Tag: thriller

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Nell wore one of Kent’s sweatshirts and would’ve pulled the sleeves down over her hands if she could’ve figured out how to hold the book and turn the pages that way. She didn’t want to touch the book, even though C. J. O’Connell himself hadn’t actually handled it. He’d written the words, whoever he was, but he’d never held this specific copy.

Unless he had. Because he sent it himself. But, if he knew that Nell was here, then why go through the trouble of writing a book and getting everyone all geared up to #FindRosie?

Nell didn’t know anyone named C. J. O’Connell, or even anyone with that last name, but then, this guy wouldn’t have known her as Nell, be it Green or Harris. Plus O’Connell could easily be his pen name, which didn’t have to have anything to do with legal name or a legal name change. So.

Kent kept her water bottle and coffee mug topped off, but she still had a headache. She didn’t want to keep reading, but she wanted to be done, especially when that wasn’t the only thing she’d have to do before talking to Adam. It was one thing to point to a book and say hey, Mr. FBI Agent, this is the guy you’ve been looking for, and another to give him the proof that meant he might actually read the book. Or at least force an underling to read the book.

The serial killer wasn’t publicly a serial killer because they’d only really put it together after Heidi’s murder, and that was the end of it. The end of it because Nell, whose name hadn’t been Nell at the time, disappeared. Really she was just lucky she somehow had alibis for all five murders, and that those alibis weren’t all provided by Kent. Whose name hadn’t been Kent at the time, either.

God, it had been years since she’d thought about that other life. Her dead life. The life that collected so many dead people in it during those last seven months.

Margaret and Trevor didn’t die in the book. Calvin simply … spoke to them … and they stopped doing the things that messed with Rosie’s life: running late on the bus schedule and always stealing her parking spot. Or maybe Cal spoke to Margaret’s boss and got her fired, which was still a pretty cruddy thing to do, but at least it wasn’t murder.

The bar was on the floor.

Book Trevor wasn’t named, either, but the guy who lived in 17 simply … left … after a stern talking-to from Cal. The real-life Trevor left, too, and it took more than two months before people realized that he hadn’t just taken off. Two months where Nell’s assigned parking spot was always available to her, sure, so it didn’t matter as much if she ran out to do an errand or went home for Thanksgiving or Christmas, but two months when Trevor’s girlfriend waffled between grief and loud one-night stands.

Nell and Heidi had agreed that the parking lot annoyance was less invasive than all the late-night noises. They’d laughed about it, and then felt bad when Trevor’s body was found, and then the girlfriend—God, what had her name been? Sherry? Shelly?—moved away.

Nell wasn’t to the end of the book yet, but she figured Rosie’s roommate had to die. There wasn’t really a way around that one. But she was still in winter, coming up on Kelsey, actually, and after Kelsey but before Heidi there was Ashleigh, and …

After Heidi, after the last one, the FBI gave the killer a name, at least among themselves. He was the Fairy Godfather, but that wasn’t quite right—he was Nell’s fairy godfather, whacking anyone he perceived was a threat to her and her personal success. It meant he had to be associated with the apartment building, sure, but everyone there was checked out ages ago. That happened in 2019, after Nell left and became Nell, and after the murders stopped. The theory, according to Adam, was that the murders stopped because Nell left. The Fairy Godfather couldn’t protect her anymore, so he no longer had a reason or an excuse to kill.

There was still doubt that Ashleigh was actually murdered, since that was a car crash, but Adam also confided that he, personally, counted that one. There was just enough to be a little suspicious, especially since Ashleigh had been the only one ahead of Nell to become valedictorian. Nell hadn’t wanted to be valedictorian. She was willing to cut her GPA off at the knees last quarter if it looked like Ashleigh might do the unthinkable and get an A- in one of her classes. She didn’t want to give the speech, and she didn’t really need a perfect 4.0. She had her job lined up, she’d be moving in with Kent, and they were already discussing marriage and kids and their future.

The whole point was that the Fairy Godfather didn’t know her at all. He had to be close enough to know that Margaret drove the bus, and Trevor stole her parking spot—but he only started stealing her parking spot when she started driving to class because the bus reminded her of Margaret—and he knew that Kelsey and Ashleigh routinely came over, and that Heidi was her roommate, but, whoever he was, he didn’t understand.

Adam was the one who had to explain the logic: Kelsey was a friend from high school who was going to hold Nell back somehow. Ashleigh outshone the Fairy Godfather’s chosen special girl, so she couldn’t be allowed to keep that up. And Heidi and Nell clashed, except Adam only really got that information from Nell, and it wasn’t anything major. Minor annoyances, sure, so had Heidi told the Fairy Godfather about those issues? Or had he overheard her telling someone else and exaggerating about it?

It made no sense, and Since You Went Away made even less sense. Maybe Brandon heard it was heart-wrenching and yada yada yada, but this was just some mediocre white dude assigning Rosie a sacred position in the world simply because she’d caught his eye. Seriously, there wasn’t anything special about Rosie. That was just another argument that the Fairy Godfather hadn’t actually known Nell at all.

