The Year We Disappeared: A Father-Daughter Memoir

The Year We Disappeared: A Father-Daughter Memoir

by Cylin Busby, John Busby


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Hot on the heels of great publicity, this shocking and compelling memoir is ripe for paperback

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781599904542
Publisher: Bloomsbury USA
Publication date: 03/30/2010
Pages: 368
Sales rank: 123,849
Product dimensions: 8.28(w) x 5.56(h) x 0.95(d)
Lexile: 930L (what's this?)
Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

About the Author

Cylin Busby is the author of several non-fiction articles as well as fiction books. A former editor with Teen magazine, she now lives in Los Angeles with her family.

John Busby lives in an undisclosed location.

Read an Excerpt

the year we disappeared
a father-daughter memoir

Copyright © 2008

Busby Ross, Inc.
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-59990-141-1

Chapter One CYLIN

ON August 31, 1979, we were supposed to go see The Muppet Movie. Dad had promised us that when he woke up, he'd take us to the movie before he went in to work the night shift. He was a police officer on Cape Cod, in Falmouth, Massachusetts. He worked the 11:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. shift, then slept during the day for a few hours.

Usually, he'd come home from work right around the time I was sitting down with a bowl of Cocoa Puffs. Sometimes he'd hang out with me and my brothers until it was time for us to catch the bus, eating a piece of toast with raspberry jam, his favorite breakfast, or telling Mom about his night. But other days he'd go straight into the bedroom and change into his good suit, the dark brown one with the big lapels. He'd wear a cream-colored print shirt underneath, and a tie, too. I thought he looked like a movie star in his suit, with his strawberry blond hair, green eyes, and broad shoulders-like Robert Redford or Clint Eastwood. But as good as he looked in it, that suit always meant Dad was going to court to testify in a case. It also meant that he wasn't going to get much sleep, so we should be sure to stay out of his way when we got home from school in the afternoon.

During the summers when we didn't have school, Mom made sure to have us out of the house by 8:30 or 9:00 a.m., rain or shine. We'd go to the beach and have swim lessons in the morning. Then we'd spend the rest of the day there, eating bologna sandwiches that were a little too warm from sitting out in the sun and begging Mom for quarters so we could cross the hot sand to the ice-cream stand for a Nutty Buddy or some chocolate chip cookies. Mom usually brought a big bottle of something to drink and a few Styrofoam cups to keep us from asking for soda money, too. But on days when she was feeling generous, we could get a real soda in a cold can from the ice-cream guy. I loved the feeling of a freshly opened Orange Crush, so cold and fizzy it hurt my mouth to drink it fast.

As the afternoon wore on and my skin started to feel tight and hot from the salt and the sun, I would take my favorite towel, a white one with a bright rainbow arching across it, and wrap it around me, even covering my head. Then I'd lie in the sand by Mom and watch the sunlight filter through the stitches in the towel, transformed into my own private rainbow. Sometimes I'd fall asleep cocooned like that until it was time to go home.

On days when it rained, we still went to the beach for our swim lessons, and we'd stay for as long as we could take it. If it was a light rain, Mom would bring an umbrella and tell us to get out in the water. "What difference does a little rain matter, since you'll be getting wet anyhow?" she'd reason. She'd plant the umbrella in the sand, take out whatever paperback she was reading, and plunk down in a beach chair.

My two older brothers and I would come out of the ocean hours later, lips blue and shaking, only to wrap up in towels that were wet from being left on the beach in the rain. It's not like my mom or my family loved the beach-we weren't trying to break any records for being the biggest sand bums on the Cape. But Dad had to sleep, and when we were stuck at home there was no way that could happen.

Snow days were Mom's worst nightmare. We'd be sent out to go sledding for hours at a time, just to keep the house quiet. We'd come back in, soaked to the skin, and shuck off our snow-covered coats and boots with Mom whispering, "Your dad is sleeping, so keep it down." But we'd always want to watch TV or play records. And then the fighting would inevitably start. Maybe Eric, who was thirteen that year and totally into sci-fi, wanted to watch Star Trek while I wanted Little House on the Prairie. We'd end up yelling and chasing each other around the house, throwing Atari game cassettes at each other, Mom reminding us that Dad was sleeping, only to see him appear, bleary-eyed, groggy, and in his underwear, at the bedroom door. "Keep it down to a dull roar," he'd growl in his heavy Boston accent. Then he'd disappear back into the bedroom, and we'd try to be good for at least a half hour or so.

