Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87988 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
As a college English professor, Elizabeth looks forward to the start of each new semester teaching her creative writing seminar. At least until she reads chapter one of The Reckoning, a tale about a high school senior who has an affair with her teacher. To anyone else it would be the beginning of a great page-turner, but to Elizabeth it is the beginning of the end.
She knows this story. It’s all familiar because she lived it. The girl in the story was her best friend Jocelyn, and Elizabeth knows exactly how the story will end—with the professor dead. Because she was the one who killed him.
Someone knows what Elizabeth did twenty years ago and her secret is about to be exposed, but who is the mystery student submitting the chapters? In an effort to find out, Elizabeth returns to her Louisiana hometown where it soon becomes clear that no matter how many years have gone by, she can’t escape her past
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CHAPTER
1
May 20th. The date printed at the top of the newspaper startles me, and I drop it like it’s a hot coal that’s burned my hands. It falls to the floor in a scattered array of ink-stained stories. The man behind the counter frowns.
“Sorry,” I offer as I bend, then do my best to shuffle the pages into order and place the paper back on top of the New York Post pile before moving to the magazine rack. Sports Illustrated has a racehorse on the cover. Mr. Hank, my old landlord, will like that, so I pluck it from the pile and head to the register to pay.
It’s the third time I’ve been reminded of the date since I woke up, and it’s only 4 p.m. Normally, when I’m teaching summer classes, like I am now, I only go in twice a week, so I don’t even know what day it is. But May 20th isn’t just any day, I suppose. It’s the twenty-year anniversary of the day I’ll never forget.
I leave the bodega and decide to walk the fifteen or so blocks to Mr. Hank’s assisted-living facility, rather than taking the subway. It’s beautiful out, and I still need to stop and pick up donuts. Plus, I don’t want to see him until I can clear my head. He’s struggling through dementia, so the last thing he needs is me bringing my anxiety for a visit. But my mind whirls as I walk, and not even the bright pink blossoms of the magnolia tree in Union Square Park can soothe the melancholy that lingers in my heart.
I pass the High Note, the pub where I met Derek, the guy I used to hook up with before Sam, and look through the front window. Derek was a fireman. A few guys are sitting at the bar, probably firemen, too. They seem to occupy the place most evenings. I don’t have any desire to go in, but it gives me an idea, reminds me there’s a way to loosen the tight knot in my neck and take the edge off all the anxiety I feel today. So I reach into my pocket, pull out my cell, and type as I stroll past the bar.
Elizabeth: Up for hanging out tonight?
“Hanging out” sounds so much better than fucking me until I can’t think straight anymore. But running five miles this morning didn’t clear my head, and I’m sure Sam won’t mind. He’s always been the initiator of our get-togethers and has mentioned more than once that I could reach out to him, too.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Park Manor Nursing Home. I still don’t feel great, but Sam’s enthusiastic response to my text has helped, smoothing the edges of my jangled nerves. He’s working tonight, though, so I won’t see him until tomorrow.
I check in with the nurse at the desk on the third floor, and she hits the button to unlock the door to the memory care unit. It’s easy to find Mr. Hank—he’s laughing uproariously at the television in the lounge. The hearty sound lifts my mood more than anything else today. As I approach, he catches sight of me, his eyes twinkling with recognition.
“Elizabeth!” he says. “C’mon over here, young lady.”
The warmth of his greeting thrills me. Despite the fact that he saved my life when I first moved to New York—two days shy of twenty years ago—by giving me a discount on rent and telling me where to look for a job, he sometimes can’t recall who I am now. I hurry over, give him a big hug, and offer the bag of donuts I picked up from his favorite street vendor. They’re chocolate, also his favorite—that’s one thing he never forgets.
“Oh, you didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to.” I smile, holding out the magazine and daily racing form I picked up at OTB earlier. “I shouldn’t encourage your habit, but I thought you might like these, too.”
Mr. Hank has been a gambler all of his life, mostly on the ponies. He can’t go outside without the assistance of an aide anymore, and he refuses to use anything but a landline phone, yet somehow he’s figured out how to create a FanDuel account on his iPad so he can bet ten dollars a day on horse races.
“You’re too good to me.” He pulls a chocolate donut from the bag and licks his lips. “You know, I used to make chocolate donuts. Just like this. Only better, of course.”
I smile. “Of course. Your bakery was voted best donuts in New York City, eighteen years in a row.”
He takes a bite, chews slowly, and I can tell he’s savoring it.
“I was the only baker in my neighborhood to keep making them by hand after the donut machines came out.” Another bite. This time with a groan of happiness as he chews.