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Justice by Rebecca Royce
My name is Rachel Clancy, and if you’re reading this, chances are I am dead. I have returned to Genesis, my family and Chad. I think I might even be happy. But you know, happy endings aren’t for everyone least of all me.
Dr. Icahn is still out there, and if I have any hope of finishing this fight once and for all—I will need the help of those who want to kill me. Please don’t think me a hero or a martyr. I’m just a girl, who’s made a lot of mistakes, but I know what I have to do.
And know, whatever happens next, I didn’t do it for me. I did it for a future that I have to have faith will exist…even if I’m not there to see it.
Goodreads link to book: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/19112830-justice?from_search=true
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
My name is Rachel Clancy.
If you’ve been reading these books, then you already know that. But I feel the need to introduce myself to you every time I start a new one, like you might have just found me, or you’re a stranger I don’t know. Manners dictate the introduction although I suspect I’ll never know your name in return, which is okay. Maybe it’s better I never do.
I haven’t held anything back from you. I’ve not tried to make myself look better or less selfish or more mature. No, I wrote down everything the way I remember it happening. Someone else might remember the events differently but this is how it happened for me, or at least how I see it when I think about the years between my sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays.
Eighteen would have made me a grown-up in the Before Time, in the days before Dr. Icahn’s experiments nearly ended the entire world. In the time after, sixteen became the year we achieved maturity. Still, for me, since I could remember what my life had been like before, eighteen meant something when I finally got there.
It indicated I had survived, somehow. When I blew out the candles, low-sung lyrics of “Happy Birthday” filling the room, and my mother and father cheering, I couldn’t help but disbelieve I’d actually made it to my birthday. Was this all a dream? Had I died on a field, eaten by a Werewolf, and these thoughts of my eighteenth birthday were imaginings of my dying mind?
Writing these tales, telling them to you, helps me to believe they happened.
But the sad truth is, if you are reading them, then most likely I am dead.
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