’s name?

Beth. Elizabeth, rather. Elizabeth Richards.

She lives round here? In the Chicago suburbs?

Wisconsin, I corrected. At least, she did.

The woman told us to wait while she made a call from her van.

My mother made a tsk sound then, as if she’d been trying to solve a puzzle only to discover the answer blatantly simple. This is the suitcase you were supposed to take on our trip to Paris, she said. The one I returned to that girl in your dorm.

I nodded but kept my eyes on the van.

Okay, here’s the deal, the delivery woman finally said. Ya friend—this Elizabeth Richards—it seems she hasn’t filed a lost luggage claim yet. Now, I can take the bag back, but it’s gonna sit in storage ’til she claims it. She lowered her voice. Look, between you and me, it’s gonna get back to her a heck of a lot faster and without a whole lotta red tape if you’d just, you know, contact her directly.

Me? But isn’t she tied to the bag somehow? I tried to remember how it all worked. Mom and I never flew to Paris after all, but I was certain the sticky tag, the one the attendant puts through the bag handle, displayed the owner’s name and flight information.

If all goes right, yeah. But that tag’s destroyed. The woman lifted the mangled piece of black-and-white paper hanging from the suitcase. "The bar code’s unreadable. Probably got caught in one of the machines and missed the flight. Seen it happen a dozen times. Airline figured it was their fault, so they sent it to the person on the personal tag. And that’s you. She cleared her throat. Didn’t the airline call?"

I looked to my mother. She said no.

Your dad probably took the message and forgot to tell you, the woman prompted. My hubby does it all the time.

I shook my head no. My father died almost two years prior.

Look, it’s not my bag, I argued, avoiding my mother’s gaze, evading any pain that might have flashed through them at the mention of Dad. So it’s not my problem.

Mom curled her fingers over my shoulder then. Call the girl, Ruby, she said. You’d want someone to do the same for you.

It was a valid point, but I knew Mom was picking up where Gwen had left off. If I called Beth Richards, I’d be forced to reconnect with someone from Tarble, a private women’s college in Kenosha just over the Illinois-Wisconsin state border. I’d dropped out of Tarble my senior year, one semester short of graduation.

But I don’t have her phone number, I spat back. We didn’t stay in touch.

You could call the college, Mom suggested. The alumnae office, perhaps.

I didn’t graduate.

Who cares? She waved her hand through the air, as if batting a fly. If you ever went to a school, you’re an alumnus.

The delivery woman impatiently tapped her clipboard with a pen, as if keeping time.

"People sometimes keep important information inside their suitcase, she said. Maybe there’s anotha tag somewhere. You can look. I can’t. I just deliver. And speakin’ of deliveries, I gotta get goin.’ What do ya want me to do?"

Mom seized the suitcase handle. We’ll take care of it, she announced, and I forced a scribble on the clipboard.

When the delivery woman began to drive away, though, I stopped her. The van lurched when she hit the brakes.

What if I can’t find her? I shouted through the window glass.

The window came down, and she handed me a business card. Just call, she said.

And then I watched the van disappear into the setting sun.

Mom pulled the suitcase into the house then. You’re sure you don’t have Beth’s phone number? she asked, as if she’d done nothing wrong, as if we’d been in on the whole thing together.

We weren’t exactly friends, I explained. More like acquaintances.

My relationship with Beth Richards had been one of supply and demand. I’d needed a larger suitcase for a trip to Paris with my mom. And Beth, who lived three doors down from me in North Hall, had offered her bag. I recalled Beth Richards then, her golden hair and almost six-foot stature.

The alumnae office would be happy to help you, Mom offered again.

You know I can’t call there.

You have no reason to hide.

It’s Sunday night, I noted. The alumnae office won’t open until tomorrow morning.

Couldn’t you call Heidi?

