the drift of the current fetched me in at the bottom of the town. I tied up and started along the bank. There was a light burning in a little shanty that hadn't been lived in for a long time, and I wondered who had took up quarters there. I slipped up and peeped in at the window. There was a woman about forty year old in there knitting by a candle that was on a pine table. I didn't know her face; she was a stranger, for you couldn't start a face in that town that I didn't know. Now this was lucky, because I was weakening; I was getting afraid I had come; people might know my voice and find me out. But if this woman had been in such a little town two days she could tell me all I wanted to know; so I knocked at the door, and made up my mind I wouldn't forget I was a girl. CHAPTER XI. "COME in," says the woman, and I did. She says: "Take a cheer." I done it. She looked me all over with her little shiny eyes, and says: "What might your name be?" "Sarah Williams." "Where 'bouts do you live? In this neighbor- hood?' "No'm. In Hookerville, seven mile below. I've walked all the way and I'm all tired out." "Hungry, too, I reckon. I'll find you something." "No'm, I ain't hungry. I was so hungry I had to stop two miles below here at a farm; so I ain't hungry no more. It's what makes me so late. My mother's down sick, and out of money and everything, and I come to tell my uncle Abner Moore. He lives at the upper end of the town, she says. I hain't ever been here before. Do you know him?" "No; but I don't know everybody yet. I haven't lived here quite two weeks. It's a considerable ways to the upper end of the town. You better stay here all night. Take off your bonnet." "No," I says; "I'll rest a while, I reckon, and go on. I ain't afeared of the dark." She said she wouldn't let me go by myself, but her husband would be in by and by, maybe in a hour and a half, and she'd send him along with me. Then she got to talking about her husband, and about her rela- tions up the river, and her relations down the river, and about how much better off they used to was, and how they didn't know but they'd made a mistake coming to our town, instead of letting well alone -- and so on and so on, till I was afeard I had made a mistake coming to her to find out what was going on in the town; but by and by she dropped on to pap and the murder, and then I was pretty willing to let her clatter right along. She told about me and Tom Sawyer finding the six thousand dollars (only she got it ten) and


slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they had built it that way. Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named - The Heart of Gold. "Wow", said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn't much else he could say. He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press. "Wow." The crowd turned their faces back towards him expectantly. He winked at Trillian who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible showoff. "That is really amazing," he said. "That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I'd like to steal it." A marvellous Presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the President grinned. As he grinned his heart screamed unbearably and he fingered the small Paralyso-Matic bomb that nestled quietly in his pocket. Finally he could bear it no more. He lifted his heads up to the sky, let out a wild whoop in major thirds, threw the bomb to the ground and ran forward through the sea of suddenly frozen smiles. ================================================================= Chapter 5 Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons. His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead. His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of up to a thousand feet with no ill effects. Not that he ever went swimming of course. His busy schedule would not allow it. He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet's virgin shores... when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution ad simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake. They never evolved again; they should never have survived. The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thick- willed slug-brained stubbornness of these creatures. Evolution? they said to themselves, Who needs it?, and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the grosser anatomical inconveniences with surgery. Meanwhile, the natural forces on the planet


Then I delete the recording and the app. I have already ensured my files don’t sync to the cloud. The police don’t need to know that I ever thought about killing myself. No one does. Because now I want to live! If Benjamin goes to jail, I will be a free woman. I can be happy! I can have my life back! Putting the vodka-filled bottle of cleaner back under the sink, I shove the sleeping pills into the drawer and turn off the taps. I look at myself in the mirror, wan and shaky, but safe. For the moment at least. I must remain calm. I must protect my secrets. With my phone in hand, I exit the bathroom. Officer Deane is leaning casually against the opposite wall when I emerge, but he rights himself quickly. “Here it is,” I say, handing the phone to him. I notice the plastic gloves he is wearing, the plastic bag he drops it into. It’s all so official, and I feel vulnerable again. “You can get dressed,” he says, “and we’ll take you down to the station.” “Why do I need to go to the station?” “Your perspective is important. It’s standard procedure.” “But I have nothing to say. I had no idea my husband was planning to kill me!” The words sound like a foreign language in my ears. “It’s our job to build a case for the prosecutor. If we don’t do it thoroughly, your husband could get off.” Fear sends a tremor through me, rattles my bones. If Benjamin gets released after this, he will be lethal. The officer sees my angst and presses on. “As the intended victim, you might know something useful.” The intended victim. But I have so much to hide. “Of course,” I say. “But can’t we just talk here? I’m really not feeling well.” “Detective French would like you to come to the station.” I could crack under a harsh interrogation, spill all my secrets, my own deadly plans. But if I refuse to go, it will look bad. I will look guilty. And so, I give him an obliging nod. “Give me a few minutes.” 51 THE POLICE STATION IS LOUD, frenetic, rank with testosterone. I keep my eyes forward, alert only for Benjamin. He is somewhere in this building, and I am still terrified, even here. Detective French leads me to an interrogation room that is much smaller—and beiger—than the ones I’ve seen on TV. After ushering me to a wooden chair, she offers me water, soda, or a sandwich. She is being kind to me; she has clearly been trained on how to handle victims of a crime. But she is not my friend. I must not forget that. She slides a couple of sheets of paper across the table toward me. “Here’s some information on crime victim programs that you can access. And a list of victims’ rights attorneys.” “Thanks.” “If you need a break at any time, just let me know.” The police are under increased scrutiny of late, their actions


The Invisible Man- A Grotesque Romance.txt

the tram conductor with his fists clenched. Up the street others followed these two, striking and shouting. Down towards the town, men and women were running, and he noticed clearly one man coming out of a shop-door with a stick in his hand. "Spread out! Spread out!" cried some one. Kemp suddenly grasped the altered condition of the chase. He stopped and looked round, panting. "He's close here!" he cried. "Form a line across--" "Aha!" shouted a voice. He was hit hard under the ear, and went reeling, trying to face round towards his unseen antagonist. He just managed to keep his feet, and he struck a vain counter in the air. Then he was hit again under the jaw, and sprawled headlong on the ground. In another moment a knee compressed his diaphragm, and a couple of eager hands gripped his throat, but the grip of one was weaker than the other; he grasped the wrists, heard a cry of pain from his assailant, and then the spade of the navvy came whirling through the air above him, and struck something with a dull thud. He felt a drop of moisture on his face. The grip at his throat suddenly relaxed, and with a convulsive effort Kemp loosed himself, grasped a limp shoulder, and rolled uppermost. He gripped the unseen elbows near the ground. "I've got him!" screamed Kemp. "Help! Help! hold! He's down! Hold his feet!" In another second there was a simultaneous rush upon the struggle, and a stranger coming into the road suddenly might have thought an exceptionally savage game of Rugby football was in progress. And there was no shouting after Kemp's cry--only a sound of blows and feet and a heavy breathing. Then came a mighty effort, and the Invisible Man threw off a couple of his antagonists and rose to his knees. Kemp clung to him in front like a hound to a stag, and a dozen hands gripped, clutched, and tore at the Unseen. The tram conductor suddenly got the neck and shoulders and lugged him back. Down went the heap of struggling men again and rolled over. There was, I am afraid, some savage kicking. Then suddenly a wild scream of "Mercy! Mercy!" that died down swiftly to a sound like choking. "Get back, you fools!" cried the muffled voice of Kemp, and there was a vigorous shoving back of stalwart forms. "He's hurt, I tell you. Stand back!" There was a brief struggle to clear a space, and then the circle of eager eyes saw the doctor kneeling, as it seemed, fifteen inches in the air, and holding invisible arms to the ground. Behind him a constable gripped invisible ankles. "Don't you leave go of en," cried the big navvy, holding a bloodstained spade; "he's shamming." "He's not shamming," said the doctor, cautiously raising his knee; "and I'll hold him." His face was bruised and already going red; he spoke thickly because of a bleeding lip. He released one hand and seemed to be feeling at the face. "The mouth's all wet,"


while horror and revulsion roll off him. Holy fuck. “Note?” My voice mirrors his. 244/551 “Addressed to me.” “What did it say?” Christian shakes his head, indicating he doesn’t know or that he won’t di- vulge its contents. Oh. “Hyde came here last night with the intention of kidnapping you.” Christian freezes, his face taut with tension. As he says those words, I recall the duct tape, and a shudder runs through me, though deep down this is not news to me. “Shit,” I mutter. “Quite,” Christian says tightly. I try to remember Jack in the office. Was he always insane? How did he think he could get away with this? I mean he was pretty creepy, but this unhinged? “I don’t understand why,” I murmur. “It doesn’t make sense to me.” “I know. The police are digging further, and so is Welch. But we think Detroit is the connection.” “Detroit?” I gaze at him, confused. “Yeah. There’s something there.” “I still don’t understand.” Christian lifts his face and gazes at me, his expression unreadable. “Ana, I was born in Detroit.” “I thought you were born here in Seattle,” I murmur. My mind races. What does this have to do with Jack? Christian raises the arm covering his face, reaches be- hind him, and grabs one of the pillows. Placing it under his head, he settles back and gazes at me with a wary expression. After a moment he shakes his head. “No. Elliot and I were both adopted in Detroit. We moved here shortly after my adoption. Grace wanted to be on the west coast, away from the urban sprawl, and she got a job at Northwest Hospital. I have very little memory of that time. Mia was adopted here.” “So Jack is from Detroit?” 246/551 “Yes.” Oh . . . “How do you know?” “I ran a background check when you went to work for him.” Of course he did. “Do you have a manila file on him, too?” I smirk. Christian’s mouth twists as he hides his amusement. “I think it’s pale blue.” His fingers continue to run through my hair. It’s soothing. “What does it say in his file?” Christian blinks. Reaching down he strokes my cheek. “You really want to know?” “Is it that bad?” He shrugs. “I’ve known worse,” he whispers. No! Is he referring to himself? And the image I have of Christian as a small, dirty, fearful, lost boy comes to mind. I curl around him, holding him tighter, pulling the sheet over him, and I lay my cheek against his chest. “What?” he asks, puzzled by my reaction. “Nothing,” I murmur. “No, no. This works both ways, Ana. What is it?” I glance up assessing his apprehensive expression. Resting my cheek upon his chest once more, I decide to tell him. “Sometimes I picture you as a child . . . before you came to live with the Greys.” Christian stiffens. “I wasn’t talking about me. I don’t want your pity, Anastasia. That part of my life is done. Gone.” “It’s not pity,”


