Lost Girls(8)

I was going to have to double back, skirt around the cabin and go a different way.

I was going to have to head back toward something even more dangerous than the vast wilderness that stretched as far as I could see…

...

I woke, covered with sweat, a thin whine coming from my throat, not sure where I was. A long moment passed before I realized that I’d been sleepwalking—a possible drug withdrawal symptom, just like that doctor had predicted. I must have crawled into my closet and now that damned afghan was tangled around me. It took a while to wrestle my way free, to throw the blanket to the floor and push the closet door open. For several minutes, I crouched beside my bed, gulping mouthfuls of air, trying to steady my hands, wondering if I’d had a drug-induced nightmare or an actual memory.

Could that be how I had escaped? Why could I only remember part of it? A cool breeze toyed with the curtains and I uneasily walked across the room toward the window, until my fingertips rested on the sill and my lungs filled and emptied at least three times.

Something wasn’t right on the street below.

It was more than the fact that the Robinsons had ripped out their white picket fence, replacing it with cinder block, or the fact that the bulb in the streetlight was burned out, casting unwelcome shadows on our front lawn.

There was a buzz in the air, a hum that vibrated against my skin, saying something’s wrong, something’s wrong, something’s horribly wrong.

Then I saw it. A gray Toyota rumbling at the curb, halfway down the block. Lights turned off, a faceless, shapeless person inside, just sitting there, staring up at my window.

A chill shivered over me and I stepped back, hiding behind the curtains. I could still see out, but I hoped that whoever was down in that car couldn’t see me. Was it my kidnapper, should I go wake up Dad, should I call the police? I froze, forgetting about simple things like breathing or self-preservation or calling for help.

In that instant, while I stood frozen, the car flared to life, headlights blinding me before the Toyota sped off, taking away any chance I had of seeing the person’s face.

He was there and then he was gone.

Just like I’d been.





Chapter Seven


I hadn’t planned my grand entrance back into high school very well. All I had to wear were black Gothic shirts, ripped black jeans, heavy black boots, and dark, brooding makeup. I’d been rooting unsuccessfully through my closet for half an hour, hoping to find some of my old clothes, digging my way through a pile of dirty shirts and ripped fishnet stockings.

A week had passed since I’d had that nightmare and spotted that car parked on the street. Mom had been more worried about the nightmare. Dad was more concerned about the car. Neither one of them wanted me to go back to school. The only place I’d been allowed to go was ballet class, and even that had been chaperoned by either Mom or Dad. There’d been long discussions about whether I should be allowed to live like a normal teenager or whether I should stay home and work with a tutor until I started to remember my class work.

Mom did most of the talking, while Dad looked like he was never going to let me leave the house again. Like that monster in my closet was now living in the shrubs outside the front door and was counting the minutes until I was dumb enough to walk past.

Surprisingly, it had been my therapist who convinced them to let me go.

Two points for Dr. Rivera.

Even this morning, Mom was talking to my therapist on the phone downstairs, trying to change the doctor’s mind. She was saying things like mmm-hmm and yes, but, and I know. Mom was used to dealing with doctors, since she was a nurse, so this was how she was helping me. I mainly hoped she didn’t schedule me another appointment. Having my memory, or my lack of a memory, examined more than once a week was more than I could handle. Dr. Rivera would stare at me, her lips smiling but her eyes cold, her manicured fingers steepled in front of her on the desk while she listened, whether I talked or not. Sometimes I just sat there, wordlessly studying her office, the tastefully decorated tables and bookcases, all filled with vases and paperweights, none of which contained sharp, pointy edges.

Apparently, sharp edges were frowned upon by psychiatrists.

She was convinced a major meltdown was coming.

My therapist—I still couldn’t get used to those words—had told us all that something was going to trigger my memory. It could be something as small and inconsequential as a song, or it could be something big, but unfortunately she didn’t give us any examples of what a big trigger could be. I’d imagined them, though.

A car crash. A major illness. A death.

As if losing my memory or being kidnapped wasn’t bad enough, now there was a looming Big Trigger out there with my name on it, waiting for just the right moment to leap out at me.

Life had definitely taken a sudden turn for the creepy.

I kept digging through my closet, trying to find a decent outfit to wear, until piles of shoes and rumpled clothes were strewn all around me. That was when I discovered something tucked behind my laundry basket—a purple box decorated with hearts and glitter. I vaguely remembered this. It was something I’d made for an art project back in seventh grade. I was about to toss it aside when I realized how heavy it was.

With trepidation I pulled off the lid. I didn’t have much time left. I had to leave within five minutes, and even then, I still might be late for school.