That summer I was nine years old-just turned nine that May. I loved the Muppets. I adored Kermit and Miss Piggy especially. The whole family watched the show religiously on Sunday nights, with my parents on the couch and the three of us on the rug right in front of the television. So that day at the beach, all I had been thinking about was how we were going to the movies that night, finally seeing the Muppets on the big screen. Dad would sneak in a big bag of peanut M&M'S for us all to share, and we'd get a huge tub of popcorn. But when we came back that Friday afternoon and found Dad at home, still in his suit, I knew that he had just gotten home from spending the day in court after working all night, and he hadn't had any sleep yet. We weren't going to the movies. I was crushed. While Mom went to make dinner, I laid on the bunk bed in my room, still in my sandy blue bathing suit, and cried.

The evening was a disaster in the making. Dad had to sleep, Mom was stuck in our two-bedroom house with three grouchy, hot, tired kids who couldn't face the disappointment of a canceled movie date. To cheer us up-and probably to get us out of the house for a few hours-Mom came up with a plan and pretended that it was something great. "We're painting Dad's car," she announced, and headed to the basement for paint and brushes.

Mom was really tired of Dad's car-a multicolored Frankenstein of a Volkswagen Beetle put together from spare parts. She was pretty tired of all Dad's other car "projects," too. We always had one or two VW Beetles sitting in our L-shaped driveway, either parked off to the side or up on blocks. Dad would buy them cheap and keep them around for spare parts for the one Bug that he actually kept running-most of the time. That summer, he had a white MG parked in the yard too. The body of the car still looked good, but it didn't run. He had plans to fix it up when he had the time. Meanwhile, it made a great place for my brothers and me to play-messing with the radio knobs and jerking the stick shift around like we were driving. We weren't allowed to touch the emergency brake, after my brother Shawn accidentally sent the MG rolling backward down the driveway one day. But even with that off-limits, the cars in the driveway were the best toys we could have asked for.

The VW Bug that Dad was using as his main car that summer had an okay engine and it ran, but it didn't look too pretty doing it. He had pieced together the body from three or four other VWs, so it had a red front fender and a blue front fender mismatched on either side of a faded red hood, along with a blue door on one side and a gray door on the other. The seats were split open in some spots, with rusty springs and tufts of coarse horsehair sticking out. This made riding in Dad's car a summer nightmare-sitting on the split seats, especially in the back, in shorts, or worse, a bathing suit, was torture unless you stuck a towel under you. Mom was on Dad's case about the car and how it looked. "It's embarrassing," she'd say. "Can't we at least paint it one color?" Dad would shrug. "Sure, knock yourself out."

I don't know why Mom picked that night to start in on her project, other than the need to get our butts out of the house for a few hours, but she did. She got out the only big paint can she could find in the basement-green paint-and a few extra paintbrushes. "We'll surprise your dad by painting his car while he's sleeping," she explained, and everyone joined in. It didn't take long to realize that painting a car with a paintbrush wasn't such a great idea. The brush left sticky lines on the car, and as the dusk rolled in, so did the gnats and mosquitoes, leaving streaks and spots where they landed in the gooey mess. Mom didn't want to give up, so she just kept on painting the door and one fender with the too-thick paint-paint that I think was actually for wood, not cars-until it grew too dark to see what she was doing.

I grew bored of the painting quickly, and opted to play with our new box turtle instead, while Mom and my brothers tackled the job. Dad had found the turtle on one of his runs up Hatchville Road-a sweet country street that wound its way around the corner from our house. Though it didn't run along the coast, Hatchville was one of the prettiest roads on the Cape; it cut through fields, past big houses, horse barns, and a famous organic farm. Sometimes, in the summer, Dad would take us running with him on the route, the three of us puffing behind him, trying to keep up. Shawn was the only one who had the steam to make it the full five miles, while Eric and I usually dropped out of the race around three. On evenings when I knew I couldn't keep up, I'd take my bike and race circles around Dad and my brothers. "Come on, slowpokes!" I'd shout, standing up on my pedals to push my bike faster than they could run.

