- Published: 30 August 2022
- ISBN: 9780241473689
- Imprint: Penguin
- Format: Paperback
- Pages: 336
- RRP: $19.99
Nothing More to Tell
“Do you have a favorite crime?”
The girl sitting beside me in the spacious reception area asks the question so brightly, with such a wide smile, that I’m positive I must have misheard her. “A favorite what?” I ask.
“Crime,” she says, still smiling.
Okay. Did not mishear. “In general, or— ” I start cautiously.
“From the show,” she says, a note of impatience creeping into her voice. Which is fair. I should have known what she meant, considering we’re sitting in the middle of temporary office space for Motive.
I try to recover. “Oh, yeah, of course. Hard to pick. They’re all so...” What’s the right word here? “Compelling.”
“I’m obsessed with the Story case,” she says, and bam— she’s off. I’m impressed by all the rich detail she remembers from a show that aired more than a year ago. She’s obviously a Motive expert, whereas I’m a more recent convert to the true-crime arm of journalism. Truth be told, I wasn’t expecting to land an interview for this internship. My application was . . . unconventional, to say the least.
Desperate times and all that.
Less than two months ago, in October of my senior year, my life was fully on track. I was living in Chicago, editor in chief of the school paper, applying early decision to my dream school, Northwestern. Two of my best friends planned on staying local too, so we were already dreaming about getting an apartment together. And then: one disaster after the other. I was fired from the paper, wait- listed at Northwestern, and informed by my parents that Dad’s job was transferring him back to company headquarters.
Which meant returning to my hometown of Sturgis, Massachusetts, and moving into the house my parents had been renting to my uncle Nick since we’d left. “It’ll be a fresh start,” Mom said, conveniently forgetting the part where I’d been desperate to leave four years ago.
Since then, I’ve been scrambling to find some kind of internship that might make Northwestern take a second look at me. My first half dozen rejections were all short, impersonal form letters. Nobody had the guts to say what they were really thinking: Dear Ms. Gallagher, since your most- viewed article as editor of the school paper was a compilation of dick pics, you are not suitable for this position.
To be clear, I neither took nor posted the dick pics. I’m just the loser who left the newspaper office door unlocked and forgot to log out of the main laptop. It doesn’t really matter, though, because my name was in the byline that got screenshotted a thousand times and eventually ended up on BuzzFeed with the headline – WINDY CITY SCHOOL SCANDAL: PRANK OR PORNOGRAPHY?
Both, obviously. After the seventh polite rejection, it occurred to me that when something like that is your number one result in a Google search, there’s no point trying to hide it. So when I applied to Motive, I took a different tack.
“You have four kinds of sparkling water,” Mia reports from the depths of our refrigerator.
I’m late for dinner again, but this time it’s not my fault. There’s a mansplainer in my way.
The digital billboard at the edge of Clarendon Street has had the same ad for as long as I remember
It’s All Hallows’ Eve in London, and the street that stretches before her is empty, quiet except for the soft thud of her boots on the sidewalk and the rustle of autumn leaves plucked by the wind.
Tell me again about the first time the two of you played chess in the park.” Jameson’s face was candlelit, but even in the scant light, I could see the gleam in his dark green eyes.
Before I say anything, I’d just like to make one thing perfectly clear: I didn’t stab anyone.
The first time the scion of House Dragon painted the eyeless girl, he was only six years old.
Halt and Will had been trailing the Wargals for three days. The four heavy-bodied, brutish creatures, foot soldiers of the rebel warlord Morgarath, had been sighted passing through Redmont Fief, heading north.