The Girl from Widow Hills - Megan Miranda Page 0,114

her, what would she do?

Would she hurt her daughter for her own gain? I had no doubt. She had done it before. She would hurt anyone.

“You’re horrible,” I said, the word scratching against my throat.

I heard them before I saw them, the faint blare of the sirens. My mother turned to the window, frowning. “What did you do?” she asked. The lights fractured through the glass. Her hand went to her back pocket, where she’d kept my phone.

“I called 911,” I said.

She closed her eyes. “Okay, okay.” Hands out, like she was thinking up a story even then. A way to spin this, to come out on top. She stepped closer. “You’re on something, honey,” she said, like she’d arrived just in time to help me. “It’s making you not yourself.”

“I’m not, though,” I said. “I didn’t drink it.”

She was so close, I felt the four walls closing in, with no way out. She grabbed me around the arm, like she was incredibly angry but wasn’t sure what to do.

“This is what we’re going to do,” she said. And up close, I could see the cold calculation in her eyes. Tallying her own way out. I knew, of course, there was only one.

How many steps she had taken to this point. How many options remained.

I was doing the same.

The sirens were getting louder, more insistent, and in that moment, I felt it: the cold and the dark, reaching out for the cinder-block walls. Pushing back against something that was no longer there. I pushed her off me. I pushed her back with everything I had, watched her fall through the fragile window, glass shattering, glass everywhere.

She collapsed onto the decorative balcony, which was not built to hold any weight. I thought it might fall, might crumble to the earth right then. But it didn’t. A scattering of glass and blood, and her, unbalanced, pushing to her feet again.

The sirens upon us now, the red and blue lights in sight, catching on a shard of glass in her hand as she stood upright. I stepped closer, and she said, “Arden,” and I did not care to hear. I did not care to hear a single thing she said, ever again. She would’ve killed me. Still might.

The steps behind me; the window in front of me. The night air billowed in, cold, freeing. Letting me know I was no longer trapped. That there was a way out.

I focused on the glass in her hand, on what I had to do to escape her. Before she could stand, before she could lunge with the glass: one more push, and the decorative balcony rail gave way. Her eyes met mine for a fraction of a second—her hand grasping for me as I stumbled backward—and then she was gone.

The first car pulled into the drive, lighting up the night. There was glass everywhere, up here and down below. Glass and blood and my mother, at the center.

THEY TOOK THE BOTTLE of wine.

They took what was left of the fragments of the mug, sticky from the hot chocolate.

And soon enough, they took my mother—on a stretcher, under a sheet. I didn’t know whether it was the multiple lacerations or the impact. But it didn’t matter. I’d already come to terms with her death.

I watched with an odd detachment from that broken upstairs window.

“You shouldn’t be up here. There’s still glass.” Detective Rigby stood behind me, peering out into the darkness. I should move. Out of this enclosed space, into the open air. But I didn’t feel trapped right then.

“I’ve survived worse,” I said. The truth: I’d survived her. Twenty years earlier, my entire life had been an escape from her control and the stories she told—until they became all I had ever been.

“You sure you’re feeling okay?”

She knew about the drugs, about the pills. But I wasn’t sure what she was asking. I waved her off, then turned over my hands, showed her the small cuts coating my palms. “I can’t even feel this,” I said.

The detective nodded slowly. “We’ll be sure to get those checked out downstairs, yeah?” Then she held up my phone. “By the way, this was on her,” she said. “But I recognized it. I think it’s yours.”

“Yes,” I said, reaching for it. “She took it from me.”

Detective Rigby didn’t quite release her grip. “Good thing you were able to get a call for help out first.”

“I remembered,” I said, “how long it takes you to make it out here. I called as soon as I heard someone outside my house.”

“That was smart,” she said, her face giving away nothing. “You didn’t know it was her?”

“I thought she was dead,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

She spent a few seconds staring at me before releasing her hold on the phone, severing the connection between us.

She stood beside me, watching the ambulance drive away, lights off.

For a brief moment, I thought about telling her the truth. Saying it for once—that Nathan was right, that the story was not at all what it seemed. That my mother had always been willing to gamble my life. That she’d hurt me once and tried to cover it up, and she would easily do it again.

But that knowledge belonged just to me.

Detective Rigby stepped a little closer to the window so she could peer over the edge. She whistled through her teeth. “Scary scene,” she said. “You could’ve fallen. You’re very lucky.”

“I had to do it,” I said. I was trapped. Four walls and no way out.

“I know you did. I heard your 911 call,” she said. Then she turned to face me. “You could tell quite a story here. About all of this.”

“No, thanks.” Nathan had been arrested for what he had done—I’d fight to keep him in jail, or I’d get a restraining order. Without Sean Coleman, without my mother, I was the only living witness to what had really happened twenty years ago. The story could be only mine, and I wouldn’t give it away this time.

What I said in the next few days about the events surrounding tonight would be the last I ever spoke of it, if I had my way.

You become the stories you tell—I’d learned that much from my mother.

The truest type of story is the kind you tell all alone, to yourself.

TRANSCRIPT OF 911 CALL FOR SERVICE

DATE: AUGUST 28, 2020

TIME STAMP: 9:19 P.M.

DISPATCH: 911, what’s your emergency?

CALLER, UNKNOWN FEMALE: Someone’s in my house.

D: Ma’am, what’s your exact address?

C: 23 Old Heart Lane in Central Valley. Please help.

D: Can you get out of the house?

C: No, I’m trapped. I’m hiding. The footsteps are getting closer.

D: Okay, I’m sending help your way now. Look around you for windows or doors. They might not know you’re home. You need to get out.

C: She knows I’m here. There’s no way out.

CALL DISCONNECTED.

TIME STAMP: 9:20 P.M.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

THANK YOU TO EVERYONE who helped see this book through, from idea to publication.

My agent, Sarah Davies, for all the guidance and support on each and every project.

My editor, Marysue Rucci, for the brilliant insight, feedback, and support from initial idea to final draft. And the entire team at Simon & Schuster, including Richard Rhorer, Jonathan Karp, Zack Knoll, Amanda Lang, Elizabeth Breeden, Hana Park, Marie Florio, and so many others who had a hand in bringing this book into the world. It’s such a joy working with you all!

I’m very grateful to Dr. Pam Hoyt and Detective Sergeant Lee Ann Oehler for taking the time to answer my many hypothetical questions and for providing extra insight.

Thank you to my critique partners, Megan Shepherd, Ashley Elston, and Elle Cosimano, for the check-ins, the brainstorming sessions, and the feedback on early drafts. And to Megan S., Beth Revis, Carrie Ryan, and Gwenda Bond, who listened to me talk about this idea in its earliest stages, helped brainstorm ideas, and encouraged me to write this story. I’m so grateful to all of you for the friendship and support.

Lastly, thank you, as always, to my family.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MEGAN MIRANDA is the New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls, The Perfect Stranger, and The Last House Guest, a Reese’s Book Club pick. She has also written several books for young adults, including Come Find Me, Fragments of the Lost, and The Safest Lies. She grew up in New Jersey, graduated from MIT, and lives in North Carolina with her husband and two children. Follow @MeganLMiranda on Twitter and Instagram, or visit MeganMiranda.com.