The Silent Girl: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller full of suspense, page 23
That isn’t what you said before, I think. But this isn’t the time to argue, so I nod my head and stare at my feet. “I’m hungry,” I answer. Someone barely manages to conceal their laughter.
“Dora,” Miles sighs, squeezing an exasperated sigh in his throat. “You know I’m glad to have you home. But you’re not acting like yourself. You’ve been through a lot.”
Something clicks. His voice is soft, but his eyes are cold. This is the charm. “You need rest. You’re exhausted.” Charm, and then the storm. I falter. My mind is blurry. Someone grabs my elbows and drags me away before I can stand up. I don’t have to wonder who it is. I know it’s Sawyer. I know the scar that runs through his eyebrow, the cold silence behind his eyes. As he pulls me toward the house, I don’t resist, but his grip is like a vise all the same. Inside in the open room beyond the kitchen, he wordlessly holds my arms behind my back. Miles follows soon after, composed as ever, but his eyes still cold as ice. Sawyer squeezes my elbows and I wince, remembering with a jolt of fear that the last time I saw him I stomped on his foot.
“I didn’t want to talk about this tonight,” Miles says. “But it looks like it would make more sense to get everything out in the open. Don’t you think?” I don’t answer. “About what happened before? I never thought you would let me down again. I never saw it coming.”
He takes a seat on a sofa, lights a cigarette. I half think that if my arms were free I’d take one. “You first,” he says. “Tell me everything you remember. And I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Forty-Five
My mind spins, like a wheel loose on its axle. What I remember chills my blood. There’s no point in glancing around the room, looking for a window or a door, but I do it anyway, out of plain habit.
“Talk, Dora.” Miles’ voice is sharper now.
Even when I couldn’t remember my name, there were things I knew about myself. That I face things, instead of putting them off. That I’m not a liar. Dread tightens my throat, just as Sawyer is pinning my elbows behind me. I wonder if I can pretend those things aren’t true. If I can convince my brother just like he’s convinced all these people around him.
“Okay,” I say finally. “I’ll tell you everything I can remember. I’ve missed you so much,” I add, looking up at him hopefully.
“Go on.”
“I remember coming here for the first time. And meeting Iris. I remember the meal we had that first night.” I try to stay on track, even though I’m starving. Thick-crusted bread with butter, roasted vegetables with coarse salt and pepper. I tell myself I’ll get something to eat soon enough. “Miles—please, don’t be angry. Is this about you growing poppies? Because I remember that.” I try to deliver this as though it’s shocking. “I remember the flowers. When the sun’s rising on that hill, it looks like they go on forever.” Miles is silent, and, after a moment, I continue. “I won’t tell anyone,” I answer. Try to remember what he told me, the first time I was there. “It’s a victimless crime. You’re basically just farmers. It’s not that bad. You’re still my brother.”
“Let her sit down.” Miles waves at Sawyer and he releases me. I stretch my arms out, stand with hesitation in front of him. I draw in a loud, shaky breath. Make my eyes large, trying to look sincere.
“What happened to me?”
“I told you to tell me everything you remember.” His tone’s dangerous.
“I’m dizzy,” I whine. Miles has always thought I was a stupid little girl. “What’s in the tea? I had three cups.” I try to look tired as he laughs, his face softening. This time, I knew to avoid the tea Iris handed around, but I’m hoping Miles didn’t notice that.
“Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Nothing that’ll hurt you.”
“I remember the harvest,” I say. “And then nothing. The doctor said my concussion was severe.” Mild concussion, I remember. Not consistent with memory loss. “That it was lucky I didn’t have more brain damage.” Miles seems satisfied. He leans over, taps the ash from his cigarette into a tray on the coffee table.
“You want to know what happened?” he asks me. I nod my head. “You ran away from us, Dora. Ran off into the woods. Listen. There are—we have enemies. Rivals. It’s sad, since, you know, all I want is to be a farmer. One of them must have found you.”
“Ran away?” I scrunch my face in confusion.
