Six of Sorrow

Six of Sorrow

Sixteen years ago, six girls were born on the same day—and now, on their birthday, one of them is missing. From the author of Starlings comes a story about small-towns, friendships, and the terrifying things your parents don't tell you, perfect for fans of Yellowjackets For most of her life, Isabeau and her five best friends were inseparable—amazingly enough, the six girls even share a birthday. Then a rift caused their friendships to fracture, and Iz lost everyone except Reuel. Until now. The morning after their sixteenth birthday, Reuel is missing. She’s gone for two days, and when she reappears, there’s something wrong with her. She’s sick. Really sick. And she doesn’t remember anything that happened while she was gone. Then it happens again. A second girl from their sisterhood disappears and comes back wrong. Now all the girls can feel it. Something’s been waiting for them, and it's only a matter of time until they're all taken. “Linsmeier creates an eerie atmosphere of simmering, suppressed teenage rage. Equal parts unsettling and captivating, Six of Sorrow will hook its claws into you and never let you go.” —Keshe Chow, author of The Girl with No Reflection “Amanda Linsmeier’s writing will have you checking under beds and inside the darkest corners of your closets as the spine-chilling twists unfold.” —Kelly Cain, author of A Kiss from the Past "Christopher Pike and Riverdale vibes will entice readers looking for subtle supernatural romance and small-town drama, all topped with a face-off against a menacing secret from the past." — Booklist "The expertly built atmosphere and the contemplative themes earn this a spot next to Albert’s Our Crooked Hearts and Legrand’s Sawkill Girls ." — The Bulletin "A solid choice for teens looking for their next witchy girl group read." — School Library Journal "Creepy enough to induce shivers." — Kirkus Amanda Linsmeier has been a book nerd for as long as she can remember, and it was that great love of reading that led her to write her own stories. She lives in a small blue house surrounded by trees and cornfields, with her husband, their three wonderfully wild children, and, somehow, five pets. She is the author of Starlings . Chapter One Sorrow was a witch. Today is named for her--our whole town is named after her--but really, she’s just a convenient mythical excuse for people to get drunk and dance around on the beach. This morning I woke early, restless, like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, anticipating something special, something worth believing in. Except today isn’t Christmas, it’s the Day of Sorrow. It’s not the witch I care about--that’s only a story. It’s because today also happens to be my birthday, but I’m not excited about that. Not really. It doesn’t feel like a birthday if we aren’t all together. As I tug on my plaid skirt and white blouse, into the pinpoint-sharp corners of my memory comes a reel of celebrations: voices ringing out the birthday song, candles on giant cakes, laughter and gifts. Right now, hidden in the back corner of an old jewelry box, a silver spoon ring Georgina gave me--identical to the others. She and I don’t talk anymore, but I still have that damn ring. I have other things to remember her by--to remember all five of them by. We used to be worth believing in. I shake my head, pushing aside thoughts I don’t need to fixate on right now, and I find my tie, fighting the violent urge to fling it off my balcony instead of putting it on. As I loop it under the collar of my blouse, my phone dings. A text, from Reuel, my best friend. Happy birthday!! Gonna be late I overslept and can’t find my stupid bloomers!!! With a grin, I type back to her, go commando The dots move, and up pops a sad emoji. A second later: okay if I just meet you there? Dislike, I write, then add, jk yeah it’s fine happy birthday too xo I set the phone on my faded patchwork quilt and finish getting ready for school, raking a hand through my blue waves. I pause in front of my cheap full-length mirror with the fake sunflowers Reuel and I hot-glued to the frame, and I slather on my favorite rum-raisin lipstick. My lips are pulled down, and I tug them up, my smile a shade too wide--a Julia Roberts mouth, my mama says. Just like hers. Even when I’m relaxed, my face ends up moving into a crooked scowl, my eyes naturally narrowing, my mouth telling the world I’m a little bit angry, all the time, even when I don’t mean to be. I drop the smile. It is what it is. I gather my phone and other things before slinging the straps of my bag over my shoulder; then I head downstairs, not bothering to be quiet in my clunky black loafers. I clomp down each step. So what if it wakes her? In the kitchen, a small pang in my heart as I reach in the fridge to take out a store-brand string cheese and then an apple--red as blood--because just once, why can’t I come down to a dozen warm muffins? Some scrambled eggs and butter toast? S