“You’re alive,” I whisper. Twelve not eleven bodies. Somewhere in me I knew this, didn’t I? My dad. That’s what I think next. “What did you do to him?”
“Who?”
“My dad.”
“Your dad?” Quentin says. “What happened to your dad?”
“He’s missing,” I say. “Something happened to him.”
Quentin shakes his head grimly. “Well, I did warn him, didn’t I? I told him there might be trouble.”
“If I tell the people here who you are, they’ll arrest you.”
“God, you believe that, don’t you?” It isn’t even sarcastic. It’s like he actually feels sorry for me. “Think about how much you would have to explain. And how absurd it will sound. By the time you find someone to listen, I’ll be long gone. Besides, then you’ll never know why I came.”
“Why would they let you go?” I ask, but I’m not sure I want to know.
“‘Let go’ isn’t exactly a fair characterization. ‘Were easily misled’ is more accurate. And I did have help,” he says quietly, like he regrets something. “I told you North Point has significant resources.”
“But why would they help you? Why would anyone?”
“I convinced them that there were things only your dad and I knew and that if they were going to make a run at winning the Outliers race, they’d need my exclusive information. That does mean I will need to show them something, or I suspect there will be nasty consequences. I’d like to avoid that, which led me here. To you.”
“I would never help you,” I manage through gritted teeth.
“Not even if I have information that could get you out of here?”
“Did you send that text from Jasper’s phone?” Because all I can think is that this has been his end game all along.
“Text?”
“The one that told me to run. Right after we got back from Maine.”
“Run?” And he is confused for real. “Um, no.”
He didn’t send it. I can read that loud and clear. Kendall maybe. Probably. He’s who I have been thinking.
“You killed Cassie,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “I would never help you, you sick asshole.”
“If you help me, I can help you get out of here. You said yourself that someone has your dad. He must need you.”
Quentin believes what he’s saying. He is telling the truth. His truth. Of course, his truth doesn’t have anything to do with mine.
“I would rather die in here than help you.”
“And what about your dad, and Gideon? You’re just going to leave them out there with whoever is responsible for you being in here?” The threat is loud and clear. “There are things you don’t know, Wylie.”
“Like what?”
“Like who killed Teresa. And who left that baby for you. And, to be clear, it wasn’t me.”
“Go to hell,” I whisper. But God, how I hate that he knows about that baby. How does he know that?
“I even have proof, which I could give you and you could use to exonerate yourself. Details that would make their version of events far less plausible.” He takes a breath. “Provided you are willing to help me in return.”
My stomach is pushing up into my throat and I feel light-headed. If Quentin knows about the baby, there is a chance he really knows something that could get me out of here. And I do need out. My dad needs me out.
“You don’t know anything.” A test. I need to feel his answer.
Quentin smiles. “But I do,” he says, and with such awful, unavoidable certainty. Quentin stands, pushes a note card across the table to me. “Here’s my number. If you change your mind about helping me, give me a call and we can make arrangements.” He looks around the room and frowns. “But if I were you, I would hurry. Terrible things can happen in a place like this.”
I AM SURPRISED to discover myself back in the TV room some time later. I walked there somehow and now I am sitting on the couch, limbs attached, heart beating. But otherwise I am completely numb. I don’t remember the last thing I said to Quentin. I don’t remember making it back down the hall. I am sure only of the overwhelming sense that I have lost, even if Quentin hasn’t really won.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Girls come and go. The TV show changes, time moves on. Eventually, I hear a distant sound at the back of the room, rattling metal, something squeaky.
“Librarian is here,” one of the guards calls out. And there’s an edge to his voice like he can’t believe he’s got to bother with this crap. “You got ten minutes to pick out some books.”
Books. The idea seems so ludicrous to me. What with the world on fire and all. But the other girls head over, whooping and jostling like they are headed to an ice cream truck. It’s been the same each time the volunteers have come by—a different overly kind old woman each time.
“US Weekly!” I hear someone shout, triumphant.
“You still don’t got the last Harry Potter back?” someone else asks. “That is such bullshit. They can’t keep it forever.”
It’s sad, hearing how excited they are doing something so many others their age complain about. It makes me wonder if that is how I will feel before long, excited by things I have always taken for granted. And how long it will take before I do—or say—whatever they want? Before I confess just so that they will stop asking questions. At least then I’d never have to talk to Quentin again.
I keep my eyes straight ahead when the squeaky library cart is finally coming closer and closer. I have a bad feeling that the librarian has her sights set on me, probably because I am one of the only girls who didn’t get up. I brace myself for a lecture about how reading is fundamental, how it will offer me a path to redemption. I hope that I do not say something nasty in return. But I cannot be sure. I trust myself less and less with each passing hour.
“Last call for books!” the guard shouts.
Finally, the cart stops right behind me. I do not look up. But out of the corner of my eye, I watch the librarian put a paperback down on the arm of the couch next to me. And then I feel this wave of kindness. It’s so strong and pure and not at all judgmental like I had expected. It catches me off guard. So much that I’m pretty sure I’ll start crying if I look up at her. And so I keep my eyes down. In here, I am much better off being the girl who sets her friends on fire than being the one who cries to the volunteer librarian.
“Okay, that’s it!” the guard calls.
But her cart is still there. It hasn’t squeaked away. The librarian is still waiting for me. I can feel how much she wants me, needs me—in some totally irrational way—to look up and let her know that I am okay. That I will be okay. Why does this woman need that? She doesn’t even know me. I try to swallow my anger back.
But maybe her caring is a sign that I need to believe myself that I will be okay. I breathe deep and try to imagine getting through this. And when I do, a little gap in time opens, a window forward.
