Unforsaken

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Some books come easier than others. This one was a joy. Two people made it better than I could have imagined: Barbara Poelle, my agent, who knew exactly what was missing in the first draft-and my editor, Stephanie Elliott, who took time out of a very exciting year to bring the book to life.

“ELEVEN’S LIKE… THE NEW TEN,” Jess said, cracking herself up and spitting Coke on Gojo’s coffee table. It had a glass top that showed every mark-fingerprints, smudges of guacamole, and the crumbs from the chips, which were made of blue corn but tasted like every other chip I’d ever had.

Still, it was a first, and out of habit I said the words in my head. Blue corn chips. When I got home-which had better be soon-I’d write it in my journal. It would be number 62.

But that was for later. Right now I had to focus.

“That makes no sense,” Charlotte said, licking salt off her fingers. She was sitting on the floor between Gojo’s legs. He leaned back on the couch with a beer dangling loose in one hand, the fingers of the other playing with Charlotte’s wavy red hair.

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