Slide

Slide
Jill Hathaway

Vee Bell is certain of one unshakeable truth. Sophie was murdered. But how can she prove it?Everyone thinks Vee is narcoleptic, but her secret condition is far more terrifying. When Vee passes out she slides into other people’s minds and can see the world through their eyes. It’s been happening for long enough that she thinks she’s gotten a handle on it. But nothing prepares her for sliding into someone holding a bloody knife, standing over someone’s body.Vee wishes she could share her secret, but who would believe her? She can't bring herself to tell her best friend, let alone the police. But when someone else ends up dead, Vee knows she must find a way to unmask the killer before they strike again.Slide is a killer read written with a brilliant and super-slick style that will leave you breathless.

Dedication

For my mother,

who instilled in me a love of words;

and my daughter,

for whom I hope to do the same.

Contents

Cover (#uf970df34-bee0-5aac-831f-391c688e9a1b)

Title Page (#u21447657-3825-58fb-a31d-377dd5e68fae)

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

I’m slumped at my desk, fighting to keep my eyes open. A drop of sweat meanders down my back. It’s got to be eighty-five degrees in here, though it’s only October. When we complained, Mrs. Winger mumbled something about waiting for a custodian to come fix the thermostat.

Beside me, hunched over his desk, Icky Ferris stumbles over the words in Julius Caesar. We’re supposed to be reading in partners—but his monotonous tone, paired with the unintelligible Shakespearean language that gets English teachers all hot and bothered, makes me feel unbearably sleepy.

Heat is one of my major triggers—and, apparently, so is Shakespeare. Warmth crawls up my spine like a centipede. It reminds me of the time I was sitting in my dad’s car in August with the seat warmer accidentally on.

All the words in my book mush into blurry gray lines, and I know it won’t be long before I lose consciousness. The room starts to turn inside out, the seams pulling apart. I pick something in the room to focus on and end up staring at an inspirational poster with a picture of a kitten hanging off of a tree branch. The caption reads: HANG IN THERE, BABY! As I watch, the kitten’s face starts to melt off. I slip down in my chair.

There are certain signs I’m about to pass out: drooping eyelids, muscles gone slack like spaghetti, a blank look on my face. My classmates have seen it happen enough times to be able to tell what’s happening.