Not My Mother
A completely gripping psychological thriller with a jaw-dropping twist
Miranda Smith
Books by Miranda Smith
Not My Mother
The One Before
What I Know
Some Days Are Dark
Available in audio
The One Before (Available in the UK and the US)
What I Know (Available in the UK and the US)
Some Days Are Dark (Available in the UK and the US)
Contents
Prologue
1. Marion
Now
2. Marion
Now
3. Eileen
Then
4. Marion
Now
5. Marion
Now
6. Eileen
Then
7. Marion
Now
8. Marion
Now
9. Marion
Now
10. Eileen
Then
11. Marion
Now
12. Marion
Now
13. Marion
Now
14. Eileen
Then
15. Marion
Now
16. Marion
Now
17. Marion
Now
18. Marion
Now
19. Marion
Now
20. Eileen
Then
21. Marion
Now
22. Marion
Now
23. Marion
Now
24. Marion
Now
25. Marion
Now
26. Marion
Now
27. Eileen
Then
28. Marion
Now
29. Marion
Now
30. Marion
Now
31. Marion
Now
32. Eileen
Then
33. Marion
Now
34. Eileen
Then
35. Marion
Now
36. Eileen
Then
37. Marion
Now
38. Marion
Now
39. Eileen
Then
40. Marion
Now
41. Marion
Now
42. Marion
Now
43. Marion
Now
44. Amelia
Then
45. Marion
Now
46. Amelia
Then
47. Marion
Now
48. Amelia
Now
49. Marion
Now
50. Marion
Now
51. Marion
Now
52. Amelia
Now
Epilogue
What I Know
Hear More from Miranda
Books by Miranda Smith
A Letter from Miranda
The One Before
Some Days Are Dark
Acknowledgements
For Lucy
Prologue
Amelia
Then
Amelia’s senses returned. First, the feeling of grainy cement beneath her fingers. A warm breeze blew over her, carrying with it the scent of chlorine and iron and decay. Her vision came into focus, unlocking a hauntingly vivid image. The fruit from the charcuterie board had wilted in the heat, buzzy flies drinking up the juices. The sun was almost gone now. She stood, shakily, trying to find balance. That’s when she saw the blood. Slippery stripes stained the concrete surrounding their backyard pool. Her hands were sticky with it. At her feet, lay her husband. His face was still. His eyes were closed. A stream of blood oozed from his left ear.
Even that terrifying image wasn’t the scariest part. What truly terrified her was the silence. No footsteps, no whispers. Worst of all, no crying. She ran inside the house, up the stairs. Horrified, she tore through the nursery, each detail searing itself into her brain. The open window. The empty crib. She ran outside a second time and was greeted again by that stony silence.
She knew it then, could feel it in her bones. Her baby was missing.
Baby Caroline was gone.
1 Marion
Now
I wish Ava had taken a longer nap. I wish I’d started the party at two, instead of noon. I should have ordered cupcakes instead of a specialty-made, two-tiered sugar monstrosity that I’ll be responsible for dissecting into a dozen pieces.
My first year of motherhood has taught me this: I’m always second-guessing myself.
And it’s not like I have a partner to tell me otherwise, contradict my own insecurities. I have no husband. No boyfriend. It’s just Ava and me. I’m responsible for every doctor’s visit, every sleepless night, every celebration. Of course, I chose this path. But sometimes, in moments like this, when every shortcoming seems on full display, I really feel it. That heavy responsibility.
Then Ava smiles, a reminder parenthood is worth it. Even the hard parts, the lonely parts. Her happiness sends out a silent signal that I’m enough.
If I’m being honest, I’m not as alone as I may feel. I look around the room, cataloging each person who has come to celebrate Ava’s first birthday. Some people I felt I had to invite for the sake of the business, like Holly Dale, the hotel manager across the street. The words she uttered when she first learned I was pregnant stay with me: A baby is a lot to take on by yourself. She irks me, but I have to remain friendly with her because she always provides tourists with coupons for The Shack. There are a few mothers from Mommy and Me I know on a first name basis; I invited them so Ava isn’t the only baby at her party.
And then there are the people who’ve really helped Ava and me during this first year. Carmen, my best friend, her long black hair falling over one shoulder. Over by the pinball machines, I spot her two kids: Preston and Penny. Preston is manically punching the ball grip on the machine, despite nothing happening. Penny has taken a roll of streamers and is wrapping them around her brother’s ankles.
“Cut it out, you animals,” Carmen shouts when she spots them.
“It’s a party,” says Michael, her husband, standing by her side. “Let them have fun.”
