Young Adult Books for Women
Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
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The Marriage Built on Lies
The day my parents told me I was transferring schools, my world ended for the first time. "Leo is a bad influence. A musician with no future, and he's too old for you," my mother stated, her lips a thin, unforgiving line. Two weeks later, I was adrift in the sterile halls of Northgate Prep, an art portfolio heavy in my hand, feeling like a ghost. Then I met Ethan. He seemed to light up the gray afternoon, a kind, talented musician who understood my dreams of New York and the Ashton Conservatory. Our pact to conquer the city together felt like a promise of a masterpiece. But the night before our audition, he handed me a "herbal supplement" that made the world tilt. I remember his whispered "I'm sorry, Chloe" just before he left me disoriented and helpless in a dark, grimy alley. I woke up to a pounding head, a filthy, torn dress, and a missed audition. A video of me, vulnerable and incoherent in that alley, had gone viral. My mother disowned me, her rage shaking the very foundations of my life. My quiet father, broken, showed me a text from an unknown number: "How does it feel to see your daughter's future ruined?" Five years passed in a haze of medication and therapists, the vibrant artist replaced by a frightened woman. I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, depression, and PTSD-a living ghost of the girl I once was. Why me? What had really happened that night? Then, Ethan reappeared. He found me in my squalid apartment, filled with profound sadness, and took me in, promising to fix everything. He cared for me, he loved me, or so I thought, as he meticulously rebuilt the gilded cage around my shattered life./0/81624/coverorgin.jpg?v=bb771ca4c0ec89dffebf7d270c94313d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Whispers of a Dark Prophecy
I clutched my Yale application, a symbol of hope amidst the stifling air of my own home. My parents, my brother, and my childhood friend Jake stood before me, a picture of familial expectation. But I heard their thoughts, a chaotic chorus of fear and malice. "Lock her down. Save Chloe," my father thought. Jake proposed eloping, ostensibly for love, but their true motives were horrifying: to stop me from going to college, to prevent me from 'destroying Chloe' s future' – all based on a 'prophet' s' twisted premonitions about me. My refusal ignited their true rage. They stripped me of my agency, condemning my ambition as a 'dark path' to protect their 'blessed' Chloe. Every success I had ever achieved they twisted into a tool for villainy. My chronic illness, initially dismissed as 'drama,' became their excuse for outright torture: confinement, forced sedatives, and a dog leash chained to my ankle. They genuinely believed I had to be stopped, by any means necessary. How could a family be so utterly consumed by such a delusional prophecy, twisting every fiber of their love into a suffocating paranoia? How could they view me, their own daughter, as a malevolent force simply for wanting a future? The betrayal from Jake, someone I once crushed on, cut deeper than their predictable malice, as he chose their twisted narrative over me. But even held captive, my will wasn't broken. With my last ounce of strength, I penned a desperate 'SOS,' pressing it into Chloe's hand. This was my final gamble, my last hope to break free, to expose their monstrous delusion, and to reclaim my destiny, even if it cost me everything./0/2134/coverorgin.jpg?v=eb9ed06fd6ce41e4180ed09c885c5ff9&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 1
by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark./0/16086/coverorgin.jpg?v=2e095433c123ecb447112766966c801e&imageMogr2/format/webp)
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Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 2
by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark./0/12193/coverorgin.jpg?v=ae89f66af555a77481e8c57c5af3cbe6&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Animal Ghosts
In opening this volume on Animals and their associations with the unknown, I will commence with a case of hauntings in the Old Manor House, at Oxenby.My informant was a Mrs. Hartnoll, whom I can see in my mind's eye, as distinctly as if I were looking at her now. Hers was a personality that no lapse of time, nothing could efface; a personality that made itself felt on boys of all temperaments, most of all, of course, on those who—like myself—were highly strung and sensitive.She was classical mistress at L.'s, the then well-known dame school in Clifton, where for three years—prior to migrating to a Public School—I was well grounded in all the mysticisms of Kennedy's Latin Primer and Smith's First Greek Principia.I doubt if she got anything more than a very small salary—governesses in those days were shockingly remunerated—and I know,—poor