He started it
Record details
- ISBN: 9780451491756
- ISBN: 0451491750
- ISBN: 9780451491763
-
Physical Description:
print
389 pages ; 24 cm - Edition: First edition.
- Publisher: New York : Berkley, 2020.
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Genre: | Suspense fiction. Thrillers (Fiction) |
Available copies
- 60 of 61 copies available at Evergreen Indiana. (Show)
- 1 of 1 copy available at Orleans Town and Township Public Library.
Holds
- 0 current holds with 61 total copies.
Other Formats and Editions
Show Only Available Copies
Location | Call Number / Copy Notes | Barcode | Shelving Location | Status | Due Date |
---|---|---|---|---|---|
Orleans Town and Twp PL - Orleans | M DOW (Text) | 36870000504186 | M | Available | - |
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9780451491756|excerpt
Downing / HE STARTED IT
Part 1
14 DAYS LEFT
You want a heroine. Someone to root for, to identify with. She canât be perfect, though, because thatâll just make you feel bad about yourself. A flawed heroine, then. Someone who may break the rules to protect her family but doesnât kill anyone unless itâs self-Âdefense. Not murder, though, at least not the cold-Âblooded kind. Thatâs the first deal breaker.
The second is cheating. Men can get away with that and still be the hero, but a cheating wife is unforgivable.
Which means I canât be your heroine.
I still have a story to tell.
It begins in a car. Rather, an SUV. We sit according to our rank, the oldest in the driverâs seat. Thatâs Eddie. His wife sits next to him, but Iâll get to her.
The middle seat is for the middle child, and thatâs me. Beth. Not Elizabeth, just Beth. Iâm two years younger than Eddie and he never lets me forget it. Iâm okay to look at, though not as young or thin as I used to be. My husband sits next to me. Again, later for that, because our spouses werenât supposed to be here.
One seat left, way in the back, and thatâs Portia. The surprise baby. Sheâs six years younger than me and sometimes it feels like a hundred. With no spouse or significant other, she has the whole seat to herself.
In the very back, our luggage. Stacked side by side in a neat single row because thatâs the only way it fits. I told Eddie that the first time. Our handbags and computers bags go on top of the roller bags. You donât have to be a flight attendant to figure that out.
Under the bags, thereâs the trunk compartment. One side has the spare tire. In the other, a locked wooden box with brass fittings. This special little box in this special little place, all by itself with nothing else around, is to hold our grandfather. Heâs been cremated.
We arenât talking about him. We arenât really talking at all. The sun beams through the windows, landing on my leg and making it burn. The A/C dries out my eyes. Eddie plays music that is wordless and jazzy.
I look back at Portia. Her eyes are closed and she has headphones on, probably listening to music that is neither wordless nor jazzy. Her black hair is long and has fallen over one eye. Itâs dyed. We all have pale skin, and we were all born with blond hair and either blue or green eyes. My hair is even lighter now because I highlight it. Eddieâs is darker because he doesnât. Portiaâs hair has been black for a while now. It matches her nails. Sheâs not goth, though. Not anymore.
The music change is abrupt. I didnât even see Krista move. Thatâs Eddieâs wife. Krista, the one with olive skin, dark hair, and brown eyes with gold flecks. Krista, the one he married four months after meeting her. She used to be the receptionist at his office.
Pop music blares out of the speakers, a dance song from five years ago. It was bad then, too.
âThe jazz was putting me to sleep,â Krista says.
My husbandâs eyes flick up from his laptop. He probably didnât notice the change in music, but he heard Kristaâs voice.
Maybe sheâs the heroine.
âItâs fine,â Eddie says. I can hear the smile on his face.
I continue to stare out the window. Atlanta is long gone. We arenât even in Georgia. This is northern Alabama, past Birmingham, where the population is sparse and skeptical. If we were trying to rush, weâd be farther along by now. Rushing isnât part of the equation.
âFood?â
Thatâs Portia, her voice groggy from her nap. Sheâs sitting up, headphones off, wide-Âeyed like a child.
Sheâs been milking that baby-Âof-Âthe-Âfamily shit for a long time.
âYou want to stop?â Eddie says, turning down the music.
âLetâs stop,â Krista says.
My husband shrugs.
âYes,â Portia says.
Eddie looks at me in the rearview mirror, like I get a say in the matter. Iâm already outnumbered.
âGreat,â I say. âFood is great.â
We stop at a place called the Roundabout, which looks just as you imagine. Rustic in a fake way, with the lasso and goat on the sign, but naturally rundown with age. Authentic but notâÂlike most of us.
We all climb out and Portia is first to the door; Krista isnât far behind. Eddie is the one who takes the most time. He stands outside the car, staring at the back. Hesitating.
Itâs our grandfather. This is our first stop of the trip, meaning itâs the first time we have to leave him alone.
âYou okay?â I say, tapping Eddieâs arm.
He doesnât look at me, doesnât take his eyes off the back of the car because Grandpaâs ashes are everything to us. Not for emotional reasons.
âYou want to stay out here? I can bring you a doggie bag,â I say. Sarcasm drips.
