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

and gestured to the door. “I didn’t hurt him, so unless you’re going to arrest me, I’d like you to leave and start searching for him again.”

They both stood slowly, and when they got to the front door, Heron turned around. “I’m here if you need to talk,” she said, and I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from screaming, “No thanks, you two-faced bitch.”

Once they’d driven off, my fury turned to despair as any remaining hope disintegrated around me. Jack, Gordon or whatever his name was, was never coming back. Not only was I left holding a mess of grief and rage, not only would my questions remain unanswered and gnawing away at my core, but now the cops thought I had something to do with Jack’s disappearance. I didn’t have my parents’ financial backing now, couldn’t afford to lawyer up if they arrested me for something that, this time, I hadn’t done.

I couldn’t live this way. I wouldn’t. I needed to know the truth. All of it. Who Jack was, why he’d lied and, most of all, if any of what we’d had was real.

I grabbed my phone and plugged in Newdale, Maine. It was the only clue, never mind how small, and it was a little over a nine-hour drive from Brookmount, more if I hit traffic. No way would my temperamental Chevrolet make it that far, and the last thing I needed was to break down and end up stranded by the side of the road. I could fly, but that wasn’t cheap, and I wanted to travel without leaving a trail for the cops to follow in case it raised their absurd suspicions.

I dialed Mike’s number. Without hesitation he agreed to give me more time off, let me borrow one of the garage’s trusty run-around cars, a sprightly orange Ford Fiesta, and said it would be dropped off within the hour. After thanking him a million times, I took a duffel from the closet in the hallway and marched to my bedroom, where I pulled out pants, shirts and underwear, stuffing them into the bag. I’d use some of the cash I’d found in Jack’s apartment to pay for my trip to Newdale, I decided, and find a way to return it.

As I finished packing, I asked myself if I was being impulsive and irrational, stupid even. Most certainly, I decided. Maya might have told the truth. Maybe she wouldn’t talk to me and would throw me out of the Cliff’s Head, or call the local cops. Regardless, I was done sitting at home, wallowing and waiting. If I wanted answers, I had to damn well go after them myself.

Once I had the keys to the car, I tried to rest for a while, but sleep wanted nothing to do with me. I spent a few hours tossing and turning, half of my brain trying to talk me out of going to Newdale, while the other half ordered me to get up and move. I complied with the latter and set off a few minutes after 1:00 a.m., settling in for the long drive ahead.

Hours passed, the sun came up, and I still wondered what the hell I was doing, and what I’d say when I found Maya. When I stopped at a gas station to fill the car and use the bathroom, I made sure to pay for everything with cash. Heron and Stevens hadn’t said anything about having to stay in town, but until they checked out my alibi and cleared me, driving off—no matter the reason—was surely ill-advised.

I continued, so lost in thought I barely registered when the GPS indicated Newdale was a mere hour away. Not a lot of opportunity for me to calm my nerves, but plenty of time to try and talk myself into taking the next exit, turning back and scurrying home.

I wasn’t sure why the thought of meeting Maya made me break out into a cold sweat. Something in how her tone had switched from guarded and annoyed to sweetness and light. My mind went into overdrive, cataloging the gazillion different ways our face-to-face encounter could go, and in almost no time at all, I’d arrived at the Cliff’s Head right in time for lunch.

I parked the car and got out, gazing up at the restaurant. I’d read online it had once been run-down and tired, serving the same old lobster rolls, which had become so bland, rubbery and boring, even the number of tourists dwindled thanks to the shitty online reviews. Everything changed when the place had sold a few years ago and a wealthy retiree from Bangor gutted and fully renovated the building before putting his son in charge. As well as turning into a gourmet hot spot boasting an acclaimed new head chef, the Cliff’s Head had gone from weathered shack to modern, two-story brick-and-steel combo, complete with glass-sided balconies, all perched on the Newdale Bluffs, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and affording the best views in town.

As the smell of the salty ocean breeze and the sound of seagulls filled the air, I wondered how long Maya had worked here. Was she in there right now? Only one way to find out.

I walked to the front door and pushed it open. Light streamed in through the massive windows, making the place bright and airy. A server was setting up the wooden tables for the upcoming service, arranging heavy-looking silverware, white china plates, glinting crystal glasses and cloth napkins folded into lover’s knots. The high-backed black leather chairs and gleaming maple floors added to the restaurant’s classy feel. No doubt it was a popular choice for first dates, birthday celebrations and anniversaries.

A few guests sat at the tables closest to the floor-to-ceiling windows and I realized the photos hadn’t done the place justice because the breathtaking view stretched out for miles. The host walked over, dressed in black pants and a burgundy shirt with the silver logo—the same outfit I’d seen in