He snapped his head toward Lily so quickly that I thought the mask would spin.
Astrid was standing between us—me, the man. She looked back at him, then to me, and back again. Then, ankle still chained, she leaped toward me, arms outstretched to soothe me.
But he grabbed me by the waist—
An arm around her waist. An arm around her waist!
—and he yanked me backward, tossed me aside.
She says her hands were still reaching as she fell.
I landed on the mattress, which softened the impact, but Lily screamed harder then, as if she feared he’d intended to murder me. As if she thought I’d actually been killed.
He crossed the distance between us and he grabbed me, too. And Astrid says I did not stop the spurt of my voice.
He held her by the arm, with a grip tighter than any I’ve ever seen.
He shook me hard…
… like he thought he could shake off the scream.
Astrid struggled to get back up, but she couldn’t stand in time. Not that it would have mattered.
He showed us then how strong and savage he was.
Rita said he was probably young, some teenage boy, but no. His muscles must have been honed. Lived in. Because Astrid says he pulled me by the hair, used it as a rope to haul me up the stairs…
… and she screamed louder then. Not with fear anymore, but pain. The sound of her agony was brighter than the bulb at the top of the stairs, which he pulled her toward, up and up and farther away.
But Astrid reached for me.
I yanked at the chain, stretched my ankle, my legs, my arms, as far as I could, but it wasn’t far enough. The red door slammed. Her scream was on the other side.
And then it got smaller and smaller.
And then I could not hear it at all.
* * *
For a long time, I don’t move. Not because my anxiety has turned me to stone, but because I’m waiting to remember this chapter. To recognize it, beyond the arm around her waist, as a scene I’ve actually lived.
I’ve closed the book. Don’t want to see those pages again. If I memorize the details, I will compromise the memories. Won’t know if they’re real or implanted. If they ever come at all.
One thing I’m sure of now: the man who took us is dangerous. Capable of inflicting pain. He gripped my arm, pulled me by the hair, pushed Astrid to the ground. But it doesn’t make sense. Why did he hurt me only to let me go? Why do I remember the way he grabbed her, but not the way he grabbed me? Why can’t I remember the rest of this explosive moment, or what happened once he dragged me up the stairs?
I don’t know what was on the other side of the red door. I don’t know how long it was before he took me back home. I don’t know if my arm had bruises, or if a clump of my hair came loose in his hand. I don’t know if he blindfolded me, or if I was drugged and bound in the back of his car, or if—
I stop. I could continue this list forever; all I know is every essential thing I don’t.
My fingers flex with frustration, and before I know it, I’m hurling the book across the room. It crashes against my dresser. Thuds onto the floor.
“Fern?”
Ted’s voice is muffled through two sets of walls, but I hear the creak of his door, hear him say my name again as he gets close enough to knock.
“Come in.”
When he opens my door, I’m cross-legged, elbows on my knees, forehead in the heels of my hands. I don’t want to look at him, but he waits until I do.
His eyes are probing but not piercing. His gaze is surprisingly soft. Then he looks down, sees the book on the floor, crouches to pick it up.
“You’ve finished,” he says.
I lean against the headboard. Tilt my head until it rests against the wall. “No,” I say. “Just the part where I was”—what words did she use?—“violently removed from the basement.”
Ted stares at the book, runs his hand along the cover as if it’s a sacred text. “And you remembered something?” he asks. His voice is hopeful.
“No,” I say. More grunt than word. “I mean, I think I remember the basement. I can’t see the red door or anything, but I remember some of the room. Maybe. I don’t know. But