Heidi Callahan was my former roommate at Tarble and subsequently, former best friend. We’d met at freshman orientation. Over weak coffee and Maurice Lenell cookies, we discovered a mutual passion for hazelnut creamer. One morning of talking turned into a friendship, and by the next semester, we were roommates. Boyfriends came and boyfriends went, but most weekends, it was always the two of us watching romantic comedies, eating pepperoni and green pepper pizza, sipping cheap boxed wine out of plastic tumblers. But all of that changed senior year. She moved out at the end of first semester, and I hadn’t talked to her since.

Can’t we just look inside? I begged.

We handled Beth’s things gingerly, spreading them on the foyer floor like jigsaw puzzle pieces, so we’d be able to put everything back the way we’d found it. It all added up to the inside of a woman’s suitcase. A pair of Gap jeans. A gray hooded zip-up sweatshirt. Socks and underwear. A cosmetic case full of Redken, MAC, and Colgate. A travel sewing kit. None of it told me how to find Beth Richards.

And then Mom discovered a thin book in the folds of a T-shirt and held it out at arm’s length, like she does when she isn’t wearing her reading glasses. I read the title then, small black letters on a white binding. Trying to control a visceral reaction, I barely made out the words.

"Virginia Woolf, I said. A Room of One’s Own."

Isn’t that the book? The one you wrote your senior thesis on?

I nodded and paused to recall Woolf’s lengthy essay, based on lectures she’d given at two women’s colleges. In the book, the modernist writer asserts a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.

Mom handed me the book without sensing consequence, like handing a bottle of Nyquil to a recovering alcoholic. Per Gwen’s instructions back in December, I’d donated my own copy. And yet, somehow, temptation had found its way back to me.

Like failing at a game of hot potato, I dropped the book, let it fall to the ceramic floor with a plop. A postcard stuck out from the pages then and I pulled it, instantly recognizing the blue expanse of water, ornate streetlights, mounds of yellow and orange mums, and the name Tarble etched in stone. It was a postcard announcing Tarble’s Reunion—the women’s college equivalent of Homecoming—set to take place the following weekend.

Mom retrieved the book from the floor and opened it. You’re in luck, she said, attempting to hand it to me once more. She wrote something inside.

I looked down then to see Beth’s name neatly printed in blue ink at the top of the inside flap, and below that, a phone number with a recognizable area code for southern Wisconsin.

With all the sickos out there, that’s a dangerous thing to do, Mom said. It must mean an awful lot to her.

It means a lot to me, I thought.

Mom suggested I wait until after dinner to make the call, but I knew the sooner I called, the sooner the suitcase—and the book and the temptation to read it—would leave my hands. So I took the cordless phone to the porch swing. I’d left my empty tea mug there, and I held it as I listened to the rings, running my finger along the inside groove of the handle. Finally, a woman answered; a paper-thin voice prickled my skin.

This is Ruby Rousseau, I said. I’m trying to reach Beth Richards.

I endured an awkward silence. All I heard was breathing. Hello? I tried again.

I’m Beth’s mother, the woman said.

Oh. Good. Look, I went to Tarble College with Beth, and I actually have her suitcase. They just delivered it to me by mistake. Is she back from her trip?

A gasp. This is a miracle.

Yes, very strange. For some reason, she left my name on the tag.

I heard the woman begin to cry, what sounded like a weeping elation, tears of sadness mixed with joy. I’ve been praying for this. For something. Anything. A sign. She’s going to come back to me.

"Back? Back from where?"

Beth has been . . . The woman started but stopped. She got the rest out in fragments:

Missing. Since. Friday.

The mug slipped from my hand then and shattered on the floorboards at my feet, the remaining drops of tea seeping into the porch cracks. Mrs. Richards, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I mean, Beth and I weren’t close. I mean, we just kind of knew each other, I rambled. I wanted to pick up the mess, wanted to say something more appropriate but couldn’t formulate words.

The police say they have no leads, Mrs. Richards continued, as if she hadn’t heard me. They said ‘Hope for the best and prepare for the worst.’