With his better-than-20/20 vision and the instincts of a cop forever looking for clues, Dad always seemed to find stuff on the side of the road: a mangled pair of sunglasses or a beach hat. A piece of jewelry, cheap to start with and now run over a few times. A mangled baseball, rotted and brown. Usually the stuff Dad found was worthless, but one evening, he came home with a good-sized box turtle, about as big as my shoe. He didn't have any marks on him, except for a scuffed up shell; Dad thought he had probably been hit by a car since he couldn't seem to walk very well.

We put the turtle in a cardboard box and set him up against the house, in the shade. I brought him water in a little bowl, and some iceberg lettuce to eat. But he never even took a bite; the lettuce just turned brown and droopy. I tried flesh grass trimmings and leaves, too, but he just wasn't interested in eating. Late in the day, I would take him out of his box to give him some free time. If you waited a really long time, and you were very quiet, sometimes he would take a step or two in the driveway. But mostly he just sat there, blinking his big shutterbug eyelids and not doing much else.

When Mom was ready to put down her paintbrush for the night, she was so proud of the gooey half-painted car, she went inside to get the camera to record it, so we have a couple of pictures from that evening. In one photo, Mom is posing by her paint job. She looks petite and trim in shorts and a summer top. Her skin is tanned a honey brown, her dark hair in a pixie cut; she's smiling big. Another picture shows me, sitting in the drive-way by the cardboard box with the turtle beside me. I'm painfully thin, all knees and elbows, and too shy to actually look into the camera, so I'm looking down instead, smiling a little. My long straight hair, parted in the middle, falls like curtains on either side of my freckled face.

There's one more picture, of my two brothers standing with their backs against our red-shingled house, squinting into the setting summer sun. Shawn, thin and darkly tanned like Mom, his brown hair cut in thick bangs over his eyes, his new braces crowding his mouth; Eric, big and broad like Dad, with the same strawberry blond hair and a splash of freckles over his nose. I'm glad we have this picture of them, taken on that night, before everything changed. I'm glad to have the picture of Mom, looking so happy and young. I'm even glad to have a picture of the turtle, though I don't know what happened to him-forgotten in his little cardboard box by our house while we were gone in Boston, where Dad was undergoing the emergency surgeries that would ultimately save his life.

But most of all, I'm happy to have the picture of Dad's car. Because the next time I saw that car, it was in a black-and-white photo on the front page of the Cape Cod Times, shot full of holes. The front window was shattered, the driver-side window completely knocked out. And the driver-side door, freshly painted green, was riddled with shotgun pellets.

Chapter Two JOHN

AUGUST 31, 1979, was a Friday, the start of Labor Day week-end on the Cape. I'd worked the previous 11:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m. shift, and then spent until late afternoon in court. After sitting around all day I didn't even get to testify, having only a minor backup role in the case. It was a major waste of time. I got home around five in the afternoon with no sleep, exhausted, and was supposed to take the kids to the movie theater.

I thought about calling in sick, spending some time with the kids before school started back up in a few days. But this was Labor Day weekend, and on the Cape that meant parties, drunk drivers, tourists having their last hurrah before heading back to New York and Boston and wherever else they came from. We needed extra cops on duty to handle this weekend-more of the real guys on the force, not just the "rent-a-cops" as we year-rounders called the summer guys. It would be an asshole move not to show up for my shift. So I told Polly I had to hit the sack and to wake me at 9:45 for work.

The kids were disappointed about the movie, but I told them we'd go tomorrow night instead. Polly got me up, I showered and trimmed my beard and had some coffee. I'd been wearing a beard for several years at this point. Came about as a result of a week-long vacation and fast-growing whiskers. We were working five days on and three days off, so right before my vacation, I skipped the shave for my last shift. That gave me twelve days to grow a beard, and it looked pretty good. So I went to work with it, and since there wasn't any official policy about facial hair, my sergeant said he'd talk with the chief. Next morning, Sergeant and I met with the "Grand Fubar"-our private name for the chief, "Fubar" meaning "fucked up beyond all reality." The chief approved beards as long as they were neat and trim. Within a month, a dozen bearded cops were saving copious bucks on razor blades.

Polly told me shortly after she woke me up that-surprise!-she'd painted half the car green. I took a look. She'd used a four-inch paintbrush and, under the circumstances, had done a credible job. But I was grumpy, still tired from getting only three hours of sleep, so I didn't give her any compliments. Instead, I pointed out that now I'd have to get a new registration due to the color change, just nit-picking. It was looking like it was going to be a tough night on the public indeed.

