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

His Car by the senior class, and he accepted it, laughing. Like it was a cute fucking character quirk.

And then there was Gaby, who knew that as well as anyone. Who got in his car anyway. And here’s where Maurice would remind me that Nick’s driving was irrelevant. There’s one person to blame, and that’s the drunk asshole who killed her.

Strange that he’s the one I stopped thinking about a long time ago. The one variable I could never have changed. Maybe he keeps someone else up at night, somewhere, but he would have been there no matter what I did.

Maurice could tell me all of this. But I’ve been telling myself those same things for the past year, and I’ve yet to believe a single word.

My phone buzzes, and Cassie’s name pops up, fragmented by the screen. I accept the call and tuck it against my ear.

“Anything?” I ask.

“Good morning to you, too.” She falters. “You sound awful.”

A laugh punches out of me. I almost deny it. The relief when I realize I don’t have to makes my knees a little weak. “Then we match.”

She clears her throat pointedly, but she still sounds a little rough when she speaks again. “We have officially run out of civic spirit.”

“That bad?” I say.

“Ms. Jones got through . . . maybe half?” she says. “And sent a big group home based on the security footage. So the people left are getting . . . antsy.”

“And Adrienne?” I ask.

“Was on the tape,” Cassie confirms. “Jay’s with her now.”

I shrug a flannel shirt over my shoulders and comb my fingers through my hair a few times. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

“I know.” A beat. “But I wanted to warn you first.”

There’s a twist low in my gut.

“Look out the window,” Cassie says, even and slow. “Don’t panic. But look.”

I make a low sound of agreement in the back of my throat. But my hands still shake when I pull the blinds.

The sky is a dark, cloudy green. The kind you see in the moments before a tornado.

I ease open the window and stick one hand out. The air feels cool and choppy, the edge of a changing front.

“I checked the weather,” Cassie says. “Eighty-five and sunny. It still says that.”

I pull my arm back slowly, as if from a wild animal. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I pause. And then, stupidly, I add, “Don’t worry.”

At least, it jolts her into a firm, haughty tone—something much closer to herself. “I never worry.”

“You sure?” I say. “If I saw the future, I think worry would be my entire life.”

“Worry is for when you think you know,” she says.

I pinch the window latch between two fingers, testing its strength. As if that’ll help. “What do you call it when you know you know?”

She’s quiet long enough that I think she hung up. “Dread,” she says. There’s another long beat. “Be careful on your way here.”

White noise fills the line as she disconnects.

I toss the phone on top of the duvet, laughing softly as I wander into the master bathroom. “Good talk.”

I wonder what it is I feel. Worry, or dread. At least for a second, all I feel is the splash and sting of cold water on my face.

I straighten up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. And I freeze.

My reflection looks back at me, gray-faced, her palms riddled with scrapes. Breathless, cold water still dripping down my neck, I look down at my hands. Clean, bloodless. And when I face front, the only person waiting in the mirror is me.

“I thought I told you to stop,” I gasp. But before it’s fully out of my mouth, I know that’s not right. I don’t feel that cool mustiness is the air. The Flood isn’t here.

With a shaking hand, I grip the cuff of my flannel shirt. My muscle memory does the work for me. I left this in my car before Marin Levinson’s party. I slid it on while I was sitting there after, waiting to warm up. Slid it over my wrists so I could grip the wheel through my sleeves, blot the blood on my palms.

The Flood showed me this moment, too, in the police station bathroom on my first day in Lotus Valley. But this feels different. This feels physical. Like I was standing in just the right place to see something hidden. Not just watching Past Rose but standing in the same space in time, close enough to forget we aren’t the same person.

I didn’t see the scrapes on her palms, did I? I felt them on my own.

Almost like—

I’m dialing Maurice’s number before I can think better of it.

It rings long enough for me to think close to clearly again. It’s still morning. He has appointments in the morning. It’s New Year’s Eve, but that probably means he’s busier. He always says holidays will do that.

Hello, his voicemail greeting chirps. You have reached the confidential mailbox of Maurice Martin.

“Calm down,” I whisper. I have somewhere to be. And besides, what am I going to tell him? That I think I finally had a real flashback?

He’d take me seriously. He always takes it seriously. For one traitorous second, I think about how nice that’d be: to be told how strong I’ve been. That I can stop. That I can go home.

It’s a second too long. The voicemail beeps. The story hovers, heavy, on my tongue.

If anything, he hears the gasp when I realize it’s recording. And then I hang up.

SEPTEMBER 17, THREE MONTHS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: Maurice knows everything. This is not always a compliment.

Nine times out of ten, it is. But it can, on occasion, get irritating when he knows what’s in your head before you do.

“And he was just like—” You affect a high, nasally voice. “I understand your frustration, but I can’t let you take your car unless I’m going to let everyone.”

Maurice laughs. “Do me a favor. Try saying