Kent was clearly trying not to hover, but he came out of the spare bedroom, peeked in, and came over to sit down next to her, arm around her shoulders as he checked what page she was on. “You need a break, babe?”

Nell groaned and shut the book on her thumb, pinching the bridge of her nose with her free hand. “If I take a break, I don’t know if I’m going to have enough time to figure out how to convince Adam.”

“I’ve been working on that. I don’t have the page numbers, but …”

But, when Kent read it last night, he’d added sticky note flags to certain chapters. They only started partway through, which was a clear indication of when he’d realized that fuck, no, this was actually a problem, but they were there. Nell suddenly blinked and groaned, slumping against him. “You’re going through our old emails, aren’t you.” Because she hadn’t kept a diary or a journal or anything like that, but she’d emailed him almost every night. The only times she hadn’t was when they’d been together, but Kent was a year ahead of her at Western so he’d been off at his new job and they’d been apart for every murder but Heidi’s.

They’d walked in on that scene together.

Kent kissed her temple. He conditioned his beard so it wasn’t too prickly, and half the reason he grew out all of his hair was because, before, he’d been clean-shaven with a near buzz cut.

Kent’s argument was that, if they were taking on new identities, then of course it was time to explore all the things they might’ve wanted to do with physical appearance, but had never felt brave enough to try. That was maybe easier for him, because he had felt trapped in a glass box of family expectations, and it was also a little intimidating how much Kent had blossomed into himself once he was free from all that, but now Nell was off track again. It was easier to think about, say, November 2019 and later rather than her senior year of college, forever unfinished.

He kissed her hair this time. “You could use a nap.”

Nell chuckled. “Are you saying you’re going to take a nap and you’d like some company?”

“Eh. I could go either way. It didn’t actually take me that long to read. But,” he added with another kiss, “if you’re saying you’d like to go to bed with me …”

“Kent Alexander.”

“Can’t threaten me with my middle name if I like my middle name.”

“You like your middle name,” she countered, setting the book aside and getting up, “because I only use it when you’re going to get your way in the end.”

He grinned and let her help him up. “I’m going to get my end in what now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, although it was tempered by her smile and cut off by his kiss.

---

from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)

Holidays are hard. There’s the consumerism aspect, which assumes you’re going to go into debt to prove to the people you love that you do indeed love them, except there’s also the social aspect that dictates who, exactly, those people should be. If they’re not blood, they’re secondary—that’s why they’ve started touting that stupid Friendsgiving, for the people you actually want to spend time with, because the fourth Thursday of November has to be family. Born family, not found family, and if we’re already admitting that they aren’t the be-all, end-all of relationships, why not capitulate completely? Take Thanksgiving and Christmas and spend them with the people you can actually stand for more than two days a year, honestly.

Rosie went home for Thanksgiving, and I get that. Her family isn’t very big—it’s just her and her grandmother, and she does actually like her grandmother. Rosie’s the only child of only children, and yeah, that’s pretty freaking lonely. But it also means they’re tight, and I can’t just … presume to show up, too. Even though it’s less than two hours away.

Part of it is how Rosie assumes that, since she and Nana are peas in a pod, I should be that way with my mom. The two Musketeers. Even though Mom’s right here in town, and I see her a lot, and Rosie hasn’t gone back home since the quarter started. She left after class Wednesday, did the whole long weekend thing, and came back Sunday night.

Now we’re looking at winter break, and it’s a lot longer.

I’m trying not to let it get me down. Trying not to dissolve into romance movie cliche. But that’s really the truth, isn’t it? When you find the person you want to be with, you just … want to be with them. It doesn’t matter if it’s Christmas Eve or just another Tuesday. I’d rather be alone than with most people, but I’d rather be with Rosie than alone.

I’ve got a key to her apartment. Not for any of the reasons I’d really like a key, but at least it’s a key she gave to me and not just the FacMan key. It’s because she’ll be gone, and Hailey will be gone, and they’ve got plants to water. I guess on the one hand it’s nice of her to leave it instead of taking it with her, because it gives me something to do. Some way to help her that she’s actually asked me to do, so that’s a step forward: instead of just trying to hide her problems, she presented it to me outright and asked me to check in.

Of course I said yes. I’m not a college student at a prestigious liberal arts school on a weird quarter system that gives practically a month off over Christmas. I’ll be working, including Christmas day if something goes wrong.

Some guys would take advantage of the key thing to go through her stuff, but Rosie knows I won’t. She’s not the neatest person, so there are piles of papers and notebooks and things, and maybe I’m there somewhere—she’s taking a creative writing class this quarter—but I’m not going to go looking for myself. If she wants to share it with me someday, I’ll gladly read it, but not before she’s ready.

So much of Rosie’s life has been people forcing things on her before she’s ready. What she needs is a safe space where she can finally relax, can finally take in the silence, and grow at her own pace.

---

Chapter Six

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Worry meant Nell tried to stay awake until Kent came to bed, but she didn’t make it. And she was so exhausted the alarm had to wake her, which was rare—usually she was up before it, so it didn’t even ring. The library opened much later than Pending, so she didn’t want to disturb Kent.

