With some effort, she sits in between her mom’s grave and the one nearest it, which is newer. The grass has grown in completely, and the headstone Geo ordered months ago has finally been finished. It’s similar in shape to her mother’s, but the marble is a deep gray. It causes her pain to look at it, because unlike the others, this loss is fresh.
Her phone rings, and she pulls it out of her purse to check who it is. She smiles and answers the call.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” Kaiser says. The background noise tells her he’s driving and she’s on speakerphone. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad. I’m at Rose Hill, visiting. The headstone is done, finally. I came to see how it looks.”
There’s a slight pause, and she knows Kaiser is trying to think of the right words. All he comes up with is, “And?”
“It’s beautiful. I’m glad we did it.”
Another pause. She can hear a horn honking in the background.
“I’m okay,” she finally offers, even though he hasn’t asked.
“I know you are.” She can hear Kaiser’s smile over the phone. “I’m on my way home. I’ll pick up some fried chicken. You said you had a craving, and now every time you do, I do. Your dad still coming over? If so, I’ll get that beer he likes.”
Geo manages a chuckle. “Way to kiss ass.”
They disconnect, and she sits for a bit in the shade, looking at the headstone that now sits near her mother’s. Dominic Kent had lived eighteen years, six months, and two days, until he was killed by his biological mother at his biological grandfather’s house. Mark Kent had been notified by the police of his son’s death, and they invited him to come and claim the body once the autopsy was completed. Mark had declined, and didn’t object when Geo said she wanted him. It had taken some maneuvering to get Dominic’s body moved from the morgue to the cemetery, but she was able to make it happen, bringing him here to Rose Hill to be laid to rest in the family plot.
Yes, it had raised a lot of eyebrows, particularly among those in the neighborhood. But the ugly graffiti messages on her father’s garage had finally stopped. They never did find out who was behind them, and people seemed to be moving on. In any case, Geo didn’t expect anyone to understand. The best way she could explain it to herself is that she wanted to give her son the peace and safety in death that she should have given him in life.
She never did ask Kaiser what the police had done with Calvin’s body.
Walter hadn’t protested. Instead, her father had offered to pay for the burial, and later, the headstone. Because he loves his daughter. And had different choices been made, he might have loved his grandson, too. In any case, he’ll get a second chance. Geo rubs her belly, feeling the baby move.
Before she leaves, she reaches into her purse and pulls out the package of cinnamon hearts she bought at the 7-Eleven on the way over. She rests them on Dominic’s headstone. The groundskeeper will probably eat them, but that’s okay. The thought makes her smile.
Geo turns and heads for home, stepping out of the shade, and into the sun.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Though my books are all stand-alones, they’re set in the same semi-fictional Pacific Northwest “world” I’ve been writing about since my first novel, which is why characters from older stories will often pop up in a new book to say “hello” (Kim Kellogg and Mike Torrance, anyone?). If you’ve read any of my earlier novels, you’ll recognize places like the Sweetbay neighborhood, Puget Sound State University, and the Green Bean coffee shop, which are all invented (and hooray for that, because people get murdered in Sweetbay).
Hazelwood Correctional Institute, which is where the first part of this novel is set, is a completely fictional women’s prison. Writers invent places for lots of reasons, but the main reason is always because it best serves the story. In this case, Geo’s experiences inside “Hellwood” stem from a blend of several real-life prisons I’ve researched (including the Washington Corrections Center for Women in Washington state), plus my own twisted imagination. But I do understand that some readers prefer to read only about real places in contemporary fiction, and as always, I hope you forgive me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writers write alone, but we edit and publish with the help of others who are usually much smarter than we are. I am incredibly fortunate to have a great team of people, in both my professional and personal life, supporting me every step of the way.
To my editor Keith Kahla, thank you for connecting with this book from the beginning and for understanding my vision. You pushed me to make the novel the best it could be, and it’s been a pleasure working with you and the rest of the fantastic team at St. Martin’s Press and Minotaur Books. Alice Pfeifer, you solve all my weird problems quickly and without breaking a sweat. Andrew Martin, Sally Richardson, Jennifer Enderlin, and Kelley Ragland, I’m so grateful for your support. I hope we all work together on many more books.
To my husband, Darren Blohowiak, thank you for never allowing me to doubt that this crazy creative pursuit is the right one. Thank you for listening to me obsess and stress, and for being cool with me fictionally murdering people for a living (which requires a lot of “research”—if I ever get arrested, promise me you’ll burn my computer). It takes a special guy to love me just as I am, and you are that guy. I love you.
To my son Maddox John Blohowiak, you weren’t even two years old when I wrote this book, and I loved hearing you in the next room, singing and laughing. Parenting can make doing most things harder, but I’m a better writer since having you. I know what I’m missing when I’m holed up in the office each day, and I know that the sooner I finish, the sooner I can come out and play with you. Thank you for keeping me focused. You are the light of my life. Mommy loves you, Mox.
