The Valley and the Flood Rebecca Mahoney (top 10 motivational books TXT) 📖

Something else buzzes in, though. My little brother’s daily composition practice.

Hi, Rosie, Sammy texted fifteen minutes ago. Today I was very busy. We bought hats and noisemakers for the new year party. I asked Mom to buy one for you in case you came home. She said yes. I’m going to get ready for sleep now.

I run my fingers over the edges of the cracked screen, and I feel as close to crying as I have for months. Even then, it doesn’t happen.

Good night, Sammy, I text back. Closing my eyes, I slide the phone next to the cushion under my head.

I don’t realize I’m falling asleep until a buzzing wakes me up.

—

THE PHONE WHIRRS, shrill and sharp, next to my cheek. I claw my way up, mouth dry, and for a moment, I have no idea where I am, or what’s shuddering next to me. The web of cracks on my screen look deeper, more numerous, and my vision is blurry at the edges. I pick it up without seeing who the caller is.

“Hello?” I say, my voice crackling.

There’s a wheezing, in and out. Then that voice. The same voice as always.

Rose . . .

I jerk the phone back away from my ear, and I see the screen clearly, now. Time: 1:05 a.m. Caller: Gaby Summer.

And when I scramble to my feet, I see what’s been in front of me the whole time. Gaby—a silvery, unsteady reflection of Gaby—is standing at the door, mouthing along with the voice on the phone.

Rose, are you there?

I hear the rustling, as always, in the background of the call—the male voice, words indistinct. The Gaby in front of me starts and looks over her shoulder. Her posture doesn’t quite relax, but what she sees makes her turn more fully. She didn’t trust Nick, but she didn’t not trust him. She had no reason to not trust him.

I don’t see him there, over her shoulder. But all the hairs on my arms stand on end.

Gaby turns and vanishes into the dark. And even knowing that it’s the Flood who just disappeared through that front door, I sprint after her.

I cross the threshold, and I stop so suddenly that I almost trip. I’m not in the model house’s yard at the Lethe Ridge housing development. I’m standing in the middle of Sutton Avenue.

The next thing I hear, just to my right, is the screech of tires.

I turn away sharply. There’s a hiss and a crunch, and I can smell burning rubber.

“This is cruel,” I whisper, and I know the Flood can hear me. “I don’t need to see this.”

They don’t respond to that, either. Maybe they’re waiting for me to notice. And gradually, I do.

There was no splash. No sound to indicate a car going into the water. And more importantly, where I’m facing, I see the old oak tree looming in the distance, marking the corner of Sutton and Chamblys. The corner of Sutton and Chamblys should be the site of the accident. Which is behind me.

That damp, bitter air hits my lungs again. This time, I recognize it.

Slowly, I turn. I see a car spun off the road and into the grass, half-tipped into a ditch, nothing but rubber burned into pavement to indicate the trajectory the vehicle just took. I hear the whine of steam. And I see someone stumble from the passenger’s seat of the car. Eyes wide.

Holding her wrist. What I looked like in that moment, over two years ago.

This is not Gaby’s accident.

This is mine.

DECEMBER 14, TWO YEARS AGO

NOTE TO SELF: “Don’t get into cars with strangers” is incomplete advice. Statistically speaking, it’s the people you know who hurt you.

“Need a ride?”

Over the next two years, you will imagine a dozen different ways you could have said no. But this is here and now, standing outside Ariella Kaplan’s grandparents’ cabin at the end-of-semester party you didn’t even want to go to. The light gauze of rain and fog won’t let up for hours yet, and this cold snap will last another week. Gaby is home with the flu. Your ride into the woods was Kelly Townsend, currently passed out in the guesthouse bed with her sweatshirt still halfway over her head. Ariella promised to keep an eye on her. All that’s left is to decide between a long walk to the bus stop or using your emergency forty dollars for a cab.

So you turn around and look up at Nick Lansbury, standing over you on the front steps. “Yeah,” you say. “Please.”

He laughs. He’s got the kind of laugh that puts you on guard. But he’s not a bad person, is the thing, and he’s doing you a favor. So you smile and you get in the car. And you don’t say anything when he floors it.

Your fingers curl into the drink holder, but you keep smiling and keep not saying anything. It’s an empty stretch of road, straight and quiet. He’ll slow down when you get to Chamblys.

“Good party,” he says at length.

“Huh?” you say. “Oh. Sure.”

“Really?” You’re not sure you like how he’s smiling at you, like he thinks he knows you. “Didn’t look like you were having a lot of fun.”

You make a noncommittal sound. You promised last week that you’d come with Gaby. And by the time Gaby canceled, Kelly made you promise not to let her drink. There’s not a force in the world that could keep Kelly sober, but you gave it your all.

“Next time you should sit with me,” Nick says. “You’ll like it more when you’re not stuck with Kelly. You’re not like her, you know?”

Nick isn’t a bad person. But here’s the thing about him: he thinks things like that are compliments.

But you don’t have time to tell him Kelly is a first-chair violinist and a chemistry genius. What you have to say instead is “You’re going kind of fast.”

Maurice will tell you one day that you have a