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 see Cora as I did twenty-two years ago, and it hits me yet again how much of my life has been dictated by what happened in this house back then.
I fled the state for college, compelled to study journalism and criminal justice. Despite being cut off from my father’s money, I vowed never to return to my hometown and took a job with the Chicago Tribune. I worked as an investigative journalist, which, as I’m sure any psychologist would note, was no coincidence.
When I started writing books, I felt my novels creeping closer and closer to reality. In fact, I think the whole reason my character Detective Jenna Black exists has been to get to the point where she is now.
In The Child of the Steps, I face my past head-on, even if it’s disguised as fiction. Yes, it scares the hell out of me to see those words on the printed page. But I also needed to do it. It’s as if writing those scenes made up for the years of the therapy I never had.
“I can’t stop it, Cora. It’s just a book. It’s coming out, and it’ll sell maybe a few thousand copies. Nobody knows anything; there’s nothing incriminating in there. It’s just a story, that’s all.”
She’s shifting back to anger. “Has Dad read it?”
“Dad? Are you kidding?”
“When he reads this, he’s going to freak the fuck out.”
“So you’re going to get Dad to read my book?” I say. “Good luck. And even if he does, he won’t care.”
She’s starting to shake, just a tremor, which moves from her shoulders down to her hands.
“He will care,” she says. “Then you’ll be back out on the street, no more support. Not even a husband to help pay your bills.”
Jesus, she’s cold. “Well, in that case, I’ll need to sell a ton of books,” I say.
Her breathing is shallow but fierce, as if she’s on the verge of a panic attack. She’s still in there somewhere, I think. That Cora I grew up with. My older sister, who used to laugh with me. Play games with me. That Cora still exists, and part of me wants to find her, while another part wants to just mourn her passing and move on.
“You’re putting this family in harm’s way,” she says. “What you’ve done…it’s completely reckless.”
Her comment is saturated in irony. “I’m reckless? Are you even listening to yourself? Damn it, Cora.” My voice is just shy of yelling. “Don’t you understand? I needed to write it.”
“And why now?” she asks. “After all this time, why now?”
My answer is immediate. “I never used to dream about it. I think about what happened all the time, but never in my sleep. Then the nightmares started a couple years ago, and I can’t stop them. A replay of that night, every single detail, like a movie on a loop in my head. I wake up shaking, then can’t fall back asleep. It’s going to drive me crazy. I can’t go to a shrink. I can’t confide in anyone. I needed some kind of…release. So I wrote about it.”