Anna backed away and stood with arms crossed, hands clutching the sleeves of her jacket. An oil lamp sputtered on a small wooden table, sending shadows twitching high up the walls of the narrow hallway.
“Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” Her eyes looked huge in the flickering light.
“I need your help, Anna.”
“I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I told her the same thing. I can’t do it. They’ll find me.” Her voice trembled and I saw real fear on her face. The look sent a shaft straight to my heart. I’d seen it before. A friend, terrified by a stalker. I’d convinced her the danger wasn’t real and she died because of it.
“Told who?” I wondered where her mother was.
“Dr. Jeannotte.”
“She was here?”
A nod.
“When?”
“Several hours ago. I was sleeping.”
“What did she want?”
Her eyes flicked to Ryan, then dropped to the floor.
“She asked odd questions. She wanted to know if I’d been seeing anyone from Amalie’s group. I think she was going to the country, to the place I did the workshop. I—she hit me. I never had someone hit me like that. She was like a crazy person. I’d never seen her that way.”
I heard anguish and shame in her voice, as if the attack were somehow her fault. She looked so small standing in the dark that I went to her and wrapped my arms around her.
“Don’t blame yourself, Anna.”
Her shoulders began to heave and I stroked her hair. It shimmered in the flickering lamplight.
“I would have helped her, but I honestly don’t remember. I—it was one of my bad times.”
“I know, but I want you to go back to that time and think hard. Think of everything you remember about where you were.”
“I’ve tried. It just isn’t there.”
I wanted to shake her, to jar loose the information that would save my sister. I remembered a course in child psychology. No abstracts, ask specific questions. Gently, I pushed her to arm’s length and raised her chin with my hand.
“When you went to the workshop did you leave from school?”
“No. They picked me up here.”
“Which way did you turn off from your street?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you remember how you left town?”
“No.”
Abstract, Brennan.
“Did you cross a bridge?”
Her eyes narrowed, then she nodded.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. Wait, I remember an island with lots of tall buildings.”
“Ile des S?urs,” said Ryan.
“Yes.” Her eyes opened wide. “Someone made a joke about nuns living in the condos. You know,
“The Champlain Bridge,” said Ryan.
“How far was the farm?”
“I—”
“How long were you in the van?”
“About forty-five minutes. Yeah. When we got there the driver bragged that he’d made it in less then an hour.”
“What did you see when you got out of the van?”
Again I saw doubt in her eyes. Then, slowly, as if she were describing a Rorschach spatter,
“Right before we got there I remember a big tower with lots of wires and antennae and disks. And then a tiny little house. Someone probably built it for their kids to wait for the school bus. I remember thinking it was made of gingerbread and decorated with frosting.”