Prepare for the worst. Beth Richards was missing but hopefully not dead, hopefully not like the hundreds of people I’d written about at the Chronicle. I told Mrs. Richards I was sorry once more.

No, Ruby, don’t you see? They were wrong. Because this is a lead. This could be how we end up finding her.

I recalled the mundane items Mom and I sorted in Beth’s suitcase. There was nothing there to suggest Beth’s whereabouts or foul play. But I wasn’t about to trounce on a distraught mother’s hopes.

Tell me where you live, Mrs. Richards asserted. I’ll come right now to get it.

I asked Mrs. Richards exactly where she lived, then told her it was a two-hour drive to Oak Park from Milwaukee, but she said she didn’t care. She’d drive to Canada if she had to. I fumbled in my pocket then for the business card the delivery woman had given me.

It’s better, don’t you think, if you just stayed home? My words came out like hers had, in bits and pieces, interrupted by thoughts and breaths. I felt guilty for not offering to bring the suitcase myself, for allowing Beth’s mother to drive at night in her condition. Let the delivery service bring it to you. That’s their job.

"But I have to do something, Ruby. I can’t just sit around waiting for a phone call, waiting for the police. Waiting for Beth to walk through the door. I have to get my daughter back."

I know. I know, I said, though I didn’t know at all. I could only imagine, and the guilt tripled. But what if the police call while you’re gone? What if Beth does come walking through the door? You need to be there.

But the suitcase . . .

—I’ll bring it to you. The promise slipped from my mouth. I couldn’t take it back. Tomorrow. After work.

This appeased Mrs. Richards enough to give me her address, and I went inside for scratch paper on which to jot it down before we said our good-byes.

When I returned to the porch, I noticed that A Room of One’s Own still lay open on the swing, and despite the promise I’d made Gwen back in December, I started reading it. I read only a sentence before I felt the stitches in my heart—the ones I’d sewn up daily since I left Tarble—unravel.

I came undone at a handful of words.

butterfly.jpg Chapter 2

One year earlier

Before knocking, I studied the nameplate on the half open door, the words MARK SUTER, ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH. Then, with fingers curled around the frame, I peeked inside.

From the first day of senior seminar, I had thought my teacher attractive, counting it a blessing that Professor Margaret Preston, who usually taught the course, had taken a sabbatical that semester to research Victorian literature in London. Mark Suter, though untenured, having taught at the college only three years, was a welcome replacement. All of my classmates thought the same. Perhaps it was his hair, the color of wet sand, just long enough to curl behind his ears. Or maybe his eyes, a true baby blue, playful but sedative. Or was it his smile, a grin exposing not only flawless, pearl white teeth but less perfect—and thus, irresistibly endearing—creases around his eyes? Whatever it was—I don’t think there was a single way to quantify it—Mark Suter was that disarming, paradoxical blend of rugged and refined. A cowboy in a blazer. A bad boy with a Ph.D. During class, I often had to glance out the window to allow my eyes a rest, to drain the red from my cheeks, to settle the flutter in my stomach.

Though I’d long been a straight-A student, no other teacher had treated me with as much esteemed regard as Professor Suter. In fact, on the second day of class, he’d referred to my analysis of a John Donne poem as a sheer stroke of brilliance, much to my classmates’ chagrin. And ever since, I’d found myself milking opportunities to be in his presence. I was the first student to enter his classroom and the last to leave. And he always seemed to notice.

Professor, do you have a minute? I asked that October afternoon, rapping the door with my knuckle. It was only then, with the door fully open, that I saw a student slouched in the chair opposite his desk, a backpack in her lap. Her short, black hair—chopped at odd, pointy angles—reminded me of a raven, and subsequently, of Edgar Allan Poe.

