Page 73 of The Voice We Find

“Close to forty hours. From Saturday night to Monday morning, when Maria, our cleaner, found me. I was ... disoriented and pretty dehydrated.” I think of the blue Gatorade Maria retrieved from her son’s sports bag in her trunk. How she forced me to drink while I tried to recount the details of what happened.

A muscle in his jaw jumps. “And where were your parents?”

“Laguna Beach. They always take their anniversary trip in February since business is slow.”

When he says nothing to this, I tell him about the open investigation with the sheriff’s department, and about the statements I gave and the suspects they interrogated, and how ultimately, nothing ever came of any of it.

Except, of course, my crippling anxiety of being trapped in the dark, and my father’s belief that I staged the whole thing for the sake of attention.“As embarrassing as it is to admit, Detective, I’ve had my doubts regarding the accuracy of Sophie’s story for some time now. She’s always been a bit of an attention seeker, a drama queen. You know the type.”

It’sthis, the part of the story that haunts me the most, that I can’t ever seem to admit out loud. Not to August; not even to Dana.

Still, I’m not too blind to see how if not for overhearing that phone call six months into the investigation, I never would have found the courage to pursue the arts and apply to a college three thousand miles away from home. I never would have learned the power of the stage, or how to become someone else anytime I needed to escape myself.

I side-eye August on the sofa, wondering what must be goingthrough his brain as I watch the steady tick of his jaw. But the longer he waits to speak, the more I want to fill the silence.

“I’m okay now. I mean, it’s been ten years. And honestly, it could have been so much worse—”

“Don’t do that.Please, don’t minimize this.” He pushes forward on the sofa, unclasping our hands to grip his head. “You are not okay; none of this is okay.” When he unclenches his hair, all I want to do is smooth it back into place. “I had an hour to prepare for whatever scenario you might share with me once you woke. I promised myself that whatever it was, I’d be ready to hear it, to support you through it.” He twists his neck in my direction, eyes trained on my face. “But what I can’t understand is why nobody checked on you? You weresixteen—why did your parents think it was okay for you to not answer your phone for a day and a half? Dehydration is no joke!”

“You’re ... angry.” It’s a curious, almost hesitant observation.

“Of courseI’m angry.” He shakes his head, stands, begins to pace. “I’ve never heard of an investigation being called off when there’s a minor involved! You were attacked, Sophie. There had to be evidence. Fingerprints? Tire tracks? Surveillance footage?Something!How would they know the door codes unless it was an inside job?” He throws up his hands. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” I say, feeling myself shrink back with every doubt he brings to the surface. “They wore gloves, and my parents didn’t have security cameras at that point.”

“What about the staff?” he presses. “Were they all called in for questioning?”

I nod. “They were released.”

“And the weird accent you heard? Did you tell them about that? Could you identify it if you heard it again? Did they even have you talk with a—”

“I told the police everything I could remember, August,” I cut in with a calm I don’t feel. “Everything I told you.”

“And when they failed to do their job, your parents didn’t push back?”

“The department said they ran out of resources.”

“They ... theyran out of resources?” August repeats in a lethal tone. “How could any parent be satisfied with that?”

“Becausethey didn’tbelieveme! That’s how!”

At my outburst, my eyes round in horror. If there is anything more mortifying than admitting you weren’t loved or protected by the two people who should have loved and protected you most ... I don’t know it. The confession sets my cheeks ablaze, the heat searing into my palms as I cover my face.

“It’s fine,” I lie, hoping to ward him off.

Instead, it brings him close. So close I don’t have to part my fingers to know he’s crouched directly in front of me.

“It’s not fine,” he says with a tenderness that pricks my eyes. “I can’t even imagine how that must have hurt you.”

I say nothing.

“Sophie. Look at me,please.”

It takes everything in me to grant his request.

“I believe you,” he says. “I. Believe. You.”

Three words that simultaneously reopen and heal a wound he didn’t cause.

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