The Silent Girl: An absolutely gripping mystery thriller full of suspense, page 3
I meet with Detective Radford and a man in her office, a room with shiny paneled walls that are lined with diplomas and awards. I see her sitting behind the desk, offering a practiced, friendly greeting.
“You’re going by Sophie now. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down, please,” she says, and I do. “How are you feeling?”
“Not bad.”
“You look well,” she says, opening a folder, referring to a sheet of paper. “Your recovery seems to be going smoothly. With one exception, of course.” I know what she’s talking about, though I’d rather not dwell on it. For all the hours I’ve spent drawing and dreaming, my mind is still empty.
“You said we’d meet when you had some information,” I say. The other detective begins to show me a series of photographs. Some are of missing persons, while others are of the families of missing persons. Some, he doesn’t tell me who they are, and I gather they’re wanted criminals. All the while, Selena sits across her desk, clicking idly at a computer screen, though I sense she’s watching me for my reaction to the photos.
“We’re waiting on results from a few nationwide databases,” she says. “But this is everything from the state.” I wonder if she sees my disappointment when I sigh; her tone seems to soften a little. “Sophie, wherever you’re from, it’s almost like nobody’s looking for you.” Though she’s only being honest, the observation stings. I realize it’s familiar to me, this sensation of being a girl that nobody would miss.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” I answer, trying not to let my hurt show.
“The smallest detail could be meaningful,” she says. “Any seemingly random fact could help me find out where you’re from, what happened to you. Sophie, listen: for you to have led a life where someone could hurt you like this, there’d be warning signs. Maybe you trusted someone, in spite of red flags. Maybe you were isolated from friends, family.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Or maybe you crossed the wrong person—but what put you in their path?”
“It sounds like you think it’s my fault,” I interrupt. “Somehow or other.”
“No, Sophie, absolutely not.” Detective Radford cuts me off, but there’s an intensity in her blue eyes that shows me she’s listening to me. “This is one thing, maybe the only thing, we know for certain here: whoever harmed you, they made a choice to take those actions. And I intend to find out who that was.” She says this as if it matters to her personally, and I eye the awards on the wall of her office.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out gravelly, and I clear my throat and repeat myself. “Thanks. You’re the first person who’s said that to me.”
“Your charge nurse told me you’re leaving the hospital in the next day or two. What are their plans?”
“For me? None,” I answer. “I don’t know of any, at least.”
“That won’t do,” she says. I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s her, but this sounds like a threat. “It’s alright,” she says. “I don’t mind helping you set something up.” I hear a phone ring, not the one on her desktop, but a cell she takes from her pocket. “Would you excuse me?” she asks. “If you’ll go back to the waiting room, I’ll come downstairs and catch up with you when I’ve made a few calls. Amber is our secretary—let her know if you need anything while you’re waiting.”
I nod and leave her office, walking through the corridor and down the stairs into the waiting room. The door is propped open, letting in a warm breeze. I sink into a chair miserably, pull my knees up to my chin as if I’m a kid waiting for the principal to call my name. I’m grateful for the clothes the nurse brought me, but they’re a bit too big, which makes me feel even more conspicuous. I scan the room, move into a corner chair where I can see everyone around me, as well as the door. The familiar sense of tension creeps over me, setting me on alert for every slight noise. Outside the door, from the sidewalk, I hear a man’s voice.
“Found anyone? No, I haven’t.” His voice is a deep tenor, one that crackles with annoyance. “It should have been easy, but I guess that’s my good luck at work.”
My heart pounds a little. Found who? I slip my feet to the floor, lean forward to look around the doorway.
“It’s not like I can run an ad in the paper: anyone could show up.”
I cross my arms, fingertips wrapping tight around the opposite elbows. I don’t know what that stranger might be talking about, or might not be. I don’t even know who I ought to be hiding from.
“Sure,” the voice continues. “I’ll leave his bag at the desk.”
