You Will Remember Me by Hannah McKinnon (best sales books of all time txt) 📕

going out with a liar, but with a cheater and a deadbeat dad? He’d seemed so sincere, faithful and committed. Had my rose-tinted glasses been Coke-bottle thick?

I clutched the library book to my chest, understanding the damn thing hadn’t provided me with answers. If anything, I had more questions than before. I couldn’t tell Heron or Stevens about this, couldn’t stomach her looks of sympathy and his thinly veiled amusement at how I’d been played.

My heart sank. I wanted to go back to the apartment, get all of Jack’s belongings and set them on fire, watch them burn. He’d lied to me. About everything. I’d never know who he truly was because—and this time I allowed myself to finish the thought—he wasn’t coming back. Jack had drowned. He was gone. I’d never, ever see him again, and in that moment, I hated him. Detested him for putting me through this. If he’d trusted me enough to share his secrets, if he’d told me the truth about who he was, I’d either have walked away when we met, or stuck with him, leaving me free to mourn the man I’d loved. Sam had been right about one thing: it was unfair, it was all so completely unfair, and, damn it, I wanted and deserved to find some answers.

In no time at all I was on social media, hunting for profiles, and after another while I’d found two women in Maine named Maya Scott. As I had no idea what the person I was searching for looked like, I selected the first profile. I scrolled through her posts, from which I determined she was around forty, had a profound dislike for cottage cheese and loved to bake anything with chocolate. I watched videos of her three cats called Skippy, Zippy and Boo, fast-forwarded through her daughter’s multiple piano recitals because they only showed her hands, and made a start on the photos. I took my time, zooming in on each one, trying to determine if the back of a head or a half-cropped-out arm belonged to Jack. An hour went by, and still nothing.

The first profile exhausted, I selected the next, soon realizing this one wouldn’t take nearly as long. This Maya Scott enjoyed her privacy, and most of what she shared wasn’t set to public. She hadn’t posted for quite some time, either. Then again, neither had I.

I flicked through her limited posts and clicked on the link to her photo albums. Again, most of them weren’t accessible, but when I scrolled down, a picture she’d added a few years ago made me gasp. I slid a finger across the screen and zoomed in. It was a photo of a dark-haired girl, wide-eyed and slim, dressed in a black-and-yellow-striped bikini, and with a huge grin on her face. The man next to her wore dark sunglasses, and had slicked his wet hair off his forehead, but the shape of his chin, his nose, and the beauty spot next to it, were unmistakable. I’d know him anywhere. Jack.

Heart pounding, I went back to her profile, searching for clues about where she lived, where she worked, but found none. I almost threw my phone against the wall in frustration, but as I scrolled back through the pictures and posts, a more recent one caught my eye. She’d been tagged in a photo with a group of people, all dressed in black pants and wine-red shirts, standing in front of a modern building by the ocean. Their bodies obscured the sign behind them, and the unhelpful caption read Best Resto Crew! Undeterred, I focused on the top left part of Maya’s shirt and zoomed in enough to make out the silver writing.

The Cliff’s Head.

In comparison to Maya Scott, the restaurant was easy to locate. I found it nestled away in a coastal town called Newdale, up the coast from Portland, not far from Yarmouth. Not far from the library. Fingers crossed and heart pounding harder than I ever thought possible, I dialed.

“The Cliff’s Head,” a woman said.

“Hello, I’m looking for Maya Scott.”

“This is she.”

Her voice was deep, a little husky, and I couldn’t speak—didn’t want to—in case it turned out to be a dead end, a mistake, a misunderstanding. I cleared my throat in an effort to psych myself up for the conversation, but she spoke first, an audible smile in her voice.

“Hello? Can I help you make a reservation?”

“No, thanks. I, uh, my name’s Lily Reid. I—I’m looking for Jack Smith.”

A long pause, then, “We don’t have anyone who works here named Jack.”

“No, uh, that’s not what I meant. I...I think you know him.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken.” Her pleasantness had disappeared, her voice now sounding wary and firm. “I don’t know a Jack Smith.”

“Are you sure? He’s my boyfriend, and he went missing almost a week ago. I...I know this’ll sound strange, but I found you on Facebook. I was going through your posts—”

“Excuse me?”

“—and I came across one of your photos. You’re in a black-and-yellow bikini, and you’re with a man. Brown hair, beauty spot on—”

“Hold up. Did you say you went through my Facebook photos?”

Shit. “I know how crazy this sounds, believe me, but I need to know if this man—”

“You really shouldn’t be snooping.”

“But if you could take a quick look at the photo—”

“I can’t help you.” The phone went dead.

“No!” I yelled. “No, no, no!”

I’d found one lead—one—since Jack disappeared, and I’d blown it. Maya Scott thought I was a psycho, and who could blame her after I’d told her I’d gone through her photos? I considered my options, decided the best one was to take a screenshot of the picture, send her a groveling message and explain what I needed, and why. But as I swiped back to her photographs, my phone rang. The number was blocked, but I answered anyway.

“Hello, Lily? It’s Maya Scott. You just called me.”

“Oh, thank God,” I said, my voice breathless as I sank into my seat. “Thank you for calling back, I’m