He just kept snoring, so at least that was good. He probably needed the sleep.

Nell only went to the bathroom first because she really needed to pee, but she ignored the rest of it—the shower, her clothes laid out so she wouldn’t bump around in the dresser drawers, a scatter of hair clips—to go into the main room of the apartment and look for the book.

Kent left it on the kitchen island, next to a sticky note: Adam will be here on Saturday. xoxo

Shit. First it was bad enough that Kent called Adam—in the middle of the night?—and second, that gave her today and tomorrow to build the case. If there was a case.

Kent called Adam in the middle of the night. There was a case.

Everything felt out of joint. Her usual morning rituals were thrown off to the point where she wasn’t entirely sure she’d actually used soap in the shower and she had to check the mirror to make sure she’d remembered to fully dress.

Kent finished reading the book and called Adam. Adam was coming on Saturday. She didn’t know what time on Saturday, but it wouldn’t be much more than forty-eight hours before she’d have to discuss … back then.

On the plus side—Nell was really grasping for a plus side—she was technically reading it for Art, so she could stick the book in her bag and have it with her behind the register for any downtime.

Nell knew she didn’t forget to eat breakfast, because that, at least, was a very clear thought: usually I eat breakfast, but not this morning, thanks. Her stomach was both twisted in knots and full of snakes, so there most definitely wasn’t any room for breakfast.

The bus was on time, and this morning she couldn’t stop Margaret’s name from bubbling up in her mind as she got on, Margaret’s broad, pleasant face superimposed over the anonymous older man who neither looked over nor responded to her “Good morning.”

Margaret always grinned and said “Morning, sugar.” The bus was frequently late, but Margaret was always happy to be there.

Nell nearly missed her stop.

This morning she made sure that waving to Colton was a deliberate gesture and repeated it in her mind: I’ve already waved, so I don’t have to wave again. But everything else was out of whack, like someone had snuck in a couple ersatz puzzle pieces that looked close to the real ones but didn’t quite fit. Instead of habit, she had to think things through and run down a mental checklist that was normally subconscious. Even her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly, since she couldn’t just scan the tag wall to get an idea of what they had and what was missing. She had to pause and do the list again: how many reds? Oranges? All the way down to Mary’s favorite, purple, and oh, yeah, she had to get the chairs down before the top of the hour.

At least Colton just nodded on his way out. Imagine being so thrown that a guy you barely knew stopped and used most of his daily allotment of words to ask how you were doing.

And at least that first rush of regulars consisted of people as tired and distracted as she was. Really, they all just needed coffee, and they were all lucky Nell remembered to get it brewing and fill the urns. She had a short debate but possible wakefulness won out over the threat of increased anxiety—like it could increase—and during a pause she made herself a large latte with an extra shot.

Mary didn’t stop in. Nell asked a couple of the others about her, but all she got was grunts and shrugs as they thrust the plastic tags across the counter and waited, silently, for the cups or wrapped sandwiches. Maybe Charlie and Greg and Sam and Joan didn’t know she’d ask about them, too, if she hadn’t seen them in a few days. None of them were quite as regular as Mary, but she still noticed when they weren’t there. Maybe there were other people in the world who preferred it if their absence wasn’t noticed.

Nobody here in Colchester knew anything about her life before she’d arrived here with Kent, as newlyweds, except of course a lot of what they knew was a lie. Their names, even their birth dates … the story was that they’d run off practically the minute Nell turned eighteen, in full defiance of both families because Kent was twenty-eight and neither set of parents agreed it was a good match, and stumbled into Colchester because it was middle-of-nowhere enough that no one would find them.

It was, Nell always thought, a very teenage sort of story, because clearly any family members wishing to track them down would be able to follow their names. Kent Harris’ parents could type their son’s name into a search engine and match the results to his age, and Penelope Harris, nee Green, would turn up the same way. You needed a damn good reason to get your name changed in closed court so, even if they’d picked a different last name entirely, there would be a public record.

Apparently everyone assumed that their respective parents were so disgusted with their love story that they’d washed their hands of their children completely. Maybe they also took private bets on how long this runaway marriage would last, especially when Nell was supposed to have been a teenager at the time of the vows. Eighteen, and a very young eighteen. Young enough she forgot to get pictures of their big day.

“Hey, you okay?”

She jumped, one hand going to her chest, but even as her heart pounded in her ears Nell realized she must’ve recognized Art’s voice. “Sorry.”

He frowned a little. “That’s not really an answer to my question.”

Nell looked up at the honest concern in his eyes. This was Art worried about Nell, the human being, and not the boss ready to yell at an employee for zoning out on the job. Art, however, didn’t know. All the paperwork and references he had on her told him he’d hired a teenager named Nell Harris. She cleared her throat and shook her head. “It looks, uh … it looks like someone’s finally trying to find us, and …”

“You’re happier not being found?” he supplied.

That, at least, was clear, so she nodded firmly.

Art responded in kind. “Anyone comes in looking for you, we don’t know a thing.”