soul, she had to work monstrously hard. Drumming Latin and Greek into heads as thick as ours was no easy task.But there were times, when the excessive tension on the nerves proving too much, Mrs. Hartnoll stole a little relaxation; when she allowed herself to chat with us, and even to smile—Heavens! those smiles! And when—I can feel the tingling of my pulses at the bare mention of it—she spoke about herself, stated she had once been young—a declaration so astounding, so utterly beyond our comprehension, that we were rendered quite speechless—and told us anecdotes.Of many of her narratives I have no recollection, but one or two, which interested me more than the rest, are almost as fresh in my mind as when recounted. The one that appealed to me most, and which I have every reason to believe is absolutely true,[1] is as follows:—I give it as nearly as I can in her own somewhat stilted style:—"Up to the age of nineteen, I resided with my parents in the Manor House, Oxenby. It was an old building, dating back, I believe, to the reign of Edward VI, and had originally served as the residence of noble families. Built, or, rather, faced with split flints, and edged and buttressed with cut grey stone, it had a majestic though very gloomy appearance, and seen from afar resembled nothing so much as a huge and grotesquely decorated sarcophagus. In the centre of its frowning and menacing front was the device of a cat, constructed out of black shingles, and having white shingles for the eyes; the effect being curiously realistic, especially on moonlight nights, when anything more lifelike and sinister could scarcely have been conceived. The artist, whoever he was, had a more than human knowledge of cats—he portrayed not merely their bodies but their souls./0/9273/coverorgin.jpg?v=b73c8db9cac0d528112c1af9df791531&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Outdoor Girls of Deepdale; Or, camping and tramping for fun and health
Four girls were walking down an elm-shaded street. Four girls, walking two by two, their arms waist-encircling, their voices mingling in rapid talk, punctuated with rippling laughter\u2014and, now and then, as their happy spirits fairly bubbled and overflowed, breaking into a few waltz steps to the melody of a dreamy song hummed by one of their number. The sun, shining through the trees, cast patches of golden light on the stone sidewalk, and, as the girls passed from sunshine to shadow, they made a bright, and sometimes a dimmer, picture on the street, whereon were other groups of maidens. For school was out. \"Betty Nelson, the idea is perfectly splendid!\" exclaimed the tallest of the quartette; a stately, fair girl with wonderful braids of hair on which the sunshine seemed to like to linger. \"And it will be such a relief from the ordinary way of doing things,\" added the companion of the one who thus paid a compliment to her chum just in advance of her. \"I detest monotony!\" \"If only too many things don't happen to us!\" This somewhat timid observation came from the quietest of the four\u2014she who was walking with the one addressed as Betty./0/17385/coverorgin.jpg?v=f4bfb2f860566d8d6c19947a492218e7&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Twelve Good Musicians
n the Preface of his admirable contribution to the Oxford History of Music (Vol. III.) the late Sir Hubert Parry writes: "The seventeenth century is musically almost a blank, even to those who take more than the average interest in the Art; and barely a score of composers' names during the whole time suggest anything more than a mere reputation to modern ears." Of course the distinguished author is speaking of the musical world in general, not of our own country's music only. I am inclined to think it is a little severe on us. I have always found that great interest is taken in the 17th century music and musicians of England. Surely the century which began with the great Madrigal school at its highest point, which saw the Masque at its best in Milton's Comus, which witnessed the supersession of the viol by the violin, and which, at the close, had to its credit the complete works of our greatest composer, Henry Purcell, ought not to be in any sense "almost a blank," to English students at least./0/2136/coverorgin.jpg?v=eb9ed06fd6ce41e4180ed09c885c5ff9&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 3
by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark./0/8626/coverorgin.jpg?v=5d7b3ae26ebd36013620e85f1bf2b80d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Tom Brown at Oxford
The follow-up to the much-beloved Tom Brown's Schooldays, Thomas Hughes' novel Tom Brown at Oxford follows the rowdy but good-hearted protagonist as he leaves his school-boy days behind him and begins his academic career at university. Although the main character has matured, he still has the same proclivity for hijinks and finds himself entangled in a series of scrapes and mishaps./0/25173/coverorgin.jpg?v=18177458d54e4ce08bd0949e5c317536&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Forced Love
