Written by Janet Fitch
White Oleander, 1999
"Where’d you find him?" Pen asked.
"In a motel. Out in Twentynine Palms. Believe me when I say how sorry I am you have to go through this, Miss Tyrell."
Michael, in a motel in Twentynine Palms, a gun in his hands. Not at Meredith’s, painting in an explosion of new creation. Not over on Sunset, digging through the record bins, or at Launderland, separating the darks and lights. Not at the Chinese market, looking at the fish with their still-bright eyes. Not at the Vista, watching an old movie. Not sketching down at Echo Park. He was in a motel room in Twentynine Palms, putting a bullet in his brain.
© 1999 Janet Fitch; New York: Little, Brown and Company