He knew she didn’t want her photo displayed anywhere, of course, and he’d always been on them about not giving other people’s schedules away. That included questions about whether someone worked here, and Art even fired someone who’d ignored these orders and cheerfully passed on the information that Jessica would be in at two.

He ducked to catch her eye. “I think you need to go home.”

“Art …”

“Take the day. Grab some sandwiches, a coffee, whatever, but … head on home, Nell. It’s okay.” Then he winced and tilted his head to show that, well, leaving now was okay, even if other things weren’t.

Nell sighed and pulled out her phone to text Kent Art’s sending me home, holding it so Art could read it upside-down.

He nodded. “Good. Go home and … look, if there’s anything else I can do to help you feel safer …”

Don’t let C. J, O’Connell come and read his book here. Oh, but actually: “If you’re going to go with the reading and stuff, all those people from all over?”

Art nodded again, so she didn’t have to finish that thought. “You won’t work that night. Promise.”

Her phone buzzed. I just got up. I was going to ask how you’re doing.

Maybe Art saw something on her face because he came around the counter and made little shooing gestures. “Grab some lunch so you don’t have to make anything. Just … shelter and regroup and get your game plan in order.”

The game plan would have to wait until they saw Adam, but Nell could certainly grab some lunch. She couldn’t take a coffee in a to-go cup on the bus, but Art found a thermos in the back and filled it up with her favorite house blend, which might have been one kindness too many, but at least a group of customers came in so they didn’t have to do some sort of goodbye involving reassurances from him and maybe a bit of stiff upper lip from her. Nell was able to slip out, sandwiches tucked in her bag next to the book and thermos in one hand, and she only had to hustle a little to catch the next bus.

---

from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)

Honestly, she’s just too sweet. Rosie sits there in her Rosie way, one sock foot tucked under, the other dangling, and slowly French braids her wondrous hair as she wrinkles her nose at the news.

The guy from 17, who can never remember which parking spot actually belongs to him, has disappeared. There’s his girlfriend, tearing up as she explains the last time she saw him, clutching his photograph like it’s a candlelight vigil and not a grown man who maybe learned he can’t just do whatever the hell he wants all the time.

I had some words with 17. Words is all they were—and I even kept it civil, instead of asking him exactly how small his dick is for him to go walking around with his chest puffed out like that, swaggering like it’s the only way to move around something so hefty.

It wasn’t always Rosie’s parking spot he took, but hers is closer to the door, and she’s been driving to class more. First the bus is always late, and then the regular driver flaked off, so I guess she’s lost her trust in Metro. The downside was that 17’s schedule, if he actually had a schedule—deadbeat, living off his girlfriend, and if I were her, I wouldn’t be crying so hard that he took off—meant he’d get back when Rosie was gone, so he’d steal her parking spot.

She was resigned to it. If his car was in hers, she’d park in his. Maybe there was a risk of someone actually checking the license plates against the assigned spots, but if she didn’t complain about 17, then he wasn’t going to complain about her and risk his own getting towed in the bargain.

If he had, I would’ve made sure his got towed. Check the entire lot, spot by spot, and go to town.

Rosie resigns herself to things she shouldn’t have to endure. Guys like 17, who will just keep taking and pushing and swaggering their way through life until they come up against someone who can’t be moved.

I told him I wouldn’t be moved. Maybe he suspects it’s because of Rosie, specifically, but hers isn’t the only spot he was poaching, and I work for the whole apartment complex. I thought about pulling him aside and doing a sort of bro confidential, “warning” him that management was going to start checking all the parking jobs against official lists, but 17 isn’t the kind who’d appreciate a bro helping him out.

That’s not the sort of conversation a guy like him would understand.

It’s even clearer now, though, watching the news switch to whatever comes next, that he’s really more of a mouse than a man. All he had to do was keep his car in the proper spot, but he left, instead. He didn’t want to risk running across me again, knowing he wasn’t the alpha. All he had to do was keep his head down and follow the rules, but he couldn’t even manage that.

Rosie looks at me. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“She’s better off without him.”

She tilts her head, because that’s not the sort of thing Rosie would want to actually admit, but she doesn’t say no. Because Rosie’s not one to lie, either.

I’d put my arm around her, but I don’t want to presume. Enough people take advantage of her already. This is one time when she gets to call the shots.

---

Chapter Five

Catch up on the previous chapters here

Nell saw the way Kent kept looking at her on the bus ride back to their apartment, but he didn’t say anything. He let her keep her mouth shut until they got off, and walked hand-in-hand a couple more blocks, and she got out her keys and opened the first door, and they went up the stairs so she could open the second door, and as they took off their shoes and hung up their keys and put their bags away.

Then he just stood there in the little entryway, head cocked and eyebrows raised.

“It’s fine.”

“Penelope.”

She shook her head and went into the kitchen to check the fridge. “I’m reading too much into it, that’s all. Rosie’s a senior at K, she’s majoring in Classics, she studied in Rome …”

Silence. Kent was good at using silence.

“She’s about five four, he gives her a weight but it’s probably wrong, says she’s solid because he doesn’t want to say fat, long blonde hair, wears hoodies and jeans and Converse, takes the bus to campus every day even though she’s got a car parked right there in her space in the apartment lot …”

More silence.