Eddie turns to me, his eyes wide. Oh, the shock. Like if I had just told him I was leaving my longtime partner for someone I met two months ago.
Oh wait, he did that. Eddie left his live-Âin girlfriend for the receptionist.
âIâm fine,â he says. âYou donât have to be so bitchy about it.â
Yes. Iâm the villain.
Inside the Roundabout, everyone is sitting in a semicircle booth. Itâs twice as big as it needs to be. The seats are wine-Âcolored pleather. Krista and Portia have scooted all the way to the center of the booth, leaving Felix on one side. Thatâs my husband, Felix, the pale one with the strong jaw and white-Âblond hair with matching eyebrows and lashes. In a certain light, he disappears.
âNo,â Portia says. âThereâs nothing vegan.â
She isnât vegan but checks anyway. Portia also looks for wheelchair access and wonât go in anywhere that doesnât have it because fairness is important.
âShould we leave?â I say.
No one answers. I sit.
The burgers are chargrilled, the fries are crisp, and the bacon is greasy. A fair deal, if you ask me. The only thing missing is decent coffee, but I drink their bitter version of it without complaint. I can be a good sport.
âWe probably should get something settled,â Eddie says. He looks like our father. âWeâre going to be driving for a while. A lot of gas, food, and motel rooms. I propose we take turns covering the expenses. More than anything else, letâs not argue about it. The last thing we need to do is fight over a gas bill.â
Before I can say a word, my husband does.
âMakes sense,â Felix says. âBeth and I will pay our fair share.â
Only a spouse can betray you like that. Or a sibling.
That leaves Portia. Given that sheâs doesnât really have a career, the deal isnât fair.
Oh, the irony.
She yawns. Nods. In Portia-Âspeak, sheâs agreeing for now but reserves the right to disagree later.
âGreat,â Eddie says. âIâll get this one.â
He takes the check up to the register, because thatâs the kind of place this is. Felix goes to the restroom and Portia steps out front to make a call. That leaves Krista and me, finishing those last sips of lukewarm coffee.
âI know this must be terrible for all of you,â she says, placing her hand on mine. âBut I hope we can have some good times, too. Iâm sure your grandfather wouldâve wanted that.â
Itâs a nice enough thing for Krista to say, if a little generic. Given the circumstances, I expect nothing less and nothing more.
Still. If everything falls apart and we all start killing one another, she goes first.
You think I said that for shock value. I didnât.
No, Iâm not a psychopath. Thatâs always a convenient excuse, though. Someone who has no empathy and has to fake human emotions. Why do they do bad things? Shrug. Who knows? Thatâs a psychopath for you. Or is it the word sociopath? You know what Iâm saying.
This isnât that kind of story. This is about family. I love my siblings, all of them, I really do. I also hate them. Thatâs how it goesâÂlove, hate, love, hate, back and forth like a seesaw.
Thatâs the thing about family. Despite what they say, itâs not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.
Downing / HE STARTED IT
Part 1
14 DAYS LEFT
You want a heroine. Someone to root for, to identify with. She canât be perfect, though, because thatâll just make you feel bad about yourself. A flawed heroine, then. Someone who may break the rules to protect her family but doesnât kill anyone unless itâs self-Âdefense. Not murder, though, at least not the cold-Âblooded kind. Thatâs the first deal breaker.
The second is cheating. Men can get away with that and still be the hero, but a cheating wife is unforgivable.
Which means I canât be your heroine.
I still have a story to tell.
It begins in a car. Rather, an SUV. We sit according to our rank, the oldest in the driverâs seat. Thatâs Eddie. His wife sits next to him, but Iâll get to her.
The middle seat is for the middle child, and thatâs me. Beth. Not Elizabeth, just Beth. Iâm two years younger than Eddie and he never lets me forget it. Iâm okay to look at, though not as young or thin as I used to be. My husband sits next to me. Again, later for that, because our spouses werenât supposed to be here.
One seat left, way in the back, and thatâs Portia. The surprise baby. Sheâs six years younger than me and sometimes it feels like a hundred. With no spouse or significant other, she has the whole seat to herself.
In the very back, our luggage. Stacked side by side in a neat single row because thatâs the only way it fits. I told Eddie that the first time. Our handbags and computers bags go on top of the roller bags. You donât have to be a flight attendant to figure that out.
Under the bags, thereâs the trunk compartment. One side has the spare tire. In the other, a locked wooden box with brass fittings. This special little box in this special little place, all by itself with nothing else around, is to hold our grandfather. Heâs been cremated.
We arenât talking about him. We arenât really talking at all. The sun beams through the windows, landing on my leg and making it burn. The A/C dries out my eyes. Eddie plays music that is wordless and jazzy.
I look back at Portia. Her eyes are closed and she has headphones on, probably listening to music that is neither wordless nor jazzy. Her black hair is long and has fallen over one eye. Itâs dyed. We all have pale skin, and we were all born with blond hair and either blue or green eyes. My hair is even lighter now because I highlight it. Eddieâs is darker because he doesnât. Portiaâs hair has been black for a while now. It matches her nails. Sheâs not goth, though. Not anymore.