no luck. When we 'uz mos' down to de head er de islan' a man begin to come aft wid de lantern, I see it warn't no use fer to wait, so I slid overboard en struck out fer de islan'. Well, I had a notion I could lan' mos' anywhers, but I couldn't -- bank too bluff. I 'uz mos' to de foot er de islan' b'fo' I found' a good place. I went into de woods en jedged I wouldn' fool wid raffs no mo', long as dey move de lantern roun' so. I had my pipe en a plug er dog-leg, en some matches in my cap, en dey warn't wet, so I 'uz all right." "And so you ain't had no meat nor bread to eat all this time? Why didn't you get mud-turkles?" "How you gwyne to git 'm? You can't slip up on um en grab um; en how's a body gwyne to hit um wid a rock? How could a body do it in de night? En I warn't gwyne to show mysef on de bank in de daytime." "Well, that's so. You've had to keep in the woods all the time, of course. Did you hear 'em shooting the cannon?" "Oh, yes. I knowed dey was arter you. I see um go by heah -- watched um thoo de bushes." Some young birds come along, flying a yard or two at a time and lighting. Jim said it was a sign it was going to rain. He said it was a sign when young chickens flew that way, and so he reckoned it was the same way when young birds done it. I was going to catch some of them, but Jim wouldn't let me. He said it was death. He said his father laid mighty sick once, and some of them catched a bird, and his old granny said his father would die, and he did. And Jim said you mustn't count the things you are going to cook for dinner, because that would bring bad luck. The same if you shook the table-cloth after sundown. And he said if a man owned a beehive and that man died, the bees must be told about it before sun-up next morning, or else the bees would all weaken down and quit work and die. Jim said bees wouldn't sting idiots; but I didn't believe that, be- cause I had tried them lots of times myself, and they wouldn't sting me. I had heard about some of these things before, but not all of them. Jim knowed all kinds of signs. He said he knowed most everything. I said it looked to me like all the signs was about bad luck, and so I asked him if there warn't any good-luck signs. He says: "Mighty few -- an' DEY ain't no use to a body. What you want to know when good luck's a-comin' for? Want to keep it off?" And he said: "Ef you's got hairy arms en a hairy breas', it's a sign


within him—a calculated risk that could turn the tide. With a resolute nod, J-Dog signaled his squadron to follow. He executed a daring maneuver, plunging his Arrow directly into the heart of the enemy formation. The dragonflies swarmed, their ghostly forms engulfing his ship. It was a high-stakes gamble—one that demanded split-second timing. As the dragonflies converged, J-Dog’s finger hovered over the trigger. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he unleashed a barrage of Phazon Pulsar bolts, saturating the air with radiant energy. The concentrated firepower tore through the nanite cloud, rending it asunder. A shock wave rippled through space, fragments of the defeated dragonflies drifting aimlessly. The sight of their vanquished foes buoyed the spirits of J-Dog’s squadron. It had been but a small victory painted against mounting losses. They regrouped, seizing the opportunity to press the offensive. A renewed fervor coursed through their veins as they engaged another band of dragonflies, employing J-Dog’s innovative tactics to dismantle the ethereal threat. But as effective as J-Dog’s tactics were, they would be nowhere near effective enough to take out an entire squadron of dragonflies. Doing his best to keep the growing dread from creeping into his psyche, he continued to rally his pilots onward over the open channel. This wasn’t sustainable … Fuel was finite, losses through attrition, they were playing a losing game, and, of course, they all knew it. His comms crackled to life. “… Dog, get out of there … all of you … You don’t want to be anywhere near any of those alien fighters.” He recognized Akari, Ballbuster’s, voice. J-Dog gave the order. “Arrows … time for us to bug out of here!” The mass exodus from the battle sphere must have left the dragonflies scratching their respective heads, but only for a moment. It was Adams that fired off the first constrained electromagnetic pulse swath—one that would have been invisible to see but for the incendiary reactions upon the dragonflies. Unable to disseminate their nanites as usual, the dragonfly fighters exploded, momentary fireballs quickly quelled within the vacuum of space. Wrath and Portent were now following suit with their own EMP discharges. One by one, the dragonflies met their demise, their evasive tactics rendered futile against the three warships’ relentless onslaught. The battle space became a theater of explosions and shattered nanite clouds. But J-Dog, along with what remained of his squadron, all of them observing from a distance, wondered if he was missing something here. Self-congratulations were easy, that this small victory was a testament to US Space-Navy resilience and tactical brilliance. But now, as he watched with trepidation what was left of the vaporous, sparkling nanite cloud … it floated away, as if languidly being pushed along by a warm summer’s breeze. A breeze taking it in the direction of Adams, Wrath, and Portent… J-Dog brought his attention to the few remaining outlier dragonflies. “We still got some clean-up here, boys and girls. Over,” he said over the open channel. His pilots were making fast work of them, yet the victory had come


softly. ‘I cling to faith as flame clings to a wick already curled and black.’ ‘The Mother will see us through this, Esbar.’ ‘The Priory, perhaps. What of you and I?’ Tunuva had never thought she would feel truly cold again, until Esbar uqNāra asked her that question. ‘That decision must be yours.’ Her throat constricted as she spoke. ‘Nothing has changed for me.’ Esbar sank deeper into the chair. ‘All these years I have watched you grieve,’ she said, ‘and when you had hope, I failed to fan it. I was only afraid it was false hope, Tuva.’ ‘You thought you were doing the right thing. Desperation made me foolish.’ ‘We can all be foolish when it comes to love.’ Esbar breathed out. ‘Armul – Wulfert – is welcome here. I must confess, I am curious to see him. And glad to have a little more of you.’ All at once, her eyes were brimming. Esbar had not wept in so long. Tunuva reached across the table and took her by the hand, interlocking their fingers. ‘Is it enough?’ Esbar asked her in a strained voice. ‘Is our life enough for you now, Tuva?’ ‘It was always enough. I just wanted the truth.’ Esbar tightened her grasp. ‘I would not live another day without you by my side,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Be with me. Forgive me, and I will give you the same grace. Let us do what we were born to do.’ Tunuva leaned across to her, setting their brows together. There they sat, for a long time: breathing, staying. 82 East The sun rose cold and grim above Mount Ipyeda. Each day, more smoke was darkening the sky. ‘So you have all but declared war on the Kuposa,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘Well, granddaughter, I suppose that was one way to handle them. I expect the River Lord – the regent – will retaliate.’ She sat with Dumai and Unora in her quarters, just as they had all sat on the night Dumai learned who she was. Two years later, they were almost back to where they had begun. ‘He has what he wants. A meek child on the throne, and the regency. There is no reason for him to attack me,’ Dumai said. ‘The River Lord may be concerned with his own power, but even he must see now that the wyrms and the sickness are more important. I have seen the destruction they have already wreaked in the rest of the East. Even in the North.’ ‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he will now see you as the only real threat to his dominion. After all, a Noziken has never defied him so openly, nor established a rival court.’ The Grand Empress gazed towards the window. ‘Unora, what do you say to all this?’ ‘I am no child of the rainbow, Manai.’ ‘You bore one, and she will need you. Dumai has no knowledge of the provinces. You do,’ the Grand Empress said. ‘You know how to survive in times of scarcity. That will be useful.’ Dumai


A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.txt

hat coming towards him down the slope of the bridge with little steps, tightly buttoned into his chocolate overcoat, and holding his furled umbrella a span or two from him like a divining rod. It must be eleven, he thought, and peered into a dairy to see the time. The clock in the dairy told him that it was five minutes to five but, as he turned away, he heard a clock somewhere near him, but unseen, beating eleven strokes in swift precision. He laughed as he heard it for it made him think of McCann, and he saw him a squat figure in a shooting jacket and breeches and with a fair goatee, standing in the wind at Hopkins' corner, and heard him say: --Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself. I'm not. I'm a democrat and I'll work and act for social liberty and equality among all classes and sexes in the United States of the Europe of the future. Eleven! Then he was late for that lecture too. What day of the week was it? He stopped at a newsagent's to read the headline of a placard. Thursday. Ten to eleven, English; eleven to twelve, French; twelve to one, physics. He fancied to himself the English lecture and felt, even at that distance, restless and helpless. He saw the heads of his classmates meekly bent as they wrote in their notebooks the points they were bidden to note, nominal definitions, essential definitions and examples or dates of birth or death, chief works, a favourable and an unfavourable criticism side by side. His own head was unbent for his thoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked around the little class of students or out of the window across the desolate gardens of the green an odour assailed him of cheerless cellar-damp and decay. Another head than his, right before him in the first benches, was poised squarely above its bending fellows like the head of a priest appealing without humility to the tabernacle for the humble worshippers about him. Why was it that when he thought of Cranly he could never raise before his mind the entire image of his body but only the image of the head and face? Even now against the grey curtain of the morning he saw it before him like the phantom of a dream, the face of a severed head or death-mask, crowned on the brows by its stiff black upright hair as by an iron crown. It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor, in the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the jaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly smiling; and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all the tumults and unrest and longings in his soul, day after day and night by night, only to be answered by his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that it was the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those whom he had not power