When I hear footsteps come into the waiting room, I quickly go back to my chair, as if it could hide me, and point my chin to the side to conceal my face. This only turns the scar on my temple toward the doorway, a sure identifying mark. Still half cowering, I raise a hand to cover my hairline. I see him pause out of the corner of my eye, no doubt sending a confused look my way. Or one of recognition. I wait, but nothing happens. The man doesn’t sit down, instead lingering impatiently near the door. There’s sawdust on the shoulder of his T-shirt, mud on his boots, but there is an impatience about his stance that’s almost bold. Maybe, I think, allowing myself a careful exhale, it was just a random phone conversation. I unfold into a normal sitting position, but keep my eyes on the floor. I watch his boots as he walks to the desk, greets the secretary, Amber.
“I heard you were having trouble hiring someone.” The woman takes the bag that he hands her and places it behind the desk. “You want to put a notice on the bulletin board here?”
“No,” he answers, adding a quiet “thank you,” as if it’s an afterthought. The secretary shrugs.
“Just offering,” she says. “It can’t be easy to find somebody who wants to live and work an hour away from town, up to their elbows in thorns all day, right next to a haunted house.”
“It’s not haunted.” The man appears to take this as an affront. “Have a nice day.” Without waiting for Amber to answer, he turns to leave. Moments later, I hear heels clicking, and Detective Radford walks into the waiting room.
“Sophie, I spoke with the charge nurse. She’s going to arrange a spot for you by the end of the day.”
“Is there any other option?” I ask, grasping at straws. “What if I could find somewhere else to stay?”
“Of course. You’re not a prisoner,” she says, though her smile fades. “But please don’t do anything reckless. Detective Brown will drive you back to the hospital. I’ll send him down.”
“Thanks.” She pauses to speak with Amber before she disappears down the hallway. Once she’s gone, I sit up straight, making deliberate eye contact with the young woman behind the desk.
“Yes?” She puts her paperback down on the desk to address me. I gesture at the doorway.
“What was that about? The haunted house?”
“Dovemorn,” she says, as if it were obvious. “You new here?” she asks, after I look confused at this response.
“Yeah.”
“Historic estate outside of town, up that side of the mountain. Decrepit, really. That guy’s the caretaker, or groundskeeper, or something. If you could see it, you’d agree it’s haunted. Miles from anywhere. I’m pretty sure a lady died there, like, ages ago.”
Just then, Brown arrives to drive me back to the hospital.
“You ready to go?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Probably feels like you’re getting handed off between babysitters,” he says, a hint of apology in his tone. I reflect that he probably feels like he’s been instructed to babysit me. For myself, I don’t mind. It’s better than being a stranger in a new town, always on edge, without even a clue what I ought to be afraid of.
Eight
The next morning, I wake to a little pile of going-away gifts. The nurses and staff have collected a small assortment of necessities: a pair of shoes and some more secondhand clothes, toothbrush and hairbrush, even a backpack. I open the good luck card, poring over the brief notes and signatures. Anjali walks into the room behind me.
“I know you won’t miss it here,” she says. “But it’s been nice getting to know you. We’ll all be wishing the best for you.”
“Thank you.” I turn around and offer her an awkward hug, which she accepts. As I turn, I see the flowers on the bedside table. It’s an elaborate arrangement, flowers in all shades of red: dahlias, roses, carnations.
“Did you send these?”
“No,” Anjali says, beaming. “I’m not sure who did, actually. Oh!” Her pager begins to buzz. “Excuse me. I’ll stop in again before you leave.”
For a moment, I’m struck dumb, my feet glued to the floor. I can hear my heart pounding so loud that I almost can’t hear my thoughts.
“Who delivered these?” I ask. But Anjali has already hurried away to answer her call.
Run, I’m thinking. You have to run. It’s like moving through water. Hands shaking, I reach to touch the arrangement. There’s no card, no message, just the address of the hospital and my room number.
They know where to find me.
