Dark romance, high stakes, and plot twists abound in this paperback original YA thriller that's perfect for fans of Colleen Hoover. What you don't know can hurt you.... It’s been months since the accident that killed Ella’s best friend, Hayley, and Ella can’t stop blaming herself. Now Ella is back at school, and everywhere she looks are reminders of her best friend—including Sawyer, Hayley’s boyfriend. Little by little, they grow closer, until Ella realizes something horrifying . . .  She’s in love with her dead best friend’s boyfriend.  Racked with guilt, Ella turns to Hayley’s journal, hoping she’ll find something in the pages that will make her feel better about what’s happening. Instead, she discovers that Sawyer has secrets of his own and that his relationship with Hayley wasn’t as picture-perfect as it seemed.  Ella knows she should stay away but finds herself inextricably drawn to him—and scared of everything she never knew about him. Perhaps it’s his grief. Or maybe his desires, cut short by tragedy. Or could it be something twisted only Hayley knew about?  A dark, romantic thriller perfect for fans of Colleen Hoover and Laura Nowlin, Everything We Never Said explores the secrets in even the best of friendships and asks how well you ever know the ones you love. "The author delivers a psychological thriller that leaves her audience guessing until the last page." — SLJ   "In a debut blending a thrilling mystery with a hint of dark romance, Harlow thoughtfully depicts complex emotions such as grief, depression, love, guilt, and more without losing sight of the twisty plot." —Booklist "A dark and romantic thriller for those who love sexy suspense." —Kirkus Sloan Harlow was interested in writing from a very young age. Everything We Never Said is her debut novel. She lives in Georgia with her black cat, Pabu, where she’s trying to eat as much ube ice cream as possible. Walking back into the halls of North Davis High, I feel like I’m not returning as Ella, but as Shadow Ella, the living ghost girl. The thought feels like a paper cut on my heart. I wish I were a ghost. Maybe then I could stretch across the realms and actually still talk to Hayley. Tell her the important things. Like the fact that Albert Wonsky now has her locker. She’d groan and say something like Please, please rescue my pictures of Pedro Pascal before my husband is drowned in anime porn , and I would laugh and tell her, Sorry, too late . I’d tell her the dent is still there. The one from when I kicked a locker after getting a B in Latin. And so is the dent she kicked right next to it. “For plausible deniability,” she had said. “Not what that means,” I’d said back. I’d tell her there’s still pink birthday candle wax smeared in the alcove by the music room. The one where Sawyer Hawkins and I had crouched, grinning madly as we jumped out with balloons and a lit cupcake to scream, “Happy birthday!” Sawyer. His name feels like a fist twisting my stomach. I can’t think about him today. It’s already too much. If I do, my rib cage will crack all over again. Which is why this is the exact moment Sawyer walks into view. There he is, at the end of the hall, towering above Mike Lim as they discuss something that has Sawyer’s handsome face breaking out into a crooked grin. It hits me so hard, I have to stop walking. I lean against a wall and clutch my books so tightly that the words calculus i will probably be embossed into my sternum for days. As if he can sense my presence, Sawyer suddenly glances in my direction. I stop breathing. For the first time since the funeral, I’m seeing Sawyer’s soft brown eyes. Except there’s nothing soft about the look he’s giving me. Sawyer, the only boy I’ve ever known to celebrate month anniversaries with tiny, perfect gifts, who happily supplied us with popcorn and Sprite throughout an entire Twilight marathon when Hayley felt sick, who loved my best friend as much as I ­did . . .  That Sawyer is currently shooting me a look of such fury that I instantly feel like puking. I knew it. He blames me. I should hold his gaze. I should let his judgment sear me. It’s what I deserve, for what I stole from him. From her. But instead, I whirl around, swallowing a sob, ready to sprint down the hall, out of school, maybe forever. But I end up slamming directly into Mr. Wilkens. “ Oof! Easy, there, tiger!” The school psychologist stumbles back, his hands shooting out to grasp my shoulders and keep me from falling. “God, I’m so sorry,” I choke out, mortified. “No, no, Ella, you’re fine. I’m fine.” He ducks his chin, trying to catch my eye. “Hey. Hey. I’m glad we bumped into each other. How are you?” I shrug, not trusting my voice. “That well, huh?” Mr. Wilkens is usually clean shaven, but he has some scruff along his jaw. His typically bright blue eyes look smudged today, the color of bruises. Maybe he’s one of those counselors who actually cares about his students. Maybe he’s sad this morning