I remember how my father spent the whole day complaining about the rich bastards who’d built the palatial homes there. God knows what he’d say about Hope’s End, which eclipses those stately mansions in that snooty town. It’s bigger. Grander. This wouldn’t be out of place on Dallas or Dynasty or any of those other silly primetime soaps my mother used to watch. Three stories tall and seemingly as wide as a cruise ship, the mansion is a marvel of Gilded Age excess. The walls are redbrick. Around the front double doors and all the windows is marble detailing that serves no purpose except to show how much money the Hope family once had. A ton of it, to judge by the amount of sculpted curves and curlicues on display. The windows of the third floor retain the marble but jut from the pitched roof, which is topped by a dozen narrow chimneys that look like candles atop an ornate birthday cake. At the gate is a small intercom system. I roll down my window and stretch to press it. Thirty seconds pass before it crackles to life in a burst of static, followed by a woman’s voice. “Yes.” It’s not a question. In fact, the way she says it is packed with as much impatience as three letters can hold. “Hi. I’m Kit McDeere.” I pause to allow the source of the voice to also introduce herself. She doesn’t, prompting me to add, “I’m with Gurlain Home Health Aides. I’m the new care—” The woman interrupts me with a terse “Come up to the house” before the intercom goes silent. In front of the car, the gate starts to open, giving off a nervous shimmy, as if spooked by my presence. It creaks as it slowly swings wider, making me wonder how often Hope’s End welcomes guests. Not a lot, I assume, when the gate rattles to a stop even though it’s only halfway open. I inch the car forward, trying to gauge if there’s enough room to pass by. There isn’t. Not if I want to keep both of my side mirrors, which I very much do. My budget, such as it is, doesn’t include car repairs. I’m about to get out of the car and push on the gate myself when a man’s voice calls out in the distance. “Is it stuck again?” The source of the voice comes closer, pushing a wheelbarrow heaped with fallen leaves. He’s handsome, I notice. Mid-thirties. In very good shape, as far as I can tell, under his flannel shirt and dirt-streaked jeans. He has a full beard and hair grown a little too long so that it curls slightly at the back of his neck. I’d be interested under different circumstances. Completely different. Living-another-existence different. Just like car repairs, my life doesn’t have room for romantic entanglements. And no, Kenny doesn’t count. “I don’t know about the other time,” I say through the open window, “but it’s certainly stuck now.” “You should have said times,” the man replies, flashing a smile that’s


been debating ordering a basket ever since I sat down. And yet. Drew saying it sounds like a bad line could fully be a line, I realize that, but maybe I’m not ready to go back to Noemie’s house and feel sorry for myself. This isn’t something I’d ever do, and yet in this moment, that feels like exactly the reason to say yes. I could toss my half-empty cider and get drunk on his attention alone. I grab my wallet, throwing a few dollars down on the bar. “Let’s get out of here.” * * * We’re on a mission, Drew and I: find the perfect late-night slice of pizza. The first restaurant we tried was closed and the second only served full pies, and now we’re on our way to a place I swear is right around here somewhere . . . “There!” I point to a flashing green Open sign on the corner, the delicious savory scent tugging us closer. It’s almost ten p.m. and Capitol Hill is just waking up. So far on our walk, I’ve learned that Drew lives in Southern California and he’s in town for work. He’s been to Seattle a few times but never had the chance to really explore, so I’ve made it my unofficial goal to show him as much as I can. I can’t remember the last time I was out on a Friday night, and it suddenly feels so full of possibility that I’m a little dizzy. Uncertain on my feet, so much that when I stumble across the pizzeria’s threshold, Drew steadies me with a hand to my lower back, that warm rush of contact going straight to my head. “I’m relieved for you,” he says as we take our place in line. “I was about to be very disappointed in Seattle.” The place is staffed by two aging punk rockers, Mudhoney playing over the sound system. I can always respect a Seattle establishment paying tribute to the Northwest’s long history of excellent bands. We may not have an abundance of by-the-slice pizza joints, but we know our music. Everyone clustered inside is in various stages of their nights: a trio of girls with flawless makeup and matching jumpsuits, a couple on what appears to be a first date, a group of college kids looking absolutely trashed, a shocking number of empty bottles covering their table. Drew gestures for me to go first, so I order a slice of pepperoni roughly the size of a Yield sign while he asks for a garden veggie. A guy with a tattoo of what I think might be the old Kingdome on his neck eyes the pie for a moment before selecting the largest slice, piled with green peppers, mushrooms, olives, and artichokes. When the cashier gives us plastic cups for the soda we order, Drew spends a moment inspecting his before filling it up with Sprite. “Just making sure it’s clean,” he says with this sheepish smile. It makes sense—this hole-in-the-wall’s hygiene is questionable at best. There are no chairs, only


was hope, it lay in the proles! Without having read to the end of THE BOOK, he knew that that must be Goldstein's final message. The future belonged to the proles. And could he be sure that when their time came the world they constructed would not be just as alien to him, Winston Smith, as the world of the Party? Yes, because at the least it would be a world of sanity. Where there is equality there can be sanity. Sooner or later it would happen, strength would change into consciousness. The proles were immortal, you could not doubt it when you looked at that valiant figure in the yard. In the end their awakening would come. And until that happened, though it might be a thousand years, they would stay alive against all the odds, like birds, passing on from body to body the vitality which the Party did not share and could not kill. 'Do you remember,' he said, 'the thrush that sang to us, that first day, at the edge of the wood?' 'He wasn't singing to us,' said Julia. 'He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.' The birds sang, the proles sang. the Party did not sing. All round the world, in London and New York, in Africa and Brazil, and in the mysterious, forbidden lands beyond the frontiers, in the streets of Paris and Berlin, in the villages of the endless Russian plain, in the bazaars of China and Japan--everywhere stood the same solid unconquerable figure, made monstrous by work and childbearing, toiling from birth to death and still singing. Out of those mighty loins a race of conscious beings must one day come. You were the dead, theirs was the future. But you could share in that future if you kept alive the mind as they kept alive the body, and passed on the secret doctrine that two plus two make four. 'We are the dead,' he said. 'We are the dead,' echoed Julia dutifully. 'You are the dead,' said an iron voice behind them. They sprang apart. Winston's entrails seemed to have turned into ice. He could see the white all round the irises of Julia's eyes. Her face had turned a milky yellow. The smear of rouge that was still on each cheekbone stood out sharply, almost as though unconnected with the skin beneath. 'You are the dead,' repeated the iron voice. 'It was behind the picture,' breathed Julia. 'It was behind the picture,' said the voice. 'Remain exactly where you are. Make no movement until you are ordered.' It was starting, it was starting at last! They could do nothing except stand gazing into one another's eyes. To run for life, to get out of the house before it was too late--no such thought occurred to them. Unthinkable to disobey the iron voice from the wall. There was a snap as though a catch had been turned back, and a crash of breaking glass. The picture had fallen to the floor uncovering the telescreen behind it.


to us on VHS. The story was on MSNBC, too. The one where the judge said the swimmer was so promising. The one where the rapist reminded the judge of himself as a young rapist. It was the one where her body was never found. It was the one where her body was found in the snow. It was the one where he left her body for dead under the tarp. It was the one where she walked around in her skin and her bones for the rest of her life but her body was never recovered. You know the one. The pizza was at the door. Oliver found us plates. He said, “So who’s watching your kids while you’re here?” 12 I took forever to fall asleep, and then woke too early, stewing over whether you’d in fact been a “creeper.” The idea bothered me, and I needed to weigh it—a strange marble I found I was holding in my hand. There were kids who thought you were cute, or at least you were the answer if they had to confess a teacher they crushed on. The girls loved that your cheeks blotched red when you got up at colloquium to make announcements, and some boys did, too, I’m sure. Red cheeks and dark hair are a compelling combination. And you certainly had your cult, the kids who wouldn’t only stop by your classroom but would sign up to carol with you on the town green or to watch the screwball comedies you screened. Occasionally they’d save you a seat at their dinner table, convince you to eat with them. This was a subset of the choir and orchestra kids, the ones who took private lessons, the musical theater divas like Beth and Sakina and Thalia who thought they could flatter their way into a lead. I’d never have gone caroling, wasn’t part of the group that got up onstage to surprise you with that German drinking song on your birthday—but I did feel free to stop by just to talk shop, as if we were colleagues. I felt you were my teacher, in a way Mr. Dar, for instance, whose history teaching seemed secondary to his hockey coaching, was not. Mr. Dar belonged to the hockey players, but you, you were mine and Fran’s and Carlotta’s, you belonged to the music kids and the speech geeks and the Italian club, to these tiny pockets of the school, not to everyone. I’ll never know why, when you arrived my sophomore year, Mrs. Ross decided I was the tech kid to throw your way. Maybe she could spare me to work October Follies when she couldn’t spare her juniors and seniors, already busy building the set for Our Town. Follies was just a variety show, after all; it only needed to entertain families at Parents’ Weekend and pad a few seniors’ college portfolios. Because you were new and I’d at least seen Follies the previous fall, I found myself in the odd position of explaining things to you. I saw it as


