Debut author Rebecca Mahoney delivers an immersive and captivating novel about magical places, found family, the power of grief and memory, and the journey toward reconciling who you think you’ve become with the person you’ve been all along.

Scroll down to start reading The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney

My taillights cut a path down the desert road, flickering with every blink of my hazards. I slide sideways in the driver’s seat until my feet touch pavement, and I look past my trunk, past the steady rhythm of the lights, past where I can see anything at all. But it doesn’t look like anyone else is coming.

And of course they aren’t. It’s been two hours since I merged onto the 15. It’s been fifteen minutes since I drove down an unfamiliar exit, following signs for a gas station—which, if it even exists, is still not close enough to see. The only sign of life out here is a radio tower, miles away, blinking its own rhythm back at me. And the people at my destination aren’t expecting me.

It’s all of the things that a driver, alone in the middle of the night, isn’t supposed to do. And most of it was on purpose.

I reach across the dashboard past the radio, blaring the only all-night station I can still get from Vegas, and I unlatch the glove compartment. My hand stays with the door as it descends, ready to close it again the moment I see headlights approaching. But I don’t have that kind of luck.

My laugh comes out as a breath as my fingers find what they’re looking for, just past the car manual and under a pile of napkins: the smooth, cold screen of my phone. It’s like the setup to a joke my stepfather would tell. I thought we were supposed to be the ones hiding your phone, Rosie. That’s what he’d probably say, if he knew about any of this.

It sits flat in my palm, screen blank. I haven’t heard it once since I left Las Vegas. It should be safe to check.

No bars. No signal. That would be why.

“Okay,” I whisper to the lit screen in my hand. “No sudden moves.”

It doesn’t have anything to say to that. Which is what I appreciate about inanimate objects: no backtalk. But this time, I’d really like its word.

I leave the door open behind me as I follow the path of my hazards. The phone is an arm’s length away like a scout, and I watch the top corner of the screen for a signal. The way ahead flickers in and out, and I stop only at the very edge, where the road back to Nevada extends into the dark. For a second, a bar pops into view. It doesn’t last.

It lasts long enough, though. The phone buzzes once.

My arm jerks back hard, without my permission, and the phone lands facedown on the road.

The sound is dramatic enough that for one wildly hopeful second, I think it must be broken. But when I pick it up, the screen is still lit through a spiderweb of cracks. Like I said, I don’t have that kind of luck.

Two missed calls.

Two voicemails.

And still, zero bars.

Behind me, back in the car, the easy listening jazz fades away, and a soft voice filters through the rolled-down windows. We hope you’re still with us, Las Vegas, the announcer murmurs. You’re listening to KLVZ. And don’t you even think of going to bed, because we’ll be here all night.

“And so,” I say to the dark ribbon of pavement, “will I.”

A shiver of static cuts the signal, and when my head snaps toward it, I can see how far I’ve strayed down the road. I backtrack carefully, as if my footsteps might stir something that the radio hasn’t, and I slide my fingers under the hood to pop the latch. I’ve never fixed Stanley without my mother here before, but maybe the problem will be obvious.

The problem is not obvious. The only thing that’s obvious is that Stanley won’t be starting up again anytime soon. He lets out a little hiss and a puff of steam, and that’s about the only answer I get from him.

“Oh, baby,” I say. “What did I do to you?”

Stanley the Sedan, who has all the sparkle and stamina of his eighth-grade-history-teacher namesake, has never tolerated long drives under the desert sun. Though up until fifteen minutes ago, the desert nights suited him just fine.

I shiver. It’s hard to imagine the desert sun now. My thin T-shirt might as well be paper against the wind. I had a sweatshirt at some point, but when I checked my bag a few minutes ago, I didn’t see it. Still in Vegas, if I had to guess.

Behind me, the breeze picks up. And something rustles.

I look, though I know there’s no one there. Even if there were, the most expensive thing I own is right here, the gently smoking Volvo that no one in their right mind would steal. But I climb into the driver’s seat and lock the doors.

The radio signal wavers, first to static, then to the kind of thready hum that aspires to static. “Oh, come on,” I mutter, nudging the knob left, to the low, low stations. But despite the radio’s promise, it doesn’t look like it’s going to be here all night.

This is how we die. That’s what my best friend, Gaby, would say, were she here.

“This isn’t how we die,” I murmur to the passenger’s seat.

This is absolutely how we die, Gaby would respond. Desert, middle of the night, waiting for some stranger to give us a lift? We are super getting murdered. Be on the lookout for Rose Colter and Gabrielle Summer, last seen in the back seat of an unmarked van.

Were Gaby actually sitting next to me, I might remind her that I’ve been listening to her compendium of scary stories and urban legends since we were five. In all the interesting stories, we would be the monsters.

I balance my phone on my palm, weighing my options, the silence of the desert versus the two missed calls sitting in my voicemail. Carefully, I hit play. One thing I know for sure now: if someone’s calling you in the middle of the night, it’s not to say hi.

