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

Do you think it might be wishful thinking on their part, then? Your coproducer and your husband? Do you think they might care for you so much, they’re hoping for the impossible?

Quentin, trying to play interviewer and getting angrier and angrier . . .

As he made his way down the library steps, Quentin’s skin flushed even hotter than the stale humid air around him, images flashing through his mind from that same night . . . of the Blooms’ Tudor home, the lush green lawn and the big bay window, the TV flickering from the upstairs window, the hum of cicadas outside, the heavy scent of lilies planted along the edge of the yard. That lovely home, that loving family.

How long had Quentin stood outside Dr. Mitchell Bloom’s house, remembering that half hour in his office, simmering over the way Dr. Bloom had pried his way into Quentin’s darkest thoughts without answering a single one of his questions? Mitchell Bloom, MD, with his lovely, gold-lettered life and no need for closure.

Watching the house from the window of his rental car, Quentin had slipped his recorder out of his pocket. Mitchell Bloom can sleep at night, he had said into it, his voice tight with anger. Whether his wife is a murderer or not.

Stop thinking like that. Stop thinking. As he reached the parking garage where he’d left his rental car, Quentin told himself that as soon as he could, he needed to find all the recordings he’d made last night. All those observations he’d spoken into his mic, his thoughts burning and popping. Everything he had said. Everything he had done. It needed to be erased.

Eleven

Robin

IN THE DAYS following her father’s death, Robin moved through life as though she were navigating her way through a dark cave, the air around her dank and hard to breathe, the potential for danger beneath every footfall, every brush of the hand, no light to guide her.

She wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since the shootings. In this endless cave, one hour was the same as the next and the next. She took pills to sleep but it didn’t feel like sleeping. Waking up was just an opening of eyes.

There were things to do, though, in Robin’s waking hours and so she did them. She signed autopsy reports and answered the cops’ initial questions and put off the follow-ups. She spoke to poker-faced doctors about her mother’s chances at survival. She met with funeral directors and chose a coffin for her father and signed many, many checks and put flowers into vases. She answered emails she barely read. Typed “thank you for your kind words” over and over and over.