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
Summer smiled a little. It reminded her of Quentin. After his body was discovered, the police had found a pen stashed in one of his pockets that was actually a tiny voice recorder he’d bought at a spy shop. He’d recorded his own murder—Jenny, aka Nicola Crane holding him at gunpoint, forcing him to confess to the shooting of the Blooms before placing the gun in his own hand and making him shoot himself. Summer had eventually been able to obtain a copy of the recording from a police source and while there were many parts she still couldn’t bring herself to listen to, there was one that stuck in her mind. When Nicola had asked him if he had any last words, Quentin had said, “I’m looking forward to seeing my mom again.” Families were nothing if not complicated.
“So,” Summer said. “You ready for the letters?”
In Renee’s will, she’d left Robin a sheath of letters she’d written to her “future daughter” when she was April Cooper. She’d been keeping them in a safe deposit box since Robin’s birth, unbeknownst to anyone, including her husband. “Share them with whoever you want,” she had instructed her. And so Robin had agreed to read them aloud, the letters interspersed throughout the podcast. “Is it okay if someone else reads them with you?” Summer had said.
Robin had agreed, and now he was driving up in a red minivan: George Pollard. Or, as Robin insisted on calling him, “The Easter Parade man.”
Pollard stepped out of the van, smiling, his black eyes glinting in the sun. Robin took off her sunglasses and looked up at him with the same black eyes and Summer wished, not for the first time, that radio was a visual medium. A series of taglines ran through her mind—about mirror images and missing pieces and nothing staying hidden forever. About how you can’t move forward without ever looking back. And about how family can spring up anywhere, at any time, whether you want it to or not.
Forty-Three
August 30, 1976
2:00 A.M.
Dear Aurora Grace,
Things aren’t too bad right now. Jenny and I are living in a place called Brittlebush, Arizona, with a couple called Bill and Mary Grumley who are nice (even though I hate their pet fish). Their sons are pretty annoying, but they’re all terrified to talk to a girl, so they don’t bother me very much at all.