Excerpt from Second Glance by Jodi Picoult, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

He slammed down the receiver and stared at it. Abe swept once, twice, three times, clearing a path between Rod and himself. "Problem?" he asked.

"Must be something screwed up in the phone lines." Rod dug a twenty out of his wallet for the gas.

"Must be. Or maybe what those Indians are saying's true -- that if they don't get their land back, the whole town'll be cursed."

Rod rolled his eyes. He was halfway back to the car by the time he recalled Spencer Pike's comment about ghosts. He turned around to ask Abe about that, but the man was gone. His broom rested against the splintered porch rail; with each breeze, the neat pile of flower petals scattered like wishes.

Suddenly a car pulled up on the opposite side of the gas pumps. A man with shoulder-length brown hair and unsettling sea green eyes stepped out and stretched until his back popped. "Excuse me," he asked, "do you know the way to Shelby Wakeman's house?"

Rod shook his head. "I'm not from around here."

He didn't know what made him look in the rearview mirror after he got into the car. The man was still standing there, as if he did not understand what should happen next. Suddenly Rod's cell phone began to ring. He dug in his breast pocket, flipped it open. "Van Vleet."

"Angel Quarry," said the woman at the other end, as if he'd been the one to call; as if that made any sense at all.




"Yeah, I'm coming," Shelby muttered, as the raps on her front door grew louder. It was only 11 a.m. If this moron woke Ethan...She knotted her hair into a ponytail holder, tugged her pajamas to rights, and squinted against the sun as she opened the door. For a moment, backlit by the daylight, she didn't recognize him.

"Shel?"

It had been two years since she'd seen Ross. They still looked alike -- the same rangy build, the same intense pale gaze that people found it hard to break away from. But Ross had lost weight and let his hair grow long. And oh, the circles under his eyes -- they were even darker than her own.

"I woke you up," he apologized. "I could..."

"Come here," Shelby finished, and she folded her baby brother into an embrace.


"Go back to sleep," Ross urged, after Shelby had spent the better part of an hour fussing over him. "Ethan's going to need you."

"Ethan's going to need you," Shelby corrected. "Once he finds out you're here, you might as well forget about getting any rest." She set a stack of towels on the end of the guest room bed and hugged him. "It goes without saying that you stay as long as you like." He buried his face in the curve of her shoulder and closed his eyes. Shelby smelled like his childhood.

Suddenly she drew back. "Oh, Ross," she murmured, and slipped her hand beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling out the long chain that he kept hidden underneath. At the end hung a diamond solitaire, a falling star. Shelby's fist closed around it.

Ross jerked away, and the chain snapped. He grabbed Shelby's wrist and shook until she let go of the ring, until it was safe in his hand. "Don't," he warned, setting his jaw.

"It's been -- "

"Don't you think I know how long it's been? Don't you think I know exactly?" Ross turned away. Why was it no one spoke of how kindness can cut just as clean as a knife?

When Shelby touched his arm, Ross didn't respond. She didn't force the issue. Just that one small contact, and then she backed her way out of the room.

Shelby was right -- he ought to sleep -- but he also knew that wouldn't happen. Ross had grown used to insomnia; for years it had crawled under the covers with him, pressed the length of his body with just enough restless indecision to keep him watching the digital display of a clock until the numbers justified getting out of bed.

He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He held the ring so tightly in his hand that he could feel the prongs of the setting cutting into his skin. He would have to get something -- string, a leather cord -- so that he could wear it again. Wide awake, he focused his attention on the clock. He watched the numbers bleed into each other: 12:04; 12:05; 12:06. He counted the roses on the comforter cover. He tried to remember the words to "Waltzing Matilda."

From Second Glance by Jodi Picoult. Copyright Jodi Picoult 2003. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher, Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group.