Ruin road, p.1
Ruin Road, page 1
“My twin, Lamar, is a phenomenal, innovative storyteller. His thrillers have laid the groundwork for us all. A true king!”
—Tiffany D. Jackson, New York Times bestselling author of Grown and The Weight of Blood
“Lamar Giles’s work always has something to say, and it’s well worth your while to listen.” —Barry Lyga, New York Times bestselling author of I Hunt Killers
RUIN ROAD
“Ruin Road brims with malice, each page sure to drag readers into a community’s—and boy’s—fight against the greedy forces preying on them. Exceptional and not to be missed!” —Trang Thanh Tran, New York Times bestselling author of She Is a Haunting
“Lamar Giles’s latest thriller is filled with chilling haunts and horrors, not just in the magical curse that burdens the main character, but in the authentic real-life struggles and stigmas that plague him. A brilliant concept, deftly executed!” —Neal Shusterman, New York Times bestselling author of the Arc of a Scythe series
“Riveting, grounded horror tinged with characters who leap to life. Lamar Giles writes with imagination and urgency that will appeal to all horror fans, as Ruin Road raises an intriguing question with surprising answers: What would we be like if we had no fear?” —Tananarive Due, American Book Award winner and author of The Reformatory
“A refreshing tale with twists you’ll never see coming. Giles crafts an action-packed story, filled with both real-life and supernatural terrors. Ruin Road pulls your heartstrings tight and keeps you on your toes!” —Erin E. Adams, author of Jackal
“From the first line, Ruin Road lets you know you’re in the hands of a master. The story moves with the knowing swagger of its main character, Cade Webster, fascinating, charismatic, and layered. With elements of Stephen King and a double helping of that Giles magic that makes his work so unforgettable, Ruin Road is a mix of terror, heart, and intelligence, with a dash of social commentary. Giles is in peak form, and you don’t want to miss out!” —Maurice Broaddus, author of Unfadeable
THE GETAWAY
“Timely, thrilling, and gripping from start to finish. An absolute page-turner.” —Karen M. McManus, #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying
“The Getaway grabbed me from page one and didn’t let go. I was immediately fascinated and disturbed by the fictional Karloff Country. You too will be lured in and then horrified by the truth behind those perfect customer service smiles . . .” —Malinda Lo, New York Times bestselling author of Last Night at the Telegraph Club
★ “With hints of Cory Doctorow, Jordan Peele, and Richard Matheson, this book stands on its own as a dystopian adventure, but the deeper metaphors around servitude, privilege, class, and solidarity mean that there’s a lot to think about as the characters reckon with their proximity to and complicity in violence both local and far-flung. Hold tight: You’ll want to stay on this nightmarish roller coaster till the end.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
★ “This arresting and engaging dystopian thriller interrogates the horrors of racism, classism, unregulated capitalism, and eco-fascism.” —Shelf Awareness, starred review
“Giles’s harrowing dystopian novel combines an exploration of capitalistic greed and systemic racism and oppression with gripping psychological horror, resulting in a read that is guaranteed to terrify.” —Publishers Weekly
“With elements of adventure, science fiction, horror, and even a bit of romance in a broken world, Giles keeps readers wondering who can and cannot be trusted throughout this page-turning novel.” —Horn Book
SPIN
“The first test of a whodunit is how heart-stopping and strange a thing has actually been dun. In Spin, Lamar Giles nails the murder . . . What’s even more impressive is the subtle stuff you almost don’t notice because Giles wears his intellect so lightly: the masterly knowledge of hip-hop and R&B; the command of technology’s uses and abuses; the discerning ear for the way high schoolers talk . . . A two-time nominee for an Edgar award, Giles is a terrific plotter . . . Spin champions the resourcefulness of teenagers and pities the grown-ups—villainous or just clueless—who underestimate them.”
—New York Times Book Review (Editor’s Choice)
★ “Not to be missed.” —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
★ “Spin delivers everything you could want in a book: lush, complex characters; a spine-chilling plot; a vividly drawn world; and, best of all, hip-hop.” —Booklist, starred review
★ “This novel transcends its genre.”
—School Library Journal, starred review
★ “This fast-paced tale seizes attention from the first thrown punch to the final curtain call.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review
OVERTURNED
“Giles, a founding member of We Need Diverse Books and two-time Edgar Award finalist, is in top form, weaving together the threads of his whodunit-and-why and resonantly depicting his characters’ home and school lives. As a poker genius Nikki may be a singular sort of teenager, but she’s grounded in desires and motivations that make her story as moving as it is thrilling.”
—New York Times Book Review
★ “An utterly compelling whodunit.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“Another Giles winner.” —BCCB
“A fast-paced, endlessly intriguing mystery.” —Booklist
Praise for Lamar Giles
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Then
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Corner Joe
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Then
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Then
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Book
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Brady
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Brady
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Epilogue: Gabby
Acknowledgments
The Getaway preview
Spin preview
Overturned preview
About the Author
Copyright
You carry your people with you even when you ride alone.
