Not My Mother

by Miranda Smith

Genres: Women's Fiction; Crime Fiction; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

“Wow… A fantastic, gripping read. As soon as I started reading it I knew I was going to love it, it grabbed me straight away and I couldn't put it down. I finished it in 2 sittings, staying up very late and then getting up very early as I just wanted to know how it was all going to finish.” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

What if the person you trust most in the world is lying to you? I’d heard of the Baby Caroline case, of course. When a baby is snatched from her mother’s arms, the whole country knows about it. I knew about the parents left lying by the swimming pool, the open window in the nursery. But I never dreamed it had anything to do with me. Today, my beautiful daughter turned one. We were unwrapping gifts and blowing out candles when the knock came at the door, and they took my mother away. The police say she’s not really my mother. That she stole me, thirty years ago. When I visit her, desperate for answers, she looks me in the eye, and says nothing. I can barely breathe. Is my whole life a lie? I have to find out, but the more I learn, the more scared I become. And soon I start to wonder, am I losing my grip on reality or is my own daughter in terrible danger? An absolutely gripping psychological thriller, perfect for fans of Gillian Flynn, Ruth Ware and Lisa Jewell. See what readers are saying about Not My Mother : “Absolutely addictive and gripping… Filled with twists and turns which will knock you sideways… It had me on the edge of my seat biting my nails and staying awake late at night to find out what happened next… I LOVED it” Bookworm 86, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Wow!… I devoured this in just one sitting and have been completely pulled in and addicted to this one… a magnificent masterpiece… a rollercoaster read and one I’ve thought about long after finishing. A definite five-star read ” Little Miss Book Lover 87 “ I did not want to put this book down!! It grabbed me from the first page and I had to force myself to stop reading ” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Amazing… I just couldn't stop reading it! Everytime I wanted to stop, my inner self screamed ‘One more chapter pleaseee’! ” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Absolutely amazing! It's twisty and shocking, it really kept me on the edge of my seat ” Books Candles Cats, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Wow!… So compelling that I literally have a burn on my arm from my straightener because I couldn’t even put it down to do my hair!… Sucks you in from the beginning and the plot twists just keep coming… highly recommend this one to any psychological thriller addicts!” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ You cannot put this book down!! It’s addicting. I loved it from the start to the very last page. I flew through the pages all afternoon.” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Loved it!… Chilling, unputdownable, and fast paced!… Will make you flip like a madman, needing it to finish… Lots of thrills, chills, twisty turns, and shocks! ” NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Absolutely the best psychological thriller I’ve read in a long time!… Will take you on the ride of your life ” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“From the beginning to the very end this book kept me page turning… I loved the twists, turns… I needed the answers! ” Musings by Maureen, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ Just does not let go… I could not put it down. Even my dog is in a sulk as I haven’t walked her yet… I had to finish this story first.” Goodreads reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“ So many twists and turns you don't know which way is up… Totally addictive… Knows how to bring out your goose bumps and give you whole body chills.” NetGalley reviewer, ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Release date: March 30, 2021

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 350

Sample

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 is perfect on her.”

“It was very generous of you,” I say.

“It’s a shame she’ll mess it up once she tears into that cake,” Des says, giving Ava a hearty cuddle.

“A true fashionista wouldn’t be caught dead in the same outfit twice,” Carmen says, nudging Des.

Looking at them, you wouldn’t think Carmen and Des had anything in common. Carmen is tall and slim, while Des is short and squat. Carmen appears polished in her high-waisted pants and blouse, where Des looks thrown together in flour-dusted joggers. It only takes a short conversation with the two women to see how like-minded they are. They both give as good as they get.

“The place looks great,” Michael says, giving the room another once-over. I’ve turned The Shack’s dining room into a pink and gold wonderland, an almost exact replica of the Pinterest board I started creating three months ago.

“Thank you.” And I am thankful. I need this reassurance.

I reach my hand out to Ava, letting her tiny fingers clench around mine. Her light blue eyes flit about, taking in the colors, the presents, the people. She appears happy. That’s all that matters.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I scan the screen to see who is calling.

It’s Evan.

Of course he’d be calling today. He probably doesn’t remember it’s Ava’s birthday, I tell myself. Or maybe he does and that is why he’s calling. Either way, I won’t answer. I switch the phone on silent, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans.

“Who’s that?” Carmen asks, having caught the look on my face.

“No one,” I say, looking around the room. “Anyone seen Mom?”

“She’s upstairs wrapping her gift,” Des answers.

“I’ll go get her. I’m sure the other parents are getting antsy. It’s probably time to cut the cake,” I say, giving Ava another smile before walking away.

