think he’s just a bully,” she says. “I think this whole thing—then, now—is about power. Because he never hurt her. I mean, he did, of course. But he didn’t rape her. Or torture her. He’d just look at her. And laugh at her. And the more she screamed at him, the more he laughed.”
My skin prickles. My spine straightens. Because I’ve felt that before—somebody’s laughter in the face of my terror. Am I remembering something? I stare straight ahead, try to will this feeling into a shape. But all I see is Cooper. His arm over my mouth as he holds me to the ground. The bees of his tattoo seeming to buzz against my tongue. His laughter spurting.
“That’s terrible,” I say, my voice thick. “But he must have wanted something. You don’t keep a girl—two girls—in a basement because of a power trip. Right?”
Rita shrugs. “Maybe he planned to do something else, but he chickened out. I’m telling you, that laughter thing—whenever I picture him, I see an insecure, pathetic, power-guzzling boy. The kind who peaks in twelfth grade and never leaves town. The kind who used to grab my ass in the hallways and spread rumors about ‘converting the lesbo’ in high school. And even—okay, think about what he wore.”
“The welder’s mask?”
“All of it! The mask, the waders, the gloves. It’s like something a kid would scrounge together in his dad’s garage.”
“So you think he was a kid? How would a kid overpower her like that?”
“I think he was young,” Rita clarifies. “But he surprised and sedated her, so it wouldn’t have taken much strength. And anyway, Astrid was pretty distracted when it happened. She’d just left her parents’ party, and she was pissed.”
“At the priest, you mean?”
“Yeah,” Rita scoffs. “Fuck that guy.”
Anger flares in her eyes. I can tell she wants to say more about Father Murphy, but we’ve already gone so far off course.
“What about Lily?” I ask. I know it’s a non sequitur—and a question I’ve already tried. But I need to keep pushing. I need to see if Rita knows anything that can jolt my memories awake. “Did Astrid give you any details that could help the police trace her?”
Rita shakes her head. “I don’t think so. For all we know, Lily’s dead.”
My heart stops for a second. “Dead?”
“She never came forward. If she was alive, why wouldn’t she or her parents go to the police? And Jesus, the way things ended for her in the basement…” She shudders, and my skin goes cold. A flash freeze. How did things end for her—for me—in the basement? I lean forward—ready, but a little afraid, to ask. Except Rita’s already speaking again.
“And if she is alive, I’m not sure I want to drag her into the investigation. Some reporter could find out, and then all the reporters would find out, and then she’d be all over the news.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out. “And I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”
“Why?” I ask, and Rita tilts her head, narrows her gaze. Like the answer is obvious. Like it’s been waiting for me to see it all along.
“Because he’d probably come for her next.”
twelve
Sometimes, anxiety turns my heart to a fist. Sends it punching against my ribs, trying to break out. Other times, it hardens me to stone. My heart doesn’t beat at all. My blood doesn’t run. My eyes can’t blink. Dr. Lockwood says anxiety manifests in different ways at different times. But no matter what it feels like, she says, your blood is always pumping.
It’s not, though. Right now, I know it’s not.
It didn’t even occur to me that I, too, might be in danger. Ever since Ted’s confession in Mara’s studio this morning, I’ve been trying so hard to compartmentalize. To consume the truth in the smallest, most manageable bites. But Rita’s right. If the kidnapper is repeating his exact same patterns from twenty years ago, then soon he’ll be coming after me.
Except—no—he wouldn’t know how to find me. He only knew where Astrid was because she came back into the spotlight with her book.
So why does my body still feel like stone? Why hasn’t my blood turned back to blood, my heart to a muscle instead of a rock?
What if he’s here, right now, watching me through the cracks between curtains? I feel eyes on every inch of me. Ears attuned to everything I’ll say.
“Are you okay?” Rita asks. “You look a little pale.”