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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by S. F. Kosa

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Ervin Serrano

  Cover image © knape/Getty Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Kosa, S.F., author.

  Title: The quiet girl / S. F. Kosa.

  Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2020]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019056944 | (trade paperback)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Suspense fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3606.I5337 Q54 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019056944

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Monday, July 27

  Wednesday, July 29

  Chapter One

  Wednesday, July 29, to Thursday, July 30

  Chapter Two

  Friday, July 31, to Saturday, August 1

  Chapter Three

  Sunday, August 2, to Monday, August 3

  Chapter Four

  Monday, August 3

  Chapter Five

  Monday, August 3, to Wednesday, August 5

  Chapter Six

  Wednesday, August 5

  Chapter Seven

  Thursday, August 6

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, August 6

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, August 7

  Chapter Ten

  Friday, August 7

  Chapter Eleven

  Saturday, August 8

  Chapter Twelve

  Saturday, August 8, to Sunday, August 9

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday, August 9

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sunday, August 9

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday, August 9

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday, August 9

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday, August 9

  Epilogue

  Thursday, September 10

  Reading Group Guide

  A Conversation with the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For Peter, who held my hand

  as we leapt into the unknown together.

  Monday, July 27

  The batter flowed in undulating ribbons and melted into a smooth, creamy lake. Mina scraped every bit from the bowl before shaking each cake pan to settle the contents. Everything had to be perfect.

  When the pans were safely ensconced at 350 degrees, she moved to the next step. Humming a long-ago tune, she poured the premeasured and sifted powdered sugar into the mixing bowl over the softened butter and the extract, just enough to do the trick without overwhelming the flavor.

  Baking was chemistry. Baking was precision. Never more than today.

  When the frosting was the right consistency, she separated half into three bowls and used the droppers to apply the colors. Blue for innocence. Yellow for youth. Pink for so many things. Love. Warmth.

  Pain.

  The effect would be neat. Cheerful. Enough to leaven a sultry summer night, draw the hands to the plate, the fork to the mouth, a smile to the lips.

  Once the frosting bags and tips were assembled, she sat on the floor in front of the oven. The cakes had turned golden, but she would wait for the timer. She’d learned to trust herself in most things, but time was an entity she’d never mastered. She was always losing track. She couldn’t keep it still or reliably pin all the bits of her past into proper temporal position. Even now, now of all times, she could feel it turning slippery.

  She closed her eyes. Not long now.

  The timer went off. She jerked, startled even though she had known it was coming. Wasn’t that always the way of it?

  Waiting for the cakes to cool was the hardest part, but she filled the time with cleaning. She was so good at it, good at making things pristine. The dishes. The counters. The floors. Herself. She smiled as she remembered how recently it hadn’t been necessary. Every second of messiness, at once hard-earned and effortless, had been worth fighting for. It had given her hope. But she’d been foolish to think she could escape that easily.

  Once the heat had bled from the layers, she placed the first on the plastic base and topped it with a generous layer of icing, to be sandwiched between slabs of cake. Of course, that part had to be pink. A nice effect during the cutting process, like slicing deep enough to reach a vein.

  After adding the top layer and completing the crumb coat, she applied the white outer layer. Thick and even like new snow, covering all that lay soft and fragile beneath. Next, the frosting bag and Russian piping tip. It had taken a lot of practice to keep the flowers from looking like spiky piles of chaos, but now she was a pro. Soon, the cake was a garden of delight, a riot of color, a treat for the senses.

  She donned dishwashing gloves and washed all the extra frosting down the drain, then cleaned the bags and tips by hand, lots of soap, once, then again. She tucked each piece into her decorating kit and slid it into its slot in the cupboard. Alex complained that she didn’t put things away properly, but he was wrong.

  She did, when it mattered.

  The cake was perfect. She turned it this way and that, making sure it didn’t have a bad side. Just like she’d been taught. Then she trapped it under the floral tin dome and attached the wire handles. Ready for transport.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and drank it down. One for the road. It unfurled in her bloodstream, loosening knotted muscles, allowing her to breathe, allowing her to move.

  She reached for her keys, then caught a glimpse of her hands. No, this wasn’t right.

  He would never understand, but he didn’t need to. Because he would never know.

  She made the necessary adjustments and stepped into the bathroom. That face in the mirror. Her face, every feature and flaw. And then she recited the line, the one that resonated even now. Especially now. “I know who you are,” she whispered.

  The minut
es were slipping away, but she allowed herself to stare until her eyes shone.

  Then she blinked.

  Time to go.

