by Stacy Green
As soon as Bonin left, the bathroom door swung open. Annabeth stood there, wide-eyed and wearing a hotel towel that barely covered her.
“My God.” Cage turned his back. “Coming out in a towel crosses that line we talked about.”
“I heard what you said. What’re you going to do?”
Cage put his hands on his hips and rolled his neck. His old boss at the Adams County Sheriff had promised he always had a place there. “That’s up to you.”
“If you don’t bring me in, won’t you be fired?”
“Probably.”
“You’d do that for me?” Her voice trembled.
He exhaled. “It’s the right thing.”
She rushed up behind him and threw her damp arms around his waist. “I’ll talk to them, and then we’ll go to Jasper.”
28
Sam George looked ready to throw Cage to the floor. His wife kept her hand on his arm, probably holding him back. “Where is our daughter?” Sam demanded. “You should’ve called us immediately.”
Bonin shot Cage a look. She’d escorted them from the lobby and looked like she’d already had her fill of Sam. He had an air-tight alibi on the day the girls disappeared, but he was controlling and alpha male. Cage always had the impression things were Sam’s way or no way.
“Please, let me explain.” After seeing her dry heave into the wastebasket, Cage decided he would speak to the Georges first and try to make them understand how fragile Annabeth was. “You’re aware of her memory loss and that she’s been living as someone else?”
“Because some woman identified her as her granddaughter,” Sam said. “She had to know she wasn’t. I want her brought up on charges.”
“She’s dead, remember?” Krista George finally spoke. “That’s the only reason we found out.”
“That’s all part of the case we’ll discuss,” Cage said. “But understand that Annabeth didn’t know. She believed Charlotte Gaudet was her grandmother, and she loved her. She’s mourning for her as the only family she had.”
Krista George looked stricken. Sam swelled up as though he were insulted by his daughter’s memory issues.
“The extensive trauma to her face—”
“Detective Bonin showed us a picture,” Krista George said. “We know what she looks like. She’s still beautiful.”
“Did she tell you anything more?”
Bonin shook her head. “Thought I’d leave that to you.”
“We spoke with her neurologist yesterday,” Cage said. “Her brain injury affected her vision but also her filter. Sometimes she says things she shouldn’t. Embarrassing things. It’s not really something she can help. She also deals with anger and mood swings. She’s not the same girl you remember, and she’s terrified to meet you. That’s why I waited.”
“Once she sees us, her memory will come back,” her father said. “It’s in there.”
This was going to be a disaster. Sam didn’t have the patience to deal with Annabeth’s condition, and she would sense that the minute he walked in the door. He almost suggested Krista go in first, alone, but Cage knew it was a waste of breath. “Don’t expect it to come quickly. She’s been through more than we can imagine, and she’s afraid of the memories. You have to be patient, and you have to abide by her wishes. She’s not ready to go back to Mississippi.”
Krista nodded, but Sam shook his head. “I’m done talking with you, Foster. She’ll come with us. Period.”
“She’s a legal adult. If she refuses, then she doesn’t go.”
“How dare you? She’s our child.”
“Who doesn’t remember you and is trying wrap her head around all this,” Cage said. “If you try to force her, Sam, I’ll arrest you.”
“I’d like to see you try, Foster.” Sam puffed out his chest. “I know what’s best for her.”
“No, you don’t,” Cage said. “And if you love her, you’ll put her first.”
29
I’m going to throw up for real this time.
The room is hot and small. My face feels like I’ve stuck it inside a blazing oven. I can’t catch a full breath. My head throbs, and my vision keeps streaking. I don’t want to lose it in front of these people, but I’m about to panic.
These people. My parents, who love me and never gave up hope. And I can’t remember anything about my life with them. It’s bad enough for me—at least I don’t know what I’ve lost. But what about the Georges? Wouldn’t it be better if they thought I was dead?
The door handle is moving.
