by Stacy Green
“You’re nuts,” she said. “That had to be the bourbon talking.”
“What bourbon?”
Annabeth snickered. “Miss Alexandrine’s tea is the best.”
“Sweet tea and bourbon is a Creole favorite,” Bonin said. “Why do you think I kept giving you dirty looks?”
Sean Andrews worked at a body shop in Metarie. By the time Bonin pulled into the parking lot, Cage’s head had almost quit throbbing.
“You are to remain silent,” Bonin told Annabeth as they entered the loud body shop. “Got it?”
Annabeth ignored her and poked Cage in the ribs. “The dude at the counter is hot. Not as hot as you—you’re ridiculously good looking, and it kind of freaks me out. Cops shouldn’t be able to use their hotness to entice suspects.”
Cage’s face burned. “Shh.”
He and Bonin showed their badges to the twenty-something man at the dirty counter.
“We need to talk to Sean Andrews,” Cage said.
The kid paged Sean over the intercom.
Annabeth flipped through the magazines on the single table in the congested lobby. “Dude, these are like a year old. You can’t get current ones?”
“Uh …” the man behind the counter looked at Cage.
They were saved by a tall African-American man coming through the “Employees Only” door. Wiping his hands on a blue towel that looked too dirty to do much good, he glanced at Annabeth and stopped short. “I heard you were back. That you had surgery and looked different.” He shuffled his feet, rubbing his hand on the back of his head. “I should’ve called.”
Annabeth spoke before Cage could explain. “I’m not Lyric, but I thought I was for a long time. Gran lied to me. Charlotte, remember her? She died last week. I stole something and got fingerprinted. Turns out, I’m some missing girl from Mississippi and whoever took me stole Lyric too.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “That’s why they’re here.”
Sean blinked, his mouth open.
Bonin grabbed Annabeth’s elbow. “I told you to be quiet.”
Annabeth jerked away. “Touch me again, and we’ll have a big problem.”
“What happened to your face?” Sean asked as they sat down in a small, cluttered office that smelled of oil and dust.
Annabeth chose to lean against the door. She narrowed her eyes. “What’s wrong with my face?”
“Uh,” Sean glanced at Cage and Bonin. “It’s just … you still look like her. Or like you might be her.”
“You can say it,” Annabeth said. “One side of my face is saggy, and my eyes don’t match up. It’s not like I don’t have a mirror.”
“I’m sorry,” Sean said. “I just really thought you were Lyric.”
“She suffered a brain injury that removed all tact,” Bonin said dryly.
“But she’s definitely not Lyric? Why’s she got the tattoo? Lyric used that phrase all the time. Helped her get past her mom dying.”
“Charlotte said I should get it to remind me to breathe when I start to freak out.” Annabeth’s strained voice was no more than a whisper.
Cage jumped out of his chair and stood in front of the girl, blocking her view of everyone else. He gently touched the tattoo, its surface still rough from her scratching. “This helps you. That’s what matters. Breathe.”
She obeyed, taking large breaths. “I’m okay.”
Cage ignored Bonin’s raised eyebrow. He sat back down and focused on Sean. “This is Annabeth. We believe Lyric was still alive and with her before she helped her escape. A car accident that same night caused the head injury, and she was able to tell the responders Lyric’s name and grandmother’s phone number.”
Sean stared. “And Charlotte said this was Lyric?”
“The point is,” Bonin said, “Lyric must have been alive then. Charlotte said you had a story about the person you believed took Lyric. The original investigator never followed through.”
“Imagine that,” Sean scowled. “A cop not doing his job.”
“We’re here now,” Cage said. “And we’re listening.”
“That was a long time ago.” Sean crossed his arms across his thick chest. “I was a dumb kid.”
“We don’t care about whatever you were in to,” Bonin said. “We just want to hear your story.”
“We partied a lot,” Sean said. “Sometimes just a few of us at someone’s house, other times we’d find an abandoned house and kick it for a few hours before the cops rolled by. Wild times.”
