The Silent Girl: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller full of suspense, page 15
“She’s told me.” He answers without hesitating.
“It’s quite the coincidence,” she answers. I’m the one hiding something, now—that I saw him that day at the police station. That I made my way out here, even if I didn’t really mean to.
“If you have her living here, you must think she’s trustworthy,” Selena continues. “But your judgment of character has hardly been a great reference in the past.”
Nathaniel flinches as though she’s struck him. For a moment, they’re both silent.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“Don’t be.” His expression is distant. “You’re not wrong.” Watching with more than a little curiosity, I’m grateful when Lincoln interrupts.
“Sophie, see my dog? Her name is Roxy.”
“I see,” I answer. “She’s lovely.” He scoops up the puppy and I can’t help but adore her, stroking the silky forehead and fine little ears. “Mom,” Lincoln says, “did you meet Sophie?”
“He’s been talking about you nonstop,” Selena murmurs. “But Nathaniel, you didn’t even tell me you’d hired someone.”
“Well, I—” He clears his throat. “It never came up.”
“I’m glad it’s out in the open now,” she says, though she doesn’t sound pleased. “And Sophie, I know where to find you, should anything come up.” For a moment, she lets the silence settle, and I’m struck with how beautiful she is. She might have stepped out of a magazine. Next to her, I look like a farmhand, freckles and scratches from working outdoors, dirt under my fingernails.
“Have you—” I want to ask her if she’s found anything.
“Nothing.” She shakes her head. She raises an eyebrow, looks at Nathaniel, then at me. “Be careful,” she demands, and I’m not sure which one of us she’s speaking to. I’m still wondering what she means, exactly, when Lincoln runs off after the puppy.
“Come on, Sophie!” Lincoln shouts, tearing off across the yard as he follows the puppy.
“Go on—he wants you to play with him,” she observes, as though granting me her permission to be here, then raises her voice. “Lincoln, sweetie, five more minutes.”
I catch up to Lincoln and Roxy as he throws the tennis ball for her. The puppy hasn’t quite got the concept of fetch yet and I run to retrieve the ball, then toss it back to Lincoln with an easy, gentle throw. But Roxy’s taken off now in her own direction, exploring for the joy of it, it seems. She runs across the yard, her nose in the flowers, tunneling through a bed of gladioli that rustle around her, a bit indignant.
“Come on, Roxy,” Lincoln calls. “Time to go. She doesn’t know her name yet,” he says, as if apologizing to me, then runs after her. He’s running further than I expected and I look back toward Nathaniel, half hoping he’ll call Lincoln back or catch up with us. He’s leaning against a tree, arms crossed, his eyes downcast. Selena’s a few yards away from him, watching me with her hands in her pockets, but the distance between them may as well be miles.
“Hey, Lincoln, slow down a little,” I call. “She’ll stop running if you stop chasing her. She’s playing with you.”
But he’s not listening to me, laughing as he follows the dog through the circular garden toward the footbridge. “Slow down,” I warn. “Do not run up there.”
He does, though, because he’s a little kid following his brand-new puppy. I remember Lincoln assuring me that he never falls. The dog skids to a halt and leaps around his knees, and he claps and calls her a good puppy, slowing down so fast that he stumbles. I see it in slow motion: the little boy’s shoulders going sideways, the weight of his body following, a hand grasping for and just missing the railing, the gaps between the temporary railings too wide. In a painstaking half-twirl, his weight shifts, one foot stuck at the ankle, then twisting loose, and he falls, calling for his dad. I remember him telling me he can’t swim. Lincoln goes straight down, bobs back up, just his mouth and nose at the surface, and I can see the water move without breaking where his arms flail. There’s no noise, no scream, no splash.