My business partner, Des, walks into the dining hall carrying a pan of handmade cheese pizza. The older kids take their seats at the decorated table.
“Time to eat,” Des says, in her husky voice. “If you want toppings, I have another one coming.”
None of the kids care. I know from years of working here most kids only want cheese and balk at anything else.
Des is also my honorary aunt, of sorts—I’ve known her as long as I’ve known anyone, it seems. She’s owned The Shack for years, inviting Mom to step in as co-owner some years back. After graduating college, I joined them, taking over the management of the place. This little eatery has proven to be a stable support system for all involved, favored by both locals and the tourist crowd visiting the nearby beaches.
North Bay is a small beach town by the Atlantic, and it’s the only place I’ve ever called home. I love everything about it. The bronze sands, the blue skies. I love that the place only feels touristy during the months of July and August; the rest of the time, it’s like this beautiful landscape is a secret, only to be enjoyed by our few thousand residents. We moved here when I was a toddler. I certainly don’t remember living anywhere else, and once I was old enough to swim in the ocean, I knew I’d never want to leave.
Des catches sight of me holding Ava and
shuffles over.
“There’s the birthday princess,” she says, her voice climbing a few octaves. The only time that happens is when she’s around my child. Normally, Des despises children, but Ava works some kind of magic on her. “Let me hold her.”
“She looks adorable,” Carmen says, walking over to join us. Michael is only a few steps behind. “This dress is perfect on her.”
“It was very generous of you,” I say.
“It’s a shame she’ll mess it up once she tears into that cake,” Des says, giving Ava a hearty cuddle.
“A true fashionista wouldn’t be caught dead in the same outfit twice,” Carmen says, nudging Des.
Looking at them, you wouldn’t think Carmen and Des had anything in common. Carmen is tall and slim, while Des is short and squat. Carmen appears polished in her high-waisted pants and blouse, where Des looks thrown together in flour-dusted joggers. It only takes a short conversation with the two women to see how like-minded they are. They both give as good as they get.
“The place looks great,” Michael says, giving the room another once-over. I’ve turned The Shack’s dining room into a pink and gold wonderland, an almost exact replica of the Pinterest board I started creating three months ago.
“Thank you.” And I am thankful. I need this reassurance.
I reach my hand out to Ava, letting her tiny fingers clench around mine. Her light blue eyes flit about, taking in the colors, the presents, the people. She appears happy. That’s all that matters.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I scan the screen to see who is calling.
It’s Evan.
Of course he’d be calling today. He probably doesn’t remember it’s Ava’s birthday, I tell myself. Or maybe he does and that is why he’s calling. Either way, I won’t answer. I switch the phone on silent, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.
“Who’s that?” Carmen asks, having caught the look on my face.
“No one,” I say, looking around the room. “Anyone seen Mom?”
“She’s upstairs wrapping her gift,” Des answers.
“I’ll go get her. I’m sure the other parents are getting antsy. It’s probably time to cut the cake,” I say, giving Ava another smile before walking away.
When we moved to North Bay, Mom rented the upstairs apartment above The Shack, which is how she met Des. They sparked a friendship, and the rest is history. We continued to live there, even though Mom eventually made enough money to move elsewhere. She’s still never left. It’s her home, I suppose.
I climb the narrow stairwell connected to the kitchen, gently pushing open the apartment door. Mom is sitting on the living room floor in front of a massive gift-wrapped box.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she mumbles, a strip of tape between her teeth.
“You spent too much time decorating for the party.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossed.
“I know. I just wanted the place to look perfect. And it does, doesn’t it? You picked the most adorable decorations. I love the cake. And that little sign for her high chair.”
Mom tacks the tape to the box and sits back, pleased. She leans on the present for stability and stands.
“Do I even want to know what you’ve bought her this time?”
“I’ve got one granddaughter. Let me spoil her.” She walks over and squeezes my hand. “Speaking of gifts, I got you a little something.”
I poke my head into the hallway to hear what’s going on downstairs. “We have people waiting.”
“It’ll only take a second.” She pushes the hair off her face, and I notice the sparse gray strands starting to peek through. She takes a small pink box out of her pocket. “Today is about Ava, yes. But it’s a special day for you, too. People always forget the mother’s role.”
Here I am, thinking my efforts go unseen, thinking I’m not enough. Mom always has a way of reminding me that I am. She’s the partner I need when the weight becomes too heavy. And she’s right: throughout the day, my mind has revisited where we were a year ago, the intimate details of Ava’s birth story. Somehow, the event seems like yesterday, and yet here we are a year later, celebrating it. The joy and the pain. It takes both to make a life. It takes both to live one.
