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Ignore the blob of red in the top left corner. It's jam, not blood, though I don't think I need to tell you the difference. It wasn't your wife's jam the police found on your shoe. . . .
Zoe has an unconventional pen pal--Mr. Stuart Harris, a Texas Death Row inmate and convicted murderer. But then again, Zoe has an unconventional story to tell. A story about how she fell for two boys, betrayed one of them, and killed the other.
Hidden away in her backyard shed in the middle of the night with a jam sandwich in one hand and a pen in the other, Zoe gives a voice to her heart and her fears after months of silence. Mr. Harris may never respond to Zoe's letters, but at least somebody will know her story--somebody who knows what it's like to kill a person you love. Only through her unusual confession can Zoe hope to atone for her mistakes that have torn lives apart, and work to put her own life back together again.
Rising literary star Annabel Pitcher pens a captivating second novel, rich with her distinctive balance between humor and heart. Annabel explores the themes of first love, guilt, and grief, introducing a character with a witty voice and true emotional resonance.
stuff, but inside I’m sort of screaming. I daren’t tell Mum or Dad or my sisters, because I don’t want to be disowned and I don’t want to go to prison, even though I deserve it. So you see Mr. Harris I’m less brave than you, so don’t feel too bad when you go for the lethal injection, which I wouldn’t worry about, because when my dog was put to sleep, it really did look peaceful. The website says you’ll never forgive yourself, but at least now you know there are people in the world far worse than
books won’t return themselves to the shelf,” Mrs. Simpson said, looking down her long nose. Picking up two random books from the pile, I tugged Aaron’s sleeve to tell him to follow. Bleak House by Charles Dickens. D. Literature, on the first floor. I don’t know if it was the spiral staircase or the sound of Aaron’s feet right behind me that made me dizzy. At the top, we disappeared between two narrow bookshelves. We were completely alone. My blush wrapped itself around my whole body and
be?” “Because we’re—” “Friends,” Aaron finished. “If that. Acquaintances more than anything.” “Fine!” “It is fine,” Aaron said, all condescending as if I was acting crazy or something. I glared at him, and Stuart maybe I had no right to be furious, but try telling that to the anger thundering through my veins. “If that’s how you want it!” “That’s how it is,” Aaron replied in the same cool tone. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Have fun with my brother,” he said before walking back
and Dad got these dimples right in the middle of his cheeks, and I don’t know if any of this really matters, but I suppose it’s good to give you a picture of my family before I tell you what I came in here to say. Because I am going to say it. I’m not sitting in this shed for the fun of it. It’s bloody freezing and Mum would kill me if she knew I was out of bed, but it’s a good place to write this letter, hidden away behind some trees. Don’t ask me what type, but they’ve got big leaves that are
gasping and shouting, stretching out his arm. Max couldn’t reach it. The river was too strong. As he struggled to swim against the current, his muscles went limp and he floated passed tree roots and branches and an orange safety ring on the other side of the river that none of us could reach. He went under again, and again and again, getting weaker and weaker, his mouth sucking in water as he struggled to kick himself above the surface. Aaron stretched out one last time, shouting his brother’s