At about twenty of eleven, I fired up the newly painted Bug and headed in to work. As I drove down Sandwich Road, I noticed another Bug, a white VW, facing into Pinecrest Beach Drive and a full-sized light blue sedan facing out. The people seemed to be talking to each other. About half a mile south, a vehicle closed on me rapidly from the rear, hit high beams, and pulled out to pass. The speed limit on this stretch of road was thirty-five, and we were already doing a bit more than that.

But the car didn't pass. Instead, I heard this incredible roar and felt this tremendous punch in my nose. My head and upper body were thrown down, across the passenger seat. There was a second booming roar, and I started to sit back up. I noticed in the light from the radio that there was a pool of blood, bone, teeth, and hair lying in the passenger seat. Somehow I knew it was parts of me lying there, and I thought quite calmly, Shit, now I'm going to bare to go to the dentist. I knew I'd been shot, that's what the booming sounds were. I'd probably been hit in the nose and mouth.

I sat up and stomped on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. A third boom went off and the passenger side of the front windshield filled with half-inch round holes. I could see the light blue sedan now, stopped about fifty feet in front of me, and I was thinking how easy it would be to shoot back through the windshield at it-the thing was already full of holes; it wouldn't do any more damage. But since I had kids at home, my stainless steel (to resist rusting in the salty Cape air) .357 revolver with its six-inch barrel was hanging in my locker and not in the shoulder harness that fellow officer Pauly Gonsalves had advised me to start wearing years earlier.


