Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Pretty Girl Thirteen

Pretty Girl Thirteen
Liz Coley
A gripping, suspenseful debut that will haunt you long after you have turned the final page…Angie Chapman is only 13 when she gets lost in the woods in the middle of the night.The next thing she knows she’s returned home, scars around her wrists and ankles, physically exhausted. Her parents collapse into tears when they see her, but Angie doesn’t understand – until they tell her she has been missing, presumed dead, for three years.Angie doesn’t remember anything from her missing years. But there are people who do – people who could tell Angie every terrifying detail, if only they weren’t locked inside her mind.With help, Angie begins to unravel the darkest secrets of her own past.But does she really want to know the truth?







For J, who survived.
Table of Contents
Title Page (#uf22e5c66-3438-5a30-89f1-7c20be04c796)
Dedication (#u3665335d-a8a1-5cc5-afee-b68c986b496d)
Prologue: Lost Time (#u9fdb40fb-2229-59e3-bbd5-41f20a9eec81)
Part I: You (#uc93e8768-0c8b-5795-9708-ecc6f2b88074)
1. Interrogation (#u0d82da9e-1137-59d3-9793-4416d56d63ed)
2. Examination (#uc4a921de-8514-5648-9daf-ce1c37fa5d50)
3. Evaluation (#u1236607e-da85-5e3d-a66d-e36bcb247335)
Part II: We (#u677d6998-f904-5022-993a-6c0277a25330)
4. Reunion (#u038bf940-5e89-574c-a34f-40514a2fdca7)
5. Invitation (#litres_trial_promo)
6. Repression (#litres_trial_promo)
7. Proposition (#litres_trial_promo)
8. Communication (#litres_trial_promo)
9. Competition (#litres_trial_promo)
10. Deletion (#litres_trial_promo)
11. Apparition (#litres_trial_promo)
12. Reputation (#litres_trial_promo)
13. Confrontation (#litres_trial_promo)
14. Renovation (#litres_trial_promo)
15. Integration (#litres_trial_promo)
Part III: I (#litres_trial_promo)
16. Confession (#litres_trial_promo)
17. Possession (#litres_trial_promo)
18. Detention (#litres_trial_promo)
19. Conflagration (#litres_trial_promo)
20. Decision (#litres_trial_promo)
Afterword (#litres_trial_promo)
Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)



LOST TIME
YOU HAD FORGOTTEN HOW EARLY THE SUN RISES ON SUMMER campouts—and how loud the birds sing in the morning. You scrunched down in your warm sleeping bag to block out the green light that seeped through the nylon tent, but there was no way you were going back to sleep until you took care of something. As you shrugged off the sleeping bag, you sighed.
“’Sup, Angie?” Livvie’s whisper emerged from the folds of her sleeping bag.
Katie rustled lower into her plaid cocoon and pulled it closed over her head.
“I just have to go to the tree,” you answered, Girl Scout code for taking care of business.
“Anyone else up yet?” Liv cracked one eye and squinted at you.
“I don’t think so.” You sniffed. “No one’s started the breakfast fire.”
Liv’s one eye widened. “It’s not our turn, is it?”
“Nope. Go back to sleep.”
You unzipped the tent and slipped out into the fresh, pink morning. Rosy clouds lofted high above the trees. Pine needles underfoot muffled the sound of your flip-flops as you snuck away from the collection of tents. No one else was stirring. The sun hadn’t warmed the air yet, and the T-shirt you wore left your arms bare and goosebumpy.
A few thousand pine trees surrounded the clearing where the troop had pitched camp yesterday afternoon—lodge-pole, ponderosa, Jeffrey, sugar pines. Mrs. Wells had made you memorize their bark and needles to earn your tree-ID badge. You found the trail you’d tromped along yesterday to walk into the campsite and headed down it a little way, looking for a thicker stand of trees. That was about as much privacy as you could get in the great outdoors. Tiny ripe August thimbleberries lined the path, and you munched a few as an early breakfast, the tart red juice staining your lips and fingers. A fallen tree with a saucer-shaped fungus lay across the path, and you filed it away in your brain as a landmark. Then you left the path and headed twenty feet or more into the woods to a good squatting place.
You spun in a slow circle to shake off the feeling you always had out here that someone was watching, before you hitched down your sweatpants and crouched. It was an art, peeing in the woods without splashing your feet or clothes, at least for girls.
A twig snapped sudden as a rifle shot. Your heart bumped in shock. Your eyes swiveled toward the direction of the sound, expecting a squirrel. A rabbit. A deer. Anything but a man, who blended invisibly into the undergrowth except for his narrow, dark eyes—eyes that stared at you with an almost familiar hunger.
“Shhh.” He put a finger to his lips, walking toward you.
You struggled with your sweats, humiliation and shock making your hands clumsy. You couldn’t break your gaze from his eyes, couldn’t see his face for the intensity of the unblinking stare that held you. You opened your mouth to talk, to scream, to plead, but nothing came out—your throat tight, as if a noose looped it and he held the knot. A moment later, he reached for you. His right hand covered your mouth and his left held your arm behind your back in an unbreakable grip. You still hadn’t breathed.
“Don’t fight me, pretty girl,” he whispered, pressed against your body, his moist lips touching your ear.
Fight him? Your limbs were soft, weak. Your knees on the edge of collapse. You couldn’t even take a step, to run, to flee. How could you fight him? Your stomach clenched, and the sound of wind rushed through your ears, a hurricane in your head.
Above the roar, you heard a little girl’s high-pitched voice call, “Quick. Hide!”
I opened the rusted gate for you to slip inside.
Stabbing pain pierced between your temples. Still you stayed, frozen in his grip. We tugged, pulled at you until something broke loose. For just a moment, you contracted to a tiny, hard point of light, felt yourself cut away from your body.
You hid. We kept you hidden till it was safe.
It was a long, long time.

Part I







INTERROGATION
“GO BACK NOW,” A VOICE SAID. ANGIE FELT A POKE between her shoulder blades. She tripped forward a step, arms out to catch her balance.
“Don’t,” she protested, whirling to look behind, but no one else was there.
She shivered and shook her head to clear it. When the wave of dizziness passed, she opened her eyes again. She blinked hard at her street. Her cul-de-sac. Her neighborhood. The sun was halfway up the cloudless azure sky. Hot Santa Ana winds tousled the sweet gum trees. A hint of red tinged the edges of the falling leaves. Sharp-pointy seed-pods scattered across the sidewalk. In August?
An unexpected weight tugged at her left hand—just a plastic grocery bag. Where was her camping gear? She hefted the bag to look inside, and that was when the strangeness hit her. She dropped it in surprise and studied her left hand. Something was really wrong here. This wasn’t her hand. Those weren’t her fingers. These fingers were longer, thinner than they were supposed to be. And a strange silver ring circled the middle finger. The skin was dry and rough. Dark scars circled the wrists like bracelets. She turned over her right hand, studying unfamiliar cracks and calluses on her palm. She clenched it experimentally. It felt … wrong.
Angie frowned and spun to look again behind her. How had she gotten here? She didn’t remember walking this way. She was just … in the woods?
Her stomach growled, and her right hand flew to her waist—taut, thin. And where had this hideous shirt come from? Flowers and ruffles? Not her style at all. And no way would Liv or Katie have bought it. She wouldn’t have borrowed it even if they had.
She picked up the bag and peeked at a collection of completely strange clothes. A sick feeling replaced the emptiness in her belly. Her head felt floaty, disoriented, disconnected.
Angie’s eyes traced the houses around the cul-de-sac. Everything there was familiar, thank God. The cars in the driveways looked right, which was reassuring, until she caught sight of Mrs. Harris, pushing a stroller, just entering her garage. Mrs. Harris didn’t have kids.
She broke into a run, feeling for the first time the blisters on her feet, the ache in her legs. Home, she had to get home. Of course. She’d been lost, in the woods. Now she was home.
She felt under the woven grass mat for a key and opened the red front door. “Mom!” she yelled. “Hey, Mom, I’m home!” She stepped through.
Tumbling down the front stairs, feet sliding, face a screaming mask of disbelief, her mom burst into tears. She engulfed Angie in her arms, speechless, gulping.
“Mom!” Angie said into her hair. “Mom, I can’t breathe.” She dropped the bag of clothes with a small thump. She brushed a wisp of hair from her lips. Silver threads mingled with Mom’s loose brown curls.
“Can’t breathe … can’t breathe?” Mom let go enough to hold Angie at arm’s length and devour her face with her eyes. “Can’t …” She laughed, a tight, hysterical bark. “Oh my God. Oh my God. A miracle! Thank you, God. Thank you.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Thank you,” she said again.
Upstairs, a toilet flushed, and Dad’s voice called down the stairs. “Margie, what’s all the commotion?”
Mom whispered to Angie, “Oh, your father … He’ll just …” She couldn’t speak. Her face was white. Too round and white.
Dad’s tread on the landing filled the pause. For a moment, he stood there, his hands plastered to his cheeks. His eyes met Angie’s and filled with tears. “Angela? Are you really …” His voice choked off.
Angie looked back and forth between the two of them. “Um, yeah. I’m really … What’s going on?” It wasn’t just her. Something was wrong with her parents, too. A shiver passed across her shoulder blades.
“Angel?” Dad whispered the word. He stood on the landing, frozen in weirdness. His black hair was completely gray. His damp eyes looked a hundred years old.
