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Back No Going Back: a Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Part 1
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. Part 2
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. Part 3
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. Part 4
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. Part 5
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. Part 6
  67. 59
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. Acknowledgments
  82. About the Author
  83. Also by Sheena Kamal
  84. About the Publisher

The first time I fell in love was when I was fourteen years old. It was with a boy named Zack. Of course. All the bad boys were named Zack back then. The second was a man who worked at a gas station during the day and took night classes. He wanted to be an accountant. I marveled at the idea that someone with such broad forearms would want to spend his days at a desk, calculator in hand. He belonged outdoors but didn’t want it, and I also enjoyed the way he didn’t seem to know himself.

There were a couple more after that. Then I stopped falling. It hurt too much. There was no point. The falling in was almost immediate, but the climbing out was a slow, arduous process of discovering just what I was thinking in the first place.

Oh, right. I wasn’t thinking.

I release a breath that I’ve been holding. In this room, I’m at once cold and wide open. Wondering if this is what falling in love has become. Not a rush of feeling. Soft words late into the night. The intensity of sexual desire. Maybe I’m too old for all that. Maybe it is one man, revealed to me a single inch of skin at a time. I think about the slap in the bar, done for effect more than anything else. Now the thought of that violence sickens me. Which makes no sense, given what I’ve just witnessed.

“No,” I say. “Before. Two years ago, Dao got shot on a boat. The night he and Jia Zhang took me out on the water, they were going to get rid of me. But it didn’t work.”

“You survived.”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of the way Dao stood today on that back patio. As if there was an old injury to consider, his posture off. His bearing not straight and tall as I’d remembered. “But he got shot that night.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

It plays for me like a reel of an old noir film that has some gaps, a victim of age and the general wear and tear of having been preserved in a memory such as mine. Me, the heroine of the story. The record keeper.

Insanity.

The night Kai and Jia Zhang died, I was on a boat. There was a scuffle. And there was a gun. I remember getting my hands on it and what happened next.

“Brazuca, it was me,” I say, with a sudden urgency. “I did it. They had me trapped, and I was fighting for my life. I shot Dao in the gut.”

I remember now.

Part 4

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