My vision completely blurs, and all I see is the mix of shapes and colors in front of me. I scoot away from the table and rub my eyes. That’s when I see the woman moving toward me. Her arms are open. Does she think I’m going to hug her? Am I supposed to?
Tears are in her eyes, and her pretty face is twisted as she fights back tears. I step back, feeling nothing but fear. She stops, suddenly realizing that I’m scared. A man stands beside her. Dark skinned, well-built, his short black hair speckled with gray.
“We’ve missed you so much.” The woman is talking now, her voice barely above a whisper. I wish something about it was familiar. But I’ve got nothing.
“You must recognize us,” the man said. My father, I remind myself. And this is my mother. They raised me, apparently loved me, and I don’t know them from a stranger on the street.
Cage appears behind them and silently crosses the room and stands next to me. Some of the tension between my shoulders melts.
“It’s okay,” the woman says. “We always believed we would find you one day. We know everything’s turned upside down for you—”
“Which is why you’ll be coming home,” the man says. He’s used to calling the shots, and he doesn’t look like he takes no for an answer. “Once you’re in familiar surroundings, you’ll remember.”
I shrink against Cage. He’s warm and strong and smells like sandalwood. I try to say something, but all I can manage is to shake my head back and forth.
Cage speaks for me. “She’s not ready to come home and pushing her against her will isn’t going to work.”
Mr. George steps forward, his big body just a few feet from mine. “This is our child, and you won’t tell us what we can and can’t do. You didn’t find her seven years ago, and you didn’t call us when she showed up here. If I have it my way, you’ll be looking for a job by tomorrow.”
Something inside me snaps. I push away from Cage, the room suddenly shimmering in a familiar red aura. The pressure’s building in my chest and pounding against my skull.
“If you do that, you will never see me again.”
The man stares at me. I stare back, the red threatening to completely take over. “Cage is only doing what he thinks is right for me. My memory might be all kinds of screwed up, but I’m an adult. I’ll decide when or if I go back to Mississippi.”
My mother starts to cry. The man’s jaw tightens, and I know he’s not backing down.
“I know this city. I can disappear real quick,” I say. “If you can’t respect that, then we have nothing more to say.”
My mother buries her face in her hands. I feel bad for her, but her wailing is scratching my nerves. I rub my temples and then the tattoo. Inhale, exhale.
“Are we just supposed to leave you here? What are you going to do here now that that woman’s dead?” Mr. George’s voice cracks. He jams his hands in his pockets. His neck muscles strain.
Is he trying not to cry or not to yell? Is that the kind of parent he was? Did he yell a lot? What if he hit me? He doesn’t seem like he’s patient or tolerant. Maybe he’s the reason I’m blocking out my past.
“I’m going to try to recover my memories. I’m the only person who can stop my kidnapper.” As the words tumble out, I know they’re true.
“There are some good hypnotists at Tulane,” Cage says. “I’m sure her neurosurgeon could help us get in quickly.”
I face Bonin for the first time. We share a long look and finally she nods. To hel
l with my genetic background. This is the only world I know.
“No hypnotist,” I say. “I’m going to have Miss Alexandrine perform a ritual. The spirits will guide me.”
30
Cage’s head fell back against the door. He should have seen this coming.
Sam’s neck swelled like a balloon. “A ritual? Are you talking that foolish Voodoo witchcraft?”
Annabeth’s shoulders hiked up to her ears. I squeezed her arm, willing her not to explode. She’d managed to hold it in this far, but I felt the pot boiling.
“Voodoo is not witchcraft.” Bonin spoke up. “That’s all Hollywood storytelling. Voodoo is a religion. Rituals are about love and light and clearing one’s spirit.”
“She needs a doctor,” Sam said. “Not some back-alley, French Quarter pothead looking to make a buck off a sucker.”
Annabeth moved too quickly for Cage; her hand connected with her father’s cheek, the slap loud as a detonated bomb. “You do not talk about my Gran and Miss Alexandrine like that. Or Miss Alexandrine will hex your ass.”
