For You and Only You: the addictive new thriller in the YOU series, now a hit Netflix show


 Contents
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Epigraph
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Chapter 27
 Chapter 28
 Chapter 29
 Chapter 30
 Chapter 31
 Chapter 32
 Chapter 33
 Chapter 34
 Chapter 35
 Chapter 36
 Chapter 37
 Chapter 38
 Chapter 39
 Chapter 40
 Chapter 41
 Chapter 42
 Chapter 43
 Chapter 44
 Chapter 45
 Chapter 46
 Chapter 47
 Chapter 48
 Chapter 49
 Chapter 50
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 Guide
 
 Cover
 Start of Content
 Title Page
 Epigraph
 Epilogue
 Acknowledgments
 About the Author
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
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 For You And Only You
 A Joe Goldberg Novel
 Caroline Kepnes
 Bestselling author of You
 Netflix emblem: The Fourth Book in the Hit You Series, Now on Netflix
 
 
 
 
 
 
 The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages. Air above, air below. And the moon and immortality… Oh, but I drop to the turf! Are you down too, you in the corner, what’s your name—woman—Minnie Marsh; some such name as that?
 —VIRGINIA WOOLF, “An Unwritten Novel”
 
 
 
 1
 You think you’re special and you are, to a degree. You go to Harvard. A grad student if I had to guess. You wear a vintage T-shirt that probably belonged to your father, who no doubt went here as well, carried you on his shoulders at his reunions when you were too young to wonder if you were good enough to get here. There was no need to worry. You were always going to wind up perched on the steps of the Barker Center in your flowery midi skirt. Little Miss Muffet with your Faulkner in your hands, open and your phone facedown, as if to prove that you prefer novels over nuisance. The world is your tuffet, the steps too, and you arch your back and aah. You’re not really lost in that book. You’re a little outside of yourself, yearning for someone new in September. I’m on the move. You tap your toes and lift your eyes—blue and horny—and you go there.
 “Hi.”
 “Hey.”
 I know it hurts. You took a leap of faith, and I said thanks, but no thanks with a hey and walked into the Barker Center. I had to leave you. You women disappoint or disappear—or sometimes both—and none of you can bear to look at me once I know who you really are. You run, you try so hard to kill your feelings for me that you wind up dead in real life, dead inside. I’m not built like you. I never get over you, any of you. Something had to change, so I put all my feelings about my tragic, no-good love stories into a blender and wrote a novel. That’s the reason I’m here. Not you. Me. I walk up to Barker 222 ready to join the ranks of the good and the terrible—Harvard monsters are a special breed—but a piece of paper is taped to the door: Too nice to be inside. See you fellows on the south side of