Khanh, first of her name, mother of bunnies > Books: mystery‎ (94)

"The first time, you can’t believe how much it hurts.”

“It just kind of burns,” says another. “You’re sore for a few days. I heard by the third time

"The first time, you can’t believe how much it hurts.”

“It just kind of burns,” says another. “You’re sore for a few days. I heard by the third time, you don’t even feel it.”

Her desk overturned, clattering to the floor.
And with it Lise. Her head twisting, slamming into the tiles, her bright red face turned up, mouth teeming with froth.

“She had a grand male in Algebra Two,” Brooke announced, eyes popping.
The jocks broke into a fresh round of laughter.
“A grand mal?” he asked, squinting. “A seizure?”

“Is she pregnant?” whispered Kim, her tongue thrust between her wired teeth.
“Pregnant people faint all the time,” Kim said, tugging her tights up her legs.

“He had a big house on the lake and he gave her all this great red-string Thai stick. He leaves for the Philippines, she wakes up with trich. That’s a sexual parasite. It crawls inside you.” She reached down for her bag, tangled with fringe. “So.”

Have u heard of toxik shok? tampax can kill u

He’d known Lise Daniels since she was ten years old and first started coming to the house, hovering around Deenie, following her from room to room. Sometimes he swore he could hear her panting like a puppy. That was back when she was a chubby little elfin girl, before that robin’s-breast belly of hers disappeared, and, seemingly overnight, she became overwhelmingly pretty, with big fawn eyes, her mouth forever open.

Tom felt his face warm. Last summer he’d seen Lise in a two-piece. From across the town pool, from behind, he’d mistaken her for one of Deenie’s swim instructors. Carla, the graduate student in kinesiology who always teased him about needing a haircut.

There’d be those moments he was forced to think about her not just as Deenie but as the girl whose slender tank tops hung over the shower curtain. Like bright streamers, like the flair the cheerleaders threw at games.

Since then, he could only ever think about his sister, one wall away. And how he hoped Deenie never did things like this. With guys like him.

But she didn’t realize what they saw, looking back at her: a girl, lips slightly parted, her head tilted hungrily. What they saw was I’m ready. Let’s go.

Eli Nash looked at the text for a long time, and at the photo that had come with it. A girl’s bare midriff.
Eli, for you xxxx!

Did she want him to text her back, invite her over? To sneak her into his bedroom and nudge her shaky, pliant legs apart until he was through?

One of the texts had said—Deenie never forgot it—my pussy aches for u. It had to have been the worst thing she’d ever read. She’d read it over and over before deleting it.

Once, a few weeks ago, she’d heard a girl’s voice in there and wondered if it was porn on the computer until she could tell it wasn’t. She heard the voice say Eli’s name. E-liiii.

He could tell she was the kind of woman who told men what they wanted to hear. That didn’t strike him as a bad thing, even though he knew it should.

Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a wee house in the woods.
Once upon a time there were three billy goats who lived near a bridge

Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a wee house in the woods.
Once upon a time there were three billy goats who lived near a bridge.
Once upon a time there were three soldiers, tramping together down the roads after the war.
Once upon a time there were three little pigs.
Once upon a time there were three brothers.
No, this is it. This is the variation I want.

My full name is Cadence Sinclair Eastman.
I am nearly eighteen.
I used to be blond, but now my hair is black.
I used to be strong, but now I am weak.
I used to be pretty, but now I look sick.
It is true I suffer migraines since my accident.
It is true I do not suffer fools.

It’s a beautiful night, and we are indeed a beautiful family.
I do not know what changed.

Why did I go into the water alone at night?
Where were my clothes?
Did I really have a head injury from the swim, or did something else happen?

They have baby oil spread on their bodies. Two bottles of it lie on the grass. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get burned?” I ask.
“I don’t believe in sunblock anymore,” says Johnny.
“He’s decided the scientists are corrupt and the whole sunblock industry is a moneymaking fraud,” says Mirren.
“Have you ever seen sun poisoning?” I ask. “The skin literally bubbles.”
“It’s a dumb idea,” says Mirren. “We’re just bored out of our minds, that’s all.”

I plunge down,
down to rocky rocky bottom, and
I can see the base of Beechwood Island and
my arms and legs feel numb but my fingers are cold. Slices
of seaweed go past as I fall.
And then I am up again, and breathing.
I’m okay,
my head is okay,
no one needs to cry for me or worry about me.
I am fine,
I am alive.
I swim to shore.

Then he pulled out a handgun and shot me in the chest. I was standing on the lawn and I fell. The bullet hole opened wide and my heart rolled out of my rib cage and down into a flower bed. Blood gushed rhythmically from my open wound,
then from my eyes,
my ears,
my mouth.

Every time Gat said these things, so casual and truthful, so oblivious—my veins opened. My wrists split. I bled down my palms. I went light-headed.

A witch has been standing there behind me for some time, waiting for a moment of weakness. She holds an ivory statue of a goose. It is intricately carved. I turn and admire it only for a moment before she swings it with shocking force. It connects, crushing a hole in my forehead. I can feel my bone come loose. The witch swings the statue again and hits above my right ear, smashing my skull. Blow after blow she lands, until tiny flakes of bone litter the bed and mingle with chipped bits of her once-beautiful goose.

“You’re filled with superiority, aren’t you? You think you understand the world so much better than I do. I’ve heard Gat talking. I’ve seen you eating up his words like ice cream off a spoon. But you haven’t paid bills, you haven’t had a family, owned property, seen the world. You have no idea what you’re talking about, and yet you do nothing but pass judgment.”

One night, the four of us ate a picnic down on the tiny beach. Steamed clams, potatoes, and sweet corn. The staff made it. I didn’t know their names.

