be normal,” I say. “Like Lindsey.”
“I’ll bet Lindsey has her own share of problems.”
I ignore him. “I want the biggest concern of my day to be my French exam. I want to worry about which brand of eyeliner doesn’t smudge by third period, push the limits by hemming my skirt an extra inch, and wonder if the guy in my calculus class likes me.”
John Fogel’s note taunts me from my pocket.
The trouble is that I don’t know if I’d recognize normal, even if I were to do all those things. My life has never been mainstream.
“That’s good,” Ewing says, at last releasing my hand. “Deciding what you want is often the first step.”
On impulse, without consciously deciding to do so, I reach into my skirt pocket and extract the note. I start to unfold it. “I think I’m starting to remember something.” I glance up at Ewing, and this time don’t mind when he gives me the expectant stare. “Something about digging.”
He nods.
“You know there was mud in the drain that night. The night I was in the apartment above the Vagabond. The night the police found me there and were asking me about my father.” I swallow hard, awaiting Ewing’s reaction, which of course doesn’t come. I wonder if he allows himself to react later, when I’m gone. Does he go home to his wife and say, “I have a whack-job of a patient”?
“Suppose I buried his body,” I say. John Fogel’s note becomes an origami worry stone in my hands.
“Suppose you did.”
“I had to have had help. I mean, he’s … was, maybe … a big man.” I don’t want to voice this next theory, but I have to: “Suppose I buried Hannah. I could’ve done that on my own.”
“Could have. But would you have? Your comprehensive history gives us no indication that you’re a violent person, or ever have been.”
“Neither did my mother’s,” I mutter. “Until she shoved a dagger into Palmer’s thigh. I mean, what if he just … makes us do things? What if I was following a commandment in burying Hannah’s body? Honor thy father, and all.”
“Callie, I want you to recognize these thoughts as possible memories, sure. But sometimes the human mind works in obscure ways. These thoughts and images could be nothing more than an avenue through which you’ll remember what really happened. Like your graphomania. How many notebooks have you filled since you were here last week?”
I almost don’t want to tell him. “Three and a half.”
He presses his lips together. “You’re already writing more as the anniversary nears.”
“Not always. Sometimes I … sometimes I don’t.”
“Have you been bringing them to the detective, like they asked?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I drop them off, but usually they call and come get them, then bring them back after they’ve copied them.” I feel a little violated, and exposed, when I think about anyone reading what I’ve written in my notebooks, let alone a group of cops dropping doughnut crumbs over them, laughing at my insanity. Once I caught Elijah sneaking a peek, and I went ballistic. But if I want to help find Hannah, and I do …
The paper in my hand crinkles, draws my attention. Subconsciously, I’ve opened John’s message. I should fold it back up.
“Do me a favor. Leave this one with me.” Ewing’s hand lands atop my notebook. “I want to comb through it. See if I can’t find a clue.”
As if he senses my hesitation, Ewing reminds me: “I’ve read through them before, yes?”
I nod.
“Have I ever judged you for what you’ve written?”
“No.” I refold John’s note. God, don’t read it. Don’t .
“Trust me?” Ewing asks.
Finally, I give the notebook a shove in his direction.
Ewing offers me a closed-lip smile and juts his chin toward the note I’m unfolding again. “What’s that?”
“Something I shouldn’t read.” He’s Lindsey’s guy. I shouldn’t care, even if he wants to offer me the world on a string. But instead …
His words
“I’ll bet Lindsey has her own share of problems.”
I ignore him. “I want the biggest concern of my day to be my French exam. I want to worry about which brand of eyeliner doesn’t smudge by third period, push the limits by hemming my skirt an extra inch, and wonder if the guy in my calculus class likes me.”
John Fogel’s note taunts me from my pocket.
The trouble is that I don’t know if I’d recognize normal, even if I were to do all those things. My life has never been mainstream.
“That’s good,” Ewing says, at last releasing my hand. “Deciding what you want is often the first step.”
On impulse, without consciously deciding to do so, I reach into my skirt pocket and extract the note. I start to unfold it. “I think I’m starting to remember something.” I glance up at Ewing, and this time don’t mind when he gives me the expectant stare. “Something about digging.”
He nods.
“You know there was mud in the drain that night. The night I was in the apartment above the Vagabond. The night the police found me there and were asking me about my father.” I swallow hard, awaiting Ewing’s reaction, which of course doesn’t come. I wonder if he allows himself to react later, when I’m gone. Does he go home to his wife and say, “I have a whack-job of a patient”?
“Suppose I buried his body,” I say. John Fogel’s note becomes an origami worry stone in my hands.
“Suppose you did.”
“I had to have had help. I mean, he’s … was, maybe … a big man.” I don’t want to voice this next theory, but I have to: “Suppose I buried Hannah. I could’ve done that on my own.”
“Could have. But would you have? Your comprehensive history gives us no indication that you’re a violent person, or ever have been.”
“Neither did my mother’s,” I mutter. “Until she shoved a dagger into Palmer’s thigh. I mean, what if he just … makes us do things? What if I was following a commandment in burying Hannah’s body? Honor thy father, and all.”
“Callie, I want you to recognize these thoughts as possible memories, sure. But sometimes the human mind works in obscure ways. These thoughts and images could be nothing more than an avenue through which you’ll remember what really happened. Like your graphomania. How many notebooks have you filled since you were here last week?”
I almost don’t want to tell him. “Three and a half.”
He presses his lips together. “You’re already writing more as the anniversary nears.”
“Not always. Sometimes I … sometimes I don’t.”
“Have you been bringing them to the detective, like they asked?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I drop them off, but usually they call and come get them, then bring them back after they’ve copied them.” I feel a little violated, and exposed, when I think about anyone reading what I’ve written in my notebooks, let alone a group of cops dropping doughnut crumbs over them, laughing at my insanity. Once I caught Elijah sneaking a peek, and I went ballistic. But if I want to help find Hannah, and I do …
The paper in my hand crinkles, draws my attention. Subconsciously, I’ve opened John’s message. I should fold it back up.
“Do me a favor. Leave this one with me.” Ewing’s hand lands atop my notebook. “I want to comb through it. See if I can’t find a clue.”
As if he senses my hesitation, Ewing reminds me: “I’ve read through them before, yes?”
I nod.
“Have I ever judged you for what you’ve written?”
“No.” I refold John’s note. God, don’t read it. Don’t .
“Trust me?” Ewing asks.
Finally, I give the notebook a shove in his direction.
Ewing offers me a closed-lip smile and juts his chin toward the note I’m unfolding again. “What’s that?”
“Something I shouldn’t read.” He’s Lindsey’s guy. I shouldn’t care, even if he wants to offer me the world on a string. But instead …
His words
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