Nell made a unilateral decision and went for the freezer instead. Sweet and sour chicken and spring rolls, check. “Rosie’s got a grandmother a couple hours away, but no other family. Plus her roommate’s, like, practically a stranger, because housing fell through.”

“Nell …”

She checked the cooking instructions on the spring rolls and started punching numbers on the microwave. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

The floorboards squeaked as Kent went back to the second bedroom and then returned with the laptop they shared, setting it on the kitchen island. “O’Connell?” he asked, opening it up and waiting for the old machine to boot.

“C. J. Since You Went Away.” Because no, she hadn’t Googled it yet. Things could still be a coincidence. Hey, if it wasn’t a coincidence, then this was still one heck of a coincidence. Unless O’Connell sent it to Pending because he knew she worked there. “We’re jumping at shadows,” she murmured, but Nell could barely hear herself over the whir of the microwave.

Kent typed, clicked, scrolled, clicked again, and frowned.

Seriously, enough with the silence. “What?”

“There’s no photo.” He turned the laptop around so she could see the book’s title, and apparently the real cover—a zoomed-out version of the color-blocked full cover on the advance copy, showing an apartment building far taller than should be in Kalamazoo—with more words underneath. “He doesn’t have an author photo. That’s one thing if he’s writing under a pseudonym, but if he’s going to be doing readings and showing his face …”

“Doesn’t Chuck Tingle do events with a bag over his head?”

Kent shook his head a little and started clicking and typing something else. “Very different backstory there. O’Connell’s a debut novelist with nothing else attached to his name. Everything says first book, there’s nothing—yeah, see?” He gestured at the screen even though it was turned so no, she couldn’t actually see. “A bunch of people are asking the same question. Who is this guy? Is the author actually the narrator? Is …?”

Nell waited as she rotated the spring rolls, but seriously. “Is?” she prompted.

He turned the laptop back around so she could read the headline. Is Rosie Real? And, underneath that, in slightly smaller font: Advance readers of C. J. O’Connell’s debut novel ask how much of this emotional tribute to a lost love is truly fictional. “There’s already a hashtag,” he said tonelessly when she just kept staring. “#FindRosie.”

She tried to lick her lips, but her tongue was dry and swallowing hurt. “Look, we can’t … we aren’t actually saying this.”

“Nell …”

“After a couple chapters and a couple Google searches?” she persisted. “You’re not actually … come on. It’s not the same story anyway. Emotional tribute? What did Brandon say—tender? Something about being tender? It can’t be.”

“Is Rosie’s bus always late in the morning?”

Forgetting herself, she tried to swallow again. “Yeah, but …”

“What’s the bus driver’s name?”

Margaret. The bus driver’s name had been Margaret. Not Meg, not Marge, not Peggy—Margaret. “The book doesn’t say.” Yet, at least. But she hadn’t read far enough into the year for that to matter, anyway.

The newspapers reported it on Friday, October 26: Margaret Renee Henderson had been murdered, likely on the previous Wednesday, and her live-in boyfriend—who’d recently fought with her and moved out—had been arrested.

“Look, fiction can imagine anything,” she burst out. “Maybe somebody went back through the papers and found the crimes and just … look, there was that one K prof who wrote the novel about the Raines brothers based on a real case.”

Kent gestured to the laptop. “There’s nothing in there that says O’Connell, if that’s his real name, was inspired by a real case. Or even if he’s from Kalamazoo, or was living there in 2018 when all this started, or …” He shook his head. “It’s too damn close to the truth for it not to be influenced by it, but if he read about it and liked it and, what, took the murders out? Turned it into the kind of love story you’d find on Art’s wall?”

“We’re not saying that because I’m not nearly far enough into it to say that,” she all but snapped back. “It’s just—it’s a book Art got in the mail because of the stupid missed connection thing, which means it’s a love story, because nobody would send a freaking serial killer novel to a place like his, okay? And it just—ugh.” She turned away and started opening the cupboards like she’d forgotten where they kept the plates. “It’s nothing, and even if it’s not nothing, it’s a coincidence, because if it’s not a coincidence …”

“Hey, babe.” He got up so quickly the stool toppled over, and the clatter made her flinch, and that was it. That was enough. The fragile hold she’d had on herself, that oh God please no feeling, broke. It wasn’t tears—it was shivering and shuddering in the circle of Kent’s arms, because, seriously, that was all ages ago. All of them, Margaret and Trevor and Kelsey and Ashleigh and Heidi, that was all years ago, in another state, another time, another life, and this couldn’t … it honestly couldn’t …

Nell struggled to control her breath because she had to say something, to encompass it in words and make it manageable. “He wouldn’t … confess to freaking … serial murder in … a novel,” she managed, spitting out the syllables with as much breath as her lungs let her draw, and there, good. It was out: the phrase neither of them had uttered since coming to Iowa. “A freaking serial killer … isn’t going to confess in a novel.”

Kent’s breath caught, but this silence was shorter, a mere hesitation. “They never proved it was actually a serial killer.”

Another thing neither of them had said since coming to Iowa.

