his chin. His eyes are moving back and forth, as if reading something. “You’re expecting competency from the Cedar Police,” he says. “That’s why you’re confused.” His words are quiet. Dim. Lacking his attention even as he says them. Then he brightens. “So the memoir, has it jogged anything for you?”
“Not really. But I haven’t read the whole thing. I only got to the part where she mentions the other girl, and then I stopped.”
“You stopped? Why on earth would you stop?”
“Because it’s a lot to take in! Because I… Do you even know that Astrid’s missing again?”
“I did hear about that, yes,” Ted replies. “And to be honest, I wondered how you’d—”
But I cut him off. “If I was in the basement with her…” I hear the if. Wince at it. “Then maybe there’s something in the police report that can help. Maybe you’re wrong and I did tell them something. Some seemingly insignificant detail or word that meant nothing to them at the time but might mean something to me now. And then I can help her, Ted. I can tell the police who to look for. Or what to look for, at least.”
Ted shakes his head. “You’re not understanding me. You were completely ineffectual during any inquiry at all. Which was particularly frustrating to me, because I could’ve used your answers!”
My mouth clamps shut for a second. “Used my answers for what?”
“What do you think? For research, obviously! It was so serendipitous—and yet so… infuriating. Here you were, clearly repressing something because of fear. But without your memories, whatever had happened to you was useless to my work. And as Mara so loved to point out, it seemed we were agitating you further by asking you about it. So I said fine, to hell with it then, and I went with her suggestion. I didn’t try to seek your collaboration, because your mind wouldn’t let you give it. I didn’t bother following up with the police, because they couldn’t be bothered in the first place. But now…”
He pushes his lips to the side, stares up and to the right. I know that look. He’s getting an idea.
“If the memories are starting to come back,” he says, “it might be only a matter of time before you remember everything. We could conduct some interviews now, like we couldn’t back then.” He taps his chin. “Yes… Yes. This is perfect actually. It could be wonderful, don’t you think?”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
“You want to remember, Fern. Right?”
I watch his expression slip from pensive to eager. His lips part, as if looking at me makes him hungry. Fascinating, he said. Serendipitous, he said. Noteworthy. Noteworthy. Nausea whirls inside me. I’ve become so accustomed to this sickening feeling that I barely register it until it’s climbed up my throat. I have to swallow hard to push it back down.
“You’re…” I don’t want to say it. I’ve never wanted to say it. But I know it’s true. “Unhinged.”
Ted’s lips close. His eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, you have to be,” I say. “It just isn’t… normal, what you did. What you still want to do. I was”—I don’t want to say this either—“… kidnapped. I was kidnapped, Ted. And instead of breathing down the police’s neck until they figured out who took me, or even where I’d been, you let it go. You were actually…” My voice is thick with a sob that’s close to bursting. I swallow it down like the sick. “You were disappointed you couldn’t study me.”
“Of course I was disappointed! What do you expect? Fear is my life’s work.”
“And this was my life! Weren’t you worried I had… psychological damage? Or physical damage? How do you know that whoever took me didn’t hurt me? Didn’t… do things to me.”
“Give us some credit, Fern. We obviously checked you over.”
“You’re not doctors!”
“You didn’t want to see a doctor!”
“I was twelve,” I say. “I was traumatized. You don’t let a traumatized child call the shots. You get her help. You try to find out what happened. You don’t say, ‘Well, if I can’t study her, I might as well never speak of this again.’ That isn’t a normal thing for a parent to do!”
I’m gesticulating wildly. The stool wobbles beneath me. And now Ted glares down at me from where he stands. Tall. I could jump up, try to meet his gaze, but it wouldn’t matter. I’m a tiny thing. All bones and angles. Small and fragile as a bird. Like