“You said you wanted to go to the police,” he says. “You put me at risk. This is my family. I’ll always do everything I can to protect you, but you run off like that, you’re putting it in God’s hands, and I answer to God. I don’t tell him what to do. You know that, don’t you?” Slowly, I nod my head. Miles is lying to me.
“In a way, Dora, I’m proud of you,” he adds. “Running off like that. It takes guts. I didn’t think you had that. But you aren’t going to do it again.” He leans in a little as he speaks to me, and just as I begin to feel scared, he hugs me. “I’m so happy to have you back,” he says. “I missed you. I really did.”
“I missed you too,” I say, feeling a chill run down my spine, even though the words are true. “Every day that I was gone.” Miles gets up and turns to the door, leaving half his cigarette in the ashtray. Now, he looks at Sawyer, not at me. “She is not to leave her room.”
Without a word, Sawyer leads me down the hall and opens the door to a small room. It isn’t the one where I slept when I was here before. This one doesn’t have a window. I hear the door close behind me and lock from the outside.
From the very beginning, there’s been one thing, throughout all of this, that I’ve known for certain fact. That my brother would never hurt me.
Now, hours too late, I remember everything. And I know that isn’t true.
Forty-Six
Though I called it home, I hadn’t been there more than a couple months. But I felt, as I think everyone did, that we were outside of time, outside of all its consequences. The sun rose and fell in a circle, rather than days passing in a line. That first day in the poppy field, Iris explained to me how you could make opium, or even stronger things, from the red flowers around us. I tried not to think about that. I liked the blossoms, the sweet air on my skin. Wherever a flower had wilted, she scored the pale seedpod, let it seep its resin, and left it. Later, she would return to scrape off the dried resin, which, to me, looked a lot like blood.
Miles didn’t come back until late, long after we had returned to the camp. Sullen and looming, he waited for Sawyer to follow him. They stood alone in the trees behind the clearing; I drifted outward from the benches, pretending to be looking at plants on the ground. I could tell myself I didn’t intend to eavesdrop, but I was worried about him. They whispered about a body. About Tulsa. The cops know I’m in the state, Miles said. I don’t know what to do.
The ground seemed to spin beneath me as I realized where I really was, what kind of danger I was in. I didn’t even have a phone to call for help. I sensed, though, that there had to be a phone somewhere in the house. I walked quietly back down the long, dim hallway. Suddenly, the entire place felt incredibly disorienting. In the storage closet near the kitchen, I glanced over at the shelves. There were a few sets of car keys and some jars of poppy seeds, but no phone. Up at the top shelf, the pistol was resting. Just to the side, I saw the edge of a phone. Wishing I were taller, I hopped on the tips of my toes to reach it and closed my hand around it. As I grabbed the phone, my fingertips knocked the gun aside, just an inch. I realized that I could disappear out here. Anybody could. I walked back down the hall, pushed the door to go back outside, but it was locked. I felt a hand on my elbow and turned to find my brother.
I remembered him as a child.
I remembered him taking care of me when nobody else did.
I could still see him in there. I believed that he wasn’t lost.
“What are you doing in here, Dora?”
I threw my arms around him and squeezed. “Can we talk?”
Miles gave me a look and pulled me outside.
“What’s up?”
“Miles, is there, maybe, something you haven’t told me?” A cloud crossed his face. I grasped his hand and held on tight.
“I believe you, no matter what. I love you. Miles, did you—”
He pulled his hand away, stood up tall with a blank face. I tried to be brave but I could hear my voice growing breathy. I reminded myself that I was always safe as long as I was with my brother.
“You shouldn’t be in here by yourself.” His hand closed tight on my arm, steering me outside.
“We need to leave.”
“You want to leave me? Is that it?”
“No, Miles.” I reached for a hug again but he pushed me back a step, his lips twisting in a smile of disappointment. “I want us to leave,” I said. “I can help you.”
“You can’t help me.”
“You can stop this.”
