The Collide

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Riel (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Jasper (#litres_trial_promo)

Riel (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Jasper (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Riel (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Jasper (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Riel (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

Wylie (#litres_trial_promo)

The Outliers (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Books by Kimberly McCreight (#litres_trial_promo)

Discover Where It All Began . . .

About the Publisher

AUTHOR’S NOTE (#u311d5726-8611-5a67-9f5e-64f9a609fad5)

This is a work of fiction. The things that you read here did not happen. At least, not yet.

Dear Rachel,

Don’t think that I’m not grateful for all you’ve done. It’s probably not possible to be more grateful to another human being. You saved my life. And, up until now, you’ve been right about me staying hidden. You’ve been right about everything.

I know you think going to see Wylie at the detention center is a bad idea. When we talked, you did an outstanding job explaining all the really logical, completely rational reasons why it would be dangerous. For her, and for me.

• It’s a prison filled with cameras: no more playing dead.

• Ben is already missing. Do I really want to leave my kids orphans?

• I could be putting Wylie even more in harm’s way. They could try to use me against her.

See, I was listening, Rachel. And I do trust you.

But I’ve got to trust my own instincts, too. And for all the risk there is in showing up at that detention center, there’s more in staying away. Maybe not a risk of physical harm to me or Wylie. But there are other kinds of pain, Rach. There’s other damage that matters.

I was the one person Wylie always counted on. And I lied in the worst possible way. How am I ever going to get her to trust me again? I’m terrified that I may have already lost her forever. So scared that sometimes I think my heart might stop. If I don’t start clawing my way back to her right now, I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me.

And I’ve already made a difference out here. Those people you suggested I contact, that senator, that friend of yours at the ACLU—they’ve had such good ideas about what this fight is going to entail. We have to be prepared, there’s no doubt about that.

But right now, I need to be Wylie’s mom first. That matters most of all. And she needs to know for sure that I’m alive. For that, she’ll need to see me with her own eyes. After what she’s been through, it’s the only option. I can’t hurt her for one second more. I won’t.

Okay, rant complete. I just wanted to state my case, for the record. And just so we’re 100% clear: going to see Wylie is something I’m going to do, with or without your help. Whatever happens, though, know how grateful I am. I’m so glad to have you back, too. I missed you more than you know.

Xx

Hope

WYLIE (#ulink_25be2988-78ed-5038-b49a-18f28a863bf7)

I STAND IN FRONT OF THE GRAY DETENTION FACILITY DOOR, WAITING FOR IT TO buzz open. In my hand is a plastic grocery bag stuffed with the mildewed Cape Cod T-shirt and shorts I was wearing when I was arrested.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been in the standard-issue pajama-like shirt and pants twenty-four hours a day. So stiff, it’s like they were designed so you’d never sleep again. My current outfit is the total opposite. Expensive pair of denim shorts, threadbare in just the right places, and an absurdly soft plain gray T-shirt. Without me having to ask, Rachel brought the clothes in for me to wear home. And I’m grateful for that. I’ve felt grateful to Rachel for a lot of things.

Like starting with getting me out on bail. It wasn’t that complicated, Rachel says. Still, they went to so much trouble to get me in there, I didn’t think they’d let me go just because Rachel filed a petition for bail review. But I was wrong. Rachel came through for me, once again. According to her, it wasn’t just about the papers she filed, though. It was who you called after you filed them, which sounded both totally true and completely shady.

And I do credit Rachel alone, not my mom. I’m going to get you out of here. I promise. Xoxo. That’s what my mom’s note said. And on the other side: Trust Rachel. She will help you. She saved my life.

But those were just words.It’s easy to make promises and then disappear. It’s sticking around to face what you’ve done that’s the hard part.

RACHEL LOOKED SHEEPISH when she came to visit the morning after my mom had appeared like a ghost, pushing that creaky detention facility library cart. She felt guilty, too, I could read that loud and clear. We were in one of the small private rooms reserved for meetings with attorneys. The rooms that always smelled like onions and were freezing cold. The ones that Rachel cautioned weren’t actually that private at all.

It was Rachel’s guilt that erased all doubt. Not only had Rachel known my mom had come to see me in the detention facility, she had known the whole time that my mom was alive.

There was also no excuse for the fact that I’d missed Rachel’s deception. But she was usually really hard to read; the guilt today was kind of an exception. Maybe it was so many years of saying whatever it took for her clients. The only real constant was that Rachel always told less than the whole truth. Like it was a reflex. Trying to get a fix on her true feelings was like trying to grab a bolt of lightning in your hands. It probably made her an awesome lawyer. It did not make her an easy person to trust. In my defense, I never fully had. I had just come to accept that I did not.

As I sat down across from Rachel, I wanted so badly for her to be an Outlier, so she could feel the full force of my rage. Rachel had lied to me repeatedly.

Had I felt joyful when I’d looked up and seen my mom—my actual mom, risen from the grave—staring down at me with all that love in her eyes? Sure, I guess. Okay, yes, definitely. But a day later, it was mixed up in a stew of other feelings: anger, sadness, confusion, betrayal.

But my mom wasn’t there for me to take that out on her. Rachel was. And so, laying into her would have to do.