Excerpted from the year we disappeared by CYLIN BUSBY JOHN BUSBY
Copyright © 2008 by Busby Ross, Inc.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Year We Disappeared 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 122 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I was 29 years old in 1979 when John Busby was shot and had lived in Falmouth for just four years. When I moved here from Boston in 1975, one of the first stories I heard from neighbors was about the undiscovered body of Melvin Reine's first wife. My neighbor said, 'some people think it's buried in the concrete slab foundation down the street.' Welcome to Falmouth. This is a wonderful town but the corruption in the police department that existed until recently has spread beyond the lack of justice for Busby. My abused neighbor couldn't get help from the police because her husband was 'in tight' with the police. This book is extremely well written. It was a thrill to see Cylin, John and Polly when they came to Falmouth in August to do a book signing. This was the first time they'd been back to Falmouth in almost 30 years. I can see why. I well remember Melvin Reine driving past me one day in his monster garbage truck. I happened to look up and he gave me the most evil smile I've ever seen in my life. I'll never forget it - it was bone chilling. God bless John Busby and his entire family.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I'm a lifelong resident and knew /know a majority of these 'characters' and aliases mention in this book. I drove by the shooting scene just as they were loading Officer Busby into the ambulance and saw him sitting upright holding large amounts of gauze to what I thought was his jaws. Seeing the car in the front yard I assumed it was just a car accident¿ if I had left my girl friend¿s house 10 minutes earlier? Currently I live less than ¼ mile from they¿re old house adjacent to the cranberry bogs they often mention in this book. (Better or worse yet I lived one street from the Monterios house and often saw Monty when I played basketball with his kids¿ little did I know) After reading the book cover to cover in 3.5 hours it only sickened me to learn how the detectives, police, and selectman ruined this family¿s life. It was also very up lifting to know this family somehow persevered though this travesty brought on by the intentional ole boys club mentality that likely to be found in many small towns. Yes¿ Melvin Reine (Meyers) pulled the trigger on Office Busy and others but the guilty parties involved in this and the other disappearances / murders still hold positions of authority in Falmouth so I understand why Busby still doesn¿t feel safe to return to Falmouth. Melvin¿s brother John should be brought in for more questioning regarding the other disappearance / murders to find out who provided inside information regarding the ferry departure time for one key witness (Won¿t spoil the book) and other potential incrimination information. I bet there are a few current and retired police officers and selectman who are now not sleeping well with the release of this book and I only hope it gets at least ½ as bad as what they put the Busby¿s through. There¿s so much more corruption, entitlement and nepotism throughout Falmouth¿s government that this is only the tip of the ice berg of what¿s been festering in this town for years. I not only hope that John gets the statute of limitation passed but this book helps to bring a 3rd party non-bias investigation from the state or federal government!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Having lived in Falmouth for many years, I am very familiar with the characters in this book and loved every page. I may be biased, since I personally knew many of the Falmouth police officers depicted in this book, but I couldn't put this book down. I knew the main culprit in this novel (disguised under the name of Raymodn Meyer) was evil, but I had no idea of the depths of his depravity in dealing with people who crossed him. With each chapter going between Office Busby and his daughter, Cylin, and their perspective of the very same events, it kept me riveted and in awe of their courage at a time when the entire family could have thrown in the towel and let Mr. Meyer win. Thankfully, he never did. A must read for any Cape Codder - and beyond!
JonT More than 1 year ago
Both my wife and I read this book, and I had the great honor to meet John Busby on Cape Cod last summer. I went to his signing before I read the book, I wish I had known then what I know now. The world needs more men like him. I am surprised that he is such a good writer as well, the book is one of the best I've ever read and my wife agrees. We could not put it down and are looking forward to the paperback to read it again at the beach. Thank you to the Busby family for sharing their inspiring story with all of us.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am truly grateful that I've had the chance to read this book. I literally did not want to put it down. What happened to John Busby, and the rest of the Busby family is very tragic. It reminded me of how important it is to have faith, patience and a supportive family. God truly protected the Busby¿s. I¿ve been recommending this memoir to everyone I know! What an honor and privilege it was to read 'The Year We Disappeared' All the best to the Busby family. -KT
Heather_Wietz More than 1 year ago
An expertly crafted book. Five stars.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This book is an honest memoir of a terrible event with heartwrenching consequences. I appreciate the gut level honesty of human emotion in the face of horrendous injustice. The family's will to overcome and survive intact amazed me. Truly worth reading!
Juggalocoroni More than 1 year ago
Cylin Busby and her father John Busby tell the story of their heartwrenching lives. The hardships and the disappointments keep adding up in this autobiography. Imagining what happened to John Busby is completely mind blowing, and I could never see myself coping with what he has gone through. Shot in the line of duty, stalked by the enemy, and living a life in fear while trying to handle a family has to be tough. Reading their life events from two people's views was different at first, but as the story went on, it kept me interested in what each was thinking. It's truly a great read for both genders and mature readers.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
On the edge of your seat & tearjerker the whole book and being from Falmouth, MA knowing the stories,I was 6yrs old, my Dad a summer cop 6yrs before this took place so we knew most of the Police Officers that helped Officer Busby, my mother always telling us to stay away from the "Meyer Family" if we knew what was good for us, I remembered always seeing a Police officer standing outside a classroom in my school that year never really knowing why he was there & to finally know what ever happened to them! All this made me even more interested to read it!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I could not put this book down! The true story of the pain a daughter and her father went through is amazing! It's heart wrenching to see two sides of a life altering event, one from the nine year old daughter and the other from her police father. I highly recommend this book! It's thrilling and overwhelmingly honest!
aneme33 More than 1 year ago
