Erica O'Rourke: Dissonance

During the first conversation we ever had, Joanna Volpe said: Write this book. So I did, because she is fierce and brilliant and tireless and never wrong. (All excellent qualities in an agent, not to mention a human being.) I am continually grateful for the opportunity to work with her. I’m also thankful for the amazing team at New Leaf Literary: Kathleen Ortiz, for her foreign rights wizardry; Danielle Barthel, for cheering me on at every turn; and Suzie Townsend, Jaida Temperly, and Pouya Shahbazian, for all-around awesomeness.

Zareen Jaffery’s intelligence, clear-sightedness, creativity, and heart brought this book to life, and shaped it into the story I had only dreamed it could be. Working with her—and learning from her—has been an absolute gift. The people at Simon & Schuster BFYR have given Dissonance the best home a girl could ask for, especially Justin Chanda, Julia Maguire, Jenica Nasworthy, Brian Luster, Paul Crichton, Katy Hershberger, Siena Koncsol, Alexandra Cooper, and Amy Rosenbaum. Lizzy Bromely’s beautiful, breathtaking cover captures Del’s story perfectly.

The women of Chicago-North RWA have been a source of inspiration, learning, and support. I’m particularly grateful for Clara Kensie, Lynne Hartzer, Ryann Murphy, and Melonie Johnson—supremely talented, wickedly funny women. I’m equally indebted to Paula Forman, Lisa McKernan, Genevieve O’Keefe, Lexie Craig, and Judy Bergman for their willingness to drag me out of my office when I need it most. Jenn Rush, Susan Dennard, Leigh Bardugo, Sarah J. Maas, and Monica Vavra gave me knowing nods and supportive e-mails at every turn.

I begged Holly McDowell, Thomas Purnell, and Joelle Charbonneau for assistance on all things musical, which they graciously provided. My genius cousin, Dr. Katie Woodhams, explained genetics using small words and pictures, which was exactly the right speed for me. Lisa Tonkery has provided encouragement, snarky texts, and basketball pointers as only a Hoosier can. KC Solano provided key plot-bouncing services yet again. Kim McCarron, Vanessa Barneveld, Sara Kendall, and Hanna Martine read countless drafts and gave invaluable feedback and encouragement. Loretta Nyhan is wise and kind, a true storyteller and an incredible friend.

Without my beloved Eliza Evans, this book wouldn’t exist. I’d also be a much crankier person, with a much shakier grip on pop culture. She is astonishing in the best sense of the word, and I am so thankful for her insight, her humor, and her generous soul.

Thank you to my parents—not only for their love and support, but for teaching me that books were as essential as food or air. In doing so, they gave me the world, a million times. Thanks also to my amazing sister, Kris, who inspires me with her strength and bravery. My entire extended family has cheered me on, but none more so than my aunt, Patricia Layton, who loved romance novels and Christmas and family, and who is dearly, dearly missed.

Every single day, my daughters delight me with their intelligence, their wit, their independence and their boundless hearts. Thank you, my loves, for being excited about my writing, entertaining yourselves during deadlines, and being exquisitely, unequivocally you.

Above all, the biggest thanks go to Danny, for making me laugh and swoon in equal measure, for giving me solid ground and space to dream, for building this life with me. You are my heart and my home, for infinity.

IT SEEMED LIKE a lousy way to remember someone: two aging strips of wood nailed together in the shape of a cross, stuck into a weed-choked ditch on the side of the road. A name, careful cursive in fading black marker, looped across the middle, and a tattered supermarket bouquet—carnations, daisies, baby’s breath—slumped against the base.

It wasn’t much, but it would be enough.

More than enough, if you asked me. Which no one did.

The two-lane road on the edge of town wasn’t busy, but the curve was surprisingly sharp if you didn’t know to look for it, or didn’t care because you were young and thought you’d live forever. Backpack over my shoulder, I started into the ditch, tromping over prickler weeds and knee-high grasses. The ground squelched under my feet, but I ignored it, listening for the hum that meant I was close.

My phone rang, and I shoved it deeper in my pocket. I’d gotten the most important message just after lunch.

“Del, it’s Dad. I’m sorry to cancel our Walk again, but I’ve got an emergency meeting with the Consort this afternoon. Your mother says your assignment’s due tomorrow, so why don’t you . . .”

I hadn’t bothered listening to the rest. I’d heard it—or a variation of it—enough times. Emergencies were the status quo at my house. There was always a problem my parents needed to fix, a fresh crisis demanding their attention. A situation so important everything else was pushed to the side.

More often than not, I was the “everything else.” But the upside of being ignored is that people forget to tell you no.

Burrs clung to my sweater as I picked my way across the muddy terrain. Clouds blanketed the sky, and the air carried a heavy, earthy scent that signaled more rain to come. With any luck I’d be back before the storm hit.

My assignment was easy enough: Walk to a nearby Echo, locate the trouble spots, Walk home. I’d done it countless times, knew the steps well enough that I didn’t need a chaperone. My parents might disagree, but if they were really worried, they would have made the time to come with, like they were supposed to.

I could handle this on my own.

The problem was, the only person who believed me was my grandfather. When other kids were playing park district soccer or climbing trees, Monty had taken me wandering among a different set of branches—the multiverse, the infinity of worlds spreading out from ours like the limbs of a tree. It was Monty who’d first shown me how a single choice could create two distinct realities—the world we lived in and the road not traveled. He’d shown me how to move between those realities, listening for the unique frequency each was set to, using the sound as a pathway across. I’d grown up with his voice in my ear, whispering the secrets of the multiverse, while the sounds of the Echo worlds rang through me like a bell. He’d taught me more about Walking than I’d ever learned from my parents, my older sister, Addison, or Shaw, my teacher at the Consort.

As far as they were concerned, I needed training. Someone to hold my hand while I took baby steps, when all I wanted was to run.

Today I was free to go as fast and as far as I liked.

I held my hand out, palm down, next to the wooden cross. Instantly I felt a thrumming over my skin, like a harp string roughly plucked. It was the pivot, a gate between realities, a sound so faint only one in a hundred thousand people—literally—could hear it.

There are more than six billion people in the world, but only sixty thousand licensed Walkers. Nine hundred in the greater Chicagoland area. Four of them were in my family, and by summer, I’d be the fifth.

Usually pivots are easier to hear than see, but the air around the memorial trembled like leaves in a high wind. It made sense; the strongest pivots form at places where a choice causes a sudden, significant change, and nothing’s more sudden or significant than an unexpected death.

I eased inside the vibrating pocket of air, the rift expanding around me. The dissonance slid over my skin like a dusting of snow. With each step the noise in my head increased, countless frequencies competing for my attention. A pivot directly connects two worlds, but once you’re inside, you can use it to travel to any other Echo in the multiverse. The trick is knowing what to listen for.