“Who are Ginny and Paulo?”
Gat hits his fist into his palm. “Ginny is the housekeeper. Paulo is the gardener. You don’t know their names and they’ve worked here summer after summer. That’s part of my point.”
My face heats with shame. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re saying Granddad thinks you’re Heathcliff?”
“I promise you, he does,” says Gat. “A brute beneath a pleasant surface, betraying his kindness in letting me come to his sheltered island every year—I’ve betrayed him by seducing his Catherine, his Cadence. And my penance is to become the monster he always saw in me.”

“I’m not saying he wants to be the guy who only likes white people,” Gat went on. “He knows he’s not supposed to be that guy. He’s a Democrat, he voted for Obama—but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable having people of color in his beautiful family.”

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popula

Even when I was little, I knew I wasn’t like everyone else. Sure, I had the clothes and the shoes and the general skills to win superficial popularity points. In the last couple years, I’d managed to get involved in stuff like debate and student government, but I’d never managed to be, well, normal.

Totally normal girls don’t wear four-inch Prada heels to the library, or stalk criminals, or wear four-inch Prada heels while stalking criminals.

I felt for the picture of the girl hidden in The Cleave. Next to my other important stuff—cell phone, lip gloss—she was there.

My virginity wasn’t exactly a secret. One of those trashy magazines had even broadcast it in an article called “Ruby Rose: The Virgin Vigilante.”

I needed a few moments with my oldest and dearest friend: Gladys—aka my shoe closet.
Happy to see me, too, Gladys and all her Pips stood at attention for my entry—except for my tan Dolce & Gabbana Catwoman boots, which had to be neatly hung to avoid damage or creases. I had to take care of my Sleeping Beauties.
“Gladys, I need help.” My words echoed into the space.

Big Black, my overly tinted SUV and current best friend.

I looked down at the shimmering weapon—aka Smith, my .38 Special Revolver with built-in laser sight that I’d gotten for my Sweet Sixteenth.

“Liam, it’s never OK to kill,” I said flatly. I had good reason to do it, sure, but that didn’t make it “OK.”

I pulled the trigger.
The deafening gunshot rang out.
The world changed into a black-and-white movie with a river of red flowing all around me.
A ruby-red river of my own making.

I aimed for the largest target area and pulled the trigger. His chest ripped open and his body lost momentum. He would never fight again.

I renewed my grip on the knife and slashed once as hard as I could, until I felt the blade slide through tissue and hit bone. He went limp.

“Things have long been out of control, Liam. I have killed, or been responsible for...” I stopped to count with my fingers. “Seven deaths now. Seven!”

A falling sensation rushed over me, and a sickening crack echoed through my skull.

And I was losing consciousness.

My world quickly spun out from under me. Swirling. Darkness. Pain. The last thing I saw was Liam, still on the ground, soundlessly calling out my name.

A jarring pain stabbed through my chest, and a coughing fit brought me back to reality.
The last thing I felt was being carried away in the arms of a strong man.

He’d done it again. He wanted to toy with me. And I’d been stupid, impatient, and impetuous enough to walk right into his trap.

Ha, I was insane. I was about to sneak out of my nice safe home and go looking for a rapist to convince him to help me. Real smart, Ruby. Best idea ever.

“How about that I killed somebody,” I said. “I’m a Vigilante Teen Assassin. At least that’s what TMZ called me."

I stared at his lips. Were they telling the truth? Or were they like chocolate—promising happiness, providing a few moments of heaven, then ultimately betraying me, going behind my back and putting junk in the trunk?
It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

It didn’t seem like a fair choice. Chocolate had total power over me—there was no denying my addiction to the dark, creamy crack. Those few moments of bliss were always enough for me to disregard the consequences. So, even if Liam was only chocolate, I wanted to taste a piece.

“I nearly killed my father,” he said point-blank, staring at his hands as if they might still have blood on them.

“Protecting yourself would be calling the police, not taking a baseball bat and putting your own father in a coma for seven days.”
“You don’t know all the facts,” I said, a little thrown by the baseball-bat thing. Liam hadn’t mentioned that detail, and I flinched at the image of him beating his father.

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it

This is ridiculous, she thought. I’m possessed of terrifying powers. Why am I relying on a ridiculous little gun that I picked because I thought it was cute? I don’t need this thing. She threw it contemptuously over her shoulder.

There’s something foul wandering the underground tunnels beneath my office, something that’s invisible to my vaunted powers.

Crap.

Where’s my gun?

Dear You,
The body you are wearing used to be mine.

When she opened her eyes and took a breath, she realized that there was no one holding her. Instead, the four people were lying on the ground, twitching uncontrollably.

I’ve only ever heard of three people who tried to leave the Checquy, and I know the history inside and out.
The first was a powered individual called Brennan the Intransigent who made a break for it in 1679. He was crucified on the cliffs of Dover.
The second was a soldier in 1802. He was carefully brought back to the Checquy stronghold and then buried alive in his village’s graveyard.
The third was a woman who could grow tentacles out of her back and exuded some sort of alarming toxin through her fingertips. Her stuffed body is currently displayed above the mantelpiece in one of the London offices.

I gained the power to touch people and possess instant control of their bodies. I could make them move however I pleased. I could read their physical condition, detect pregnancy, cancer, a full bladder.

“Yes?” said Myfanwy. What, do these guys keep tabs on my comings and goings? “Well, I...had an appointment.” They regarded her with expectant eyes, and she was suddenly filled with a desire to shake up those proprietary stares. “A gynecologist appointment.” She smiled triumphantly at the twins. “To have my vagina checked.”

“I’m sorry, Rook Thomas, but your car is here,” she said.
“My car?” Myfanwy said.
“It’s time for your dinner with Lady Farrier.”
“Oh, crap,” she sighed, then noticed Clovis’s shocked expression. “I mean, oh, good, this should be delightful.”