“I mean, I know … but …”

She tried a deeper breath and pulled back to try to catch his eyes and see the emotion hiding in them.

Kent shook his head a little. “Nell … if someone did go back through all the papers and find all that … they would conclude it’s a serial killer. Nobody would make that a love story.”

That was entirely the reason she’d been avoiding true crime and thrillers for years, thanks. “So it’s not him. And it’s not—I’m going to read the rest of it, and Art’s going to pay me for reading the rest of it, and it’s going to end up veering and being absolutely nothing.” She licked her lips again, forgetting. “It’s nothing. He didn’t find me.”

“Nell …”

“I mean, he didn’t anyway,” she rushed on, because no, Kent hadn’t made it that far yet on his own. “It was his agent or publisher or someone, and it’s because Art called the place Pending and has all that info on his website.” Where there weren’t any pictures of her. Because there weren’t any photos of her since coming to Iowa. None online, none on her phone, none on Kent’s … they stuck with friends who knew and respected her wishes on that without needing to have the full explanation of why, and they didn’t have people over, either, to ask why the couple who’d run away to get married didn’t have at least a single iPhone snap of the day itself.

This couldn’t unravel now. She couldn’t unravel now.

Kent pulled her in closer and slowly dropped his head to hers so he didn’t jar his cheekbone on her skull. “Fuck, honey. I’m sorry. Is there anything …?”

Usually when someone asked that, there wasn’t. They said it because they wanted to feel better about offering, but in the end there wasn’t anything for them to do but make that empty offer.

He didn’t work tomorrow. Nell did, but he didn’t. And he was a fast reader. “How long do you think it would take you to get through the whole book?”

Kent took a slow breath through his nose and held it before letting it gust out in a sigh. “Probably not by midnight, but definitely before morning.”

“Would you?”

He squeezed her tighter before letting go. “Do you want me to start now?”

What Nell really wanted was to rewind back to a time she didn’t know the damn book existed, but she nodded. The second-best thing was to get this over with, and behind them, as quickly as possible.

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from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)

Rosie is full of unspoken words. She tamps things down, and you have to be quick to catch it—the way she swallows a sentence or entombs a paragraph or gently folds a monologue like a flag to drop it into the grave. People like Hailey and Kayleigh don’t even notice and just continue yammering: about grades, about professors, about their own problems. They fail to realize that they, personally, might be making themselves into a problem.

I know Rosie just has to make it through this year. It’s her senior year, the only year K College really lets its students live off-campus and make that next step before becoming full adults, and come June she’ll be free from all of them. Kayleigh’s followed her from high school, clinging like a leech that will never have its fill. They’ll keep sucking her dry until she drops dead or shakes them free, and Rosie is too sweet to shake them free.

I keep having to remind myself that, even though she’s twenty-one to my twenty-four, I’ve been an adult longer than she has. She laughs at me for it sometimes: Cal, you’ve been on your own too long.

That’s true, but it’s nice to have the external validation. Especially from someone who so often swallows her words.

I can’t say anything about Kayleigh, because she’s known her forever and this is one of those inconveniences Rosie budgets for in her life, and I can’t say anything against Hailey—who always looks at me haughtily from half-closed eyes, like she’s applied too much smoky gray to the lids—because Rosie has nowhere else to live, but there’s another thing that’s gone on just about long enough.

Rosie takes the bus in to campus. Hailey complains about the parking situation at K, but that’s something Rosie’s even actually mentioned to me: campus is small, freshmen can’t have cars anyway, and there just aren’t many spaces. “If I drove in, I’d have to leave hours early,” she sighed, and she never sighs. A sigh would be a sign that she’s not taking everyone’s complaints and filing them away properly.

Rosie hoards her sighs. It’s a privilege to hear one.

“And it’s not the bus schedule,” she added, one leg tucked under her, the other foot swinging. Those are tall couches in the furnished apartments, and she’s not an especially tall woman.

I know it’s not the bus schedule. If they ran on time, then Rosie wouldn’t have an issue catching one and showing up with plenty of time to walk through the door before class started. It’s just that the bus that should be here at 9:40 rarely is. It runs late, and later with each stop, and Rosie either has to try to catch the bus an hour earlier—she might as well drive her car in and at least be free of the timetable entirely—or hustle in late, hoping not to attract too much attention as she heads to her seat.

Rosie doesn’t like attracting attention. That is, not loud attention. Her eyes catch mine, and she looks away as she tucks her hair behind her ear, but then she looks back to make sure she still has my attention. My quiet attention.

But she’s slow to get going in the mornings, slow to wake up, and having Hailey as a roommate means she can’t just go to bed earlier. Duke’s caught complaints from other units about her music, or her voice, or her random midnight vacuum cleaner jags. At least 12 has never been the site of loud sex. Imagine a man looking at Hailey and thinking he’d want to negotiate all of that.

She’d probably keep monologuing throughout. A litany of complaints.

Rosie doesn’t complain. She simply won’t, ever. She’ll endure the roommate, and endure the loud friend from her past, and endure the late bus, but I can do something about one of those. Tomorrow I’m going to call Metro and have a few words.

