Chapters (51)
- Cover
- Dedication
- 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
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Also by Alison Gaylin
- About the Publisher
“What did you say to my father?”
“Oh. Ms. Diamond. I didn’t . . . I didn’t recognize . . . Listen, I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“You talked to my father on the day he died. He wrote down your number and your mother’s name.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What is my mother’s connection to April Cooper? What did you tell my father about it?”
“This isn’t a good time.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Can we meet? Maybe in an hour?” His voice cracked. “Please. I’ll meet you anywhere you’d like.”
Robin thought for a few moments, listening to Quentin Garrison’s trembling breath, louder than it should be. She heard noises in the background. Children shouting. A park?
“Okay,” she said. “I can meet.” Robin directed him to the same place she’d eaten nearly all her meals in the past few days: the cafeteria at St. Catherine’s, two floors down from the ICU, where her mother still lay fighting for her life.
Eighteen
June 16, 1976
9:00 P.M.
Dear Aurora Grace,
We’ve moved motels. We’re now in Pico Rivera, in a place called the Drop Inn that makes the Motel 6 in West Covina seem like the Beverly Hills Hotel. Papa Pete would have called the Drop Inn a fleabag, though “roachbag” would be more accurate. Every time you go in the bathroom and turn the lights on, hundreds of them scurry under the cabinets, into cracks in the walls, behind the toilet, down the drain. It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.
“Live with it.” Gabriel keeps saying that to me. And I suppose I have to. We both have to. Someone saw us walking up to Ed Hart’s door and told the police—so now there’s a composite sketch of us that’s all over the nightly news and probably in the papers. I don’t know if anybody has connected Papa Pete’s murder with Ed Hart’s, but I do know that even more people are searching for me and Jenny. There are search parties. Gabriel and I heard that in the car. (That name. Search parties. Like they’re making a big celebration out of looking for my sister and me.) As soon as the report finished, Gabriel turned off the radio and punched the steering wheel so hard it made my insides jump.