Contents ( 85)
- Contents
- Part I
- 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
- Part II
- 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
- Part III
- 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
- Sixty-Six
- Sixty-Seven
- Sixty-Eight
- Sixty-Nine
- Seventy
- Seventy-One
- Seventy-Two
- One
- Two
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
Maybe two minutes have passed since Caleb first emerged from the bedroom.
Cora descends, slowly, one stair at a time, until her figure disappears from my view.
That’s when I hear the distant sound of the motorized garage door opening and then, a few seconds later, closing.
Dad’s home.
Forty-Five
November 13
Present Day
I wake screaming. This isn’t unusual after I have the dream, but Max is in my bed and my shriek startles him to tears. It’s his habit to come into my bed after I’ve fallen asleep about once a week, and I hadn’t even known he was in here tonight.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “I was just having a dream.” I reach out to rub his back but he pulls away from me, angry. “You know that I have bad dreams from time to time.”
“You scared me,” he says, his voice muffled into his pillow.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
He says nothing. I reach out and touch his shoulder, and he pulls away.
I’m so tired of trying.
I’m so tired of everything.
I fall back into my pillow knowing sleep won’t come easily, if at all. The sweat cools on my neck, and I see Cora in my mind as I saw her hours ago at the trailhead, arms spread, knife grasped in her right hand, facing the woods as if praying to some god who listens only to her.
My mind races. I focus on my breathing and repeat a mantra, hoping it will help.
I am.
I am.
I am.
My heartbeat slows and, after time, sleep tugs at me, but there’s the problem with all this. I’m too exhausted to do anything but stay in bed, yet I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to return to the place I just was, the world of my past. I’d rather go through my day torpid and dizzy with fatigue than keep reliving that horror.
I am.
I am.
I am.
A voice tears into my head. She sounds an awful lot like me, but there’s no bullshit about her. She’s the part of me that forces my eyes open when all I want to do is look away.
You are WHAT, exactly?
I don’t know, I tell her, this reasoning Rose. I just am.
Wrong. Everyone can be defined as something. Let’s start basic, Rose. Are you a good person or bad person?
I’m a good person.
This Rose isn’t buying it. She says, I’ll let you believe that. But would you agree that good people are capable of doing things society considers bad?
Yes, of course.
So here’s a more specific question, and I don’t want you to think about good or bad, right or wrong. Just facts. The question is this: Are you a killer?
I don’t answer but rather repeat my mantra, telling this Rose my words have nothing to do with her question.
I am.
I am.
I am.
Okay, fine, ignore me. Let’s talk about someone else. Let’s talk about Cora.