Angie’s heart began to race, and her feet tingled like they wanted to take off running. “You guys are totally freaking me out.”
“We’re freaking you …?” Mom’s hysterical laugh broke out again. “Angie, where … where have you been?”
“You know.” Angie’s stomach squirmed. “Camping?”
The way they stared and stared at her made it hard to breathe. “Camping,” she said again, firmly.
Dad started down the stairs. “Camping,” he repeated. “Camping?” His voice rose in pitch. “For three years?”
Angie locked the bathroom door and pressed her back against it. Her familiar towel set, cream with roses, hung on the rack, just where she’d left it. It smelled like Tide. She’d never been so happy to see a towel before. It was perfect. It was right. Unlike her parents.
Were they kidding? Were they crazy? She couldn’t have been missing for three years. That wasn’t the kind of thing a person would … just forget.
She turned on the sink first, then glanced up at a face that looked back at her with clear gray eyes. In that moment of utter surprise, she forgot how to breathe.
The girl in the mirror could have been her older sister, taller, thinner. Her cheekbones were sculpted, where Angie’s were soft and round. Her face was pale, where Angie’s was tan from a summer at the pool. The girl had long, dirty-blond hair, where Angie’s was highlighted and bobbed. The girl had serious arm muscles, gray skin, healed-up scars, and another thing that made the girl in the mirror a stranger. She had a curvy shape—breasts. Angie dropped her eyes to her chest. What the hell. Boobs? Where had those come from?
She fingered the top button on her shirt, scared to look.
A wooden pounding startled her. “Angela! Angela, for God’s sake, don’t do anything.” Her father’s voice sounded panicked. “Don’t … don’t …”
Angie turned the lock and opened the door. “I … I wasn’t,” she said. Her face flushed with guilt. For what?
Dad’s face was drawn with tension. A bead of sweat stood out on his forehead. Angie was mesmerized by it. She realized only half his chin was shaved.
His gaze slipped to the right, avoiding her. His voice was low and hoarse. “Detective Brogan will be here in fifteen minutes. He said not to touch anything that might be considered evidence.”
“Evidence of what?” Angie asked. The sound of running water filled the heavy silence while Dad hesitated over his answer. His attention darted to the sink.
“Oh God, Angela. You didn’t wash anything yet. Right?”
She held up her filthy arms, dirt so embedded in her creases and pores that she had turned gray. “Evidence?” she repeated. “Of what, Dad?”
Dad’s mouth twisted around for a few moments. The sweat rolled lower. “Evidence of whatever, wherever, or whoever.”
Angie looked at him in confusion.
His forehead creased with lines. Dark hollows circled his eyes. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Angie felt stupid. He expected something from her. She didn’t know what, but she could feel his anger simmering. Something stirred inside, and she walked to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Her head came up to his chin. “I love you so much,” she said. She felt him stiffen and pull back. She must have done the wrong thing. Her arms dropped. She turned cold, inside and out.
“I—I have to finish shaving,” he said randomly, his head turned away from her. “Shut off the water. Go wait downstairs with your mother.” He walked down the hall and closed the bedroom door behind him.
Angie had this vague idea that it might be a good idea to cry. But everything was tangled and frozen inside, seized up like the giant breath before pain arrives. She thought about chewing a fingernail, but it was dirty. And “evidence.” Her stomach clenched again. Evidence of what?
The unusual ring on her left hand caught her eye. Why couldn’t she remember where she’d bought it? The question made her strangely nervous, and the single warning throb of a headache coming on poked her temple. She twisted the silver band loose and placed it in the soap dish. The pain passed. It was probably Livvie’s, or Katie’s. Better not to think about it too hard.
The sound of Dad’s razor hummed as Angie hurried down the top flight of stairs. She stopped halfway, her feet pinned to the landing. She hovered like a lost child, halfway between Dad upstairs and Mom downstairs. Her pulse beat the passing seconds. Someone was coming. A detective, Dad said. She watched the front door until the frosted glass darkened with shadow.
Mom flew from the kitchen to answer the double knock.
A tall, ginger-haired man stood framed in the doorway. Mom threw herself into his arms with a muffled sob. He patted Mom’s back with one hand and looked over her head to the landing, where Angie still hesitated.
The man’s eyes went wide. “Angela,” he whispered. “Welcome home.”
He separated himself from Mom and held out his right hand, palm up, half an invitation, half a handshake. “Please,” he said. “Will you come down?”
Dad had called him a detective, but he was wearing blue jeans with a tear starting in one knee. The sleeves of his dark plaid shirt were rolled to the elbow. He looked casual, comfortable. He looked—amazed.
Angie took the four steps to the bottom and reached for his outstretched hand. It was huge, and hers disappeared as he pressed it between both of his.
“L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Phil Brogan,” he said. “Sorry to appear like this. I was gardening, and I didn’t waste a moment when Mitch called.” His hand was rough and calloused, but he held hers like a newborn kitten, with care and tenderness. He tilted his head and studied her face with a tiny smile.
Angie’s tension began melting away, her chill warming, until the moment he ruined it.
“This is incredible,” he said. “I feel like I know you already.”
She instantly felt stripped, exposed. A complete stranger who knew her. Her breath caught in a gasp. She caged the sob before it could escape. If she let it start, she might never stop.
“Lord, I’m sorry, Angela,” he said immediately. He let her hand slither away. “Mitch told me on the phone there might be memory issues. That you aren’t sure how long you were gone or where exactly you were. Disorientation. That’s not unusual.”
Was that true? Angie tried to decipher his eyes. Blue, kind, honest. She didn’t read a threat there. Okay. So maybe what was happening to her wasn’t unusual. She felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he could actually help her figure this out.
She nodded, and he smiled gently. “Come.” He gestured to the family room with his head. “We don’t have to stand here like bowling pins.”
A clunk sounded upstairs, and Angie imagined a giant ball rolling down the stairs, knocking them all off their unsteady feet, but it was only Dad. The corner of her mouth twitched. The detective caught it and smiled back with his eyes. Fascinating eyes. Orange specks dotted the dark blue irises. She’d never seen anything like them.
Dad walked ahead without sparing her a glance and clicked on the fire with the remote. “She looks cold,” he offered as explanation. Of course, the heat from the gas fire, locked safely behind glass doors, was too weak to reach her.
Angie made a full sweep of the room, finding everything familiar and in its place. Soft green cushions on the beige leather sofas. Floor-length drapes with leaf patterns, pulled back to let in the daylight. Old cabinet-style TV with the remote and printed guide on top. Piles of jumbled books in the bookcase on the side wall. There was no way three years had passed in this room. No way. Nothing had moved.
The detective settled into the chair closest to Angie’s corner of the sofa. His expression softened, and he rubbed the palm of his hand across his stubbly chin. “Angela, I’m so sorry. I know this is difficult for you. Very confusing.”
Did he? Angie wondered. Had his reality ever changed in the blink of an eye? She studied her shabby knees. They turned blurry as she squeezed away dangerous tears. Stop.
Brogan placed a featherlight hand on her bowed head. “I imagine all you want to do right now is reunite with your family and be left in peace.”
She nodded a fraction of an inch, grateful for his sympathy. She could tell he meant it—he understood how unstable she was. At least, it didn’t feel like just a police technique to warm her up for questioning.
Beside her, Mom squeezed her hand, and Angie looked up into the detective’s steady gaze. Unexpected freckles dusted his cheekbones. “But …,” she offered, sensing he was leading up to “but.”
“But my job is to figure out whether we have a criminal case to pursue here. Especially if we have a fresh trail. Do you understand?”
Her throat suddenly got the “I’m about to throw up” feeling. She swallowed it down. “Criminal? Did I … Did I do something wrong?”
“Not you, Angie,” Mom burst out, her fingers accidentally digging into Angie’s palm. Angie flinched.
“Margie.” Brogan raised his eyebrows at Mom. “Sorry, Angela. There are just a few questions I need to ask you right now. Then we’ll move on to other procedures.”
“There are a few things I want to know too,” Dad interrupted. “How on earth did you find your way home, Angela? Did anyone help you? Did you walk the whole way?”
“Yes.” The single word escaped her lips, but it didn’t make any sense. From where? Angie had no idea.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mitch,” Mom said, shushing him. “It’s more than thirty miles to where she disappeared.”
“Downhill,” Angie whispered. No one heard her. Where had that thought come from?
“Besides,” Mom continued, “she could have been anywhere. Out of California entirely.”
Brogan stood up and began a slow pace across the room. Angie followed him with her eyes. He’d changed—not a comfortable guy in torn jeans anymore. The soft sympathy face was gone. He was a panther, hunting. A cop, patrolling. She put herself on guard.
His voice changed too—it was flatter, clipped. “Angela. Any idea how long you were gone? Any hint of location? Anything at all?”
“No! I … uh, no. No idea.” Angie gestured to her parents. “They say it was three years. But … I don’t know. That doesn’t seem right. It was just a couple of days.”
“Did you run away on purpose?”
Angie’s forehead wrinkled. “Run away? No. Of course not.”
“No trouble at home? At school? At church? You didn’t need a break? From something? Or someone?” His gaze was probing, encouraging, and scary, all at the same time. He paced and watched and listened.
“No. What are you talking about? Everything’s fine. Was. Fine.”
Mom slid an arm around her. Angie leaned into the hug to prove her point.
Brogan nodded. He spoke slowly and carefully. “Did you arrange to meet someone? Did you visit an internet site and become close to an interesting person?”