“… past century she is notable for having kneed Joseph Stalin in the groin during a drinks reception, and she played a large part in the South African diamond industry,” Ingrid went on. “She also cured one member of our royal family of cancer in the 1950s, and infected another with syphilis in the 1960s.”

I can’t wear this!” Myfanwy exclaimed in horror.
“You can’t wear that!” the housekeeper exclaimed.
“It’s like all the material that’s supposed to be on top migrated to the bottom,” said Val.
Any wedding in which this dress appeared on the bride would have to be pretty damn open-minded, thought Myfanwy. And might well incorporate the honeymoon on the altar.

Occasionally, someone will point out these flaws and attempt to institute a change, but that person is slapped down. The reasons for this down-slappage are:

If you’re in the Court, you have an impressive title, and you don’t want to change it for something generic.

Tradition.

It’s supposed to remind us of the importance of strategy and of rank.

It’s cool.

Three boys and one girl. Two of the boys were identical. That’s not the weirdest thing, however. The weirdest thing was that when all four pairs of eyes opened, only one mind was looking out from behind them. This was Gestalt.

Gestalt is kind of disconcerting, because it/he/she/they is/are spread over four bodies.

Please let her have slept her way to the top, thought Myfanwy. No one deserves to be this beautiful and clever too.

My God, you were the most exciting find in decades! All of us knew about your potential. The tutors at the Estate were babbling about you to everyone!”

Finally, after a high-pitched kiYAA!, they settled back, breathing heavily, and explained that Eliza had just broken the neck of the leader of the antler cult, and that the complex was secured.
“Wow. Great,” said Myfanwy. “Nicely done.”
“Hmm,” said Tidy Twin absently. “Eliza has blood on her boots.”
“That’s lovely, Gestalt,” Myfanwy said, trying to keep her cool. “More coffee? Or more orange juice? No? Perhaps I could have Ingrid fetch you a couple of moist towelettes.”

“Gentlemen!” she finally shouted, and her voice cut through the noise like a scythe through a poodle. There was dead silence, and everyone stared at her, stunned. “You all need to shut up and stay focused on the task at hand. Dr. Crisp, if you will turn your eyes back toward the interrogation, I wonder if you could revive the subject and question him.”

It was an old room in an old building and was decorated in a very specific style that showed the decorators were lacking both imagination and a second X chromosome.

“I saw my dad,” she said shakily. “In our house. There was blood everywhere.” Natalie stopped, breathed quickly, like she could barely suck in the air. “I think he was dead.”

There was someone beside me in that bed.
I watched my other self turn toward the rustling sheets that were twisting slowly as a girl rolled and pushed up on one arm, a glint of metal by her throat. Her skin was soft and silky down to her shoulder, where her body disappeared, bare, beneath the covers.
Sarah.

“Maybe it was, like, our hidden thoughts,” I said, watching her reaction. “Our deepest wishes or worst fears or some thing.”

“What if this is like that and somehow it changed Natalie?” I said, then added, “We have no idea what we’re dealing with.”

It was one of the things I hated about Buford. Everyone knew too much about everyone else.

Some guys probably were excited by the idea of “real” police work, but Bob wouldn’t be one of them. He had a little girl and a pretty wife and seemed content to shoot the shit with the townies and write the occasional parking ticket.

"I’ve watched how it is for my mom, stuck in the house—every minute she’s not working, that is—washing and cleaning and cooking and then washing and cleaning and cooking again. She’s been doing it for twenty years, and my mom’s awesome, but she’s never done any of the stuff she wanted. Live in a city, fly on an airplane, do a job where she gets to wear a suit. Kids are a straight-up dead-end boring job, and it is definitely not for me.”

And the rest, as they say, is history. Trip went with her, I stayed home, and from then on I got to watch the two of them—my sometimes best friend and the girl I’d been crushing on—fall in love. Un-fucking-believable.

“Oh God, Sarah.” I pulled back, away from her. I kid you not, it was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “I can’t. God knows I want to.”

“You know what I think?” I said. “I think whoever killed Erin knew about you and me and her.” I carefully sidestepped the term love triangle, since

“You know what I think?” I said. “I think whoever killed Erin knew about you and me and her.” I carefully sidestepped the term love triangle, since I didn’t want to go there.

I would never see Erin again.
At least, not alive.

...yanking my black hair, slapping, biting, and finally digging her nails into the delicate flesh of my forearm.
I reared back in pain and horror as blood gushed out in rivulets, running over my wrists onto the browning grass. Her nails had been filed into seriously badass points.

“You honestly want me to sit on your lap?”
“And put your feet over mine. That way you’ll get the feel of how and when to release the clutch.”

“Let it go.”
How could I let go of something so nightmarish as a nice guy being framed for a murder he didn’t commit?

“What if I told you, Miss Graves,” Zabriskie continued with a touch of glee, “that there wasn’t a chance that Matt Houser would have been benched this season?”
Goosebumps rose on my arms. “Why?”
“Because he finished the class with a B.”

“The guy Mrs. Krezky saw arguing with Erin that night sounds exactly like Matt. Short brown hair, Potsdam Panthers jacket, and everything.”

I tried not to think about Matt having sex with Erin.
“It’s a statistical fact that women are more likely to be victims of domestic homicide when they’re pregnant,” Sara said.

“Matt is a boy with...”—she bit her lower lip—“bad intentions, I think. The more distance between you two, the better.”
But I would never distance myself from Matt. And Mom knew it.
You could tell by the fear in her eyes.

We’d dubbed them the Tragically Normals, because they were truly living the ultimate high school experience. Good grades? Check. Lettering in sports? Check. Nice cars, cute boyfriends, adorable girlfriends, clear skin, ideal physical proportions? Check, check, check, check, and check.

