Like I said: It was more impulse than decision, leaving my car back there. But terrible decisions are still decisions.
For the first time since I left the car, I stop. I glance over my shoulder to where the road probably is. And I make a cold, hard assessment. I don’t know where I am. I’ve lost sight of where I’m going. And Gaby Summer is dead.
Despite the steadily rising heat, the hairs on my arms stand up. Whether in my mouth or in my head, the words always feel wrong. They’re not wrong, though. It’s the one thing I know for sure.
It was a closed casket funeral. If it were me and not her, Gaby would have needed to see. But I never needed proof. I knew before I officially knew.
So. Note to self: Here are a few more things you know for sure. It was late when you heard that broadcast. You weren’t exactly in the clearest state of mind when you left Vegas. And most importantly, Gaby’s cell phone no longer works. The only one with that message is you. Anything else is paranoia.
Hypervigilance. That’s what my therapist, Maurice, had said the first time I tried to use the p word.
Hyper-what now? I’d said.
That sense you’re describing, like you’re constantly scanning for threats? he’d said. Hypervigilance.
Oh? I’d said. That still sounds like paranoia to me.
Not really. He’d smiled one of those deceptively placid smiles. Not the way you mean it, at least.
English is Maurice’s third language. So naturally, he understands it better than any native speaker I know. He listens to every part of a word: the meaning, the nuance, and the stuff that goes unsaid.
But hypervigilance, to me, has always been a physical thing: tight shoulders, tension headaches, that potential energy too deep in my rib cage to unfurl. Sometimes it’s just a feeling, a shift in the air that washes the world into an uneasy gray. It isn’t hearing broadcasts that couldn’t possib exist.
The early morning haze lifts. And gradually, up ahead, shapes start to form: dark and boxy cutouts against the sunlight, and behind them, the thin black line of the tower.
I’m a lot closer than I thought.
A bit farther and the shapes start to form into neat rows of houses, little villas of reds and oranges and angular bricks. The kind of desert houses that try too hard to be desert houses. The closer I get, the more I see, lined up at the edge of a thin wrought-iron fence, and behind them, violently green grass and the edge of a spiraling street.
It’s late enough that I should see people. I should at least hear them. But there’s no movement. And it’s as quiet as it ever was.
I slide my backpack off my shoulder and toss it over the fence.
It lands with a soft thwump. Not quite soft enough to go undetected. But nothing changes. The air stirs a little, curling the grass in on itself. And that’s about all the response I get.
So I go ahead and vault the fence, too.
I touch down on the grass, right into someone’s backyard. There’s a big picture window facing me head-on, curtains trailing at the edges like it’s a screen and I’m the movie. I don’t seem to have an audience. From what I can see, the house is fully furnished and totally empty. Walking quickly, I round the corner and step out onto the street.
Places like this aren’t totally unheard of in the sprawl of the Mojave Desert. My stepfather has a thing for abandoned places—I’ve heard all about housing developments built in the middle of nowhere, finished and polished and never filled. But I’ve never seen a place so dead look so . . . cared for. The paint seems fresh. The windows are spotless. The grass is similar enough from house to house that I’d think it was fake if I hadn’t touched it myself. There’s a sign facedown in one of the driveways, and I carefully wedge my shoe under it to flip it over.
A drawing of a ’50s housewife-type grins up at me, teeth glinting in the sunlight. lethe ridge luxury homes, the text proclaims. we’ve been waiting for you!
I laugh darkly. “Sounds like a threat, bro.”
I use the broadcast tower’s spire for reference as I curve through cul-de-sacs and dead ends, and I spend more time doubling back than moving forward. There’s no way to get anywhere in this place without cutting across someone’s lawn, but I decide to stick to the street.
That turns out to be a good move on my part when, with a hiss and a sputter, every sprinkler in the neighborhood starts running.
“Sprinklers,” I say out loud. Maybe if I reason with my stomach, it’ll find its way back down my throat. “They’re sprinklers.”
“Mmm,” hums a voice from behind me. “Like clockwork.”
I spin around. And behind me, where I was walking just seconds ago, there’s a girl lying on her back in the road.
She doesn’t notice me stumble back a step. Or if she notices, she doesn’t care. She stays sprawled on the ground, her eyes still closed.
I squint down at her. She’s even whiter than I am, if that’s possible—way too white to be sunbathing in the middle of the street. But she stretches out a bit farther, taking in more and more of the light. The pavement must be getting hot. She doesn’t seem too bothered.
“Um,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“What?” she says, eyes still closed. “Oh. Right. You know those times when you just can’t get warm?”
I try not to stare. That doesn’t work. “Not really.”
“Well.” She sits up, shaking her loose blonde curls. “All in good time.”
I get a better look at her face now: round, pretty. Probably my age. And still not looking at me.
Carefully, I ease my water bottle out of my backpack’s side pocket and take a few steps toward her. “Here.”
She opens her eyes, but she still doesn’t look at me. She takes in the water bottle instead. “No thank you,” she says.
“Come on,” I say. “Desert 101: hydrate. And, you know, watch out for snakes.”
