Good Girl, Bad Girl(20)
“What were the dogs called?” I ask.
Evie hesitates. “What dogs?”
“The Alsatians that you kept alive in the garden. The newspapers called them William and Harry, but you must have had names for them.”
Fear ignites in Evie’s eyes.
“You can’t tell anyone who I am,” she says, glancing anxiously at the door. “It’s against the law.”
“I know.”
I give her a moment to relax.
“Sid and Nancy,” she says, referring to the dogs.
“Did you name them?”
“No.”
“Terry must have liked the Sex Pistols.”
“I guess.”
“Why didn’t you let the dogs loose? You were sneaking out at night to steal food for them—you could have set them free.”
Evie has gone quiet. Someone shouts along the corridor. A voice answers. A third person tells them to shut up.
“I think you wanted their company,” I say. “Sid and Nancy were your friends.”
I can almost see the wheels turning in Evie’s mind. She’s steeling herself for the next question—the obvious one, the most offensive one: Why didn’t she run when she had the chance? I won’t ask it because it would imply that she was somehow complicit—that she was responsible for what happened, when nothing could be further from the truth.
I know the answer already. Elizabeth Smart, Jaycee Dugard, Shawn Hornbeck, Natascha Kampusch—all victims of celebrated kidnappings, all of whom had opportunities to escape but chose to stay with their abductors out of misplaced loyalty and love or a “learned helplessness.”
The same was true for Evie. She was drawn into a binding, dysfunctional, yet compassionate relationship with her abuser. She was brainwashed using the classic methods of sensory deprivation, threats, violence, and kindness. He created a new normal for Evie, convincing her that her parents were dead or had abandoned her, or that others wanted to kill her and only he, Terry Boland, could keep her safe.
“Did you stay in touch with Sacha Hopewell?” I ask.
“Who?”
“The officer who found you, or maybe I should say caught you.”
Evie shrugs, pretending not to remember her name.
“How did she do it?” I ask.
“She got lucky.”
“I think she was very clever.”
Evie pulls a face.
“That famous photograph—the one where she’s carrying you into the hospital—she had white powder on her knees and elbows. You had white powder on your bare feet. It bugged me for a while. Then I realized how she discovered your hiding place. I think she waited until dark and she sprinkled talcum powder over the floors. The next morning, she saw your footprints, up the stairs, across the landing, into the wardrobe. That’s pretty clever, don’t you think?”
Nothing from Evie.
“Tradesmen were renovating the house. It was up for sale. What did you think was going to happen?”
“I would have found somewhere else to hide,” she replies, making it sound obvious.
“What about Sid and Nancy?”
She can’t answer me. It annoys her. “I want you to leave.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many stupid questions.”
“Does that make you angry?”
“Yes.”
“What else makes you angry?”
“Sweeping generalizations. Hypocrites. Being blamed for something I didn’t do. People who hurt children.”
“Were you hurt?”
“Why do you jump to that?”
“I’m interested.”
“It’s all in the files.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “You keep telling different stories to different people.”
“Maybe the truth changes.”
Evie reaches for my arm and pushes up the sleeve, rolling it over my forearm to reveal a hummingbird hovering above a flower.
“I’m going to get a tattoo,” she says.
“Anything in particular?”
“Something bold and unexpected. No butterflies or flowers or birds.”
“I like birds.”
“Mine is going to make a statement.” She traces the outline of the hummingbird. “Did it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“You’re being honest.”
“Always.”
“Liar.”
“Do you ever hear voices, Evie?”
“No.”
“Are you anxious?”
“Not especially.”
“What are you most frightened of?”
“The people who want me dead.”
“Who are they?”
“Nameless men.”
“Do you have a gift?”
“No.”
“What about a curse?”
Evie lifts her head to look at me, her eyes like a mirror, reflecting my image back to me.
“Yes.”
10
* * *
CYRUS
* * *
The morgue manager is a thin man with a hook nose and nostrils like sinkholes that draw attention away from everything else on his face. I try not to stare at them as I show him my business card, asking to see Dr. Robert Ness.