Chris Mooney is the author of three thrillers. His most recent, Remembering Sarah, was nominated for the Edgar Award for Best Novel. He lives in Boston with his wife and son.
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First published in the United States of America by Atria Books 2007
First published in Great Britain in Penguin Books 2007
Copyright © Chris Mooney, 2007
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents
are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living
or dead, is entirely coincidental
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject
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who showed me how,
who showed me why
Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence.
Genuine tragedies are not conflicts between right and wrong. They are conflicts between two rights.
G. W. F. HEGEL
I The Man from the Woods (1984)
Darby McCormick grabbed Melanie by the arm and pulled her into the woods with no trails. Nobody came out this way. The real attraction was behind them, across Route 86, the biking and hiking trails along Salmon Brook Pond.
‘Why are you taking me out here?’ Melanie asked.
‘I told you,’ Darby said. ‘It’s a surprise.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Stacey Stephens said. ‘We’ll have you back at the convent in no time.’
Twenty minutes later, Darby dropped her back-pack on the spot where she and Stacey often came to hang out and smoke – a sloping wall of dirt littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts.
Not wanting to ruin her new pair of Calvin Klein jeans, Darby tested the ground to make sure it was dry before sitting down. Stacey, of course, just plunked her butt right down in the dirt. There was something inherently grubby about Stacey, with her heavy mascara, hand-me-down jeans and T-shirts always worn a size too tight – nothing was ever quite able to mask the sense of desperation that hovered around her like Pig-Pen’s dirt cloud.
Darby had known Melanie since, well, since forever, really, the two of them having grown up on the same street. And while Darby could recall all the events and stories she had shared with Mel, she couldn’t for the life of her remember how she had met Stacey, or how the three of them had become such good friends. It was as if Stacey had suddenly appeared one day. She was with them all the time during study hall, at football games and parties. Stacey was fun. She told dirty jokes and knew the popular kids and had gone as far as third base, whereas Mel was a lot like the Hummel figurines Darby’s mother collected – precious, fragile things that needed to be stored in a safe place.
Darby unzipped her backpack and handed out the beers.
‘What are you doing?’ Mel asked.
‘Introducing you to Mr Budweiser,’ Darby said.
Mel fumbled with the charms on her bracelet. She always did that when she was nervous or scared.
‘Come on, Mel, take it. He won’t bite.’
‘No, I mean, why are you doing this?’
‘To celebrate your birthday, dumbass,’ Stacey said, cracking open her beer.
‘And for getting your license,’ Darby said. ‘Now we have someone to take us to the mall.’
‘Won’t your dad notice these cans are missing?’ Mel asked Stacey.
‘He has six cases in the downstairs fridge, he won’t miss six lousy beers.’ Stacey lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to Darby. ‘But if he and my mom came home and caught us drinking, I wouldn’t be able to sit or see straight for a week.’
Darby held up her can. ‘Happy Birthday, Mel – and congratulations.’
Stacey drained half her beer. Darby took a long sip. Melanie sniffed her beer first. She always smelled anything new before tasting it.
‘It tastes like soggy toast,’ Mel said.
‘Keep drinking, it will taste better – and you’ll feel better too.’
Stacey pointed to what looked like a Mercedes snaking its way up Route 86. ‘I’m going to be driving one of those someday,’ she said.
‘I can totally see you as a chauffeur,’ Darby said.
Stacey shot Darby the finger. ‘No, shitbird, somebody’s going to be driving me around in one of those ’cause I’m going to marry a rich guy.’
‘I hate to be the one to break this to you,’ Darby said, ‘but there are no rich guys in Belham.’
‘That’s why I’m going to New York City. And the man I marry is not only going to be drop-dead gorgeous, he’s going to treat me right. I’m talking dinners at nice restaurants, nice clothes, any kind of car I want – he’s even going to have his own plane to fly us to our fabulous beach house in the Caribbean. What about you, Mel? What kind of guy are you going to marry? Or is your heart still set on being a nun?’
‘I’m not going to become a nun,’ Mel said and, as if to prove her point, took a long sip.
‘Does that mean you finally gave up the goods to Michael Anka?’
Darby nearly choked on her beer. ‘You’ve been making out with Booger Boy?