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C A T
C L A R K E
CROWN
New York
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright 2016 by Cat Clarke
Jacket photographs:
Woman 2016 by J. A. Bracchi/Getty Images
Girl 2016 by Cristinairanzo/Getty Images
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Crown Books for
Young Readers, an imprint of Random House Childrens Books,
a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Crown and the colophon are registered trademarks
of Penguin Random House LLC.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-101-93204-9 (trade) ISBN 978-1-101-93206-3 (ebook)
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
Random House Childrens Books
supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.
ATTENTION, READER:
THIS IS AN UNCORRECTED ADVANCE EXCERPT
Clar_9781101932049_5p_all_r2.indd 4
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in front of her. Shes paler than she was when I left her. A
single tear is trickling down her left cheek, and she does
nothing to halt its progress. I watch as it negotiates the contour of her jaw and continues down her neck.
She finally looks at me, and theres something different in
her eyes. I have no idea what it is, but it scares me.
Mom clears her throat. She starts to speak and then stops
herself. I cant decide if I want to hear what she has to say,
but it looks like I dont have a choice in the matter.
That was the police.
No. Please, God, no. Not today. The call shes been dreading every single day for thirteen years. It cant be today.
Mom sways a little as if shes about to faint, so I help her
over to the table. She slumps into a chair, and the phone
clatters onto the tabletop. She takes my hands in hers, and I
crouch down in front of her.
Tell me, Mom. Please.
She clears her throat again. A girl has been found. At
Stanley Street. Stanley Street is where we were living when
it happened. They think its . . . Laurel. She squeezes my
hands so hard it hurts. They want me to go down to the
police station right away to . . . identify her.
My legs buckle beneath me, and its a good thing Im
so close to the floor already. Oh, Mom, Im so sorry. I
cant . . . Oh God.
And thats when Mom smiles. Oh no, Faith! I didnt
mean . . . Goodness, I should have thought! She lets go of
my hands and reaches out to touch my cheek. They think
its her. . . . Theyre almost certain. . . . Faith? Shes alive.
Laurels alive!
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scab on the girls right cheek. Perhaps it looks like the sort
of scab that a child might end up with if shed been chased
around the living room by her little sister and shed tripped
and fallen and hit her cheek on the corner of the coffee table.
If you saw that little girl, youd probably think she was the
cutest little girl youd ever seen. Chances are, you have seen
her. The photo of blond-haired, gap-toothed, polka-dotdressed, teddy bearcradling Laurel Logan has surely been
printed in almost every newspaper in the world (probably
even the Uzbekistan Times, now that I think about it). You
must have seen the polka-dot ribbons that people used to
wear, or the ones they tied to trees all along Stanley Street. I
think it was Moms idea, that polka-dot campaign. Anyway,
two hours after Mom took that photo, Laurel was gone.
I was also in the original photo: four years old, cute in
the way that all four-year-olds are, but nothing special. Not
like her. Frizzy brown hair, beady little eyes, hand-medown clothes. I was playing in a sandbox in the background,
slightly out of focus. Thats how its been my whole life: in
the background, slightly out of focus. You hardly ever see
that version of the photothe one where I havent been
cropped out.
Laurel would be nineteen years old now. An adult. My
brain struggles with that concept. Of course weve all seen
the age-progressed photos. The last one was four years ago:
Laurel Logan at fifteen. None of the images ever look quite
right, though. You can see that theyve taken that photo
the photo and done some computer wizardry, but the
results are always weird in some way. They never end up
looking quite like a real person.
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Mom comes back into the kitchen after phoning Dad. Shes
been crying a lother face is red and blotchy. Clearly she
didnt want me to hear that conversation. Im not sure why.
Then it hits me. Is she hurt? I cant believe I didnt
think to ask before.
What? Moms distracted, trying to find her car keys.
Theyre on the shelf in the hall, exactly the same place they
always are.
Is she hurt? Is there something . . . wrong with her? Its
a perfectly reasonable question.
No! The police said shes in remarkably good health,
considering . . .
I wait, but Mom doesnt finish her sentence. Shes too
busy trying to fix her makeup in the hall mirror.
Mom? Im . . . Im scared.
She turns to me, and I can tell right away that she doesnt
get it. Scared? Whatever for? Theres nothing to be scared
of, Faith. This is . . . well, its a miracle, isnt it? She makes
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Michel already knows; Dad must have called him in the car.
He says I cant believe it at least three times in as many
minutes. While Moms filling him in on the rest of the details, he keeps on glancing over at me.
Mom seems to have forgotten her feelings about Michel.
She hugs him, the first time Ive ever seen her do that. Michels as surprised as I am when she launches herself at him.
She babbles away, barely pausing for breath. Shes usually
painfully politebut distanttoward Michel, and I hate
her for it. Especially because he never has a bad word to say
about her. He just shrugs it off like he doesnt mind one little
bit. Sometimes I wish I could be more like him (be a little
more French, he says).
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knew that he was bi when they met in college and fell head
over heels in love with each other. The only reason I know
this is because she talked about it in an interview a few
years ago. Dad was not happy about that. She was on a mission, though a mission to set the record straight. So many
awful things had been written about them both and about
Dad in particular (laurels dad in gay romp!)that she
wanted to tell the truth. The papers always say hes gay
they never bother to get it right. And back then they said
that he pretended to be straight and lured my mother into
marrying him because he was desperate to have children.
For a while the media was obsessed with the fact that Laurel
was adopted. They wanted to know WHY.
I was a miracle baby. Something to do with a very low
sperm count (gross) on Dads side and something wrong
with Moms ovaries. The chances of them conceiving naturally were minuscule. Technically I shouldnt even exist. I
often wondered how they really felt about that. Mom usually
sticks to the whole miracle baby spiel, saying how blessed
she and Dad felt to have two beautiful daughters. Ive never
asked her for the real story because I know shed never tell
me the truth.
So for a few years the papers liked to make my father out
to be some kind of depraved sex fiend. The gay romp headline came after he was photographed coming out the front
door of Michels apartment building three months after they
started dating. Not exactly the news story of the century.
It was hard on Michel, but he doesnt like to talk about
it. I have no idea why he got involved with my dad in the
first place. Surely any sane person would run a mile from
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just the two of us. Maybe Laurel will want to come next
week, and maybe shell be miraculously brilliant at baking,
and her macarons will have perfect, shiny tops every time.
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