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New York Times bestselling author Lauren Oliver delivers a gripping story perfect for fans of We Were Liars and I Was Here, about two sisters inexorably altered by a terrible accident.
Dara and Nick used to be inseparable, but that was before the accident that left Dara's beautiful face scarred and the two sisters totally estranged.
When Dara vanishes on her birthday, Nick thinks Dara is just playing around. But another girl, nine-year-old Madeline Snow, has vanished, too, and Nick becomes increasingly convinced that the two disappearances are linked. Now Nick has to find her sister, before it's too late.
In this edgy and compelling novel, Lauren Oliver creates a world of intrigue, loss, and suspicion as two sisters search to find themselves, and each other.
asking me to bring Dara along. Then I hate myself for having to wonder it. Before they hooked up, there was never any weirdness between us. One more thing that Dara ruined because she felt like it, because she had an itch, an urge, a whim. He’s so fuckable, I remember her saying one morning, out of the blue, when we’d all gone across the street to Upper Reaches Park to watch his Ultimate Frisbee game. Did you ever notice that he’s undeniably fuckable? As we were watching him run across the ball
around condoms in your bag? That’s right, N. Two can play at this game. Love, Lil Sis JULY 21 Nick It’s day two of my FanLand career and I’m already running late. I’m in the kitchen, slugging Mom’s coffee, which tastes alarmingly like something you’d use to clean drain pipes, when the knocking starts. “I’ll get it!” I shout, partly because I’m on my way out and partly because Mom’s still in the bathroom, doing whatever she does in the morning, creams and lotions and layers of makeup and a
the cop standing on the front porch, and for a moment my whole chest seizes and time stills or leaps backward and I think, Dara. Something happened to Dara. Then I remember that Dara came home last night. I heard her, clomping around upstairs and playing snippets of weird Scandinavian dance tech, as though deliberately trying to annoy me. The cop, a woman, is holding my favorite field hockey sweatshirt. “Are you Nicole Warren?” She pronounces my name as if it’s a dirty word, reading off the
laughter, apparently not realizing that this isn’t part of the show, as Rogers stands, gape-mouthed, having lost the thread of the music. The fat woman is fighting her way toward the stage, and I stand up to help, forgetting about the mermaid costume and the fact that my legs are suctioned together. Instead I pitch forward, face-first, landing hard on the ground and cutting my palms on the pavement. Now the laughter has swelled to an ocean of sound. I can just barely make out cries of The
napkins printed with the Beamer’s logo. “Casey,” the bouncer says. “A girl for Andre.” After shepherding me inside, he immediately abandons us. The door seals out most of the noise from outside. Still, I can feel the pulsating bass rhythm, beating up through my feet. “Sit down,” the woman—Casey—says, her eyes glued to a computer screen. “Give me a second. This fucking system . . .” She works her keyboard like she’s trying to punch it to death, then abruptly shoves her computer aside. She’s