“I’m not an idiot! No and no.” What stupid questions. Exhaustion gripped her. What did she have to say to end all of this?
The detective shrugged. “Okay. We didn’t find a trace of that kind of history on the computers you use at home or at school. Still worth asking, though.”
Dad finally quit standing watch and dropped into the other armchair with a loud sigh of relief. What was he was thinking? That she would actually sneak off with someone?
Brogan caught Dad’s eye and gave him a “watch yourself here” look. It was easy to read the detective’s face. “Angela, have you ever experimented with alcohol or drugs? A lot of kids your age have. Answer honestly—we won’t be angry or shocked, and we can get you help.”
“You can tell us, hon,” Mom said. “We won’t judge. I swear.”
Dad looked like he might, though, his elbows grinding a hole in his knees.
Mom patted his arm and said in an obvious aside, “That could explain her fuzziness on the details.”
Angie groaned. “No, I haven’t. I’ve never drunk anything but Communion wine. I’ve never tried drugs. Just a cigarette. Which was completely gross, by the way.”
“May I see your hands?” Brogan asked. It wasn’t a request. It was an order.
She rolled her eyes and wordlessly stuck her arms out. They were too long, too thin, too pale, and she imagined they were someone else’s arms stuck on her body. Brogan traced the unfamiliar scars on her wrists with a finger, flipped the hands over to examine the short, ragged nails, then back over to the dirty, rough palms. His finger explored the groove left by the ring on her middle finger, the cleaner, paler skin revealed.
He met her eyes with a question. “Know anything about this?”
A knifelike pain hit her behind the ear. She winced and shook her head, which he took to mean no. The ache drifted away. Her head cleared. It felt like fog lifting.
He pursed his lips. “Humor me a sec. Arm wrestle me.” He dropped into the chair again and set his elbow on the coffee table, thumb up.
“You’ll win. Your hands are huge,” Angie predicted. “Plus your arm is much longer than mine.”
One side of his mouth smiled. “Humor me. Please?”
Angie snorted. “Right.” She grasped his hand and pushed. Her smaller fingers disappeared in his grip, but his arm wavered. He pressed back. She met him with resistance, startled at the strength of her skinny arm. Lean muscle bulged. Without warning, his arm gave way and she flattened him. “You let me win,” she accused.
“Maybe a little. You’ve obviously been doing manual labor. For a long time. You’re very strong for your size.”
“Oh my God.” Mom erupted from her seat, hands twisting. “Manual labor? White slavery, do you think?”
How lame, Angie thought. But Brogan seemed to take the question seriously. “No, Margie. Not likely. She’s been relatively local.”
“Local? All this time?” Dad’s voice trembled oddly. “What makes you say that?”
“Her clothes smell of pine sap and wood smoke.”
Angie sniffed her sleeve. He was right. Well, of course, that made sense. Didn’t she make s’mores around the campfire only last night? Smells don’t linger for three years.
“Of course,” she said simply. “I was camping.”
“You remember nothing else?” Brogan asked.
This was getting exasperating. “Look,” she said. “I told you. All of you. I don’t remember anything else. I was camping. Then I was here. I don’t remember being driven home or dropped off or walking. Nothing. I was just here.”
“Angela, how tall are you?” The detective held his palms to her parents to keep them from jumping in.
“Five-one,” she answered without hesitation. In her side vision, Mom’s head shook slightly.
“And how much do you weigh?”
“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it?” she asked.
Brogan gave a full-faced smile for the first time. “Sorry. Yes. And I’m terrible at guessing. A hundred and ten?”
“Wow. You are terrible.”
“Told you.” He was honest, anyway, and his grin was contagious. “Sorry. More?”
Angie laughed, for the first time. “Ninety-five, last time I checked.” Her laugh sounded creaky, hoarse, unused.
“And how old are you?”
“Thirteen,” she said.
Mom started to open her mouth. A hissed “Si—” escaped before Brogan cut her off.
Dad missed the gesture. “She’s sixteen,” he insisted. “You’re sixteen now, Angela. Don’t you understand what we’ve been telling you?”
Angie’s head buzzed. What was wrong with everybody? Dad was so stiff and angry—he only ever called her Angela when she was in trouble. She was supposed to be his little Angel. But she hadn’t done anything wrong, except maybe get lost. And that wasn’t her fault. And besides … she was home now.
Anger bubbled up from nowhere. “Will you stop this stupid game? I’m thirteen.” Her voice caught in her throat. “I’m thirteen.”
Tears blurred her view of the detective’s face, but she spoke straight to him in tight, furious words. “I’m Angela Gracie Chapman. In three weeks, I’m starting eighth grade at La Cañada High School. I’m thirteen years old. And I think I’ve been lost. But I don’t know for sure. I want to take a shower and eat and go to bed.” She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to ignore the soft bumps that weren’t supposed to be there.
Mom stood. She placed an arm around Angie’s shoulder, like a magic cloak of protection. “Detective. She’s right. We all need a little adjustment time here. Can’t this be finished later?”
Angie felt such a rush of relief. Mom would get rid of everyone and tuck her into bed, and when she woke up, everything would be normal again.
“I’m sorry, Margie. I wish we could.” Brogan focused on Angie. “As far as the question of your memory, Angela, I think we’re dealing with some retrograde amnesia and post-traumatic stress here. You know what that is?”
“I can’t remember anything because I’m too freaked out,” she snapped.
“Something like that. I’d like you to meet with our best forensic psychologist as soon as possible. Mitch, Margie, I’ll set up the appointment and call you.”
“So are we done?” Angie asked, just about on her last blip of energy.
“Right after the medical exam,” Brogan said. “I’ll call ahead and expedite it.”
Dad turned his attention to something beyond the window. His expression was absolutely flat, like a stone statue. His shoulders hunched up to his ears.
“Oh, come on, Phil,” Mom protested. “Is that necessary? Now? She’s exhausted. Look at her.”
Brogan caught the desperate, pathetic look Angie threw him. His mouth turned down, and he switched back into the guy with a hole in his knee. “Yeah. I know. But we have to. I’m so, so sorry.”
Why did he keep apologizing? It didn’t change anything.
Brogan lowered his voice, even though there was no one else to overhear. He spoke to Dad’s back, not to her. “Angela has obviously been living with someone. She hasn’t been on the street. She hasn’t been starved. She’s been taken care of. There may be important DNA evidence. We don’t want to let any more time elapse before collecting it.”
“From her clothes?” Mom asked. “We can just give them to you.”
The detective gave Mom a pointed look and, finally, swiveled his attention to Angie. “Angela, without being able to rely on your memory, we need to see whether you’ve been sexually assaulted.”
Angie’s temper flared again. “Just say it, Detective. Don’t spare my feelings. Raped. You want to know if I’ve been raped. Don’t you think I’d know? Don’t you think I’d remember something like that?” Her chest heaved, as if she’d just finished a mile run.
“Do you remember, Angie?” he asked gently.
The image of narrow, dark eyes flashed through her mind and vanished in a spasm of pain. Then her mind was empty, clear—her anger evaporated as if the storm in her head had just died. She was calm. Blank. Relieved. Safe. “No. Nothing. I don’t remember anything.”
“My point exactly,” he said.
“Can I please shower after?”
“Absolutely. Margie, please bring her a change of clothes, since we’ll need to keep these.”
In the front hallway, he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up the grocery bag. “Do you know what’s in here, Angela?”
She shrugged. “Just some clothes, I think.”
“Recognize this?” He pulled out a checkered blouse.
She shook her head. A queasy feeling started up again in her stomach.
He probed lower and removed a yellow apron. Angie wrinkled her nose. “Nope.”
He reached in again and retrieved a tiny, black lace cami.
“Good God,” Dad said, turning pale. His hands combed roughly through his hair and locked behind his head.
Angie felt her own hands tremble. “Not … not my style,” she said lightly. A lump formed in her throat. Where had she gotten these things?
Brogan reached into the bag again. “Ah. No wonder it’s so heavy. Recognize this?”
She squinted at The Joy of Cooking in his hand. “Mom has that one. I don’t really cook.”
At the bottom of the bag was the strangest thing—a slim metal bar, pointed on one end, flat on the other. Brogan balanced it across his gloved palm. “Recognize it?” he asked, in a tone that was supposed to be casual but immediately put Angie on guard again.
“No. What is it?” Angie asked.
“Looks like a shiv. An improvised knife.”
“Why would that be in there?” Angie asked.
Brogan watched her with his orange-flecked panther eyes. “My guess is that you packed the things most precious to you. This might have been used for self-defense or—”
“I’ve never, ever seen that before,” Angie said quickly. The edge of the metal looked wicked sharp. Dangerous. “How much damage could you do with a little knife like that?” she asked.
“Oh, no doubt it could kill someone,” Brogan said calmly. “If you knew how to use it.” The way he lingered on “you” gave her shivers.



EXAMINATION
“ARE YOU OKAY WITH THIS, ANGIE?” MOM ASKED FOR THE third time in three minutes. Her cheeks were flushed red, like she was embarrassed by the flurry of activity their arrival had caused at the emergency room.
“I just want to get it over with,” Angie said. A dull throb sat between her ears. She was too tired to feel anything stronger. Mom was anxious enough for both of them anyway. “Not like I have any choice, do I?”
Detective Brogan turned at the sound of her voice. “Technically, you do. They’ll need your consent. But I can’t emphasize enough how important this is to the investigation.”
