The Follower by Kate Doughty (ebook reader with built in dictionary TXT) 📕

of forced cheerfulness that Cecily knows all too well. “It’s your mom. I’ll let you two have a minute.”

Monica leaves, and Mrs. Cole rushes in with a wave of motherly affection. “How are you? Is everything okay? Oh, honey, you look great, it’s great to see you this awake—Rudy and Amber are coming first thing in the morning, of course, but I wanted to just drop by and say good night.”

It’s all Cecily can do not to cry as Mom leans in for a hug. She smells like lavender laundry detergent, and Cecily breathes in the scent, as if it could protect her from the sterile medical scent of the hospital. She answers Mom’s questions as best as she can: Yes, the food is fine. Of course I miss you. No, I haven’t seen Amber’s new posts.

At her last comment, Mom sits up. “We needed the sponsors, sweetheart—I hope you’re not mad, and it won’t be long until you’re posting, too!”

Cecily forces a smile. “Of course I’m not mad,” she says. But how could her mom say that? That it won’t be long until she’s posting, too, as if things could ever be the same? She tries to calm herself, but as soon as she starts thinking about life outside the hospital, everything spirals. And it isn’t the thought about her destroyed career that makes her break down in her mother’s arms as much as it is all the small things—like how people will stare at her in coffee shops, how she will never get used to the look of pity from the nursing staff, about how she doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to touch makeup again.

Before she can stop it, a sob lurches out of her throat.

Instantly, she’s enveloped in another Mom hug. “It’s all right,” her mom assures her. “Cecily, listen to me—it’s going to be all right. You have your sight, and we are so, so grateful for that.” Cecily can’t stop sobbing. She feels something wet in her hair and realizes that her mom is crying, too. “You are surrounded by people who love you—and that will love you no matter what, you understand? We’re putting you in therapy, and—I know it doesn’t seem this way right now, but—but things can be okay again.”

Cecily nods into her mother’s shoulder and tries to stop her sobs. “Thanks, Mom,” she says, mustering a smile.

When she finally pulls back, Mrs. Cole wipes away the smallest tear from her perfectly made-up face. “Of course,” she says.

“Have you . . . found anything?” Cecily asks. “About . . . how it happened?”

She watches as her mother’s face scrunches. “Sweetheart, I don’t want you to worry about that right now,” she says.

“So, no.” Cecily says. She can see her mother weighing what to tell her.

“The . . . the police confirmed that the makeup remover was tampered with,” Mrs. Cole finally says. “We’ve reached out to the manufacturer, and there’s a chance that it could still be factory error.” Cecily doesn’t have it in her to argue with her mom, but she’s not sure if she believes that. She’s had that product forever, and for it to hurt her only now?

So she lets it go, and the conversation dissolves into renovation updates and small talk. When her mom finally leaves, promising to return with the rest of the family first thing in the morning, it’s late enough for Cecily to be exhausted.

But as she closes her eyes to try and sleep, it all comes back to her: the shock, the pain. The terrible, intense pain, And then, the shadow at the edge of her vision. A dark blur at eye level, down the stairs. As if someone was peering around the corner and up into the turret to watch the show that was about to unfold.

So she gives up on sleep. Instead, she sits in her darkened hospital room, leafing through social media, scrolling past pictures of the cursed renovation, pausing on the photos from before. Where she was beautiful, air-brushed, pristine, perfect. Now their feed is full of Amber. Amber, sporting beautiful lip gloss. Amber, with daring makeup looks and bright nails and hashtags like #NotYourBeautyStandard.

Cecily knows the sight of her gorgeous sister should make her jealous, mad, or even resentful—but she feels none of this. All she feels is a blank, heavy grief. For a brief, shining period, she had been so close to perfect. So fucking close.

She can’t stop herself from imagining someone opening her bag, unscrewing the cap, messing with her things. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing, someone who was trying to blind her. Her mind reels but she can’t cast the thoughts away. She tosses and turns all night, and when she finally does fall asleep, it’s only to dream about Rudy’s panicked gasps as the makeup burned her skin.

She wakes just in time for visiting hours. Her parents wash over her in a wave of small talk—How’s the food? You feeling okay? Are any of the nurses nice?—and Cecily is relieved when they finally walk off to talk to the doctor, leaving her alone with her siblings.

Rudy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small pill bottle. “We think we found something.” He hands over the bottle. “I unearthed it from the toilet tank during the renovation. When I googled the Glenarm name, the Grables came up.”

“Really?” Cecily asks.

Rudy nods and hands over his phone. “Here’s the obituary. The expiration date on the pills is ninety-seven—right around the time of the Grable murder, so he had to be living there at the same time. Our theory is that, if Frank needed in-home care like the obit says, the Grables could have been doing it. And Bonnie Grable-Glenarm—BG—matches the initials of the mural artist.”

Cecily takes in the obit: Frank Glenarm, his wife, the car crash, their remaining daughter and family in Norton.

Rudy must take her silence as disbelief, because he keeps talking. “We think it all has to be connected,” he says. “The follower’s been using Alex’s