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

But you can’t read this, and you can’t know this. So you tell her he didn’t do anything. That you just don’t like him.

And that will be the end of it.

Twenty-Four THE OBJECTS IN MOTION

MY SILHOUETTE IS still visible in the distance. Still slowly making her way to the old oak tree. Still holding her wrist to her chest. The road fades away before she—before I do.

The sounds of Sutton Avenue go quiet, leaving only my own ragged breathing. When I turn, the scene has changed again.

The walls and floor are as black as empty space. It’s just me, a Rose from over a year later, curled into our living room couch. Though the TV isn’t visible in this snapshot of memory, I see its reflection in the light on my face.

No. This one isn’t me—when I look at her, I see it in the way she looks back.

“Why did you show me that?” I choke out.

The Flood gazes dispassionately from the couch. The angles of their face shift in the changing light of the TV, but the light never reaches the deep black pools of their eyes.

“It’s not why I’m like this,” I say. “I was fine. I don’t have the right.”

The Flood opens my mouth, and the voice of a news anchor comes out.

Another deadly accident at Sutton Avenue and Chamblys Road last night, she says. Seventeen-year-old Nicholas Lansbury was forced into Chamblys Pond when an oncoming driver swerved to avoid Sutton’s notoriously treacherous oak tree. We are sad to report that his passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summer—

“I know.” My hands clutch at my hair. “I know, I know. Do you think I don’t know? ‘His passenger, sixteen-year-old Gabrielle Summer, was killed on impact. Mr. Lansbury is expected to recover from his injuries, and the unnamed driver of the second car is scheduled to be arraigned next week. Reports—’” My voice breaks. “‘Reports allege that the driver was intoxicated.’”

The Flood is still watching me. But the light of the TV has disappeared, casting their face in shadow.

“Do you know,” I finally say, “how many times I was told that he did the best he could? That it isn’t his fault he survived and she didn’t?

“And you know what? I’m aware,” I spit out. “I know it was an accident. I’m not an idiot. But they don’t know everything. You do.”

I grab for another breath. It slips through my fingers. “Gaby had every opportunity to stay out of that car. Everyone—everyone—knew Nick was a disaster behind the wheel. They didn’t need me to tell them. But you can’t tell me that Gaby wouldn’t have taken it more seriously coming from me.”

The Flood is still. Completely still. And the longer they’re silent, the louder I hear myself get.

“To call me like that, when it would be over an hour before I could come get her—she could have stayed with Ariella if she didn’t want to go with him!” I say. “You can see exactly how many times I’ve thought that, right? How sick is that, expecting that of her when I did the same goddamn thing? Will you please just say something?”

I’m gasping by the time it’s all out but still not crying—not even now. It’s too dark to see the Flood’s face. But I know they haven’t looked away.

Their mouth moves again. Gaby’s voice this time.

“Rose. Tell me what he did.”

“Stop that,” I gasp.

And again. Christie’s voice. “Did he hurt you?”

“Stop!” My legs tremble with the word. “Please! You saw what happened in that kitchen. Do you know what Christie and Cassie would say if they knew? How they would look at me?”

“Listen,” she says. “Remember. Understand.”

“Understand what?” My voice cracks, hard. “You’re showing me shit that I already know!”

A percussive blast of sound rattles me from the ground up, and I whirl around so fast I’m dizzy. The dark edges of my living room burst into light and color and stretch into the distance, until a suburban street snaps into place. By the end of the street, on the left, there’s a house, brightly lit, shaking under the force of the music inside. Marin Levinson’s house. Marin Levinson’s party.

I don’t need to remember how it felt, for the bass beat to hijack the rhythm of my heart. I’m feeling it now.

I stumble as I turn, and the present twists back into focus, the lights of the model home spinning. The image is still blurred as I claw my way to the door, the knob liquid and unsteady in my hands. I grasp for something I can lock. The house shivers under the force of the music, and with every pound the walls creep tighter, closer. It’s at my heels as I sprint to the bedroom farthest from the sound, it’s in my ribs when I clamp a pillow over my ears. My grip is so tight, my knuckles hurt. I really don’t care.

It’s hard to say what ends first—the attack, or the music. Sleep comes slow, then suddenly. But the dread sinks in all the way to my dreams.

—

THE MORNING AFTER a bad panic attack must be what a hangover feels like. My skin feels too tight for my body. My brain feels too big.

There’s a small, detached part of me that’s equal parts embarrassed and impressed. I’ve never melted down like that before—not out loud. Always too many people around to see it. For once in my life, there’s no one.

Here’s what Maurice would tell me, if he knew everything I knew. What happened to Gaby was an accident. What Nick asked of me wasn’t right. And if every one of us had done everything right, it might have happened anyway.

That night in his car when we hydroplaned into a ditch was over two years ago. He was young and stupid and scared. His terrible driving became an open secret at school, without my help. And he owned it. He was voted Most Likely to Total