On soft, white-sneakered feet, a nurse approached with a clipboard. She glanced between her paperwork and Angie, a wave of pity crossing her face. “Let’s head back to an exam room and go over this.”
Dad looked like he wanted to say something, but instead he picked at his thumbnails. “I’ll just, uh, I’ll wait here with the detective.”
The room was shockingly white, except for the cloudscape painted on the pale blue ceiling. The exam table was much too short to stretch out on, and Angie wondered how she wouldn’t fall off. She listened with a numb, detached feeling while the nurse explained the rape kit procedure. This couldn’t be happening.
The nurse held out a pen. “Sweetie, here’s where you sign. Okay?”
Very slowly, in perfect handwriting, she wrote Angela Gracie Chapman, wishing she had a few more middle names to make it take even longer. The blank line next to it asked a question she couldn’t possibly answer. “Mom, what’s the date?”
“September eighteenth,” Mom answered.
Angie blinked hard and wrote it in. Then she handed the pen to Mom to sign as the “parent/guardian of minor.”
Without a word, Mom drew a single line through the year and corrected it.
Angie swallowed the acid in her throat. Three years. Gone with the slip of a ballpoint pen. How could things like that happen?
Mom’s hand still hovered over the page. “She’s never even had a pelvic.”
“Do you want to be in the room with her?” the nurse asked.
Angie met her mom’s flustered look. She shook her head. “That would be too weird,” she said. “Mom should wait out there. With Dad.”
The nurse touched Mom’s shoulder. “Mrs. Chapman, I’ll be present for the entire procedure. I’m very experienced with this sort of case. Why don’t you give me her change of clothes?”
Mom’s face was stuck between guilt and relief. She signed the form and kissed Angie on the cheek. “I’ll be right nearby, hon. Just right by. Out here.”
As the door clicked closed, Angie felt much less than sixteen, less than thirteen, even. Maybe seven. She wanted to call Mom back to hold her hand, to tell her it would be okay soon. She wanted Mom to remind her to get a sticker on the way out or to ask her where she wanted to get a double scoop when they were done. That’s how she always got through checkups, the embarrassment of taking off her clothes, the chill of the room, the dreadful anticipation of the needle.
“Okay, Angela. Hang in there.” The nurse spread a tarp on the floor. “Please stand in the middle of the pad and place all your clothes on it, not touching the floor.”
“Why?” Angie asked as she unbuttoned the flowered top. She fumbled with clumsy, quivering fingers.
“There may be evidentiary hairs or fibers on your clothes. Shoes, too.”
“Oh.” Self-consciously, she unzipped the pants she was wearing. She couldn’t call them hers—she’d never seen them before. She slid them to the ground, pushing off her shoes. Her skin glowed white in the sterile light. It shrank against her muscles as she broke out in goosebumps. Next, she peeled off her socks.
“What are these scars from, sweetie?” the nurse asked, pointing to Angie’s feet.
She followed the nurse’s finger. Her stomach flipped over. Sour liquid burned a path up into her throat. Around each ankle ran a two-inch band, a thick, lumpy welt of scar tissue. She clamped a hand over her mouth to avoid throwing up. “I don’t know,” she whispered between her fingers. Tears collected at the corners of her eyes.
Oh my God. What had happened? Her legs were gross! Disgusting! She would never, ever wear sandals again.
She crossed her arms over her bare chest, hands tucked into her armpits, and trembled in her panties. They were small and faded, but familiar in all the strangeness. They were actually hers. Pale butterflies chased across her hips. She focused on them, trying to draw comfort from the only thing that made sense.
The nurse glanced up from her clipboard. “Everything off, sweetie, and hop up on the exam table. There’s a paper gown on it.” She touched the wall-mounted intercom to call for the doctor.
Angie dropped her butterflies and dove for the table. The stiff, disposable gown scratched, but at least she was covered again. Her knees were blue and knobby as her legs hung loosely over the edge. She watched all the clothes gathered into a plastic bag and tagged.
“Quick manicure now,” the nurse said. She scraped under Angie’s nails and saved the gunk in a small vial. “Excuse me.” She peeked under Angie’s paper gown. “Not enough hair to comb,” she commented mysteriously, and dropped the paper back over Angie’s lap. Angie crossed her ankles tighter together.
“Open, please.” Mechanically, Angie opened her mouth for a huge swab. Her gag reflex kicked in, and she breathed hard through her nose so she wouldn’t vomit. Her cheeks and tongue were thoroughly scrubbed and the swab dropped into a long glass vial.
The nurse picked up her pen and clipboard. “Date of your last period?”
Angie flushed. “I haven’t started yet. I’m sort of a late bloomer.”
A sharp knock, and the doctor entered. Angie’s breath caught. The doctor was a man. Oh God. She’d never been examined by a man.
Knees pressed together, Angie shivered and watched him closely. He looked old, with white hairs mixed into his beard and a wrinkled, friendly face. At least that was less humiliating than a cute, young doctor. She loosened her laced fingers and shook the hand he offered. Hers was sweaty, his warm and dry.
“Hi, Angela. I’m Dr. Cranleigh. Is there anything you’d like to ask me before the examination?”
She thought. “Will it hurt?”
“There may be about thirty seconds of discomfort or cramping. That’s all. Okay?”
Angela nodded. No false promises. She liked that. “Even though I’m a virgin?” she asked.
“Even if you’re a virgin,” he replied. “I understand that you may be suffering from traumatic amnesia, yes?”
She nodded again.
“I’m very sorry about your ordeal.” He turned to the sink to wash his hands.
What was the correct response to that? “Um. Thanks.”
The nurse hovered in the background, now a silent observer. Angie wondered what she was thinking, how many other young girls or women she had seen through this. Maybe it was different if you actually had been raped, if you were filled with fury, if you were aching for vengeance.
But she wasn’t.
Dr. Cranleigh snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “So. A mystery. We’re looking for clues then, to explain anything about what has happened to you, where you have been. Think of us as a team. I promise to be as quick and gentle as possible. You promise to tell me if anything hurts. If we need to stop and take a break, we can do that. Also, very important, Angie, tell me if anything in the examination triggers a memory—a memory of any kind. Okay?”
Angie wasn’t so sure she wanted to trigger any memories. Something truly awful had happened to her feet. She couldn’t bear to look at them, dangling down from the edge of the examining table. And there were those dark ridges on her wrists as well. There must be a really good reason she couldn’t remember.
A bubble of resentment rose to the surface of her mind. She didn’t have to be here. She could have refused all this. Maybe she still could. Why was it so important to find everything out, anyway? Couldn’t everyone just be glad she was home and leave her alone? She was safe. She was alive. Let it go.
“Okay, now, Angela,” Dr. Cranleigh said. “I am going to check you for bruises and scars on the outside.” With impersonal and quick hands, he lifted the gown and examined every inch of her skin while Angie focused on the light above her, which flickered slightly. One fluorescent bulb was yellower than the one beside it, and she concentrated on the pattern of blinks.
Dr. Cranleigh spent a considerable time on her feet and wrists before he paused to jot a few notes and take photos. She watched the hands of the clock creep around and breathed in time with the ticks, trying to ignore the nauseating, dull, rubbery sensation when he touched her scars.
Angie forced herself to ask. “What do you think … I mean, what could have done that to me?”
The doctor met her question square on. “Healed wounds like these are typical of repeated chafing from restraints, most likely metal, not leather. The wrists suggest something more like rope or twine. The appearance is not consistent with self-injury. Any thoughts?”
“No,” she answered numbly. She’d been restrained? Shackled? She chased the word around in her mind, trying to find a wisp of memory. Her mind resisted, pressing back with dark blankness. “I just don’t know.”
“Thank you, Angela. Now lie down please, with your feet in these stirrups, knees up and apart, so we can look for any internal injuries.”
Angie’s chest suddenly squeezed too tight to breathe. Hide! a tiny voice screamed. A blinding pain shot through her skull, and she covered her eyes with her hands.
In the distance, she heard the doctor’s voice. “You may feel a slight pressure… .”
But she didn’t. The headache lifted as quickly as it had come, and her eyes fluttered open with surprise. The nurse extended a hand to help her sit. “All done, sweetie,” she said. “Thank you for being so cooperative. You can get dressed.”
All done? That was the exam? Where was the doctor? He couldn’t have snuck out in the two seconds her eyes were closed, could he?
Her heart skipped a beat. It was only two seconds, wasn’t it? She hadn’t blacked out, had she?
Angie’s eyes flicked from the nurse to the clock. Only a few minutes since she last looked, and they’d been talking for part of that. Relief eased the tightness in her chest. Guess the doctor was just quick on his feet.
Anyway, thank God it was all over. Time to go home and forget all of this. She smiled briefly at her unconscious choice of words. Could you forget about forgetting? Maybe so.
In spite of all the evidence, proof even, she didn’t feel like three years were missing. If she could just convince her parents to chill, she could get on with her life as usual—call her friends, go back to school, pick up where she left off. Why not? She pulled on the soft sweater Mom had brought and hugged her arms around herself. Trust Mom to remember her favorite oversized fuzzy blue sweater.
Angie slid her slender legs into the pair of tan cords, feeling almost normal again, until she stood straight and realized the pants were a couple of inches too short. And there it was. Proof again. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t just continue with her life as usual. Her life didn’t fit her anymore.
The nurse walked Angie down the corridor, to a room marked PRIVATE. “Doctor’s talking to your parents. Go on in, sweetie. Good luck with everything.”
