The Quiet Girl by S. F. Kosa
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 2.3 MB
Good girls keep quiet. Quiet girls won’t stay silent forever.
When Alex arrives in Provincetown to patch things up with his new wife, he finds an empty wine glass in the sink, her wedding ring on the desk, and a string of questions in her wake. The police believe that Alex’s wife simply left, his marriage crumbling before it truly began. But what Alex finds in their empty cottage points him toward a different reality:
His wife has always carried a secret. And now she’s disappeared.
In his hunt for the truth, Alex comes across Layla, a young woman with information to share, who may hold the key to everything his wife has kept hidden. A girl without a clear recollection of her own past. A strange, quiet girl whose memories may break them all.
To find his wife, Alex must face what Layla has forgotten. And the consequences are anything but quiet.
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.”