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
PrologueAmelia
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 MarionNow
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
