Her First Mistake by Carey Baldwin (books for 10th graders txt) 📕

hard—whether from anger or fear she wasn’t sure, but she needed to take a minute to compose herself before getting back on the road. Looking for her gas card, she rifled through her console and came up with a handful of receipts. One was sticky and left her fingers smelling like maple. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, think pleasant thoughts, think about anything except that jerk, Hudson.

Her breathing began to slow, and then, without warning, an image flashed into her mind. She was standing in Sugar Tooth—that all-night doughnut shop on Celeste’s street. A young woman, her pink hair pulled into a ponytail, was slipping a maple-iced long john into a bag.

The big, digital clock on the wall was flashing 2:30 a.m.

Mia opened her eyes and grabbed the receipt. Frantically, she scanned it for a date, praying it was from yesterday. But she knew it wouldn’t be. After she’d visited Angelica at Celeste’s place, she had gone to the doughnut shop, but she’d taken the bag of doughnuts, with the receipt tucked inside, home to Aunt Misty. It was hard to focus her eyes, but finally, she located the date, smudged but still legible, on the bottom of the receipt.

This is a coincidence—nothing more.

Still, a cold, clammy feeling crawled up her back. The night Celeste disappeared, Mia was at that doughnut shop just down the block from Celeste’s house. She must’ve driven there in an altered state, while she was sleepwalking, because, other than that clock blinking on the wall, she couldn’t remember a damn thing about it.

Just like she barely remembered the shed.

Post-traumatic amnesia was what Dr. Baquero called that.

She heard her breath rasping, felt her chest tightening.

What had really happened the night Celeste went missing? Had Mia gone back, gotten into some kind of altercation with her? Was her mind protecting her from something too terrible to bear?

Is that why she remembered only flashes?

No.

She might’ve been near Celeste’s house that night, but she didn’t have a scratch on her. If she’d gotten into some kind of fight there would’ve been evidence of it: a cut, a bruise, a scraped fist.

And memory loss was a side-effect of that damn sleeping pill. There was even a warning on the package insert. These thoughts she was having were irrational, and she wasn’t going to give them space in her brain.

Paul Hudson was following her—he’d practically threatened her. She had enough real problems to deal with.

She didn’t need to invent any more.

Twenty-Two

Wednesday

The steep descent into the bowels of Torrey Pines State Reserve sent shock waves up Mia’s legs and jabbed needles into her knees each time a boot pounded a rocky step. Parry Grove Trail’s 118 stone stairs deterred many a hiker, even on a sunny Sunday morning, so on this dreary, overcast, late Wednesday afternoon, Mia knew she’d find what she sought.

Solitude.

Evidence of nature’s brute strength—and beauty—surrounded her as she wound her way through sage scrub and sandstone bluffs. Mangled by wind and time, the sculpted cliffs resembled pleated washboards. Ahead, the bare arms of a Torrey pine stretched out, their ends hooking like skeleton fingers, near an overlook where a weathered bench awaited.

From that bench, a favorite spot of Celeste’s, Mia peered out across the Pacific, watching the waves crash against the cliffs and wondering what it would be like to fly—to fall, while the clouds thickened, hiding the sun.

After a few minutes of contemplation, she slung her pack off her shoulders and dug for the trowel and paper bag she’d stowed. Opening the sack, she peeked inside. Wrong bag. It contained the ham sandwich she hadn’t eaten at lunch.

She removed her jacket, thrust her arm deeper into her pack and grasped a second paper bag—the one with Celeste’s keyring inside.

As she tapped the rubber handle of her trowel on the bench, her resolve steeled.

Where were her gloves?

Once located, she put them on, shouldered her pack, scurried off the trail and took cover behind a massive clump of scrubs.

Her appetite had been missing in action since the night Celeste disappeared, but this evening’s hike and a job well done—she’d successfully buried the brown bag containing Celeste’s keyring—had resurrected Mia’s hunger.

She waited impatiently while a group of hikers and one straggler made their way past the overlook, and then emerged from the bushes to reclaim the overlook bench. There she choked down her dry ham sandwich, took out a tall steel tumbler filled with cold water and drank it in one go.

Her thirst quenched, she set the empty tumbler beside her.

Everyone was looking for Celeste.

If Mia went missing, how long would it take for anyone to notice?

And once they did, would they organize meetings in the park, door knocks and ground searches?

Or would they do what they’d done for her mother?

Nothing.

She pulled a manila envelope from her pack and scanned a yellowed newspaper clipping.

CALIFORNIA MOTHER ABANDONS CHILD IN SHED

San Diego County Sheriff’s department spokesman says Mia Thornton, age six, was found unconscious in the woods last Saturday. She apparently tunneled her way out of a nearby storage shed where empty cans, a toddler toilet, and an animal water feeder were found. The girl was air-evacuated to a local hospital and released two days later, in stable condition, into the custody of her aunt. The whereabouts of the mother, Emily Thornton, age twenty-six, medium build, blond hair and brown eyes, are unknown. If anyone has any information regarding Emily Thornton, please contact the San Diego County Sheriff’s office.

A grainy photo of her mother was included in the article.

There was nothing more.

Mia carefully folded her mother’s clipping. Next, she inspected around a dozen articles, just a small sampling from front pages of various newspapers since Celeste had gone missing twelve days ago.

According to the stories, FBI agents were reviewing Celeste’s case, looking to connect it to the disappearance of women in Arizona and Colorado given the geographic and temporal proximities and similar age and background of the women. Speculation about a serial killer in the southwestern