push Brody to admit their affair, even in front of Jonah. If Brody confesses to Ethan and his new partner, the whole department will soon know about their affair. It would be out of Ethan’s hands. Being the doctor who pronounced Chelsea dead, Sloane would likely be the next one brought in for questioning. She grabs her phone off the counter. She paces the kitchen as she waits for Ethan to answer. Pick up. It goes to voicemail after the third ring. “Ethan, call me back. I need to know you’re on my side.” She sinks onto the barstool that Ethan was just sitting in and cradles her head in her hands. She can’t trust Brody not to tell Ethan in front of Jonah. He’s a man with a lot to lose, and he’s facing more than just murder charges. She climbs off the stool and calls Ethan again as she moves through her living room. It goes to voicemail a second time. She stops and stares out her front window, letting her phone fall to her side. The sky is gray, but there’s still a good hour of daylight left. She lifts her phone, wondering if she should call Brody to warn him not to say anything to Ethan about her in front of Jonah. But that would show up in his phone records, and how would that look, especially to Ethan? She turns from the window and heads upstairs to change. Chapter 25 A light mist falls as Sloane jogs down the sidewalk away from her house. It’s been years since she exercised outside of a gym, and the cool, damp air feels good inside her lungs. She needed to get out of the house, clear her mind. From this proximity, her neighborhood has a slightly unfamiliar feel to it. She usually only sees it from the car—leaving for the hospital before dawn and getting home after sunset. The leaves on the deciduous trees have changed from emerald to bright mustard and crimson. She takes in the neatly trimmed hedges and occasional imported palm that line her street and tries not to dwell on the fact that Ethan hasn’t called her back. She looks at the view of Elliott Bay—the same waters where Chelsea drowned—beyond the bottom of the hill, still visible in the waning daylight, as she jogs between homes. She wonders if she should try calling him again. Instead, she keeps pressing one foot in front of the other. Ethan’s probably already with Jonah on their way to interview Brody. She barely notices the black Maserati that pulls to the curb beside her. She lifts her gaze to the large weeping willow swaying from the breeze in front of the Tudor home to her left. A car door closes. Seconds later, she feels a hand on her shoulder. She whips around and shrieks when she recognizes the man standing before her. Her knees buckle as she starts to run backward. “Sloane!” She falls, tearing the knee of her leggings against the sidewalk. Brody leans over and grabs her


town, and asked him to walk out with me that afternoon. He readily consenting, I wrote to Dora, saying I would bring him home. It was pleasant weather, and on the road we made my domestic happiness the theme of conversation. Traddles was very full of it; and said, that, picturing himself with such a home, and Sophy waiting and preparing for him, he could think of nothing wanting to complete his bliss. I could not have wished for a prettier little wife at the opposite end of the table, but I certainly could have wished, when we sat down, for a little more room. I did not know how it was, but though there were only two of us, we were at once always cramped for room, and yet had always room enough to lose everything in. I suspect it may have been because nothing had a place of its own, except Jip's pagoda, which invariably blocked up the main thoroughfare. On the present occasion, Traddles was so hemmed in by the pagoda and the guitar-case, and Dora's flower-painting, and my writing-table, that I had serious doubts of the possibility of his using his knife and fork; but he protested, with his own good-humour, 'Oceans of room, Copperfield! I assure you, Oceans!' There was another thing I could have wished, namely, that Jip had never been encouraged to walk about the tablecloth during dinner. I began to think there was something disorderly in his being there at all, even if he had not been in the habit of putting his foot in the salt or the melted butter. On this occasion he seemed to think he was introduced expressly to keep Traddles at bay; and he barked at my old friend, and made short runs at his plate, with such undaunted pertinacity, that he may be said to have engrossed the conversation. However, as I knew how tender-hearted my dear Dora was, and how sensitive she would be to any slight upon her favourite, I hinted no objection. For similar reasons I made no allusion to the skirmishing plates upon the floor; or to the disreputable appearance of the castors, which were all at sixes and sevens, and looked drunk; or to the further blockade of Traddles by wandering vegetable dishes and jugs. I could not help wondering in my own mind, as I contemplated the boiled leg of mutton before me, previous to carving it, how it came to pass that our joints of meat were of such extraordinary shapes - and whether our butcher contracted for all the deformed sheep that came into the world; but I kept my reflections to myself. 'My love,' said I to Dora, 'what have you got in that dish?' I could not imagine why Dora had been making tempting little faces at me, as if she wanted to kiss me. 'Oysters, dear,' said Dora, timidly. 'Was that YOUR thought?' said I, delighted. 'Ye-yes, Doady,' said Dora. 'There never was a happier one!' I exclaimed, laying down the carving-knife and fork. 'There is nothing


And all he could think was I can’t lose her, too. I can’t. It would be so satisfying to make love and forget about all the obstacles in their path to matrimonial bliss, but if he took that route, he’d wake up one day and she’d be leaving for New York. His dick would have gotten a workout, fine. But she wouldn’t be any closer to loving him back. Or believing they could go the distance. At this rate, cheesy eighties songs were writing themselves, but who could blame him when she looked so gorgeous in his passenger seat, her left knee bouncing up and down in a nervous gesture that threatened to upend the pie. “Hey.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel and brushed his knuckle along the outside of her knee, which turned out to be a big mistake, because Lord God almighty, she was smooth and that kneecap would fit right into his palm. Focus. “Are you nervous because Ingram Meyer is going to be there? Because we’ve got this, Natalie. By the end of the night, he’s going to be so positive that we married for love, he’s going to send us a second wedding gift. Fingers crossed on a chocolate fountain.” She appeared to be on the verge of rolling her eyes, but cut him a sly look instead. “You know, the one from Williams Sonoma doubles as a fondue pot.” He smacked the steering wheel. “Are we positive no one bought us one of those?” “Hallie took our gifts home, and opened and arranged them. Not a single chocolate fountain that doubles as a cheese cauldron, but then again, I wouldn’t put it past Julian’s girlfriend to steal it for herself. She once robbed a cheese shop in broad daylight.” She nodded solemnly at his incredulous eyebrow raise. “How are you so confident we’ll convince Meyer?” Because if that man can’t see I’d die for you, he’s blind. “I’m great at dinner parties. Although in Kansas, we call them barbecues.” Her laughter was kind of dazed. “Dinner with my mother in her formal dining room is far from kicking back with a cold one in someone’s backyard.” “That bad, huh?” His stomach begged him not to ask the next question, but hell, he did it anyway. “Did you ever bring your ex-fiancé home for dinner?” “Morrison? No.” “Fuck yeah.” His fist pump was so involuntary, he almost punched a hole in the roof of the truck. Pull back, tiger. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t have to go through the whole sticky process of detaching your family from the dude, as well. You know how that goes. You don’t just break up with someone, you break up with their family and friends. Such a mess.” Natalie stared. Any second now, she was going to call him on that fist pump and the bullshit that followed. Instead, she asked, “Do you . . . know how that goes? Have you had serious girlfriends?” Somehow, August got the sense that this was a dangerous topic.


adult, when I’m successful, when I’m rich, she can lie in bed all day eating Godiva chocolates instead of dragging herself to work. But I’m not rich yet, so all I can say is, “What time did you go to bed last night?” “Bed?” She blinks theatrically. “Oh! After a lifetime of sleeping, I forgot it was necessary. Must be my old lady brain acting up again.” “Isn’t there something in the Bible about sarcasm being a sin?” “No,” Mum says primly. “There should be.” “Pot,” my sister shouts from across the hall, “meet kettle.” “Go away, Giselle,” I shout back. Mum snorts, then arranges her features into a carefully neutral expression. “So. Bradley was concerned about your health, I see? How nice. He is such a sweet boy. You know—” Ah. Here we go: the What happened to you and Bradley being best friends? spiel. “He was just bringing me my textbook,” I cut in, nodding to where it sits on the bedside table. Mum practically pouts. “Oh. Well.” She has this sick and twisted dream that Bradley and I will get married so she and Maria Graeme can be even more like sisters. I’m trying not to vomit at the thought when Mum says, “Oh, what’s this?” and pulls the leaflet out of my textbook. “Private property,” I tell her, “that’s what it is.” “Not in my house.” Mum snorts. Light bounces off the back of the shiny paper and hits the printed logo of Dad’s firm. My heart drops into my stomach. Crap. “Katharine Breakspeare,” Mum says, skimming the page. “You’re going to do this?” Awkwardly, I squeak, “I’m…going to apply.” How the hell do I get that leaflet out of her hand? She can’t see Dad’s name. She’ll get the wrong idea and assume I’m interested in the program because I’m, like, upset about his abandonment or something cringey like that when, in reality, I just want to grind my future success in his traitorous face and possibly ruin his life a little bit. Which I can do without ever bothering her with the details. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get in, baby,” she says fondly. “You’re so clever. I told Mr. Hollis at school about your AS results and he was not surprised. You were the highest-achieving pupil Farndon Primary ever had. I still remember your year-four parents evening….” Year four was just after Dad ditched us. Her hand lowers to the bed as she waxes lyrical about a project I did on the water cycle. Gently, soooo so gently, I ease the leaflet out from between her fingers while mmm-ing in all the right places. “Tea, Mum?” Giselle asks, popping her head into the doorway just as I shove the paper under a pillow. Her eyes narrow on the movement of my hand. I run it casually through my ponytail, and she looks away. That was close. BRAD Was I moaning about the heat on Monday? I want to go back and smack myself because by Thursday evening, the weather’s cold and miserable. Autumn is officially here.


