She turned submissively to the guard on her left when he spoke to her, and then he pointed at me. Sandra seemed confused, but slowly moved to look. I sucked in my breath, waiting to see how she might react…
“Lana!” she shrieked and ran toward me, then shoved against the glass, a powerful smack against the wall that separated us. It shook, silencing conversations on either side of us. The two corrections officers who had escorted her into the room shouted simultaneously.
“Stop!”
“Stop it now, or you’re done.”
She quieted and sat at their command. Then she leaned toward the small metal vent to talk, but struggled.
I managed to get out the first words.
“Sandra,” I said. “I’m so sorry, for all this.” I paused. “For everything.”
She shook her head. “No. Don’t apologize.”
“I never thought—” I stopped midsentence, halted by the glow of her gaze. Sandra was smiling at me, eyes full of forgiveness. It struck me, the reality I couldn’t believe until I saw it myself. Sandra is alive again…and it’s her. The real Sandra.
She watched me, with a gentle expression. Then she spoke slowly. “I was so scared, at first,” she said. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t know where I was. Then I started to remember things. I still have my memories.” She leaned forward again, over her side of a metal shelf. “I think about you. Remember us, in the park?”
I nodded. How could I forget that day? Not ever.
“When we were just talking together. That’s what helps me when I feel lonely.”
“I’m so sorry, Sandra.” Damn this stupid wall of glass.
“Stop saying that.” I could tell she was trying to sound tough, and I fought back a smile. Then she said, firmly, “This isn’t the worst they could do to me.”
I looked at her. She was stronger than I thought. Determined. Hopeful.
“I don’t want to be shut down. I want to be here. Not here, but…” She glanced at one of the guards. “This is still better than the factory. It’s better than Allen’s. Some of the women will talk to me. They have stories. A lot of them have children and families who come to see them.” She stopped for a second, and I could see that an idea was coming to her.
She smiled then, big and beautiful. The kind of smile that invites a hug.
She whispered through the vent, “You’re here for me. You’re my visitor.”
I put a hand against the glass. She pressed one of hers against mine on the other side and stared at our hands, together.
“This—” she started, then she looked at me, leaning in until her nose almost touched the thick, smudged barrier. “This feeling is worth everything. I know what it feels like to have someone care about me.”
She was lovely, the same as ever, but it was her tenderheartedness that tugged at me. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but I knew that was a promise I couldn’t make. No one could even say how soon a trial—an unprecedented one like this—might happen, much less predict how it would turn out for Sandra, charged with first-degree murder.
I shook my head, blinking back angry tears stinging the outside corners of my eyes. “Sandra, I will always care,” I promised. “I’ll do everything I can to clear your name.”
About the Authors
James Patterson has written more bestsellers and created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He lives in Florida with his family.
Kecia Bal is a print journalist and the winner of the James Patterson MasterClass Co-Author Competition. She and her family live in Pennsylvania.
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The Dolls Page 10