“No, I can’t,” he said, a flicker of childlike fear behind his eyes. “I don’t know how to. Dora, we killed a man. I was with Sawyer, I don’t even know how—anyway, I’m in this now,” he repeats, whispering. He motioned at the house, at the campfire. “I don’t know how I’d get out of it, even if I wanted to.” I wanted to cry, but I saw that he needed me to be strong.
“We’re going to leave and get help. Whatever happened, I know it wasn’t the real you. I know it wasn’t your fault. I’m going to call the police and get us out of here.”
He saw the phone in my hand and reached for it; having anticipated this, I stepped back. I talked quickly. “You have to tell them everything that happened. Tell them you want help.”
Miles swung a fist at me. I must have anticipated this, too, because I swerved out of the way. Still, there was an alarm going off, deep in my brain, beyond where words are formed. Miles wouldn’t hit me. Miles wouldn’t hurt me. Something’s wrong. But I still tried to get through to him.
“I know I let you down before. It’s not going to be like that this time. But we have to go. I can’t lose you.”
My words hung in the air for a moment and I looked at him with pleading eyes. In that moment, I thought he was about to agree, to ask me to help him.
But he swung at me again, lightning fast, and I felt an impact just behind my ear at the base of my head. I turned aside and dropped to my knees. The facts as I knew them were colliding with a physical reality that was very different. The cost of getting it wrong was so much steeper than I had anticipated. The lights of the fire faded in and out, and everything seemed to vibrate. Miles picked up the phone from where I’d dropped it on the ground. He hauled me to my feet and I could feel that his thin arms were solid muscle.
When I regained my senses, I was by the fire again, curious faces regarding me, Miles holding me steady with an arm around my shoulders. Only his closest friends were there: Sawyer, Beckett, Iris.
“This was a mistake,” Miles said.
“I can see how it looks that way,” Iris answered, her voice soft. She reaches across me to touch his cheek. “You gonna let her go?”
“How can I?”
“You gonna kill her?”
“I don’t want to,” he said. “She’s mine. She’s the only person that’s mine.”
“I’m yours,” Iris reminded him. “We all are.”
“It’s different,” he said. “I never thought she’d do this, ever.”
“You’re really hurt,” she mused, stroking his hair. “I hate to see you so sad.”
I coughed. A soft mist descended, quieting the light of the fire until it was almost out. “Anyone want to hear a story?” Miles asked. I heard a murmured chorus of assent from the others. “Dora was little when our mother left us. She was three. I was almost nine. Let me tell you, it’s a lot harder for an ugly nine-year-old little boy to get a home than it is a precious toddler with strawberry-blonde hair.” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. Charm, I see. “But the foster system’s rough. Overloaded. Our social worker was kind, but she didn’t have the resources or time to really make sure we were okay. We got split up after we left our first home. Hard enough as it is, right?” he says. “But it doesn’t end there. Dora, do you remember what happened?” With a reproachful sigh, I waited for him to speak, eyes on the ground.
“At the second home Dora went to, there was something wrong. She called me and I could hear it in her voice. Child trafficking, pedophiles, who knows. I could tell she was scared. And here I was, twelve, angry, alone. Dora’s all I have. And someone wants to harm her? I wanted to go right to her and take her somewhere safe and burn that house down.” He caught Iris’ gaze over the embers. “That’s exactly what I did. Dora didn’t tell me until later there was a little girl hidden in the house. Maybe God wanted to end her suffering. Who knows? That was the first time I was locked up. Been in the system ever since.” He sighed, stroked his chin as if he was lost in memory. This is the charm, I remembered. With Miles, the charm always comes before the storm. “Dora was the one who left the girl there to burn, but she let me take the blame for everything. She went on to go to college, to get a good job. And you know what? She was going to turn me in again tonight. Turn in all of us.” He turned to Sawyer and I saw something like fear on his face. “If anything, she’s lucky the people you work for aren’t here.”
In the quiet that followed, Miles and Sawyer pulled me to my feet. I saw Beckett and Iris catching up, exchanging a glance that was difficult to read. Near Miles’ pickup truck, we paused. He stood back, seeming far away from me, then reached an arm up to brush my hair out of my eyes. I saw the pocketknife flip open in his hand, began to flail, pushing him away in a panic. I felt its blade on my hands and arms.
