Don't Tell a Soul by Kirsten Miller

Author:Kirsten Miller [Miller, Kirsten]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Children's Books
Published: 2021-01-26T00:00:00+00:00

As soon as the sheriff’s cruiser disappeared around the corner, I made a beeline for Nolan’s house. Despite the sheriff’s vague warnings, I had to ask him about the night of the fire. Ten minutes later, I reached his drive and stopped to gape. The previous night, I hadn’t gotten a true sense of the destruction. Every window had been shattered. Without them, Nolan’s house was little more than a shell. Curtains fluttered in the wind while blinds banged against panes lined with jagged glass teeth. The house had seemed safe, but it had been an illusion. All it took was a few rocks to shatter it.

Two trucks were parked side by side in the drive, and a team of construction workers was unloading gear. As I watched from the road, I saw one of the men punch a colleague in the arm and point toward the house next door.

Maisie was standing on her front porch in a silk nightgown and an emerald-green kimono, looking as out of place in Louth as a tropical bird perched atop an iceberg. When she waved me over, I heard whistles of approval from one of the construction workers.

“You’re on camera, assholes,” Maisie shouted at them. “How ’bout I send copies of the security tapes to your wives?”

When I glanced over my shoulder at the men, they’d all turned away to mind their own business.

“Nice work,” I told Maisie once I’d made my way up the steps to her porch.

“Fuck them,” she said. “If you’re looking for Nolan, he hasn’t been back to his house since last night. Come inside and have some coffee. You look like you’re about to freeze to death.”

I gratefully followed her into the house. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but the interior was Instagram-perfect. The walls were painted pale blue and trimmed with dark gray. An antique sofa upholstered in gold velvet sat in front of the living room windows, which framed a view of the icy Hudson. I felt like I’d stepped into a showroom. The furniture looked like it had never been touched.

“Your home is gorgeous,” I said.

“Thanks,” Maisie replied. “I’ll be sure to pass along your praise to our decorator. My mom and I had nothing to do with it. The lady even chose which family pictures to frame.”

She gestured to a photo on the living room wall. It was a typical studio portrait with a mottled gray background. A stunning girl with black braids sat on a fur rug, cradling an infant. The baby stared straight at the camera with such ferocity that I had no trouble identifying her. The mother seemed stunned to find a baby in her arms.

“Wow. Your mom was—” I glanced back at Maisie. The resemblance was remarkable.

“Young?” she offered.

“I was going to say ‘gorgeous,’ ” I told her. “But, yeah. She looks really young, too.”

“She wasn’t even eighteen when that picture was taken. She was two months older than I am when she had me.”

I didn’t say anything.

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