assistant forum discussing all kinds of things, from pay differences to appropriate work banter. Last year, someone asked: Does your boss pretend your ideas are his? Kieran: No. I’m credited for all my ideas. I might not have the experience to follow it up, but my line manager always lets the team know who came up with what idea, even if it’s tiny. Lia: Same here. I can’t always follow up because I don’t have that training, but I always get a “Lia came up with this great suggestion/congrats” from the team. Georgie: It’s a question of intellectual property belonging to the company you work for. I’m sure you were credited somehow, but don’t expect your name in the Acknowledgments. Steph: They do this because they want to keep you an assistant for longer. It’s better for them to pay you an assistant-level salary rather than acknowledge the position you really should have. An email from Kris pops up. From: Kristina@orangetreepublishing.com To: Maddie@orangetreeepublishing.com Subject: RE: Love Stories It’s so good to hear from you, Maddie, but know there’s no pressure to return to work. If you feel you need to, do only bits of what you can, but we have plenty of breathing space on the schedule for this. Selecting your favorite photographers for Love Stories might be a fun task—see email below. K x I don’t ever get to do anything creative such as choose photographers—I assumed the Design team would do that—but this task must have been given solely to placate me. Still, I click the links to various portfolios and spend the rest of the afternoon going through food websites and photographs, keeping the book’s synopsis in mind. His style is more focused and appealing—the red of tomatoes, the drip of olive oil. Her photos are more ranging; she tells me an entire story in only a few shots. She’s very clean and neat, maybe too much so? Afra uses the words “chaotic expression” and I don’t see that here. He’s very bright and colorful. He’d be great for the summer section but for winter too? Is this too sparse or is it minimalist? Ooh, I like him. Incredible with close-ups. I know it’s an autumnal recipe from that photo alone … Pumpkin tagine—I knew it. Henry VIII royal banquet vibes. She’s good at incorporating people into her photos. Can I pull off that pale pink nail color? * * * I whittle my top eight down to three and send those to Kris, cc’ing in Penny. By three in the afternoon, I have no other responses to my “et al.” email and close my laptop. Jo’s sent a group message to say she’s got a date and will be back late. I immediately wonder if it’s with Sam, and then decide she’d have said if it was. I shouldn’t care if it is, but I do. It’s still warm, so I stay outside with a bottle of cider and respond to more app notifications. I hope there’s one from Alex. Nate Have you dated a white man before?


the wall so the floor wouldn’t creak. On her fifth step a board popped, loud as a gunshot. She froze. She listened for the rustling of sheets. Nothing moved behind Poppy’s door. She took another step and the floor held, then the final step and she felt light-headed. The door swung open, smooth on its hinges. Poppy lay in bed, face to the door, eyes closed, looking like a Pre-Raphaelite painting in the golden glow of her goose nightlight. Pupkin was still on her arm. He was sitting up, legs dangling, looking right at Louise, head cocked to one side, waiting for her. Poppy’s eyes were closed, flickering beneath their lids, her lips parted, her breathing deep and regular. Pupkin looked alert. She must have fallen asleep holding him that way. Louise looked at Pupkin. Pupkin looked at Louise. He didn’t move, but she had the crawling fluttery cockroach feeling in her stomach that if she reached for the light switch his head would track her movements. All she had to do was take three steps and she’d have Pupkin off Poppy’s arm before she even woke up—that was the face Poppy made in deep sleep; that was the sound she made when they could pick her up and carry her upstairs and put her in bed without waking her up. She’d have Pupkin off Poppy’s arm and in the blender before Poppy could even open her eyes. She’d lock the door behind her. She’d leave Poppy in here, even if she banged on it and screamed. Sometimes you had to be cruel in the short term, but that was the price you paid for being an adult. You made the hard decisions and hoped that one day your kids would understand how everything you did was for their own good. She breathed in, gathered all her strength into the center of her stomach, then let her breath flow out and carry that strength into her arms, her legs, her spine. She took her weight off her left leg to step forward, and Pupkin moved. She stopped. He raised one tiny nubbin arm and lowered it, lifted it again and lowered it, waving to Louise, up and down, up and down, again and again, smiling his fixed sly smile. Bye-bye, his arm said. Bye-bye Bye-bye Poppy didn’t move. She stayed asleep, face blank, breathing regular, eyes closed. Pupkin waggled his head from side to side. He waved both arms. He thought this was a funny game. All the strength flowed down Louise’s legs and into the floor. Slowly, carefully, she stepped backward out of the room. Quietly, she closed the door and let the latch slide home. Then she sat on the sofa and waited for her hands to stop shaking. Chapter 30 A steady, piercing beep beep beep beep beep. Louise hauled herself up out of deep sleep and looked around, panicked. beep beep beep beep beep beep beep beep The sunlight splashed the wall at the end of her bed like it always did. The angle of the light through


lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of Scriptural wisdom on his premises -- a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt. Amy Lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make Tom see it in her face -- but he wouldn't look. She wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went -- came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her --------------------------------------------------------- -56- worlds -- and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody. Tom most of all (she thought). Tom was introduced to the Judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked -- partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent. He would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark. The Judge put his hand on Tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was. The boy stammered, gasped, and got it out: "Tom." "Oh, no, not Tom -- it is -- " "Thomas." "Ah, that's it. I thought there was more to it, maybe. That's very well. But you've another one I daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?" "Tell the gentleman your other name, Thomas," said Walters, "and say sir . You mustn't forget your manners." "Thomas Sawyer -- sir." "That's it! That's a good boy. Fine boy. Fine, manly little fellow. Two thousand verses is a great many -- very, very great many. And you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll --------------------------------------------------------- -57- be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, Thomas, and then you'll look back and say, It's all owing to the precious Sunday-school privileges of my boyhood -- it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn -- it's all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful Bible -- a splendid elegant Bible -- to keep and have it all for my own, always -- it's all owing to right bringing up! That is what you will say, Thomas -- and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses -- no indeed you wouldn't. And now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned -- no, I know you wouldn't -- for we are proud of little boys that learn. Now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples. Won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?" Tom was tugging at a button-hole and


wandering, Julia says, “It’s like a cleanser and moisturizer all in one!” I love multitasking. *Adds to cart* WHAT IT COST ME: Three Easy Payments of $13 Truly, the best part of any of these shows are the hosts, those who have to have so many factoids and adjectives crammed into their brains that it boggles my regular-person mind. Look around you, grab the nearest object, and try to describe it in a way that might make someone else want to buy it. I’ll go first. “Here we have a small Vornado fan—a personal fan that is compact and can sit on your desk or in a small area of your home and keep you cool. It has two speeds, which are controlled by a little gear under the fan. It’s black. It has five blades (is that what you call them?), and the cord is long but not so long that it would be annoying. I once dropped a Diet Coke on it and it didn’t break! Ummm…it’s kind of loud, but not disruptive, unless you’re sensitive to noise. It creates a lot of wind, like don’t try to read a book in front of it or you will scream. I can’t remember how much I paid for it, but it was pretty cheap? I think I got it at Big Lots. Anyway, it’s a quality fan. I don’t know that it would circulate air around a large room, but you could certainly try. Uhh, what else, what else? It’s good; it does a fan’s job. You should get one! If you want to buy mine, I’ll throw in the layer of dust for free.” That’s absolutely terrible! Now multiply that by twelve commercial-free minutes and add hand gestures and product numbers and organizing your brain to remember that “cornflower” and “cerulean” are two different shades of blue. Do you know how much skill it takes to feign enthusiasm for something called a “foldable pet pool” for twenty minutes? I watched Carolyn do it, and she was magnificent. Did I ever think I’d be in the market for an “indoor restroom for pets?” I mean, I’m still not, but there’s one in one of my many open tabs right now just waiting for me to get stoned and click SPEED BUY at 2:00 a.m. “Why?” you ask. Well, because a gorgeous MILF with medium-length square French-tip acrylics and a wedding-engagement ring combo the size of a megalith just told me not only does my dog need one but also there are only two hundred remaining for purchase and the clearance price is only good until the end of the day. Yes, two hundred sounds like a lot of useless doggy pools nobody actually needs, but when you think about how many stoners with credit cards are awake in the middle of the night ready to buy impractical shit for their pets…? This might become an emergency. Anyway, I would let any of these expertly coiffed, multitalented hosts with gleaming, fluorescent white teeth give me career advice, tell me what to eat