Rosie? My mother’s voice comes through first. She sounds tense, tired—but not like anything is wrong. I’ve gotten good at telling the difference. Can you call me tomorrow, even for a few minutes? Dan and I wanted to check when you’d be home.

There’s a pause. In the silence, I think I can hear one of my brother Sammy’s cartoons.

If—if you change your mind, I can drive over right away, she says. I already told Kathy I might have to take some time off, so. She leaves the thought unfinished. Give Jon and Flora a hug for me. I love you.

I flinch. I know she loves me, obviously. But she never used to say it so much.

The message comes to an end, and the voice changes from Mom’s sleepy contralto to Flora Summer’s voice, wavering like a tuning bowstring. Even in the best circumstances, she never sounds entirely sure of herself, like every sentence comes with a hidden question mark. Gaby used to say that her mom held conversations like she was trying to walk and talk and check for snipers all at once.

Rosie? Flora says. I—I know you’re probably driving. But if you get this, I wanted to tell you that you can come back, even if it’s late. We have more than enough room for both of you here, so . . .

She clears her throat, hard. Please call me. I want you both to be part of this. And the message ends there.

I don’t notice until that moment that my fist has been clenched the entire time.

I wasn’t being totally truthful before. I don’t think you need to be that truthful when the only person you’re talking to is yourself. And I didn’t say anything untrue: I did want the road to myself, and my car wouldn’t have survived a daytime drive. But there’s only one reason why I’m here, one reason why I left Vegas just before midnight, four days before I was supposed to: to get out as quickly as possible.

I lose track of the phone for a second after the message ends. The second lasts long enough that the first saved message begins to play.

Rose—

My hand scrabbles across the dashboard, and I jam my thumb against the cracked screen hard enough that for a second I think I’ve deleted the message instead of stopping it. But I didn’t. I didn’t. I stare at Gaby’s name long enough to convince myself of that.

Over the blood pounding in my ears, I hear myself descend into nauseous laughter. It might have solved some of my problems if I had deleted it.

Fingers still shaking, I delete my mother’s message, and then Flora Summer’s. I leave Gaby’s right where it is, and I tuck the phone back into the glove compartment.

And then it’s quiet again. Just me and the desert.

This far away from the cities, with all the different patterns of light and distance, the night sky ripples like water. This time last year, that was what I would have been here for: to spread a blanket across the dirt and watch the stars scrape against the edges of the universe.

Gaby would have been here. And let’s be honest, we’d be driving already. She’d hack into some rancher’s Wi-Fi and find some engine repair how-to. She used to brag that she had as many talents as there were videos on YouTube. My own talents are a bit less practical.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back. I’m not sure how long I stay like that. Or how long the noise goes on without me noticing.

. . . re?

I sit up, dead straight. But it’s as quiet as it was before.

Until I hear it again.

Ro . . . are . . .

I open the glove compartment, but the cracked screen of my phone is black. It’s not until I hear the crackle of static that I remember the radio.

It’s still at the low, low station I left it at before, but this broadcast is coming from somewhere else. The sound is uneven, unclear. But I’m close.

Very gently, I turn the knob clockwise, but even that’s too much. The static is worse now. Out of the corner of my eye, the radio tower blinks. And I wonder.

Ro . . . are . . . ere?

I breathe in, slowly, to steady my hand. And I give the knob the slightest flick to the left.

The sound is crystal clear this time. Clear enough that before the voice speaks again, I hear her shaky inhale.

Rose? Gaby says. Are you there?

I hear the next word form in the back of her throat. But I can’t make it out, I never can. I hear muffled words behind her, definitely male. And the call ends as it always does: with a swish of air.

And then it begins to play again.

Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there? Rose—

All of a sudden, there’s hard, heavy breaths, drowning out the message. Mine. I jump out of the car, sure that I’m going to be sick, but before I get the chance, I catch sight of it again. West of the road. The tower, its light blinking in time with the cadence of Gaby’s voice.

Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there?

I’m not sure if I make a real decision. It’s an instinct almost as old as I am: go to Gaby.

I packed light. All I’ve got to carry is my backpack—and I do, wrenching it out of the trunk and onto my shoulders. I’m already moving as I turn, but I double back, reach in through the window of the car to snatch my phone from the glove compartment and my keys from the ignition.

The tower’s still visible, still blinking. Not too far away.

I turn the broadcast off. But I can still hear the echo, looping through the back of my brain: Rose, are you there? Rose, are you there?

Three hundred sixty-one days ago, that voicemail, timestamped 1:05 a.m., was waiting for me when I woke up. One single short voicemail from Gaby, just minutes before she left the New Year’s Eve party at Ariella Kaplan’s cabin. I wasn’t there. And she wasn’t expecting me.

That wouldn’t have been so unusual. Despite what people thought, we didn’t do everything together. As long as I had known her, Gaby had always had more. More friends, more energy, more willingness to try whatever. She was brave. She was fun.

She was killed three hundred and sixty-one days ago, in the early hours of the morning, at the corner of Sutton and Chamblys.

I leave the road. And as I start to run, my car, the broadcast, and the rest of the world fall away.

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