I winked at Jack as Emma's voice rose with concern.
"No, no, it's fine. We're fine. It's just . . . Well, it turns out John had an ulterior motive for this trip. He asked me to marry him."
I held out the phone so he could hear her screech.
"I said yes, obviously, and then we were walking past this adorable chapel, right on the beach, and I know, we should have waited, but we couldn't. So we're married."
I held out the phone again for her response, and Jack shook his head, chuckling.
"No, we don't want a party," I said. "Fine, okay, a small party. Very, very small."
I resumed walking along the beach, my hand in Jack's, as Emma chattered her plans, and I smiled. I just smiled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kelley Armstrong is the author of the Cainsville modern gothic series and the Rockton crime thrillers. Past works include Otherworld urban fantasy series, the Darkest Powers & Darkness Rising teen paranormal trilogies, the Age of Legends fantasy YA series and the Nadia Stafford crime trilogy. Armstrong lives in Ontario, Canada with her family.
Visit her website at www.KelleyArmstrong.com
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City of the Lost,
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CITY OF THE LOST
CHAPTER ONE
"I killed a man," I say to my new therapist.
I've barely settled onto the couch . . . which isn't a couch at all, but a chaise lounge that looked inviting and proved horribly uncomfortable. Like therapy itself.
I've caught her off guard with that opening line, but I've been through this before with other therapists. Five, to be exact. Each time, the gap between "hello" and "I'm a murderer" decreases. By this point, she should be glad I'm still bothering with a greeting. Therapists do charge by the hour.
"You . . . ," she says, "killed a man?"
The apprehensive look. I know it well--that moment when they're certain they've misheard. Or that I mean it in a metaphorical way. I broke a man's heart. Which is technically true. A bullet does break a heart. Irrevocably, it seems.
When I only nod, she asks, "When did this happen?"
"Twelve years ago."
Expression number two. Relief. At least I haven't just killed a man. That would be so much more troublesome.
Then comes the third look, as she searches my face with dawning realization.
"You must have been young," she says. "A teenager?"
"Eighteen."
"Ah." She settles back in her chair, the relief stronger now, mingling with satisfaction that she's solved the puzzle. "An accident of some kind?"
She's blunt. Others have led me in circles around the conclusion they've drawn. You didn't really murder a man. It was a car accident or other youthful mishap, and now you torture yourself with guilt.