Professor Suter stood from his chair then, and his six-foot-three frame commanded the attention of the entire room, even the inanimate objects—the corner ficus tree, the framed Modigliani print above his head, the second hand on the college-issued wall clock. Each seemed to accommodate his stature with a subtle shift, a minute modification. His eyes darted to mine with respectful anticipation, as if I were one of his colleagues at the door, not a student. It was the reaction I expected, but the gesture still made me blush. As usual, I took respite by looking away.

Sorry, I blurted. I’ll come back.

Nonsense. We’re done here, he said, without allowing his student time to disagree. Just add a few more transitions, a few more examples from the text, he told the girl, escorting her by the elbow to the door, and I’ll take another look.

The girl fixed her eyes on the toes of her tattered Converse high-tops, on which she had drawn a checkerboard pattern with what looked like black Sharpie.

Madeline, he said, quick and sharp, like a doctor trying to snap a woozy patient back to consciousness.

Can I bring it back in an hour? she asked.

I’ll be here.

Passing me in the doorway, the girl finally made eye contact. Although she flashed me a smile, her red-rimmed eyes defied her. She’d been crying.

With Madeline gone, I stepped fully into the office, a corner room with a corner window, one pane facing Lake Michigan and the other, a forest rich with autumn. It seemed larger, longer than my other teachers’ offices, perhaps due to two oversize bookcases stocked with what looked like a game of Tetris, hundreds of geometric book spines at perpendicular angles. The room also boasted an eggplant purple love seat, the cushions housing more books, plus piles of magazines—back issues of The New Yorker and Ploughshares—that seemed permanent, as if the couch were a storage unit all its own. I smiled at my professor’s disorganized organization, his obvious obsession with print media, his zealous promise to read everything, cover to cover, in due time.

When I heard the door click shut, I turned to find Professor Suter watching me, his feet planted squarely on the floor, his arms crossed. Under the wrinkled, rolled-up sleeves of his otherwise starched button-up shirt, I admired his biceps, just large enough

Reviews for The Butterfly Sister

[lynnb_64 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book runs along so many borders...it's a bit like a beach read, but a bit deeper because of the literary references and the better writing (especially in terms of dialogue). Then, it becomes a bit of a thriller....exciting, but somewhat implausible. So, I'm not sure how to rate it. Ruby has left college in her final semester because of a bad love affairs that pushed her to the brink of sanity. She is healing back at home with her mother when a suitcase of a former classmate is accidentally delivered to her. And that classmate is missing. Ruby is compelled to return to college and confront her past.Overall, I liked it.

[what_katie_read · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A great book for a cross country plane ride! An interesting mystery and premise--definitely had me turning the pages...

[susiesharp_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a different story than I expected, it turned out to be a darn good thriller and Amy Rubinate's narration just made it all the better!Ruby is a much damaged woman after a bad affair she drops out of college and moves home when one day a delivery is made to her house of a suitcase belonging to her former roommate Beth but when Ruby sets out to find Beth she instead finds out that she is missing. This mystery takes her back to the scene of her heartbreak, Tarble College, where she finds an even bigger mystery that also seems to revolve around her own heartbreak.As I said I wasn’t expecting this book to be a thriller I was expecting a sister story, (the title is explained towards the end of the book.) But I did really enjoy this one once I got over the fact that I hadn’t read the description very well. I enjoyed the use of authors Woolf, Plath & Perkins as plot devices to tell you how some of these women felt. The mystery of it all kept me guessing as to the cause of the disappearance and other things happening on campus and the reveal completely threw me, which is a great thing! Every time I thought I had it figured out things would swing in a different direction, which I enjoyed.Amy Rubinate’s narration was as always impeccable her soft southern accent was perfect with just the right amount of accent as to not become overdone. All of her characters and voices were well done and I feel her narration made this book even better. If you haven’t listened to Rubinate’s narrations I highly recommend anything narrated by her.I would recommend this thriller to anyone who likes a book that will keep you guessing.4 Stars5 Star narration