Yeah. Good luck. How was she supposed to be a size-thirteen girl in a size-sixteen life?
Angie put a hand on the knob and began a slow twist. The doctor’s voice penetrated the door, and she paused to listen to what he was telling Mom and Dad. She caught, “Severe lacerations … unusual internal scarring … no doubt of repeated assault … ankles … not typical of self-mutilation … wrists … suicide … good health … not pregnant … psychiatric …”
Angie retreated to the hall bathroom, cranked the bolt, and sank against the locked door, weak at the knees. Repeated assaults. Internal scarring. The words whirled in her brain. Oh God. This wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to real people! This was TV stuff.
She’d left for camp as a normal kid, someone who belonged in a sitcom or family drama. Now she was the unwilling star of her own special crimes unit episode. Someone was rewriting the script of her life. Without her permission.
Angie didn’t realize she was crying until a tear rolled off her chin and splashed the cold tile floor. What was she doing here? What happened? According to Mom and Dad, more than a thousand days had been stolen from her. And no matter what the calendar in her head said, the flow of time and some cruel experience were written all over her. Right there. On her arms and legs and face.
Salty teardrops burned tracks down her cheeks. She smeared them off with the heels of her hands.
Angie stepped to the sink to splash cold water on her face, and there she was again. That stranger in the mirror. With the eyes that looked old and tired, full of knowledge they refused to share. Regretful, concerned.
Angie hurled a handful of water at the image. “I want my life back, you bitch,” she hissed at her reflection.
Oh, Angie, you were so angry at us. You didn’t know how we saved your life—how I worked with the girls and the gate to keep you pure and hidden and untouched, our Pretty Girl-Thirteen. That’s what we called you. We’re sorry there was nothing we could do about the scars.
“She can’t start school yet,” Dad said. “Not until we get a thorough psychological evaluation. We don’t even know which grade to put her into, after all.”
He and Mom were “discussing” her life in the front seat as if Angie weren’t there inches behind them and hadn’t just been strip-searched in the hospital. She felt sore and sticky, though she couldn’t remember any part of the short exam to account for it.
Dad hadn’t made eye contact with her the whole way through the hospital and out to the car. When Angie tried to slip her hand into his, he fake sneezed and moved his hand away to get a handkerchief. Was sixteen too old for public displays of affection? The rejection hurt, all the same.
“Eighth,” Angie said, leaning between their seats. “I’m supposed to be in eighth grade. And I’ve already missed almost three weeks of school. I have to get started.” Her double scoop of mint-chip ice cream sat melting and untasted in its cardboard cup on her lap. At least Mom had remembered.
Mom’s face ran through three tries before she found an expression she liked—polite disagreement. “It’s only three weeks. And the school will help us with tutoring to catch you up—I’ll insist on it. But hon, you need to be with your peers right now. You need their emotional support.”
“My peers are in eighth grade,” Angie insisted.
“Angie, your friends are all in eleventh grade now—Livvie, Kate, Greg.”
“Greg?”
Oh my God. She hadn’t thought of him in … well, whether it was three years ago or two days, the recollection of Greg was a ray of light that pierced this strange, dark day.
A whole bunch of them had gone to Soak City Water Park together at the end of July for the last great adventure of summer. It didn’t start out as a date for Angie and Greg, but then everyone else in the group ditched them at the lazy river. The joke was, they didn’t even notice.
They floated along on their stomachs like seals, sharing one raft. Their feet trailed out behind them in the swift, warm water, the sun blazing down on their backs. And pretty soon, their legs were sliding against each other, and Angie was really glad she’d just shaved. Around the river again, and their feet were twined together and when Greg put his hot, tanned arm across her back, it was the most natural thing in the world to turn her head and look into his shining eyes and meet his kiss halfway. Chlorine and cola flavored.
They crashed into a wall, bumped teeth, cracked themselves up, and kissed some more until the teenage lifeguard blew a whistle and screamed, “Watch where you’re going or I’ll kick you out!”
“Ooh, attitude,” Greg said. “Give them a whistle and they’re boss of the world.”
Angie giggled. “So do what he says and keep your eyes open this time!”
They floated around one more lap, lips and eyes locked on each other but blind to everyone else in the water, in a personal bubble the size of one raft and two people. By the end of the day, they were officially going out. But then they hadn’t actually gone out again before the campout.
Greg. Wow. He was a junior now—how incredibly awkward. How could a junior go with an eighth grader? Wait. She wasn’t, really. But what if he was going with someone else now? That was totally possible—likely, even.
Her heart raced at the idea of seeing him again, but which track was it speeding down—anticipation or fear? Like it was yesterday, she could still taste his kisses.
“Mom, there’s no way I’m skipping to eleventh grade. No way. Think about it. I’m totally unprepared. I can’t catch up that fast.”
Dad jumped in. “Which is why I suggested we give the psychologist a chance to weigh in on the decision. Especially since she has this temporary mental block. Who knows what else it might have affected—spelling, algebra—who knows?”
“She needs a normal routine,” Mom said. “And her best friends.”
A dreadful thought socked her in the stomach. The air punched out of her in a moan. They might not be her best friends anymore. They might have nothing in common. The in-jokes would all be stale. She wouldn’t know the songs and shows and websites they were talking about. And she’d be an oddity, a celebrity, the girl who disappeared for three years.
“Dad’s right,” she blurted. “And I might want to go to a new school anyway.”
“Well, we’ll just have to see,” Mom said, admitting defeat in her own way. “Detective Brogan very kindly arranged for the psychologist to see you tomorrow afternoon. All you have to do for the next twenty-four hours is eat and rest and put everything else out of your mind.”
“It already is,” Angie said with a hint of bitterness.
Dad pulled the car into the garage and killed the engine. His shoulders hardened into a wall. “Angela, I’m not so sure you want to remember anything based on what Dr. Cranleigh told us. Repression is a natural defense. If even half of what he suspects is true … well, never mind.” He turned his head away, but not before Angie caught the sickened look on his face and the swimmy film of tears in his eyes.
“Don’t get me started,” Mom hissed at him, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Right now we’re celebrating our Angie’s miraculous return, however it happened.” She slammed the car door. “I’ll start dinner while you clean up,” she said. “Your favorite? Macaroni and cheese?”
They were acting so weird. So emotional. Angie’s stomach hurt. She could only nod and pretend it sounded good.
“Welcome home, Angie,” Mom said. “Remember we love you with all our hearts, no matter what.” She gave Angie an uncomfortably tight hug.
No matter what? What was that supposed to mean? Angie stood in the circle of Mom’s arms for a minute before breaking loose.
She ran upstairs and opened the door to her bedroom, like the door to a time machine. Everything was picked up and in place, the way she’d left it before the campout. Her cozy blanket was folded in a square on the rocking chair. Her guitar was put away in its niche by the window.
The dresser top displayed a set of four colorfully beaded cream cheese tubs for her jewelry—rings, necklaces, bracelets, and earrings sorted out from one another. A plastic palomino horse, saved from a storage bin, galloped toward a photo of Angie, Livvie, and Katie squished cheek-to-cheek-to-cheek in a Disneyland giant teacup. She dragged her finger through the thick layer of dust over everything.
Her finger came to rest at the foot of the angel statuette Grandma had given her for confirmation a few months ago—or what felt like a few months ago. She picked it up, and stroked the pure white ceramic wings, dusting off a small cobweb that had been spun between them. An unusual choice, she thought again. Not a sissy-sweet Hallmark angel, but a strong, sexless boy-girl with narrow lips and bright eyes. It looked purposeful, even fierce, like Old Testament angels who frightened mortals with their flaming swords. She replaced it carefully, back on the dust-free spot.
In one of the jewelry tubs, the thick silver ring caught her attention. Oh. She’d left it in the bathroom, but somehow it had migrated back to her room. She picked it up for a closer look.
The ring was engraved all the way around with six tiny leaves branching off a single stem, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. She probably should have turned it in as evidence. A beam of sunlight from the window sparkled off an irregular pattern on the inside curve. What was that? An inscription? She squinted to read it: DEAREST ANGELA. MY LITTLE WIFE. The words bounced off a brick wall in her memory, leaving the reflection of one panicked thought. No one should see this.
The ring leaped onto her third finger and nestled into its groove, like it belonged. She must have worn it a long time to reshape her finger like that. She twisted and tugged until the ring pulled free of her knuckle, reluctant to leave its proper place. Her hand looked pale and naked.
She slipped it back on, forgotten already.
The bed was neatly made, with Grandma’s summertime patchwork quilt. On the bedside table was a bookmarked paperback—Animal Farm—which she’d been reading before the trip. Beneath it was her journal. The lock was broken, and it flopped open, somewhere in the middle of seventh grade. The familiar handwriting looped across the pages, day after faithful day until the last entry. August 2. She had written this in the tent by flashlight. Last night. No, not last night. More than three years ago.
She tried to imagine her innocent excitement as she read her own words. “Ouch. Long hike in. Everything hurts but camp stew was amazing and s’mores even better. Tomorrow we hike along the crest trail. Cool. Can’t wait.”
Before that, every page was filled. After that, every page was blank. It gave her the shivers.
Mom’s voice came from the doorway. “When they brought that back from the campout, it was all I had left of you.”
Angie kept her eyes down. She whispered, “You broke the lock. You read it, didn’t you? My private journal.” Not that she had any great secrets, but there were a lot of very personal comments about Greg. About his body, his arms, his lips. The blood rushed to her cheeks.