Pop first told me that when I was six years old, then when I was seven. A bunch of times when I was eight, nine, and ten. When I hit my first growth spurt and was suddenly as tall as him, he said it again, along with a bunch of other Kincade Webster III’s Nuggets of WisdomTM, so much it made me mad. I know, man, I know.
Lately he’d slowed down beating me over the head with common sense. There wasn’t much time left; no need to waste it on repeats. Plus, he accomplished the mission. I remembered stuff he said even when I didn’t want to. Right now, smiling for this camera, having never reached true comfort at Neeson Preparatory Academy after all this time, I felt every bit of that “ride alone” part.
There was this other thing he said, too: Every smart man is a con man.
It was best to run a long con when it came to this stupid, stilted script I’d been reciting. I acted like it was incredible, best thing ever written. It was the right thing to do. The smart thing. Especially if I wanted to get out of here in time to catch my bus.
I finished my second take and said, “We good?”
Sheila, the blonde, leathery-faced director of communications, said, “Cade, I’m afraid to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re a natural.”
“So we’re good?”
“Coach Gibson told me you were camera shy, and, if I’m being honest, shooting athletes tends to be the more labor-intensive part of the boosters video. You might be the best we’ve ever had, though! Makes my job so much easier.”
“Oh. Cool. I can go?” I was already moving when Sheila held up her hand, halting me.
She glanced at the cameraman. He touched two fingers to his headphones, listening to the playback. “Audio’s good.”
Sheila said, “You’re so well-spoken, Cade.”
I bristled. Bet Sheila’d be impressed I knew that word and many others.
She said, “Let’s go again. Get an extra take to be safe.”
We were in the school’s TV studio, which still felt weird because most of my life, a school and a TV studio meant two separate buildings. Not so at Neeson Prep. (Go, Sparks!) This school had a test kitchen for kids in culinary classes. A robotics lab for kids who knew how to do that. An Olympic-sized pool. There were ev en a couple of curling lanes, that sport where they slide a big rock across some ice while guys sweep the path. (It’s kind of intense, though I wouldn’t admit that to anyone back in the Court.) At my old school, we had to share books and didn’t always have heat in the winter.
Settling back in front of a green screen on a stool constructed for a much tinier person, spending my Saturday spouting off nonsense Sheila probably wrote herself, I wrestled impatience. Sheila was wrong about me being camera shy. I loved a camera. Loved showing off on the football field—my YouTube mixtape was disgusting! Loved photobombing baddies. Loved repping Jacobs Court. I didn’t love this smile-for-the-boosters mess. This was an obligation. Part of the unspoken requirements of my athletic scholarship.
Don’t get me wrong, I understood and appreciated the opportunities I’d been granted. Getting the call to bring my talents to Neeson’s football program three years ago was life-changing. When it became clear that I was much faster than the guys in my neighborhood, stronger than most of my competition across Virginia, and as big as the recruits I went up against in the national invite-only football camps and combines, Neeson was the next best step toward a future in the pros. My whole family agreed. We were going to do the work, and make the sacrifices, to change not only my future but future generations. Sometimes that meant sitting your butt down and smiling when you don’t feel like it! (Another Nugget of WisdomTM.)
Sheila said, “Reset. Go on my count.”
My phone was face down on my thigh, out of frame. I flipped it to check the time—11:16 a.m.—and calculated my chances of catching the 91 bus across town. If this was the last take, I could probably be out of here by 11:30. It was a fifteen-minute walk to the bus stop if I was lazy about it, but I could cut that to seven minutes easy. Either way, I’m there before noon, which was imperative (give me my vocabulary points, Sheila) because the next bus didn’t come till 2:00.
“Three . . .” Sheila said.
The teleprompter scrolled to the top of the script.
“Two . . .”
I smoothed my navy-blue Neeson Prep polo shirt.
“One . . .”
“Hi, I’m Cade Webster, wide receiver for the Neeson Sparks. If things go according to plan, we’re going to have an explosive season—”
Sheila insisted on two more takes “to be safe,” bringing us to 11:35. And I was leaving.
“Ummmm,” she said.
“I have to go.” I stood and plucked the lavalier microphone from my collar.
The room felt charged. It was low. Not the worst I’d experienced, but I’d moved too fast and unpredictably. Sheila and the cameraman tensed like I’d shape-shifted.
Sheila cleared her throat. “Yes. I’m sorry. I was told we’d have you as long as we needed you.”
Another of Pop’s nuggets dropped: You want to see how people feel about you, set a boundary.
I said, “The first take was clean, so you should be able to edit around that. I have to catch my bus.”
The cameraman shuffled his feet and inspected some overhead lights that worked fine.