Cage grabbed her arms before she could take a second swing, pinning her against his chest. Annabeth’s nails dug into his arms, and she jammed her right foot between his ankles and tried to sweep his leg. He held his ground, and she slammed her head against his chest.
Sam rubbed his cheek, staring at his daughter like she was poison. “They’ve made her crazy.”
“This is the brain injury,” Cage said. “She’s kept her cool longer than I thought she would. But once she loses it, someone’s got to help calm her down.”
Krista stepped around her husband. She’d stopped crying, her fair skin ghostly pale. “She’s not crazy. She’s different. And we can’t change that. If she believes this Miss Alexandrine can help her, then she has to try.” She slowly lifted her hand to touch Annabeth’s clenched fist. “Whatever your mind needs to heal, I support it.” Her voice caught, but she didn’t cry. “Cage, please take care of her until she’s ready to give us a chance.”
He didn’t release Annabeth until he’d pulled her out of the room and shut the door. She yanked her hands free and pulled at her hair.
“Stop.” Cage grabbed her wrists. “You made your point. Did you hear what your mother said? Take a deep breath and think about how hard that had to be.”
She glared at him, but she stopped pulling her hair. Bonin stepped out of the room. “Your boss at the LBI is trying to get a hold of you. He sounds pissed.”
“I need something to eat.” Annabeth had caught her breath. “I think freaking out drops my blood sugar or something.”
Bonin handed her four dollars. “The vending machine is down the hall, around the corner. Don’t try to take off. Everyone knows to watch for you.”
“She won’t.” Cage prayed he was right as Annabeth stomped down the hall and out of sight. His chest hurt where she’d slammed her head against it. Kid was a lot stronger than she looked. “A Voodoo ritual. Christ. You think if we support that she’ll see a hypnotist?”
“You should open your mind,” Bonin said. “The ritual isn’t much different than being hypnotized. It just isn’t mainstream and backed up with a medical degree.
“Well, I hope Miss Alexandrine can work her magic and get through to her.”
“Look, I like you,” Bonin said. “I think you’ll be good for the city.”
Cage waited for the caveat.
“But you have to be careful with this girl,” Bonin said. “She’s got a huge crush on you, and she’s unstable.”
“I can handle her.” His phone shrilled Dani’s ringtone. “I’ll meet you at the back entrance in five minutes.”
Dani wasted no time. “Annabeth’s story is on the national news, and she’s the talk of Roselea. Actually, the two of you are the talk of Roselea. Someone told a reporter about her staying in your hotel room.”
Who the hell knew about that? Bonin wouldn’t have put Annabeth in jeopardy like that, and Cage’s failure would be a direct reflection on her. “Dee, you know the deal about that.”
“Of course I do,” she snapped. “But the neighbors don’t. Her old friends and track coach don’t. You know how many questions I’ve dealt with in the last hour?”
“I’m sorry,” Cage said. “Don’t answer the phone anymore.”
“They’re showing up here,” Dani said. “The entire county already knows where Ironwood is.”
He didn’t know what else to say, and he needed to get moving. “Don’t answer the door. Tell them all you know is that I am protecting her until the investigation is finished. If they won’t leave, call the sheriff.”
“I can handle the questions,” she said. “But the way you’re being talked about, the innuendos and assumptions people are making …”
“Because she’s young and …” Still attractive, even with her facial trauma. “You know I’d never—”
“I’m not worried about that,” she said. “I just hate to see your name smeared like that, especially when you’re so clueless.”
Cage shoved the back door open and stomped down the old steps. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Seriously? The would-be hero trying to make things right with the damsel in distress? You’ve carried so much guilt around since she disappeared, and you don’t owe her anything, Cage. Trying to be her knight in armor to the point of destroying your career is going too far.”
Bonin honked her horn. Annabeth waved impatiently from the backseat.
