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
