Chapters (79)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Praise for Destroy All Monsters
- Books by Sam J. Miller
- Back Ad
- About the Publisher
“Hey,” I said. I could have grabbed him by the hips and kissed his stomach, snatched a handful of T-shirt and pulled him down to kiss me, but I didn’t do any of those things. When we’re alone he has no shame whatsoever, but he’s weird about doing stuff that other people will see. Probably because we’re not technically A Thing.
“What’s going on?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Solomon,” I said.
His smile wilted, faded. “Did something happen?”
“Not really,” I said. “But I’ve been thinking a lot about when we were kids. I’m afraid something happened to him, some traumatic thing he’s blocking out. That can happen, with . . . mentally ill people. And I was thinking that maybe helping him remember . . .”
Connor nodded, and sat on the fender beside me.
“Do you remember anything? Something I didn’t know about, or forgot after my accident? Something you saw, something your father might have said?”
“About Solomon? No. It’s a sore subject around the house. My dad tried hard to help him, after his mother got locked up, but Solomon pushed him away. So I guess he feels like he failed him? I know I do.”
I smirked. “People Who Failed Solomon. We could form a club.”
The wind picked up, and started me shivering.
“You’re cold,” Connor said matter-of-factly.
“You’re not?” I tapped at his arms, bare below his T-shirt sleeves.
“Nah,” he said, and inched closer so I could leach heat off him.
“Want to come over to my house?”
He smiled, knowing what I meant. “Sounds great,” he said, after a second, but not like a guy excited to sleep with somebody—like somebody doing a favor for a friend. Because Connor was a really good friend.
We got in. I started up the car and pulled out of the parking lot.
“The night of the accident. That was the last night Solomon ever spent in our house,” he said, halfway to my house. “I just remembered that. My dad was at the hospital until late—he felt so bad that you’d gotten hurt on our property—and Solomon slept in the basement. In the morning he ran off.”
“Wow,” I said. “I hadn’t realized. Thanks.”
I reached out my hand, and he took it. “At your service, my lady. Always.”
With his crew cut, with his air of perpetual positivity, Connor seemed to be a creature out of time, a refugee from some other, less-fucked age. Some fictional 1950s of wholesome wood-paneled station wagons piled high with surfboards and poodle-skirt girls and Coke-bottle-brandishing boys.