But who are they?
In the bathroom, I change into a top, some blue jeans and a pair of sneakers that almost fit me. I carefully place all my gifts into the bag. Wherever I’m going, it’ll be nice to have a few things of my own. I stop in the kitchen in the hallway and add a few bottles of water to my bag, as well as whatever food I can reach: granola bars, instant noodles. A nurse’s aide walks into the room as I’m scanning the counter for more food.
“Miss, can I help you with something?” she asks.
“No.” I inch past her toward the doorway.
“Are you alright?” She takes a step after me. “You’re Sophie, right? From room sixteen?” I want to answer no. To tell her that if I don’t know who I am or where I’m from, then she certainly doesn’t. But I can’t; something tells me I couldn’t lie convincingly, not even if my life depended on it. And what if it does?
“You’re transferring to the care center—is that right?” the aide asks. She’s following me down the hallway now, which means it’s a matter of moments before someone else overhears. “Sophie, I need to ask you to wait here, please.” At the end of the corridor, the elevator is open.
“Hold the door!” I shout, mouthing a silent apology to the aide as I dash away. Slipping between the closing doors, I inch into the corner of the elevator. When we reach the lobby, bustling with people, I head straight for the mechanical glass doors, throw the backpack over my shoulder, and set off at a brisk walk.
Under different circumstances, Hazel Bluff would be charming. I walk the streets for an hour or so, attempting to get my bearings. The streets are lined with willow oaks, tall enough that I suspect they’ve been here as long as the Victorian buildings around them. The town is built on foothills, just in the shadow of the mountains beyond. Before long, violet-bruised clouds spill over the skyline, threatening bad weather. When the rain begins, I head back toward the hospital, trying to walk as though I know where I’m going.
Near a block of municipal buildings, I pass a tourist center with a sign that reads:
WELCOME: HISTORIC HAZEL BLUFF
Inside, I browse posters with enlarged photographs, maps, trying to pass the time. As I walk past a poster that covers the 1840s to the 1860s, discussing Civil War history and emancipation, I hear the doorbell chime and duck behind a standing display. It’s a family of four, husband and wife, two young children.
I continue browsing, hoping to stay inside until the rain stops. The next display covers the late nineteenth century into the early twentieth, and I see a reproduction of a painting, enlarged to poster size, of a stately, shadowed house overlooking an expansive garden. The heading reads: ‘Dovemorn House: Bygone opulence; tragic history.’ I scan the bullet points: Railroad fortune. Construction: artisans and imported marble. Edwardian gardens: art nouveau meets natural landscape. A marriage gone wrong.
I step closer still, to look at a contemporary photograph of the grounds, expecting to see a restored home offering tours. Instead, it’s a grainy black-and-white image of the house and grounds, a ruined ghost of the building in the beautiful painting, the color-coordinated flower beds and structures giving way to decay and overgrown with weeds. The final bullet point reads: ‘Restoration. Reopening this fall.’ Behind me, the door chimes again, and I hear the patter of the rain outside. I inch to the side, dodging behind a glass display case. In the backlit glass, I see the reflection of a man’s silhouette, a woman’s figure behind his shoulder. They’re conversing, perhaps deciding whether to come in. Maybe, like me, they’re just trying to get out of the rain. I see the man, light-haired, square-shouldered; the woman, standing behind him, slips out of focus. He isn’t the man I’ve glimpsed in my nightmares. That man had a scar across one eyebrow. A swell of memory hits me: the certainty that I would die. The man’s silence, when I asked for help. But it isn’t him. It can’t be—yet, dodging further into the shadows, I realize I can’t be sure.