When we moved to North Bay, Mom rented the upstairs apartment above The Shack, which is how she met Des. They sparked a friendship, and the rest is history. We continued to live there, even though Mom eventually made enough money to move elsewhere. She’s still never left. It’s her home, I suppose.

I climb the narrow stairwell connected to the kitchen, gently pushing open the apartment door. Mom is sitting on the living room floor in front of a massive gift-wrapped box.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she mumbles, a strip of tape between her teeth.

“You spent too much time decorating for the party.” I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossed.

“I know. I just wanted the place to look perfect. And it does, doesn’t it? You picked the most adorable decorations. I love the cake. And that little sign for her high chair.”

Mom tacks the tape to the box and sits back, pleased. She leans on the present for stability and stands.

“Do I even want to know what you’ve bought her this time?”

“I’ve got one granddaughter. Let me spoil her.” She walks over and squeezes my hand. “Speaking of gifts, I got you a little something.”

I poke my head into the hallway to hear what’s going on downstairs. “We have people waiting.”

“It’ll only take a second.” She pushes the hair off her face, and I notice the sparse gray strands starting to peek through. She takes a small pink box out of her pocket. “Today is about Ava, yes. But it’s a special day for you, too. People always forget the mother’s role.”

Here I am, thinking my efforts go unseen, thinking I’m not enough. Mom always has a way of reminding me that I am. She’s the partner I need when the weight becomes too heavy. And she’s right: throughout the day, my mind has revisited where we were a year ago, the intimate details of Ava’s birth story. Somehow, the event seems like yesterday, and yet here we are a year later, celebrating it. The joy and the pain. It takes both to make a life. It takes both to live one.

I open the gift. It’s a ring with three pearls. Each is a different color: black, white and pink.

“Mom, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to get you something. You’ve sacrificed a lot over this past year, and, honestly, I couldn’t be prouder. I thought I was lucky having you for a daughter. You’re an even better mother.”

We’ve not always had this friendship, Mom and me. Most mothers argue with their teenage daughters, and we were no exception. But since I entered adulthood, we’ve become much closer. Best friends, really. And since I’ve had Ava—my goodness, I don’t know what I’d do without her.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, sliding the ring down my finger.

“The different colors reminded me of the three of us. You, Ava and me.”

I hug her, resting my cheek against her shoulder. “Thank you, Mom. For everything.”

I help her carry Ava’s gift downstairs. We place it by the present table, where the cake sits at the center. There’s a unicorn cake topper on the top layer. Carmen’s idea. It’s fitting, I suppose. Like Ava herself is a mythical creature, rare and beautiful. Ava was never a guarantee, that’s for sure. She’s a gift. My little miracle. Now she’s here, smiling at everyone that passes, equal parts overwhelmed and mesmerized.

Carmen is holding her, probably so Des can fetch the next pizza. Carmen is deep in conversation with Holly Dale. I only catch the tail end as I approach.

“I’m just saying, I think it would get to me,” Holly says, one hand on her hip, the tattoo on her bicep on full display. “How can you defend people who willingly break the law?”

I puff out my cheeks, bracing for Carmen’s response. Holly is a wannabe activist, the causes ever-changing. Of course, she can’t understand Carmen’s career as a defense attorney.

“It’s about due process. I’m doing my part for justice, even if others don’t see it that way,” Carmen says, shifting her weight to better hold Ava. “People tend to view crime as black or white. Did they do it, or didn’t they? I focus on the less obvious question: why? That why provides more than motive, it provides context. It can take a straitlaced juror and make them question their own ideals. Would they react in the same way? Was the action justified, or at least understandable?”

“Maybe we should get some pizza,” Michael tries to interject. Neither Carmen nor Holly acknowledge him, and he slowly backs away.

“Wrong is wrong,” Holly says, crossing an arm over her torso. “There is no justifying it. Just admit it. You’re in it for the money, even if that means letting criminals roam the streets.”

“I believe in second chances. I believe we all make mistakes, and in the depths of failure, we aren’t in the right headspace to find our way out of it. That’s where I come in.”

“Hey, guys,” I say, loud enough to gain control of the conversation. “We’re about to cut the cake if you want to head over there.”

“Please,” Carmen says. She’s not one to turn down a good debate, even if we are at a one-year-old’s birthday party. As she’s about to hand Ava to me, I spy a cluster of people hovering by the front door.

“Put her in the high chair for me? I’ll be right back.”

I step outside, propping the door open with my foot. The afternoon heat hits me all at once.

