Chapters (54)
- Cover
- Epigraph
- 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
- Epilogue
- A Note from the Author
- Discussion Questions
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
- Acclaim for David Rawlings
- Also by David Rawlings
Mr. Ming flitted around them, scanning the empty room for a free table. “Please, please, I will find a table for you.”
A thought jumped up at Kelly. “Oh no! I left that bank statement behind. It’s better if I dispose of it. I don’t want my personal information out there for anyone to see. I’ll only be a minute.”
Kelly hurried past the bubbling fish tank, and the paper lanterns swung hard in her wake as she stepped outside. Her phone pinged. A text. From Jasmine. “Hey, check out the news tonight. I think you might have left Rubicon Pharma at just the right time. Tarquin was just marched out of the building.”
Smiling to herself, Kelly leaned on the door to Simon’s Film Lab, but there was no jingle. She looked up in surprise. The shop that was bright and welcoming a minute ago was now dark. Dust and cobwebs covered the window, and when she peered through, she saw no frames on the wall. No cameras on shelves. The glass counter was dusty as well, and in the faint light, she could see that the back of the film lab was empty.
And under her hand, a For Lease sign had been stuck on the middle of the door.
Forty-Five
As if to catch its breath, the blinking cursor screeched to a halt on Daniel’s screen. Then it resumed its scooting, chased by rapid-fire letters bursting from Daniel’s flashing fingers. He flicked a glance at Gramps’s open briefcase, now sitting on his home office desk.
Chapter after chapter of Coming Clean poured out of him at a rate of a thousand words an hour. And good words, not just verbiage that the cold light of a new day would slash and burn. He would be finished with his first draft today, and he just knew he could find another publisher. He had to. Amanda’s email was surgical and precise in its wording, as most emails drafted by a legal team are. They were looking at their options. Legal ones.
Each glance at the camera and album, which leaned against the worn and faded paisley pattern, revealed another inspiration as he added to his grandfather’s story. It was no longer just a journey of eighty-eight years; it now had an extra three weeks tacked onto the end, which even on their own felt like nearly nine decades.
A rising confidence he could pull this off overshadowed the usual numbing anxiety. He had to find a publisher. Coming Clean would not only have a powerful message about honesty but also an author living the consequences of keeping secrets in real time.
Daniel’s fingers flashed faster as the words continued to fly, telling how he’d accepted the fact that truth could be more a journey than a destination. How he’d accepted that challenge for himself, for those he worked with, and for those his experience had touched.