Mom crept up behind and slipped her arms around Angie’s waist. Mom’s chin nestled on Angie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Angie. We had to for the investigation. Any clue …”
“Oh God. He read it too.”
“Dad? No, no. I told him there wasn’t anything he needed to know. Just girl stuff.”
“I meant Detective Brogan.” Angie shrank with embarrassment. Of course he’d read it. That was his job.
She felt Mom’s nod against the side of her head. “Anyway.” Mom’s voice brightened into forced cheerfulness, trying to sound normal. “I didn’t change anything in here. I wanted it to be just right when you were found.”
Angie turned and hugged her hard, a life preserver in this crazy, wind-tossed sea. In her arms, she felt Mom sob and shudder once. “I never gave up,” Mom said. “Believe me.”
Angie rubbed her face into Mom’s shoulder. “Do you think I’ll ever remember?”
For a long moment, Mom was silent. Angie pulled back and caught the tortured expression on her face, the mourning in her eyes, a split second before she fixed her expression.
Finally, Mom answered. “For three long years, all I’ve wanted was to know what happened to you. Now … I don’t honestly know if I want you to remember.”
On that point, we had to agree.



EVALUATION
DAWN LIGHT FILTERED THROUGH THE CURTAINS A LITTLE after six thirty. Angie had the strangest urge to leap out of bed and start cooking, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t know how to cook. She stretched like a cat, working the stiffness out of her legs. Her feet touched the carpet with a jolt. The blisters and rubbed spots clearly hadn’t healed overnight. She forced herself to look away from the scar bands around her ankles.
“If I can’t see them, they aren’t there,” she lied to herself.
Angie listened for her parents moving around in the house. Water was running—probably Dad’s shower. She padded over to the dresser to find some clothes. She picked out one of her favorite tops, a long-sleeve tee with a dark blue silhouette of a rock climber on a pale blue background and sparkles spelling out ROCK ON. Katie had given it to her to celebrate their rock climbing badges last May … last … May. Oh no. She held it up to her chest and realized it was at least two sizes too small now.
Well, great. Wonderful. What would she wear? She crushed the shirt into a ball and hurled it across the room. It landed on the carpet dents where her rocking chair usually sat. The chair had moved three feet closer to the window. Carpet skids showed where it had been dragged since yesterday. Angie frowned and dragged it back.
With a heavy sigh, she went back to the dresser for the too-big gray sweatshirt she liked to wear when she needed to feel cozy. Without rolling up, the sleeves were just the right length now to cover her wrists. She glanced into her dusty jewelry dishes for inspiration and realized with a start—they weren’t dusty. In fact, the entire dresser top was clean. And so was her desk, and her nightstand, and the windowsill.
Had Mom snuck in at midnight to clean? How totally stupid, but how totally nice of her.
“Knock, knock.” Mom’s voice on the other side of the door startled her.
She jumped back into bed, not to be caught standing there in her underwear. “Come in, Mom,” she called.
Mom pushed the door with her foot, her hands filled with a bed tray and a plate of steaming pancakes. Pancakes in bed! It didn’t get any better than this. And she was starving, even after eating half the macaroni and cheese last night.
“Don’t think I’m going to do this every day,” Mom said with a little smile. “Just days that end in Y.” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Angie’s face. Maybe she expected her to disappear again overnight.
“Thanks, Mom. This is great, really, but you don’t need to make such a fuss.”
“Of course I do,” Mom said. She perched on the edge of the bed and set the tray across the bump of Angie’s legs. She fluffed the pillows behind Angie’s back.
“The novelty will wear off, and then I’ll just be spoiled.”
“No, it won’t. Never.” Mom laughed and stroked her hair. “Can I brush this for you? It’s grown so long.”
“I’ll probably get it cut soon,” Angie said. “Feel more like me.”
Avoiding mirrors was possible, but ignoring the strange sweep of silky hair over her shoulder wasn’t. It made her wonder about all the things she couldn’t remember—washing it, brushing it smooth every morning. And that led to where had she slept? What had she eaten? Who had cooked for her? Was someone missing her now that she was gone? Ugh. All too weird to think about. Better not to think at all.
She squeezed a huge glob of fake maple syrup over the four-high stack of buttermilk pancakes, watching it waterfall over the cliff into an amber pool on the plate.
Mom was silent until Angie looked up again, wondering why she was so quiet. Mom’s face had that smoothed-over sad look again. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you. Maybe once you’re back in school, or taking guitar again—I’m sure Ms. Manda would be thrilled to …” She trailed off.
Angie shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Mom said again. “I’m not helping, am I? Who do you feel like?”
“That’s the weird thing.” Angie cut a wedge with the side of her fork. “I’m the same person on the inside as when I packed for camping. But my clothes don’t fit right, my hair is all wrong, and when I walk by a mirror it’s like I’m seeing the ghost of Angie-yet-to-come. It’s creepy.” She stuffed the whole wedge of dripping pancakes into her mouth. The sweetness stayed on her lips after she swallowed. She sighed. “I don’t know. Who do you see?”
Mom took her left hand. “Just my daughter. A lovely girl on the verge of becoming a young woman.” She rubbed Angie’s knuckles, her fingers stopping on the strange silver ring. “Pretty,” she commented. “I don’t remember this ring from … from before.”
Angie didn’t either, but something stopped her from admitting that. “Sure. I’ve had it for a long time.” A half-truth.
“Oh. Okay. Guess I’m getting old. So, what would you like to do today?” Mom asked. “Shop for a few clothes that fit? And school supplies? Your appointment isn’t till three, but I took the whole day off.”
“Wait. You work? Since when?” Mom was a stay-at-home full-time volunteer.
“The library finally got a budget increase about two years ago, and since we needed … well, since I’d been such a faithful volunteer, they hired me.”
Angie didn’t miss the slip. “You needed the money? Did Dad lose his job?”
Mom’s silver-brown curls jostled as she shook her head in quick denial. “No, no. Everything’s fine there. He even got promoted to district sales manager. No. We just … it was expensive looking for you. Private detectives, advertising. And for God’s sake get that look off your face. Don’t think either of us regrets a single penny.”
Angie shrugged off the sudden feeling of guilt. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t a runaway or a juvenile delinquent. As far as she knew.
“It’s okay, hon. We’ll all be fine.” Mom gave Angie an extra-hard squeeze as if to convince herself. A drop of syrup spilled onto the quilt.
Angie dabbed at it and licked her finger. “Have you told anyone else yet? I mean, there aren’t a bunch of reporters on the lawn waiting for me to finish my breakfast and shower, are there?”
Mom made a show of going to the window and pulling back the curtains to check. “Nope. Not even one camera crew. Phil, Detective Brogan, is doing his best to keep any leaks out of the department until you’re ready. That’ll be hard. You, my dearest, were a very high-profile case.” She gazed out the window into the far distance. “So speaking of telling people, are you going to call Livvie today?”
Oh God. What would she say? Hi, Livvie, I’m back from the presumed dead? I didn’t get ravaged by cougars. What’s new with you? Definitely not a conversation she wanted to face right now. “Uh, no. I think I’ll wait till after the psychologist.”
Mom’s eyebrows pressed closer. “But maybe your friends …” She stopped, readjusted. “No, sorry. Of course. You need time to absorb the idea yourself before you deal with other people. That’s sensible. But I did call Grandma, of course. Last night after you fell asleep. Uncle Bill is driving her down on Saturday.” Mom let the curtain drop.
“Yuncle Bill?” Dad’s much younger brother was only eight years older than Angie, hence the nickname she gave him when she was six and he was only fourteen—young uncle was “yuncle.” She hadn’t seen him for ages. “What about Grampy? Isn’t he coming?”
Mom’s face froze. The silence lasted a beat too long. Angie bit her lower lip. Oh no. Please don’t say it, she prayed.
But Mom did. “Oh, Ange, hon. Of course you wouldn’t, couldn’t know. We lost Grampy six months ago.”
The bottom fell out of her stomach. Her cheeks went numb. Silent tears splashed onto her pancakes. What else had she missed?
She choked out the words. “What else, Mom? Anything else I need to know? Anything else I missed?”
Mom’s left hand darted to her stomach, her right to her mouth. Her eyes searched the room. “I … no,” Mom said.
A blind person could have told she was lying. “What, Mom? Spill it. Could anything possibly be more heartbreaking than never seeing Grampy again?” And then an awful possibility crossed her mind, watching Mom clutch herself like that. “Cancer? Oh God. Please, please don’t tell me you have cancer.”
“Oh, honey, no! It’s not … it’s … it’s good news, at least.” Mom bit her lip. “We’re expecting.”
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.
You helped our mom clean up your vomit in embarrassed, tense silence. Girl Scout wanted to help restore order, but we had agreed to give you this chance. It was too soon to bring you back inside. It was too soon to give up hope that you could manage on the outside.
While the laundry ran, our mom suggested shopping again. And since your old clothes didn’t fit our body, you agreed. You knew you would need them for school soon, anyway.
Mom tried to resurrect the old ritual at the mall, stopping first for cinnamon pretzels the way you always did before, wanting to re-create the closeness, the innocent times. You forced yourself to eat the whole thing, while your stomach cramped. At least it made her smile.
The salesgirl at Abercrombie looked at you funny when you said you didn’t know our size. You took an armload into the dressing room alone and stripped down to try everything on. It was the first time we had seen our whole body in front of a mirror, and I let each of the girls borrow the eyes, just to peek, until our mom knocked. “Everything okay? Need any different sizes?”
