Daughter of Deep Silence by Carrie Ryan Read Free Book Online Page A

been standing in front of a mirror staring at a stranger. I wasn’t yet Libby but I was no longer Frances. I hadn’t gained back weight after the rescue, I no longer had the energy to brush my hair. Nightmares stole sleep at every opportunity.
    All I could do was replay the attack on the
Persephone
endlessly. Trying to find the clues I’d missed, the ones that would have allowed me to save my parents. Hating myself. No—reviling myself and wishing I’d died out on the ocean instead of Libby.
    Knowing I didn’t deserve to have survived.
    The same emotions rolled through me unceasing: rage, despair, horror. All with an undercurrent of helplessness. That was the one I could never escape: the helplessness.
    And in that moment, staring at myself, despising myself, wishing myself dead, one word began glowing in the back of my mind. The only brightness in the black I’d plunged myself into.
    Truth
.
    Another, darker word followed quickly after.
    Revenge
.
    Whispering the words aloud had been like lancing an infected wound—the relief was immediate, the pressure finally relieved. The words were a box into which I could put all those crushing emotions. A way to store them for a while as I figured out how to recover.
    Because suddenly I knew what to do. I saw a way forward. I decided that I would fight. I would use rage to push back the ragged edges of my grief. I would become Libby, I would recover my strength, I would bide my time, and I would plan.
    Then one day, I would put those plans in action.

EIGHT
    I run into Shepherd in the foyer. He’s wearing the same shorts and T-shirt from before, his feet bare. “The fund-raiser for Senator Wells starts soon,” I point out.
    He glances at me, his eyes quickly taking in my appearance. A muscle along his jaw tenses. “And?” he asks.
    “And you’re not ready.”
    He lifts his eyebrows. “Right. Because I’m not going.”
    “Why not? You’re the one running the conservation and the whole point of hosting this thing is because the Senator supported Cecil’s efforts along the coast.”
    Shepherd stares at me for a long moment. “So you call him Cecil now?”
    My fingers twitch, wanting to ball into a fist with frustration at the stupid misstep. I let my gaze fall to the floor, searching for a quick explanation. “I guess it’s easier to deal with the fact that he’s gone if I call him Cecil instead of Dad.” I add in a chin wobble and it’s enough that Shepherd doesn’t press the point.
    “I’m not going to the reception because Senator Wells is a douche,” he says instead. I cough to cover my surprised laugh and his eyes lose some of their hostility toward me, but none of the passion for the subject. “He pays lip service to environmentalism and conservation, but does nothing to back it up. If anything, he’s a proponent of development. He’s been pushing bills through congress to expand drilling on protected land and even convincing his crony friends to build on Caldwell.”
    “But don’t you think that if Dad were still alive he’d be the one hosting—”
    He cuts me off. “Cecil hated the Senator—hated it when the guy built down the island. So, no, Cecil wouldn’t have done anything that involved Senator Wells.”
    The doorbell rings, interrupting. I realize that in the course of arguing we’ve stepped toward each other and are now uncomfortably close. We stand that way for a beat longer than necessary. I let him take in the familiar smell of Libby’s shampoo, the soft scent of the rosewater sachet she hung in her closet. Even her deodorant is the same as it was four years ago.
    Scent is one of the most powerful memory triggers and I know that right now Shepherd’s mind is on fire with memories of Libby. And now he’ll associate every single one of those memories with me: the young woman standing in front of him. Tying me in the present to the girl of his past.
    He’s the one to step away, his expression somewhat haunted. His eyes sweep my