the tingle on my scalp. But then I look at Astrid—this not-missing woman—and her fingers feel like bugs.
Rita sits in the chair I occupied last time. The chair from which I stared at the ballerina painting that’s behind me now. And that entire time, not far beneath that painting—there was a door. There was a woman behind it.
“I’m sure this is shocking to you,” Rita says.
Astrid nods beside me. Her eyes stick to the side of my face like leeches.
“But you have to understand,” Rita continues. “We’ve been trying to have a baby for so long.”
“I have some fertility issues,” Astrid chimes in. “And poor Rita—I know this has been hard for her, but I have to be the one who carries our baby. When I came out to my parents, one of the first things they said—right after all the Catholic tears about my ‘sinful lifestyle’—was: ‘Now you’ll never have a child.’ As if I’m defective because I’m gay. Or less of a woman somehow. They’re dead now, but…” She shrugs. “I’m still trying to prove them wrong.”
“Yes,” Rita says. “She is.” Her voice is tight. “So we’ve gone through several rounds of IVF, and…” She closes her eyes. Shakes her head. “We burned through the advance for Astrid’s book so quickly, and sales were only okay to start—not even close to what everyone was expecting, given Astrid’s name.”
She leans forward. Elbows on her knees. Eyes latched to mine. “We had to do something. We needed to jump-start sales so that royalties could kick in. Because—you heard her—Astrid’s hell-bent on carrying our baby. And we won’t be able to afford another round of IVF without the extra money.”
“So,” Astrid says, “we staged my disappearance. We thought it might generate more interest in the book. And we were right.” She presses closer to me, even as I try to inch away. She hisses in my ear, “It’s number five now.”
But she said staged—the same word Ted used to describe what he did. Acid simmers in my stomach. It crawls up my esophagus until I can taste it on my tongue.
“And it hasn’t been so bad,” Astrid says. “Whenever the police or reporters come over, I hide in the storage space under the staircase.” She removes her hand from my hair to gesture toward the tiny open door. “No one’s ever even suspected.”
“It’s true,” Rita says. “I mean, you were sitting five feet away from her the other day and you had no idea.”
“It’s not like I love being in an enclosed space,” Astrid says. “I’m a little claustrophobic. You are, too, I’m sure. But it’s roomier than it looks from the outside. And I don’t know, I’ve got pillows and a book and a flashlight, and… it’s kind of like a fort in there.” She stops. Looks haunted for a second. “Remember when I made us a fort in the basement?”
I shake my head, even though it already feels like it’s spinning. “I…” My throat grates as I speak. “I repressed a lot of what happened.”
Astrid puts her fingers under my chin. Pulls my head to the side so I have no choice but to look her straight in her eyes. “You don’t remember?” She seems almost wounded. As if our time in the basement was worth holding on to.
“Some things,” I manage. “Your freckle. The marbles.”
Astrid replies with a solemn nod. “You were so scared. All the time. And hell, I was, too, but… it was clear you needed me to be strong for you.” She flashes a quick smile that looks like it hurts. “So I was.” Her face goes slack. “That man was a coward, anyway. Some asshole who got lost on the way to a costume party.”
I jolt at the mention of Ted. Then I blurt it out: “I know who he was. I know who took us.”
Her eyes grow big. Her brow pulls her freckle up. “Rita said you said that.” She swallows. “Who is he?”
I hold off for as long as I can, glancing between Astrid and Rita, both of whom are leaning closer to me—Rita in her chair, Astrid beside me, safe, not missing, her breath a little shaky as it breaks against my cheek.
“My father,” I finally say.
And then I tell the rest of it, too. Who he is. What he wants. How he’s willing, I know now, to do absolutely anything for the admiration he believes he deserves. Tears sting my eyes as I speak, as I recognize the horror in