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
“Kate’s dad. Quentin’s grandpa.” He coughed a few times. Cleared his throat. “My name is Reg Sharkey. My whole family is dead.”
Summer gripped the steering wheel. “I know who you are, Mr. Sharkey.”
“Linda’s dead too. I called her old number. Incredible, isn’t it? Most of the time these days, I can’t remember what year it is. But her phone number’s still in my head, forty years later. Clear as day.”
“Who is Linda?”
No response. Summer wanted to cry again, and she hated Reg Sharkey for that. Hated him for a lot of reasons, actually. “Mr. Sharkey, I’m not sure why you called this number, and I have no idea why I answered. There’s no more podcast, so—”
“What?”
“There’s no more Closure podcast.”
“Why?”
“Because it was about Quentin,” she said very slowly, “and Quentin is dead.”
“Please.” His voice cracked. He started to cry. “Please interview me.”
Now it was Summer’s turn not to respond. She listened to the old man’s sniffles, his labored breathing, and thought back to the day Quentin had interviewed him, his voice in her ear. How she’d cringed when he’d played her the interview, the old fuck yelling at him, calling him “fake news” of all things, and how despondent Quentin had sounded when he got back on the line. I’ve learned that my only real family is Dean. Summer clutched the phone tight in her hand, wishing she could squeeze the life out of this entire conversation. She said, “Haven’t you been interviewed enough already?”
Sharkey struggled to catch his breath. “I have a secret,” he said. “An old one. I need to confess.”
Go to church, then. That’s what Summer wanted to say. But she couldn’t make herself do it. She didn’t have it in her today to be that mean.
“I need to confess,” he said quietly. “For the sake of all my children.”
All your dead children. Against her own will, she found herself pitying Reg Sharkey, if only for his age, and for the loneliness and desperation that drove him to call a tipline at dawn. “All right, fine,” she said.
“Oh, thank you. Bless you.” As he gave her his address, Summer took into account how far it was from her home in West Hollywood. Two hours at least, but strangely, she was glad for it. Summer was in no hurry to be at her own apartment, all alone with her thoughts.