Finally, she smiles. Crooked with a little squint, like that was unforgivably nerdy but she’ll allow it. It’s so similar to how Gaby would have looked at me that for a second I forget what we’re doing.
“Well,” the girl says, extending her hand. “How can I say no, then?”
I close the distance between us and hold it out to her. Our fingers brush as she takes the bottle.
And suddenly she’s looking right at me.
Her eyes widen a little. She looks me up and down. And then she says, “What brings you here?”
Without realizing it, I’ve taken a step back again. “Car trouble.”
“I see,” she says. “You walked all this way?” I make a small, affirmative noise in the back of my throat. “You’ll be going to Gibson Repairs from here. Theresa will take care of you. And I think you’ll be grateful for the quick turnaround.”
“Th-thank you,” I say. “Is that close to the broadcast tower?”
Her eyes narrow, just a fraction. “Same road. Eight blocks down Morningside Drive. Why?”
“Point of reference,” I say.
She nods at that. “I can walk you there, if you think you’ll get lost.”
“No, that’s fine,” I say quickly. “But thank you for the offer.”
I turn away and start walking, but behind me, I hear her climb to her feet, her heels clicking against the blacktop. “Would you like a reading, then? In exchange for the water.”
“What?” I turn, my feet still moving. She misspoke, maybe, or I misheard her. “Um, no. You can keep it.”
“You can’t get something for nothing,” she says. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”
“It’s really fine,” I say. “I don’t need anything.”
“I don’t mean to tell you your business, Rose,” she says. “But it looks like you need quite a lot.”
I stop dead. When I turn back, she’s looking at me with a mild, unassuming frown.
�
�Did I give you my name?” I say slowly.
She brushes past that. “What do you want to know?” she says. “Let’s see . . .” She hums and tilts her head to the side. “You want to know if it’s going to get worse, right?”
I lean hard on my back foot. Lately, when I hear something that doesn’t make sense, it means that I missed the context, that my mind’s been wandering. It’s not wandering now.
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so—”
“Or would you like to know what’s going to happen to Nick Lansbury?” she says. “He’s certainly on your mind, isn’t he?”
There’s a weight on the curve of my throat. Sudden. Heavy. Normal these days, whenever I hear that name. But it’s a name she couldn’t possibly know.
“Who are you?” It’s hard to speak, like there’s a wall in my lungs.
“Okay, okay, I get it.” She waves a hand. “Not everyone wants to get personal, I understand. Something else, then.”
“Where did you hear that name?” I want it to sound threatening. Instead I sound like I’m underwater. “What do you—”
“Just a moment now.” She looks me up and down, and her impassive face flickers with something too brief to see. The hot, dry breeze starts to build. And something decisive shifts behind her eyes.
“You will find a window that is not a window,” she says. “You will find a thing as old as the desert and twice as lonely. You will find exactly what you’re looking for.”
Behind me, something slams. A window shutter snapped open in the wind—it raps against the side of its house twice, then shivers to a halt. My eyes are off the girl for a second, maybe two.
But by the time I turn back, there is no girl. Just me. And when I listen for the click of her heels, all I hear are sprinklers.
I start walking. Carefully at first, conscious of every noise I make and every move in the corner of my eye. And then I tear through Lethe Ridge in a flat-out run. This time I don’t care whose lawn I’m on.
I don’t slow down, even when the spinning cul-de-sacs give way to a straighter, wider road, even when the identical houses start to thin and I can see glimpses of the small city beyond them. I barely stop to read the sign that marks the end of the Lethe Ridge housing development.
CITY LIMITS, it says. LOTUS VALLEY.
ENJOY YOUR STAY!
Three
THE ROAD
MORNINGSIDE DRIVE, AS far as I can see, runs the length of Lotus Valley. But it’s not much busier than the empty streets I left behind in Lethe Ridge.
But at least there are signs of life. There’s the odd car headed out to the desert. The Sweet as Pie Diner, from my glimpse through the windows, could actually be described as crowded. I walk past a row of abandoned stores papered from the roof to the dirt with fluttering, yellowed campaign signs, advertising MARGUERITE WILLIAMS: YOUR FRIEND, YOUR ADVOCATE, YOUR MAYOR!
I don’t see any for her opponent. There are a few older signs, reading WHAT DO YOU YEARN FOR? There’s a number at the bottom, but no name or company, just the symbol of a bird, and in little letters, COMMISSIONS OPEN.
I’m halfway through town before I encounter another person.
I force a smile as we approach each other. It’s usually a good way to trick my fight-or-flight reflex into shutting off. But then we lock eyes. And he’s the one who goes pale.
“God,” he says, and there’s something bone-tired in his voice. “Already?”
“Sorry?” I say. But he only shakes his head.
I pass seven more people on my way to Gibson Repairs. One young man in a business suit takes a look at me and runs in the direction he came. But for the most part, their reactions are similar to the first. Muted. Uneasy.
Most don’t try to speak to me. But there’s this ambient muttering in the air. “Should we call someone?” I hear a person hiss, and when I turn, I see a woman grab her companion’s arm and jerk her along. Farther down the road, someone steps forward, as if to say something, but they’re pulled aside by quick hands and a sharp whisper.
