The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (10 best books of all time TXT) 📗

Before I delete the picture from my phone, I take one last look at it, broken into three parts by the cracked screen. I wonder how Maurice would react if I told him where I’d taken that picture—when I’d taken it. As far as he knows, that’s where the story started: that first panic attack, this street. Everything before that, I sketched in fuzzier terms. I told him how normal it all was. I lost my best friend, sure. But everything else was normal.

Maurice is very good at his job. If he doesn’t believe what I’m telling him, it doesn’t show. And if he wonders what I’m not saying, that doesn’t show, either.

He’s not wrong to wonder. I’ve told him a lot. I haven’t told him everything.

Seven THE FIRST DAY

FOR THE FIRST time in months, my phone doesn’t wake me up.

Not for lack of trying. The only time I keep it on silent these days is in class. If someone calls, texts, whatever—I want to know right away.

But I wake up to silence. The only thing moving in the empty model bedroom is the light through the blinds, shifting upward. And when I check my phone for the time, I see two new texts. The first is from my little brother, Sammy. The second is a number I don’t know.

Coming to pick you up, be there in 20 min—Alex Harper

I pull up Sammy’s text as I wiggle into my jeans. Hi, Rosie, I read as I jam a clean shirt over my head. Is it warm where you are? It is cold today but Mom says it will not snow. Dad says to tell you to call tonight if you have time. Please write back. Bye.

I allow myself a second to smile before I shove a granola bar into my mouth. Getting Sammy to practice writing has been like pulling teeth, so much that his teacher gave him a project recently: to write, just once a day, about whatever he wants, and to show it to one of us. So every day, he texts me.

Sammy is seven. I used to think he was too young to notice me flinch every time my phone buzzed. Now I can’t help but wonder if he’s trying to fix something.

The doorbell rings, and I hurriedly swing my backpack over my shoulder and bolt for the door. But the person waiting for me on the other side isn’t Alex Harper.

“Well, now.” A middle-aged woman stands on the porch, her sweater set matching her eyes, her teeth matching her pearls. There’s something intensely familiar about the lines at the crease of her mouth, thinning her cheeks. “I suppose a welcome is in order?”

“Oh,” I say involuntarily, because I remember now. I saw this woman last night, on the public access channel.

“Aren’t you lovely,” she chirps. “My daughter has always wanted to grow her hair out past her shoulders. She’s got that beautiful wave you have, too. How do you keep it from tangling?”

My brain stutters, bypassing the what are you doing at my house and the I guess it’s not my house but still that are on the tip of my tongue. Somehow what I say is “Coconut oil twice a week.”

“How nice.” Her lips widen. “But you look so tired. Were you not comfortable here? You know, I love this neighborhood. I have since it was built. I was on the planning board, I remember when this was an empty bit of desert. Twenty of the houses sold before we broke ground!”

I smile, nod, and let her keep going. But as the lines around her mouth deepen, I shift my weight to my back foot, still resting safely inside the house. She’s fully blocking the door now.

“And do you want to know what happened?” the woman says. I finally notice that her smile never reaches her eyes. “None of these houses ever filled. No one wants to live in a half-empty community, as it turns out. Most of the buyers left town, dear. Because of you.”

Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Her stare, directed at me, never wavers.

Finally, she thrusts out an arm and an open palm. “Marguerite Williams. Mayor of Lotus Valley.”

For a long moment, all I can do is stare down at her steady, outstretched hand. Then, gingerly, I shake it.

“Rose,” I offer quietly.

“Oh, good. You’re polite at least,” she says. “Don’t look so worried. We’re just going to talk. That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Do I have a choice?” It’s out of my mouth before I can think twice. But lucky for me, she laughs.

“Not too polite, I see,” she says. “But that’s good. That’s smart. Polite doesn’t mean you have to let people walk all over you. I think you can relate to why I’m here, then.”

I wouldn’t go that far. But remembering that election ad last night, I think I have an idea. “If by that, you mean you want me gone . . .” She smiles. That’s a yes. “. . . then to be honest, I don’t understand why there are people who disagree with you.”

She laughs, high and humorless. “We do understand each other. But I can’t force you to leave, much as I’d like to. It’s not that simple, even I know that. There’s a force older than the rule of law. Do you know what that is?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She barely waits for the question to sink in. “Hospitality. It’s what this town was built on: a shelter from the storms of the world, or so I keep hearing. We even enshrined it into our charter not too long ago: to never turn away a soul in need, unless our every effort to help them has failed.

“But by the time we’ve made our efforts with what you’ve brought, my dear,” she says, “it could be too late for us. Do you understand?”

I swallow. My mouth is as dry as my throat. “If that’s