TO: Robert R. Amidon, Chief of Police
FROM: Detective Joe Henderson
RE: REQUEST FOR THE PENNSYLVANIA STATE POLICE CRIME LAB
DEPARTMENT USE ONLY—CONFIDENTIAL
It appeared to be an internal police memo. It was so unlike Perfect Bob to release something this top secret, much less fax it to Mom.

It was odd to see Erin this plasticized and defenseless, her newly washed red hair in a halo around her vacant face, her mouth glued into a pleasant smile. On closer examination, I noticed her inner thighs were riddled with scars, as were her waist and breasts.

“Talk to me.” This was my one window of opportunity and I had to make the most of it. “What happened at Erin’s house Saturday night?”
Allie sighed feebly. “It was a big mistake that’s going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

“This you, Lily Graves?”
“Yup. I’m in my Halloween costume today.” Dark-wash skinny jeans, bright-blue mock turtleneck, and a kicky black-and-white herringbone jacket—all from J.Crew.
“What are you supposed to be?”
“The scariest thing I can think of,” I said. “Normal.”

“I did it because...because I wanted to get to know you, and I was too stupid to think of any other way.”

She thrust her right hand forward.
“I, Kitty Wei, do solemnly swear, no secrets—ever—shall leave this square.”
Margot was beside her in an instant, h

She thrust her right hand forward.
“I, Kitty Wei, do solemnly swear, no secrets—ever—shall leave this square.”
Margot was beside her in an instant, her right arm extended.
“I, Margot Mejia, do solemnly swear, no secrets—ever—shall leave this square.”

Margot understood the degradation, the knowledge that every set of eyes was on him, judging his overweight body, murmuring “fat ass” under their breath while they tacitly assumed the obesity was his fault.

“Now, to introduce a short video presentation by the leadership class, your student body vice president, Kitty Wei.”

John might fantasize about how cool it would be to have a superstar politician and heir apparent to the governor’s mansion for a dad, but for Bree, the reality had been sixteen years of being reminded that she was the black sheep of the family who didn’t conform, didn’t appreciate her advantages, didn’t understand how important it was to maintain her dad’s carefully groomed image as the perfect family man.

Olivia crouched next to her bed and groped around underneath until her hand rested on a large Tupperware container wedged behind some old shoe boxes.
The smell hit her the moment she cracked the seal on the rubber lid. Sugar.

“I’m Richard Creed,” he said, his best shit-eating grin plastered across his face. “But you can call me Dick.” He wore a blue wifebeater two sizes too small, and his bulky arms looked as if he’d oiled them up with an entire tub of Crisco. He jabbed a thumb at his chest. “And I’m here”—he paused and pointed to the camera—“to give you three reasons why I’m going to win America’s Next Fitness Model.”

“‘The apparent murder weapon was found at the scene,’” Margot continued. “‘Along with a moniker for a local organization. No suspects are being held at this time. Anyone with information about the incident is asked to call detectives at the Menlo Park Police Department.’”
Margot swung around in her chair. “The moniker for a local organization? That would be us.”

All eyes drifted to Kitty. She’d know what to do.
Without hesitation, Kitty drew her hand across her chest, from her left shoulder to her right, giving the signal, then dropped her arm to her side and strode away.

“Ronny’s a predator,” she said. “And we can stop him from hurting someone else.” Kitty thrust out her chin. “Don’t get mad!”
All three girls answered in strong, solid unison.
“Get even!”

“Are you sure,” Bree said drily, “you like your face that way? Because I could rearrange it for you.”

But when it came time to choose an outreach program for the project, all four of them picked the same one—an antibullying awareness group.

A commotion rippled through the gathering crowd, as Amber Stevens pushed her way to the front, smiling gleefully in Theo’s direction. “What a pig!”
“Great,” Mika muttered. “The Supreme Bitch has arrived.”

“Ladies!” A gleam of braces and a whiff of strong and probably needless aftershave were the only harbingers of the skinny sophomore who spun onto the bench between Peanut and Jezebel.
“Hey, Ed.” Olivia couldn’t keep her eyes from lingering on his bulging backpack as she wondered what contraband he was peddling today.

Mum laughed. “You wish it was more complicated than it is because you love secrets.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. You look for them everywher

Mum laughed. “You wish it was more complicated than it is because you love secrets.”

“That’s not true.”

“Of course it is. You look for them everywhere.”

I’m going to persuade [the suspect] to meet me at the top of the cliffs. The shock of seeing me will scare [them] into telling me what [they] did. [They] confess, I go back to the police with proper evidence, justice is done.”

“That’s the plan?”

“Yep. Shakespeare had it first, but I think my version is better than his.”

I didn’t realize how stupid I’d been until it was far too late.

Freya, who was blonde, like me. Who had the same shape of face as me, the same pointed chin. The same slanting blue eyes. The same mouth. The same. Top to toe. The dead girl and I could have been twins.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”
“As far as I know.”
“Not suicide or something.”

It really bothered me that no one could tell me what had happened. If I hadn’t looked like her, maybe I wouldn’t have cared so much. But the reactions I’d had from just about everyone— that mixture of guilt and fear— made me think that there was more to the story than the tragic-accident line Mum had taken

"I also have the feeling I’ve come in halfway through the story and I’m never going to catch up. And I want to know more about Freya.”

I might have wondered what his problem was if he hadn’t been giving me the look I was starting to expect: shock mixed with suspicion. And what looked like—but surely couldn’t have been— fear...

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that if she was murdered, the person who did it might want you to stop dragging it all up again?” He looked back at me, his face grave. “Hasn’t it occurred to you they might be willing to kill again?”

“If you hear everything, do you know who killed her?”
His jaw tightened. “It was an accident. She fell.”
“How do you know?”

