Page 29 of Last Seen
Crime scene photos, the autopsy report, notes from the detectives.
Her mother’s long white arm, trailing off the stainless steel autopsy table.
Halley feels the pressure building inside her. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake.
She shovels the pages back into the envelope, her throat closing with tears. Who is she kidding? There is no way she can look at this dispassionately. This is hermom. She might not remember her well, but there are still moments, sensory details, that give her a sense of who this woman was. The scraps and fragments of a missing life. Warm fuzzies. The scent of Oil of Olay. The shine of a diamond stud—the same diamond studs that Halley wears religiously. A Christmas morning with footie pajamas. Susannah chasing her around with the camcorder.
The hurt of a pulled pigtail. A bruise on her arm being prodded. Whispers, whispers—“what a nasty little thing you are”—and nightmares after.
That wall of black. Red spots on the white living room rug.
Are these memories? Are they hers?
Her breath is coming short, and in her hurry, two pictures have dropped to the floor. She tries not to look as she picks them up but catches a glimpse of one: it’s of the living room. Her old living room. Different from what she imagined, remembered, but the same.
A sharp pain constricts her chest, but she lets herself remember it, the room coming to life in her mind.
A white rug, and finger paint everywhere. Her mother is going to be so angry. She has to clean it up. But she can’t reach the paper towels on the counter. She drags a stool and climbs up. Rips them off. Hurries back to the living room. There is something big lying on the floor. She can’t look. She must clean up the paint.
She wipes and wipes and wipes, and it smears, going deeper into the rug’s pile. She whimpers in frustration. Fear. Tears. It smells strange. Her head hurts so bad.
Voices. There are voices. The female voice shrieks. She can’t make out the words.
She looks at the mantel. The photo of the family has paint on it. The fireplace is red. The doorbell rings, and rings, and rings again ...
And then she’s back in her kitchen, her hair making her neck cold, shivering with some sort of recall chills. She feels ill. Her arm hurts. A bruise has formed on the soft underside, just above her wrist. Did she do that to herself? Ailuros is staring at her with crossed blue eyes, his tail fluffed out in fear. She must have screamed, made some noise of distress.
“Sorry, baby. Come here.”
He allows himself to be comforted, then strolls off, indignant.
She needs to talk to her dad. She needs more answers. She needs to understand what’s happening to her.
Halley has never been anxious, not like some of her friends. But she recognizes this feeling in herself as more than discomfort, but a frantic desperation to know. To understand.
Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? A rush of emotions and sensations and mysterious memories? All crowing, shouting, fighting to be heard, seen, experienced. What was it Theo said about the madness closing in? How did he know this would happen? She is seeing spots.
God, Halley. Breathe.
She drags in some air, wills her heart rate to slow. She is working herself up, and for what? Nothing she does now will change what happened. Knowing won’t undo the act. Her mother will forever be gone, a ghost in the machine. She can never get her back.
She can’t help it, though. She has to know.Whywas Cat dangerous? What was wrong with her mind that made her lash out at her little sister?
Before Halley leaves for the hospital, she tries the number on the missing persons report. It rings and rings, but no one answers, andthere’s no voicemail. She tries it again, thinking maybe she put in the wrong digit somewhere. Same thing.
Frustrated, she puts the envelope and pictures into her backpack and heads to the Jeep. She cranks some Nirvana and drives to the hospital. As she pulls into the parking lot, her cell rings.
“Theo? Good morning.”
“Hey. Did you sleep?”
“Hardly call it that. I dozed a bit. I’m already at the hospital. The package came.”
“Did you look at it?”
“I started. You were right, it was too much, so I’ve put it away. I found out some stuff about Cat, though. She went to Harvard after she got out. I’m going to make some calls after I talk to Dad, see if I can’t nail down some more details.”
“And do what with them?” he asks, the inquisitorial tone making her pause.
