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Informationen zum Autor Jennifer Dugan is a writer, a geek, and a romantic who writes the kinds of stories she wishes she’d had growing up. She’s the author of the graphic novel Coven , as well as the young adult novels Playing For Keeps , The Last Girls Standing , Melt With You , Some Girls Do , Verona Comics , and Hot Dog Girl , which was called “a great, fizzy rom-com” by Entertainment Weekly and “one of the best reads of the year, hands down” by Paste magazine. She lives in upstate New York with her family, their dog, a strange kitten who enjoys wearing sweaters, and an evil cat who is no doubt planning to take over the world. Follow her online @JL_Dugan. Klappentext A queer YA psychological thriller from the author of Some Girls Do. “Shocking, captivating, and utterly chilling. A delicious thriller that will have you tearing through pages to get to the end, where you won’t be disappointed.” —Jessica Goodman, bestselling author of They Wish They Were Us and The Counselors Sloan and Cherry. Cherry and Sloan. They met only a few days before masked men with machetes attacked the summer camp where they worked, a massacre that left the rest of their fellow counselors dead. Now, months later, the two are inseparable, their traumatic experience bonding them in ways no one else can understand. But as new evidence comes to light and Sloan learns more about the motives behind the ritual killing that brought them together, she begins to suspect that her girlfriend may be more than just a survivor—she may actually have been a part of it. Cherry tries to reassure her, but Sloan only becomes more distraught. Is this gaslighting or reality? Is Cherry a victim or a perpetrator? Is Sloan confused, or is she seeing things clearly for the very first time? Against all odds, Sloan survived that hot summer night. But will she survive what comes next? Leseprobe ONE It had taken sixteen sutures to close the wound on the underside of Sloan’s forearm. Sixteen threads, woven in and out of her skin by careful hands wrapped in latex, while whispered words had promised, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” As if anyone could really know that. Sloan remembered the way the pain had dulled down to a useless ache as the doctors worked, a pressure and tug that she knew should hurt, would hurt, had hurt before everything faded to a blur of sirens and lights and hospital antiseptic. Sixteen stitches holding her together when she could not do so herself. “Sloan,” a voice said, sounding far away and underwater. Sloan ignored it, instead staring down at the puckered pink line running down her arm. She traced the scar with her finger, paying special attention to where it bit into the peculiar patch of raised skin above her wrist. Her mother called it a birthmark, but Sloan had never seen a birthmark like that before. Not that either of them really knew. When the Thomas family adopted her at the age of four, the mark, whatever it was, was already there. Her social workers were no help, and her biological parents were long-gone—?-a single Polaroid picture and an urgent, whispered “remember who you are” were all they left in their wake. There would be no asking and no answers for anyone. “Sloan,” the voice said again. This time Sloan snapped her attention to the woman sitting across from her. “Beth,” she said, matching her therapist’s tone. If you could really call her that. Beth was some new?-age-hypnotherapist-slash-psychic her mother had dug up when Sloan refused to talk to the doctors the hospital social worker had sent them to. She wasn’t even sure if Beth was accredited. She wasn’t even sure if hypnotists could be accredited. “Where were you just now?” Beth asked, trying very hard to keep her face neutral. Beth was always trying to keep her face ...