[tututhefirst_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A mixed review for this one. There were times when I really sank into the story and thought the author gave a well drawn word picture. There were other times I wondered where she was going. I think Meg Cabot in her cover blurb hit the nail on the head when she said it was " the perfect beach read." It's certainly more than chick-lit, but it lacks the heft of a good mystery. In short, Ruby Rousseau, 20 year old college drop-out who now writes obituaries for a living, finds herself pulled into looking for a missing girl who was at all-girls Tartle College with her. Ruby has not returned to Tartle since her ill-fated romance with a married professor ended in disaster and a failed suicide attempt. So far, lots of tantalizing tid-bits......How coincidental that Tartle is having alumnae weekend and Ruby's roommate Heidi is on staff now and in charge of the festivities! Desparate to break out of the obit gig, Ruby accepts a challenge from her boss to do a piece about the missing girl, and returns to Tartle.At this point, the story and Ruby's life begin to unravel (or get scrambled up). Strange coincidences are unearthed, there's another girl lying in the hospital having just tried to kill herself, Ruby is befriended by a professor who seems too convenient for belief, and bam, bam, bam, all kinds of little puzzle pieces start falling out of the sky, and into the frame to fit perfectly. Or do they? I also found the literary allusions to Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath and other writers named Sexton and Perkins very disruptive. I don't have a strong background in English lit, and resented having to go find information about these women to find how their writing and ghostly presences fit into and influenced the story.I will hand it to Amy Gail Hansen. She has written a book that seems determined to fall apart in the middle after a very tightly woven beginning. It is the ending however, that saves the book. Several times, I almost put the story aside, believing I knew how it ended, only to find that I was totally wrong and the bad guy was never on my radar screen. The plot saves the book. The settings were entertaining: it's always fun to re-visit New Orleans and drink some java at Cafe DuMonde whilst blowing powdered sugar off my beignet, and I'm a graduate of an all-girls college so Tartle was familiar too; but I found the female characters too girly oozy for my liking, even though they worked well in the story.Altogether an slightly above average read that won't disappoint anyone looking for a fun and light piece of fiction. Just don't expect the Great American Novel.

[bookmagic_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Ruby Rousseau dropped out of college a year ago after a disastrous affair with a professor and a suicide attempt. But a once borrowed suitcase belonging to a college acquaintance, Beth, is delivered to her, Ruby opens up the past and is heartbroken when she discovers that Beth may have been having an affair with the same professor. Ruby goes back to Tarble College for a reunion and finds another girl has attempted suicide. The story gets very mysterious and a bit Gothic as Ruby looks for answers. The novel is fairly fast-paced even when it takes us to the past and is much more complex than it would seem. It was very enjoyable and while not a great work of literature, it was one that held my interest and was quite satisfying.

[bnbookgirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Started out great. Went downhill quickly.

[beamis12 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

For a first novel this was very evenly paced, and the writing is amazingly reader friendly.Takes place at a small women's college near Chicago and features a college professor who takes advantage of his students, in more ways than one. He is your typical disgusting cad, one readers just love to hate and hope that he gets his in the end. Many twists and turns as we get near to the end of the book, a few I did not see coming.My favorite parts though featured Plath, Sexton, Woolf and Perkins, the depressed early suicide group that are always fascinating, at least to me. Good debut, interesting, plot could have been a little tighter, but I think this is an author to watch, I have a feeling good things will be coming.

