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
“So did Dave Nixon. And not only that, he had a good job. Just like Quentin Garrison.” He took the seat beside her. “The thing is, Robin,” he said. “Normal people go off the deep end all the time. Half the tragedies in this world are because of regular guys who lose it.”
“Yeah . . .”
“It’s something to think about.”
She stared at him. “Mr. Dougherty said he saw a Chevy Cruze outside my parents’ house the night of the shooting.”
“Yeah?”
“I saw Garrison in the cemetery parking lot after the funeral. I’m pretty sure he was driving a Chevy Cruze.”
Eric stared at her. “He came to the funeral?”
“Yes . . .”
“That’s strange, Robin. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
“I thought maybe he was reporting on it.”
“Still.”
“I saw him talking to Nicola Crane.”
“Your babysitter.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, listen. When she came to our house for your dad’s gathering, she told me she’d just had a very disturbing conversation with someone. A reporter. That he’d taken her out to interview her about the shootings and she couldn’t leave soon enough. She said he scared her, Robin.”
Robin exited the radio station’s website, the back of her neck tingling. “You think it was Garrison?”
“She didn’t say, but, I mean who else could it have been?”
“Do you think he went to my parents’ house?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he got into some kind of argument with them and lost control?”
“I’m just saying, he’s not exactly looking like an objective reporter.”
Robin’s phone buzzed—a text message. “Probably Eileen,” said Robin. “We need to figure out when I’m going back to work.”
She picked up the phone. Looked at the text.
I’m sorry for any pain I’ve caused you and your family. I am not a good person.
Robin felt weak, her head spinning, an uncomfortable feeling spreading through her.
Eric said, “Who texted you?” A question she would have found surprisingly invasive a week ago, four days ago. But not now.
“Quentin Garrison,” Robin said. Then she showed it to him.
“I think we should talk to the police,” he said.
Twenty-One
June 17, 1976
6:45 P.M.
Dear Aurora Grace,
The police are onto us. I don’t know whether someone saw me shoplifting at Mervyn’s and put two and two together or if we got recognized from a composite sketch or what, but when we got back to the Drop Inn, there were three police cars in the parking lot. I don’t know if I’ve ever been as scared by the sight of anything, and you need to think about that, Aurora Grace. Think about what I’ve seen.