Author: Rachel Michael Arends
Publisher by: Diversion Books
Published on: September 1, 2015
Genres: Adult Contemporary Romance, Contemporary Romance
Page Count: 277
What if the real you was the one person your husband couldn't ever meet?
Jane Johansen has carefully crafted a seemingly-perfect life. She's blessed with an adoring husband, Edward, two unwavering best friends, a powerful corporate job, and a high-security penthouse.
Then one day, Jane is unceremoniously fired, Edward's father abruptly dies, and Jane's painstakingly-built world starts crashing down around her.
Edward decides that they should move to his North Carolina hometown, to settle into suburbia surrounded by his large, extended brood. Although Jane is fascinated by the world of happy families and movie set-perfect homes, she knows that she can never fit in there. The problem is that she has never explained the facts of her life to Edward.
Jane hopes moving south will allow her to escape the shadows of her past: her time-warped mother, the trauma of her college years that has left her scarred, and her terrifying ex-boyfriend, who has been recently paroled. Most haunting is Jane's oldest and worst friend, who has been trying to track her down with the determination of a bloodhound.
Weaving the defining moments of a woman's past into the suspenseful unraveling of her present, Rachel Michael Arends pens a thought-provoking novel that will have readers enthralled from start to finish.
She sits on the kitchen floor with her back against the pantry door, drinking room-temperature beer with all the lights on. Jane is bone tired, creaky, aching, and deadened from a week of hard labor. She finishes a beer and sets it next to her, hearing a faraway clang, as her heavy hand must have knocked the bottle over.
Her eyelids betray her for longer and longer periods before she manages to force them open again with a jolt and an involuntary jump. She’s fading fast. But she knows it’s dangerous to fall asleep when her thoughts aren’t on her side.
She’s thinking of those damn dusty footprints.
Jane wakes to the sound of her own scream. Realizing where she is, she laughs in a punch-drunk, half-eyed way, but it dries to a dusty whisper. The air conditioner was cranked earlier in hopes of some relief. Now she shivers violently.
But she can’t get up. Not to climb the stairs and fall into one of the beds, not to turn off the lights, not to use one of the bathrooms. There are too many empty doorways to pass, too many blind corners to turn.
Jane stares out to gleam and granite, stainless steel and cardboard. She feels upended, not even sure which direction she’s facing. Everything is so unfamiliar.
Nearby is a moving blanket that protected a tabletop on its journey. Jane reaches out with her foot and inches it closer. That’s as much movement as she’s willing to make. Her back against the wall, a large dish crate to lean on, and the hard wooden floors beneath, Jane makes her bed.
Sitting up higher, she tells herself to focus, but it’s like trying to stay awake behind the wheel. Then she might invite the roaring wind inside, or slap her face, or pinch her leg. She wonders if Amy fell asleep, or got giggling, or if a deer ran into her path.
Jane is tuning out, she’s going under. As her weariness wins the fight against her will, the bumps and lurches of sleep seduce her and she goes off the road. The last thing she’s consciously aware of is a single thought, played over and over in her mind like a hellish mantra:
Whose footprints were they, and where will they lead?