Last Girl Ghosted(111)
I am blessed with a wonderful network of friends who cheer me through the good days and offer a hand through the bad. Erin Mitchell is an early reader, tireless promoter, inbox wrangler, voice of wisdom, and pal. I am in an ongoing text conversation with Alafair Burke and Karin Slaughter about all things life, writing, and business. It’s a constant source of comfort and laughter. The #authortalks team of J.T. Ellison, Heather Gudenkauf, and Mary Kubica are truly a powerhouse group of stellar writers and sage voices. Love our talks about craft, creativity, and the writing life. Heather Mikesell is forever bestie and eagle-eyed reader. Nothing feels done until she’s read it. My dear friend Jennifer Manfrey is always standing by to “give me a session” or talk through some obsession. Thanks for not hanging up every time I say, “So, I’ve been doing a little research...”
My mom, Virginia Miscione, a former librarian, gave me my love of story. And she remains one of my very first and most important readers. I made a change for her in this book—she knows what it is! And I’m so glad I did. My dad, Joseph, and brother, Joe, are captains of Team PA and Team VA, tirelessly flogging, facing out, and giving away books. Their ongoing support means everything.
As always, research is a big part of my process. A number of books were very important in the writing of this one. Trauma and the Soul: A Psycho-Spiritual Approach to Human Development and Its Interruption by Donald Kalsched is a deep dive into the psychic response to trauma. There’s a deep well of wisdom here, and I return to Kalsched’s work again and again for inspiration and understanding. Tracking and the Art of Seeing: How to Read Animal Tracks and Sign by Paul Rezendes is a practical, but also philosophical, look at being present with, understanding, and respecting nature. The Bumper Book of Nature: A User’s Guide to the Great Outdoors by Stephen Moss is really a child’s activity book, one which my daughter and I spent years exploring. But there are so many little jewels of knowledge, such a deep appreciation of the natural world, that I often find bits of it coming back to inspire my work. As always, all mistakes, liberties taken, or fictionalizations of inconvenient truths are mine and mine alone.
Finally, I am so grateful to my readers, many of whom have been with me from my very first book. I hear from you via email, on my social media accounts, at events—live and virtual. It means so much to know that my stories, my characters, my words have found a home in your hearts and minds. Thank you for buying, checking out from the library, reviewing, sharing with friends, and spreading the word. A writer is nothing without her readers. I am so thankful for each and every one. Happy reading!
Confessions on the 7:45
by Lisa Unger
PROLOGUE
She watched. That was her gift. To disappear into the black, sink into the shadows behind and between. That’s where you really saw things for what they were, when people revealed their true natures. Everyone was on broadcast these days, thrusting out versions of themselves, cropped and filtered for public consumption. Everyone putting on the “show of me.” It was when people were alone, unobserved, that the mask came off.
She’d been watching him for a while. The mask he wore was slipping.
He, too, stood in the shadows of the street, a hulking darkness. She’d followed him as he drove, circling like a predator, then finding a place for his car under the trees. He’d parked, then sat as the night wound on and inside lights went out, one by one. Finally, he’d stepped out of his vehicle, closed the door quietly, and slipped across the street. Now he waited. What was he doing?
Since she’d been following him the last few weeks, she’d seen him push his children on the swings in the park, visit a strip club in the middle of the day, drink himself stupid with his buddies viewing a game at a sports bar. She’d watched as he’d helped a young mother with a toddler and baby in a carriage carry her groceries from her car into her house.
Once, he’d picked up a woman in a local bar. Then, out in the parking lot, they romped like animals in his car. Later, he went to the grocery store and picked up food for his family, his cart piled high with ice cream and Goldfish crackers, things his kids liked.
What was he up to now?
The observer only sees, never interferes. Still, tonight she felt the tingle of bad possibilities. She waited in the cool night, patient and still.
The clicking of heels echoed, a brisk staccato up the deserted street. She felt a little pulse of dread. Was there no one else around? No one else glancing out their window? No. She was the only one. Sometimes didn’t it seem like people didn’t see anymore? They didn’t look out. They looked down, at that device in their hands. Or in, mesmerized by the movie of past and future, desires and fears, always playing on the screen in their minds.
The figure of the young woman was slim, erect, confident. She marched up the street, sure-footed, hands in her pockets, tote over her shoulder. When he moved out of the shadows and blocked her path, the young woman stopped short, backed up a step or two. He reached for her, as if to take her hand, but she wrapped her arms around her middle.
There were words she couldn’t hear, an exchange. Sharp at first, then softer. On the air, far away, they sounded like calling birds. What was he doing? Fear was a cold finger up her spine.
He moved to embrace the girl, and she shrank away. But he moved in anyway. In the night, he was just a looming specter. His bulk swallowed her tiny form, and together in a kind of dance they moved toward the door, at first jerking, awkward. Then, she seemed to give in, soften into him. She let them both inside. And then the street was silent again.