I suppose I let them take longer than I should have. You startled as we retreated and you found yourself with a roomful of untouched clothes and your hands cupped over your breasts, weighing their unexpected fullness.
“Hang on,” you snapped at her. “I haven’t even started. I’ll let you know.” You finally tried on all the clothes, but alarmed at the price tags—thirty-five dollars for a T-shirt?—picked only three shirts and one pair of jeans.
“That’s all you’re getting?” our mom asked. “I thought this was your favorite store.”
“That’s all I wanted from here,” you said. “Let’s go somewhere less designer.”
Mom let a little relief show on her face. Money must be even tighter than she’d let on.
When you left the mall, there was a little surprise waiting for you in the shopping bag for later. One of us had very expensive taste and very light fingers.
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.”
Steepling her fingers under her chin, the doctor pursed her lips. “Curious. Angela, I think I would like to get your mother’s permission to try hypnosis. We may be able to push past the thimbleberries. How would you feel about that?”
She felt—well, she wouldn’t call it hopeful. She was just being open-minded, that was all. “If you think it’ll help, go for it. I don’t see why you need Mom’s permission, though. I’m the one who needs help here.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, Angela. I’m glad you understand that you need help. Still, I am going to pop out and advise your mother.”
While she was out, Angie moved to the couch. Not knowing what to expect, she figured that if she fell over when she went under, it might as well be soft.
Dr. Grant smiled without comment at Angie’s relocation. “Mom’s on board. Are you ready?”
Angie nodded, wondering about the device in Dr. Grant’s hands. The doctor touched a switch, and Angie watched the light travel back and forth. It was vaguely annoying. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Am I supposed to feel different yet?” Angie asked.
“Patience. Relax. Just breathe in and out,” Dr. Grant said in a swaying voice. “In and out. Imagine a pine tree, a perfect pine tree.”
Angie let an image creep into her head, a perfectly symmetric dark green tree, like the kind a little kid draws. Like a Christmas-card tree.
“There’s another one beside it,” the doctor said. Angie imagined another tree, taller.
“Now there’s a woodsy smell,” she added. “Can you smell it? Breathe in and out, very slowly. In and out. In and out.”
Angie did. She breathed slowly, and caught a hint of pine and wood smoke. “Yeah, I think I can smell something.”
“Now add five more trees.”
She saw them. Unreal.
“Can you take a step toward them?”
In her mind, Angie stepped closer to the trees. She stood and turned around in a circle, slowly. The knots in the paneling watched her relentlessly.
“What are you looking for, Angela?” the doctor asked. “What do you see in the trees?”
“No. Stop,” a loud voice said.
“Angela, Angela.” The doctor had a hand on her arm.
Angie blinked. The light was gone, and she was sitting in the beanbag chair. “How … when?”
The doctor had an extremely serious expression on her face. “I think we have an unexpected complication,” she said.
That’s when she told you about us. That’s when the doctor said, “I think we’ve found the explanation for your amnesia.”
Of course, you wanted to know more.
Dr. Grant had a textbook open on her desk. In large, bold type, the section was headed with the words DISSOCIATIVE IDENTITY DISORDER (DID). “I strongly suspect that your mind is carrying several alternate personalities—multiple personalities you developed to help you cope with the trauma of being kidnapped. We call them ‘alters’ for short.”
“That’s crazy!” you said. “You’re telling me I’m insane? Schizo? Delusional?”
“No, no. Not at all. The word is ‘dissociated’—pulled apart.” She hurried to reassure you. “Alters experience things that are too hurtful or frightening for you. They form a protective barrier between you and what’s happening. That way you don’t have to remember. They’re the brain’s ultimate survival mechanism.”
She was so right. We gave ourselves a pat on the shoulders.
But you laughed. “That’s ridiculous. Why do you think I have multiple personalities?”
“Well, for one thing, there’s the long time period of lost memory.” Dr. Grant leaned over to collect the fallen petals from the floor. “For another, I’ve just spent half an hour talking to one of them. She calls herself Girl Scout. She’s worried about you.”

Part II







REUNION
WHEN THEY LEFT DR. GRANT’S OFFICE, MOM GRIPPED A photocopy of the textbook article and a page of web references. Angie trailed her unhappily back to the car. She didn’t believe any of it. There must be more rational ways to explain her lost time, her blank memory. And jeez, they were just talking about camping. Of course Angie would have mentioned she was a Girl Scout. The doctor just got confused, is all—must have misunderstood something she said. Angie would straighten it out next time. She had been starting to like Dr. Grant, to tell the truth, and she didn’t want to argue with her.
“Do you think … ,” Mom began awkwardly as she started the engine.
“Come on, Mom. Isn’t that a bit out there? I thought we already decided that I have temporary amnesia from post-traumatic stress. That, I can believe. This multiple-personalities thing? Not.”
“Yes, well, Dr. Grant did say it wasn’t exactly typical, right?”
“Sure. The book she showed me said blah-dee-blah a pattern of abuse and blah-dee-blah in infancy or early childhood. I mean, I don’t have that. I had a perfectly normal childhood, right? I mean, you and Dad didn’t tie me up or stuff me in a closet and torture me, right?” She laughed.
Mom tried to match her light tone and failed. Her voice squeaked. “Of course we didn’t. What a ridiculous notion. No one could love a child more than we loved—love you.”
She corrected herself quickly, but the slip was another stab in the heart. Measuring Mom’s waistline, Angie wondered how long she had to get her feet back on the ground, to fix her life before the baby came and messed everything up again. She didn’t ask.
Angie put her guitar away, fingertips throbbing. Aside from mirrors, nothing else reminded her so much of the obvious time gap. Chords didn’t fit under her hands the same way—her longer fingers kept overshooting. And then, in spite of all the unexplained calluses on her palms, she’d lost the useful ones four years of guitar lessons had built up.
Mom’s call to supper echoed up the stairs. Angie hurried down, but her feet stuck fast on the landing at the sound of raised voices. Dad’s voice—no, his words—glued her in place.
“Just not the same,” he was saying. “Look in her eyes. Something’s missing. She’s angry, then she’s, I don’t know … brain-dead. Flat. For God’s sake, I haven’t seen her cry even once.”
What did he expect? That she would sob all over him? He’d never been that kind of teddy-bear dad, and now he was so uncomfortable and distant. She’d seen more of his back than his front.
Mom’s hushed reaction was too soft to hear, but Dad’s response sounded loud as a megaphone. “I don’t know. Just damaged. There’s no spark, no bounce in her.”
This time a few of Mom’s words came through. “… time to readjust … more if she remembers. And you know what Dr. Grant thinks… .”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it!” Angie had never heard Dad yell like that, or use that kind of language with Mom.
She thumped deliberately all the way down. Bounced hard so they had to notice. The voices stopped. She glared between her parents, who now had this strained silence to explain.
Mom whacked a spoonful of mashed potatoes onto Angie’s plate. “We were starting to discuss school again,” she said with deceptive calm. The spoon clanged on the edge of the pot.
An obvious evasion. Plus, what was left to say? They’d already had a discussion about private school, a fresh start in a new place. Sadly, out of the question. Dad crushed that hope with the excuse that with Mom working, it was too far to drive. The crease between his eyes told Angie that the truth was, after the search for her, there wasn’t enough money. Sacred Heart was out for the same reason, plus they weren’t Catholic. That left La Cañada High School, the place where everyone knew her as the girl who disappeared. Sure, the grades seven and eight teachers and classrooms were separate from nine through twelve, but it was still a small world. Same campus. Too small.
The only remaining question was what grade. Thank God Dr. Grant backed up Angie. With everything else going on, she said, and now this possible weird diagnosis, she ought to go back to school at the level where she felt most comfortable. Also, as soon as possible before she missed any more.
“I’ve already decided.” Angie striped the pile of potatoes with her fork. “I’m going to start in ninth.”
“But—” Mom began.
Angie cut her off. “Look, my old friends will be around, but they’re juniors. I can’t take classes with them. You can’t expect me to, even with tutors.” Since she had been a year ahead in math, ready for Algebra I, that would put her in the regular stream for ninth. She’d always been an A student in language arts, so she wasn’t afraid of skipping one year. But that was where she drew the line. Skipping more than one grade was too stressful to think about.
“I still think you’d want to be with your friends,” Mom said, a slight whine in her tone.
Dad chewed his baked pork chop and kept his opinion to himself.
Mom couldn’t let it go. “I really think being with kids your own age will help … will help you feel like yourself again. Your words.”
“Two days, Mom. I’ve been getting used to this supposedly sixteen thing for two whole days.”
Mom sighed and rested her forehead on her hands, elbows on the table. “Sorry. Okay. It’s just strange to think you’ve been aging in my mind but not your own.” She gave a tight, sad laugh. “I even lit candles on all your missed birthdays.”
“So, where are all my presents?” Angie met Mom’s startled glance with the hint of a teasing smile. “Where’s that red convertible I always wanted?”
“That sounds more like my Angel,” Dad said. The worry lines on his forehead smoothed down a bit. He leaned back and loosened his tie.
Angie’s newborn smile stretched into a grin. Peace restored.
She didn’t entirely know why the idea of contacting her old friends filled her with terror, why she couldn’t even pick up a phone. It was just so hard to jump into the middle—much easier to start over. Blending in with three hundred ninth graders who didn’t know her, who had no expectations of her, sounded safer. If she caught up, she could move up.
