I'm Not Done with You Yet
(Sprache: Englisch)
A struggling midlist writer travels to New York City to find the successful author who used to be her best friend - and who disappeared after the blood-soaked night that should have bound them together forever. Some friends - and friendships - are worth...
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A struggling midlist writer travels to New York City to find the successful author who used to be her best friend - and who disappeared after the blood-soaked night that should have bound them together forever. Some friends - and friendships - are worth killing for in this dark, twisty suspense novel by bestselling author Jesse Q. Sutanto.Lese-Probe zu „I'm Not Done with You Yet “
1TWENTY-SIX YEARS AGO
Aunt Claudette, she's the best. So everyone says. By everyone, I mean my mother. My mother loves Aunt Claudette because she is always ready to help out with "the cutie pie" (i.e., me). "Cutie pie" is the first clue that should tell you that my mother doesn't give a shit about me, because really, how fucking generic a pet name can someone get for their only child? She can't even be bothered to come up with a more unique pet name, one that's tailored to fit me. No, I remain known as "cutie pie" up until even my idiot mother can't pretend that I'm cute anymore.
But anyway. Back to Aunt Claudette. Not technically my aunt. She's just an elderly neighbor who Mom swears loves me like "her own." Her own what? Aunt Claudette never had kids. And the thing about Aunt Claudette is, she doesn't look after me out of love, no matter how much Mom would like to believe she does.
Sure, maybe she did it out of love at first, when I was little enough not to have any personality. When I really was a generic little cutie pie. But now that I'm seven, I realize she's not looking after me because she cares about me. She does so because she cares about what I would do if I wasn't being watched.
This morning, Mom made me cocoa pancakes for breakfast before rushing out the door to get to work. Cocoa pancakes, not chocolate pancakes. She'd read that unsweetened cocoa powder is full of antioxidants, so today, my pancakes come out brown as shit and tasting no better. I hate the color brown. That's what my hair is. Mom sometimes tries to call it "chestnut" or "chocolate," but we both know it's neither of those things. And here are my pancakes, the same disgusting mud-brown as my hair. I can drown the pancakes in syrup, but the only syrup allowed in the house is agave, which tastes like melted plastic. Clint Eastwood nudges my foot. The name's a joke that stuck-Clint is a loyal rescue mutt of an indeterminate age, but he looks about as old as God. I look into
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his trusting face and tear a tiny bit of shit pancake off. His stumpy tail wags, and he stands on his hind legs and paws my knees with a desperate whine.
But before I can give him the piece of pancake, Aunt Claudette rushes in like a hurricane and grabs my wrist, almost painfully. "What are you doing, child?"
I gaze at her. I have huge hazel eyes. Whenever people describe their eyes as "hazel," it's always brown. But mine have that warm honey hue that make people do a double take. They're also stupidly big and round. Legit Bambi eyes. I widen them now, because I know that's what people do when they're taken by surprise. "Clint is hungwy," I say.
Most people, including my own mother, would soften and say, "Aww," at that. But Aunt Claudette's mouth thins. I've miscalculated. She knows I'm too old for such mispronunciations. "Hung-ree," she says. "You know how to pronounce it properly."
I do.
"And you know Clint isn't allowed chocolate. It's bad for him."
It's not even a huge amount of cocoa. Not enough to do any permanent damage, only enough to give Clint the runs. I was going to really enjoy watching Mom clean up after Clint's diarrhea.
"I'm sorry." I cast my Bambi eyes down. All of my picture books show kids doing that when they're sorry. "I forgot." I look up at Aunt Claudette again, and this time, I've weaponized my Bambis-they're shining with tears. "Please don't be mad at me, Auntie."
That's something I'd learned from Jayden, Mom's current "special friend." Whenever they argue, Jayden looks at Mom a certain way and says, "Don't be mad at me, babe," and she sighs and her shoulders slump in defeat, and even at the age of seven, I know what a conniving asshole Jayden is, because telling someone not to be mad is putting all of the responsibility on them. Sure, I may have done something wrong, but YOU do the labor of getting over it. Jayden may be a grade A asshole, but he's taught me some rea
But before I can give him the piece of pancake, Aunt Claudette rushes in like a hurricane and grabs my wrist, almost painfully. "What are you doing, child?"
I gaze at her. I have huge hazel eyes. Whenever people describe their eyes as "hazel," it's always brown. But mine have that warm honey hue that make people do a double take. They're also stupidly big and round. Legit Bambi eyes. I widen them now, because I know that's what people do when they're taken by surprise. "Clint is hungwy," I say.
Most people, including my own mother, would soften and say, "Aww," at that. But Aunt Claudette's mouth thins. I've miscalculated. She knows I'm too old for such mispronunciations. "Hung-ree," she says. "You know how to pronounce it properly."
I do.
"And you know Clint isn't allowed chocolate. It's bad for him."
It's not even a huge amount of cocoa. Not enough to do any permanent damage, only enough to give Clint the runs. I was going to really enjoy watching Mom clean up after Clint's diarrhea.
"I'm sorry." I cast my Bambi eyes down. All of my picture books show kids doing that when they're sorry. "I forgot." I look up at Aunt Claudette again, and this time, I've weaponized my Bambis-they're shining with tears. "Please don't be mad at me, Auntie."
That's something I'd learned from Jayden, Mom's current "special friend." Whenever they argue, Jayden looks at Mom a certain way and says, "Don't be mad at me, babe," and she sighs and her shoulders slump in defeat, and even at the age of seven, I know what a conniving asshole Jayden is, because telling someone not to be mad is putting all of the responsibility on them. Sure, I may have done something wrong, but YOU do the labor of getting over it. Jayden may be a grade A asshole, but he's taught me some rea
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Autoren-Porträt von Jesse Sutanto
Jesse Q. Sutanto
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Jesse Sutanto
- 2023, Internationale Ausgabe, 352 Seiten, Maße: 15 x 22,9 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Berkley
- ISBN-10: 0593549082
- ISBN-13: 9780593549087
- Erscheinungsdatum: 04.09.2023
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
"Not since Gone Girl's Amy Dunne has a sociopath been this bewitching. Utterly brilliant, deliciously devious, and absolutely unputdownable with whiplash plotting and a twist that will make you gasp, Jesse Q. Sutanto s I'm Not Done With You Yet is an unflinching portrait of obsession that seduces you with dazzling prose while simultaneously stabbing you in the back. With shades of Highsmith and Single White Female vibes and a razor-sharp game of cat-and mouse prepare to be consumed by your newest addiction." May Cobb, author of The Hunting Wives"Obsession and envy collide in this deliciously dark tale of two writers with more than one explosive secret between them. With I'm Not Done With You Yet, Jesse Q. Sutanto has woven a very tangled web one that readers will gladly get caught up in. This is toxic female friendship at its most terrifying best." Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, author of The Girls Are All So Nice Here
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