The Good Daughter: A gripping, suspenseful, page-turning thriller. Alexandra Burt
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       Chapter 18

      

       Chapter 19

      

       Chapter 20

      

       Chapter 21

      

       Chapter 22

      

       Chapter 23

      

       Chapter 24

      

       Chapter 25

      

       Chapter 26

      

       Chapter 27

      

       Chapter 28

      

       Chapter 29

      

       Chapter 30

      

       Part Three

      

       Chapter 31

      

       Chapter 32

      

       Chapter 33

      

       Chapter 34

      

       Chapter 35

      

       Chapter 36

      

       Chapter 37

      

       Chapter 38

      

       Chapter 39

      

       Chapter 40

      

       Chapter 41

      

       Chapter 42

      

       Chapter 43

      

       Chapter 44

      

       Epilogue

      

       Acknowledgements

      

       About the Author

      

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      They stopped once for the night, in Albuquerque. The name of the city intrigued the girl, so she looked it up in the encyclopedia she carried with her. It was her most prized possession.

      Albuhkirkee … She silently repeated the word until it lost all meaning. The girl caught herself drifting off into some paranoid daydream, not knowing what time it was or where they were going. They had never driven this far for so long, never had to pump gas so many times.

      Weary with the burden of her heavy eyelids, she was drunk with sleep by the time her mother stopped at a hotel. Rodeside Inn, the sign read. All she’d remember later were the weeds that grew through the cracks of the concrete parking lot.

      The next morning, her mother bought donuts at a drive-through and they got back on the road. The girl went to sleep, but when she woke up and looked out the window, the scenery hadn’t changed at all. After days on the road, she felt as if she was leaking electricity. The hours stretched, and she wished her mother hadn’t thrown her bag in the trunk of the Lincoln—she longed for her American Girl magazine and the jelly bean–flavored ChapStick.

      She opened a bag of Red Vines, sucked on them, and then gently rubbed them over her lips until they turned crimson.

      Running her fingers across the cracked spine of her encyclopedia—the first pages were missing and she’d never know what words came before accordion; a box-shaped bellows-driven musical instrument, colloquially referred to as a squeezebox—she СКАЧАТЬ