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

Felix crosses the parking lot to the car in long strides, but Alex hesitates before following. “Whatever you decide . . . it’s up to you,” Alex says slowly. It takes me a second to recognize that he’s talking to me. “I know you must want it gone. But you have time, Rose. It’s a terrifying thing to think, but this flood followed you for a reason. If you don’t try to understand why, that stays with you. Trust me.”

I rub at my pocket as he disappears into the car. And the business cards of Maggie Williams and Christie Jones crinkle together.

“He doesn’t like me that much,” Cassie says with a tight laugh as they drive out of the lot. “Felix, that is. He doesn’t think I’m telling him everything.”

I tread lightly. I’m pretty good at reading people, I think. But right now, I’m at a loss. “I’m sure he’s just stressed,” I say.

“Oh, I don’t blame him,” Cassie says. “He’s right.”

I hold very still and leave a wide open space for her to elaborate. At length, she finally makes eye contact with me.

“I know what you’ve been seeing, Rose,” she says.

My foot, of its own accord, slides back. I don’t know if she notices this, but she laughs. “Not specifically,” she says. “I trade in the future. I always thought that’s why I never see the flood completely, in all those visions. A creature that pulls past into present—makes sense that we’d be like oil and water, right?”

Cassie rubs at her arms. “There are things we’ve hidden from this town. We never told them it would be New Year’s Day. We took town records, all the encounters with this thing, all the things people see, and locked them in Ms. Jones’s office. She’s always been adamant that they can’t know what to expect. That the temptation would be too great.”

“Temptation?” I say.

Her smile twitches into a thin line. “Not everyone considers the past an enemy, Rose.”

My brain feels sluggish after so many nights of short, fragmented sleep. But it doesn’t take me long to wrap my head around what she’s getting at. That tape, that cassette player didn’t get to the basement on its own. Somebody paid the Mockingbird to say those words. Recorded it. Hooked it up in that basement. Set it to broadcast.

“Think about it,” Cassie says. “Why are you here, Rose? Would you have led the flood here no matter what? You didn’t feel the pull of Lotus Valley until you heard that broadcast, did you?”

“So you’re saying,” I say faintly, “that whoever made that tape was trying to make sure the prophecy would happen.”

“I’m saying they were instrumental in making it happen. And in all my visions, I never saw that,” Cassie says. “If I missed something that important, there might be even more we don’t know. If whoever made that tape has information we don’t? We need to find them, fast.”

“If only a few people know what this thing can do,” I say, “you must have some idea who’d want to—”

“There’s no way they would have done this,” Cassie says shortly. “I already told you—”

There’s a long, tense beat. She tilts her head into the low afternoon sun and sighs. “Oh,” she says quietly. “Sorry. We didn’t have that conversation yet, did we?”

She’s already backing away. Despite the heat, her jacket is buttoned shut. “Like you said,” she calls, “the list of people who know what’s coming is a small one. And Ms. Jones thinks she knows exactly where to start—with the only two people I told before I told her. My parents.”

I don’t see her expression before she looks away, but I think she’s smiling. “Big decision tonight, Rose. I’d tell you what you’ll do. But where’s the fun in that?”

Eleven THE LANGUAGE OF MEMORY

MY BROTHER, SAMMY, is his mother’s son. In case I didn’t know that before—and I kind of guessed—people make sure to tell us at least once a week. He’s got the little nose, the round face, the way she squints when she doesn’t buy a word you’re saying.

But when Sammy and my stepfather open their mouths at the same time, you get exactly where Dan’s genes went.

“Hold on, hold on.” I laugh, readjusting the phone. “One at a time.”

The volume of Sammy’s voice goes from seven to eleven, like he’s grabbed the phone. “Are you going to make us millionaires in Las Vegas, Rosie?”

“Did Dad tell you that?” I ask.

There’s a rustle—Dan taking the phone back, I think. “I would never.” He pauses. “But he’s got this wacky idea that once you hit the jackpot, you’re going to buy him an Xbox.”

“Xbox!” Sammy echoes, his voice already distant, like he’s started sprinting laps around the couch again. People always ask, coming over for the first time, why we’ve got little crop circles burned into the carpet.

My mother shifts closer to the phone with a sigh. “Rosie,” she says, “you left me outnumbered.”

Over the phone, I hear the telltale sound of a little foot catching on the edge of the carpet, and the thud of someone falling face-first. There’s a brief silence. Then a slowly building wail.

“Well,” says Dan, over the sound of my brother’s screams, “that was bound to happen sometime.”

“It’s almost like it was inevitable from the second you said Xbox,” Mom says, her grin audible.

“And that’s my cue to exit.” He grunts, like he’s scooped Sammy up from the floor. “Come on, Road Runner. Bed.”

“No!” Sammy wails.

“A compelling argument,” Dan says solemnly. Into the phone, he says, “Rosie, give Flora and Jon a hug for me. And call anytime. We miss you.”

Something in my chest curls, and I fidget. “Miss you, too,” I say.

“Love you, Freckles,” he says, with a smooching sound so loud I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “Sleep well.”

My smile spreads despite itself. Dan has always called me Freckles. My father’s family has always called me Beanstalk. I like Dan’s better.

The sound quality sharpens as