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Chapter Four

Read Chapter One here

Nell’s shift was over before the library closed, so she tucked Art’s not-quite-a-gift book in her messenger bag and caught the bus to head over there. Not that it was far—Colchester wasn’t exactly a city—but she had a bus pass, so she might as well use it. Plus, this way she could start paging through Since You Went Away on the ride over and see exactly how much Art might end up paying her for.

First person, ugh. So trendy. And present tense. Wasn’t that the domain of indie presses and self-publishers? Too hip and chatty for the trades, right? Apparently wrong, because here it was, I this and I that, after the first dozen pages or so of advance praise from big-name authors who got to use this chance to have their most recent books put after their names.

Nell blinked and had to laugh because she wasn’t a failed author or anything. Just grumpy, apparently. She tucked the book back in her bag in time for her stop, swung easily off the bus, and headed to the library door.

Kent was at the front desk, not behind it but talking to Emmy, and he grinned and straightened up when he saw her. “Hey there, pretty lady.” He was tall and broad, and although he wore a plain blue dress shirt, he looked like a biker with his dark hair pulled into a ponytail, his thick beard, and the tattoos poking out of his sleeves and down the backs of his hands.

“I’m not here for you,” Nell informed him sweetly as he bent down for a kiss.

“Dammit,” he whispered, in case any patrons were close enough to overhear. Not that many people tended to approach the guy who, despite wearing an official name badge, was over six feet tall and clearly regularly hit the gym. When Kent walked, the ear added in the jingle of chains and the squeak of leather no matter what he was currently wearing. “Who are you leaving me for?”

“I’m not sure, actually.” Nell pulled out the book and turned it so Emmy could see. “Art said it’s like … literary romance or something?”

“Oh my God, girl, is that an advance copy of Since You Went Away?” Brandon demanded in a very un-librarian voice as he all but vaulted out of the back office and swooped in to snatch it before Emmy could properly focus on the cover.

Emmy and Kent shared a look and a shrug, but Nell nodded. “Art said the agent or someone sent it to him because the author wants to do one of his readings at Pending.”

“Okay, and Art immediately wrote back and said hell yeah, right?” Brandon demanded, running his long fingers down the spine of the book like it was the basis for his new religion. Next to Kent he looked very short and very skinny indeed, but Nell thought he was far more intimidating. Kent was a teddy bear, but Brandon was a honey badger.

Nell shrugged. “He just got it. He gave it to me so I can read him and warn him if there’s any … I don’t know. If there’s anything he should know about before he says yes.”

Brandon held it up in both hands, not so much a minister now as a cult leader. “Art says yes to this. My God, C. J. O’Connell coming here on his debut tour? Shut up!”

Kent tilted his head. “Looks like you’re here for Brandon.”

“Oh, come on,” the man in question sassed back, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Don’t act like you’ve never heard of it. This book’s everywhere and it’s not even out yet.”

“Well I hadn’t heard of it,” Nell cut in before this could turn into some sort of literary pissing contest. “And neither had Art.”

Brandon set it down on the circulation desk, still reverent. He was over-the-top most days, which made him an odd choice for library director, but now he looked like he was on the verge of a heart attack. “It’s a beautifully tender story of a man who happily exists in the friend zone and supports a woman who may or may not be worthy of his complete love and devotion.”

Emmy put a hand to her lips to either stifle a giggle or cover up how she’d just puked a little in her mouth.

“Beautifully tender,” Brandon repeated. “It makes you think that maybe some of the straights are okay, after all.”

“Ouch,” Kent muttered.

“Look, we all know you, and you’re not okay, so …”

“Ouch,” Nell agreed. “I’m not sure I want to take your book recommendations.”

Brandon sighed and folded his hands professionally on the edge of the countertop. “Having C. J. O’Connell come to Colchester and read at Pending would do nothing but good for Art and this town. You’ll get publicity, people will stop thinking we mean Colchester Lake … I’m talking national, if not international, coverage for the work you all do there, okay? I haven’t heard anything bad or ‘out there’ about the book, so read it, if that’s what Art wants, and tell him yes, and then loan it to me, okay?”

“It’s technically Art’s book, so I’ll have to ask if I can loan it to you.”

He shrugged. “I can be charming to Art.”

“I think Art’s immune to your charms,” Emmy cautioned, then frowned a little. “I think Art’s immune to all charms.”

Brandon waved that away. “I’ve got my ways.”

Ways, Nell mused, that apparently weren’t charming. “Okay. I’ll pass on your recommendation. And your request.”

Kent slipped an arm around her shoulders because even he wasn’t going to grab her ass in front of his boss. “Are you going to wait for me?”

“I would, but I don’t have anything to read.” Nell went up on her tiptoes, but he still had to duck his head so her kiss could land somewhere near his cheek. “Is there someone in my favorite chair?”

“Not last I saw.”

“Okay. You know where to look for me.” Nell picked up the book and accepted the bookmark Brandon pulled out of their display and pointedly handed to her, in case she dared to dog-ear one of the pages.

Kent tried to tamp down a smirk. “I’ll walk you up.”

