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
I’m not even worried about Detective Pearson and his quixotic obsession with Riley’s death. There’s nothing they can prove. If there were, I’d be arrested by now.
I could be completely delusional, but I cling to this fantasy for as long as it agrees to swirl inside my head.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask my father. “Right now. Today.”
He looks around, as if the answer is supposed to be written on the wall for him. Then he turns and says, “You know what? I think I’m going to sleep. I’m going to have a drink and then go to bed. Fuck work.”
“Good for you,” I say.
As he turns and reaches for the bottle of single-malt whiskey and pours a splash into the shimmering crystal glass, a little of Logan Yates crumbles away, like a once-impenetrable fortress eroding with time and neglect.
“Pretty early in the morning,” I say.
“I never slept,” he answers. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s still night.”
He walks back and sits in his chair, this time fully upright. In command. He takes a sip of his drink, closes his eyes for a moment, and a faint rush of color comes to his cheeks.
“Mmm,” he says.
“Don’t leave this room until I’m gone,” I say.
“Why?”
I look him up and down. Logan Yates. My father. Drink in hand, in his favorite chair, surrounded by books he’s never read but desperately wants people to think he has.
“Because this is how I want to remember you. Just like this.”
“Rosie, I’m not going anywhere.” With that, he raises his glass to me. I hate him but want to tell him I love him. But there are no I love you’s in this house. Not even if it might be the last thing you ever say to each other.
Petrified wood, this Yates family tree.
I turn and walk away.
Once I’m out of the study, I have a sudden and altogether different energy. Frantic, mixed with a bit of excitement. Freedom.
I’m getting the hell out of here.
Sixty-Two
Up the stairs, first to Max’s room, then to mine. I throw things into our suitcases, packing them tight. Rush back to the kitchen to grab a couple of Hefty bags for the overflow, the things we’ve acquired since being back in Bury. There’s no order to anything, and it doesn’t bother me in the least.
Finished.
I take everything to the garage, load up the black Suburban. The keys are already in the ignition. I go to the passenger side and open the glove compartment.
There’s not just a little money inside. There are four rubber-banded stacks, each at least an inch and a half thick. I take the top one and flip through them. All hundreds.
Christ. I don’t know how much is here, but more than I’ve ever held.
In the driver’s seat, I place my hands on the steering wheel and take a few deep breaths. Do I have everything? Purse, keys, and all our bags thrown in the back. And money. Lots of money.