“You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about this and I can under stand why. It would be much more exciting if she’d been killed. But there was an inquest. The coroner was quite clear. It was an accident. Death by misadventure. And I told you to stay out of it, didn’t I?”

My smart mouth was going to get me killed, I thought. Really, genuinely dead. I should be begging her to let go, pleading with her, groveling so she could see I was completely in her power, but something in me wouldn’t give in. Pride, probably. Which was stupid.

I took a tiny breath, which was all I could manage. The old familiar jolt of fear kicked my heart into a canter. Oh, here we are. Danger again. I felt trapped and I was more worried about his intentions than I had been before he’d lied to me.

Then there was the little matter that going for a walk with him was the equivalent of painting a target between my shoulder blades and handing [her] a bow and arrow. So of course I nodded and let him put his arm around me.

As I started to turn away I half saw a figure in the back room, standing against the wall, watching me, and my heart took off at a gallop. There was that feeling again— pure fear, ballooning out of nowhere. I refused to acknowledge it.

The rest were girls, clones of the one I’d encountered on Fore Street that morning, wearing tight clothes in ice-cream colors to show off their expensive-looking tans and impeccable figures.

I didn’t imagine she did much swimming. Too risky for her hair, for one thing.

Her jaw dropped as I rattled back down the stairs. “How did you have time to do your hair?”
“I didn’t really do anything to it.”
“You have magic hair.” She nodded wisely. “Many long for it. Few are gifted with it.”
“Oh, come off it.” I looked in the hall mirror. “It’s just hanging there.”

I had lasted through four chapters of the witless romantic novel I’d found on a shelf before I gave up. Just because the hero was a ruggedly handsome cowboy I didn’t see why it gave him the right to be so rude all the time.

“You don’t know him. He’s not like that.”
“Really? Maybe you’re too close to see what he’s doing.” I took a step nearer her. “Let me tell you what I think. You spend your time with your friends talking about him and why he hasn’t called you today, or what his last text meant, or why he tweeted that thing about Rihanna’s latest video. If he mentions he likes you in pink, you go shopping and buy every shade from bubblegum through to fuchsia."

He hadn’t come to see me. I stared at it for a long time, feeling miserable and pathetic in equal measure. What did it matter? So what if he’d decided he had better things to do than visit me? I had rationalized it to my own satisfaction: the near- miss kiss on the beach. He hadn’t meant anything serious by it and now he was scared I’d think he wanted to revisit the moment. Which I didn’t, obviously. I hadn’t even thought about it since. Not more than sixty times a minute, anyway.

My sister’s a slut. It’s common knowledge she’s already had sex several times, and according to gossip she gives okay hand jobs but is excellent at

My sister’s a slut. It’s common knowledge she’s already had sex several times, and according to gossip she gives okay hand jobs but is excellent at fellatio.

Her popularity is milked from others, her blond hair is fake, her okay grades come from cheating, and she plays the I’m-your-best-friend game a little too well.

I walked in on her having sex last year. She didn’t miss a beat as she kept riding the guy and glanced over to me in the doorway.

She’ll end up pregnant. Watch. Or with an STD.

After you provide him with your outstanding fellatio services? I want to ask, but nod my head instead.

I speculate on Daisy’s reasons behind giving so much head. I suspect she doesn’t want an STD or to turn up pregnant. But does she realize she can get an STD in her mouth? Does she realize how nasty it is to be swallowing all that spunk?

The second one shows them kissing, tongues and all.

The third one shows them having sex, her on top.

The fourth one shows her giving him a hand job.

I step down and scramble through dirt and leaves, looking for my pick. I’m such an idiot.

I’m doing everything wrong. I’m in the opposite direction!

If it is my destiny to be a killer, I’m going to need a type. And today decides that my type will be criminals—specifically, those who have managed to avoid punishment.

…the Masked Savior.”

I just don’t have emotions over the usual things, and to me that has its advantages.

We click in this interesting way I’ve never really experienced before. Like there’s this magnetism between us that carries the possibility for a powerful explosion.

There is no softness, no teasing. There’s only tongues and hunger. Fortunately, I like it. Unfortunately, I’m thinking of Dr. Issa.

I don’t bother telling her to shut up. What a slut.

All I know is that I’m different. Always have been. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know something was off in me.

“Lane, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

“You’re intelligent. Independent. And, clearly, you’re not here to impress anyone.”

It’s almost like Zach came over to socialize with me and Justin.
“Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

People who lack emotion and fantasize about violence. Intelligent people who on the outside seem normal.
Interesting thing is, I fit that profile.

Yes, I guess I did beat the shit out of her. Rewind the clock and I could’ve handled things differently. Talked to her. Hit her once, not multiple times. I’m irritated with myself for allowing my temper such free reign.

This is messy. It’s all I can think of as we have sex. But I roll with it. I do it. I get it over with and get in the shower as soon as I can.

“What made you drink?”
“God, I think I just fell a little harder for you.”
I don’t know why. All I did is ask him a question.

I lie down beside her and try to absorb everything she’s just told me about dead nannies, and about Tyler and Jesse almost killing each other over

I lie down beside her and try to absorb everything she’s just told me about dead nannies, and about Tyler and Jesse almost killing each other over nothing. I’m glad I want to be a music journalist because I think I would suck at being an investigative one.

Despite how rude he’s just been to me I have been conditioned by my mother to be polite at all times and so I smile at him in apology. He notices but doesn’t smile back at me, rather his eyebrows raise a fraction as though he’s taking my apology and wringing it by its neck before handing me back its broken corpse.

You want unicorns and rainbows and Care Bears in the sky and Twilight-style declarations of eternal love? Well— newsflash— it ain’t gonna happen, Ren.

