The Bones of You Read Online Free PDF Page A

journalist, Kate.” Speaking slowly, gauging my reaction, her eyes rooted to mine, as I start to get a sense of where she’s going with this.
    “You’ve heard about Rosie.” It’s a statement rather than a question. My pleasure at seeing her dissipates, because I’m not sure how that makes me feel. Disappointment that my old friend makes her living out of other people’s suffering? “It’s a long way to come, Laura. And no one knows what, if anything, has happened to her.”
    Laura nods. “I know. And I really hope, as much as all of you do, that she just walks back in, unharmed. But it’s a big story. Neal Anderson’s a household name. There’s more to it, though. Before this happened, we’d planned a series of articles on the hidden victims of war zones. Including Afghanistan. Human stories about what happens when towns and families are decimated, and about those who remain—the elderly, the maimed. The orphans.” She pauses. “He’s already agreed to an interview with me. You see, he’s connected with an orphanage in Afghanistan.”
    It’s the first I’ve heard of this; suddenly, she has my attention.
    She goes on. “Seeing as I’m here, anyway, my editor’s agreed to let me cover this, too. Half the country is following this—and it’s been a while, hasn’t it? You must all be terribly worried.”
    Thinking of Jo again, I’m not sure. There are more than enough rumors circulating, and it feels disloyal to discuss her family like this. They’re too close to my heart.
    “I don’t know, Laura. Jo’s a friend. It might be better if you talk to someone else.”
    Laura sits back, still watching me. “Will you give me a chance to explain how we work? I can understand what you’re thinking, because right now, if I were you, I’d feel the same. But I’m really not one of those horrible, ruthless reporters who twist facts and who’ll do anything for a story. I promise you, cross my heart. Obviously, it’s awful that Rosanna—or Rosie, you say she’s called—is missing. There’s a story to write, sure, but accurately. And sympathetically, because awful though it is, this happens to people. The papers will print it, Kate, regardless. And not always the facts, either. You know that.”
    “She’s right.” Rachael reappears with a tray of coffee. “So who do you work for?”
    “An American magazine called Lifetime. . . . It’s a monthly journal—mostly about family and the kind of real-life issues facing women. I’ll give you a copy. I’ve got some upstairs.”
    “You’re staying here?” Rachael places cups in front of us.
    Laura nods. “For a couple of days.”
    Until Rosie comes back, is what she means.
    Or doesn’t.
     
    However bright the sun, however warm and soft the air on my skin, I discover you can’t unlearn fear. It’s there, all around us, as we gather to search for Rosie. I wonder if Jo knows just how much support there is. But after a long day yields nothing of any significance, as daylight fades, numbers fall away, leaving the police to continue with a dog.
    It’s there again, fear, my instant split-second response, that evening, when my phone rings. I’m in my pajamas, tidying the last of dinner away before I go to bed, meaning it’s late enough that it’s important.
    Grace’s number flashing up on the screen.
    “Mum, they’ve found her. . . .” Her voice is small and shocked.
    Oh God.
    “Is she all right, Grace?”
    “She was in the woods. . . .”
    My heart misses a beat, because it’s not what I want to hear, nor is the rushing sound in my ears as it comes back to me. The storm, Zappa, my fall . . .
    Clamping the phone to my ear as my heart leaps wildly, pointlessly with hope, because I know already from her hesitation, from the tremble in her voice, long before she speaks the words.
    “Mum . . .” Her voices breaks. “Rosie’s dead.”
    ROSIE
    I’m ricocheted forward through two elastic years. Another bigger, noisier car, which my father drives