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

Christie grins. “You doubted Rudy, not me. But don’t worry. A few bags of fries and he’ll forget all about it.”

Shockingly, Maggie manages a queasy smile. “That can be arranged.”

“Then we’ll talk about it later,” Christie says. “They listen to you, Maggie. Go help.”

Maggie bristles. But there’s no energy to it. “I don’t take orders from you, Sheriff.”

She rabbits down the steps, her heels clicking, and Christie turns back to face us. “Go get your families. I’ll see you later with any luck.”

“You’re not coming?” I say.

Christie’s face drops. There’s a grim set to her shoulders. “We did the best we could, Rose. It’s time to let Rudy take over.”

“You’re not—” I’m dizzy suddenly. I wanted the Flood gone. I wanted them gone, right? “Let me try again.”

It sounds unbelievably stupid, coming out of my mouth. But sympathy floods her face.

“Rose, all I need for you to do right now is to get to somewhere safe. If the Mockingbird is right, at this point, the Flood is more focused on the town than you. But if you stay here, you’re going to get caught in this fight.” She turns to Cassie, next to her. “Sandy’s waiting for you at home. Tell her I’ll be right there.”

Cassie looks a little past her, to me. She’s giving me a warning look. I don’t need the reminder.

“I can drive you,” Felix says to me.

I shake my head hard. “I’ll walk. I need to get my stuff from Lethe Ridge.”

“Rose,” Cassie says. Another warning. But just because she’s accepted this is happening doesn’t mean I need to.

I’m close. I have to be. And these stakes aren’t just mine. Not anymore.

The Flood is ready to talk. Has been, this entire time.

So here I am. Ready to listen.

—

LOTUS VALLEY HAS exploded into a burst of activity. Families packing cars or hoisting suitcases onto bikes. Rudy’s smoky tendrils corralling pets and small children. Really, Rudy’s everywhere at once.

I catch a few familiar faces. Loreen loading as much as they can onto their motorcycle. Ace Martin and his friends, ushering a reluctant John Jonas into their SUV. The woman who threw a casserole at us yesterday, prodded along by Rudy as she tries to double back into her house.

But the Flood hasn’t crossed the border into Lotus Valley. Not yet.

By the time I get to the Lethe Ridge model home, there’s a line of headlights on the access road, driving past me and into the desert. I shut the doors to the model home tightly behind me. The Flood doesn’t like an audience.

There’s not much for me to pack, but I take it slow. Do I pretend I’m not waiting for them? Do I call to them myself? And what if they’ve already given up trying to talk to me?

My phone buzzes. Even now, already primed for something coming, it makes me flinch. But the adrenaline recedes when I catch the caller ID. Maurice.

Right. He did say he was going to call me at five, didn’t he?

I reach for it, ready to reject the call and give a quick excuse via text, but I pause halfway.

I’m trying too hard to get their attention. The Flood from the start has responded the strongest to what I’m feeling. And if anyone knows anything about what I’m feeling, it’s Maurice.

I need to see what happens if I tell him more.

I sweep the phone into my hand and say, “Hey. You never had to get a late pass, did you?”

Even when I’m trying to open up, I lead with a dumb joke. Luckily—unluckily—he doesn’t take the bait. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting. What’s on your mind, Rose?”

I wonder if that’s something you have to perfect when you’re a therapist. How to tell someone, gently, with acceptance, to get to the point.

“So,” I say. My throat feels tight. “Happy early New Year, first of all.”

He doesn’t wish me one back. Any other day, I’d pretend to be offended. He makes a low, thoughtful sound. I’m listening.

“I’m not with my family,” I say.

“You still have time to go home, if you want,” he says. “You did a very kind thing, visiting Gaby’s parents, but that doesn’t mean you can’t—”

“No, Maurice, that’s . . . that’s the thing.” Breathe. Inhale for seven. Hold for two. Exhale for eleven. “I left the Summers’. I left three days ago.”

There’s a brief, telling silence. “And you didn’t go home.”

“I didn’t.” For lack of anything better to do, I start pacing the length of the house.

“Where—” He stops himself from finishing that thought. I think he’s trying not to scare me. That, in itself, makes my stomach clench. “Are you somewhere safe?”

I start to laugh, before I realize that makes it look worse. I’m not, really, but I’m safe in the way he means. So I say, “Yes. I’m going home soon.” Reaching the end of the bedroom wing, I turn, make my way back to the front entryway. “But my parents don’t know where I am and . . .”

And then I trail off. Rather than the reds, oranges, and sharp corners of the model house, I see cool blues and grays, a bookshelf. Two armchairs facing each other. I’m in one. Maurice is in the other.

“I thought maybe someone should know,” I finish distantly.

“Thank you for telling me,” Maurice says. At least, that’s what I think he says. My ears are ringing, watching the Past Me and Past Maurice consider each other from their respective ends of the room. I’m sitting straight, balanced at the edge of the chair. The first thing I do when I get to his office is usually to move the cushion into the curve of my back, so I can sit without being swallowed into the leather.

I catch the paperwork in my lap and realize: this is my first appointment with him.

“My mom’s my emergency contact,” I’m saying. My voice is high, formal. Not at all how I talk to him now. “And I’m on her insurance, but that doesn’t mean she can ask how