Also, unlike Edward Cullen, the voice in my head pipes up, Jesse most certainly hasn’t fallen in insta-love with me and isn’t torturing himself over the fact that he can’t be with me in case he eats me.

He has dark, quiffy hair and wide-spaced eyes, though his skin is tanned as opposed to diamond sparkly white. He has a very square jaw with a dimple in the center of his chin but alas no jet pack. I note that his eyebrow is cocked and the smile on his face is half sneer, half smirk as if he’s laughing at Eliza but she doesn’t seem to realize.

Robert Pattinson—if you genetically spliced him with Buzz Lightyear.

“I guess you could call it that. They hook up every summer, but it’s not like it’s Facebook official or anything.”

There are guys with attitude, and then there’s this guy. He needs his own special category in Urban Dictionary.

“Like, what are you doing?”

“Like, I’m renting a bike,” I answer. I’m still vaguely amused by the overuse of the word like. I thought it was something that Hollywood scriptwriters used to emphasize vacuity in female characters. Turns out that’s actually the way Sophie speaks.

“Did you make out with Jeremy last night?” she asks from her position perched on the bath.
“So you didn’t make it to first base? Or second? If you get to fourth base on a first date that makes you a dirty skanky ho.”

“Did you and Tyler hook up last night?”
“What?” Paige says. “It looked like you were about to bone him right there and then.”

“No. He’s hooked up with Summer one time I think and maybe a few local girls—they put out way more: total skanks. But last summer he was dating this college girl. Total cougar. He got major props.”

“Tyler’s the biggest player on the whole East Coast,” Eliza adds. “As if I’d get with that.” She rolls onto her back and wriggles her hips into the sand. “And anyway, I don’t do sloppy seconds.”

With trepidation I open up my e-mail. Megan has sent me about a thousand messages all asking a variation of did you pull Jeremy?

I’m a size ten to twelve with normal-size boobs—not ginormous, but not flat either. I have an average body with curves that, according to Will, are sexy.

Eliza stares at it sitting on my plate and I realize that I must have committed some monumental carb faux pas. I reach for the butter and start to slather the bread with it, thinking bite me.

For lunch Matt went and bought up half the supermarket—dumping a pile of crisps (they call them chips just to confuse me), cans of Coke (no diet), and sandwiches onto a towel between us, which all the girls complained about and refused to eat (carbs).

Eliza spins to face him and starts wriggling her way down him as though he’s a greased pole.

Megan thinks anything with a Y chromosome is hot. She’s perpetually in heat. Even she admits as much (with a tonguelolling emoticon for emphasis).

She holds her hair over her shoulder and starts gyrating her hips and butt against a guy who has stepped into the ring of light. His hands, feeling their way along Eliza’s sides, are moving fluidly, but he isn’t groping at her.

Eliza then wraps her arms around his neck and leans pouting toward him, but the bottle is in the way and she clashes her nose against it.
Classy move, I think to myself, smirking.

“Eliza’s perfecting her Ice Queen routine.” Summer laughs, trying to break the tension.
“Better than perfecting a skanky ho routine,” Eliza snaps back, looking in Paige’s direction.

She is short and not as skinny as the other three, but her boobs are quite enormous, which I imagine makes her exceedingly popular with the boys.

Her breasts are having their own conversation with him, one hand rests on her jutting hip bone and the other plays with a loose lock of hair.

“Do you want me to put some sunscreen on your back?” he asks instead.

He’s in his forties and big in that way I imagine only American men can be, with a tanned face, thick graying hair and teeth so white they shine like headlights.

Carrie and Mike are both wearing tan trousers—I didn’t think they were the type of couple to go in for matching, but they’re American and what do I know about how Americans dress?

"The mysterious, messed-up, bad boy with secrets. If I didn’t love him myself, I think I’d have to kill him for being such a cliché.”

I glance upward. He’s still glaring at me, but not with irritation. He looks instead like he wants to kill me. His fingers twitch around the wrench. Unconsciously I have edged back toward the door.

But Jesse is so off-limits that if he were a place, he’d be a nuclear testing site. And Jeremy doesn’t make me not quiver. He kind of does. Is that enough? I’m so confused right now.

He is wearing jeans that fit well, but he swaggers a little in them and I wonder if he learned that in prison. He’s also wearing a white T-shirt that has a few grease marks smeared across it but which shows his muscles to obscene perfection. His whole attitude screams do not mess with me.

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.

"Liv...it’s a name, a verb, a command. A notion of mortality. That’s a name ripe for some epic poetry. If I could write, I’d write you one, a poem.”

“I appreciate the effort, man, but let it go,” Gabe said, sincerely. “You know what’s most important right now: to learn the truth and bring justice. For her.”

My grades certainly didn’t get me into Wickham Hall. I assumed it was my portfolio.

They dressed the same. Their hair was almost identical. Their skin was milky with the occasional bout of freckles. Their noses even turned up in the same way. But mostly, they all talked the same.

That’s when I noticed him. He was standing next to the headmaster, still looking at me even though the others had turned away. Our eyes met, and I quickly looked away. But I could feel his gaze linger. I desperately willed my face not to flush, my lips not to purse. Suddenly I was aware of every single muscle in my face.

I looked up, mouth full of bread, to see what had happened and...he was there.
He stood in front of me and asked, “May I have this dance?”

He was skittish and intense, but his brown eyes were gentle. Still, I wanted to keep at least three feet away. He was almost exactly how I’d always pictured Vincent Van Gogh—in other words, pretty crazy.

Malcolm let go of my hand and took out his iPod. He clicked it on and then handed it to me. A playlist called Liv, Forever was cued up.
“I made it for you. Obviously.”

And we walked along a sun-dappled path, comfortable like two people who’d known each other forever.
I looked out over the terrain. Lush and seemingly endless. And we walked right into it, serenaded by the Beatles’s “I’m Looking Through You.”

