Before he can say anything, I reach up and smear away the makeup beneath my eyes. Then I push up my sleeves and show him the marks I’ve been hiding all morning. “Do you see?” I ask.
He gazes at the bright-red lines encircling my wrists, which have an angry, aggressive look to them. “Yes,” he says, “I see.”
“Someone’s hurting my sister, Ryan. That’s why these things are happening to me.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. He presses his hands together in a gesture that makes it look like he’s getting ready to pray.
The lights flicker again, then again.
“Shit,” Ryan says, pushing back his chair. “Don’t move, Rachel.”
Cookie seems to awaken instantly from her sleep; she stands up, tilts her head back, and howls softly, tapping her front legs against the floor in a demand to be noticed.
“It’s okay, girl,” Ryan says. “Sit down.” He stares at the lights. “I think it’s over for now, Cookie. Good girl.”
The dog doesn’t seem convinced. She tilts her head, puzzled.
“Cookie. Sit.”
“What’s going on?” I look around, intending to glance outside to see if it’s storming or something, before I remember that the room has no windows.
Ryan sits very still, thinking, like he’s calculating his next words. “It’s odd,” he says. “That’s what it is.”
I squint at him. “What’s odd? The lights flickering?”
“Yes.” He leans across the table and lowers his voice, like somebody might be eavesdropping on us. “Do me a favor, okay, Rachel? Don’t make any loud noises or sudden moves. Try to stay calm.”
“Okay. Why?”
Ryan shuts his eyes. He places his palms flat on the desk, his med-alert bracelet clinking against the table.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you about any of this,” he tells me. His eyes are still closed. “This is so unprofessional,” he murmurs.
He seems so … so human. So ordinary and approachable, despite the authority that his uniform suggests.
“It’s okay,” I venture, trying to put him at ease. “Professionalism is overrated.”
He opens his eyes, gives me a little grin. “I believe what you’ve told me,” he says. He nods slowly, then a little harder, like he’s growing more certain by the second. “I believe all of it.”
My relief is instantaneous; it’s like the bubble of doubt and anxiety that has been swelling within me all day has popped. I have to stop myself from reaching across the table to touch his hands, to let my relief flow into him; that’s how strong it feels. It’s almost overwhelming.
He taps an index finger against his lips, thinking. “Energy is a funny thing,” he begins. “People think they understand how it works, but nobody fully comprehends it.”
I don’t say anything. I just listen.
“Why haven’t you asked me why I brought my dog with me today, Rachel?”
I shrug. “I didn’t think about it much.”
“Do you know why I wear this?” He holds up his wrist.
“It’s a med-alert bracelet.”
“Yes.” He nods. “I wear it so that, if I have a medical emergency, the EMTs—or whoever helps me—will know all about my condition.”
“Your condition?” I echo. “What kind of condition?”
“Epilepsy. Seizures.” He nods at the floor beside him. “Cookie is a service dog. She’s been trained to help me manage it. She can sense subtle changes in my body that I wouldn’t necessarily be able to detect myself. Things like increased heart rate, different breathing patterns, the way I smell—anything that might indicate I’m about to have an episode. She lets me know if something’s not right. Dogs are amazing creatures.”
I look at Cookie. She’s breathing with her mouth open, her tongue hanging out, a few drops of saliva making the beginnings of a puddle on the dirty linoleum. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention whatsoever to Ryan. “Is she actually helpful?” I ask.
“Yes. She’s amazing.”
“But she freaked out for no reason a few minutes ago. When the lights flickered, both times, she started barking and yelping. Why did she do that? Was she trying to warn you?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so, not exactly. I’ve never been sensitive to light patterns. They’re not a trigger for me, at least not yet.”
I shake my head, fidgeting with irritation. “So what then? She was wrong? She was scared of the dark?”
He smiles, revealing a dimple that I hadn’t noticed before. “Now it’s my turn to sound crazy.”
I smile back. “Go ahead.”
“I’m not sure where to start,” he begins. “Nobody fully understands what causes epilepsy. There are lots of theories. And some people think it has to do with higher functions of the brain, with things we aren’t able to study just yet. Our brains give off electrical impulses, and they’re more powerful for some people—for people like me. When the lights flickered, both times … that was me, Rachel. I did it.” He pauses, gauging me for my reaction. “What do you think about that?”
I bite my bottom lip, trying to suppress my spreading grin. “I think it sounds insane.”
He leans against the table, closer to me; the gesture is intimate without being uncomfortable. I can tell that we both understand we are alike somehow, less alone in the world as we sit together in this little room, sharing our secrets with each other, basking in the comfort of acceptance.
“I’ve never been able to wear a watch,” he tells me, “because the battery goes dead almost instantly. I’ve gone through five cell phones in the past year. Every one of them has malfunctioned, or else they don’t keep a charge, or they just burn out.”
The thrill humming through me is so strong that I almost can’t breathe.
“Energy takes all kinds of different forms in ways that we don’t understand,” he continues, echoing his words from a few minutes earlier. “There’s so much we don’t know yet. The mind is a powerful thing.”
