Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan

Author:Carrie Ryan [Ryan, Carrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2015-05-11T04:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-NINE

The end of the Wellses’ driveway is cluttered with news vans, most of them parked haphazardly off the side of the road. When the reporters catch sight of the cop car, they rush it, cameras at the ready. Officers push them back, forcing a gap large enough for Morales to ease through, her foot heavy on the brake.

I glance out the window, long enough for most of them to get a good shot of my face to run on the evening news. My expression is one of surprise, a bit of “deer in headlights” mixed with a healthy dose of “youthful innocence.” I want them to think of me as the everyday girl who just happened to rescue a prominent politician’s wife.

I want them to love me. Everything is so much easier if you have the media on your side.

A few of the reporters shout questions but it’s all a muffled blur and then we’re through the throng and accelerating down the road. “You’ll have to watch out for them—they can be vultures,” she says, flicking her eyes toward the rearview mirror. “Aggressive as hell and rarely care much for the law. Or common decency for that matter.”

“I know,” I say, still staring out the side window at the scrub trees skimming past.

“Right,” she says. “I guess this wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been the center of media attention.” She pauses a moment. “Though I guess you’re pretty good at avoiding them. I don’t remember seeing any pictures of you after the Persephone.”

On the surface her question sounds like idle curiosity, but I detect an undercurrent to it. One that’s constantly pushing and pulling at the edges of my story, searching for weakness. What I can’t figure out is why. Whether her inherent skepticism is part of the job description or whether there’s something about me in particular that’s piqued her suspicion.

“My dad took me to Europe. He thought it would be easier for me to recover if I didn’t have to worry about the attention.”

“Lucky you,” she says, and I have to clench my teeth together to keep from snorting in response.

As we near the O’Martin estate, there’s a smaller camp of reporters, and judging from the vans following along behind us, it’s about to grow. “Guess they’ve ID’d you already,” she grunts, not bothering to slow this time before turning into my driveway. “I’ll see if we can get an officer down here to keep them in line.”

She pulls around to the front of the house and puts the car in park. Turning toward me she says, “Be sure to keep your doors locked and it might be a good idea to cover your windows. They really have no shame with what they’ll photograph and sell.” She fishes in her pocket and holds out a card. “This has my direct number and cell on it. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, taking it.

Before I’ve even stepped out of the car, the front door opens and Shepherd rushes out, anxious.

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