“When did the strange guy show up?” Cage prompted.
“Summer, 2005. Only to the big parties. Hung out on the fringe—never told anyone his name. He was older, kind of creepy. But he had good shit, so I let him in. Few days before she disappeared, we were at this big party in a warehouse down by the water. Near the levees. Katrina flattened that sucker. Anyway, Lyric went to the bathroom and then outside for a breather. Next thing I know, she’s yelling at him and telling him to take off before she calls the cops. Even said she’d curse him.” Sean grinned. “She never was too devoted to the family religion, no matter how much her grandma taught her.”
“This man tried to attack her?” Bonin asked.
“She said he offered her coke if she came to his car. Got pissed when she said no. He took off when I came out.”
“You get a license plate?”
Sean shook his head. “I was too screwed up. All I know is that he was driving a blue pickup truck. Real redneck.”
Sonofabitch.
“You said this wasn’t the first party he came to,” Bonin asked. “Is this the first time Lyric saw him?”
“She said it was, but I didn’t believe her. She was mad as a cat that night. Guys came on to her all the time, creepier than him. You think she might still be alive?”
“Chances are pretty slim.” Cage managed to gather his thoughts. “You have a description of this guy?”
“Normal looking white guy. Probably tall as me, maybe six feet. Always wore a dark T-shirt and jeans. Slicked back his hair. I think he had a beard, but I can’t swear to that. Parties were always dark, you know?”
The liquor turned in his stomach. Annabeth had given him the same description seven years ago before she disappeared.
18
God, I hate Dr. Douche. I wanted to cry when he called Bonin back. Now we’re all sitting in his office, and Douche is giving me that fake smile. It’s pity, and I don’t like it.
His skinny hands match his skinny face. The man needs a pizza or something.
He opens a file, and my heart thuds. I know it’s mine.
Mickie’s dead face flashes in my head. Her eyes were open, just staring at me. Why did you let this happen?
I didn’t know. I never have.
Everyone’s looking at me.
“What did you just say, dear?” Dr. Douche asks.
“Uh, nothing. Just thinking out loud.” Evidently.
“She’s starting to remember things,” Cage says. “She recognized a couple of women we believe may be tied to her disappearance.”
I roll my eyes. He makes it sound like they helped kidnap me.
Who killed Mickie?
I’m thinking about it again. Blood everywhere. Screams. I think those are mine. It’s been the same dream for years, but now I know her name and I’m afraid.
“Her TBI occurred mostly in her frontal lobe,” Douche says. “That’s the cause of her disinhibition. That’s also why she has impulse control issues and a quick fuse.”
“We’ve noticed,” Cage says.
I stick my tongue out at him. Bonin kicks my shin. I’m not sure if I like her or not.
“Here’s the fascinating thing about her case. The frontal lobe doesn’t have much to do with memory. The hippocampus, the amygdala—those regulate memory, and they’re in the temporal lobe. The damage to this patient’s is minor.” Douche smiles at me.
“Is she capable of remembering a significant amount?” Bonin asks.
“My predecessor diag
nosed her with focal retrograde amnesia based more on the symptoms she presented with rather than her brain scans.” Douche talks slowly, like he thinks we’re too dumb to understand him. “Because of the minor damage to her temporal lobe, she should have recovered at least a portion of those memories by now. I’ve worked with patients with significantly more damage to their temporal lobes who were able to recover fifty percent or more of their memories.”
“Given her minor temporal lobe trauma and the knowledge that this girl did experience severe sexual trauma, is it possible her amnesia is more of a blackout?” Cage’s voice is nice. I think it’s a tenor. “Can that be reversed?”
“In her case,” Douche says, “my professional opinion is that it’s a combination of both. She suffered immensely, and her TBI provided the perfect opportunity to block it out.”
“I’m not blocking it out. I can’t remember!”