“I’ve got it under control, Dani. I have to go.”
31
Cage tried to blend into the pearl-colored walls of Miss Alexandrine’s kitchen, but the compact old house made him feel like a giant. He’d already smacked his head against the doorframe twice. Rogers laid into him about the delay, but Cage argued that allowing Annabeth to try the ritual would extend an olive branch. When this didn’t work, he’d convince her to see the hypnotist.
“Funny how quickly you wrangled this girl up once her parents were on the way,” Rogers said. “Was that magic too?”
“Just luck, sir.”
Afternoon sun glinted off the candles in the altar beneath the center window. Cage recognized a Catholic saint, but the rest of the faces painted on various cards and glass squares were a mystery to him.
Miss Alexandrine surprised him by allowing the sunlight to stream into the room. He’d imagined the ritual taking place in a dark room full of candle smoke.
Wearing a flowing, white sundress, the priestess spread a lacey, white tablecloth over her kitchen table. She opened a bottle of oil and smeared it over two white candles.
“Holy oil,” Bonin whispered reverently.
Alexandrine lit a smudge stick of some sort of plant and placed it carefully in a glass dish. The room quickly smelled like a fall wildfire.
“What’s that?” Cage mumbled.
“Mugwort,” Bonin said. “Shh.”
Annabeth sat in front of the candles. Her hair was still wet from the bath that was supposed to be an important part of the ritual. The white dress she’d borrowed from the priestess drooped off her shoulders. Apparently white was a vital part of the whole deal. Purifying, Bonin said.
“What’s the bath do again?”
“Helps to cleanse her spirit,” Bonin said. “And relax her.”
“And that helps the magic work?”
Alexandrine looked up from lighting the candles and gave him a soft smile. “Not magic. Faith. A person must believe for the rituals to work.”
“So, you’re saying believing in the spell opens your mind?”
“Something like that. And this isn’t a spell. It’s a ritual.”
Whatever the hell it was, she needed to get on with it. They’d snuck out the Eighth District’s back door, but two reporters had been waiting. Annabeth covered her face as Cage rushed her to the car amid the shouted questions.
And the mugwort stink was making his eyes burn.
“I’m ready,” Annabeth said. “Let’s fix my br
ain.”
Alexandrine placed a white cloth doll between the candles. Annabeth’s name had been written on a delicate piece of white paper that had been pinned to the doll. She quickly yanked a hair from her head. The priestess draped it around the doll’s neck like a scarf.
Alexandrine took the opposite chair and softly began chanting in Creole.
Cage nudged Bonin, who stood on tiptoes to whisper. “She’s asking Damballah, the symbolic father, to heal and open Annabeth’s mind.”
The priestess instructed Annabeth to close her eyes and then drew smoke from the reeking mugwort stick to Annabeth and then the doll.
“Give your mind to Damballah,” Alexandrine said. “Allow him to heal your wounds so that you may remember.”
Annabeth nodded, her eyes still closed. A smile played on her lips, her expression serene. With the tension washed away, her face seemed less uneven. She swayed back and forth in time with the prayer, Miss Alexandrine’s gentle voice somehow becoming a roar in Cage’s head.
“Open your eyes.”
Annabeth obeyed, her face hardening. She looked across the table expectantly. “I don’t feel any different.”
“You will,” Miss Alexandrine said. “Keep the doll with you so it can help you heal.”
“My brain is still broken.”
Miss Alexandrine laughed and blew out the candles. “Child, it’s not a magic switch. Give your mind time to open.”
Annabeth slammed her hands down on the table, sending its contents flying. “What the fuck do I have to do to get my life back?” She jumped to her feet, grabbed the woman’s thin shoulders and shook her. “You said this would work!”
Bonin stepped forward, but the older woman held up her hand, her steady gaze on Annabeth. “This is the injury.”
She wrenched Annabeth’s hands off her shoulders and held them tightly. “Damballah doesn’t like violence. This won’t help you.”
