Chapters (95)
- Front Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Contents
- Video #1
- 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
- Video #2
- 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
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Fifty-One
- Fifty-Two
- Fifty-Three
- Fifty-Four
- Fifty-Five
- Fifty-Six
- Fifty-Seven
- Fifty-Eight
- Fifty-Nine
- Sixty
- Sixty-One
- Sixty-Two
- Sixty-Three
- Sixty-Four
- Sixty-Five
- Video #3
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- Seventy-Three
- Seventy-Four
- Seventy-Five
- Seventy-Six
- Seventy-Seven
- Seventy-Eight
- Seventy-Nine
- Eighty
- Eighty-One
- Eighty-Two
- Eighty-Three
- The Final Video
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Back Cover
My head hurts, a constant reminder of the crash. I take in the familiar surroundings of my bedroom, the things that used to make me feel at home. A shelf full of science fiction and fantasy novels. The covers worn, the books well-read. A poster of the movie Dune—the original—that Mom bought years ago. A cactus Chloe gave me that she named Harriet after her favorite book, Harriet the Spy. A few of the soccer trophies and ribbons I still display.
My phone tempts me. I posted the video last night, and then checked the page about fifty times a minute.
Big mistake.
The number of views was nothing to write home about. But the comments…
You killed her.
You know the truth.
You’re a liar.
Memory loss. Right.
But I kept looking, hoping for the one person who might have posted something helpful—the one person with the missing piece of the puzzle. But it never came. I finally put down the phone around 4:00 a.m. and tried to sleep. I closed my eyes, but it didn’t help. Awake or asleep, I only see Chloe’s face, the wrecked car, the lonely spot by the woods on County Road 250. Chloe was there that night when the car crashed…wasn’t she?
Where is she now?
Water runs in the bathroom down the hall. My sister, Olivia, getting ready for school. I know where I have to go today. I just don’t know what lurks ahead.
The rumpled covers and the soft pillow tempt me to stay in bed, but if I do, I’ll only think about Chloe all day. I’d stare at photos and texts all day. I’d start to read the hateful comments again, the conspiracy theories and accusations. The stories claiming Chloe was taken into the woods by Satan worshippers. I know I’d give in to it all.
I’ve been hiding in my room for almost a week, ever since I came home from the hospital. The therapist said to go back to school, return to my normal life.
Routine is therapeutic, she told me.
I grab the jeans I threw over a chair last night. A shirt from the closet. Socks and shoes. I’ll give her advice a try, even though I don’t believe for one minute anything will be therapeutic. And nothing will ever make me feel normal again.
Two
In the kitchen, a bizarre sight greets me. Dad stands at the stove holding a beat-up wooden spoon, stirring something in a pan. Whatever it is appears to be smoking and smells like hot tar on a summer day. I gag.
Dad is dressed for work. Tan pants, olive green sweater with the sleeves pushed up. He smiles at me, but it’s forced. The way you’d smile at someone you feel sorry for.
“I’m making oatmeal,” he says. “I thought…well, this is what you eat in the morning. Right?”