“Not on purpose, dear.” Douche smiles at me. “It’s a coping mechanism, and a very good one. But it’s likely a lot of information is still locked inside your head and accessible.”
“Accessible how?” Cage asks, and I know what he’s thinking.
“She’s a good candidate for hypnosis.”
I get up and walk out.
Cage runs after me like I’m going to disappear. I guess that’s fair.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m done with him.”
“Didn’t you hear anything he said?” Cage’s forehead wrinkles are getting deeper. He’s pissed. “You could remember who took you. Maybe even where you were. If you can remember burying Mickie, the rest is there.”
I know it is, and I don’t want to see it. I can’t. There’s got to be another way.
My nails dig into my palms. “I’m not being hypnotized. And if you try to make me, I’m out.”
He’s put his job on the line for me. I heard him lie to his boss, and I don’t get it. But I can’t go back there. I won’t.
“Are you seriously using a paper map?” Annabeth tossed her backpack on the floor and plopped down on his bed without any hesitation. She leaned back on her elbows. “You know about the internet, right?”
“I’m a visual person,” Cage said. “And yes, I know about the internet.”
“Duh, that was a joke.” She scooted to the center and lay down, stretching her legs and arms out as far as possible. “Comfy.”
Cage’s neck burned. Having her in his hotel room was inappropriate enough, but Annabeth lounging on the bed with her shorts hiked up her thighs was plain wrong. He’d be fired on the spot if his boss found out.
“Why am I here again?”
“Because I put my neck on the line for you, and I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Cage mentally crossed his fingers and hoped he wasn’t about to launch another tantrum. “I want to talk to you about hypnosis again.”
“No.”
“We need you to remember,” Cage said. “And once your parents show up, you’ll be too stressed out to focus.”
“No, I won’t, because I’m not meeting them.”
“Annabeth, I have to call them. It’s bad enough waiting.”
“Call them,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to meet them. I’m an adult, remember?”
Sam George wouldn’t be able to handle this new version of his daughter. She’d always been a daddy’s girl, the good child who did as she was told and didn’t question her parents.
Except that one night that changed everything. He was going to have to tell her eventually.
“Hypnosis,” he tried again.
“I said no. If I’m going to remember, it’s going to be my way. No one else is going to have that kind of control of me. Got it?”
“Fine.” He snapped open his laptop and logged into NamUs. Their national database utilized multiple resources for each missing persons entry, but slogging through the mounds of data would take more time than he had.
Annabeth had been found in Jasper, Texas—237 miles from home. He was searching in the dark, but he had a gut feeling the kidnappers stayed in a specific region. He narrowed his search to Texas, Arkansas, Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama. Might as well go in alphabetical order. He dug out his newly acquired black-framed reading glasses—an unexpected deficiency of hitting his mid-thirties.
“Holy shit. The glasses make you look even hotter.” Annabeth openly stared. “Like, ‘I want to jump you’ hot. Have you ever thought about modeling? I bet you’ve got chicks chasing you all over the place.”
Cage almost knocked his laptop off the small desk. “Christ. Really?”
“Was that out of line?” Annabeth asked. “I was giving you a compliment.”
This was going to backfire on him, big time. “You don’t say things like that to someone in a position of authority.”
“Are you in a position of authority right now? ’Cause you took off your gun, and you’re sitting at a desk with a computer. You look more like an accountant. A smoking hot one, but still. I don’t feel like you have authority over me.”
“I’m still in charge of keeping you safe.”
“But you’re not holding me against my will. I think that gives me the authority.” She licked her bottom lip and grinned.
“I’m a cop.” He willed his flushed cheeks to fade. “By definition that puts me in an authoritative position. That’s all I meant. You don’t go around telling people they’re hot at random. Especially me. Got it?”
She shrugged. “You get really deep lines between your eyes when you’re pissed. That’s going to cause wrinkles. And I don’t think you’ll look as hot with wrinkles.”
He gritted his teeth and turned back to the laptop.
