Review
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Praise for Aftermath:
"Armstrong deftly works suspense into the narrative...more than
just a typical murder mystery."
-Booklist
"A powerful thriller that will surprise you at every turn."
-Kirkus
Praise for Missing:
*"A compelling thriller that keeps the reader hooked until the
end." -VOYA, Starred
"Thrills and mystery from a pro." -Kirkus Reviews
"Fans of Laura Ruby's Gap and April Henry's Girl, Stolen
will be drawn to...Armstrong's sinister tale." -SLJ
"The plot races towards a gripping climax. Fans of April Henry
will relish this thriller." -Booklist
"Enough twists to keep any suspense fan happy, but it's the
deeper theme of trying to disentangle oneself from the place
society says you belong that resonates strongest."
-Publishers Weekly
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About the Author
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Kelley Armstrong is the #1 New York
Times bestselling author of the Otherworld series, as well as
the New York Times bestselling young adult trilogy Darkest
Powers, the Darkness Rising trilogy, and the Nadia Stafford
series. She lives in rural Ontario, Canada.
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Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
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Forty-four hours after I heard those words, I was in the backseat
of my grandmother’s car, with all the belongings I could stuff
into a duffel. Anything I’d left behind, I’d never see again. We
were running. Running as fast as we could, and the only reason we
hadn’t left sooner was because my aunt Mae had insisted Mom stand
firm. Except my mother was, at that point in her life--as at any
point thereafter--barely able to stand at all.
That was three years ago.
I’m skipping those three years. I have to. The aftermath of that
day . . . Even thinking about it makes me feel like I’m back
there, caught in the eye of a tornado, hanging on for dear life.
My her is long gone. He called my mother that night to say he
wasn’t coming home. That whatever happened with Luka, it was her
fault. Which was exactly what she needed at that moment. Sorry,
but this one’s yours, babe, I’m outta here.
When the divorce went through, he married the business partner
who’d been with him on all his trips. What happened with Luka
just gave him an excuse to dump us for her, and I’ll never
forgive him for that.
Three years.
I can break it down from there, like a prisoner tracking time on
her cell wall. I keep everything about that first month confined
to its place--don’t let it out, even when it pounds at the back
of my head, sometimes a dull throb I can ignore, other times a
gut-twisting migraine.
One nightmare month followed by six of mere hell. A period of
shame and guilt, the feeling that I’d failed Luka. Or that I’d
failed to stop Luka.
There’s grief, too, but I bury that even faster. You aren’t
allowed to grieve for someone like Luka. It doesn’t matter if he
was an amazing brother. Luka Gilchrist was a monster. Write it on
the board a hundred times and don’t ever forget it.
There’s doubt and curiosity, too, which must be doused as
quickly as the grief. I want to understand what happened. I want
to know how my brother--my kind and thoughtful brother--joined
his friends in a school shooting.
How my brother killed four kids.
Except Luka didn’t kill four kids. He didn’t kill anyone.
No, see, that’s an excuse. You aren’t allowed to make excuses
for him, Skye. He participated in a horrible tragedy, and he
would have killed someone, if he hadn’t been by .
Making excuses for him belittles what he did and belittles the
value of the lives lost.
Judgment. That’s the big one. Being judged. Sister of a school
shooter.
My early curiosity led me places I shouldn’t have gone, into
online news articles, where I got just enough details to give me
nightmares. Then into the comments sections, which was even worse
as I discovered total strangers who thought I should die for my
brother’s sins and said it so offhandedly, like it was the most
obvious thing. Hey, I hear one of those bastards has a sister.
Maybe someone should take a to her school. Or maybe someone
should take her and--
I won’t finish that sentence. I see the words, though. Thirteen
years old, reading what some troll thinks should be done to me
and wondering how that would help anything.
Then came anger and resentment and feeling like maybe, just
maybe, I didn’t deserve the petition that went around my new
school saying I shouldn’t be allowed to attend, for the safety of
others. But on the heels of that anger and resentment I would
sling back to shame and guilt, thinking about the kids who
died and how dare I whine about whispers and snubs and having
die, bitch written on my locker and yes, the janitor will paint
that over the next time he does repair work and no, I’m sorry,
Mrs. Benassi, but there are no other lockers for your
granddaughter at this time.
Six months of that. Then Gran moved us, and I registered under
her surname. That blessed anonymity only lasted a few months
before someone found out. Then it was homeschooling and moving
again and that time the new surname worked. By then two years had
passed, and when kids did find out, I lost a few friends, but
otherwise, compared to those first six months, it was fine.
Now, three years later, I’m going back.
Back to Riverside, where they have definitely not forgotten who
I am. Back to Riverside, where I will live two miles from my old
house. Back to Riverside, where I will go to school alongside
kids I grew up with.
I’m returning to the only place I ever truly called home. And
there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
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