[bookofsecrets · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

THE BUTTERFLY SISTER had a strong beginning, but somewhere around the half-way point, the story derailed and had trouble recovering. The book presents an intriguing mystery. The suitcase of a missing woman is delivered to Ruby Rousseau, and it turns out the two lived in the same dorm at Tarble College. Ruby is still shattered by the fact that an affair with her married English professor ended badly, with Ruby being dumped and then trying to kill herself. In the suitcase, Ruby finds clues to what may have happened to the missing woman, and she’s compelled to return to Tarble and face her demons.I enjoyed the first half of the book as the story alternated between present day and a year ago during her affair with Mark, her English professor. Mark was the charming, smart, and handsome older man, and young, naive Ruby fell for him hard, even though he was married. I think part of it was Ruby trying to fill a void in her life, though it was still a dumb move. During a romantic getaway to New Orleans, some strange things start happening to Ruby, like seeing the ghosts of dead writers following her. The Gothic elements were nice and creepy, and I only wish they had been a bigger part of the story. In present day, Ruby is searching for the link between what happened to her and Beth Richard’s disappearance.The second half of the book didn’t live up to the first. Some of what happened was downright unbelievable, like the reason behind Beth’s disappearance and how it happened. I also thought it was unlikely that a college professor could get away with such unethical conduct with students as long as Mark did. I wasn’t happy that the women characters were so unstable and for the most part, unlikable. THE BUTTERFLY SISTER had its memorable moments and surprising twists, though overall it was just an okay read.Rating: 2¾ Stars

[bjmitch_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It's only August but already I think I've found my #1 read of the year. The Butterfly Sister is so beautifully written and the characters so real that I can hardly believe this is Amy Gail Hansen's debut novel. Others have called it a perfect beach read but it is so much more than that. I started it one evening but the next day once I picked it up I literally could not put it down. It's that good.Ruby Rousseau, native of New Orleans, attended a small women's college in Wisconsin on the shores of Lake Michigan. For reasons you will learn later, she dropped out one semester shy of her degree. Then one day a suitcase that belongs to one of her classmates from college, Beth, is delivered to Ruby. She had borrowed it months earlier and her nametag is still on it. Supposedly the suitcase was never picked up at Beth's destination and the airline is returning it to the person on the tag. But where is Beth?Ruby had written a thesis her last semester involving female writers who committed suicide. Inside Beth's suitcase is a copy of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own with a mysterious notation in the text. This must be a message, so wanting to return the suitcase, Ruby begins to investigate. She finds that Beth has simply disappeared. This mystery brings Ruby back to the college and memories she had tried to forget. It also puts her in danger.Admittedly I was drawn to this plot by my attachment to women's colleges. For my last two years of high school I attended a women's prep school and college that I dearly loved. I did enjoy that aspect of this book, but delving into Ruby's life and mind is what kept me turning pages. The characters in this book are still alive to me several days after finishing the book and actually kept me from getting into my next read at first. This is a great book and I do hope you will read it.Highly recommendedSource: William Morrow/HarperCollins publishers

[yogamom67 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I gave this book 3 1/2 stars. Somewhere between good and really good. I purchased a copy of "The Butterfly Sisters" on Amazon after seeing it advertised on Goodreads. It's an easy book to read. I liked the author's writing style and the story was well-paced (until the end). I also liked the themes of women's literature, creativity, suicide, madness, New Orleans, ghosts, and the bittersweet angst of college romances. It even reminded me a bit at the beginning of "The Bell Jar," a novel that I'm fairly sure the author hoped to invoke. However, as other reviewers have noted, there were elements of the story that seemed far-fetched. And the ending was so convoluted and such a disappointment that it spoiled a novel that otherwise had the makings of an excellent read. About two-thirds of the way through this book, when Ruby meets and attends a lecture of Professor Barnard's, I thought to myself, "Wow, this is really good - a well-written novel of shared female empowerment." And although that theme wasn't completely shattered by the ending, the majority of it was. I found this novel frustrating because it started so well, got even better, and then fell off a ledge. It's hard not to wonder if some, if not all of the author's friends and editors who read through the manuscript didn't suggest a different ending that would be just as effective, but not so nearly convoluted and far-fetched. All in all, I hope Amy Gail Hansen continues to write. She shows a lot of promise and with more experience and an excellent editor, Hansen just might be able to create a novel that is an A+, rather than a B-.

