Page 1 of The Night

Chapter One

Liam

Funnyhow five years could change things.

Back then, I’d loved to travel. I’d traveled for jobs, I’d traveled for fun, and really, it had all been one and the same for a professional photographer who was thrilled on the daily by his work.

I vaguely remembered a life where I kept a carry-on in the closet, pre-packed with my passport, camera, and maybe five or six other minimalist travel essentials, trusting I could acquire anything else I needed when I got where I was going.

My editor needed me in Budapest? My sister wanted to spend Christmas in Seychelles? Some hot guy invited me to Steamboat in January?Yes, yes, yes.

Nowadays, a seven-hour car trip required four days of planning, three whole suitcases, and an internet deep-dive into reviews of the rest areas along I-90—yes, those were an actual thing—so I could map out our stops with a kind of devotedness I’d once only applied to my craft.

And still? Despite all my best efforts?

“But yousaidyou wouldpack them!” My daughter’s big brown eyes met mine in the Volvo’s rearview mirror, wide with the kind of accusation and outrage that only a forgotten bag of red-frosted Santa cookies from the Stop & Shop could engender. “Yousaid!”

“I know.” I ran a hand through my hair and reminded myself to be patient. “In my defense, I did remember to pack my suitcase, your clothes suitcase, an entire second suitcase full of toys you can play with when we get to the hotel in Syracuse tonight, your stationery and markers so you can write more letters to Santa Claus, and a whole cooler full of healthy snacks.” Along with the folder full of papers my attorney had drawn up, tucked into a brown leather messenger bag and riding shotgun. “And, the cookies will still be there when we get home tomorrow night—”

“But I asked youthree times, Daddy! And you said, ‘Hazel Grace McKnight, for the love of all that’s holy in the universe, stop asking me about the cookies!’ So Idid. And youforgot them anyway.”

“Yes. I know. Thanks for the recap.” Just in case I’d forgotten. Or begun to think positively about my parenting skills. “Bug, I will buy you a cookie as soon as we see a place that sells cookies. Promise.” I peered out the window at the desolate road surrounded by forest and wondered if we’d be in Canada before that happened.

“Fine. But you’ll need to buy meseveralcookies.”She blinked guilelessly, a sure sign I was being conned. “Because I hadseveralcookies at home, and fair is fair.”

I snorted. Who taught kids this crazy stuff?

Oh, right. Me.

“How much longer?” she asked.

“GPS says twenty minutes to O’Leary.” I spoke like this was an actual fact, though I saw almost no signs of civilization except for a couple of unmarked driveways and a speed limit sign with a Christmas wreath hanging beneath it. “Hang tight, kiddo.”

The road was strangely appealing—curving and nearly hidden in some places, straight and flat and arched with trees in others—and the whole idea of some paths being obscured while others were straightforward was so perfectly metaphorical that part of me itched to pull over and grab my camera so I could document the play of light and shadow. In the time I referred to as BH—Before Hazel—I wouldn’t have hesitated, even if the road was narrow and a little dangerous. Before Hazel, mycamerawould have been riding shotgun.

Now, my Canon was buried in the trunk under fifty pounds of Hazel-related clothing and accessories, and the tiny dictator in the backseat would have me flogged if I made her spend even a minute longer in the car than absolutely necessary.

The weirdest part was, I really didn’t mind the change at all most of the time.

“You could turn up the music,” Hazel suggested.

Okay, I didn’taltogethermind the change.

The music Hazel was referring to—a little album calledKiddie Bop Christmas.Perhaps you’ve heard of it?—was a form of torture surely outlawed by the Geneva Convention, and yet somehow still widely available in stores, where just anyone’s crazy sister could find it, buy it, and send it to her seven-year-old nieceeight entire weeks before Christmas.After seven hours in the car, my eyelid had begun twitching to the rhythm of “Jingle Bell Rock.”

And, just to say, I really hoped my sister was enjoying her month-long motorcycle trek across Mongolia because payback would be swift and painful onceAuntie Livvywas stateside again.

“How about we talk instead,” I suggested.

“Talk?” she said in a tone that probably perfectly foreshadowed her teenage years.

“Yes,talk. That thing with the voices where we say what we’re thinking.”

Hazel giggled, then immediately sobered, clasped her hands under her chin, and stared sadly out the window, the very picture of a Dickensian street urchin. “I’m thinking, ‘Oh, good heavens, I do so love cookies,’” she said in a flawless British accent.

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.Well-played, kid. Though possibly over-acted.

“Wow. Those hours watchingPeppa Pighave really paid off, haven’t they?”