Chapters (57)
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- Dedication
- Prologue
- 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
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Forty-Nine
- Fifty
- Hear More from Gregg
- Books by Gregg Olsen
- A Letter from Gregg
- Acknowledgements
Honey, I have lied to you. I didn’t mean for my lies to spin out of control and frame so much of our lives. You have to believe me when I say that being a liar isn’t what I set out to be. I lied because it was the only course of action to save you, save me, save Hayden. I used to think that by ignoring the truth just maybe a little of my nightmare would go away. Pay attention to my words and remember the need for forgiveness. It is real. It is the only way to salvation.
The man who we have been running from our entire lives was not a jilted boyfriend. Not a stalker. At least not the kind of stalker that you—or I—could ever imagine. I felt as though you only needed to know a part of the story. You were so young when I started telling you the story, that I knew you would believe it. Two words here. Forgiveness and strength. For you to survive you must embrace both.
I set it down. I haven’t been breathing. I suck in more air as my mind races back to a conversation my mother and I had when I was around eleven. Maybe twelve. We were sitting outside on the back patio watching fireflies as they zipped through the lowest hanging branches of a big oak that spread over our entire backyard like it was protecting us. I loved that tree so much. When we moved that time, I vowed I’d live in a place again someday with a tree that had branches that functioned like caring arms. That afternoon a TV talk show did a segment about the impact of being a child star in Hollywood. It stayed on my mind well past dinner.
“Sometimes I feel like those kids on TV,” I told her.
Mom looked at me, the light from the flame of a small citronella candle playing off her beautiful, even features.
“What do you mean?”
“Those kids,” I said a little tentatively. Not because I felt tentative about what I was saying, but because I felt like I was lighting a fuse. “They are born into something. Their parents wanted to be a part of something. They didn’t have a choice.”
She looked at me with those penetrating eyes of hers, and then returned her attention to the fireflies and our beloved oak tree.
“Honey, you really feel that way?”