“We’re hosting a private party,” I explain. “If you want to come back in an hour—”

“Is there a Sarah Paxton here?” a man asks.

Only then do I register their dark clothing. Their badges. These are police officers. I look behind him, spying a trio of squad cars, their lights blinking.

“I don’t know anyone with that name,” I say, wondering why there seems to be so many officers on the scene.

The man looks to the person next to him. They’re both wearing sunglasses, so it is hard to read their expressions. Something tells me they were expecting that response.

“And your name?” asks the second officer, his uniform tight across his shoulders and chest. The Shack is big with the local police department. I think I’ve seen him before, but it’s hard to tell.

“I’m Marion Sams. I own this restaurant. I don’t know a woman named Sarah Paxton.”

“How about Eileen Sams?” asks the first officer. I’m sure he picked up on the last name.

My stomach clenches tight. Mom? What could they possibly want with her? All these men wouldn’t show up for a simple traffic violation. And their overall tone, combined with their sheer quantity, makes me think this is serious.

“Can you tell me what is going on?” I ask, my voice calm, practical. “I’m hosting my daughter’s birthday party.”

“I need to know if Eileen Sams is on the premises. We have a warrant—”

“I’m Eileen Sams,” Mom says, standing behind me. She looks between me and the officers, her face as surprised as mine.

“Step outside, ma’am,” says the officer.

Mom looks down, obeying his order. From inside, I can hear Des.

“Marion, are we doing the cake or what?”

I don’t answer her. I’m following Mom outside. With the front door closed, they ask her to turn around. They’re placing her hands behind her back and reaching for handcuffs.

“Sarah Paxton, you have the right to remain silent—”

“What are you doing?” I push the arresting officer’s arm away. “I just told you I don’t know a Sarah Paxton. This is my mother.”

The second officer, the one with the tight uniform, steps forward, pulling me back. “Miss, we’re going to need you to step away—”

“Not until you tell me what is going on. You’ve got the wrong person.”

“Marion?” Mom’s voice is broken, as though she has been underwater too long, and struggling to gulp air. I sense she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Or can’t.

“Mom, tell them who you are.”

Mom starts breathing fast and heavy. Her gasping continues as they walk her toward a police cruiser, opening up the back door. She’s having an anxiety attack. I’ve seen her have them in the past, but it has been years since the last one. Not since I graduated high school. I’m back in that moment, watching my mother turn fragile, feeling unequipped to do anything.

The second officer still has a hand on my arm, trying to keep me from approaching the car. “Miss, if you’ll go back inside—”

“Stop with the miss and ma’am routine,” I shout. I can feel my blood running hot beneath my skin, feel my heart thud faster and faster. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know Mom is in trouble, and there’s nothing I can do about it. “Tell me what’s going on. Why are you arresting her?”

The officer takes a step back and holds up both hands. “Fine.” He walks to another officer, this one wearing a navy suit, and takes a folded stack of papers. He hands them to me. “This is the warrant. Everything you need to know should be in there.”

I hold the bundle in my hands, staring ahead. I watch, helplessly, as the squad car carrying Mom drives away.

Out here, beneath the burning sun, I’m frozen. My mind is thawing, slowly familiarizing to this new world, the one where my mother has been placed in handcuffs and driven away in a police car.

A breeze whooshes past, carrying with it the scent of the sea, and crinkles the papers clenched between my fingers. I look down. The warrant. I’m too rattled to begin reading. Around me, more officers descend upon the parking lot. I see them clearly, but can’t grasp their reality, like they are a mirage, a side effect of the desperation and fatigue washing over my body.

“Marion. Are you okay?” It’s Carmen. Her heels smack against the pavement, the volume increasing as she approaches like a crescendo. The sound pulls me out of my own thoughts, back to the present.

Des is only a few steps behind her. “Where’s Eileen?”

“They took her.” My words drift without purpose, like I’m in a dream, a nightmare. I’m disconnected from this life that feels nothing like the one I was living ten short minutes ago.

“Who took her?” Carmen asks, her hand raised to block the sun’s glare, her head bowed, trying to get a better look at my face.

“The police.”

Only then does she seem to connect the dots. She looks at the police cars pulling into the restaurant lot, at the officers approaching the front door.

“They arrested her? What for?” Des looks from me to Carmen. Already, we are expecting answers from her. She’s the lawyer. This is her world, not ours.

I hand Carmen the papers. I’d read them myself, but I’m not in my right mind. It’s like I’m inhabiting an entirely different body, and my brain’s synapses are not fully firing. All I can think about is Mom being stuffed into the back seat of a squad car, her broken cries before the door slammed shut.