Cassandra Dela Vega is the first daughter of the Dela Vegas, a beautiful and sweet girl, who loves her family so dearly. Henry Villoria is the first son of the Villorias. The two families are among the influential families in America and they own the tob best companies. Cassandra attends a new school, there she meets Henry, the annoying and grumpy, yet hottest guy in Lavender High, who is also the dream guy of every girl in school. Cassie's plan to fully face her academics, goes down the drain, having met Henry in the worst way, they instantly loathed each other. The worst happened, when Cassie and Henry found out they had to get married to each other to serve as a seal for a business contract between their families. For once, they both agreed on one thing, they didn't want the marriage. But they had no choice but to do it. She had to live with Henry in his parents house. Even in marriage, they hated each other and never acted like married couples. Desires and temptation crept in, as they began to find each other attractive. Despite that, they still made it a life mission to taunt each other. Things got stirred, when Cassie made a new friend, who turned out to be Henry's one time friend, who betrayed him. Then the truth began to unfold, Cassie found out the reason why Henry had to be the way he is. They made up and became friends. But, Henry's past came haunting them. The two had to work together to fight against nemesis from his past, which brought pain and torture to them. Find out in this intriguing book, filled with love, hate, loyalty, desires, temptations and betrayal, how Cassie and Henry will fight against all odds to be together./0/8952/coverorgin.jpg?v=d2d0d4d833cd7ce6eba7a962cd25117a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
Winning His W": A Story of Freshman Year at College"
A school has been very correctly termed a little world of itself. Within it the temptations and struggles and triumphs are as real as those in the larger world outside. They differ in form, not in character, and become for many a man the foundation upon which later success or failure has been built. It is perhaps wise for me to explain that the boys whose lives in the Weston school have been outlined in this book are "real" boys, and that every fact recorded actually occurred much as it has been described. If the results of the struggles and successes shall prove to be a stimulus to other boys who may be facing similar problems, and if the failures shall serve the purpose of a warning word and teach the younger readers what things are to be avoided and how they are to be overcome, the author will certainly feel well repaid for his labor. Unfolding life is ever a marvelous sight, and the interest with which we follow those who are trending now the paths once familiar to us never fails those still young in heart while old in years. The recently developed interest in the work and lives of the younger people, is one of the marvels of this closing century. Greater than any of the discoveries of science, nobler than any of the great movements of the times is that renewed interest in the possibilities of the young life all about us, undeveloped it is true, but filled with the promise of power. So many times our eyes are opened when it is too late to behold the vision. We may preach, and warn, and urge, and exhort, and scold, but nothing will take the place of actual experience. It is natural for each young heart to wish to learn and test life for itself. However, I am not without hope, that the friendship and sympathy for Ward Hill and his friends may not be entirely without their unspoken lessons, and that before my readers there may arise for each one the vision of the man who is yet to be./0/81629/coverorgin.jpg?v=5291080ddc2d3f1fc2ada761d68924ee&imageMogr2/format/webp)
My Second Chance, His Last
The Northwood University acceptance letter felt heavy in my hand. It was a golden ticket, meant for both me and Ethan. We were young, hopeful, ready to build our future together. But I'd already lived this life once, and it ended with Ethan's hands around my throat. He blamed me for Tiffany Bell's death, his forever crush. Now, Tiffany beamed, announcing she wasn't going to Northwood. And Ethan, standing beside me with his own acceptance letter, chose to follow her instead. "Northwood can wait. You're more important," he told Tiffany. He dropped his future onto the coffee table like trash. "You wouldn't understand, Sarah. This is something I have to do," he said to me, already casting me aside. His obsession to "save" Tiffany was already in motion. His twisted narrative was forming, just as it had before. He thought he was rewriting his past, but he was mirroring the delusion that killed me. A cold wave washed over me – he was convinced of his heroic path, even if it meant abandoning our shared dream. How could he not see he was stepping onto the same dangerous road? This man, who had crushed me once, was now alienating me, with a smirk on his face. I wouldn't beg him this time. My survival was paramount. I was back, and this second chance was mine to seize. Let him chase his ghost; I was going to rewrite my own destiny, without him./0/80656/coverorgin.jpg?v=a766c10168086492fc32f119155c6108&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Whisper: My Mother's Twisted Protection
