A hot topic that has been riding the wave of word-of-mouth from readers, climbing the Amazon charts and writing a legend of selling 8 million copies in the United States!
A novel that you won't stop reading, with a single question that sparks heated debate online: "What is truth?"

One day, Rowan Ashley, an unknown writer facing financial difficulties due to caring for his long-term ill mother, receives an offer he cannot refuse.
I was asked to write the final three volumes of a series of novels that the famous bestselling author Bertie Crawford had left unfinished after a tragic car accident.
After accepting the offer and looking for reference materials for his novel, Rowan stumbles upon Berati's unfinished autobiography in her study.
However, the manuscript, which seemed to have been written with the thought that no one would read it, contained the memories of that day that changed her family's fate forever.

The author of this book, Colin Hoover, is a bestselling author with the largest fan base in the United States, with four works, including "Verity," in the "Amazon Chart TOP 10" in 2022.
Unlike her other romance novels, Verity is a psychological thriller that she took on a new challenge and has climbed the charts solely through word of mouth, selling over 8 million copies since its publication and being translated into 42 languages.
With over 700,000 readers commenting on the novel's ending, it has earned a reputation as a novel that you can't stop reading, and a film starring Anne Hathaway, Dakota Johnson, and Josh Hartnett is slated for release in 2026.

If this were Virginia, where I lived, things would have turned out very differently.
Everyone around would have stopped in their tracks and screamed in fear.
Reporters and cameras would have arrived in just a few minutes.
But here in Manhattan, pedestrians getting hit by cars is such a common occurrence that it's nothing more than an inconvenience and an emergency.
Some people are inconvenienced by blocked roads, others are embarrassed by discarded clothes, but it happens so often that it doesn't even make the news.
Although the indifference of the people here is annoying, it was precisely this that attracted me to this city that brought me here ten years ago.
People like me are suited to densely populated cities.
A city of this size doesn't care what kind of life I live.
There are plenty of people with more complicated stories than mine.
Here I am an invisible man.
It is an insignificant existence.
There are too many people in Manhattan to be interested in someone like me.
That's why I like this city.

--- pp.8-9

To say I was scared might be a bit harsh, but I think my mother definitely thought I was different from other normal children when I was young.
So, other than going to school, I tried my best to avoid being noticed by others.
Because I often showed symptoms of sleepwalking, I was always anxious about what I might do.
My mother's paranoid attitude was deeply ingrained in me and followed me into adulthood, eventually making me very accustomed to being alone.
I had very few friends and barely had a social life.
As a result, it was only a few weeks after my mother passed away that I left home for the first time.
I figured my first outing in weeks had to be somewhere I'd always wanted to go.
Places like Central Park or a bookstore.

I never thought I'd be standing in line in a publishing company lobby, having my ID checked, to get in.

--- pp.19-20

The thing I find most difficult about writing an autobiography is the temptation to embellish every sentence I write.
Unless you are willing to completely remove the protective shield that stands between your soul and your work, you should not even think about writing your own story.
Every single word must be something that comes from the heart, and must flow freely, piercing through the bones and flesh.
It must be revealed fully, even if it is ugly but honest, even if it is as if spitting blood and fear arises.
An autobiography that seeks to elicit a favorable impression of the author on the reader is not an autobiography.
There is no one who can be loved even if he reveals his true self in detail.
Ultimately, the reader ends up leaving with an uncomfortable sense of rejection towards the author.

--- p.74

Until then, the love I thought of was nothing more than a Hallmark card company sales pitch.
Something like the atmosphere that is being promoted to sell Valentine's Day cards or New Year's cards.
Love was not my interest.
That night, all I was after was free drinks and a rich man willing to open his wallet and spend the night with me.
I had already downed three Moscow Mules from the charity event, so I was halfway to my goal.
Given Jeremy Crawford's posh demeanor, I figured I was pretty sure I'd get more than half the rest that night.
He looked wealthy, and there was a charity event going on there that day.
Poor people don't come to charity events unless you work at the fundraiser.
--- p.77

How terrible it would be if the mind were alive but the bodily functions to express it were completely damaged.
A state in which one cannot express thoughts or react to the outside world.
That's really scary to even imagine.
I raised my head again.
She was looking straight at me.
I jumped up with a start.
The chair was pushed back and slid across the floor.
He turned his head towards me and stared intently through the window.
With his gaze fixed on me.
I covered my mouth with my hand and took a step back.
It felt like something was threatening me.

--- pp.111-112

As I was coming out of the kitchen, I noticed the framed family photos hanging in the hallway.
Most of them were pictures of children, but there were also some pictures of Bertie and Jeremy together.
Children are surprisingly similar to their mothers.
The crew seemed to resemble their father a lot.
It looked very cozy.
That's why it hurt the viewers' hearts even more.
I looked at each photo carefully.
The twin daughters each had their own distinct personalities, making them easy to tell apart.
Among them, the child who was smiling brightly had a small wound on his cheek.
Another one had barely a smile on his face.
I felt the child's face, wondering when the wound on his cheek had appeared.
How did it come about?
As I was looking through the photos, I came across an older photo taken when I was a baby.
The child who smiled brightly still had a scar on his cheek at that time.
I guess it happened when I was very young.

--- p.137

I opened my eyes to an unfamiliar smell.
The surrounding noise was also different.
I know where I am.
I'm staying at Jeremy's house.
however…….
This wasn't the room I'd been sleeping in.
The walls in the master bedroom are light gray, but the wall I'm looking at now is yellow.
Yellow, the same color as the walls in the bedroom on this floor.
The bed started moving.
It wasn't that the person lying next to me moved and shook.
different.
This is… …movement by mechanical operation.
I closed my eyes tightly.
Please, God, no.
This is not it.

--- p.197

It happened in an instant.
A disaster that suddenly freezes the sun, plunging life into darkness.
After that, no matter how hard we tried and how much we screamed, the sunlight never shone on us again.
I was washing chicken in the kitchen sink.
That fucking raw chicken.
I could have been doing something else.
Watering the lawn, writing, knitting, or whatever else.
But then, as luck would have it, I was washing raw chicken, and every time I think about that moment when Chastain left us, I have to think about that disgusting raw chicken.

--- p.260