Rita shakes her head. “Not me,” she says. “She used to do that for Lily.”
The picture frame clatters against the shelf. I fumble to right it again. Then I scratch the side of my face. Attempt to look unfazed. But my pulse is quickening. Because it’s true. It’s true. The words I just heard—they’re not some story I concocted. They’re something I remembered.
I can see her now. She squats in front of me, red hair greasy and knotted. She puts a fingertip beneath her eyebrow. Taps it twice before speaking. Keep your eyes on this, she says. He can’t hurt you, okay? Nothing at all can hurt you as long as—
“I’m not surprised she used the same trick on someone else,” Rita says.
The memory dissolves like a dream. I can’t see her in front of me anymore. Can’t hear her either. It’s only the memory of a memory now, and as it replays, it’s as short as the first time. Stops in the exact same place. Right when Rita spoke.
I need to get out of here—now—while my mind is cracked open, while there’s room for other moments to surface. I need to go, right away, to the place where I should have gone first.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I have to get going.”
“Already?” Rita asks. The knife stalls in midair. A beam of sunlight bounces off it, a flash of movement that briefly blinds. And now I have that feeling again—that someone’s lurking outside, that I’m being watched. That by sitting in this house, I’m a sitting duck.
“Sorry,” I say again. “I should’ve told you that I only had a few minutes when I got here. I’m—” My mind searches for excuses. “A friend of mine is expecting me. I was just stopping here on the way.”
“A friend from high school?”
“No. Um. A friend from work.”
Rita stands, the movement quick and fluid, evidence of her dancer’s grace. But there’s something catlike to it, too. Her limbs all lithe. Coiled with energy. As if, at any moment, she could pounce.
“But don’t you live in LA?” she asks. “Or am I thinking of someone else?”
“Uh, no, I do,” I say. “But she—my friend—moved out here. A couple years ago.”
“To Ridgeway?” She takes a step forward. “We’re a small town. What are the odds?”
I move toward the door. Put my hand on the knob. The metal is cold from the air conditioning. My hand is cold, too. “No, she lives about a half hour from here.”
“Really? Where?”
“I don’t… I don’t remember the name of the town. I’ve got it stored in my GPS.” I open the door. A burst of heat barges in. “Sorry, again, to run off like this. And thanks for speaking with me. And for the snack, too.”
She stares at me, silent. Then, right as I turn, about to step through the doorway, she curls her fingers around my wrist.
“Wait,” she says.
My heart kicks, but I don’t know why. Rita isn’t dangerous, even though she’s trying so hard to project only strength. I’m sure, with Astrid gone, the truth is closer to this: she feels empty as her living room, her body like a hutch with nothing inside it. I bet the floor’s grown creaky with her pacing. I bet she never sleeps at night.
“Let me give you my number,” she says. “In case you want to stop by again while you’re visiting family. This way, I’ll know you’re coming and won’t assume you’re somebody trying to tragedy-stalk.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say.
“No, it’s fine. It was good to talk to you. Even briefly. It’s nice to have one of Astrid’s friends in the house.”
She looks at the hardwood beneath our feet. For the first time since I arrived, the extent of her sadness is palpable. It covers her whole face like a mask. This close, I can see that her eyelids are pink and bloated. That she’s struggling to lift her eyes to meet my own.
“Kind of makes me feel like she’s still here,” she adds.
* * *
It’s only a six-minute drive to my next destination, and this is my task now. Easy and mindless. Hands at ten and two on the steering wheel. Eyes on the tree-lined road.
I realized something, when Rita’s request for an Astrid memory actually triggered one. These past couple days, I’ve been questioning other people in the hopes I’ll remember something—but maybe what I really need is for someone to question me.