answers. Grandmother and Grandfather taught me early on never to reveal my surprise when a patient discloses something disturbing. “So you still get your monthly moon water?” Oriole glances at Meiling, questioningly. “The problem is not that she gets it,” Meiling explains. “It’s that it never stops.” “When and how did that start?” I ask. “Once when I had my monthly moon water, my husband spent the day in town and I had to carry all the bricks myself. My labors didn’t end until long after darkness fell. I had nonstop flooding for three months. This turned into nonstop dribbling for three years.” Three years? My next question is an obvious one. “Has medicine helped?” Oriole shakes her head, and Meiling chimes in. “How can medicine work if she hasn’t been given a proper diagnosis?” “Oriole, you are alone here today,” I comment, hoping this might bring forth more information. “My husband is often away,” she says. “He sees to the delivery of our bricks. He likes to visit taverns too. And other places…” Her face turns a deep vermilion. Does she flush from embarrassment that her husband visits women who sell their bodies or from resentment and anger? “When he’s away,” she continues with emotion in her voice, “I’m left to carry and stack the bricks and tiles we make. Many nights I sleep alone.” I nod sympathetically. I too spend many nights alone in my marriage bed. “May I listen to your pulse?” I ask. I’ve been studying medicine and treating women for years now. I feel confident, but I take my time, palpating to reach the three levels on both her wrists. Her pulse is as I expect. Thin, like fine thread, yet distinct and clear. I mull over her symptoms—the constant spotting, especially—and possibilities for treatment, knowing I can never ask Grandmother’s advice on this case. “You’re suffering from Spleen qi deficiency and injured Kidney yin caused by taxation from toil,” I offer. “This type of deep fatigue can come from too much work or from extreme mental doings like studying too hard.” “I sleep—” “A single night of sleep will not allow your body to catch up. Taxation from toil is deep. Look what it has already done to you. If I write you a prescription, will you be able to fill it?” “Oriole can go where she wants,” Meiling answers on behalf of the brickmaker. “Then here is what I would like you to do. First, please have the herbalist make you a Decoction to Supplement the Center and Boost Qi.” I don’t know if any of this will matter to Oriole, but I take the time to explain anyway. “This is a classic remedy from a book called Profound Formulas. My grandmother says she has the last copy in existence.” Oriole’s eyes widen as she absorbs this information. “The most important ingredient is one that we women rely on. Astragalus will help your fatigue and Blood prostration. I’m adding my own ideas to your prescription. Skullcap root purges Fire and inflammation. Nut grass rhizome not


agitated--very much, indeed--to a degree that made him appear quite a different creature from any thing I had ever seen him before.--In addition to all the rest, there had been the shock of finding her so very unwell, which he had had no previous suspicion of-- and there was every appearance of his having been feeling a great deal." "And do you really believe the affair to have been carrying on with such perfect secresy?--The Campbells, the Dixons, did none of them know of the engagement?" Emma could not speak the name of Dixon without a little blush. "None; not one. He positively said that it had been known to no being in the world but their two selves." "Well," said Emma, "I suppose we shall gradually grow reconciled to the idea, and I wish them very happy. But I shall always think it a very abominable sort of proceeding. What has it been but a system of hypocrisy and deceit,--espionage, and treachery?-- To come among us with professions of openness and simplicity; and such a league in secret to judge us all!--Here have we been, the whole winter and spring, completely duped, fancying ourselves all on an equal footing of truth and honour, with two people in the midst of us who may have been carrying round, comparing and sitting in judgment on sentiments and words that were never meant for both to hear.--They must take the consequence, if they have heard each other spoken of in a way not perfectly agreeable!" "I am quite easy on that head," replied Mrs. Weston. "I am very sure that I never said any thing of either to the other, which both might not have heard." "You are in luck.--Your only blunder was confined to my ear, when you imagined a certain friend of ours in love with the lady." "True. But as I have always had a thoroughly good opinion of Miss Fairfax, I never could, under any blunder, have spoken ill of her; and as to speaking ill of him, there I must have been safe." At this moment Mr. Weston appeared at a little distance from the window, evidently on the watch. His wife gave him a look which invited him in; and, while he was coming round, added, "Now, dearest Emma, let me intreat you to say and look every thing that may set his heart at ease, and incline him to be satisfied with the match. Let us make the best of it--and, indeed, almost every thing may be fairly said in her favour. It is not a connexion to gratify; but if Mr. Churchill does not feel that, why should we? and it may be a very fortunate circumstance for him, for Frank, I mean, that he should have attached himself to a girl of such steadiness of character and good judgment as I have always given her credit for-- and still am disposed to give her credit for, in spite of this one great deviation from the strict rule of right. And how much may be said


soft and yet eager. The sudden realisation of how he felt about me set fireworks off behind my eyelids. Knowing that it shouldn’t, couldn’t ever happen again, neither of us wanted it to end. I don’t know how long we stood like that, buried in our embrace. We did not speak. Occasionally his hands would caress the back of my neck, but for the most part, he simply held me, enveloping me closer and tighter. I didn’t want to move. Or think. Or wonder what it meant. The intimacy was all I craved. And then, it was over. I wasn’t sure how or who had pulled away, but we were no longer touching. He thrust his arms into his jacket and buttoned it up. His eyes met mine briefly and the look was one of fear. ‘I’m sorry.’ I tried to respond but found I had no words. My mouth formed the word ‘I’, but no sound came forth. Then he was gone, the bell ringing with his departure. I sat at my little table, shivering. What was I doing? Matthew was a married man with children. I could not, would not, be that other woman. But there was something between us and I wasn’t sure how we could carry on suppressing it. When I was in Paris, I had known Armand would break my heart, but Matthew – he would break my resolve, which was much, much worse. The solution came with the postman the following morning. A letter with a return address printed on a gold label on the back of the envelope filled me with excitement – Honresfield Library. I had written requesting access to their vast collection of papers, manuscripts and letters, specifically those pertaining to the Brontë sisters. The owners, Alfred and William Law, were two self-made industrialist brothers, who grew up near the Brontë family home and had acquired some of their manuscripts from a literary dealer. I was taking my first tentative steps as a literary sleuth – thanks to Sylvia igniting the passion for a second Emily Brontë novel at Shakespeare and Company. There was just one problem: I would have to return to England to investigate further. It was a risk, but now it seemed even more of a risk to stay. I had to put some distance between myself and Matthew. Besides, did I want to pour all of my energy into another doomed liaison, or concentrate on my work? I nodded in the affirmative. My work. That was where my true passion was to be found. I considered the logistics; The Honresfield Library was in Rochdale, near the Laws’ factory. That was over two hundred miles away from London, so I was unlikely to run into anyone I knew. I thought of Emily’s poem ‘No Coward Soul Is Mine’ and, without realising it, had already made up my mind to go. I finally felt as though I were leaving Opaline Carlisle, the girl, behind. Miss Gray would become the woman I always wanted to be. As I glanced out into the


Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.txt

determined to remember it all. "And they play with the Quaffle. Okay, got that. So what are they for?" He pointed at the three balls left inside the box. "I'll show you now," said Wood. "Take this." He handed Harry a small club, a bit like a short baseball bat. "I'm going to show you what the Bludgers do," Wood said. "These two are the Bludgers." He showed Harry two identical balls, jet black and slightly smaller than the red Quaffle. Harry noticed that they seemed to be straining to escape the straps holding them inside the box. "Stand back," Wood warned Harry. He bent down and freed one of the Bludgers. At once, the black ball rose high in the air and then pelted straight at Harry's face. Harry swung at it with the bat to stop it from breaking his nose, and sent it zigzagging away into the air -- it zoomed around their heads and then shot at Wood, who dived on top of it and managed to pin it to the ground. "See?" Wood panted, forcing the struggling Bludger back into the crate and strapping it down safely. "The Bludgers rocket around, trying to knock players off their brooms. That's why you have two Beaters on each team -- the Weasley twins are ours -- it's their job to protect their side from the Bludgers and try and knock them toward the other team. So -- think you've got all that?" "Three Chasers try and score with the Quaffle; the Keeper guards the goal posts; the Beaters keep the Bludgers away from their team," Harry reeled off. "Very good," said Wood. "Er -- have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?" Harry asked, hoping he sounded offhand. "Never at Hogwarts. We've had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that. Now, the last member of the team is the Seeker. That's you. And you don't have to worry about the Quaffle or the Bludgers -- " " -- unless they crack my head open." "Don't worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the Bludgers -- I mean, they're like a pair of human Bludgers themselves." Wood reached into the crate and took out the fourth and last ball. Compared with the Quaffle and the Bludgers, it was tiny, about the size of a large walnut. It was bright gold and had little fluttering silver wings. "This," said Wood, "is the Golden Snitch, and it's the most important ball of the lot. It's very hard to catch because it's so fast and difficult to see. It's the Seeker's job to catch it. You've got to weave in and out of the Chasers, Beaters, Bludgers, and Quaffle to get it before the other team's Seeker, because whichever Seeker catches the Snitch wins his team an extra hundred and fifty points, so they nearly always win. That's why Seekers get fouled so much. A game of Quidditch only ends when the Snitch is caught, so it can go on for ages -- I think the record is three months,


the party struck out at a actually been taken away except the captain’s money-bag and bouncing trot on the road to Dr. Livesey’s house. a little silver from the till, I could see at once that we were ruined. Mr. Dance could make nothing of the scene. “They got the money, you say? Well, then, Hawkins, what in fortune were they after? More money, I suppose?” “No, sir; not money, I think,” replied I. “In fact, sir, I believe I have the thing in my breast pocket; and to tell you the truth, I should like to get it put in safety.” “To be sure, boy; quite right,” said he. “I’ll take it, if you like.” “I thought perhaps Dr. Livesey—” I began. “Perfectly right,” he interrupted very cheerily, “perfectly right—a gentleman and a magistrate. And, now I come to Contents think of it, I might as well ride round there myself and report to him or squire. Master Pew’s dead, when all’s done; not Robert Louis Stevenson. Treasure Island. 46 47 the hall buildings looked on either hand on great old gardens. Here Mr. Dance dismounted, and taking me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house. The servant led us down a matted passage and showed us at the end into a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon the top of them, where the squire and Dr. Livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of a bright fire. I had never seen the squire so near at hand. He was a tall man, over six feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready face, all roughened and reddened Chapter 6. and lined in his long travels. His eyebrows were very black, The Captain’s Papers. and moved readily, and this gave him a look of some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high. WE rode hard all the way till we drew up before Dr. “Come in, Mr. Dance,” says he, very stately and conde- Livesey’s door. The house was all dark to the front. scending. Mr. Dance told me to jump down and knock, and Dogger “Good evening, Dance,” says the doctor with a nod. “And gave me a stirrup to descend by. The door was opened almost good evening to you, friend Jim. What good wind brings at once by the maid. you here?” “Is Dr. Livesey in?” I asked. The supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his No, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gone up to the hall to dine and pass the evening with the gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and for- squire. got to smoke in their surprise and interest. When they heard “So there we go, boys,” said Mr. Dance. how my mother went back to the inn, Dr. Livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried “Bravo!” and broke his long Contents This time, as the


