The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

how that message was playing,” I say. “Do you think one of your neighbors had anything to do with it?”

“Don’t know,” Cassie says. “But we could figure it out, if you work with me.”

I already regret this. But. “Then I guess I’m working with you.”

Her smile goes a little crooked again, like it did when I offered her the water this morning. “Don’t sound too excited.”

And then, weirdly enough, I laugh. “It’s not you, exactly. It’s—I have post-traumatic stress disorder. There’s not a whole lot that I trust right now.”

Wow. I said it. I said it like it was easy. It’s not until the seconds after that it feels like I’ve thrown a Molotov cocktail into the conversation.

Cassie doesn’t react like I did, though. She inclines her head in a half nod. “Then I’ll do my best to be trustworthy,” she says. “If that’s enough.”

“Yeah,” I manage as my heart starts to slow. “That’s plenty.”

I cheated, though. I told her one truth to avoid another. I need to see that station. And then, if I can, I am getting out of this town.

“Anyway,” Cassie says, breezing on, “that was Alex texting. The sheriff’s going to be back very late. She says you should get a full night’s sleep and see her tomorrow morning.”

It doesn’t occur to me until just then that I could really use that. I smother a yawn.

“I’m sorry to drag her back from her trip,” I say, if only because it seems polite.

“Oh, don’t be.” Cassie smiles thinly. “She was looking for you. She goes out there every year, every day from Christmas to New Year’s. Trying to find you before you find us.”

Catching the look on my face, she shrugs. “On the bright side, she doesn’t have to look anymore. Come on. I’ll show you where you’re staying.”

“I passed the motel on my way here,” I say, gathering up my things from the steps.

“Oh, you won’t be in the motel.” Cassie gently dislodges the backpack from my shoulder and slides it over her own. At the look on my face, her own darkens. “Trust me. You’re not going to want to stay in town. And if at all possible, try not to talk to anyone without Sheriff Jones or me there, okay? You never know where someone stands.”

She’d said something like that to those men in the diner, too. And if I really have brought something terrible, where they stand makes complete sense.

It’s where Cassie stands that I don’t get.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “It’s a little unorthodox, but you’ll have a lot of space. Now—”

She doesn’t finish. Her head moves a little to the left, and her eyes widen, as if catching something over my shoulder. Taking my hand, she tugs me around a corner and into a little walkway between two buildings.

My head whips back to the road, at whatever it was she saw. The red town car squealing up to a halt along the diner’s back parking lot doesn’t look like cause for concern. But until we hear the door open, close, and the click of heeled footsteps up the diner’s stairs, Cassie’s completely still.

“We’ll take the back way.” She still sounds cheerful, if much, much quieter now. “Come on.”

“What was that?” I hiss.

“Don’t worry about it,” Cassie says. That could refer to any of the four or five worrisome things that just happened, but. Sure.

Cassie’s back stays turned as I follow her—she doesn’t try any further conversation. And without her laser focus on me, I can think.

Three days until this town will, supposedly, cease to exist. And I’m not sure Theresa would consider that a good reason for a rush job on my car. I walked to the highway once, I guess I could do it again—see if I could flag someone down. My phone is in my pocket, still about 30 percent charged. But calling my mother, explaining to her why I’m here, would be a bell I couldn’t unring. That’s the nuclear option.

But I’ll worry about that when I get there. The station comes first. That message comes first.

Whether Cassie can see the future or not, one thing is true either way. New Year’s Day will be one year to the day since Gaby ceased to exist, too.

And Cassie has no way of knowing that.

—

NOTE TO SELF: If someone tells you that you’re going to stay somewhere “unorthodox,” ask, no matter how distracted you are. Because if you don’t, you’re going to spend the night in a strong contender for Creepiest Place in Town.

Cassie was right, though. I definitely have space. The model house in the Lethe Ridge housing development is bigger than anything I’ll ever own. Bigger than anything I’ll ever rent, probably. If I get into Stanford, I’ll be paying off student loans until I die.

I push the door shut behind me, and it glides back into the door jamb with the lightest click. A dark, symmetrical room sprawls out ahead of me, all reds and oranges and angular shadows.

I hit the lights. The shadows retreat through the polished floorboards. But aside from that, not much changes.

I move quickly and quietly, flicking every switch from the cheery yellow kitchen to the wood-paneled home office, opening door after door. With every switch flipped, I look over my shoulder again. Sutton Avenue’s not there. Or it hasn’t caught up to me yet.

The deepest breath I can take keeps inching farther and farther up my throat. Which is funny, because I didn’t think I was afraid of the dark. But it’s hard to keep track of all the things I’m afraid of now. I’m going to have to start a list.

From the end of the hallway, I have a good view of every room. So I slow down, and I take a look.

I survey the bedrooms: one with a kid-size bed and light-up crayons on the walls, and one with the same blue-striped sheets that all my rich friends seem to have in their guest rooms. But if I’m going to