Twenty-Eight
I run after him, up onto the bridge, and jump over the side. In the moment before I slip into the water, I draw a breath and hold it. The murky water is sour in my nostrils. I sense motion, get my bearing, and zip down to grab Lincoln. He’s panicking, reaching for me with a frantic energy that will pull us both down, so I wrap an arm around him, bracing it around his torso before I kick upward. He’s a blur of motion that’s only tugging him down faster, but luckily for both of us, he doesn’t weigh that much, and I pull him upward and over, toward the shore. I’m in constant motion, my body taking over, and yet I wonder whether, while I’m down here, if I stayed to look, would I find anything else? Something left behind? As I’m pulling us back toward the air, I realize part of me has wanted to look deeper into this water since the first time I laid eyes on it.
I lift Lincoln up so that he surfaces before I do, then turn my chin to face him, attempting to hold him still. “Easy,” I say, my voice short and clear, kicking my feet and keeping us afloat with one arm. This is an order, one I know he can’t obey, but I say it anyway, holding him tight as I kick toward shore. It feels like forever, but it’s not more than three or four yards, and finally, I feel the sludge of the ground beneath the toes of my shoes. I push aside a few water lilies, as the green-brown muck from the shallow edge clings to the legs of my jeans. This is the sort of murky pond you’d expect a corpse to walk out of on a dark night, and I suspect that’s probably how I look. Nonetheless, I breathe in deeply and look at the boy in my arms with relief. I take a few squishing steps up to dry land and set him on the bank, then sit on my knees, so we’re eye level. He’s coughing, spluttering. That’s good. I know drowning can be quiet.
I pat his back, hard. “You’re okay.” I say it like it’s a fact, and it is. “Everything is fine.”
Lincoln’s arms move just as fast, but this time he’s wiping the water and pond weed from his face and hair, blinking. He leans forward, and for a moment, I’m afraid he’s unconscious. Then I feel his little arms hugging me, hacking again, loudly.
“Thanks.” His voice is hoarse. I rest a hand on his shoulder, then stand up. “Sophie, where’s my dog?”
Shit. I glance at the water. It’s young, but a Labrador, right? It should be able to hold its own. The surface is still; there’s no sign of the dog.
We hear a yelp and look up. Roxy is panting, looking with apprehension over the side of the bridge. I try to stifle a laugh. “She’s right there, Lincoln. She’s fine, too.”
“Can you stand up?” I ask, helping him to his feet. Water squelches in both our shoes as we walk up the incline. He trips in the grass and I lift him up. As we walk up the bank, I see Nathaniel standing just at the water’s edge, Selena just behind him. He’s gone pale, and there’s a wide-eyed, stark fear in his eyes I’ve never seen the likes of before.
“I don’t know what happened,” I stammer. “He was so fast. I tried to catch up before he went up the bridge, but—”
“Sweetheart,” Selena says, almost crying. “Lincoln, you—” I can see that she wants to reprimand him, that it’s her fear speaking.
“What, Mom?”
She shakes her head and smiles weakly. “Sweetheart, you just run so fast.”
“Hey, Dad,” Lincoln bleats. “Did you see that?”
Nathaniel is tight-lipped, silent. Selena doesn’t appear to have noticed him, not even now that Lincoln calls to him. I can see his chest rise and fall with his breath. But I see his face soften as he realizes he’s okay. I think I see the life come back into him when he begins to move: patting Lincoln’s back, pressing water out of his hair. The dog joins us, yapping at Selena’s ankles until she picks it up.
“Did I see it,” he echoes, attempting a laugh that sounds hollow, weak. “Yeah. From way too far away. I’m so sorry, buddy,” he says. “That was all my fault.”
“No, I mean, did you see Sophie?” Lincoln says, excited now. He wiggles free of me and jumps to the ground, shoes squishing as he walks. “I want her to teach me how to swim. She was so fast! That was way cool.”
“Yes, Lincoln,” he says, a ghost of a smile finally crossing his lips. He raises his eyes to mine. “That was way cool.”
“We should get going,” Selena murmurs, still stunned. “Nathaniel, can you help him get some dry clothes on?”
“Yeah, of course. Come on, Linc.” They walk away toward the house and I’m left standing alone with Selena again. She studies me openly. I wring water from my hair with both hands, wiping bits of leaves and mulch from my shirt, then realize I’m not wearing a bra, and hastily cross my arms.