Turning around the other side of the display, I rush for the back door and hurry outside. It’s raining, but I keep right on walking. I take a bottle of water out of my backpack and drink it as I pace up and down in the alley behind the building. The last door on my right is for a local food pantry. It looks open and, as I’m peering in the doorway, a woman at a desk takes a look at my face and waves me inside. Trying to think practically, I browse a shelf of donated items. I find a few protein bars, some cans of food, apples and oranges, which I fit into the bag along with my sketchbook and clothes. Cans of soup, a box of cereal. Back outside, I keep moving and eventually pass by a library. Maybe a place to stay for a couple hours, I think. Maybe they have computers I could use to look up somewhere to go. I’m just inside the glass door when I see the couple from the welcome center again, walking past outside. I’m not sure whether I’m more panicked or frustrated with my paranoia, but I sense I can’t stay inside. The library has a large lost-and-found items bin on the right side of the entryway. I glance inside and find a baseball cap and a jacket. I pull the cap over my eyes and put the jacket on before stepping back into the rain.
So I walk, slowly, regardless of the rain. Away from downtown. Through a neighborhood, past a park. It must be afternoon by now. The trees grow taller, and the hills a bit steeper. The houses on the road are further apart, and the speed limit’s higher, just the occasional vehicle whirring by.
The sky cracks with thunder. There’s no point in continuing. I’m just going to tire myself out. Standing still, at the side of what looks to be a highway, I’m forced to take stock of where I am. It’s clear that I’ve only made things worse by walking away from somewhere that might have fed and housed me, but on the other hand, I can still feel the chill of that red bouquet in the hospital room. I can hear a vehicle approaching behind me from a quarter-mile off, even over the rain, a large engine, maybe a truck. I’m wavering. I don’t know who it is. I don’t know what I’m running from. At the last moment, I take a leap of faith, for the first time since I woke up in the hospital. I whirl around to face the oncoming lane, and throw my arm out, thumb up.
Nine
The truck pulls over and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the driver. She’s stocky, in her fifties, I think, with gray-speckled hair in two frizzy braids.
“What you doin’ out here, hon?” she shouts, rolling down the window. I’m not sure how to answer, but I think my silence probably speaks for itself. She sighs, leans over to push the door open. “Which way you headed?” Now I know I need to speak. I think hard, picturing the map back in the tourist center. “South,” I answer.
“Me too,” she says. “Come on.” As I climb up, mumbling some sort of clumsy thanks, she scolds me with a parental frown. “You know you shouldn’t be out here, don’t you? It’s not safe.”
“I…” I settle into the seat, put my backpack at my feet. “I wouldn’t be here if I had a better option. If I explained it to you, you’d think I was crazy.” She seems to accept this, with a gruff sigh and a shrug.
“I’m Peggy,” she says. “I make candles in my garage. Delivering a few boxes to gift shops along the tourist trail.”
“I’m Sophie,” I answer. My silence, again, speaks for itself. When our path sweeps around a sharp curve, the edge of the road is marked only by a short guardrail. We’re driving through fog so thick I can barely see. Peggy’s truck slows to a crawl.
“Not bad, considering the storm we had earlier,” she comments.
“Really? I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Where you from?” she asks. I shrug, thankful when she doesn’t press the matter. “We’re in the middle of the cloud cover, now,” she says, the engine protesting as the road climbs sharply uphill. Another half-mile and the mist thins, opening to a vista of mountains that extends as far as I can see. The nearby peaks rise above the cloud bank like islands above water. I almost imagine I could leave my short catalog of memories, all my wounds and question marks, behind in the hospital room. I realize suddenly that Peggy is speaking to me.
“Sorry,” I say. “Nice view out here. What’d you say?”
“Anywhere in particular you’re trying to go?” she asks. “I might have friends who could help you.”
“I’ll think on it,” I answer. “Thanks.”
But I don’t. I’m staring out the window, watching the spectacular views, the breathtaking valley and the crests and rises of the mountains unfolding beyond, not a city or a building in sight. As miles pass in a blur, the clouds in the sky patch and clear sporadically, the wind off the mountains bringing a change in weather every few minutes. When we pass a sign, I turn sharply, making sure I’ve read it correctly.