The music change is abrupt. I didnât even see Krista move. Thatâs Eddieâs wife. Krista, the one with olive skin, dark hair, and brown eyes with gold flecks. Krista, the one he married four months after meeting her. She used to be the receptionist at his office.
Pop music blares out of the speakers, a dance song from five years ago. It was bad then, too.
âThe jazz was putting me to sleep,â Krista says.
My husbandâs eyes flick up from his laptop. He probably didnât notice the change in music, but he heard Kristaâs voice.
Maybe sheâs the heroine.
âItâs fine,â Eddie says. I can hear the smile on his face.
I continue to stare out the window. Atlanta is long gone. We arenât even in Georgia. This is northern Alabama, past Birmingham, where the population is sparse and skeptical. If we were trying to rush, weâd be farther along by now. Rushing isnât part of the equation.
âFood?â
Thatâs Portia, her voice groggy from her nap. Sheâs sitting up, headphones off, wide-Âeyed like a child.
Sheâs been milking that baby-Âof-Âthe-Âfamily shit for a long time.
âYou want to stop?â Eddie says, turning down the music.
âLetâs stop,â Krista says.
My husband shrugs.
âYes,â Portia says.
Eddie looks at me in the rearview mirror, like I get a say in the matter. Iâm already outnumbered.
âGreat,â I say. âFood is great.â
We stop at a place called the Roundabout, which looks just as you imagine. Rustic in a fake way, with the lasso and goat on the sign, but naturally rundown with age. Authentic but notâÂlike most of us.
We all climb out and Portia is first to the door; Krista isnât far behind. Eddie is the one who takes the most time. He stands outside the car, staring at the back. Hesitating.
Itâs our grandfather. This is our first stop of the trip, meaning itâs the first time we have to leave him alone.
âYou okay?â I say, tapping Eddieâs arm.
He doesnât look at me, doesnât take his eyes off the back of the car because Grandpaâs ashes are everything to us. Not for emotional reasons.
âYou want to stay out here? I can bring you a doggie bag,â I say. Sarcasm drips.
Eddie turns to me, his eyes wide. Oh, the shock. Like if I had just told him I was leaving my longtime partner for someone I met two months ago.
Oh wait, he did that. Eddie left his live-Âin girlfriend for the receptionist.
âIâm fine,â he says. âYou donât have to be so bitchy about it.â
Yes. Iâm the villain.
Inside the Roundabout, everyone is sitting in a semicircle booth. Itâs twice as big as it needs to be. The seats are wine-Âcolored pleather. Krista and Portia have scooted all the way to the center of the booth, leaving Felix on one side. Thatâs my husband, Felix, the pale one with the strong jaw and white-Âblond hair with matching eyebrows and lashes. In a certain light, he disappears.
âNo,â Portia says. âThereâs nothing vegan.â
She isnât vegan but checks anyway. Portia also looks for wheelchair access and wonât go in anywhere that doesnât have it because fairness is important.
âShould we leave?â I say.
No one answers. I sit.
The burgers are chargrilled, the fries are crisp, and the bacon is greasy. A fair deal, if you ask me. The only thing missing is decent coffee, but I drink their bitter version of it without complaint. I can be a good sport.
âWe probably should get something settled,â Eddie says. He looks like our father. âWeâre going to be driving for a while. A lot of gas, food, and motel rooms. I propose we take turns covering the expenses. More than anything else, letâs not argue about it. The last thing we need to do is fight over a gas bill.â
Before I can say a word, my husband does.
âMakes sense,â Felix says. âBeth and I will pay our fair share.â
Only a spouse can betray you like that. Or a sibling.
That leaves Portia. Given that sheâs doesnât really have a career, the deal isnât fair.
Oh, the irony.
She yawns. Nods. In Portia-Âspeak, sheâs agreeing for now but reserves the right to disagree later.
âGreat,â Eddie says. âIâll get this one.â
He takes the check up to the register, because thatâs the kind of place this is. Felix goes to the restroom and Portia steps out front to make a call. That leaves Krista and me, finishing those last sips of lukewarm coffee.
âI know this must be terrible for all of you,â she says, placing her hand on mine. âBut I hope we can have some good times, too. Iâm sure your grandfather wouldâve wanted that.â
Itâs a nice enough thing for Krista to say, if a little generic. Given the circumstances, I expect nothing less and nothing more.
Still. If everything falls apart and we all start killing one another, she goes first.
You think I said that for shock value. I didnât.
No, Iâm not a psychopath. Thatâs always a convenient excuse, though. Someone who has no empathy and has to fake human emotions. Why do they do bad things? Shrug. Who knows? Thatâs a psychopath for you. Or is it the word sociopath? You know what Iâm saying.
This isnât that kind of story. This is about family. I love my siblings, all of them, I really do. I also hate them. Thatâs how it goesâÂlove, hate, love, hate, back and forth like a seesaw.
Thatâs the thing about family. Despite what they say, itâs not a single unit with a single goal. What they never tell us is that, more often than not, every member of the family has their own agenda. I know I do.