To my friends Dawn Robertson, Annabella Wong, Lori Cossetto, Shellon Baptiste, Ed Aymar, Micheleen Beaudreau, Teri Orrell, Jennifer Baum, Jennifer Bailey, Scott Kubacki, and Maki Breen, I’d be lucky to have just one of you in my life. To have all of you means I must be doing something right. Thank you for a thousand conversations, and I’m looking forward to ten thousand more. Love you guys.
To my big brother John Perez, moving back to Canada might not have been possible without you. Thank you for giving us a place to live so I could bring my little family home. Special thanks to Nida Allan and Roberto Pestaño (a.k.a. Mom and Dad) for passing on your love of stories and storytelling. Erika Perez, you’re more like my little sister than my cousin, and you inspire me every day with your hard work and determination.
To all the Pestaños and all the Perezes all over the world, you’re the greatest cheerleaders a writer could ask for. To the Blohowiaks of Green Bay, Wisconsin, I’m blessed to have such warm, kind-hearted in-laws. Sorry for being a Seahawks fan (except not really). Love you all.
To Minty LongEarth, one chance meeting in the New Orleans airport security line led to a two-hour conversation over cocktails. Your perspective on prisons, foster care, serial killers, and psychopaths was fascinating, and you confirmed that real life is worse than anything I could ever make up. Thank you for sharing your experiences with me.
To my readers, thank you a million times over for sticking with me. Your emails, Facebook messages, Tweets, and Instagram posts light me up every day. Thank you for caring about my stories, and for being on this journey with me.
The writing community is an extremely supportive one, and I know how lucky I am to be a part of it. Writing friends are worth their weight in gold, and I owe a mountain of thanks to Mark Edwards for talking me off the ledge more times than I’d like to admit. Also, big thanks to the Thrill Begins gang, who provide an almost daily source of bad gifs and inappropriate jokes to help me get through the day. Over the years, I’ve been fortunate to have made so many connections with fellow writers and publishing professionals. Thank you all for your kindness, humor, and support. See you at the next conference, and save me a seat at the bar.
Somewhere out there is a man
named Mr. Rogers, who was my Enriched English teacher in tenth grade. He was the first person to ever read one of my short stories, assign me a grade, and suggest ways to make the story stronger. When I showed him the revised version, he upped my grade and published it in the high school anthology. That was the first time I ever worked with an editor, and the first time I ever saw my name in print. Wherever you are, Mr. Rogers, your editorial advice has stayed with me to this day. Thank you.
Last, but most certainly not least, to my agent. Working with you is still the best and smartest decision I ever made. Thank you for believing in me and for fighting for me, and for your optimism and encouragement when the time came to make a crucial decision. There aren’t enough words to tell you what you mean to me. Victoria Skurnick, you are my ambassador of quan.
ALSO BY JENNIFER HILLIER
Creep
Freak
The Butcher
Wonderland
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JENNIFER HILLIER was born and raised in Toronto, Canada, and lived in the Seattle area for many years, before returning home to Toronto where she now lives with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Part One: Denial
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two: Anger
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Three: Bargaining
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Four: Depression
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Five: Acceptance
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Also by Jennifer Hillier
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
JAR OF HEARTS. Copyright © 2018 by Jennifer Hillier. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
“Jar of Hearts” Words and Music by Barrett Yeretsian, Christina Perri, and Drew Lawrence.
Copyright © 2010, 2011 BMG Rights Management (UK) LTd., Philosophy of Sound Publishing, Miss Perri Lane Publishing, WB Music Corp., and Piggy Dog Music.
All Rights for BMG Rights Management (UK) Ltd. and Philosophy of Sound Publishing Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC
All Rights for Miss Perri Lane Publishing Administered by Songs of Kobalt Music Publishing.
All Rights on behalf of itself and Piggy Dog Music Administered by WB Music Corp.
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
Used by Permission of Alfred Music.
“Wonderwall” Words and Music by Noel Gallagher.
Copyright © 1995 SM Music Publishing UK Limited and Oasis Music.
All Rights Administered by Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219.
International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved.
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
“Closer” Written by Trent Reznor.
Published by Kobalt Music Services America Inc. (KMSA) obo Leaving Hope Music, Inc.; Kobalt Music Services Ltd. (KMS) obo Leaving Hope Music, Inc.
www.stmartins.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover illustration by Artemis; photograph of woman © Lizaveta Lavrik/Shutterstock.com; texture © pimchawee/Shutterstock.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hillier, Jennifer, author.
Title: Jar of hearts / Jennifer Hillier.
Description: First U.S. edition. First international edition.|New York: Minotaur Books, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017061021|ISBN 9781250154194 (hardcover)|ISBN 9781250193490 (international, sold outside the u.s., subject to rights availability)|ISBN 9781250154217 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3608.I446 J37 2018|DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017061021
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First U.S. Edition: June 2018
First International Edition: June 2018
Jar of Hearts Page 31