have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny; but you, Clerval, my friend, my benefactor--" The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was carried out of the room in strong convulsions. A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at others I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries were sufficient to affright the other witnesses. Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture? But I was doomed to live and in two months found myself as awaking from a dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by jailers, turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding; I had forgotten the particulars of what had happened and only felt as if some great misfortune had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around and saw the barred windows and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my memory and I groaned bitterly. This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance expressed all those bad qualities which often characterize that class. The lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see without sympathizing in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that I had heard during my sufferings. "Are you better now, sir?" said she. I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to feel this misery and horror." "For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am sent to nurse you and get you well; I


morning. I’ll smooth the way for you. Breathe a word to anyone that you know me and I’ll skin you alive.” Mrs. King put out her hand. It was sheathed in a calfskin glove, ivory colored. It was lovely. “Do we have a deal?” Mother had small hands, too. It had been Alice’s job to button Mother’s gloves, keep her tidy, properly put together. Mrs. King had abandoned those chores long ago. Alice congratulated herself for not giving anything away. For of course she was in trouble, about as deep as you could get. Sometimes it made the bile rise right up in her throat. All she’d wanted was to make a decent living. Shop girls looked so crisp and composed. She’d yearned to be one. Father had trained her behind the haberdasher’s bench, and she knew she was skilled with a needle, but she wasn’t about to be sweated out for nothing. She could sketch a garment faster than most girls could brush their hair. Even her plain work was tighter, more delicate, more perfect than any pattern. She swiped all the illustrated papers she could find, inhaled the advertisements. Alice studied the popular fashions as if under a microscope, watching the lines shifting each season: lengthening, narrowing, tilting forward at the bust, sweeping around the hips. Secretly, she longed to design her own. But she needed to be apprenticed. And that required cash. It wasn’t hard to get a loan. She had her wits about her—she knew all about sharks. There were women in the neighborhood who’d pawned everything they owned and still couldn’t pay off their debts. Alice scorned them. She went to a woman called Miss Spring, who kept a very plain and respectable house on Bell Lane. Miss Spring had a soft voice, and gentle manners, and kept immaculate oilcloths. She listened to Alice’s request, took scrupulous notes, and offered an advance against future wages—calculated at seven-and-six a week, no need for sureties, all agreed on note of hand alone. Alice spent six months as a machinist before she made it to the workroom bench, and she only made three shillings a week. Even the experienced girls were only making five-and-six. Alice watched her debt rising slowly, like a tide, pooling around her ankles. She visited Miss Spring’s house and found it boarded up. But the men who took the repayments still turned up every fortnight, teeth gleaming. She met them on the lane at the end of the road, where Father couldn’t see them. “Next week,” she said. “I’ll catch up next week.” “Of course, miss,” they said, all courtesy. “You take your time.” It would have been better if they’d got out a lead pipe to beat her, if they’d sent her screaming down the lane. Then she could have gone running for help without feeling any shame. As it was, she had the upside-down feeling of being sucked deeper and deeper into something she couldn’t control, something that presaged disaster—for there was only one way things could go with a bad debt. She told


a downcast heart. "Not a particle of evidence, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, shaking his head and gathering up his skirts. "Take nothing on its looks; take everything on evidence. There's no better rule." "I have no more to say," said I, with a sigh, after standing silent for a little while. "I have verified my information, and there's an end." "And Magwitch - in New South Wales - having at last disclosed himself," said Mr. Jaggers, "you will comprehend, Pip, how rigidly throughout my communication with you, I have always adhered to the strict line of fact. There has never been the least departure from the strict line of fact. You are quite aware of that?" "Quite, sir." "I communicated to Magwitch - in New South Wales - when he first wrote to me - from New South Wales - the caution that he must not expect me ever to deviate from the strict line of fact. I also communicated to him another caution. He appeared to me to have obscurely hinted in his letter at some distant idea he had of seeing you in England here. I cautioned him that I must hear no more of that; that he was not at all likely to obtain a pardon; that he was expatriated for the term of his natural life; and that his presenting himself in this country would be an act of felony, rendering him liable to the extreme penalty of the law. I gave Magwitch that caution," said Mr. Jaggers, looking hard at me; "I wrote it to New South Wales. He guided himself by it, no doubt." "No doubt," said I. "I have been informed by Wemmick," pursued Mr. Jaggers, still looking hard at me, "that he has received a letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Purvis, or--" "Or Provis," I suggested. "Or Provis - thank you, Pip. Perhaps it is Provis? Perhaps you know it's Provis?" "Yes," said I. "You know it's Provis. A letter, under date Portsmouth, from a colonist of the name of Provis, asking for the particulars of your address, on behalf of Magwitch. Wemmick sent him the particulars, I understand, by return of post. Probably it is through Provis that you have received the explanation of Magwitch - in New South Wales?" "It came through Provis," I replied. "Good day, Pip," said Mr. Jaggers, offering his hand; "glad to have seen you. In writing by post to Magwitch - in New South Wales - or in communicating with him through Provis, have the goodness to mention that the particulars and vouchers of our long account shall be sent to you, together with the balance; for there is still a balance remaining. Good day, Pip!" We shook hands, and he looked hard at me as long as he could see me. I turned at the door, and he was still looking hard at me, while the two vile casts on the shelf seemed to be trying to get their eyelids open, and to force out of their swollen throats, "O,


Christina Lauren - The True Love Experiment.txt

a kiss that starts small, mindful of the fact that we are on television, sharing this moment with millions. But a cocktail of emotion rises in me—infatuation, relief, elation, and desire—and I can’t help the way my hand rises to his neck, the way my mouth softens against the full bow of his upper lip, the delectable swell of his lower lip, the curved, amused corner. Without question, it will be clear to everyone watching that we have done this before. As soon as our eyes open, a blast of a smile takes over my face. “I love you, too.” And then I suck in a breath and rip the envelope open. fifty-one Post-Finale Confessional Transcript Connor Prince: Well. Felicity Chen. Here we are. Fizzy Chen: Here we are. Connor: How are you feeling? Fizzy: I’m feeling like I was driven across town to film a confessional in this trailer when I should have been driven to your house to film our first sex tape. Connor: [laughs] I mean about tonight, the finale, and the revelation of our score, you muppet. Fizzy: Oh, it was the best night of my life. The surprises, the celebration with everyone onstage, the after-party. Connor: God, there are going to be some horrendous hangovers tomorrow. Fizzy: Tex was drinking beer out of his hat. Connor: I don’t think Nick ever found his shoes. Fizzy: Yes, well, some poor choices were made, but not by us. Connor: Indeed. Our night is only going to get better. Fizzy: Promise? Connor: Oh, I promise. Fizzy: In that case, I think it’s fitting that our score falls in the category of Titanium Matches. [winks at the camera] Connor: I believe that’s an erection joke and I’m going to move on. Fizzy: You always assume I’m being dirty. Maybe it was just a joke about the strength of our bond. Connor: Was it? Fizzy: No, it was an erection joke. Connor: You are ensuring that this footage never sees the light of day, aren’t you? Fizzy: When were you going to show this anyway? The finale was live! Connor: I presume there will be demand for a follow-up or reunion episode of some sort. Brenna said “trending” and “viral” about seven hundred times tonight. Fizzy: Okay, then just edit my boner joke out with bleeps and eggplant emojis; what’s so hard? Connor: Ah, note to self to add a cymbal crash there. Fizzy: See, I didn’t even mean to make that pun! You’re as bad as I am. Connor: Maybe that’s why this is true love. Fizzy: I think with a score of eighty-eight, there are a lot of reasons why this is true love. Connor: Why don’t you come over here and show me one? [Editor’s note: Minutes three to twenty-seven have been intentionally cut from footage.] Connor: Right. We’ll cut that. Fizzy: You’ve got lipstick on your… just there. Connor: Ah. Cheers. All right. Where were we? Fizzy: True love. Connor: True love. Fizzy: Our happily ever after. Connor: The one thing you promise your readers when they pick