Sheila’s mouth twitched into a position just north of a scowl, then she revealed a new rule. “Six to seven solid takes are mandatory for each segment of the boosters video.”
“I’m sorry, but I gotta be somewhere this afternoon. I can’t be late.” When I moved toward the door, Sheila stepped back, even though she was nowhere near the door. Instinctively I made sure my hands were open and visible. No fists. Nothing concealed or threatening. I hesitated reaching for the knob. “We’re good, right?”
“Enjoy your weekend, Cade.”
Outside the studio, the door was slow closing. If Sheila thought I spoke well, she didn’t think my hearing was so great because her voice wasn’t low when she said, “They don’t know how good they have it here.”
“They?” the cameraman asked.
“Athletes,” Sheila confirmed quickly. “That’s all I meant.”
Then the door sealed the soundproof room, and I shook off the sting of what she really meant, kept it cool. I had to. Like Pop always said, doing what was necessary now was what would take care of my family later.
Made my bus with two minutes to spare.
Ma
You on your way?
Me
Yeah
Ma
Stop by Lim’s and get more
paper plates and plastic utensils.
Gabby made a cake.
Me
Gabby’s coming? Since when?
Ma
Since we invited her.
Me
Book too?
Ma
You know we didn’t invite one
and not the other.
Me
Be there in like 20.
Ma
Get some vanilla ice cream.
And a big bottle of Tylenol for
your pop.
I nearly responded with MORE?? because I’d gotten him a big bottle less than a week ago. Instead, I thought about Gabby coming with cake and how Book was a long shot these days but maybe. Then I focused on the city so as not to get my hopes up, the buildings and skyline scrolling by my bus window, getting grayer and gloomier the farther I got from Neeson. Whenever I got my first big NFL money, I was gonna find out how rich folks bought better skies.
Eventually suburban neighborhoods obscured by hedges and trees became my neighborhood, Jacobs Court.
The Court was a mix of low- and high-rise apartment buildings, row houses, restaurants, storefronts (fewer and fewer every year, though), and other stuff that made the Court, the Court. All staggered in a way that had narrow streets with no parking, angled away from downtown toward what was supposed to be public recreation space that wasn’t well maintained, made up of benches, rough shrubbery, and tennis courts that hadn’t had nets at any point I could remember. Mostly that unused clay was a giant art board for taggers whose work ranged from curse words and gang shout-outs to museum-worthy portraiture honoring the famous and the dead. RIP Chadwick. Nipsey. DJ ParSec.
When the bus drew near my stop, I peeled off my Neeson Prep polo, exposing the plain white tee beneath, and stuffed the shirt in my back pocket so it dangled like a flag.
Air brakes hissed, and I stepped off into a fall breeze that smelled like oil and the sweet rot of a nearby trash can. I was four blocks from my building but needed to walk a block the opposite way to hit Mr. Lim’s corner store.
Crossing the first street, I ran into neighborhood icon Corner Joe. Corner Joe was always on the corner—sometimes, a nickname’s that simple. His brown head was completely bald and in complete contrast to his full white beard; in a different universe he could’ve played a serviceable Black Santa. His outfits alternated from old army surplus gear to slightly less old army surplus gear. He was known for one-on-one conversations with himself, and though the circumstances of his sleeping on the streets were no laughing matter, he often showed a sharp sense of humor in the signs he crafted asking for help. Checks No Longer Accepted at This Location, or I’m Willing to Share My (Mom’s) Netflix Password for $5.
Pacing, his chin tucked to his chest and his cardboard sign pressed tight to his body, I couldn’t see what he’d come up with for today’s help request. He was upset.
He got like that sometimes. Shaking and tugging on his infamous fake-gold rope chain with the huge “Big Joe” medallion dangling like a two-pound plate from my school’s weight room. Pop said it was best to leave him alone when he got like that. When I was younger, I asked if there was some way to help Joe that wasn’t just giving him pocket change. Pop said maybe, but he didn’t know how. I gave the man a wide berth and said, “Hey, Joe.”
He responded with the thing he always said on his bad days. “Deal’s a deal. Deal’s a deal.”
Farther down the block, I came across Mrs. Jefferson, who was my first-grade teacher and my ma’s first-grade teacher way, way back. She was retired now, rocking a shiny black bobbed wig with a single streak of color—blue today—across the front strands. She balanced on her walker with a laundry sack on one shoulder.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Jefferson.”
“Afternoon, Cade. You gonna score a touchdown for me next week?”
“I got you. Can I help you with your bag?”
“Oh, naw, baby. Been carrying my own for thirty years, and I’m already here.”
Still, I held the laundromat door for her. The cotton-fresh smell of suds overpowered a moist mushroom scent of mildew. On her way in, she said the thing a lot of people around here say. “Look just like your daddy, I swear.”