I open the gift. It’s a ring with three pearls. Each is a different color: black, white and pink.
“Mom, you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to get you something. You’ve sacrificed a lot over this past year, and, honestly, I couldn’t be prouder. I thought I was lucky having you for a daughter. You’re an even better mother.”
We’ve not always had this friendship, Mom and me. Most mothers argue with their teenage daughters, and we were no exception. But since I entered adulthood, we’ve become much closer. Best friends, really. And since I’ve had Ava—my goodness, I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, sliding the ring down my finger.
“The different colors reminded me of the three of us. You, Ava and me.”
I hug her, resting my cheek against her shoulder. “Thank you, Mom. For everything.”
I help her carry Ava’s gift downstairs. We place it by the present table, where the cake sits at the center. There’s a unicorn cake topper on the top layer. Carmen’s idea. It’s fitting, I suppose. Like Ava herself is a mythical creature, rare and beautiful. Ava was never a guarantee, that’s for sure. She’s a gift. My little miracle. Now she’s here, smiling at everyone that passes, equal parts overwhelmed and mesmerized.
Carmen is holding her, probably so Des can fetch the next pizza. Carmen is deep in conversation with Holly Dale. I only catch the tail end as I approach.
“I’m just saying, I think it would get to me,” Holly says, one hand on her hip, the tattoo on her bicep on full display. “How can you defend people who willingly break the law?”
I puff out my cheeks, bracing for Carmen’s response. Holly is a wannabe activist, the causes ever-changing. Of course, she can’t understand Carmen’s career as a defense attorney.
“It’s about due process. I’m doing my part for justice, even if others don’t see it that way,” Carmen says, shifting her weight to better hold Ava. “People tend to view crime as black or white. Did they do it, or didn’t they? I focus on the less obvious question: why? That why provides more than motive, it provides context. It can take a straitlaced juror and make them question their own ideals. Would they react in the same way? Was the action justified, or at least understandable?”
“Maybe we should get some pizza,” Michael tries to interject. Neither Carmen nor Holly acknowledge him, and he slowly backs away.
“Wrong is wrong,” Holly says, crossing an arm over her torso. “There is no justifying it. Just admit it. You’re in it for the money, even if that means letting criminals roam the streets.”
“I believe in second chances. I believe we all make mistakes, and in the depths of failure, we aren’t in the right headspace to find our way out of it. That’s where I come in.”
“Hey, guys,” I say, loud enough to gain control of the conversation. “We’re about to cut the cake if you want to head over there.”
“Please,” Carmen says. She’s not one to turn down a good debate, even if we are at a one-year-old’s birthday party. As she’s about to hand Ava to me, I spy a cluster of people hovering by the front door.
“Put her in the high chair for me? I’ll be right back.”
I step outside, propping the door open with my foot. The afternoon heat hits me all at once.
“We’re hosting a private party,” I explain. “If you want to come back in an hour—”
“Is there a Sarah Paxton here?” a man asks.
Only then do I register their dark clothing. Their badges. These are police officers. I look behind him, spying a trio of squad cars, their lights blinking.
“I don’t know anyone with that name,” I say, wondering why there seems to be so many officers on the scene.
The man looks
to the person next to him. They’re both wearing sunglasses, so it is hard to read their expressions. Something tells me they were expecting that response.
“And your name?” asks the second officer, his uniform tight across his shoulders and chest. The Shack is big with the local police department. I think I’ve seen him before, but it’s hard to tell.
“I’m Marion Sams. I own this restaurant. I don’t know a woman named Sarah Paxton.”
“How about Eileen Sams?” asks the first officer. I’m sure he picked up on the last name.
My stomach clenches tight. Mom? What could they possibly want with her? All these men wouldn’t show up for a simple traffic violation. And their overall tone, combined with their sheer quantity, makes me think this is serious.
“Can you tell me what is going on?” I ask, my voice calm, practical. “I’m hosting my daughter’s birthday party.”
“I need to know if Eileen Sams is on the premises. We have a warrant—”
“I’m Eileen Sams,” Mom says, standing behind me. She looks between me and the officers, her face as surprised as mine.
“Step outside, ma’am,” says the officer.
Mom looks down, obeying his order. From inside, I can hear Des.
“Marion, are we doing the cake or what?”
I don’t answer her. I’m following Mom outside. With the front door closed, they ask her to turn around. They’re placing her hands behind her back and reaching for handcuffs.
Not My Mother Page 1