had told her if she played her cards right, they’d prescribe her something good, and also because it was better than getting sent somewhere to be scared straight again. Guys in fatigues could shout at her and make her do push-ups and clean bathrooms, but she’d been scared her whole fucking life and she just kept getting more crooked. Alex had actually liked the doctor she’d met with that day at Wellways. Marcy Golder. She’d been younger than the others, funny. She had a pretty tattoo of a rose vine around her wrist. She’d offered Alex a cigarette, and they’d sat together, looking out at the distant ocean. Marcy had said, “I can’t pretend I understand everything in this world. It would be arrogant to say that. We think we understand and then boom! Galileo. Bam! Einstein. We have to stay open.” So Alex had told her the things she saw, just a little about the Quiet Ones who were always with her, who only disappeared in a cloud of kush. Not everything, just a little, a test. But it had still been too much. And she’d known it right away. She’d seen the understanding in Marcy’s eyes, the studied warmth, and, beneath it, the excitement that she couldn’t hide. Alex had shut up quick, but the damage was done. Marcy Golder wanted to keep her at Wellways for a six-week program of electroshock treatment combined with talk therapy and hydrotherapy. Thankfully it had been out of Mira’s budget, and her mother had been too much of a hippie to say yes to clapping electrodes on her daughter’s skull. Now Alex knew none of it would have worked for her because the Grays were real. No amount of medication or electricity could erase the dead. But at the time, she’d wondered. Yale New Haven was at least trying to keep itself human. Plants in the corners. A big skylight above and pops of blue on the walls. “You okay?” Turner asked as the elevator rose. Alex nodded. “What’s bothering you about this guy?” “I’m not sure. He confessed. He has details of the crimes, and the forensics all line up. But…” “But?” “Something’s off.” “The prickle,” she said and Turner startled, then rubbed his jaw. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s it.” The prickle had never led Turner astray. He trusted his gut, and maybe he trusted her now too. A doctor came out to meet them, middle-aged, with highlighted blond hair cut into fashionable bangs. “Dr. Tarkenian is going to observe,” said Turner. “Alex knows Andy’s father.” “You were one of his students?” the shrink asked. Alex nodded and wished Turner had prepped her better. “Andy and Ed were very close,” the doctor said. “Ed Lambton’s wife passed a little over two years ago. Andy came out for the funeral and encouraged his father to move out to Arizona with him.” “Lambton wasn’t interested?” Turner asked. “His lab is here,” said Dr. Tarkenian. “I can understand that choice.” “He should have taken his son up on the offer. By all accounts, his doctoral


pregnant straight out of high school, her parents kicked her out of the house. Sloane’s father went to prison for auto theft three years later, and Crystal packed up her Firebird with Sloane and their few possessions, leaving the small, eastern Washington town for Seattle and never looking back. Sloane’s father died in prison a few years later, and Crystal went from being financially dependent on one deadbeat boyfriend after another. Sloane was lucky to get new clothes the few times her mother could afford to buy them. In her periphery, Brody eases the yoke forward. A colony of harbor seals basks in the sun on a small rocky island that protrudes from the channel. A couple lift their heads as the plane approaches. Sloane closes her eyes seconds before they make impact with the water. The plane glides smoothly across the surface before slowing to a stop. When she opens her eyes, Brody is grinning at her. “Did I worry you?” She exhales. Then, feeling ridiculous, she lets out a short laugh as she releases her grip from the edge of her seat. A splash catches her attention out her side window. She turns to see the seals jumping into the water. Brody taxis toward a long jetty beside a tall, rocky cliffside and moors the plane next to a boat less than half the size of his one on Lake Washington. After climbing out of the plane onto the jetty, Sloane reads the name on the side of the faded vessel: Miss Saigon. Unlike the megayacht moored at Brody’s Lake Washington dock, this boat with its faded paint job and rust-stained exterior shows wear from decades of use. Not what she expected to see at the billionaire’s weekend island home. “She was my dad’s.” Brody stops beside her with her overnight bag slung over his shoulder. “He passed a few years ago and left her to me.” Brody moves up the jetty, and Sloane follows beside him. “I spent nearly every summer on that boat as a kid. My dad would plan a trip to the San Juans every year. He, my mom, and I would stay on the boat and travel around to different islands and scuba dive.” “You scuba dived as a kid?” Sloane tries to hide her surprise. Remembering the shy, nerdy guy he was in college, she pictured the app founder growing up behind a computer screen. Or video games. “My parents were both divers, and they taught me to dive when I was eight.” “You are not at all what I expected.” “Should I take that as a compliment?” She grins when he catches her eye. “I guess I just expected, as an app creator, that you grew up more…indoors.” He chuckles, and Sloane can’t help laughing herself. She admires the color of the water lapping against the dark cliffside. “The water is so much greener than the Sound.” She steps off the jetty and follows Brody up a steep wooden staircase, noting the ease with which he climbs the steps while carrying their bags.


disappeared around a bend in the road with the huddle of rescue workers and without her husband in view, everything inside her screamed to throw herself out of the truck and sprint after him. But she would not distract him in a dangerous scenario like this. Absolutely not. If he made a mistake and got hurt or killed because of her, she would never forgive herself. She was staying in the damn truck. But there was no one around to stop the truck from creeping forward a little. Just so she could keep tabs on any developments. August had left the motor running, so she put the truck into drive and inched slowly around the police vehicles and their flashing lights, stopping when the very top of the rushing water came into view below. And her blood ran cold. The van was halfway submerged in turbulent water. Teri Frasier, Zelnick Cellar’s one and only customer, and her triplets were holding on to one another for dear life on the roof of the van. For the first time, she noticed a man on the scene with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, wearing what looked to be a sodden suit. His hysterical tone reached through the rain and windshield and though the voice was muffled, Natalie somehow knew it was Teri’s husband. Helpless, watching the water slowly rise around his family. “Oh no. Oh no.” A chill rent through Natalie, making her shiver even harder than before. Her rickety breaths were causing the windshield to fog up so she turned on the defroster, retreating into the seat and pulling up her knees to her chest. “Please, please, please, August. Get them. Get them and be okay. Please.” A few minutes later, a yellow raft approached from upstream and there was August, steering it, two officers behind him. They’d put August in a helmet, but the life vest was obviously too small for his king-sized body, so it just hung on him loosely, flapping open in the wind. He shouted something at Teri, smiled, and she nodded. “I love you,” Natalie whispered. “I love you. Come on. Please.” The timing was barbaric. Why did she have to realize she loved the big lug right before he was about to do something life threatening? It couldn’t have happened while he was cooking eggs or trying to reason with the cat? Natalie was never more positive that she hadn’t loved Morrison, because this big, wild, terrifying feeling had happened only once in her life. Right now. For August. She understood now. Love turned the heart into a liability. If something happened to him, she’d never get the damn thing to beat properly again. It seemed to be beating for him now. Time seemed to freeze when August reached the side of the submerged road. From his backpack, he pulled out what looked like . . . a grappling hook? He raised it high and buried it in the dirt and rock formation that ran along the road, twisting and screwing it into the earth. One of


custom of taking every night a small quantity of laudanum, for it was by means of this drug only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed double my usual quantity and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt the fiend's grasp in my neck and could not free myself from it; groans and cries rang in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around, the cloudy sky above, the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its structure peculiarly susceptible. Chapter 22 The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found that I had overtaxed my strength and that I must repose before I could continue my journey. My father's care and attentions were indefatigable, but he did not know the origin of my sufferings and sought erroneous methods to remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! They were my brethren, my fellow beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them whose joy it was to shed their blood and to revel in their groans. How they would, each and all, abhor me and hunt me from the world did they know my unhallowed acts and the crimes which had their source in me! My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society and strove by various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride. "Alas! My father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this--I murdered her. William, Justine, and Henry--they all died by my hands." My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in


themselves Anonymous. Are you aware of who that is?” he asked. I was sweating in the hot van. “I’m not,” I responded. “Look, that was a parlor game that happened in Washington, D.C.… I’ve got my own thoughts about who that might be, but I want my focus to be on the president. And I certainly don’t want to—” “You’re not Anonymous?” Anderson interjected. “I wear a mask for two things, Anderson: Halloweens and pandemics. So, no.” For the hundredth time, I lied. Anderson Cooper wasn’t the first person in the media to ask, or the last. My anonymity would’ve survived only fifteen minutes if I’d confessed to the first person who inquired after the 2018 Times op-ed came out. D.C. reporters interrogated everyone. “If asked,” Anonymous told readers, “I will strenuously deny I am the author.” You don’t wear a mask if you plan to brag that you’re undercover. So when Anderson raised the question in August 2020, I stuck with the plan, knowing I’d eventually make the revelation. A few months later, I still hadn’t done it. I was on a cross-country truth crusade against the President of the United States, yet I was maintaining a lie about my identity. The contradiction was splitting me open. I needed someone to talk to about it. But who? Anabel and I were separated. My agents had a financial interest in whether I revealed myself (the revelation would surely affect book sales). And I wasn’t going to phone Jim Dao at the Times and ask him if I should blow up my life. There was one person I thought I could trust, partly because she already suspected me. On an October evening weeks before the 2020 election, I drove to a brewery and stuffed a book in my backpack. At a table in the corner—out of earshot from other patrons—I sat down and ordered a drink alone. I remember the tart guava beer because I had several. A blond-haired woman in her late twenties walked in, drawing stares from the men at the bar. Her magnetic confidence and designer outfit contrasted with the table partner she sought out. From the corner, in my black running clothes, I waved to her. “How are you?” Hannah asked. There was a knowing empathy in her voice when we hugged, and she held the embrace for an extra beat. Hannah had clearly heard about my relationship. “I am… tired.” I feigned a laugh. “I bet. You’ve been everywhere. I’m really proud of you guys.” Hannah had worked with several of the Trump dissenters—me, Elizabeth, Kelly, Olivia. “Thank you. It’s been a ride.” “I heard about Anabel. You probably don’t want to talk about it, but I just want to say I’m really sorry.” “Yeah, I’m getting by. It is what it is.” “My boyfriend and I broke up earlier this year. We were together for five years. So I get it. Staying busy is the best thing you can do, and it seems like you’ve got a full plate.” I didn’t want to talk about it. “Hey,