Title: My Last Sunset
Author: Christian Chiakulas
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62420-322-0
POD ISBN: 978-1546836339
Genre: Mystery/Crime
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3
Website URL:
blogspot.com/christianchiakulas
Blog URL:
http://www.patheos.com/blogs/radicalchristianmillennial/
Facebook page:
https://www.facebook.com/christianchiakulasofficial
Twitter handle:
@ChrisChiakulas
CONTENT WARNING
Although it is not described
in detail, this book deals with sexual abuse.
TAGLINE
An antisocial teen sets out to solve the
mystery of why Jessica Carpenter killed herself in the halls of their high
school.
BLURB
My Last Sunset is a hardboiled detective
story set in a contemporary American high school. Damon Riley is an angry,
antisocial teenager with a penchant for solving mysteries. His life is shaken up when Jessica Carpenter,
a girl in the grade below his, shoots herself in the halls of the school
itself, leaving behind a note that names him as the culprit for driving her to
suicide. Taking the bait, Damon embarks
on a quest to find out what really happened to Jessica, leading him through a
web of conspiracy, betrayal, and brutality.
Along the way he learns more than he ever dreamed possible about the
girl he could never have saved.
EXCERPT
Michael might be
having the same idea as me, because he says, "Hey, you hear about that
freshman who killed herself?"
"She was a
sophomore," I say, staring ahead at the blackboard.
"Oh,"
Michael says. He's a senior, so it makes sense he wouldn't know. "That's
right, I knew that." Liar. "You heard she did it here?"
"Yeah, in the
bathroom downstairs," I say. This class is on the fourth floor. Jessica killed
herself on the second. The music was so loud from the dance that nobody heard
the gunshot, and she didn't get found until a janitor came in the next day.
She'd been absent from school Thursday and Friday last week, and I heard her
mom had reported her missing to the police. Then, for whatever reason, she came
back to school to end her life.
What the hell,
Jessica.
It's not that I can't
believe it. Jessica was a nice girl, I think, and seemed happy a lot of the
time, but seeming happy and being happy aren't the same thing; you don't have
to be smart to know or even articulate that. Like I said, I didn't know her
that well, but I knew her a little; enough to see that, like the rest of us,
she had shit going on she didn't talk about. What I didn't see was that she was
the kind of person who couldn't deal with it, like we all do.
Or that it was the
kind of shit that can't be dealt with.
"Heard she left
a note," Michael says, and now I'm aware that he's looking at me even
though his face hasn't moved. His eyes moved.
I didn't hear
anything about a note. Whatever was going on with her, she definitely wanted to
be found, wanted somebody to know.
Or maybe everybody.
Half a dozen more
people stream in over the next two or three minutes; this class is pretty small
to begin with and there are four absent. The eight o'clock bell rings just as
Goldman appears in the doorway. Behind him is Panzer, one of the school's
security guards (not his real name, but it should be).
I raise an eyebrow as
Goldman enters the classroom and the talking dies down. Then he looks right at
me and says, "Damon, could you please go with Mr. Cousins to the dean's
office?"
A low
"Oooooh..." goes through the small class, and I stand up, wondering
what the hell I did. Usually when I'm in trouble, I know exactly why. As I
cross the room to where Panzer is standing, arms folded across his chest, I
notice the two girls who'd been in the room early shooting me nasty looks, like
I personally wronged them. I don't even know their names.
Panzer steps aside to
let me exit the room first then closes the door after us. I throw my messenger
bag over my shoulder and look at him.
"What's this
about," I say, a little worried.
"Just
walk."
The halls are
deserted, and I stare at the floor as we walk to the main nexus where the
stairwells are, passing over the blurry reflections of the fluorescent lights
in the freshly-waxed floor. The dean's office is on the second floor, right
down the hall from the girl's bathroom. I stare at the door as we pass it.
The dean's office is
small, considering there are three deans that share it along with a secretary
and the school's sole counselor. The hub is a yellow-painted room with the
secretary's desk, several file cabinets, a large wooden conference table, doors
to the private offices of the deans and counselor, and plastic bins hanging on
the walls filled with handouts and leaflets about substance abuse, sexual
abuse, good ol' fashioned domestic abuse, birth control, STDs, juvie, and there
at the end—
Suicide.
The three deans are
all sitting at the conference table along with the counselor, Mrs. Mullen, and
the school's police liaison, Officer Pasture. A pit drops into my stomach.
Whatever I did, it must've been bad.
"Damon, please
sit," Dean Goodfellow says. He's a pudgy man with long blonde hair and a
face like a bulldog; if you're picturing him comically, stop, because everyone
in this school is terrified of him, including yours truly. The other two, Dean
Haskins and Dean Washington, are serious men, but none attack their jobs with
the rage-filled passion of Dean Goodfellow. He runs this school like it's the
streets of Baltimore in The Wire, keeping detailed, ever-growing files on every
student with the misfortune to cross his path and trading favors to some of
them for information. I'm not gonna lie, I've gotten out of more than one
detention this way. Wouldn't you know it, he's in charge of students with
surnames P-Z.
But they're all three
here, which means this is really serious. I pull up the blue plastic seat
across from him, willing myself not to break eye contact, and Panzer disappears
outside. The secretary isn't here either. I can feel my heart pounding in my
chest. What's going on?
"Damon,"
Goodfellow says, shifting in his seat and locking his fingers together on the
table in front of him. Everybody else at the table is staring at their laps;
they know the drill. When Goodfellow is working...
interrogating, more
like
...you let him be.
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