The Girl in the Mirror

By Jennifer L. Rowlands

Samantha Campbell was a stay-at-home mother of two with a crumbling marriage when she watched a handprint form on her bathroom mirror before her eyes. The handprint of a missing girl: Annie Landy. Following clues and dreams from Annie, Samantha does all she can to solve the case. In the end, Samantha's left to decide whether she’ll let her own life fall apart in order to learn the truth about the missing girl.

This is a novella.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer L. Rowlands
• Release date: Feb 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370631179

Jennifer L. Rowlands

My first love is my family and they are what inspires me most. I find reflections of them within the characters of my books, whether I intended to or not. But there is so much more about writing and reading that I enjoy - mostly, the chance to free creativity and imagination. I enjoyed diving into the written word as a teenager, but took a break to embrace college life, and then married life, and then motherhood. My two boys and their daily excitement about the world and everything in it is what inspired me to pick up the pen (keyboard) again. Thanks to the support from family and friends, I am happy to present my works to you.I truly hope you enjoy my works and would greatly appreciate you taking the time to write a review for any of them. I would like to know what you liked and even if you have any suggestions for improvement.Visit my website at jennifer-rowlands.comFeel free to contact me: [e-mail]

Book preview

Girl in the Mirror

By Jennifer L. Rowlands

Copyright 2017

Smashwords Edition

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For my husband, My Love.

Thank you for all of the wonderful memories. I keep them close to my heart; with plenty of room for more.

June

The stress of the day falls to my feet in the droplets of water.

I close my eyes as the water drips from the shower head, over my face, and through my brown locks. This time is meant for me. Carson, my husband, has the girls for at least two hours. I wonder how long he’ll last. I try to resist thinking about them; I try harder to resist making a mental list of everything I need to do. I picture the list flowing down the drain with all the cares that weighed on me today. Steam rises and I breathe deep, enjoying the scent of linen spun with a hint of lavender. Too soon, the water cools and I long once again for a new hot water heater.

Wrapped in a towel, I step into the heavy air. I had left the fan off this time, as I do now and then. I know it’s best to keep it on, but there is something mystical about standing in a room sunken in steam, something inspiring about a mirror covered in an even layer of condensation—a canvas waiting for your imagination to spill out upon it. I allow it sometimes. To pass notes written by fingertips, to draw faces to make the next person laugh, to leave—

A chill rolls over my shoulders and down my back. I want to lurch forward, to expel the nerves that clench my stomach. But fear has frozen me in place as I watch the figure appear on the glass, the palm and each finger forming before my eyes.

A handprint.

It’s too small to be Carson’s, and too big to be the girls’. And if it was theirs, it would have taken shape as I showered, as condensation pressed itself against the glass. No, this formed now. Under my watch.

I want to pinch myself. I want to know I’m alive, that I’m awake... Or do I? Maybe I’d rather be dreaming instead of watching a droplet formed at the palm drip down the glass.

My hand is shaking wildly as I reach out to the image. The steam has subsided. All heat has left the room. The inches diminish between the tip of my finger and the image on the glass. I grow colder.

A jolt shoots through my body and I gasp. My ears are assaulted by a loud siren. It takes me a moment to understand what is happening. The alarm.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. The handprint is forgotten; I could be in danger. I leave wet traces of my footsteps on the floor. I burst out of the bathroom and into my bedroom. My cell phone is on the nightstand. I fumble for it through adrenaline and fear. When I find it, the screen comes to life and I read the words that are flashing across it: BACK SLIDING DOOR. It’s amazing how much terror three simple words can generate. The police would have been alerted already. All I can do is wait.

I clutch the phone tightly as the towel falls to the floor. Getting dressed with drops of water clinging to my skin is not an easy task, but despite my panic, I somehow manage to pull on pants and a sweatshirt.

Lights draw attention; I turn off every light in the bedroom and bathroom. My fingers speed over the screen of the phone. I call Carson. After several rings I’m sent to voicemail. I hang up and try calling again. I swing open the closet door and settle in on the floor, clothes dangling around my head. The door is cracked slightly, my hand grasping the handle, ready to close myself in at the first sign of danger. Still no answer. I dial again but don’t hear the phone anymore.

My skin tingles, my heart pounds, my eyes are wide, my ears are perked. I listen for any sound inside the house: the dripping of the shower, the hum of passing cars outside. The voicemail again. I hang up and grasp the phone tightly to my chest as I wait silently—for another sound, for an intruder to find me—unable to draw my eyes away from the sliver of light that runs under the door to the hall. So far, it has been left undisturbed. How long has it been? How much longer will I have to wait before help arrives?

Lights flash through my curtains, blue and red. Relief overwhelms me and I fall to the floor in a sea of darkness.

• • • • •

Did you notice anything strange here tonight?

Officer Barnes’ voice is soothing, sympathetic. I’m relieved that the female officer, Rosario, is busying herself in other rooms. She seems hard, unforgiving. I need someone softer in this moment. Barnes looks me in the eyes and listens intently.

I can’t help but feel embarrassed, having fainted over nothing. There was no intruder. The doors and windows were all left undisturbed. No sign of anyone being near the house; no witnesses in the neighborhood. Nothing more than a malfunction of the alarm. I cringe at the thought of Mrs. Rosenstein getting wind of this and turning it into a tale of terrorists on our street.

No. I didn’t, I answer Officer Barnes. Officer Rosario looks around my house, room-by-room, analyzing everything she can find. Carson sits by my side on our aqua sofa with one arm wrapped around me. Maddie and Sophie are snuggled in our bed upstairs watching their latest favorite cartoon. I had just gotten out of the shower when the alarm went off.

In the master suite?

Yes. When I saw—

The handprint materialize on the bathroom mirror.

Mrs. Campbell? Barnes says.

The bathroom. When the alarm went off. There was a handprint in the bathroom.

Which window?

No. Not the window.

I lead the officers—husband in tow—up the stairs as I explain the events of the night. We reach the bathroom as the realization sinks in: they won’t believe me.

As I step onto the tile, I find the chill in the air has gone but a new scent floats around us: watermelon. The girls use sour apple shampoo… in the other bathroom. Ever since Sophie professed her love for a watermelon-scented teddy bear six months ago, Maddie has rejected anything resembling the smell.

Do you smell watermelon? I ask the three behind me, unsure how to feel when they shake their heads no.

The mirror is clear of condensation, all moisture evaporated into the air. In a second, I lose hope. I almost tell them I’m mistaken, that fear of an intruder activated my imagination.

And I am mistaken, but for another reason.

There is the print. Staring back at me. I feel annoyed, mocked, as if by a mischievous clown.

My mouth goes dry. The print should have been whisked away with the condensation. It should be history—nothing—a substance in the air mixed in without leaving a trace of evidence it ever existed.

There. I point at the mirror.

Six eyes fall on me, confused.

The mirror? Rosario asks. I nod.

Barnes looks at his partner and back at me. Ma’am, this would not have set off the alarm. Are you sure—

No! I feel panic gripping my chest. I clench my jaws and fists. Why am I angry? This print doesn’t belong to anyone in my family. Look! I hold my hand next to the print to prove it’s too small to be mine. By memory, by feel I