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
Goddamn me.
I should have walked in with him.
Goddamn you, Riley.
Why did you have to be the person you were?
Thirteen
I immediately knew my husband was dead.
When I touched his bare shoulder, no energy radiated from him. Not warmth, but energy. A sense of life we absorb around us from others but never realize its presence until it’s gone.
The moment my fingertips stroked Riley’s shoulder, I knew I was alone in that room.
I floated above myself, above our bed, detached completely but yet so focused, reaching over to the bedside table and grabbing Riley’s phone to dial three numbers.
911, what’s your emergency?
Yes, hello, thank you. I think something’s wrong with my husband.
I said that. I said thank you. Who says thank you to a 911 operator at the beginning of a call?
That phone call started my path to where I am now.
Back here, to this house.
My fingers hover over the keyboard of my laptop, frozen. My brain doesn’t know what to tell them to type, so they wait there patiently for a command.
It’s been two hours since I dropped off Max at school, and I’m sitting in the covered back porch, the midmorning sunlight strong and heavy, weighing on me like a blanket. Through the open windows, I can smell the musk of the lawn, freshly cut by the landscapers, likely one of the last mows of the season. A cup of black coffee cools in a mug on the side table next to me.
My job at the moment is to inherit another world, the world of Jenna Black, Missouri detective, as imagined by J. L. Sharp. J. L. Sharp is my pen name, one chosen for the non-gender-specific initials and vaguely sinister last name.
I have three books published in the Jenna Black mystery series, all with the same boutique publisher. My fourth comes out in January, and I was about ten thousand words into my fifth when Riley died.
I need to dive into Jenna’s head, see how she’s planning to piece together the clues in her latest cold-case investigation, this one centering on a sixteen-year-old girl found raped and dead in a Topeka barn in the midnineties. I want to absorb Jenna’s strength, be guided by her moral compass, but yet again here I sit, fingers poised, a blank canvas with no painter in sight.
Other thoughts pinball inside my head:
I feel guilty by writing. I should be outwardly mourning. I never wear black.
I’m worried about Max. Maybe I made things worse by moving us here.
I need to find a job, a real job, just so I don’t have to totally rely on Dad. I don’t want to be kept by him.
I’m afraid of being lonely but don’t want to admit that to anyone.
And…
I place the laptop on the side table, stand, and walk into the kitchen.
Slowly. Up the hardwood stairs, sixteen steps I’ve climbed thousands of times.