“You’re right,” I agree. But as much as I’m enjoying talking with him, feeling so comfortable, I haven’t forgotten what brought me here in the first place. “If you really believe everything I’ve told you—if you believe that my sister is in danger—then help me find her. Please.”
“I will.” And he inches his fingers across the table, bringing them closer to mine but not quite touching. “You know she’s in trouble, Rachel. You must have some idea of what happened, even if it’s just an inkling. Think,” he urges me. “What does your gut tell you?”
My thoughts flash back to my conversation with Officer Balest the day before. I remember what he said about Occam’s razor: the most obvious solution to a problem is usually the correct one.
I’m not ready to tell him the whole truth, but I need to tell him the closest thing possible.
“My sister stole some money from an empty house on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
He doesn’t react much. He reaches for his pen and paper. “How much money?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
He gives me a quick, startled glance, and I can tell he wasn’t expecting such a huge amount. “Besides you, who else knows that she took it?”
“I didn’t think anybody else knew. But someone must have seen something. Maybe he was watching her. Maybe he has a camera set up somewhere, and he saw what she did. I don’t know. But it makes sense, doesn’t it? If he wanted his money back, he might have taken my sister. It’s the only possibility I can come up with.”
Ryan’s pen goes still. Looking at me, he says, “You keep saying ‘he.’ Does he have a name?”
I nod. “Yes, he does. His name is Marcus Hahn.”
Chapter Thirteen
Once we’ve finished our conversation, Ryan walks me down the hall in the station, Cookie trotting faithfully at his side the whole way.
“You said she goes everywhere with you. Why wasn’t she at my house yesterday?” I ask, nodding at the dog.
“My partner doesn’t like to take her on calls.” He glances at Cookie with a look of adoration. “Isn’t that right, girl?”
“Why not?” We’re near the receptionist’s desk, which is a few steps away from the door to the women’s restroom. Larraine is on the phone again. She seems oblivious to our presence.
“He thinks it makes us seem unprofessional.” Ryan shrugs. “I think it would seem more unprofessional if I had a grand mal seizure in the middle of a stranger’s living room, but what do I know?”
Larraine shoots us a look of annoyance. She brings a finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. “Do you have a nice, fancy punch bowl?” she asks whoever’s on the other end of her call. “Okay, then. You’re gonna need four parts lemon-lime soda, two parts orange juice, and five cups of orange sherbet. I like to add a fifth of peach schnapps, too, but that’s optional.”
“Larraine,” Ryan says, “I need your help with something.”
She holds up her index finger and mouths, “Wait.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. Then he raises his voice and asks me, “Have you ever thought about working as a receptionist part time, Rachel? We could really use some help around here.”
I giggle. Larraine scowls at both of us. “Patty, let me call you back in a few minutes. … Sure, you can use generic. … Well, if you’ve got a good coupon, then by all means. … Okay, sweetie. Bye now.”
After she hangs up, she crosses her arms against her chest—she’s wearing a yellow sweater embroidered with big maple leaves and smiling chipmunks—and asks, “Yes?”
“I need Balest,” Ryan says. “Can you get him on the phone?”
She gives us a doubtful look. “He’s up in the mountains. I don’t think there’s cell reception.”
“Try him. If you don’t get through right away, keep calling until you do. It’s important.”
She’s obviously put out at being charged with such a monumental task. “All right,” she says, tucking a pen into her shellacked hairdo. “I’ll do my best.”
According to the clock on her desk, I’ve been at the station for over an hour. I hope Kimber is still waiting for me.
“Thank you,” I say to Ryan. And even though I know I shouldn’t, I reach out and put a hand on his arm. He doesn’t seem to mind.
“Of course. We’ll be in touch.” He takes a step backward, and my hand slips away. He nods at the door to the restroom. “Go clean yourself up. Then go to school.”
I take my time working on my makeup in the bathroom, reapplying foundation and powder until the bruises beneath my eyes are all but invisible. When I leave, Ryan is gone and Larraine isn’t at her desk.
Kimber is studying SAT vocabulary flash cards when I climb back into the car. “How’d it go?” she asks, not looking up, her gaze focused on “trepidation.”
“It was good. Really, really good.”
“That’s great,” she says without enthusiasm. She tucks the cards into her purse and adjusts her rearview mirror, studying her reflection for a few seconds. “Where do you want to go now?”
“My grandma’s house,” I tell her. “She lives out past the Shur-Save plaza. The one on the north side of town.”
Kimber gives me a blank look. “What street?”
“Go straight,” I say. “I’ll explain how to get there.”
As Kimber drives, I try to convince myself of the possibility that my sister is at my grandma’s house, that maybe she slipped away on Saturday night and got hurt somehow. In my gut, though, I know it’s not likely. I’m reluctant to admit it to myself, but the truth, I realize, is that I just want to see my grandma, to tell her in my own words what’s happening. She probably won’t be any real help, but she might be able to offer some comfort at the very least. And on the minuscule chance that my sister is at my grandma’s, it’s actually plausible that she would help Rachel hide out, even going so far as to lie to my aunt, her own daughter.