[mrsmommybooknerd7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I loved this dark, twisty, intellectual story. I though several times I had it all figured out, but alas, I was only able to figure out small portions of this engrossing mystery! Such a wonderfully crafted story. It was a perfect novel to curl up with on a cool summer night! Such interesting characters with a plot that kept me guessing...not to be missed! 4.5 stars!!PS This is now our book club pick for October!!!!

[joyanne-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A year ago Ruby couldn't handle life anymore, she had lost her father and the professor she was in love with ended their relationship leaving her feeling like such a fool. Seeing no way out she felt she had to end it all and unsuccessfully attempted suicide. She leaves college and moves to Chicago, later she finds her former roommate is missing and she must return to the college to look for her. This isn't one of those typical "girl plays detective" novels, it's an interesting, well written, story with lots of twists and turns that kept me wondering what did actually happen. The ending, though wrapped up nicely, was a bit of a disappointment... it was an OK ending but I was hoping for more. There are interesting characters, a good plot, and enough suspense to make this a wonderful read! I received a copy of this book free from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

[twink_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Butterfly Sister is Amy Gail Hansen's debut novel. Ruby Rousseau left Tarble College one credit short of her degree. A failed affair with one of her professors led to a suicide attempt and her decision to not return. But when a suitcase she had borrowed from Beth, one of the women on her dorm floor, is mistakenly returned to her at her mother's home, the past won't stay buried. For Beth is missing and notes scribbled in the margins of a book found in the suitcase lead Ruby to believe that Beth was also having an affair with the same professor. Ruby makes the decision to return to Tarble - to help look for her friend, to confront the past and reclaim her life. I was intrigued by Hansen's premise. The Butterfly Sister is written from a Ruby's point of view - both past and present and the narrative is switched between the two time periods. We are witness to the beginning and end of the affair as the search continues in the present for Beth. Such affairs are nothing new, but I had a hard time buying how much in love Ruby was with the professor Mark. He just came off as unctuous to me, not really a romantic catch. But this old, jaded reader can see how a young woman might be swayed. Hansen does an excellent job weaving together and exploring Ruby's literary studies and her fascination with works by authors who struggled with mental illness, such as Plath and Woolf, and who ultimately committed suicide. I thought her thesis topic was especially interesting and had me thinking. Hansen also did a great job handling the subject of depression and Ruby's emotions and feelings. The first half of the book is introspective with a somewhat Gothic feel. But, the second half of the book caught me unawares - I almost felt like I was reading another author's writing. From an intelligent, literary feel we are plunged into a watered down mystery full of convoluted solutions that I just had a hard time buying. One or two of them maybe, but Hansen just kept adding another and another. The ending was contrived and the epilogue unnecessarily 'they lived happy ever after'. This was a disappointment to me after such a promising first half. Ultimately this bumped the book down to a 3/5 for me

[gingersnap000 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen arrived along with an Early Reviewer book published by William Murrow. I do love a good mystery/thriller and had time on my hand due to the long 4th of July. The novel held my interest because it involved a missing girl and a mentally fragile protagnist. Being a good "Nancy Drew", signs of evidence in regarding the mystery begin to appear early on in the novel. "...a woman in a khaki uniform stepped out; her ponytail, color of a cardboard box, slipped through the black hole of an equally brown cap that shadowed her eyes. In lieu of slacks, she had feminized her look with culottes." My first clue that something was amissed. I did keep note of all the clues but still was unable to correctly identify the person who took the missing girl. The story has many twist and turns involving love, tragedy and finally a metamorphosis. If you have ever been seduced by an emotionally unavailable man, read this book and it may explain what went wrong in the relationship. The book is not chick-lit but a light read and perfect for a day at the beach.

[kimaoverstreet · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this gothic style mystery featuring Ruby Rousseau, a young woman who attempted suicide and left her college after an affair with a married professor. When another student from the same school goes missing, Ruby begins investigating. The mystery drew me in from the start and once I started reading, I had a hard time putting it down. The story is quite suspenseful, you know something is not as it seems, but what? The writing flows quite smoothly and creates a wonderful sense of atmosphere. As a "literary critic" I could find things to criticize about the story. It's much too contrived in places for a start. But as a casual reader, I found it great fun. Highly recommended!

