Emma That is Dead (FREE!)

Chapter Sixteen

Her face suddenly brightens. "Hey—maybe you can give Smith a message for me! Tell him I haven't forgotten him and that I'll talk to him soon, okay? Or maybe I can use your phone and do it myself?"

"Um..." My back straightens, my fingers guarding the cell in my back pocket. "He's at an All Hands on Deck meeting tonight."

Except he isn't.

"All Hands on Deck? Oh, right. Okay." Her shoulders deflate, her bottom lip jutting out in dismay. "You know what? I'm just gonna tell the wardens to give me my phone back. They can't keep it forever, right? It's my phone."

"True." I readjust in my seat, my brain grasping for a way to change the subject. I choose my next words carefully. "Can I ask you something? I know you're probably sick of talking about it, but there are a few things I'd like to know, if it's okay?"

She shrugs, and looks away. I can't tell if she's disinterested or uncomfortable. "Sure. Shoot."

I clear my throat. Take a breath. "Do you remember what the guy looked like? How he took you in the first place? Did it happen in Menteuse? Or were you somewhere else? Because that's what the police think. And how did you get away?" The questions shoot out like rapid fire, but I can't fight the urge to hold them back.

It takes her a while to answer. Emma stares at the wall, as if she's working it out in her head. Or maybe she's deciding how much to share? "He had red hair and a beard, and he wore a lot of flannel. I can still feel the material scratch my skin. But every time I try to picture his face, it gets all fuzzy."

"Could you tell if he was young or old?"

She draws in a breath, shakes her head. "I don't know. Maybe late twenties. Thirties? It's hard to know what I've made up in my head and what's real. The doctors say that's normal though, between the drugs and my brain trying to suppress the trauma. But every time my parents try to explain that to the police, they don't listen. They just keep asking questions," she says, her voice growing irritated. "My dad won't let them do anything if he's not right there with me. And even then, it's only if I agree to it."

My voice comes out hollow. "Like ... what kinds of things?"

Emma shrugs. "Medical tests. Interviews. Letting the police take me back to those woods to see if it'll jar my memory. They lay the guilt on real thick, too. It's a good thing Dad's not afraid to stand up to them."

I lean forward, dig my elbows into my knees. Press my fingers to my forehead. This is the most information I've gotten since Emma returned. It's a good start, but I need more. "Do you remember anything else? Anything that might help them find this guy?"

She waits a beat. And then another. "He smelled weird. Like cabbage or something." When she wrinkles her nose and shudders, her repulsion ripples through my entire body. I try not to heave. "And the last thing I remember on the day it happened—before everything went black—was stopping by the store after school. Bits and pieces will come to me from time to time, but nothing's ever fleshed out. It's weird. I vaguely recall getting poked with needles, and the way I'd feel once the drugs hit my system. And I remember being forced to—"

Emma stops, looks at me. Doesn't finish the sentence. I'm not sure I want her to.

Her gaze skitters over me and stops at the wall. "Sometimes, I'll have visions of the cabin. The stained mattress on the floor, and the mice that would run across my legs when I slept. But the memories come and go, like dreams I can't recall."

I swallow, focus on the scalloped hem of my comforter, try to process what she's said. But it's so hard to imagine her living in those conditions. I want to hug her, but I'm afraid of how she'll react. I can't read her body language.