The Year We Disappeared is an amazing book written by the father and daughter in the story. The father, John, a cop, was on his way to his work when he was shot in the jaw. He was left in the hospital unable to communicate to people who his shooter was. The nine year old daughter, Cylin, was left confused and lost about what happen to her father. It tells the story of them both struggling to overcome this new challenge in their life. The main theme throughout the book was forgiveness. John had to learn to just forgive the shooter, through it was very hard. Another theme prominent, shown mainly through Cylin’s writing, was coming of age. She had to see the way horrific things that happen in the world, and had to learn that nothing will ever be the same with her father. The overall message of the story was to never give up. John wanted to live, and never give up trying to save his life, and also his family. Cylin had to never give up on her father, when everyone else around her doubted the fact that her father would live. I would recommend the book to teenagers and adults. It can be a little graphic at parts, but it is an overall great story. The book is suspenseful, and always keeps you on your toes. I think my favorite part of the book would have to be the writing style. I loved how they both were writing the book because you saw two different sides of the story. I loved that fact that John was writing the story too. It shows how much courage he has, and how he has overcome this obstacle in his life. The only part I disliked was that there were quite a few slow parts in the book. The suspense and the great story definitely over powered that dislike though.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This non-fiction memoir was easy to follow and kept my interest throughout. Having the different points-of-view made the story more realistic and gave the characters depth. It is a great non-fiction book for teenagers.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
A heart wrenching story. You feel like a part of the family by the end. I had too google the names in the end, I really wanted to know what they looked like to complete the experience.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I would recommend this book and gave it the 5 stars it deserves. The book is very well written; it pulls you in right away; and I liked that the authors alternated chapters. I moved to Mashpee a year or two after this happened....I know the streets and businesses and yes, some of the people that were mentioned in this book......That this family survived is amazing. Good did triumph over evil in that John Buzby lived and has been able to tell his story. It is not right that "Ray Meyer" got away with the awful things he and his family did......There should NOT be a statute of limitations on attempted murder.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The Year We Disappeared is a memoir told by a father and a daughter. The two alternate between the father and daughter speaking, which makes this story more interesting, because you get to hear the view point from both a child (daughter) and an adult (father). The daughter makes the story seem real with her extra details; she gives the story a more innocent feel. While her father gives the facts and tells it as it was. John Busby is a police officer in a small town. While on duty John is cruelly shot by a car passing. The surgeons had to completely reconstruct his jaw, and he knew that this could not have possibly been an accident and could then only think about revenge. Throughout this novel John focuses on the town and his work, along with the surgery he went through in great detail. Cylin Busby is John Busby’s nine year old daughter (at the time). She takes a different approach on the situation, and talks more about how she and her family felt threatened, unsafe, and how they had to go into hiding. This story was very attention-grabbing. I really liked how there was two points of view; it seemed to make the novel more real. In the ending they thanked everyone for all that they had done, and I felt that was a nice gesture they did.
EmEF More than 1 year ago
A Saddening Page-Turner about a Family’s Strength and One’s Will to Live In this exciting memoir written by a woman and her father they remember the events of 1979, when their family went from being your average middle class American family to being the targets of killer’s plans. John, a police officer in Falmouth, Massachusetts, is shot by a local mobster on his way to work. By some chance he survives but requires major medical attention including facial reconstruction surgery. But since the killer missed his mark the Busby family is now in serious danger, the man who wanted to kill their father wants to kill them too. They are guarded by police officers twenty-four hours of the day. I found this book intriguing, not only the story, but the format of the book with alternating perspectives between John and Cylin. Cylin is only nine when the events take place and she sees her life being turned upside-down and is confused by the whole thing, whereas John is angry and plans his way to exact revenge for most of the book, before finding peace in the situation. I liked Cylin’s writing better, it was more descriptive and flowed, where John’s was more straightforward, tell it like it is. A major theme in this memoir was John’s not only will to survive but his will to thrive. He couldn’t stand to be a burden on his family an invalid for the rest of his life. I would recommend this book to anyone above the age of thirteen (there are a couple f-bombs dropped here and there), and while the subject-matter is quite serious, the way it is executed proves for a very good read. Though categorized as a Children’s book it does not belong there. I would rate this book four stars overall.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read this book for a school project where I have to do a report on it. I wanted to do it on a non-fiction book that was pretty emotional. I got what I wanted and then some! There were a few slow parts, but they are very emotional. I would recomend this to anyone- as long as they can handle the curseing. It does require a level of maturity...but other than that it is a great read!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Excellent book and well-written. I too am familiar with the Falmouth/Portland area of southern Maine. IMO, It is one thing to cry "FOUL" in social media everywhere because you are the abuser in a complicated divorce. And quite another to write a book sharing real evidence and truthful experienes. The two authors of this book have done a fine job. I wish them the very best.
julieah on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
August 31, 1979, was a nightmare for the Busby family. John Busby, a police officer, was shot at a very close range on his way to work. He had been targeted by an arsonist who wanted revenge on John. The Year We Disappeared is an emotional memoir wrote by John and his daughter Cylin, who was nine at the time of the shooting. The two talk about the year that followed the horrible tragedy- the police protection, body guards, social isolation by her friends at school, constant fear and pain, and even their family going into hiding. The alternating chapters and flashback memories discuss John¿s reconstructive surgeries and the corruption at his police department. This story is a page turner to say the least and is a much more emotional read because it is written by the people who suffered. Although not appropriate for younger grades, this book is a perfect edition for a high school classroom or library.
LynnSigman on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Very interesting - liked format with alternating chapters from father and daughter. Missed out on more detail at ending and maybe some pictures. Maybe for older teens.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Reads more like a ghost written book than anything. The writing style is not great, but the story is pretty compelling. Shows the ugly side of small town life not all is apple pie and home made ice cream.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
The true story of a corrupt player in a small Cape Cod town, his horrible actions, the things he got away with, and the traumatic effects he made on one victim (a local policeman) and his entire family.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Interesting srory well written but there were parts i skimmed over and didnt hold my interest