1942, New York. As war rages in Europe, Lily Rose is grateful for her perfect life: a wealthy family who love her and a dream job working uptown as a restaurant chef. Times are changing for women, and Lily is determined to run her own kitchen one day. She hopes handsome Tom Morelli, son of Sicilian immigrants, will be at her side. Together they work late, dreaming up delicious meals for New Yorkers struggling with wartime rationing and the threat of sons and sweethearts being called up. Then Tom receives a devastating telegram that changes everything: He is drafted to fight in Italy.

The parcel arrived on an ordinary morning in the mailbox of her New York apartment, postmarked Paris. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a silk ribbon. Little did she know that the old brass key and letter it contained were about to turn her life upside down. From best-selling author Ella Carey comes an utterly spellbinding novel about wartime secrets. Paris Time Capsule shows that pulling on the tiniest thread of a life can unravel everything you thought you knew and change your world forever.  

Paris, 1944. “Traitor!” yells the crowd as they push me down onto a stool. “Nazi collaborator.” Tears blur my vision as the razor grazes my scalp, waves of blonde hair falling to the ground. As men paint a swastika across my face, I hold onto one small glimmer of hope. They have no idea who I am.

Tuscany, 1944. As Cara runs into the grand entrance hall of the Villa Rosa, she flies to a stop. There is a gun pointing straight at her head, a Nazi staring down at her from the steps above. But even as her heart thumps so loudly she is sure it will jump out of her chest, she keeps smiling, desperately hoping that he won’t spot the precious diary she has hidden under her shirt. Because if he does, it’s not just her life at stake....

It was a misty Wednesday morning. Inside the Gestapo headquarters, you could cut the tension with a knife. There was a traitor in their midst: Someone had leaked a list of the SS to the British press. The head of the Gestapo called me into his office. Panelled oak walls, a grand piano in the corner, rugs lining the floor—the place where he ordered executions every day.