“How long is this going to take?” Annabeth asked. “Can we get room service? Ooh, better, there’s a really good restaurant around the corner.”
“In a while. I have to search state by state and try to come up with similar cases.”
“Come on,” she said. “Doesn’t the program have like, a match feature?”
“It’s not that sophisticated. Why don’t you watch TV for a little bit?”
“Gives me a headache.” She settled into the pillows and closed her eyes.
He started searching Alabama missing girls from 2005 to present between the ages of fourteen and twenty, with biracial heritage. The results came back with too many names. Both Lyric and Annabeth were around five-five and 150 pounds when they disappeared. He narrowed his parameters accordingly. Still twenty-seven results, just in Alabama. This would take him all night.
Annabeth sat up and started digging in her backpack. Cage tried to ignore her, but he couldn’t block out his peripheral vision.
She set a white tea light candle on the nightstand, along with a chipped, white coffee cup. She lit the candle and then slid off the bed, heading for the bathroom, cup in hand. The faucet ran for a few seconds, and she returned, placing the cup next to the candle. Annabeth sat back down and closed her eyes.
Cage twisted around for a better view.
Annabeth began to whisper the Lord’s Prayer, followed by a Hail Mary. “I believe in God the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth.” She poured three drops of water in front of the candle as she spoke, confident in her movements.
“Papa Legba, Open the gate for me
Atibon Legba, Open the gate for me
Open the gate for me Papa that I may pass
When I return I will thank the Loa.”
He wanted to ask who she was praying to, but Cage didn’t dare disturb her. Annabeth bowed her head and continued.
“Dayana, ancestor of Charlotte and Lyric, I pray to you for guidance. I know you brought me to Charlotte, who loved me. But now we need to know the truth. Please guide us to the person who stole me, and who stole Lyric, and probably other girls. Give us the power and strength to know the way. Dayana, keep us safe as we search for this monster—even those who don’t believe in you.”
Annabeth’s face changed as she prayed, her te
nse expression becoming serene. Her body relaxed, her voice soft and calm.
She was staring at him now. “What?”
“Nothing, sorry.”
Annabeth blew out the candle. “Aren’t you going to ask questions or make fun of me?”
“It’s none of my business,” Cage said. “And I would never make fun of someone’s faith, even if I don’t understand it.”
She lay back down and turned on her side, away from him, breaking the spell. Her prayer wasn’t all that different from the ones he learned as a child. He knew Catholics lit candles and prayed to the saints; Voodoo incorporated that. It wasn’t the prayer itself that hypnotized Cage, but Annabeth. She’d been through so much—yet she still believed in the mythology she’d been taught under false pretenses. Her faith hadn’t wavered.
Cage had been raised to believe in God, but he’d never been much for any ritual prayers or Bible stories. After his sister’s murder, he questioned God’s existence. His still questioned it some days, but Cage refused to completely abandon the idea. Something larger had to be at work in the universe, even if humans had all the details wrong.
A soft snore interrupted his thoughts. Annabeth had stretched out, her dark hair falling around her face.
Might as well tell Dani he had a twenty-something woman in his hotel room.
19
“You told Agent Rogers what?” Dani’s shock resonated over the speaker. “You could get fired.”
“I know,” Cage said. “But pushing her to meet her parents is the absolute wrong thing for her.”
“Still so chivalrous.”
He cleared his throat, glancing over at Annabeth. “You might not think that much longer. She’s currently asleep on my hotel bed. And she says I’m hot.”
A beat of silence, and then she burst into laughter. “Thank God you’re keeping close tabs on her. I take it her brain injury makes her blurt out the truth? Or should I be worried?”
“The doctor called it, ‘disinhibition.’ She just blurts shit out.”
Dani giggled. “I bet your face turned all shades of red, and you got those little lines between your eyes. I’m kind of jealous, actually. Saying what you’re thinking without consequences? I’d never shut up.”