“Would you hold still?” Miles rolled his eyes. “You think I want to use this on you? Please.” I don’t think he intended what happened next. Even now, I think he only meant to scare me. I saw Miles look away for a moment, and some desperate optimism threw me forward, an attempt to bolt on wobbly legs, and I fell right against the blade of the knife, felt it drag along my chest as I fell to my knees. I looked up at him in shock, and his face barely changed, one eyebrow flicking with annoyance. He shook his head, sighed to Sawyer: “Do something about her.” Turning briefly to Sawyer, I saw him nod his chin; Sawyer twisted me around by my shoulder and tied both hands behind my back. “We’re gonna let you spend the night outside,” Miles said. “Let you think about what you did.”
“I want to go home,” I pleaded. “Miles, please.” But his face was blank. The charm had run out. I spent a moment staring into his eyes, looking for the brother I knew, before he pulled me close and delivered another explosive punch to the side of my face. He threw me against the truck and I felt the window crack under my forehead before my knees failed and everything went dark.
Forty-Seven
I woke up in the truck. Everything was blurry, my head throbbing. I was slumped against the door. Sawyer was driving and Miles sat on my left. Somehow, I already knew where we were going. With a sickening effort, I reached for the door handle and pulled. I could blame it on a desire to escape, or claim that it was bravery, but the truth was I wanted everything to stop, at any cost. When the door opened, I slouched outward, Miles swearing and grabbing hold of my knees. I tried to catch hold of a branch, a vine, anything I could grab onto and get free from the truck. But my hands closed only on thorns, brambles that pulled over my hands as I felt my shoulder and arm dragging along the ground like a length of gravelly sandpaper. Head throbbing, arms stinging, I gave up, my weight slack. Miles waited, though, before pulling me back up. His eyes were cold with anger. I felt the truck stop, the impact reverberating through my limbs. Though my vision was blurred, I could see the flowers, swimming by night like so many fish in the sea. Someone lifted me up, carried me to the field, threw me on the ground. Miles sat on his knees at my side, exhaling as though pained with disappointment. Blinking frantically, I watched the image of my brother double. Iris, also in duplicate, appeared to sit next to him in the poppies. I heard murmured voices from behind them, which I assumed to belong to Sawyer and Beckett, though I couldn’t see that far.
Resting on my side, not a thought of moving, all I could manage was to blink my eyes until I could almost see. “Miles.” I could barely hear my own voice. There was no stopping these spells of anger Miles had, these storms. “Miles, think of Mom,” I whispered. He leaned back on his heels to look at me, anger dancing in his eyes.
“Mom?” He laughed. “Mom was a whore and a junkie.”
“No, she wasn’t!” I cried. He slapped me for disagreeing, my teeth rattling. “Like you’d remember. They took us away from her when you were three. She used to go out at night, or have men come over, and she’d leave you screaming in your crib, covered in piss.”
“I don’t believe you. She died. You told me.”
“She didn’t die,” he sneered. “CPS took us away from her, and she disappeared, never to be seen again. Hell, the way you cried and whined, she was probably relieved they took you off her hands. Who do you think brought you a cup of milk at night, tried to take care of you? It wasn’t her, that’s for sure. I did the best I could to take care of you. And this is how you thank me?” Iris knelt next to him. She held a permanent marker in her hand, though it never occurred to me to wonder why.
“Tell me how you’re feeling,” she said, holding Miles in her honey-and-smoke stare.
“She’s a betrayer,” Miles said. Iris wrote something on my right arm. “She’s a snitch. A liar.”
“There,” Iris whispered. “Listen, baby. Everyone’s afraid you’re capable of this. Be the man they love, not the one they’re afraid you are. Let this end.”
“It was enough,” Beckett added. “Before we left camp. You could have stopped there.”
“I wanted to help you,” I said, tasting blood. “That was my only intention.”
