Bonnie Nadzam

First Sentence:    We’ll say this all began just outside of Chicago, in late summer on a residential street dead-ending in a wall.

Back of the book:


Tommie had a little gap between her teeth, her eyes were wide set, and she had one of those noses with perfectly round nostrils.

‘I’m supposed to ask you for a cigarette.’

This ugly kid before Lamb was obviously the brunt of a joke. Stupid. And reckless.

Had they any idea who he was? Why he was standing alone in a black suit? What kind of heart, if any, hung inside him?

He took a pull on his cigarette and put it out on the bottom of his beautifully polished shoe.

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Last Sentence:    He couldn’t hear her, could only see her shrinking pale white face twisting in anguish and bobbing unevenly behind him in the rearview mirror.