[b]Harlan Coben
Rumors always hardened to facts. Accusations are convictions in the public mind. You are guilty until proven innocent.[/b]
Sex crimes in particular. As we all know.
It’s not the dead even. They’re gone. Nothing you can do about that. It’s what’s left behind - the echo.
Some considerably louder [and longer] than others.
There was an old joke about being left on a deserted island with an editor. You are starving. All you have left is a glass of orange juice. Days pass. You are near death. You are about to drink the juice when the editor grabs the glass from your hand and pees into it. You look at him, stunned . “There,” the editor says, handing you the glass. "It just needed a little tweaking.”
Let’s pin down how funny it is.
Grief is devastating, all-consuming. But grief merely visits friends, even the closest. It stays much longer, probably forever, with the family, but that was probably how it should be.
Trust me: Not all families.
They - bliss and fear - are constant companions. Rarely does one venture out without the other.
Unless you take them off the leash.
We get mad at someone for cutting us off in traffic or for taking too long to order at Starbucks or for not responding exactly as we see fit, and we have no idea that behind their facade, they may be dealing with some industrial-strength shit. Their lives may be in pieces. They may be in the midst of incalculable tragedy and turmoil, and they may be hanging on to their sanity by a thread.
I know that I am.