Free Echoes of Silence (Unquiet Mind Book 1) by Anne Malcom

watch any crime show, baby doll. It’s always the jogger that discovers the body,” she told me as if I was slow for not making that connection. “Or the hiker,” she added. “That’s why we don’t hike.”
    I raised a brow. “Oh, that’s why? Not because you have the lung capacity of a ninety-year-old woman?” I asked sweetly.
    She scowled at me.
    I put my earbuds in my ear. “Good-bye, Mom.”
    “Just remember, if you see any stray body parts sticking out of bushes, do not investigate. Call the authorities,” she shouted as I turned my back.
    “Love you too,” I replied, turning on my music.
    I loved running. Exercise. Mom to this day cannot reason as to where this came from, or my preference to eat things such as fruit and vegetables. Most of the stuff Mom cooked came out of a package, and almost everything she ate was artificially flavored. I had no idea how she still looked as amazing as she did. I enjoyed exercise, no matter the fact my mom couldn’t fathom that. I had a creative mind, one that was constantly on. It was only quiet when I was playing music, reading, or more recently, with Killian.
    It was never silent while I ran, but pushing myself, feeling the burn in my limbs, somehow helped me to catalogue my wayward thoughts.
    And wayward they were. It had been an amazing, crazy, and busy week. The night Killian visited me in the backyard was the night I got no sleep. Instead, I lay on my bed for what felt like hours, my headphones in, replaying every second of the small interlude in my head. I had had butterflies the entire rest of the weekend. I didn’t tell my mom, for obvious reasons. And I felt guilty. Incredibly guilty for keeping such a big secret from her. My feelings and thoughts had taken up so much of my mind it was like they had become me. I was hiding a part of myself from my mom.
    “What are you thinking about so intently, doll?” Mom asked me on Sunday night.
    I jerked up. “Nothing,” I said quickly, hoping my face didn’t betray me. “Just homework stuff, band stuff,” I lied.
    She stared at me for long moments, as if trying to use her mom powers to read my mind. I did my best to look innocent.
    “Don’t stress too much about homework, baby doll,” she said finally. “Life is far too short for that, and you’re naturally intelligent; you get it from me. Plus, I need you here for emotional support while watching The Walking Dead ,” she added seriously, her eyes moving to the opening credits.
    I let out a breath through pursed lips, feeling like I’d dodged some sort of bullet.
    It was a pretty surreal and somehow terrifying moment when I realized that this, right here, was the moment I stopped telling my mom everything. That there was a piece of news, a piece of me that I couldn’t—that I didn’t want to share with her. I suppose every teenage girl had such moments, most likely before they were my age. I guessed a lot of them didn’t think twice about keeping secrets from their mom. But it was different for me. She wasn’t just a mom; she was my best friend. I was scared that this was something my mom wasn’t a part of, somehow it was a grown up part of me, although most adults would dismiss what Killian and I had as not “real love.” I knew better. With a certainty that came from ignorance I guessed, but a certainty nonetheless.
    Monday at school, I was a wreck. Nerves chewed at my stomach and I’d gotten up at six for a run to attempt to quiet my mind. Then I spent an ungodly amount of time, even for someone raised by my mom, on my outfit choice.
    It was another first for me, dressing to impress someone. I never did that. I dressed for myself, not to follow trends or pretend to be something I wasn’t. Mom and I never had much money to spend on clothes, but that never stopped us. Mom was an expert at vintage shopping and getting bargains. I didn’t think she intended on introducing me to boho/hippy style, but she never once told me I couldn’t wear