He turned to me. “Draw on me.”
“What?”
“Draw on me.""
After he said that, he took his shirt off. His body was perfect.

My head whipped back from its force. And that’s when everything went black.

My body was cold and dull. Plump with death. I looked almost serene. My dark hair spread around my head, kind of like that famous painting of Ophelia floating in the river. Funny, I’d made so many self-portraits and yet I’d never really looked at myself and realized I was actually kind of pretty.

He kneeled on the ground next to my body and kissed my cheek.

I was separate from the world. I had become the star, hadn’t I? That tragic, lonely thing.

I imagined myself an angel. I kind of was, wasn’t I?

I waited and waited until there was enough condensation for me to write a single sentence. It took every ounce of willpower to ignore the pain in my fingertip. But I did it.
I will hold u again, I wrote on the glass.

It was mid-afternoon so there were no stars, of course, but the leaves were every possible orange and the clouds were perfect puffs.

A self-portrait. Almost all my drawings are self-portraits. They don’t necessarily look like me—in fact, they rarely do—but they represent me.

“You are so talented. Do you understand? Your skill is exceptional. If you unleash and add true emotion to your work, it will sing, Olivia! It will fly!”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.”
“It must’ve been a pretty boring life.”
“It was. Then I met you.”

But then images started to emerge from the darkness around us. At first they were pleasant: a Titian cherub, a Chagall angel. But then one of Bosch’s devils appeared. And Munch’s screaming terror. Francis Bacon’s agonizing Pope. And one of Basquiat’s jagged skulls.

There was an opening in the canopy of trees where we could see the brilliant moon. And stars. Hundreds of them. He took my hand. He held it strongly—with commitment. We lay there silently for a long while until he spoke.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

I was dying inside. Brain exploding like a Pollock. Heart melting like one of Dalí’s clocks.

And he cried. He didn’t have that embarrassed look guys usually have when they cry, like the way my dad had struggled against his tears. Malcolm let go, without shame.

“You know what I wish?” he asked.
What?
“That I could just see you one last time—hear your voice. Hold you.”

“A story? You are recording your horrors?”
“How am I to accurately write about something unless I have been a firsthand witness to

“A story? You are recording your horrors?”
“How am I to accurately write about something unless I have been a firsthand witness to it?”

It seems the stories I have been told were untrue. The streets of America are not paved with gold but with uneven stones.

A sense of unease fills my stomach as I stare up at what is to be my new home.
Dark and foreboding, it appears just as unwelcoming as the rest of Philadelphia.

I hurry out of bed and reach for the bucket. “Let me help you with that.”
“No, miss,” she scolds. “It isn’t yer place.”

“Practice makes perfect. It shall certainly take time to prove this with someone of your limited background.”
Dropping my arms, I feel an ache in my shoulders.
Clearly, my education is going to require a vast amount of practice.

Father takes another step closer. Deep lines mark his face. He looks almost as old as Grandpere. “She bowed like a man, for God’s sake. Her manners are sorely lacking, and until they have been improved, I shall not encourage her.”

MURDER AT RITTENHOUSE SQUARE.
POLICE FIND GRISLY SCENE OF DISMEMBERMENT
...the limbs had been torn asunder from the torso and the head cleaved from his neck. POLICE urge all women and children to take heed of this atrocity and to take special cautions.

Every muscle in my body has tightened and my hand shakes when I place it upon the doorknob. I take a deep breath and try to steady my nerves, and just as I am about to turn the knob—

Someone grabs hold of me.

“Allan’s always a gentleman, that one,” Cook replies.
“He’s very different from his cousin, Edgar,” I say. “I’m amazed they are even related.”
The room instantly goes silent. Cook stares intently at her tea as Maddy and Johanna exchange glances.
“Just stay away from him, miss. Stay away. He’s a right nasty one.”

I did it because I thought
you would be scared.” He watches me carefully. “But I suppose it is in your blood. You were never going to be scared by any of this, were you? You are your father’s daughter after all, Annabel Lee.”

All I can make out is a large structure of pale stones, tall doors, and rows of windows gleaming like sharp teeth against the night.

His attention returns to me. “Have you ever felt a story was inside you, but you could not do it justice? It’s as if there were something standing in your way, blocking you from being able to write the story, and only this other piece of you could understand whatever it was?”

I am saddened that I have already offended Father with my rough manners and poorly chosen gift.
I wonder if I shall always be such a disappointment to him.

He sighs and slows to a stop. “There are a lot of things about the world we live in that you don’t understand. Things you’ll find out in time.”

He sighs and slows to a stop. “There are a lot of things about the world we live in that you don’t understand. Things you’ll find out in time.”

“You are my husband, Declan Burke. I am your wife, Emma. We were married in a small ceremony with only our closest friends atop our mountain.”
“Yes, Emma, that’s right. You were absolutely beautiful.”

His arms wrap around tight and hold me as if I would run away and he could not bear it. But I will not. Not ever. I want to be with him always.

I told you to lie, She says coolly. You don’t understand yet, but you will.
I only understand that I am at war with myself, and I do not know why. One way or another, I will win.

When I look down, I find I am bound to the table by Velcro straps. Instinctively, I jerk and the bindings burn and pinch my wrists.
“What are you doing?” I ask, panicked.
“I’ll remove them when I think you’re no longer a danger to yourself.”

Those take you out of the building, She tells me. Probably to other floors, too. They’re teleportation units. Teleport. Teleporting. Teleportation. You know, teleporters.
They split you into a million different pieces and send your bits to your destination. You tell it where you want to port and it sends you there. Get it? Tell—a—port.

I recognize the acronym from one of my earlier dreams with Toni. “WTC?”
“Women’s Training Center. Where all our young women are prepared for marriage.”

