By Anna Jarzab
Carly: She was once candy. shrewdpermanent. Self-destructive. She knew the secrets and techniques of Brighton Day School’s such a lot privileged scholars. secrets and techniques that received her killed.
Neily: Dumped by means of Carly for a infamous undesirable boy, Neily didn’t solution the telephone name she made prior to she died. If he had, probably he may have helped her. Now he can’t get a dead ringer for her useless physique out of his mind.
Audrey: She’s the explanation Carly received twisted up with Brighton’s quick crowd within the first position, and now she regrets it—especially given that she’s confident the police have placed the inaccurate individual in penal complex. Audrey thinks the assassin is an individual at Brighton, and she or he wishes Neily to aid her discover who it is.
As reluctant allies Neily and Audrey dig into their shared previous with Carly, her involvement with Brighton’s darkish goings-on involves gentle. yet understanding how Carly and her killer healthy into the twisted drama will strength Audrey and Neily to stand tough truths approximately themselves and the woman they couldn’t keep.
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It was F. Scott Fitzgerald’s line about depression, and I felt it keenly. At night, I lay awake ruminating. How could I fix life in New York for my unhappy spouse so that he would spend more time in the city with me? Perhaps we could move somewhere else, to a house in Queens with a garage? Long Island? What about marriage counseling? Didn’t we owe it to our daughter to try to make this work? But what could I do about the other things he complained about—the car horns, the people who walked too fast, the rush-hour subway crowds?
She asked. “Canada,” I said, sheepishly. “You’re definitely not getting on this train,” she said with a smile. Then I watched as this refined creature clutched her buttery leather handbag, and gently but purposefully nudged herself into the crowded train. She never had to push to squeeze into the packed subway car. There was an elegance and grace in the way she inserted herself into the train just before the conductor slammed the doors shut. I waited for the next train. It was also crowded, but in that split second as the doors burst open, I became a New Yorker.
I called Melissa when I got lost in the city, which was often. Another friend referred to her as my personal GPS. She even knew where to stand in any given subway station to be closest to the exit you wanted when the train arrived at your stop. She had an app on her phone for that. When I went on assignment alone, she made sure I was armed with a paper map because I had trouble deciphering directions on my phone. We became fast friends, our connection forged in what she called “the paragraph factory” and what I more sinisterly dubbed “the gulag” of tabloid journalism.