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Ignore the blob of red in the top left corner. It's jam, not blood, though I don't think I need to tell you the difference. It wasn't your wife's jam the police found on your shoe. . . .
Zoe has an unconventional pen pal--Mr. Stuart Harris, a Texas Death Row inmate and convicted murderer. But then again, Zoe has an unconventional story to tell. A story about how she fell for two boys, betrayed one of them, and killed the other.
Hidden away in her backyard shed in the middle of the night with a jam sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other, Zoe gives a voice to her heart and her fears after months of silence. Mr. Harris may never respond to Zoe's letters, but at least somebody will know her story--somebody who knows what it's like to kill a person you love. Only through her unusual confession can Zoe hope to atone for her mistakes that have torn lives apart, and work to put her own life back together again.
Rising literary star Annabel Pitcher pens a captivating second novel, rich with her distinctive balance between humor and heart. Annabel explores the themes of first love, guilt, and grief, introducing a character with a witty voice and true emotional resonance.
my hand. Half of it was left on the wall and half of it dangled from a branch, and that was the only evidence in the whole world that something inside me felt broken. The car windows were steaming up. I didn’t want to think about what was going on inside, I mean we’ve all seen Titanic—or maybe you haven’t, so imagine a hand slapping against some glass dripping with breath and sweat and passion. Taking care not to be seen, I climbed off the wall, my back stiff and my legs sore. Everything hurt
out the door and returned with something hidden behind my back. “Ta-da. Have this until you can afford the real thing.” I waited for Dad to say thanks, but his face fell in on itself. He glanced from the Ferrari to the list of law firms on the desk. All those crosses. “I didn’t mean… Not because you’ve been made redundant. That’s not what I—” “It’s brilliant,” Dad interrupted, taking the car and pushing it along the desk, making an engine noise in his throat, but it was halfhearted and we both
the spiral steps to the Children’s section and handed her the first thing I could find, a picture book called Molly the Moo Cow. The old lady blinked. “My granddaughter’s sixteen. And a vegetarian.” By the time I’d found a suitable book, Mrs. Simpson had appeared by the beanbags, dressed in a pale yellow cardigan with flowers for buttons. “There’s a lot of filing in the office, Zoe,” she said, her neat bob like a helmet of hair around her pointy face. “But I need to return this,” I said,
the far corner? The cupboards, jumping in next to the cereal? Panicking, I ducked behind a tall boy with acne as Aaron pushed past Lauren. My pulse quickened. He reached the drinks table. My pulse raced. He nodded at the boy with spots. My pulse exploded. One meter away—that’s all he was, and I couldn’t let him see me, not if he was here with another girl and his brother was probably somewhere in the house, too. Cringing, I turned away from the drinks table, determined to stare in the opposite
free as if it’s going to drift right out of you toward the sun and float away into the universe when it finally stops beating. You deserve some happiness now, Stu. Of course you made mistakes, but you faced up to your crime and accepted your fate so at least your story ends bravely. With honesty. Mine ends differently, as you will see. The morning of May 1 was perfect, like God had ironed a turquoise cloth across the sky and stitched a yellow circle right in the middle of it. It hurts to think