I walk faster.
The tower looms ahead, shimmering in the pavement’s heat. I look away from it to the painted sign of Gibson Repairs, coming up on the right. I need to focus. I need to have my car. Because whatever it is I’m going to do next, I need to be sure I have a way to get out.
I step to the edge of the garage. Someone was just here—one of the wrenches on the wall is gently swinging. But they’re not here now.
I decide to wait. And then I decide against that. Fear has a way of casting the world in a different light. Distortions, warped fun house mirrors of reality that make the world seem more dire and threatening than it actually is.
The unease in this town—there’s a better than average possibility that it’s all in my head. And I’ve decided on one rule, these past few months: don’t get lost in your own head.
“Excuse me?” I try to channel my mother’s phone voice. “Hello?”
Business doesn’t seem great for Theresa today—there’s no one here but me, no car except for the garage’s tow truck. The girl in Lethe Ridge said she was the best in town. Though that was the only thing she said that made sense, so maybe I should have checked Yelp.
It’s quiet enough that I can almost hear a click in my blood, the valves of adrenaline uncapping. I square my shoulders, drive my feet more firmly into the concrete, send every signal I can to my body that there’s nothing to be afraid of. Hypervigilance or not, I need my car back.
“Hello?” I say again. Then, quieter, “You wanna maybe put a bell out here or—”
“Gibson Repairs,” says a voice, right over my shoulder. “What can I do for you?”
I whirl around, and I find myself nose-to-nose with Theresa herself. She doesn’t look the slightest bit fazed. The only response I get is a level, flat stare—from one eye, at least. The other eye is strapped into a leathery black eye-patch.
“Um,” I manage. “I called for someone, but—”
Her eye widens a little with recognition, and she reaches into each ear and pops out a pair of earbuds. “Roadwork,” she says. She sets aside a small, battered CD player. “Hell on my migraines.”
She moves in a circle around me. Despite her combat boots, laced all the way up to the knee, her footsteps are barely audible. “Who are you?”
“Nobody.” It comes out before I can blink.
Theresa doesn’t miss a beat, either. “Well, then. What brings you here, Ms. Nobody?”
Something in the way she says it makes me hesitate. It’s not the same uneasiness I’ve sensed from those people I passed in the street. It’s closer to curiosity.
“My . . . car broke down a couple of miles from the 15,” I finally say. “Near the state line. I was hoping I could get it towed here.”
“Near the state line?” She hums, impressed. “Which side?”
“California,” I say.
“Your feet must be pretty tired, then,” she says. “You’re in Nevada.”
I almost laugh. The idea was to get out of Nevada. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I don’t have AAA or anything, and was told you were the person to see—”
“You remember which exit?” she says. “You could show me, if we went there?”
“I . . .” Slowly, I nod. “Yeah?”
“Then it’s not a lot to ask.” She jerks her head toward the tow truck parked to the side. “Let’s go.”
I go to take a breath as I follow her to the looming, rusted-red pickup. It stops somewhere past my throat.
I swallow, like that’ll push my insides back into place. “Weird question, but . . . I don’t suppose you’d let me drive?”
“You suppose right.” Theresa laughs. “There a problem, Ms. Nobody?”
“No, no problem.” Two minutes into the conversation, and that’s the first
lie I’ve had to tell. That’s pretty good these days. “I don’t like being a passenger, that’s all.”
“You and me both, sister,” she says, swinging my door open like it’s a chariot. It creaks and shudders before it stills. Waiting.
I can feel the sticky-warm breeze from the garage door behind me, and the soles of my feet itch to run through it. But if I want an escape route, this is the way to get it.
I let my backpack slide to my feet as Theresa swings herself into the driver’s seat next to me. “Just curious, though,” she says as she starts the truck. “Who told you I was the person to see?”
I swallow hard, blink harder, try to breathe past the lump in my chest. Somehow I manage words. They even sound calm. “I didn’t catch her name. My age, blonde?”
“Ohh,” Theresa says, with dry recognition. “What an honor.”
I watch the road, at first. It doesn’t help. I try to channel the buzz under my skin anywhere else: I tap a beat against the door with my fingers, and when that’s too noticeable, I jiggle my foot instead. I’ve hated the passenger’s seat since I was fifteen, when I got my learner’s permit and realized how many things could go wrong. Even under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t like this. But my circumstances haven’t been normal for a while now.
I fish out my phone. If I’m going to spend this ride in a haze of nerves, I might as well get this part over with, too.
New message to: Mom.
hey, sorry I missed you last night. gonna stay with Flora till new year’s—is that okay?
That one wasn’t too bad. But now for the tricky part.
New message to: Flora Summer.
sorry I missed your call, I type with shaking fingers, phone was off. I think I’m actually going to stay home for new year’s. sorry this was last minute—parents wanted me here.
There. Easy. My heart’s pounding so hard I might throw up, but when isn’t it?
Then my phone shivers in my hand. Someone’s texting me back.
New message from: Mom.
The Valley and the Flood Page 2