Whisper to Me(5)

2. I assumed it was a man’s foot in the sneaker. Because of the style, because it was relatively large, I don’t know. That was why I was thinking about Orpheus. But perhaps if it had crossed my mind it might be a woman’s, then I would have thought about that other famous victim of sparagmos: Echo, and the way she was torn to pieces by Pan’s followers, leaving only her voice in the rocks and trees. And if I’d thought about her, then maybe I’d have gotten to voices sooner, and the idea of a murdered woman. And maybe things would have turned out differently, or at least I would have been more prepared for what happened afterward.



But then again, maybe not.





Like I said, they took me to the police station and we sat in what looked surprisingly like a normal office. They asked me a bunch of questions, what I’d been doing, whether I’d moved the foot, how long I’d been there, that kind of thing. They gave me sweet coffee, I already said that didn’t I? I was there an hour or more.

There were two guys, one in a suit and one in uniform. Agent Horowitz, who was clearly some kind of Fed, and Sergeant Kennedy or Officer Kennedy or something, I don’t know, I don’t remember. Kennedy was big and fitted badly into his blue shirt; Horowitz was skinny and young, with wire-framed glasses and a smile that actually seemed genuine. Though he was younger, he was clearly the one in charge—you would have known even if he weren’t in plain clothes.

Eventually, my dad turned up.

He came into the room and said, “Do you really need to keep my daughter here?”

“We’re not detaining her,” said Kennedy. “We’re just asking some questions.”

Horowitz nodded. “But I think we’re done here. You can take Cassandra home. She’s had a shock—I’d prescribe sugar if I were a doctor. Ben & Jerry’s, M&M’S. You know, chocolate.”

“She has a peanut allergy,” said Dad. “A severe one. Most chocolate could kill her.”

Kennedy slapped the side of his head. “Oh yeah. The guys from the squad car saw the bracelet when they were reviving her. Almost dosed her with epinephrine before they realized she’d just fainted. Candy, then.”

“My daughter found a human foot on the beach and you’re suggesting candy?” said Dad.

Horowitz shrugged and gave that slight smile. I noticed his cheeks dimpled and fine lines appeared around his eyes; it made me like him even more. “It works,” he said. He turned to me. “Also, we can offer counseling. Put you in touch with someone. Something to think about.”

“I don’t think so,” said Dad. He hated counselors—he said the ones in the Navy were worse than the people shooting at you, that they just wanted you to write down what happened to you over and over again so that you were always reliving it, always scared, always in pain. Yeah, I sometimes felt like saying. Because pushing it all down and basically going around with untreated PTSD is working so well for you.

“Well, Cassie, you call me if you’d like to talk to someone,” said Horowitz, gliding over Dad’s death stare, which made me think there was steel underneath his smiles.

Dad blinked and took my hand to lead me out of there.

Kennedy passed Dad a card with his pudgy fingers. “Call us if she thinks of anything else.”

I thought: I’m right here.

As I was thinking it, Horowitz caught my eye and rolled his, mocking his colleague, it seemed like. I laughed.

“What?” said Dad.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Shock,” said Horowitz, straight-faced. “A tub of Ben & Jerry’s. Helps every time. Take it from me.”





I’ve just realized I never told you my real name is Cassandra. You probably figured I was just Cassie.

It’s kind of a screwed-up name, isn’t it? I mean, if you know your Greek myths, which of course you do.

Cassandra: doomed to give true prophecies about the future but have no one ever believe her.

It’s not a name, it’s a curse.

Me, I have never been able to see the future. If I could, I would have left Oakwood that day, for sure.





Deep breath.



So this is when something really important happened, and I need you to bear with me with all this stuff because, not to sound overdramatic or anything, but what we’re getting to now is pretty much the whole reason I hurt you and the whole reason I’m having to write this e-mail to explain what I did.

To explain what I am.

I was alone in the police station bathroom, the stall doors all open. I looked at myself in the mirror, hating my freckles and dinky nose.

That was when I heard the voice.

It was a woman with a New Jersey accent, and this is what she said: “You’re disgusting. You leave the house like that?”

This time I did do exactly what a person in a film would do: I whirled around to see who was behind me. There was no one. Nor beside me, nor in the stalls—I checked. No one standing on the toilets or hiding behind the main door or anything.

“I’m talking to you, ugly ****,” said the voice. “You ever think of coordinating? Or brushing your hair?”

“What? Who are you? Where are you?”

Silence.

In the mirror, my eyes were liquid with fear. “Your little prank isn’t funny,” I said. “Wherever you are.”