My life was a daily gauntlet of verbal lashings and stinging slaps from my mother, Brenda. My father, Mark, was a ghost in his own home, always looking away. Even my half-sisters, Jessica and Emily, seemed to relish my misery, their laughter echoing like a cruel soundtrack to my twenty years of feeling like a very bad child. But the true torment was the "whisper." Whenever a kind soul—my grandparents, Pastor Miller, or even a compassionate CPS social worker like Ms. Davies—dared to show me an ounce of empathy, Mom would lean in, murmur something unseen, and their eyes would instantly cloud over. Their concern curdled into coldness, then suspicion, finally settling into outright disgust—always directed at me. The physical abuse escalated. My hopeful escapes were crushed, each attempt leading to deeper betrayal, culminating in me being dragged back home by Dr. Reed, a woman who promised salvation but delivered despair. Locked in the damp, decaying basement, forgotten and festering, every ounce of hope evaporated. What unthinkable secret did I carry? What monstrous truth was Brenda whispering that turned everyone against me, leaving me isolated, branded a danger, a problem, a curse? My own biological parents treated me like an abomination, while doting on Mark’s other children. It just didn't make sense. Could I truly be that bad? As consciousness faded from the pills I’d desperately swallowed, a frantic, desperate voice cut through the silence above: Brenda’s. "He needs a new kidney! Evelyn said Sarah is the only option left... What do you think I've been doing?!" The words were a shocking, impossible revelation. My mother, my tormentor, sacrificing everything to protect me from a monstrous truth? The whisper suddenly made a terrifying, twisted kind of sense, and my fight for life began./0/81630/coverorgin.jpg?v=7ff306ede89d5d860fd36b6fc28ec83d&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Good Backfires: A Student's Vengeance
My college life as a pre-med student at a California state university was focused on rigorous studies, good grades, and upholding personal integrity, shared with my best friend Olivia and our free-spirited roommate, Jessica. The facade of normalcy shattered when Jessica reappeared after a three-day disappearance, clutching my personal water bottle, her neck and arms covered in unsettling red welts, all while boasting about dodging crucial health screenings. My attempt to responsibly report her for avoiding mandatory health checks spiraled disastrously: Jessica, fueled by rage, staged a dramatic escape and, aided by her ethically compromised academic advisor, Dr. Peterson, orchestrated a fake cyberbullying charge against me. Suddenly, my reputation was on the line due to a formal disciplinary warning, making me the campus pariah. How could doing the right thing backfire so spectacularly, leaving me accused and shamed, while actual recklessness went unchecked? The injustice was a bitter pill, confirming my deepest suspicions about Jessica's manipulative nature and the disturbing, illicit alliance she clearly shared with Dr. Peterson. But instead of breaking me, this unfair attack ignited a cold fury, transforming my disgust into a calculated resolve: I would expose their corrupt web, even if it meant playing their game, starting with a discreet "accident" in Dr. Peterson's office./0/17066/coverorgin.jpg?v=f995c649964ea2d5d6337650848b0245&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Triple Alliance
Charles Harold Avery (1869-1943) was an English author of children's literature. He began writing in his early twenties, and in 1894 his book The Orderly Officer was published. Avery wrote mainly school stories. These books were popular among boys and girls in the later half of the 19th and earlier part of the 20th centuries, and described life in public and private schools in England. For his books he drew mainly on his experiences at Eton. Avery also wrote several adventure books and stories, often featuring pirates and again drawing on his childhood experiences in Malaysia. He was extremely prolific, writing over 50 books within a 45 year period. His works include: The School's Honour, and Other Stories (1895), An Old Boy's Yarns; or, School Tales for Past and Present Boys (1895), Frank's First Term; or, Making a Man of Him (1896), Soldiers of the Queen; or, Jack Fenleigh's Luck (1897), The Triple Alliance: Its Trials and Triumphs (1899), Stolen or Strayed (1899) and Mobsley's Mohicans: A Tale of Two Terms (1899)./0/83254/coverorgin.jpg?v=aa61e239304b60e828d237c9f76dad6c&imageMogr2/format/webp)
