Pretty Girl Thirteen (6 page)

Angie’s mind blanked. “Expecting what?”

“Angie, hon, I’m pregnant.”

A swooshing sound drowned out her mother’s next words. She saw the lips moving, but she couldn’t hear for the raging storm in her mind. Oh God. It was true. A new baby. They
had
given up on her. They really had.

And even worse was the thought that while she lay lost and shackled, maybe hungry and cold, maybe tortured and scared, Mom and Dad were kissing and planning and baby-making and moving on without her.

Without warning, she heaved up all over the plate, all over Grandma’s beautiful hand-stitched quilt. Mom slammed both hands over her own mouth and ran from the room.

Detective Brogan came by at two o’clock to explain a few things before Angie’s appointment with his psychologist. Dad had gone to work, as if it were an ordinary Monday, back to the usual routine. Mom and Angie sat on the sofa with the empty cushion dividing them. Brogan glanced between them, and one eyebrow lowered slightly.

“Everything okay here?” he asked. He was wearing a dark suit instead of weekend clothes, his chin was shaved smooth, and the faint scent of citrus wafted from his aftershave.

“Of course, Phil,” Mom answered cheerfully, while Angie thought,
This guy doesn’t miss a thing.

Studying Angie’s face, he said, “We’re going forward on a presumption of kidnapping, based on the physical evidence and statements. So Angela, recovering your memory is going to be critical if we’re going to find and prosecute the kidnapper—more importantly, prevent him from finding a new victim, if we’re not too late.”

Words flew out of her mouth. They weren’t her own. “Why are you so sure he’s still alive?”

“A good question.” The detective flattened his expression to open curiosity. “Is he?” Angie saw the flecks in his eyes take on that hunting gleam.

She shifted on the couch, slightly flustered. What had she asked exactly? “What do you mean? Is he what?”

“Is he alive?” He asked it so casually, Angie could have missed the implication that she knew more than she was saying.

But she didn’t. “How should I know?”

“The tone of your voice suggested you just might.” He didn’t go further. She read it in his face, though. The sharpened shiv he’d held so carefully yesterday might be a murder weapon.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“You used the word ‘he.’ We’re talking about a man? One person?”

She searched her brain, trying to force it to cooperate. It remained stubbornly blank. “I don’t know. It just came out that way.”

“Okay.” He levered himself up with his hands on his knees. “Let’s hope Dr. Grant can help us find some answers. I wanted to make sure you understand that the usual doctor-patient confidentiality laws apply. Even though we have an investigation, Dr. Grant can’t reveal any information that you don’t give her explicit permission to reveal to me or to your parents.”

“Not to us?” Mom gasped.

Though his answer was for Mom, Brogan’s reassurance was really aimed straight at Angie. “Angela needs to feel completely safe and comfortable with the doctor’s discretion. Believe me, at this point, I’m truly more concerned about her recovery than the investigation.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll probably tell you.” The hurt expression on Mom’s face was small payback for the load she had dumped on Angie this morning.

“Good luck, then,” Brogan said as he reached for the front doorknob. “I think you’ll like Dr. Grant.”

Angie’s lips moved. The words came from her mouth, but again they weren’t her own thoughts—they came out of left field. “Besides, if he isn’t alive, that would be self-defense, wouldn’t it?” It was like someone else was having a conversation with the detective.

His eyebrows flew up. “Most likely. Any more questions?”

“Definitely not.” Angie clamped her jaw shut.

She didn’t expect Dr. Lynn Grant to be beautiful. A doctor with a plain name like that should be narrow-nosed, gray-haired, and pointy-chinned. Dr. Grant looked like a Gwendolyn Foxworthy or a Meredith Johanssen, with tons of white-blond hair softly curling against round cheeks. Instead of a white lab coat, or something stiffly professional, she wore a shell-pink cashmere sweater set and white wool trousers. All she needed was a pearl choker to complete the glamour ensemble. Oh wait. She had one.

It would have been easier to spill her guts to someone less perfect, if she had any guts to spill. Of course that’s why they brought her here in the first place, to dig into the guts and see what they could find inside.

In the car, Mom had tried to warm her up to the idea. “Keep an open mind,” she began. “A counselor can really be helpful.”

“Right. Like you’ve ever gone to one.” The words came out hard and bitter instead of teasing, like Angie intended.

“Your father and I saw a grief counselor for more than a year. She was helpful.”

“Is she the one who told you a replacement child would make it all better?”

The steering wheel jerked slightly as Mom flinched. “I never, ever, ever, ever gave up on finding you.” A surge on the accelerator punctuated each “ever.”

Seems like Dad did.
Angie bit back her automatic response. She knew it wasn’t entirely fair, and if she threw out an accusation that sharp, it would cut Mom to the bone.

Wow. Maybe she really did need a counselor.

Mom sat in the waiting room, her hands strangling an old magazine. Angie knew she wouldn’t read any of it in the next hour.

Angie tried to calm her own jitters as she followed the psychologist into her private office. The walls were paneled in pale wood with lots of knots. They felt like a hundred eyes.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Dr. Grant said, and Angie knew that was like the first test. Open mind, she reminded herself.

The room wasn’t overly large, but aside from a tidy desk, there was space for a stiff vertical armchair facing a blue velour couch, a beanbag in a corner, and a plushy leather recliner. What would a sane person choose? She had no idea, so she decided to throw the test back at the doctor. Angie sat on the desk, careful not to knock over the vase holding a single white rose.

