BooksBarbecue
Back Never Look Back
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

Did your parents know anyone who drives a Chevrolet Cruze? The questions cops asked. As though it would have been normal for Robin to keep a mental tally of the makes and models of all the cars driven by everyone her parents might know. Chevrolet Cruze, though. A Chevy Cruze. She didn’t think she’d ever seen one of those outside of a rental car agency . . .

The thought lingered in her mind, but only for a few seconds before it was replaced by other thoughts, dark and endless.

BOTH OF ROBIN’S parents were in emergency surgery. Questioning the nurse at the front desk about it, she learned it was for “bullet wounds.” Nothing more. She couldn’t get a straight answer out of any of the nurses about the location of the wounds, about either of their conditions. “We will let you know, ma’am,” said the nurse at the front desk, using that curt dismissive tone Robin used to hear from certain publicists when she was smack out of journalism school, working as a reporter for a trashy celebrity weekly.

“These are my parents.” She hated the sound of her own voice, the frailty of it. There was quite a crowd in the emergency room tonight—the family of a teenager who’d been in a car accident, a mom holding a toddler, flushed and shrieking from fever, friends of a college student who’d cut her finger on a blender’s blades while making margaritas. She’d heard all their stories while waiting at the front desk, and here she was, the only one who’d come here alone. She moved closer to the nurse. “These are my parents,” she said again, her voice trembling. “They’re all I have.”

The nurse’s face softened. “I know,” she said. “The doctor will come and speak to you as soon as he can. They’re working hard on both of them, I know that much Ms. . . .”

“Diamond,” she said. “Robin Diamond.”

The nurse’s eyes lit up. “From Daily Culture?” she said. “The film writer?”

“Yes.”

“I love your column.”

Robin made herself smile. “Thanks.”

“I read it every week. I knew you were from around here, but boy . . . never thought I’d meet you in person,” she said.

“So nice to meet a reader,” Robin said carefully. “Please let me know . . . as soon as you hear anything. Okay?”

“You bet.” The nurse gave her a smile that was bright enough to restore faith. “And I’m all in for the Femme Seven. Don’t listen to the haters.”