[theeccentriclady · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I received The Butterfly Sister as an Early Review book. I glanced at the other reviews before I started and saw the 1st review was not so positive so I didn’t finish reading any of the reviews so I would not be biased. As I started reading I did keep looking for something to not like. The story is about a young woman who dropped out of college her senior year because of a disastrous relationship with her professor, a failed suicide and then a friend goes missing. The author Miss Hansen includes love, betrayal, mental illness and literature to create this mystery story. At one point I felt like I was watching Criminal Minds! I was pleasantly surprised to find I enjoyed this book and wanted to read it whenever I had some free time. I ended up reading it in 3 days which is not usual for me. I average 1 to 2 weeks on a book because I like to enjoy my reading time and not hurry through. This is not a deep read or anything that really makes you think but it did make me want to read about the authors mentioned and possibly read their books, which is always a plus for me. In the beginning I do feel like the relationship is cliché and predictable but as the story unfolds there are several twist and turns to keep you going as the story unfolds. It definitely does not end up where I thought it would. She ends her book in a very good way! All in all I gave it a 4 because I really did enjoy this book.

[annie.michelle · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

the butterfly sister... 3 stars, just barelyI love the New Orleans setting and references about the south, I could see where the author was trying to go, just did not like the way she got there. I also really like the cover art, I wanted to like the book better than I did.The last ¼ of the book was the best for me, that’s when I finally started to like the main character Ruby who in the beginning was just a sap…. I must say the last page made me smile.This is a story of a young impressionable woman swayed by love. Ruby falls for her professor at School and has to quit because of it. While mending her broken heart at home a suitcase arrives for her, but it is not hers, it is a girls from school. Ruby needs to find this missing girl and what happened to her. The road to finding her is full of mystery and unrealistic scenarios… there is a twist at the end I did not see coming, as I said I enjoyed the end. I think for me the writing was somehow too simplistic, I could not care much about the characters. My niece is 14 and I'll see if she will enjoy it.

[slavenrm · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

As usual I paid nothing for this book but also as usual I'll review it candidly anyway. I received this book through the kind consideration of a GoodReads giveaway just as I have so many others.Our protagonist is a broken woman, the victim of a spurned and ill-advised love. She revolves in her sad and wounded orbit until one day a suitcase shows up on her doorstep that belongs to an old acquaintance from her former college. From there the story twists mercilessly and unexpectedly to its whiplash-inducing ending.Hansen's novel is certainly full of surprises. I expected a romance (I never read the back of the book) but instead ended up with a full-fledged murder mystery. The author is masterful at painting characters in a way that makes them easy to relate to and gets the reader attached. They have lives of their own with histories that jive well with their actions in the here and now. She spends three quarters of the book building up background like a roller coaster tick, tick, ticking its way to the top of the hill. When finally the last quarter arrives the whole thing comes together in an almost dizzying hurry that is full of surprises and rushes by in what is guaranteed to be one sitting. Once the last 70 pages or so are begun, do not expect to put them down for any reason not related to Emergency Medical Services.For all the drama of the last part, however, the author does seem to take her time. I found myself skimming mercilessly through the middle third of the book and when the end arrived I didn't really felt like I'd missed much. Our author paints a wonderfully vivid picture of her protagonists but it can wind on for almost too long and tread on the reader's patience. Ultimately though a well-crafted, if wordy, story.In summary, this is a grand and very timely (ripped from the headlines as it were) murder mystery full of intrigue. Fans of the mystery genre should be advised, however, that this is one from the emotional side rather than the clinical one. No forensics, no evidence, no blood splatter patterns, just surprising twists and turns and eventually lucky cops. That said, it's still entertaining.