When you write a book for publication, you're writing it for other people to read.

We didn't get that chance because I was afraid. Afraid I had no chance with you.

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.

As a writer, my only responsibility is to tell a compelling story.

Like driving along a bumpy road and losing control of the steering wheel, tossing you—just a tad—off the road. The wheels kick up some dirt, but you're able to pull it back. Yet no matter how hard you try to drive straight, something keeps jerking you to the side. You have so little control over anything anymore. And at some point, the struggle becomes too much—too tiring—and you consider letting go. Allowing tragedy... or whatever... to happen.

I take a slow sip of lukewarm coffee, reopen the book, and read the words scribbled in red ink near the top: Everyone needs an olly-olly-oxen-free.

When you try rescuing someone and discover they can't be reached, why would you ever throw that back in their face?