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

Felix squints. “You do bowling nights?”

“Mind your business.” Theresa glances over him to me, and smirks. “Watch out for that one. She’s already driven one car into the ground this week.”

“Bye, Ms. Gibson,” Felix singsongs, rolling up the window.

I wave as we pull away, already distracted by the list in Felix’s hand. “What is that?”

“Pawn shop customers. Anyone she’s seen coming and going,” Felix says, sliding the list into his jacket pocket. “Theresa’s good friends with the boss. We knew she wouldn’t ask many questions.”

It gets quiet after that, aside from Felix telling me when and where to turn. We don’t say much as I park the car in front of the sheriff’s department, and the only sounds as we walk across the threshold are the swish of the door and my own mumbled “thank you” as Felix holds it for me. But headed down the hall to Felix’s and Alex’s cubicles, it’s not long before I hear shuffling paper and the click of a keyboard.

As we round the corner, I catch sight of the source—the blur of Alex Harper, making a beeline from the computer to the printer. The lines of his body language say “chipper.” The deep purple smudges under his eyes say “sleep-deprived and over-caffeinated.” But when he sees me, he smiles.

“You changed your mind,” he says.

I laugh nervously. “You don’t know that. Maybe I always planned to stay.” Judging by the look that passes between the two of them, they doubt that.

I think it’s the first time in months, aside from Maurice, I’ve been seen through. I’m not entirely sure how to feel about that.

“You owe me lunch,” Alex says, shuffling his printouts.

“Wh—” Felix chokes a little. “You were serious?”

“Felix,” I say with a slow smile. I shouldn’t find this funny. But it’s not like he was wrong. “You bet against me?”

“I thought we were—” Felix looks back and forth between us. “I didn’t mean—”

Alex throws his head back and laughs—the first I’ve heard from him so far. It’s a bright, rolling sound that lights him from the inside out. Felix ducks his head. And right before he does, I see him flush red.

Oh, I think. So that’s how it is.

Felix clears his throat, still a little pink. “Are you done?” At Alex’s arched eyebrow, he adds, “With the receipts.”

“Almost,” Alex says. “Give me the list from Theresa.”

“Maybe if you asked nicely—” Felix starts, even as Alex leans forward and plucks the list from his hand.

I move closer. The receipts from last night are on Alex’s desk, divided into neat piles. “These are from the pawn shop?”

“From the last three months,” Alex says. “Deputy Jay took the other half. We obviously can’t find who stole the tape deck, but between the receipts and the names from Theresa, we can get a good idea of who the regulars are and try to get a sense of where they stand on—you, I guess. And with any luck, we’ll figure out who made that tape. And hope that they know more about this flood than we do.”

“I don’t get it.” Felix shakes his head. “Who says you get to choose what part of the past comes knocking? Imagine reliving middle school for the rest of your life. What the fuck.”

“Don’t have to tell me,” I mumble in agreement.

Sighing, Felix reaches for one of Alex’s receipt piles. Alex slaps his hand away.

“Ow!” Felix says.

“I have a system,” Alex mumbles.

I eye them, dubious. “You really think they shopped there before?”

“Must have. Paul may move at the speed of a shambling corpse, but you still can’t spend too much time fumbling around,” Felix says. “If you’re going to steal something, you need to know where it is before you walk in.”

“Speaking of which,” I say. “Do you have any coffee here, or . . .”

Alex grins. “Kitchen’s back down the hall and to the right.”

I push back the chair. “Be right back.”

I don’t have to go far before it gets quiet. We must be the only ones here right now. I got lucky, I guess—I still haven’t decided how much I want to tell Christie Jones about last night. Maybe she already knows. She’s got a prophet under her roof.

Finally, I settle into a shadowed corner opposite a row of cubicles. I still do want that coffee. But first I think I should try this again.

I go still and I listen. Nothing answers—just the high-pitched whine of silence. But distantly, unless I’m imagining it, there’s this hollow sound, like the air at the edge of a sheer drop.

This is why we stayed, I remind the unease settling into my stomach. There’s no point to my being here if I don’t keep talking to them.

“Are you here?” I whisper. But the air barely shifts.

Until a voice behind me asks, “How’s that working for you?”

Someday soon, Cassie Cyrene is going to catch my elbow with her face. I’m not saying I’ll like it, or that she’ll deserve it. But it’s going to happen nonetheless.

I spin around with a laugh that’s mostly a wheeze. Cassie sits calmly against the wall, her legs folded to the side, her gingham skirt flat.

“You remember the part where I have post-traumatic stress disorder, right?” I say. It still feels unearned in my mouth. But there’s a thrill to it, too. They don’t know me. I can say it as many times as I want, and nothing will change.

“Sorry,” she says. “I forget that not everyone can see where they’re going.”

I can’t be entirely sure, but I think I was just on the receiving end of a prophet burn.

“So . . .” I smile, shrug. “Guess we’ll be working together after all.”

The grim line of her mouth spills into a real smile. “No kidding.”

“You could have told me,” I say.

“I’ve been told not to rob people of the journey,” Cassie says airily. At my raised eyebrows, she concedes, “It wouldn’t do you any good if you were here just because I told you it was meant to be. Also,