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
He kissed Robin next—gently, carefully. Then he took both her hands in his own, touched his forehead to hers. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered, less a statement than a plea.
“What will?”
“Everything.”
After Eric left, Robin moved to the kitchen table, bringing the platter of eggs and bacon that Mom and Nicola had made, along with some paper plates and plastic cutlery for easy cleanup. The Post was still open to the article Eric had been reading—a one-pager headlined PODCAST KILLER’S LAST WORDS. There was a large photograph of a letter, typed up and printed out, the words blurred except for Quentin Garrison’s signature, and the closing: Good-bye. Someone had leaked his suicide note. Morasco could not have been happy about that.
At least the article was a short one—just four inches, and print outlets tended to hang on to stories a little longer than online ones. Last night, #PodcastKiller was no longer trending on Twitter. The shootings were fading from the news cycle, Robin thought. Or at least hoped.
Interesting that Eric hadn’t shown the article to her, though. Or even mentioned it . . . Then again, it took Eric a long time to mention things, and even then he sometimes had to be blackmailed into it . . .
She shooed the thought away. She’d come back to it later, she knew. But right now, she had to focus on Garrison. The note that had been found next to his body—a “mini-confession,” as the papers put it, with a signature to make it binding. An audio file emailed to the cops, plus the note, which had been pinned to the jacket of his ruined body. Even for the most thorough of journalists, Quentin’s confession felt a bit excessive.
Robin sat down and started to read, as Mom and Nicola joined her at the table, Nicola carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a bowl of cut-up melon. Mom said, “What are you reading, sweetie?”
Robin showed her the article, and she winced.
“Did Detective Morasco show you this note, Mom?”
“Yes,” she said. “He also played me the recording he made.”
“Did it help you remember anything?”
Renee glanced at Nicola. “No more than I already have,” she said. “I think the detective was hoping the sound of Quentin Garrison’s voice might trigger something. But, honestly, I can’t remember anything from that night now. It’s worse than when I first came out of the coma.”
Robin nodded. It did make sense. The human body was full of defenses.
The article paraphrased what was in the suicide note and began with a direct quote from it: My apologies to friends and family, who have been so good to me, but I’ve done something unforgivable. I can no longer live with myself.