The Last Girls Standing

Informationen zum Autor Jennifer Dugan Klappentext As the only two survivors of a summer camp massacre, Sloan and her girlfriend Cherry form a seemingly unbreakable bond, but as Sloan discovers more about the attack she begins to suspect Cherry may be more than just a survivor. Leseprobe ONE It had taken sixteen sutures to close the wound on the underside of Sloan's forearm. Sixteen threads, woven in and out of her skin by careful hands wrapped in latex, while whispered words had promised, It's okay. You're safe now. As if anyone could really know that. Sloan remembered the way the pain had dulled down to a useless ache as the doctors worked, a pressure and tug that she knew should hurt, would hurt, had hurt before everything faded to a blur of sirens and lights and hospital antiseptic. Sixteen stitches holding her together when she could not do so herself. Sloan, a voice said, sounding far away and underwater. Sloan ignored it, instead staring down at the puckered pink line running down her arm. She traced the scar with her finger, paying special attention to where it bit into the peculiar patch of raised skin above her wrist. Her mother called it a birthmark, but Sloan had never seen a birthmark like that before. Not that either of them really knew. When the Thomas family adopted her at the age of four, the mark, whatever it was, was already there. Her social workers were no help, and her biological parents were long-gone?-a single Polaroid picture and an urgent, whispered remember who you are were all they left in their wake. There would be no asking and no answers for anyone. Sloan, the voice said again. This time Sloan snapped her attention to the woman sitting across from her. Beth, she said, matching her therapist's tone. If you could really call her that. Beth was some new?-age-hypnotherapist-slash-psychic her mother had dug up when Sloan refused to talk to the doctors the hospital social worker had sent them to. She wasn't even sure if Beth was accredited. She wasn't even sure if hypnotists could be accredited. Where were you just now? Beth asked, trying very hard to keep her face neutral. Beth was always trying to keep her face neutral, and it rarely worked. Sloan had never met a therapist with so many tells, and she had met a lot of them in those first few weeks after the incident. Sloan flashed her patented smart?-ass smile. Here, in this chair, wondering how much more of this beautiful day I have to spend stuck inside your office. Beth frowned. Is that all? Does there always need to be more? Beth leaned back in her chair. It would be helpful to your recovery if there was, at least occasionally, more. Her recovery. That was hilarious. What recovery? It felt more like a countdown from where she sat. They had been waiting and watching her for a while now. Waiting for her to snap. To break down. To tell anyone other than that first police officer what she remembered. What it was like. What she saw. To put the few memories of that night she could manage to scrape up on display for them to dissect like a science experiment. Her parents, Beth, and all the therapists and gurus and life coaches before her all claimed to want to help her process what she'd been through. They wanted to understand. But nobody could, not unless they'd been there too. Sloan glanced out the window to where Cherry's truck sat glinting in the September sun. As if she could sense Sloan looking, Cherry opened the door and slid out, her long brown hair flipping up in the breeze. Sloan drank in the sight of the other girl, her entire body relaxing as the person she loved most leaned against the truck with crossed arms. Cherry was safety, warmth. She didn't pry because she didn't have to. She was there when it happened, when everyone died except for the two of them: th...

Auteur
Jennifer Dugan is a writer, a geek, and a romantic who writes the kinds of stories she wishes she’d had growing up. She’s the author of the graphic novel Coven, as well as the young adult novels Playing For Keeps, The Last Girls Standing, Melt With You, Some Girls Do, Verona Comics, and Hot Dog Girl, which was called “a great, fizzy rom-com” by Entertainment Weekly and “one of the best reads of the year, hands down” by Paste magazine. She lives in upstate New York with her family, their dog, a strange kitten who enjoys wearing sweaters, and an evil cat who is no doubt planning to take over the world. You can visit Jennifer at JLDugan.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram @JL_Dugan.

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In this queer YA psychological thriller from the author of Some Girls Do, perfect for fans of One of Us is Lying and A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, the sole surviving counselors of a summer camp massacre search to uncover the truth of what happened that fateful night, but what they find out might just get them killed.

“Shocking, captivating, and utterly chilling. A delicious thriller that will have you tearing through pages to get to the end, where you won’t be disappointed.” —Jessica Goodman, bestselling author of They Wish They Were Us

Sloan and Cherry. Cherry and Sloan. They met only a few days before masked men with machetes attacked the summer camp where they worked, a massacre that left the rest of their fellow counselors dead. Now, months later, the two are inseparable, their traumatic experience bonding them in ways no one else can understand.

But as new evidence comes to light and Sloan learns more about the motives behind the ritual killing that brought them together, she begins to suspect that her girlfriend may be more than just a survivor—she may actually have been a part of it. Cherry tries to reassure her, but Sloan only becomes more distraught. Is this gaslighting or reality? Is Cherry a victim or a perpetrator? Is Sloan confused, or is she seeing things clearly for the very first time? Against all odds, Sloan survived that hot summer night. But will she survive what comes next?

Échantillon de lecture
ONE

It had taken sixteen sutures to close the wound on the underside of Sloan’s forearm.

Sixteen threads, woven in and out of her skin by careful hands wrapped in latex, while whispered words had promised, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.” As if anyone could really know that.

Sloan remembered the way the pain had dulled down to a useless ache as the doctors worked, a pressure and tug that she knew should hurt, would hurt, had hurt before everything faded to a blur of sirens and lights and hospital antiseptic.

Sixteen stitches holding her together when she could not do so herself.

“Sloan,” a voice said, sounding far away and underwater. Sloan ignored it, instead staring down at the puckered pink line running down her arm. She traced the scar with her finger, paying special attention to where it bit into the peculiar patch of raised skin above her wrist. Her mother called it a birthmark, but Sloan had never seen a birthmark like that before.

Not that either of them really knew. When the Thomas family adopted her at the age of four, the mark, whatever it was, was already there. Her social workers were no help, and her biological parents were long-gone—​-a single Polaroid picture and an urgent, whispered “remember who you are” were all they left in their wake. There would be no asking and no answers for anyone.

“Sloan,” the voice said again.

This time Sloan snapped her attention to the woman sitting across from her. “Beth,” she said, matching her therapist’s tone. If you could really call her that. Beth was some new​-age-hypnotherapist-slash-psychic her mother had dug up when Sloan refused to talk to the doctors the hospital social worker had sent them to. She wasn’t even sure if Beth was a…