Good Girl, Bad Girl(103)

Light spills across the grass from the open door, a golden glow with slashes of purple where the shadows are deepest. Cyrus has stopped speaking. He’s looking up, waiting for me to say something, but I haven’t been paying attention. Has he asked me a question?

He brushes dirt from his knees. “Are you OK, Evie?”

“What?”

“I asked what you wanted for dinner?”

“Oh.”

“The pub on the corner does a good steak. The fillet is this thick.” He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“They have other things.”

“That’d be nice,” I whisper.





56




* * *





CYRUS




* * *



Evie has pinned up her hair, letting a few carefully arranged locks fall across her cheeks, framing her face. She’s wearing mascara and eye shadow, making her eyes look enormous and her skin impossibly pale. I prefer it when she’s scrubbed clean of blandishments and I can see her freckles; when she looks her age.

We find a table in the restaurant area, away from the busy front bar, where people are watching a European Cup match on the TV, groaning or cheering at the ebb and flow of the action.

Evie is mirroring my movements, unfolding her serviette, putting it on her lap. Reading the menu. At times like this, she doesn’t seem like a damaged teenager. She is confident and articulate and trying to be normal. Practicing.

Our relationship has already crossed boundaries in professional terms because of the emotion that comes with therapy. When you hire a lawyer, it doesn’t matter if he or she believes in your innocence or if you like spending time with them. The same is true of a surgeon. As long as they do a good job, your personal feelings don’t matter. With a psychologist it’s different because it involves observation and trust and engagement and empathy. I am walking a tightrope when it comes to Evie because I’m not sure if I can be everything she needs—a guardian, a therapist, a friend, and a confidante.

She has a gift. She calls it a curse. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps she’ll never lead a normal life, but I can try to protect her. If others discover what Evie can do, they’ll never let her go. Guthrie was right about that much. The questions, experiments, and clinical trials will never stop. Evie will become a guinea pig, a lab rat, a freak, a weapon. I will not let that happen.

The restaurant is short-staffed and the lone waitress is chatting to two young guys at the bar. I wave. She ignores me. One of the young men glances at Evie, trying to make eye contact. She seems oblivious. I signal to the waitress again. Nothing.

Evie gets up and weaves between tables, interposing herself between the waitress and the two men.

“Sorry if I’m interrupting your planning for tonight’s threesome, but we’re waiting to order.”

Heads turn. The waitress looks horrified. The men laugh. Evie jabs one of them in the chest with the knuckle of her forefinger. “If you don’t stop staring at me I’ll shove that glass in your face.”

His smile evaporates and he steps back, no longer certain of anything.

Returning to the table, Evie sips from her glass of water, acting as though nothing has happened.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say.

“Do what?”

“Embarrass people.”

“He was staring at me.”

“He was admiring you.”

“What?”

“You look nice tonight.”

Evie screws up her nose, embarrassed by the compliment. She doesn’t understand praise because it heightens expectations. She thinks I don’t mean it or that I should be praising someone else.

The waitress arrives, glancing at Evie nervously.

“I’ll have a rum and Coke,” says Evie. “And the mushroom risotto.”

I order the fillet steak, medium rare, with a peppercorn sauce on the side. We share a salad.

Waiting for our meals to arrive, Evie picks up her drink and leans back in her chair. She holds the glass to her lips, studying me over the rim.

“Any thoughts on what you might like to do?” I say, making conversation.

Evie considers this for a bit, giving the question a sense of gravity.

“I could work with animals.”

“You mean like a veterinary assistant?”

“Or a dog walker. I saw one today. She had six dogs in the park and a van with the company logo on the side.”

“You don’t have a driving license.”

“I know.”

“We could apply for a provisional one.”

Her face brightens. “Really?”

“All we need is a birth certificate or a passport.”

“I don’t have anything like that.”

“But the court gave you a new identity.”

“Without papers.”

This information surprises me, but Evie seems resigned to the fact. It’s another reminder that she has no official past beyond a secret room in a murder house. Most people belong somewhere. They have a family, a school, a neighborhood, and a country. They share interests, join groups, support teams, vote for parties, and form tribes. Evie has none of this.