“They weren’t using her name,” I mumble, remembering. “They called her Sarah.”

Des, boiling with anger, looks around the parking lot, her gaze stopping on an officer in uniform. She marches toward him, but I don’t follow. I watch Carmen’s face as she reads over the arrest warrant, hoping she will have an explanation.

“What does it say?”

Carmen bites her bottom lip, holding the warrant in her hands, as though the ink and paper bear hieroglyphics, some indecipherable code. I’ve watched her practice opening and closing arguments a dozen times, usually from the comfort of her living room over glasses of wine. Typically, each word leaves her lips with confidence and intention. But not now. When she does speak, her tone is as shaky as my comprehension.

“There’s a list of charges. Custodial interference. Kidnapping. Murder.”

I’m not even sure what the first phrase means, but it doesn’t matter. All I can hear is that last word over and over again. Murder. The police think my mother murdered someone?

“Carmen, this can’t be right. There must be a mistake.” My stomach sinks further. “The name—”

We’re both distracted by the sound of Des’ yelling. She’s standing in front of The Shack entrance, her wide frame blocking the officers from walking inside.

“What are you doing?” I ask the officer, jogging toward him. He looks to be a decade my junior, his face free from any lines or creases.

“I tried telling her,” he says, nodding to Des. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“But why?” I ask. “I don’t understand what you’re looking for.”

“The suspect is listed as an owner of this establishment.”

“Well, I own the building,” Des shouts, defiantly. “And I say you can’t come in.”

“It says here this is also her residence,” he says, pointing at another piece of paper. “Does she live here?”

“Upstairs,” I say. The word falls out.

“Desiree, please,” Carmen says, giving her a sympathetic stare. She turns to the officer. “I’m Carmen Banks, and I’ll be acting as Ms. Sams’ defense attorney. We’re in the middle of a private party. At least let us ask the guests to leave.”

The officer looks to his partner a few steps back, then nods at Carmen. “Five minutes. And I’ll be standing inside until everyone exits the building.”

“Thank you,” Carmen says, placing her hand on Des’ shoulder. “Let’s explain to the guests that something has come up.”

I’m still in a state of shock, trying to process what is happening. I’m thankful for Carmen and that logical, beautiful head on her shoulders. She’s taking back control of this predicament, something I should be doing, but shock has restricted my abilities. She identified herself as Mom’s attorney. Hearing that title startled me. This is real. Whatever this is, it’s happening.

The party. Suddenly, I remember Ava. It’s as if for the past ten minutes she hasn’t existed. I’ve been so lost in this foreign predicament I’d forgotten about her, and the birthday celebration that has been ruined.

When I re-enter the restaurant, Michael is holding her, bouncing her rhythmically on one knee. She reaches for me, as she always does, oblivious to the tense air in the room. I hold her close, and, for several seconds, do nothing but breathe, allowing Carmen and Des to wrangle the remaining guests.

“Looks like quite the commotion out there,” Holly says, craning her neck to get a better look outside. I ignore her.

“Is everything okay?” Michael asks. He’s standing now, his eyes wide and full of confusion.

“I… I don’t know.” I squeeze Ava tighter, nuzzling my jaw against her soft curls.

People gather their belongings and leave. They must be curious, even shocked. The people here know me. They know Eileen Sams. Who is Sarah Paxton? I push the thought out of my mind, focusing instead on Ava. Her powdery smell, the confetti clinging to her dress.

I feel a hand on my back. I turn and see Carmen, but she is not looking at me. Her face is fixed on the front door, where the young officer is standing.

“I’m going to the police station.” Her eyes fall on Ava, but her smile is strained, pretending for both our sakes the situation isn’t as bad as it appears.

“I’m coming with you.”

“I can’t figure out what’s happening if you’re right beside me,” she says. “Take Ava home. By the time you arrive at the station, hopefully I’ll have more information.”

I know Carmen is right, and she’s already thinking with her lawyer brain, not as my best friend, but I feel an unexplainable desire to be near my mother. I can’t erase the image of her sitting in the back seat of that police cruiser.

“I want to speak with her. I have to know she’s okay. You didn’t see her face when they arrested her. She was—”

“Just trust me to figure out what’s going on.” She gives Ava’s arm a gentle squeeze, then pats my back.

“I’ll drive you home,” Des says, jingling her key ring. “I can watch Ava when you leave for the station.”

“What about the restaurant?” I ask, disregarding the trail of police officers and technicians making their way inside.

“We’ve got bigger problems that need attending,” Des says, her eyes bouncing between Carmen and me. “That . . .