“No making out in the stacks!” Brandon ordered. “Remember the cameras!”

“Look, just because you’re overwhelmed by the desire to make out with Nell in public doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t control ourselves,” Kent countered, leading her away from the desk and toward the stairs and dropping his voice. “You okay?”

She grimaced, because come on, it wasn’t actually obvious, was it? “I read the first couple pages. It takes place in Kalamazoo. He says she went to K College.”

Kent looked down at her for so long it was good no one was descending the stairs. “Nell.”

“It’s okay. It’s just a book. A novel.” Except clearly it wasn’t okay, because he’d seen something, and gotten her alone so he could mention it. “Art’s paying me two bucks a page to read it and report back.”

He made a grumbling noise that expressed any number of sentiments, including A good therapist costs more than that.

“I’ll tell you if it’s too much, okay?” The top of the stairs was enough for her to see her favorite chair, and it was empty. That entire grouping was empty. “You can be on me about it, but you have to trust me to be truthful.”

That almost made Kent smile. “I trust that you’re telling me the same thing you tell yourself, but that doesn’t mean I trust you’re telling yourself the truth.”

Forget therapy—she had him. “And we can talk about that too, then, later, if you think we need to. But right now you’re supposed to be at work.”

He sighed and leaned down to kiss her gently on the lips. “Okay. But grab a different book if that one gets to be too …” He flapped a hand to show that too could be followed by any number of adjectives.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” someone asked in the sort of voice that clearly meant Stop making out with that girl when you’re on the clock. Nell and Kent each wore a wedding band, plain gold, so even though they looked young it wasn’t like they were teenagers or something.

Kent smiled, though, and turned to the stranger—severe gray haircut, pantsuit, cat’s-eye glasses—and answered, “I do. How can I be of service?”

The woman sniffed and adjusted those glasses with a look at Nell that meant she gamely retreated to her favorite chair, far enough away that the patron could make her request in full privacy, like she was consulting a priest instead of a librarian.

Okay some days Nell forgot she’d leaned hard into the manic pixie dream girl thing and the hair pulled back from her face—aside from the required bangs, of course—was bubblegum pink, so maybe that was part of the reaction. Plus Kent, with his beard and breadth, looked older than his age, so when she looked younger …

Nell sat down in the chair and plunked her messenger bag by her feet, crossing her legs primly even though she had capri-length leggings underneath the sundress just in case anyone tried to take a peek, and opened the book in her lap to wait for Kent to be done.

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from Since You Went Away by C. J. O’Connell (Penguin, 2024)

Describing people in books always seems like an exercise in futility. Each of us always ends up with our own personal idea of what famous characters look like, which is never like the actor who plays them on screen, and often has nothing to do with what the author describes, anyway. By the time we’re told the hunky hero has a single lock of black hair that falls across his forehead, he’s already stuck in our minds as a redhead or blond.

The first time I saw Rosie, my eyes caught on her, but any description seems trite. Blonde, yes, but her hair is thick, and long, and not quite honey but not entirely golden, either. Initially it was down, the ends curling slightly below her shoulder blades, but as she went back and forth to carry more things in, she pulled it up into a messy bun. The kind of effortless messy bun blonde women in Uggs do all the time, but Rosie was in Converse today, and jeans, and a band t-shirt that was honestly washed and worn instead of bought to just look that way.

She’s the new renter in 12, sharing with that pale, chubby, doughy girl with the straight black hair and heavy bangs. Hailey doesn’t have an indoor voice, so I’m not the only one who knows her previous choice for a roommate fell through—left her for some brain-dead hunk, she says, but “escaped” is more like it—and Rosie all but took pity on her. I don’t know what Rosie’s plans were before this, because Hailey’s never complained about those, but my God.

She moves smoothly, but without the arrogance of a ballet dancer. She’s solid, but strong—I saw her carry in any number of boxes while Hailey trailed after her, a single tote bag hung indifferently over one arm. And, despite Hailey’s drone of a monologue, she offered me a smile every time I saw her.

Rosie’s eyes are gray and she has a dimple on her right cheek. Not the left—just the right.

12 is on the first floor, so I didn’t get a chance to see if she’d struggle with those suitcases on the stairs, and it’s also one of our semi-furnished units, so nobody had to help her carry in a bed frame or a sofa. I’m not supposed to—that’s not part of my job description—but I would’ve offered, for her. Especially because she wouldn’t have ordered, and maybe wouldn’t even have asked. There’s independence in that no-nonsense lift of her chin, and combine that with the quick intelligence in her eyes …

She was alone in the parking lot, conscientiously locking the doors on her silver Saturn when I was leaving, and those eyes caught mine, and she smiled again.

I stopped. When a woman like that smiles at you, you stop, even if you know she’s leagues above you and climbing.

“Hi. I’m Rosie.” She held out her hand, and we shook, my calluses against her silken palm.

“Calvin.” I cleared my throat. “Cal. Facilities management.”

The smile played around the corners of her mouth again. “Well. I guess I hope I won’t be seeing that much of you, then.”

That’s what her mouth said. Her eyes told me another story.

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Chapter Three