And my instincts say that I will. That if I can just be brave enough to have faith, if I can be strong enough to have hope—that I will make it through. Like all the other terrible things that have happened, I will survive this. Whatever it takes. I can believe that. No matter how impossible it seems.
“Hey,” the librarian whispers, her voice hoarse and gravelly. And now her kindness and caring are even stronger. Warm and bright around me. Like the sun. Like love. “Take this.”
When I look down, she is holding out another paperback, and on top of it, a note. I’m going to get you out of here. I promise. xoxo.
And when I look up, it is not some friendly old librarian I see. Instead, it is my mom. Alive and well and staring down at me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my fierce editor, Jennifer Klonsky, thank you for your brilliant editorial insight, tenacious enthusiasm, and endless kindness. Endless gratitude to my entire badass Harper team: Gina Rizzo, Elizabeth Ward, Catherine Wallace, and Elizabeth Lynch. I am so lucky to be the beneficiary of your wisdom and har
d work and to get to hang out with such a fab group of women.
Deepest thanks to Suzanne Murphy and Kate Jackson for championing this series from the start and continuing to enthusiastically cheer it along.
Thanks also to the rest of the fabulous Harper marketing, publicity, and library teams: Nellie Kurtzman, Cindy Hamilton, Patty Rosati, Molly Motch, and Sabrina Abballe. Thanks also to those mad geniuses in integrated marketing: Colleen O’Connell and Margot Wood. Many thanks to the astounding art department: Barb Fitzsimmons, Alison Donalty, Alison Klapthor, and the supremely gifted Sarah Kaufman.
Thank you to the passionate and devoted Harper sales team: Andrea Pappenheimer, Kerry Moynagh, and Kathy Faber. Thanks also to Jen Wygand, Jenny Sheridan, Heather Doss, Deb Murphy, Fran Olson, Susan Yeager, Jess Malone, and Jess Abel, as well as Samantha Hagerbaumer, Andrea Rosen, and Jean McGinley.
And last, but certainly not least, thank you to all the committed people in Harper managing editorial: Josh Weiss, Bethany Reis, and proofreader Valerie Shea.
Thank you to the many bloggers dedicated to spreading the word about the books they love. And thank you, thank you, thank you to the many passionate booksellers on the front lines. We authors and readers are so grateful for your wise counsel placing books into the right hands, often at just the right moment.
Many thanks to my loyal friend and agent extraordinaire, Marly Rusoff. I am so lucky to have you captaining my ship. A special thank-you to Julie Mosow for your exceptional advice and tireless assistance. Thanks also to Michael Radulescu and Gina Iaquinta for your support. To the amazingly talented, hardworking, and miraculously resourceful Kathleen Zrelak and Lynn Goldberg—forever grateful for all you have done. Thank you also to the ever-fabulous Shari Smiley and Lizzy Kremer and a special thanks to Harriet Moore.
My gratitude to the numerous experts who have so generously lent me their time and their wisdom: Victoria Cook, Elena Evangelo, Dr. Michael Henry, Mark Merriman, Sarabinh Levy-Brightman, Tracy Piatkowski, Dr. Rebecca Prentice, Daniel Rodriguez, Michael Stackow, and Tanya Weisman.
Endless thanks to my fantastic friends and family: Martin and Clare Prentice, Mike Blom, Leslie Berland, Catherine and David Bohigian, Cindy, Christina, and Joey Buzzeo, Jason Miller, Megan Crane and Jeff Johnson, Cara Cragan and Michael Moroney, the Cragan family, the Crane family, Joe and Naomi Daniels, Larry and Suzy Daniels, Bob Daniels and Craig Leslie, Diane and Stanley Dohm, Dan Panosian, Dave Fischer, Heather and Michael Frattone, Tania Garcia, Sonya Glazer, Nicole and David Kear, Merrie Koehlert, Hallie Levin, John McCreight and Kim Healey, Brian McCreight, Nina Mehta, the Metzger family, Jason Miller, Tara and Frank Pometti, Stephen Prentice, Motoko Rich and Mark Topping, Jon Reinish, Bronwen Stine, the Thomatos family, Deena Warner, Meg and Charles Yonts, Denise Young Farrell, and Christine Yu.
Kate Eschelbach, thank you for taking such great care of us.
To my remarkable daughters, Emerson and Harper: I am so glad that you are people who feel so much. Know that you sharing with me so many of your feelings—the good and the bad and the terrifying and the hopeful and the loving and the angry and the wise—will forever be the greatest gift I receive.
And to my husband, Tony, thank you for always being there for me—accepting and patient and understanding—to share my feelings with. Good news, bad news for you: there are so many more where those came from.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Beowulf Sheehan
KIMBERLY McCREIGHT is the author of the New York Times bestseller Reconstructing Amelia, which was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, and Alex Awards, and the USA Today bestseller Where They Found Her. She attended Vassar College and graduated cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania Law School. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and two daughters. Visit her online at www.kimberlymccreight.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY KIMBERLY McCREIGHT
The Outliers
The Scattering
For Adult Readers
Reconstructing Amelia
Where They Found Her
CREDITS
COVER ART © 2017 Getty Images / Rubberball / Mike Kemp
PHOTO ILLUSTRATION by Craig Shields
COVER DESIGN by Sarah Nichole Kaufman
COPYRIGHT
This novel is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, and places, and all dialogue and incidents portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination.
THE SCATTERING. Copyright © 2017 by Kimberly McCreight. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016950348
EPub Edition © April 2017 ISBN 9780062359148
ISBN 978-0-06-235912-4
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FIRST EDITION
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