From Ashes: My Unclaimed Life
At just ten years old, my life in the sleepy, fading town of Oakhaven was unremarkable. We were a hardworking family, simple and honest, clinging to the quiet hopes for a decent future. Then Brittany Evans, who lived just a few houses down, cornered me by the old park swingset. Her voice was too grave for a child, her eyes too knowing. She declared, "Everything good that's supposed to happen to you? It's mine now. I'm taking it all." She claimed to be reincarnated, privy to the "original script" of my life. And she proceeded to steal it. My father' s long-awaited promotion, my mother' s cherished dream of a small business, even my crucial college scholarship-all systematically diverted to Britt or her parents. When a devastating flood wiped out our home and savings, Britt merely smirked, claiming it was her "prediction," clearing the way for her own gains. We were left with nothing, forced to abandon the town. How could one family so consistently snatch away every opportunity? Was Britt genuinely disturbed, or was there an unsettling truth to her chilling pronouncements? The utter injustice, the persistent feeling of being targeted by an unseen force, left me confused, isolated, and raw with a burning, desperate rage. But as we left Oakhaven, facing an uncertain future, a fierce determination rose within me. Britt thought she' d stolen my fate. She was wrong. I would build a new life, brick by brick, far from her reach. A life she could never, ever claim as her own./0/82606/coverorgin.jpg?v=a701b43d08b8d317244dab8c5b6881da&imageMogr2/format/webp)
When Charity Turns Deadly
The last thing I saw was the Chicago skyline rushing up to meet me. Then, merciful darkness. Now, blinding sunlight streamed through a window, hitting my face as I lay in my university dorm room. My head throbbed with a pain far deeper than a physical fall. It was the brutal, horrifying memory of my parents, David and Susan Miller. Their kind faces, now hauntingly overlaid with images of their blood on the polished floors of our beautiful Chicago home. They were murdered. And the architect of that devastation? Brittany Evans, the very scholarship student my generous parents had taken under their wing, hailed as their "charity case." Her smile, so sickeningly sweet and fake, her boyfriend Spike's cruel, calculating eyes, haunted my every waking thought. She had meticulously orchestrated their downfall: the forged will, the baseless accusations leveled against me. I endured the looks of disgust, the complete abandonment from everyone I had ever known. The crushing despair consumed me, pushing me to the desperate, final leap. How could such an act of profound kindness be repaid with such heinous betrayal and wanton violence? How could I have been utterly blind, so incredibly naive, to allow my entire family, my entire life, to be so mercilessly dismantled, ending in that horrific, unjust way for all of us? The injustice burned. But then, I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. My hands flew to my throat, my chest. I was whole. Alive. It was the first week of freshman year. Again. I had been granted a second chance, and this time, a cold, unyielding rage, something I' d never felt in my first, naive life, settled deep in my bones. Brittany Evans would not win./0/83255/coverorgin.jpg?v=39bceeaed405363b9ae05ada41050a7a&imageMogr2/format/webp)
The Sociopath Next Door
Life was perfect for Sarah, an 18-year-old college freshman whose loving parents, Mark and Linda, owned a successful chain of hardware stores in their comfortable Oregon town. That idyllic life shattered when her cousin Jessica's trailer tragically burned down, and Sarah's kind-hearted mother, feeling immense guilt, convinced her father to welcome the seemingly orphaned Jessica into their home. Less than a month later, Jessica, consumed by a chilling jealousy Sarah never suspected, intentionally set their house ablaze, orchestrating a devastating fire that claimed her beloved parents' lives and left Sarah clinging to life with severe burns. In the sterile confines of the ICU, Jessica completed her deadly work, leaning close to Sarah' s bedside, her voice a venomous caress whispering, "It's your fault, Sarah," before silencing her heart monitor and coldly pulling away her oxygen mask, watching Sarah suffocate to death. The last sight Sarah saw was Jessica's triumphant, twisted smile, as her life, her family, and her entire inheritance were stolen, leaving Sarah overwhelmed with a burning injustice that transcended death. But Sarah jolted awake, gasping, in her own bed, her body miraculously unmarred, realizing with terrifying clarity that she was back in time, just days before the tragedy, given an impossible second chance to stop her future murderer./0/30695/coverorgin.jpg?v=25ef2ec18d378219a078584e67974a69&imageMogr2/format/webp)