“You know what I am talking about. Why do you insist on keeping my past a secret from me? If you are trying to protect me, stop. I do not need your protection. I need the truth before this gets any worse."

“The women who are fertile these days,” he continues while he stands and moves to one of his bookcases, “are only fertile into their late twenties, early thirties at most. It isn’t disease or genetics, just the unfortunate way things have progressed.”

He slaps his hands to his knees and stands. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. Birth control is illegal. Abortion is illegal, with a very severe punishment. Emma, pregnancy is not a choice. I’m sorry.”

A couple of nurses arrive, take our vitals, and clean up our scrapes and cuts. One uses some kind of laser to heal my knuckle.

“What’s a man like down there?”
“Oh.” Sidheag wrinkled her nose. “Unimpressive. They have,” she gestured toward her own nether regions with one

“What’s a man like down there?”
“Oh.” Sidheag wrinkled her nose. “Unimpressive. They have,” she gestured toward her own nether regions with one hand, “a sort of dangly sausage—lacks tailoring.”

[Sophronia] had not yet received lessons in seduction, or she might have understood the appeal of sharp confidence, a topping figure, and green eyes. All Sophronia’s intellect was directed at something other than attracting male companionship. These things combined to make her particularly appealing to gentlemen.

Dimity was so pretty and chattery, she quite overpowered the average male. Many gentlemen were unable to cope with abundant chatter, which is why they so often married it.

The discussion evolved to the interesting question of whether a gentleman could tattoo a secret message upon his chin, then grow out his beard, thus transporting said message into enemy territory with no one the wiser. Would a man want a message permanently upon his chin? That was the quandary. And could one legitimately ascribe nefarious intent to any many with a full beard as a result?
“I’ve always thought beards suspicious,” said Dimity with conviction.

While I waited I poked up the fire, added another log, set out two glasses, and surveyed my desk. My study also served me for a sitting room, and I made sure it was kept as orderly and comfortable as the solidity of its nineteenth-century furnishings demanded. I had completed a great deal of work that afternoon, supped off a plate brought up to me at six o’clock, and then cleared the last of my papers.

I drummed my fingers on the desktop. The clock in my study seemed to be ticking unusually loudly tonight, and the urban half darkness seemed too still behind my venetian blinds.

Jonas looked directly at Beret now, and she saw the freakish scars on his face and thought what a good woman her aunt had been to pick up such an ugly child, a child other society women might find offensive, and take him into her home. [She] had been the soul of compassion.

I told him Lillie should be cut off until she saw the error of her ways and apologized, and that’s exactly what he did.

Beret found herself hating Lillie and thinking her sister deserved what she’d gotten

You would think after working with so many poor women who’d been abused by their husbands or been forced to sacrifice their honor to their employers that I would have known the man was always at fault. But I’m afraid I reacted like a typical scorned woman. I blamed the other woman—my sister.

“Just about,” Claire said. A strand of her long blond hair fell forward. She tucked it behind one ear and continued transcribing the woman’s list.

Ancient Priestesses of the light,
Bestow knowledge clear, true, and bright
Grant me power and second sight
As I move through darkness of night.

Once a secret, old-school voodoo society, the Guild of High Priests and Priestesses had become too large for them to know each and every member.

You see, adults mess things up even when they’re trying to fix them. No. Check that. They mess things up especially when they’re trying to fix them. I mean, think about how they tried to save us from our dad, how they tried to help my mom. Failure all the way around.

Everywhere he’s touching and everywhere he’s touched is lighting up. I feel like I’ve swallowed the sun.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not proud of it. Even though you didn’t have that damn necklace on, as far as I knew, you

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not proud of it. Even though you didn’t have that damn necklace on, as far as I knew, you were still with Del. And I’m not big on making out with another guy’s girlfriend."

“She thinks I did it?” My voice was small, hoarse. “She thinks I did something to Cassie?”

We drove past them...in our Bentley.
Quickly, I learned that they were rich. Sickeningly rich. It was funny how I didn’t remember squat, but I knew what money looked like.

“Cassie Winchester is your best friend. She disappeared with you.”

“You were a terror to everyone who knew you."

“Just a couple weeks ago, you called her”—she lowered her voice—“a fat bitch whose thighs were capable of setting the world on fire."

Drawing in a shallow breath, I unfolded the slip of paper.

There was blood on the rocks. Her blood. Your blood.

“There’s a huge list of people who were angry with her, but to kill her? I don’t think so.”
He cursed under his breath as he faced me. “There are at least a hundred kids at school who probably fantasized about pushing her in front of a bus a time or two.”

"Right now, if it turns out that she was murdered, you’re their number one suspect.”

“You’re not an idiot, Sam.”
Pressing my lips together, I shook my head. Maybe I wasn’t stupid, but I’d been incredibly naive.

“Jeez, this is like talking to a toddler.”

“The big deal is that you were most likely the last person who saw Cassie—you were probably with her when...when whatever happened to her occurred.”
“I know! And that’s why I need to talk to the police.”
“No. That’s why you can’t talk to the police!”

“Look, Pham or Long Duck, whatever your name is, turn around."

“Is that my boyfriend?” I whispered, hopeful and scared all at once.
He was happy to see me, but … but then his eyes hardened into chips of ice.
“Boyfriend? Yeah,” he said slowly, voice deep and smooth. “Not even if you paid my tuition to Penn State next year.”

“I don’t like Del,” he admitted, staring straight into my eyes. “He’s a dick, and you’ve always deserved better than him, but I’m not that kind of guy. At least, I’m trying to not be with you.”

I needed to figure out how I felt about Del if there was any hope for us because stringing him along wasn’t fair. If I was no longer the girl who’d fallen in love with him, it wasn’t right to keep up this...this charade.