Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan Read Free Book Online

and keratin treatments, my hair is shiny smooth, cascading to my shoulder blades in dark waves. With the help of tinted contacts, my eyes take on a darker brown tint that I then emphasize with purple-tinted mascara. Properly applied bronzer takes a bit of the roundness out of my cheekbones and highlight powder lengthens the appearance of my neck.
    I watch myself smile, the corner of one side tilting higher, just like in all the photographs downstairs. Anything even remotely Frances has been steadfastly and systematically eradicated.
    Everything about me is perfected and polished, and thoroughly, thoroughly Libby.
    Though becoming her on the outside may have been a bit of a struggle in the beginning, it’s now merely a set of routines and habits. I’ve been practicing for so long that most of it is secondhand. Convincing Shepherd of my identity was my first test. Tonight will be the second.
    If I can pull it off—if I can convince Grey and his father that I’m Libby—then the rest of my plan will fall easily into place. And if I fail . . . I shake my head, refusing even the possibility.
    Before heading downstairs, I reach for my purse and slip free an old, tightly folded piece of newspaper from my wallet. I open it carefully, smoothing down the edges, and stare at the old me.
    According to her gravestone, Frances Amelia Mace died on March 21, 2011. She’d just turned fourteen the week before. The newspapers ran her photo along with all the other passengers who died on the
Persephone
.
    I collected all the articles, hoarding every clip I could find—anything that mentioned Frances Mace. At night, when the rest of school was in bed asleep, I’d pull an old metal lockbox from under my bed and spread the yellowing pages across the floor.
    A hundred Franceses all staring back at me. Perpetually frozen in time. Just a girl—nothing special about her. Only child. Midwestern roots. Awkward smile.
    The picture wasn’t the most flattering and I felt sorry for that. All over the world people would remember Frances as she existed in the class photo taken at the beginning of eighth grade: slightly blurry, one of her earrings tangled in her brown hair at that unfortunate stage of being grown out, braces peeking between chapped lips. Eyes hesitant, as though the man behind the camera had promised to count to three but snapped the photo on two.
    Anyone glancing at that picture would know exactly what kind of girl Frances had been. Normal. Average. Typical. She’d had crushes on boys and flirted clumsily. The first time she’d held hands with a guy, she focused more on the sweat of her palm than the feel of his fingers laced with hers.
    She’d spent hours texting and chatting with friends, dissecting conversations with guys for deeper meanings. At night, she’d daydreamed elaborate scenarios that would inevitably throw her and the boy of her dreams together—trapped in an elevator or an avalanche or on a deserted island.
    There was nothing in her life she didn’t approach with a fearful passion, one eye trained on those around her, always anticipating their potential judgment; the other eye trained on the wilds of her imagination. The unrestrained belief that nothing in life would ever truly be off-limits. That it was only a matter of time.
    It hadn’t seemed fair how quickly she’d been forgotten. For a few months her various social media accounts had displayed notes of shock and sorrow over her sudden death. People posted photos of her and shared their favorite memories. But eventually those had faded. Her friends had grown and changed, struck new allegiances in school. Moved on.
    I envied them at times. Being able to forget Frances. I’d been unable to. In the early days after the
Persephone
, Frances’s rage and pain became so overwhelming that daily life was impossible. Cecil took care of her then, in a remote European hospital with an army of nurses and specialists—therapists and drugs.
    And then one day, I’d