“I didn’t think he’d run onto the bridge,” I say. “I caught up as fast as I could. I’m so sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault,” she says. “I’m grateful to you.”
“No need.”
“That was quick thinking,” she said. “And you acted quickly, too. Drowning can happen fast. Thank you.”
“I’d better go clean up,” I answer, starting to move away from her. The truth is, I’m not very sure about Selena’s or Nathaniel’s intentions right now. Lincoln and the puppy are the only two I’m sure I trust here; I didn’t jump into the water to help either of his parents.
“Listen.” She’s studying me again. “Before you go—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t let yourself forget: this is a temporary job. You’re here until you find out where you really live.” She’s speaking to me, but she’s glancing in Nathaniel’s direction, as if she’d like to say something else, but can’t find the words.
“There’s nothing I want more than to find my brother,” I answer. Her suspicion might not be unfounded, I can admit that, but it’s exhausting even so. I’m hardly in the mood to be questioned any longer with water and pond muck dripping from my hair and clothes. “It was nice to see you.”
“Goodbye, Sophie.”
I let myself into the apartment and close the door. Out the window, I see Nathaniel walking with Lincoln, now in some dry clothes but with his hair still damp. He gives him a high five and then a big hug, a kiss on the cheek. Even from here, I can see that he’s still jumpy, moving as if numb. Selena nods as she says something to him; she doesn’t touch him before she gets in the car. He waves at the car. The sun lights up his dark hair, the ripple of muscles in his arm. I turn from the window in an instant. Selena’s vague warning now makes sense. She was warning me to stay away from him. Whatever is broken between them isn’t my business. I tell myself that I’m alone here, just as I was in the woods where they found me. I have no foothold, no place to ask him not to drop everything when she appears; my presence, aside from hired help, is nothing more than a disruption.
Upstairs, I undress and shower, scrubbing myself all over, trying to wash the pond off. As the hot water hits my skin, I remember the feeling of the pond water around me, the cold, the sensation of jumping in. I can recall, now, the weekly swim lessons that I attended through school. How my focus turned to studying, while Miles grew harder to find, his visits more occasional. Any number of bad things could have happened to him in the time we’ve been apart. What if he met someone in prison who hurt him? What if he’s in trouble again for something that wasn’t his fault? I dry my hair and comb through it with my fingertips and find a clean camisole and a pair of shorts. As I’m getting dressed, I turn an unforgiving glance at the mirror. All the marks are still there. I shouldn’t let the passage of time numb me, fool me into pretending that there’s any story other than the truth. I’m reminded of the painting in the parlor, Ophelia or some other drowned woman. I turn away from my reflection, mouthing the words: You do not belong here.
I pick up my drawing book and pencils, flipping over the pages as I walk down the stairs. Poppies, a symbol I still don’t know the meaning of. Sketches of doves, of Zenaida, then poppies again. On one page, an idle sketch of Nathaniel and Lincoln. Then, several pages of Miles. What Sophie Knows, I think. Plainly not enough. I find I can’t sit at the desk now I know what was in the note Zenaida left here. I leave in your care… I’m sorry, I think. I don’t want your century’s worth of sorrow, any more than you did. I carry the sketchbook and pencils outside to draw a bit and let my hair dry in the sun. The energy inside feels too close, almost as though I’m not alone.
But I’m not alone. Nathaniel’s sitting out there, with his elbows propped on his knees, his forehead leaning on one hand. All my thoughts of self-preservation vanish as I sit down next to him.
Twenty-Nine
Nathaniel doesn’t speak, so I wait a few moments. “It was my fault,” he says, finally.
Lincoln’s a fast little boy and it wasn’t my fault that he fell. I know that. But it would be better if it were my fault than for Nathaniel to feel this way; I could forgive myself for a mistake. “I saw him running that way and I didn’t catch up fast enough.”
Nathaniel shakes his head. “I was so far away.” He speaks in a low, breathy voice, mumbling through his hands. “I knew I needed to move, and I couldn’t.”
“You did move,” I say. “You were there by the time I got him out of the water.”
