“Uh-huh,” he says. “And why haven’t you come forward until now?”
“I didn’t know I was Lily until this morning.”
“This morning?” He lets out a whistle. “That’s quite a revelation.”
He’s mocking me. Isn’t even bothering to hide it. But I answer him like I would a student who cops an attitude; I answer him as if he were serious. Right now, there’s nothing more serious to me in the world.
“It was,” I say. “But I wanted to come here to see how I can help. Or if—if you can help me … to remember.”
“Remember?”
“Yeah, I…” I feel like I’m running out of breath, even though I’ve barely even started. “I repressed the memory of it. Of being in the basement with Astrid. But I’ve been getting these scraps. Of Astrid. Of a man in a welder’s mask. So I know it’s all in there, trapped inside me. And I thought that maybe you could… question me? And then I might remember more, or even…”
He puts a hand in the air, but I was about to stop anyway. I see on his face how crazy he thinks I sound. But he’s wrong. I know very well how questions can uncover what you didn’t know was inside you. One time, after Ted abandoned me at an unfamiliar grocery store, he asked if I’d been more afraid that I’d get lost trying to find my way home, or that something might happen to me in the absence of an adult. My answer surprised us both—him because it wasn’t one of his options, and me because of the sudden, throbbing truth of it: I was afraid it meant you don’t love me. Ted considered me for a moment, his chin jutting forward as his eyes roved my face. Then he gave his customary response—“noteworthy”—and clack-clack-clacked away.
“Listen,” Dixon says. “Do you have any idea how many young women—and one young man, in fact—have come in here claiming to be Lily?”
My skin prickles. People are pretending to be me?
“Why would anyone do that?” I ask.
“That’s a great question,” Dixon replies. “Why would anyone do that?” Leaning forward, he clasps his hands together and rests them on his desk. “I’d encourage you to ask yourself if this is really the kind of thing you want to be associated with.”
“But I am associated with it. I’m her. I’m Lily.”
People who lie to the police. Women who aren’t believed.
“My dad just told me this morning,” I try, “that I went missing for a week, during the time of Astrid’s kidnapping. And when I came home—when I was returned, like Astrid—I was freaking out about being in a basement with a red-haired girl.”
“Do you have proof?” Dixon asks.
“No, I… no. Just the images I’ve had.”
“Ah, yes, your… dream, was it? About Astrid?”
“And I remembered the welder’s mask,” I remind him.
“I see,” he says. “But here’s the problem, Ms. Douglas. The welder’s mask is a detail available to the public in the memoir.” He pulls the handle of a desk drawer, which squeals as it opens. He yanks out Behind the Red Door. Drops it with a thud between us.
“Okay,” I say. “But—I had another memory too, a little while ago. Whenever I freaked out in the basement, Astrid would point to the freckle under her eyebrow and tell me to concentrate on that until I was calm. She said nothing could hurt me as long as I could still see the freckle. Did any of the other Lilys mention that?”
Dixon puts a finger to his chin. “Come to think of it, no. Nobody did mention that.”
I let out a rush of air.
“But that’s in the memoir too,” he says.
Hope dissolves inside me. I look at the book on his desk. Why haven’t I read it all by now? Why haven’t I memorized it, cover to cover, to know my own story?
“I’m her,” I say for the second time. “I swear, I… I just can’t remember anything else. But I’m trying. The memories are coming back, and—maybe there’s some detail that can crack the case.”
Dixon sighs. “This supposed memory loss,” he says. “That’s awfully convenient, don’t you think?”
“Convenient for who? I’m trying to help. That’s what you want, isn’t it? I’ve seen the tip line on the news.”
He leans back in his chair. Stares at me.
“What are you doing to search for her?” I ask. “What have you found so far?”
“Surely you know I can’t comment on that,” he says.
My nails are needle-sharp against my palms. “I talked to Rita Diaz,” I