After her mother’s death, a teen pieces together the truth of her family’s past and what her mom was hiding from in this “hauntingly atmospheric and utterly engrossing” (Jas Hammonds, award-winning author of We Deserve Monuments) thriller that’s perfect for fans of Courtney Summers and Tiffany D. Jackson. Harlow Ford has spent her entire life running, caught in her mother’s wake as they flit from town to town, hiding from a presence that Harlow isn’t even sure is real. In each new place, Harlow takes on a new name and personality, and each time they run, she leaves another piece of herself behind. When Harlow and her mom set off on yet another 3 a.m. escape, they are involved in a car accident that leaves Harlow’s mother fatally wounded. Before she dies, she tells Harlow two things: where to find the key to a safety deposit box and to never stop running. In the box, Harlow finds thirty grand in cash, life insurance documents, and several fake IDs for both herself and her mom—an on-the-run essentials kit. But Harlow also finds a photograph of her mom as a teenager with two other girls, the deed to a house in a town she’s never heard of, and a handful of newspaper clippings discussing the disappearance of a woman named Eve Kennedy, Harlow’s grandmother…relics of a part of Harlow’s life she never knew existed. With these tantalizing clues about her mother’s secrets and the power to choose her own future for the first time, Harlow realizes she has two choices: keep fleeing her mom’s ghosts or face down the nebulous threat that’s been hanging over her for her entire life. "A gripping thriller that doesn’t reveal its secrets until the very end." -- Kirkus A raw stunner that grips you by the heart and the throat. And you won’t see that final twist coming. -- Dana Mele, author of People Like Us and Summer’s Edge A book that drags you out of bed in the middle of the night and sets you running toward the end. A tense, twisty mystery about growing up in the shadow of our parents’ secrets—and our own. Barrow’s writing is at turns heartbreaking and utterly thrilling, like a secret whispered in your ear. -- Lily Anderson, author of Scout’s Honor Hauntingly atmospheric and utterly engrossing, And Don’t Look Back delicately untangles the loyalty of sisterhood, buried grief, and family secrets as deep as the Pacific Northwest woods. -- Jas Hammonds, award-winning author of We Deserve Monuments "A gripping thriller that doesn’t reveal its secrets until the very end." -- Kirkus A raw stunner that grips you by the heart and the throat. And you won’t see that final twist coming. -- Dana Mele, author of People Like Us and Summer’s Edge A book that drags you out of bed in the middle of the night and sets you running toward the end. A tense, twisty mystery about growing up in the shadow of our parents’ secrets—and our own. Barrow’s writing is at turns heartbreaking and utterly thrilling, like a secret whispered in your ear. -- Lily Anderson, author of Scout’s Honor Hauntingly atmospheric and utterly engrossing, And Don’t Look Back delicately untangles the loyalty of sisterhood, buried grief, and family secrets as deep as the Pacific Northwest woods. -- Jas Hammonds, award-winning author of We Deserve Monuments Rebecca Barrow is the critically acclaimed author of Interview with the Vixen , This Is What It Feels Like , You Don’t Know Me But I Know You , Bad Things Happen Here , And Don’t Look Back , and The Tournament . She is a lover of sunshine, Old Hollywood icons, and all things high femme. She lives and writes in England. Visit her at Rebecca-Barrow.com. Chapter 1 1 “Meredith. Meredith. Miss Bloom. Are we boring you, Miss Bloom?” Harlow stays slumped over her desk, chin propped up on one hand, eyes glazed. Somewhere beneath the hum of her brain she registers words, noise, but she doesn’t actually hear anything. Not until the girl next to her kicks her worn-down Docs against the leg of the desk and Harlow’s hand slips from beneath her, jolting her awake. Only then does she become aware of Mr. Thompson at the front of the class, staring at her expectantly. “Well, Miss Bloom?” The girl to her left hides behind her hand and mouths something. Just say no. Harlow reaches to tug at hair that is no longer there. She keeps forgetting about the clippers she took to it almost a month ago now, her soft dark curls falling around her, drifting through the bathroom air like dandelion seeds. “No,” she says, like her accomplice told her to. And then, because she has learned that men like Mr. Thompson, with their power trips and overinflated egos, really only want one thing, she makes her voice small and adds, “Sorry, Mr. Thompson.” The teacher raises one eyebrow, a look Harlow imagines he’s practiced in the mirror of his studio apartment a thousand times, modeling it with his carefully rumpled shirts and skinny ties. He probably tells women in bars that he teaches high school English