“So we’re agreed,” Angie said. “Ninth.”
Mom nodded. Dad shrugged.
“Anyway,” Angie added, “are you in such a hurry for me to graduate and get out of the house?”
“Absolutely not.” Mom served the green beans, and not another word was mentioned about skipping ahead.
Wednesday morning, she walked through the doors of La Cañada High School with a backpack full of school supplies. Angie still hadn’t called her old friends to tell them, to warn them. Only the school administration knew that the missing girl had been found and had re-enrolled. They were just as anxious as the Chapmans to avoid turning the school grounds into a media circus. Detective Brogan had performed a miracle, keeping the press off the scene so far.
According to Mom, the teachers had been instructed not to make a fuss of any kind. Since none of them knew her personally—she hadn’t had any of them in seventh—her mysterious return wouldn’t affect them anyway. She was just a curiosity, no more. So she hoped.
Somehow, she’d had this crazy notion that she could slip into school unnoticed and disappear in a sea of ninth graders. But Stacey Tompkin’s punky little sister, Maggie, who was apparently in ninth grade now, recognized Angie as she squeezed into the back of first-period English. Her round green eyes kept swiveling from the whiteboard up front to gawk at Angie, as if making sure. Stacey had been on the campout, and her tagalong sister knew all the “big girls” Stacey hung out with.
Five minutes into school and she’d already been recognized.
After class, Maggie dashed to the desk next to Angie’s before she could gather up her stuff. “You’re Angie Chapman, right?” she asked breathlessly. “You disappeared.”
Angie kept her voice low. “Well, I’m back.”
“Yeah. I can see that,” Maggie said. “But why are you in my class?”
What was she going to say, anyway? She knew the question would come up over and over. “I didn’t go to school for three years,” she answered.
“Lucky,” Maggie said. “I mean …” She stopped with an embarrassed, stricken look on her face.
Angie took pity on her. “Not really. Now I have to catch up. A lot.”
Maggie’s face lit up. “I know what. I’ll make you copies of all my notes so far.” She grabbed Angie’s arm. “And I can come over and, like, tutor you, but just for English and history. Maybe Jessica should do math, and Alan can do science.”
She peered at the departing line of kids and yelled, “Hey, Jess, Alan, come here. Guess what?”
Angie slipped her arm away. “That’s okay,” she began. “I don’t need …”
But it was too late. The two who had to be Jessica and Alan headed in their direction. Another kid behind them yelled, “Oh my God. Is that Angie Chapman? The Gone Girl?”
Oh Lord. Angie stood helplessly as the kids who hadn’t left already surrounded her. She felt an arm on her shoulder, a hand on her waist.
“I’ll carry these,” a boy said, and snatched her backpack from her. “Where are you headed next? I mean what class?”
The clump shepherded her through the hall six doors down to math. Angie disentangled herself from the two girls who’d linked her arms on either side, like Scarecrow and Tin Man dragging her off to meet the Wizard. “I think I can handle it from here, guys,” Angie said. “Um. Thanks.”
Half the group dispersed and half stayed for math, waiting till Angie picked a desk before they surrounded her like bodyguards. Trying to plot her getaway, she didn’t hear a word the teacher said, but since she had two folded notes in her hand offering to study for next Friday’s test together, maybe that didn’t matter.
The classroom door opened onto a mob scene. Kids were holding their phones, supposedly off-limits during school, reading the screens. They looked up as the math class spilled out. She heard her name cut through the hubbub, spoken high and low. Everyone must know by now. The buzz of the excited mob was deafening.
She grabbed Maggie. “Get me to the bathroom,” she hissed in her ear.
Maggie raised her voice. “Make way. Coming through.” She elbowed their way through to the girls’ room door.
Oh God, Angie prayed. Please don’t let every day be like this.
At the end of the day, all she wanted to do was get home and shower off all the handprints, throw her clothes in the wash, and listen to silence for a while. She was hurrying for the bus with an armload of books in front and her backpack bouncing against her spine when she heard Livvie’s unmistakable voice closing in on her from behind.
“Hey, you. New girl. Slow down.”
She walked faster, a nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. She’d only had to deal with ninth graders so far. What would her old friends think?
“Hey, wait up,” a deeper voice called. Heavy footsteps followed her at a run. A hand stopped her at the shoulder. “Hey, you dropped—holy crap,” he said, catching sight of her face. “Oh my God, you look so much like someone I used to know. Whoa.”
Angie grabbed the ninth-grade vocabulary workbook in Greg’s outstretched hand. She would have recognized him anywhere, anytime. His black-lashed eyes hadn’t changed, nor his thick wavy Italian hair. But he’d sure grown up from his thirteen-year-old self. In the most amazing …
He’d already turned to yell back to Livvie. “Hey, Liv. Check it out. Who does she remind you of?” Back to Angie. “What’s your name, anyway?”
Angie’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Livvie jerked to a halt, staring at her. All the color drained from her cheeks. She reached a hand forward and lifted Angie’s long hair back from her face. Angie stood frozen in place as Liv traced the pale scar line under her chin from the time they’d been practicing spin jumps into the pool. Liv whispered. “Oh my freaking … no way. Are you for real?”
Angie bit her lip and nodded. She couldn’t breathe.
Livvie squealed. “Oh my God, oh my God. Gregory, you idiot. It is Angie. Back from the dead, or what?” She wrapped her arms around Angie and threatened to break a rib with her python-strength hug. “You didn’t call… . How long …? Where …? Oh, shit, there’s too much I want to know all at once. Tell me, now. Now! Now! I insist!”
Breath exploded out of Angie, breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Livvie!” She squeezed back. Her cheeks burst with grinning, the first completely happy moment she’d had. Mom was right. She should have called.
Greg gaped and gulped like an air-drowning fish. “You … but … holy crap.”
His arms joined the group hug, long enough to wrap them both. “Un-freakin-believable.”
Angie leaned against him, immersed in his warmth. Wow, he’d grown. His heart was racing right under her ear—almost as fast as hers. As a thirteen-year-old mini-stud, he’d been hot, no doubt. As a sixteen-year-old dark-eyed hunk, he was scorching.
His hand rested on her waist now, but she didn’t mind. Not at all. His eyes took all of her in. “We thought you were for sure dead. Everyone thought so. You vanished!”
“Well. I’m back.” Angie found it hard to catch her breath, impossible to explain.
“I … we all lit candles for you.” His forehead creased.
“It was so beautiful,” Livvie said. “You would have loved it. I mean, if you could’ve been there.”
Greg broke up in hoots of laughter. “If she’d been there? Liv, think about it.” He shook his head, smiled wide, and wagged his finger at Angie. “You know, you stood me up for homecoming, which I knew you would never, never do unless you were really dead. I believe you owe me an apology.” He moved his finger to lift her chin. “Care to apologize and explain?”
A happy giggle escaped her lips. “I’m sorry. And yes, I’ll explain as much as I can.” She noticed a couple of heads turned their way, studying her with curiosity. They began to move—her gravity field was drawing them in again. “Not here. Somewhere private.”
“Chah,” Liv agreed. “Greg’s house. It’s walking distance from here. We can be private and you can tell all!”
Greg put an arm around each of their shoulders. Angie’s heart raced through the roof. It was like no time had passed for them either. All still friends. And the way Greg’s fingers casually twisted through her hair, maybe he still felt the way she did. A low, laughing voice in her head said, Don’t worry, honey. We know how to find out, don’t we?
She snorted in surprise.
“What?” Greg asked. “Share the joke.”
“Sorry, a fly flew up my nose,” she lied. “Hey, where’s Katie? What’s up with her?”
Liv’s answer was completely unexpected. “Kate? Yuck. We don’t hang with her anymore. She’s, like, so immature, such a prude. We were having this bonfire last fall, and Kurt’s older brother got us a keg and she told.”
“Told who?”
“Her parents, the cops, the school. It was grievous. Kurt got three days’ suspension since he was hosting.”
An immediate sense of panic flooded her. “What? You can’t tell on your friends! That’s so completely wrong. She’ll burn in hell.” Angie was startled by the urgency and fear in her own voice. Hell? She didn’t even believe in Hell. Where had that come from?
Greg laughed. “Well, she got burned, all right. No one talks to her anymore. She’s lower than the outcasts.”
A fate worse than death in high school. Poor Kate, Angie thought. But she did it to herself. Telling. Didn’t she realize?
The sky hung overcast above them, and the breeze picked up—not a hot Santa Ana wind, but a preview of cooler weather. Angie shivered in her thin brown sweater—she hadn’t thought to buy a new jacket during her shopping spree. Greg pulled her closer under his arm, which totally made it worth freezing all the way to his house. He kept turning his head to look at her. She could feel his glance on her cheek, which was most certainly blushing.
Greg unlocked the front door and sent the girls into the kitchen. “Grab whatever you want to eat,” he said. “I have to make sure the coast is clear.” He disappeared.
“He’s shoving his dirty clothes under the bed,” Livvie explained. “He’s a total slob at home.” She stuck her head in the fridge and held out a can. “Want a Diet Coke?”
Angie accepted. “Thanks. It is so great to be with you guys again. You have no idea what kind of day I’ve had. Mobbed, flocked all day. Totally crazy.”
“I hear ya. Want some rum in it?” Liv asked. “I know where they keep it.” She grabbed two more cans and closed the door with her knee.

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