But if Rachel were there, I would know. I would feel her. Her pull on me would not have simply disintegrated the moment she left my sight at the fair.
“Here,” I direct Kimber, nodding as we approach a four-way intersection that crosses the trail. “Make a right. Then make a left onto Route 119. You’ll go for about a mile, and then you’ll turn right again onto Foxtail Road. She lives back there.” My grandma’s farm is close to town, but Greensburg is surrounded on all sides by woods and country. You only have to drive for a few minutes in order to feel like you’re in the middle of nowhere.
As we travel down Route 119, we pass restaurants: there’s a Denny’s, a Cracker Barrel, and a McDonald’s. There’s a strip mall containing a Shur-Save discount grocery, a consignment store, a do-it-yourself pet grooming salon, a notary public, and a methadone clinic. Meth clinics are for heroin addicts who are trying to clean up their act; I guess the methadone keeps them from being able to get high somehow. The clinic went in last year, despite rampant protests from the community, who objected to its placement so close to the trail. Apparently, thanks to the overall mismanagement of their lives, lots of heroin addicts don’t have cars—so they walk to the clinic instead. You can always spot them on the trail; usually they’re in groups of three or four people, shuffling along, chain-smoking, and keeping their heads down. They know nobody wants them around. It’s not even eleven a.m. and already there’s a line of about a dozen people, both men and women, going all the way out the door.
Kimber has been quiet for the past few minutes. As we approach the turn onto Foxtail Road, she brings the car to a rolling stop at the red light. Then she nods to the left, her eyes narrowing as she stares at the huge brick building complex situated on the hillside. The buildings are surrounded by high metal fencing, topped with shiny loops of barbed wire. It’s the state prison.
“Wave to my daddy,” she murmurs. Her tone is both sad and sarcastic.
“Oh, yeah.” I lower my sunglasses to peer at the structure. If it weren’t for the barbed wire, the gated entrance, the guard-occupied security booth, and the huge sign that reads STATE CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTE, the place could almost be mistaken for something less menacing, like a college or a hospital.
“Has he been there ever since …? I mean—”
“Ever since he tried to kill me and my mother?” she asks, her voice bitter. “Yeah. It’s lovely that we still get to be neighbors, isn’t it?”
She makes the right turn onto Foxtail Road. This is the first time I’ve ever heard Kimber say anything about her dad. Until now, everything I knew about the incident came from other sources. It happened years ago, but people still talk about it. After the fire, Kimber’s old house was leveled down to the foundation, but nobody has done anything with the lot since then. It’s just there, only a few blocks from Kimber’s new house that she shares with her mom, a constant reminder of what happened.
“Have you ever thought about going to visit him?”
She gives me a sharp look. “No.”
“…”
“…”
“Sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just … I don’t know … I can’t imagine what it must feel like.”
“It feels fantastic. How do you think it feels?” The prison slips out of sight as we continue down the narrow, curvy road. We are surrounded by tall pine trees on both sides. Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go …
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
She shakes her head. “It’s okay. It’s funny that you asked, though. I’ll probably see him later this week, as much as I don’t want to.” And she nods toward the floor of the passenger side, where the items that spilled from the glove box a few moments earlier are still in a messy pile. “Can you put that stuff away?”
I lean over and start placing things back inside the compartment. The door has been hanging open all this time. As I’m doing so, Kimber tells me, “It’s not like I ever stop thinking about him. All I have to do is look in the mirror. Every morning when I get dressed. Every time I take a s
hower.”
I’ve seen the scars on her back a few times before. They’re horrible. And I know now how she must feel, at least to some extent: every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded of my sister.
“So why are you going to see him now? I mean, after all these years?”
She snorts. “Because the district attorney called my house a few months ago. My dad is up for parole in November—there’s going to be a hearing on Friday. I might have to testify.” She blinks a few times, staring straight ahead. “I’m going to try and keep him in jail.”
And without any warning, she reaches into her shirt, into her bra. In a swift, practiced motion, she tugs at each side of her chest. Then she hands something to me: two flesh-colored, rubbery half moons, which are sticky on one side and warm all over from being so close to her body.
I stare at them in my hands, shocked. Kimber is a private, shy person; never in a million years would I expect her to hand me something from her bra.
“Put those in the glove box, too,” she instructs me. Her voice is cold, but it wavers with the slightest hint of embarrassment, as though even she can’t believe what she’s just done.
I can’t stop looking at them. “What are these?”
She continues to stare straight ahead. “They’re my breasts, Rachel. The fire ruined me. It killed so much tissue that I’ll never have normal ones, so I wear these instead.”
I don’t know what to say. How am I supposed to respond? All I can think to do is rest the inserts carefully on top of the driver’s manual and close the door to the glove box.
We are approaching my grandmother’s long gravel driveway. “Pull in here,” I tell her quietly.
She brings the car to a stop outside the house. She shuts off the engine, turns to me, and places a hand gently on my arm. “Hey. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to freak you out back there. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I didn’t mean to make this about me, either. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“It’s fine. You can tell me whatever you want.” Oh, Kimber. I feel a pang of guilt for my recent dismissive attitude toward her.