“So, they’re watching me all the time.”
“For the most part.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “So no more running off to dangerous places.” She reaches for the door handle. “Now, go straight to your appointment and then home. Nowhere else. Don’t go looking for that woman. Let the police handle it.”
“All right,” I reply, because I don’t really have any other choice.
“Thank you for making this easy.” She hops out into the now sprinkling rain.
“Wait. How did you get here?” I ask, leaning over the console.
“The detective called me the moment he figured out where you were going.” She lowers her head to look at me. “When I got the call, I hopped in my car and drove as crazy as Ella to get here.”
“Where’s your car?”
She points diagonally across the street, and I easily spot the back end of her silver Mercedes.
“Oh.” Through the rain and the distraction of the woman, I must have somehow missed the obvious.
“I’ll see you in about an hour and a half.” She closes the door, and just like that, our conversation ends.
As I make the short drive to therapy with the SUV tailing me, I feel like I’ve been put on probation. Having come from a home where, most of the time, my siblings and I ran wild, I feel strangely okay that I’m being punished. For the first time in a long time, I feel kind of safe.
Ten minutes later, I enter the office where my therapy sessions take place. The rain has let up by the time I walk in, and sunlight sneaks through the clouds and glimmers through the windows.
“Hey, Ayden, how have you been?” Dr. Gardingdale greets without looking up from the filing cabinet he’s sifting through.
“Good.” I drop down in the chair across from his desk.
He glances up at me. “You don’t sound good.” He glides the filing cabinet drawer shut, pulls out a chair, and then sits down. “Is something wrong?”
Out of habit, I shake my head, but words slip out of my mouth on their own. “Did you tell Lila I was showing up late to sessions?”
“I did,” he answers shamelessly. “I was concerned that you might be doing something that could harm your wellbeing.”
“Why would you figure that?”
“Because of something you said at the last meeting.”
“What did I say exactly?”
“That you were thinking about going and looking for your sister yourself.”
“I said that?” Why can’t I remember that?
“You were under when you said it,” he explains, checking the time on the wall clock. “It was during an amnesia therapy session.”
I attempt to remember, but come up blank. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were upset when you woke up.” He tugs on his red and blue striped tie, loosening it. “It was the session where you—”
“Cried,” I finish for him.
I cringe at the faint memory of me waking up to the woman with blood red hair carving the mark into my flesh with a dull kitchen knife. The pain was unbearable. I could still feel it when I woke up.
“I didn’t want to upset you, but I thought I needed to tell your mother about what happened and about being late to sessions.” He pauses, giving me an opening to explain where I’ve been.
“I think maybe I should reconsider that slip I signed, giving you permission to discuss certain things with the Gregorys.”
“Is that what you really want?”
I hesitate then shake my head. “No, not really. They don’t deserve to worry like that.”
“I think that’s a wise choice.” His phone buzzes, and he silences it without looking at it. “So, is there anything else bothering you? Maybe at home? Or at school?” His light questions are his way of easing into the darker stuff, which always comes later in the hour.
“No . . . not exactly . . .” I trail off, uncertain how much talking I want to do today. It’s been such a stressful day already. “Nothing’s really wrong at home or school.”
It’s not as easy as it sounds
To confess my darkest worries,
My fears of who I am,
My fear of never being good enough.
He slips on his glasses. “Remember, I can’t help you unless I know what the problem is.” When I still don’t answer, he adds, “Do you want to talk about your sister? I don’t usually like to dive into the complicated stuff, but if you need us to, we can. I know what’s going on with her has to be stressful. Plus, you’ve been putting a lot of pressure on yourself with this amnesia therapy because of what’s happened to her.”
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “That’s not what I was going to say . . . but I do worry about her. All the time, actually. I even went to that address she used to live at . . . That’s why I’ve been late.”
Shock flickers across his face, but he keeps himself professionally composed, his voice remaining even. “Can I ask why you’ve been going there?”
I shrug. “I was curious where she lived and what her life was like up until she was taken. Plus, in this weird way, it made me feel close to her.” I only realize the truth when the words leave my lips.
Deep down, I knew going in that house wouldn’t help find Sadie. It was the last place she lived, the last place she might have had a life.
“That’s understandable,” he says. “It has to be hard on you having not seen her for years, only to find out she’s been kidnapped.”
“I feel like I hardly got to know her. I was fourteen when we were taken, and she was only thirteen. My older brother was almost sixteen, but still, it seems like such a short amount of time . . . time I’ll never get back. And, with my brother, I’ll never have a chance to get any more time at all.” I force down the lump in my throat.
“I’ve been dreaming about her a lot . . . Sadie. She’s in a house on this hill, and she’s tied up and hurt. I can hear her, but . . . I can’t help her. All I want to do is help her, and I feel like, if I can just see what’s around the house, then I’ll be able to find her. But I never have the dream long enough for me to figure out the exact location.”
“Are you sure it’s a dream? Perhaps it’s a memory.”
“I honestly have no fucking idea anymore. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell what’s really happened and what’s a nightmare. Sometimes, I feel like my mind gets all jumbled because it’s overthinking too much, if that makes any sense.”