  Wednesday, July 29

  I make it to the pier with five minutes to spare, thanks to the driver’s valiant swerving along Seaport Boulevard. With a quick thanks, I’m out of the Lyft and charging for the Bay State ticket booth, phone chiming in one hand and a backpack clutched in the other.

  “Zarabian,” I say to the attendant before he has a chance to ask. “Alex.” After glancing at the screen of my phone and seeing it’s not Mina, I silence the damn thing. Everything else can wait.

  God, how I wish that were true. I set the phone on vibrate, and it instantly buzzes against my palm. Still not Mina. It’s going to take more than a slew of conciliatory texts to fix this, and that’s why I’m skipping town forty-eight hours early. “I called this morning,” I say to the guy in the booth. “To change the ticket.”

  He squints at his screen and hesitantly types a few letters. “Arabian, you said?”

  I say my last name again, then spell it. “I’d hate to miss the boat,” I add, as if that’s going to make a difference to him.

  He shifts his weight as he taps the keys. “Round trip. Coming back Sunday.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” I watch as the printer extrudes my ticket, as he plucks it from the slot in no apparent hurry.

  “Make sure you keep the return part,” he drones. “You’ll have to pay if they need to reprint it for you in Provincetown…”

  I’ve snatched it from his fingers before he’s finished talking. His voice fades as I jog down the walkway. The usual line has dissipated; everybody else is already on board, and the boat’s engines are running. I offer my ticket to the guy standing near the gangway, and he tears off the top and hands me the rest. He’s a young, bored bro sweating under the summer sun, and as my phone buzzes again, I feel envious of him and the job he can simply leave behind at five every day.

  “Have a great trip,” he mumbles.

  A tangle of bikes clogs the bow, and the strap of my pack catches on a handlebar when I try to edge by. My T-shirt is sticking to my back, and the bar is singing my name. I duck into the first-floor cabin and toss my bag onto one of the last available seats. It’s a booth, and there’s a couple already sitting there, two guys with their tans and their polos and their boat shoes and their shorts, one pair pink with embroidered skulls and crossbones, the other yellow with martini glasses.

  Yellow Martini looks startled when my bag lands next to him, but Pink Pirate smiles. “Plenty of room,” he says. He sees me eye the line stretching from the bartender to the bow, then lifts his own Bloody Mary. “Not gonna win any awards, but still worth every penny.”

  I give him a quick nod, already contemplating standing on the top deck for the ride. Not in the mood to make new friends. There’s been a knot in my gut since Mina left Monday morning, shoving her laptop and legal pads into her bag, murmuring that she needed time while I sat at the table with my lukewarm coffee and my tongue cocked, ready to pick up the fight where we left off.

  With every hour between that moment and this one, all my righteousness has been sanded off. I’m raw now, stinging with the memory of the words I spat at her and the way she looked as they struck home, eyes wide and vacant like her brain was already on Route 6, miles away from me, from us. I pull out my phone and tap the messages icon, then her name.

  Monday, 12:53 p.m.: Mina, we should talk. I was too harsh last night.

  Monday, 11:17 p.m.: I love you. I don’t like the way we left things.

  Tuesday, 8:01 a.m.: Please respond. I’m sorry.

  Tuesday, 11:42 a.m.: Don’t punish me like this. I asked when we could start a family and you’re acting like I ordered you to murder a puppy.

  Tuesday, 4:35 p.m.: Sorry for being a dick. This is difficult for me. I’m trying to give you space. I love you.

  Tuesday, 9:26 p.m.: I love you. Please let me know how you’re doing.

  Tuesday, 11:48 p.m.: Mina?

  I’d be more worried about her, but she can be this way, especially when she’s on deadline. She disappears into her stories, her characters. She goes off to her cottage, lets her phone die, and sometimes forgets to eat. I knew this was part of the deal, and I do my best not to take it personally, but Jesus. This time, it’s hard.

  The ferry lurches into motion and glides through Boston Harbor, beginning its swoop along the South Shore before angling toward the tip of Cape Cod. Ninety minutes to MacMillan Pier, less than two hours to Mina. As the line for the bar inches forward, I consider texting her one last time to let her know I’m on my way, but then I think better of it. Though I’m not great at romantic gestures, this situation seems to call for one, and my texts haven’t yielded results thus far. I pull up a browser, find the florist closest to the pier, and order a bouquet. I’m not even off the phone before it buzzes with a text.

