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
At first, I didn’t believe him. I told him I know what Jenny’s breathing sounds like, and I can feel that she’s alive. I told him that he’s a liar and that lies can’t hurt me. But he just laughed. “She’s dead,” he said. “Whether you want to believe it or not.”
“You will chase your enemies and they will fall before you by the sword.” That’s what the Bible says. Jenny was never his enemy, even for a second. She wasn’t anybody’s enemy. She wasn’t big enough.
Never trust a boy, Aurora Grace. Even if it’s the one boy in the world you’ve been forced to rely on. Don’t turn your back on him. Don’t confide in him. And whatever you do, do not believe that he is interested in keeping you safe. A boy will use you. He will hurt you. He will lie, and worse.
Love,
April (Your Future Mom, but only when she is living another life, far away from here)
Thirty-Two
Robin
BY THE TIME Robin got back up to her desk, Quentin Garrison’s death was all over social media. The facts of it first: his body discovered in Tarry Ridge Park, dead of a single gunshot wound to the head. Then came the players: Quentin’s coworkers at KAMC in Los Angeles. His coproducer, Summer Hawkins, leaving the station in tears. His husband, Dean Conrad, photographed in the parking lot of the university where he taught, his face pale, his jaw slack, as though he’d had the life knocked out of him. The old mug shot of Quentin’s mother.
The hot takes on Twitter and then the reporters—dozens more of them direct messaging Robin, emailing her at work, still more calling in, to the point where Eileen suggested she go home early without her even having to ask. Robin headed for Grand Central and took the 2:45 P.M. train home, Quentin Garrison on her mind the entire time—how he’d been found dead in a park near a playground, and when she’d spoken to him two and a half days ago, she’d heard children’s voices in the background. Had he still been at the same park when he’d texted her that night? Or had he left, then returned after emailing his confession?
At least the police detail no longer seemed necessary. And once she got past the two reporters who remained at the foot of her driveway and entered the house and saw her mother sitting in the living room watching the news, a blanket thrown over her waist, she felt a bit relieved over that. “I was trying to make salmon tarragon,” Mom said. “But I got a bit tired.”
“You rest, Mom,” she said. “Rest for as long as you like.”