Detective Gadsen had been suspicious the last time we spoke, and I would simply confirm what he might already guess to be true. I would tell him that I had crushed Mabel’s owner’s skull. That I stole Morales’s EpiPen, and released fire ants inside her desk. I was too young to be sent to prison, but there was a solid chance I’d end up in the juvenile detention center. The plan wasn’t perfect, but it was the most self-destructive thing I could think of, and I so badly needed to self-destruct.
I could hear nothing but the throb of my heartbeat as my feet hit the concrete. The sound of my breathing as I took what I hoped would be my last free steps. I walked into the building and up to the front desk and told the officer I needed Detective Gadsen.
I didn’t notice the person behind me, not until I heard his voice.
“Can you tell me where I can report a missing person? I think I’m lost.”
My legs filled with lead. I turned.
He looked at me from under the brim of that Patriots cap he always wore and smiled. A silver Rolex glinted on his wrist.
It was Jude.
Jude.
In the police station. In Miami.
Five feet away.
I closed my eyes. He couldn’t be real. He wasn’t real. I was hallucinating, just—
“Through those doors and down that hallway,” the cop said.
My eyes flew open, and I watched the officer point behind me.
“First door on the left,” he said to Jude.
I looked slowly from the officer to Jude as my veins flooded with fear and my mind flooded with memories. The first day at school, hearing Jude’s laugh and then seeing him forty feet away. The restaurant in Little Havana, watching him appear after Noah left and before that boy Alain sat in his seat.
The night of the costume party? The open door to our house?
Another memory flickered in my mind. “Investigators are having trouble recovering the remains of eighteen-year-old Jude Lowe due to the wings of the landmark that are still standing, but could collapse at any moment.”
It was impossible. Impossible.
Jude raised his hand to wave at the officer; he caught my eye and his watch caught the light.
My mouth formed Jude’s name, but no sound came out.
Detective Gasden appeared then and said something, but his voice was muffled and I didn’t hear it. I barely felt the pressure of his hand on my arm as he tried to lead me away.
“Jude,” I whispered, because he was all I saw.
He walked toward me and his arm brushed mine lightly, so lightly, as he passed.
I felt myself fracture.
He pushed open the doors. He didn’t turn around.
I tried to reach him as the doors swung shut, but I found that I couldn’t even stand. “Jude!” I screamed. Strong hands held me up, held me back, but it didn’t matter. Because no matter how I looked then, broken and wild on the floor, for the first time since that night at the asylum, my biggest problem wasn’t that I was losing my mind. Or even that I was a murderer.
It was that Jude was still alive.
acknowledgments
I owe many people many thanks for their unwavering support of Mara Dyer and me:
To my editor, Courtney Bongiolatti, for doing everything right. You have been Mara’s champion from the beginning and I could not be more grateful.
To my publisher, Justin Chanda, for taking a big chance on my strange little book, and for loving the creepy stuff as much as I do.
To my agent, Barry Goldblatt, for being my white knight and not believing in the word “impossible.”
To my incredible publicist, Paul Crichton, to Chrissy Noh, Siena Koncsol, Matt Pantoliano, Lucille Rettino, Laura Antonacci and the entire talented team at Simon & Schuster for their boundless enthusiasm and dedication, and to Lucy Ruth Cummins, for designing the cover that blows everyone away.
To Beth Revis, Rachel Hawkins, Kirsten Miller, and Cassandra Clare for their generosity, to Kami Garcia, for literally more than I can say, to Jodi Meadows and Saundra Mitchell for their pitch perfect advice, to Kody Keplinger for making me feel like I belong, and to Veronica Roth, the Dauntless, for being one of the bravest people I know.
To all of my kind and witty and intelligent blog and Twitter friends: You have made every second of this wild ride more fun. Thank you for sharing my journey and for honoring me by allowing me to share yours.
To my rescuers, in every sense of the word—you know who you are. The world is a better place because you’re in it.
To my readers: Amanda, Noelle, Sarah, Ali, and Mary for your insight. And to the tireless soldiers in my Beta Army: Emily L. for loving Noah first, Emily T. for loving Noah without being asked, Christi, for telling me “no” when I needed to hear it, Becca, for being my plot goddess, Kate, for numerous eleventh hour miracles, and to Natan, for always counting my bullets. I would count the ways in which I am grateful, but I don’t have enough fingers and toes. And we know that’s all I’m good for. To Stella, for couch space in over a decade’s worth of apartments, and to Stephanie, for doing it all first. I don’t say it enough, but I love you.
To the people who make me feel like I’ve won the family lottery every day: My one and only Tante, Helene, and Uncle Jeff, for Pesach. For Dulong. For Jacob, Zev, Esther, Yehuda, Simcha, and Rochul. To Jeffrey, for so much, to Bret and Melissa for The Blair Witch, among other awesome things, to Barbara and Peter for being Barbara and Peter, to Aunt Viri and Uncle Paul for inspiring my favorite line in the sequel, and also that whole lifetime-of-support thing, and to Yardana Hodkin—I adore you.
To Andrew, for giving me the best gifts. For being so much nicer than I could ever hope to be. You deserve a medal or ten. Thousand.
To Nanny and Zadie, Z”L. You would love how this is all turning out.
To Janie and Grandpa Bob, for being my biggest cheerleaders from the moment I was born and every day since.
To Martin and Jeremy, for being the second and third show ponies in a line. For always being in my heart, even though we’re far apart. For making me thrilled to not have sisters.
And to my mother, for reaching things on high shelves. For The Joss Bird. For Brandy. For helping me be a singer and not an acrobat. For being the ultimate woman of valor. Words will never be enough.
Last but certainly not least, thank you for reading this book. I can’t wait to share what happens next.
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Michelle Hodkin, The Unbecoming of Mara Dyer
(Series: Mara Dyer # 1)
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