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Back Never Look Back Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. One
  4. Two
  5. Three
  6. Four
  7. Five
  8. Six
  9. Seven
  10. Eight
  11. Nine
  12. Ten
  13. Eleven
  14. Twelve
  15. Thirteen
  16. Fourteen
  17. Fifteen
  18. Sixteen
  19. Seventeen
  20. Eighteen
  21. Nineteen
  22. Twenty
  23. Twenty-One
  24. Twenty-Two
  25. Twenty-Three
  26. Twenty-Four
  27. Twenty-Five
  28. Twenty-Six
  29. Twenty-Seven
  30. Twenty-Eight
  31. Twenty-Nine
  32. Thirty
  33. Thirty-One
  34. Thirty-Two
  35. Thirty-Three
  36. Thirty-Four
  37. Thirty-Five
  38. Thirty-Six
  39. Thirty-Seven
  40. Thirty-Eight
  41. Thirty-Nine
  42. Forty
  43. Forty-One
  44. Forty-Two
  45. Forty-Three
  46. Acknowledgments
  47. P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
  48. About the Author
  49. About the Book
  50. Also by Alison Gaylin
  51. About the Publisher

Robin listened to the rest of the recording. “This next part is for the police. I am now formally confessing to the murder of Mitchell Bloom, may he rest in peace. And I am confessing to the shooting of Renee Bloom.” He didn’t mention friends and family, but as she could tell now, it didn’t matter. It was his tone, the hopelessness in it. “Mitchell Bloom had his back to me when I entered the kitchen. It was very late. Eleven P.M. It had taken me that long to get up the courage to talk to him, and I was still used to West Coast time. He was making a sandwich. Listening to the BBC World News on the radio. I said, ‘I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but if I could have a moment of your time.’ He was scared, then angry. Asked me what the hell I was doing in his house . . . I told him I wanted to talk about my mother. And he said, ‘Who gives a damn about your dead mother?’ I . . . I know I was an intruder. But I lost hold of my senses . . .” The story went on. Renee entering with the gun, the fight ensuing. “I was consumed with rage and jealousy and hurt,” he said. All in that same monotone, the voice you use to surrender.

After he was through with the confession, Quentin apologized to Dean for ruining their wonderful life together, to his in-laws and baby niece for bringing them shame, and finally to “Summer Hawkins, for being undeserving of her friendship.” And then he started to cry. Deep, racking sobs that tore at Robin as she listened. Had the shouting children heard him? Had anyone heard him? After several seconds, he caught his breath. “I love you all,” he said before ending the recording. “Please don’t hate me.”

Robin thought back to the phone call again, how his voice had cracked. Can we meet? Maybe in an hour? Please. I’ll meet you anywhere you’d like.

Quentin had never met her at the hospital. He’d never seen her again. Had he recorded his confession in a public park, right after speaking to her? Had he known at that point that he was going to kill himself?

Robin glanced at the door, then looked at the plastic bags on the table. She slid open the one that held his wallet and wedding ring. She removed the ring first—a thick band of yellow gold, very old-fashioned. She held the band up to the light, read the inscription inside: YOU ARE MY EVERYTHING, DC. “You did have your Baby Blue, Quentin,” she whispered. “You idiot.”