“I didn’t know you could swim.” Now, he turns to focus on me.
“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure either,” I say, moving past it. “It’s nothing, really. Lincoln is fine, okay?” He knows that, though, and I see that there’s more at work here. I hesitate, then let myself reach over to rest a hand on the back of his neck, sweeping softly over his shoulder blades. “Your boy’s fine,” I repeat, letting my voice drop low and soft, resisting the inclination to slip my hand under the collar of his shirt. With an honest curiosity, I lean over to look into his eyes. “Hey, look at me. What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Are you okay?” I ask. He nods his head, too quickly, and I watch him waiting for his real answer.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, talking through his teeth. My palm comes to rest just beneath his shoulder blades, and suddenly I feel him flinch, drawing slightly away from me.
I pull my hand back, closing it into a fist, as if I could keep something of him, though I know I can’t.
“Can I say something?” When I speak, he turns to face me. “I don’t know you—I know that. But there’s something that’s plain to me, as an—” I pause and choose my next words carefully. They ring hollow. “As an objective observer.”
“What’s that?”
“You, and Selena? It’s out of balance. Something isn’t fair. Whatever this is—” I try to indicate this weight he carries. “It has reins, and she is steering it. I’m not saying her reasons are wrong, I don’t know those, but it isn’t quite right, either.”
He sighs, and I see that he knows this, somehow. He’s punishing himself, then. “If you knew, you wouldn’t say that.”
“Try it. I bet I would.” I shrug. “You can tell me. I might remember where my real home is and be gone in the morning.”
“What was it like?” he asks. “Jumping in after him, I mean.”
“It happened fast, honestly. I didn’t really think about it. But that pond water—yuck!” I tilt my head, wondering if he understands, then see a sly smile. “Don’t change the subject.” He stretches his hands out, cracking knuckles.
“So, back up, I guess, fifteen years. I grew up an hour or so from here. Enlisted the year after high school. Didn’t know what else to do with myself, and, honestly, I thought I could get my education paid for. It was quiet, the first few years, then, you know, 2001 happened.”
“Right.”
“After I came back, I couldn’t keep a job, couldn’t sleep. I was distracted, at best. And when I looked at Lincoln, all I could see was—” He shakes his head and closes his eyes. “My best friend was worse off. I drank too much, but for him it was pills. I was sure I could help him. You know, he was the person I could call, when I was too bad off to talk to Selena. We looked out for each other.” He sits with this for a moment and I can sense that it’s difficult. “After he died, we moved here. Separately. I asked Selena to take custody of Lincoln. So, now, here I am: thirty-four, my family’s split up, and I have no college degree. Just a bunch of frayed nerves and bad attitude.”
“It’s difficult to let go of what you thought your life was,” I murmur. “What it was supposed to be.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know, really.”
There’s more, that’s clear, but I’m not going to press him. Whatever happened, he obviously feels responsible.
“I’m sorry.” Wherever his mind’s gone, it’s dark. I see shadows in his eyes as he sighs and answers me again.
“I do not deserve it.”
“Yes, you do,” I say. “Of course you do.”
“No, I don’t.” He’s morose, but this disagreeing has come naturally to us since our first meeting, and I see it begins to call him back from wherever he’s gone.
“Do so,” I say, like a kid, poking his arm, daring him to argue back at me. The connection is tenuous, but it’s as natural as it has always been.
“Do not—ugh! You are infuriating.” He looks to me, exasperated, the heat of an argument warming his confidence, then, suddenly, he breaks into a smile and takes a long, steady breath. “Thank you. Did I say that? For jumping in after him.”
“Don’t think anything of it,” I say. “But I don’t think we’re getting the glasses back. Unless, you know, you really want me to go looking for them.” Smiling across at him, I realize that it’s true, I probably would jump back in that filthy water if he said he needed them.
“What would it be like,” he asks me, as if an idea has suddenly occurred to him, “if we weren’t here? What if we were somewhere different?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should get out of here.” He waves his hand at the looming dark of the mansion, the familiar landscape. “Forget all this. Let’s go somewhere.”