  Not from Mina, but just as good, which is a weird thing to say about a message from one’s ex. I smile as a picture of my daughter fills the screen, gap-toothed grin, dark eyes bright, hair wet, and skinny arms encircled with orange floaties. She ducked her head under water today. She wanted me to tell you that she’s not scared anymore!

  I run my thumb across the image of my kid—this perfect little person who inexplicably thinks I know everything and am the best person in the world, who has my eyes but her mother’s dimples—and tap out a reply. Tell Devon I’m proud of her. I’ll take her to the pool next weekend.

  Caitlin’s response comes within seconds, leaving me to wrestle aside the irony that my ex-wife is speaking to me when my current wife is not. You should have seen her today. It all just clicked and now she’s like a little fish. The instructor is great. You were right that we shouldn’t let her avoid the water.

  “You were right.” Why didn’t you realize that when we were married? I add a winking emoji to convey the obvious, which is that even if she had and despite the fact that we seemed to have everything in the world going for us, we were probably doomed from the start.

  Very funny. See you on Monday? Or is Mina picking her up next week?

  My stomach goes tight. Not sure yet. I’ll let you know.

  I’ve only just gotten my beer when the phone buzzes yet again, and yet again, the text is not from my wife.

  It’s from my boss: Hey, asshole.

  My reply: Why are you bothering me right now?

  He’s also my best friend. My phone rings a second later.

  “Our new assistant was just dippy enough to tell me you were headed out of town.”

  I roll my eyes. “Please fire him. Harvard doesn’t make ’em like they used to.”

  “Says the guy who went to BU. Everything okay?”

  I take a gulp of my beer and step out onto the rear deck of the ferry. “I’ll do the board meeting by phone tomorrow.”

  Drew is quiet for a moment. “You didn’t answer my question. Is it your mom?”

  “Nah. I talked to her yesterday. Her scans still look good. She wants to take Devon for a few days next month.”

  “Caitlin’s on board with that?”

  “Hell yeah. She wants to take off for a week with her new guy.”

  “Brad?”

  “You’re behind the times. Ryan. I met him a week or so ago. Quite a beard.”

  “Sounds like a dick. And speaking of—you have to be on top of your game for the Pinewell meeting tomorrow.”

  I bow my head. “I had Raj reschedule for Monday.”

  “Alex. What the hell. Now I’m worried.”

  “Don’t be.” I’d never get away with this if I hadn’t known Drew since we were in diapers. Any other CEO would be screaming. “I’m on this.”

  “I’m still wondering if there’s a way to do this without VC funding. Those smug bastards undervalued us by 90 percent. They’re fucking shark
s.”

  I keep my voice level as I talk Drew off the ledge for the hundredth time. “We’re never going to get CaX429 to the clinic without learning how to swim with them. And if they do walk, that’s it for Series A, and we’re not the only ones who’ll be fucked.” My mom will lose her investment—along with about twenty other family members and friends we convinced to hop on board. Guilt rises like bile in my throat.

  “How about I meet with them in your place?” he suggests. “Try to get through to them. I’m the fucking CEO! And I’m—”

  “Drew.” I bark his name loud enough that it swivels the heads of a couple leaning against the rail in front of me. I turn away and lower my voice. “The meeting is with their number cruncher, not the partners. It’s below your pay grade, and they were fine when I asked them to reschedule.” Not to mention, if Drew goes in there and acts all outraged that they don’t think we’re a unicorn that shits diamonds, it could actually finish us off. We’ve struck out with every other VC firm in Boston, and we’ll burn through the last of our angel funding by January, easy.

  “I’ve gone over my model a thousand times,” I tell him. “It’s solid. I’ll call in tomorrow for the board meeting. Everything’s fine. I just needed to step away for a minute.”

  “Something going on with Mina,” he says. It’s not even a question.

  “It’s fine.” With my eyes squeezed shut, I add, “It’s probably fine.”

  “You guys’ll settle into it. You knew it would be an adjustment.” He’s too loyal to say what he’s probably thinking and what my mom, who has no filter to speak of, straight up said to me a week before the wedding: Whirlwind romances are a wonderful thing, but sooner or later, reality bites you in the butt.

  “Just don’t panic,” he adds. “It’s not like this is the rainbow flame.”

  I laugh as he invokes an inside joke that runs all the way back to the day our high school chemistry teacher accidentally set his entire desk ablaze while trying to inspire a roomful of bored sophomores to appreciate the mystical joys of atomic composition.

  “Definitely not the rainbow flame.” The knot in my gut loosens.

  Another beat of silence. “Let me know if you want to get a beer after the Pinewell thing,” he says. “Whether things are on fire or not.”