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Sharp Objects

Cover of Sharp Objects

Sharp Objects

A Novel

A striking debut literary thriller by Entertainment Weekly’s chief TV critic. Camille Preaker, a young Chicago newspaper reporter and sardonic loner, is in a delicate state after a short stay at a psychiatric hospital. When a dark crime occurs in her hometown, she's forced back to Wind Gap, Missouri on assignment. Long haunted by a childhood tragedy, and estranged from her mother for years, Camille is forced to face her own demons as she tries to uncover the mystery of her assignment.

A striking debut literary thriller by Entertainment Weekly’s chief TV critic. Camille Preaker, a young Chicago newspaper reporter and sardonic loner, is in a delicate state after a short stay at a psychiatric hospital. When a dark crime occurs in her hometown, she's forced back to Wind Gap, Missouri on assignment. Long haunted by a childhood tragedy, and estranged from her mother for years, Camille is forced to face her own demons as she tries to uncover the mystery of her assignment.

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    Chapter One

    My sweater was new, stinging red and ugly. It was May 12 but the temperature had dipped to the forties, and after four days shivering in my shirtsleeves, I grabbed cover at a tag sale rather than dig through my boxed-up winter clothes. Spring in Chicago.

    In my gunny-covered cubicle I sat staring at the computer screen. My story for the day was a limp sort of evil. Four kids, ages two through six, were found locked in a room on the South Side with a couple of tuna sandwiches and a quart of milk. They'd been left three days, flurrying like chickens over the food and feces on the carpet. Their mother had wandered off for a suck on the pipe and just forgotten. Sometimes that's what happens. No cigarette burns, no bone snaps. Just an irretrievable slipping. I'd seen the mother after the arrest: twenty-two-year-old Tammy Davis, blonde and fat, with pink rouge on her cheeks in two perfect circles the size of shot glasses. I could imagine her sitting on a shambled-down sofa, her lips on that metal, a sharp burst of smoke. Then all was fast floating, her kids way behind, as she shot back to junior high, when the boys still cared and she was the prettiest, a glossy-lipped thirteen-year-old who mouthed cinnamon sticks before she kissed.

    A belly. A smell. Cigarettes and old coffee. My editor, esteemed, weary Frank Curry, rocking back in his cracked Hush Puppies. His teeth soaked in brown tobacco saliva.

    "Where are you on the story, kiddo?" There was a silver tack on my desk, point up. He pushed it lightly under a yellow thumbnail.

    "Near done." I had two inches of copy. I needed six.

    "Good. Fuck her, file it, and come to my office."

    "I can come now."

    "Fuck her, file it, then come to my office."

    "Fine. Ten minutes." I wanted my thumbtack back.

    He started out of my cubicle. His tie swayed down near his crotch.

    "Preaker?"

    "Yes, Curry?"

    "Fuck her."

    Frank Curry thinks I'm a soft touch. Might be because I'm a woman. Might be because I'm a soft touch.

    Curry's office is on the third floor. I'm sure he gets panicky-pissed every time he looks out the window and sees the trunk of a tree. Good editors don't see bark; they see leaves--if they can even make out trees from up on the twentieth, thirtieth floor. But for the Daily Post, fourth-largest paper in Chicago, relegated to the suburbs, there's room to sprawl. Three floors will do, spreading relentlessly outward, like a spill, unnoticed among the carpet retailers and lamp shops. A corporate developer produced our township over three well-organized years--1961-64--then named it after his daughter, who'd suffered a serious equestrian accident a month before the job was finished. Aurora Springs, he ordered, pausing for a photo by a brand-new city sign. Then he took his family and left. The daughter, now in her fifties and fine except for an occasional tingling in her arms, lives in Arizona and returns every few years to take a photo by her namesake sign, just like Pop.

    I wrote the story on her last visit. Curry hated it, hates most slice-of-life pieces. He got smashed off old Chambord while he read it, left my copy smelling like raspberries. Curry gets drunk fairly quietly, but often. It's not the reason, though, that he has such a cozy view of the ground. That's just yawing bad luck.

    I walked in and shut the door to his office, which isn't how I'd ever imagined my editor's office would look. I craved big oak panels, a window pane in the door--marked Chief--so the cub...
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Sharp Objects
Sharp Objects
A Novel
Gillian Flynn
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A Novel
Gillian Flynn
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