Dr. Grant didn’t crack a frown or a smile, just wheeled her desk chair around. She folded her hands in her lap, comfortably. Angie realized her own arms were crossed like a shield and casually let them slide down to rest on her knees.

“So, Angela Gracie Chapman. What do you prefer to be called?”

Oh God. Another test, she thought, and hesitated too long over the answer.

“Your mother called you Angie,” Dr. Grant said. “Is it okay if I do the same?”

Angie shrugged. “Whatever. Dad calls me Angel. Strangers call me Angela.”

Dr. Grant smiled a little. “Okay, Angela. I hear you. But I don’t anticipate being strangers for long. You can call me Lynn or Doctor or Dr. Grant. Whatever you like.”

The silence stretched, and finally Angie said, “So what am I supposed to do?”

Dr. Grant nodded. “That’s the question of the moment, isn’t it? What are you supposed to do?” She waited.

The confusion and frustration of the last twenty-four hours tumbled out. “I have absolutely no idea.” Angie flung her hands up dramatically. “They totally don’t get it. I mean, look at it from their perspective. They say I was missing. They searched for three years. They spent a ton of money. They eventually got over me and moved on. And then I came back.”

“They moved on?” Dr. Grant asked.

“Did you know my mom is pregnant?”

“No, Angela. I didn’t know that. Pregnant.” She let the word hang in the silence.

Angie picked the rosebud out of its vase and stared into the heart of the white petals. So pure, so clean. “So I guess that was their backup plan. Replace me.”

“I understand your feelings,” she said. “That’s a very natural reaction. Do you want to talk about it?”

Angie shook her head.

“Okay.” The doctor moved on without pushing. That was surprising. “What else don’t they get?”

The outermost petals were browning just at the curled edges. Angie picked one and slid the silken texture between her fingers. “They think I’m sixteen.”

“But you’re not sixteen.”

She felt a glimmer of hope. Finally. Someone believed her. “I’m thirteen. Three years passed for them? No time at all passed for me. Like …” How could she explain? She snapped her fingers. “Like that.”

“Hmm.” Dr. Grant snapped her own fingers, with a puzzled expression. She gestured to a large filing cabinet. “The case notes the department gave me are very sketchy. Why don’t you tell me about the last three days you remember, in as much detail as you can recall.”

So Angie told her about packing for camp, about almost forgetting her toothbrush. She did remember details, like taking her journal, like needing new flashlight batteries, like looking up the weather online and seeing that it might be colder than usual, especially at that altitude, and deciding to take sweatpants. That couldn’t have been three years ago—it was all so clear. She remembered the early morning meet-up in the parking lot at school. She remembered sitting next to Livvie in the Suburban and talking about Greg and how excited she was to have a for-sure date for homecoming. Everything was crystal clear in her head—the first day of hiking in, the campfire songs that first night, ghost stories in the leaders’ tent, then s’mores and off to bed without brushing teeth anyway. Angie told Dr. Grant about waking up early and wondering whether anyone had started the breakfast fire. She remembered eating thimbleberries and looking for a private place.

The doctor listened intently as Angie’s narration came to a sudden stop. She raised her brows with encouragement. “Go on.”

But there was nothing else, like a door had slammed. The hollow silence echoed. Angie glanced around the office in dismay.

Over the doctor’s shoulders, she noticed a pair of pine knots in the paneling. They watched her, like dark, staring, narrow eyes peering out of the wood. She tried to look away, but they nailed her with a rising sense of panic. Strange and familiar. The breath froze in her lungs. Trapped. The roar of storm winds filled her ears. Through the swirling gale, someone screamed,
“Quick. Hide!”

And then the room was perfectly quiet.

“Angela … Angela?” the doctor asked. “Hide from what, Angela? What was in the woods?”

Angie stared at Dr. Grant. “Hmmm?”

Dr. Grant leaned forward. “You said, ‘Quick, hide.’ Hide from what?”

“No, I didn’t,” Angie said. “I said, ‘Thimbleberries.’ That’s what was growing in the woods.”

The doctor’s blond eyebrows pulled so tight they nearly touched. “After thimbleberries. It was quite clear. You became frightened and you yelled, ‘Quick. Hide.’ Who were you talking to? I thought you were alone.”

Angie plucked another petal and dropped it on the carpet. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hmm. Okay. Maybe I misheard,” Dr. Grant said. “So you gathered and ate the berries. Then …?”

“Then I was walking home.”

“All the way from the campsite to home? You knew the way?”

Angie shrugged. It was hard to care. “I guess. I don’t remember.” Three more petals hit the floor. “No, I don’t know the way. But I realized I was nearly home, just at the end of our street. My feet hurt a lot—I must have walked a long, long time.”

“Did you notice anything else unusual?”

Angie picked at the only thorn on the smooth-stemmed rose. “You mean besides it was September instead of August? Besides it was three years later? Besides I was taller and thinner? Besides I was wearing strange clothes instead of my pj’s? Anything unusual?” Her voice climbed the scale with each
besides
. “Nah. Not a thing.”

“So everything had changed. Instantly.”

A rising sob squeezed the back of her throat. “Everything except me. I’m still me when I close my eyes. I don’t know who’s been living in my body for the last three years, but I assure you it wasn’t me.” She waited for the doctor to say how silly and unreasonable that sounded.

Dr. Grant didn’t even blink. “So where do you think
you
were?”

“A rocking chair,” she answered reflexively. Then, “I don’t know why I said that. I have no idea.”