of Commerce committee with his sister, so he was easy to track."
Mitchell fumbled in his jacket pocket, brought out a small sheaf of papers. "Got these at the records division. The case is still officially open, of course, but several hundred people have disappeared since then. Yesterday's news."
Julia scanned the documents. The basic details were unchanged: Douglas Arthur Stone, age thirty-six, reported missing on the morning of September 28th. He'd called the police to his house for an emergency. Stone's four-year-old daughter was found outside the house, confused, bleeding from cuts on her belly, and asking when her father would be back. The front door was unlocked, none of Stone's clothes appeared to be missing, his car still in the driveway. Credit-card and financial records had gone unchanged. The few distant relatives lived on the West Coast, and had heard nothing from him. And that was that.
Strange that, for years, all she could remember of that night was standing barefoot in the grass. Now, Dr. Forrest had led her to the memories that had been lost for so long.
"What did Whitmore say?" Julia asked, after reading the neighbor's unrevealing statements.
"Said he remembers following up leads at the school where your father taught. All dead ends. The case got buried pretty fast." Mitchell leaned over the table and held her hand. "Why don't you just let it go?"
She pulled her hand away. "I can't."
If only she could tell him about the image of the Black Mass, the recovered memory, the only piece to this puzzle that she had. However elusive that memory was, at least it was something. But part of her was afraid that Mitchell would be shocked, view her as damaged goods, and once and for all decide that her "behavioral disorder" was no longer just a cute little quirk and decide to cut his losses. Though she was unsure what place she had in Mitchell's life, she couldn't bear the thought of being without him and the secure future he offered. The other part of her was afraid that Mitchell would laugh in her face.
Dinner came, and they ate over small talk of Mitchell's legal cases, local politics, how Julia should re-invest the small inheritance that her adoptive parents had left. It was easy for her to fall into the role of sympathetic listener, nodding and affirming Mitchell’s rightness in all matters.
Mitchell walked her to a downtown hotel and rode the elevator with her. “Your skin smells sweet,” he said at her door, his breath on the soft nape of her neck.
“You feel good,” she said, her arms embracing his familiar and comforting form. He took that as an invitation and dug his fingers into her shoulders. She dodged his next maneuver, a nuzzle under the ear. He hadn’t changed his repertoire in her absence.
He would follow his instructional manual by rote until Tab A was inserted into Slot B. Part of her wanted to surrender, through the genetic instinct that needed a mate and provider, but her head was swirling so much she wouldn’t have been able to derive any pleasure. And though Mitchell was certainly not afraid to indulge himself irrespective of her response, she wasn’t up for a game of false enthusiasm.
She kissed his cheek and danced away from his grasp. “Not tonight, honey. But soon.”
His face darkened. “As soon as you’re better?”
“You’ve always said you don’t want half a woman.”
“I don’t want half, but I could at least get a piece.”
“Mitchell.”
“If I didn’t have so much invested in you . . . ”
“If you really love me, it’s worth the wait.”
“I can’t wait forever,” he said, anger flushing his cheeks red, portraying emotion he would never let loose in a court of law. “I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m out on the gangplank with some creditors, and these people play for keeps. Once we’re legal, I can get your money for you. For us .”
“My inheritance wouldn’t even cover the down payment on a house, much less bail you out of big trouble.
Mitchell fumbled in his jacket pocket, brought out a small sheaf of papers. "Got these at the records division. The case is still officially open, of course, but several hundred people have disappeared since then. Yesterday's news."
Julia scanned the documents. The basic details were unchanged: Douglas Arthur Stone, age thirty-six, reported missing on the morning of September 28th. He'd called the police to his house for an emergency. Stone's four-year-old daughter was found outside the house, confused, bleeding from cuts on her belly, and asking when her father would be back. The front door was unlocked, none of Stone's clothes appeared to be missing, his car still in the driveway. Credit-card and financial records had gone unchanged. The few distant relatives lived on the West Coast, and had heard nothing from him. And that was that.
Strange that, for years, all she could remember of that night was standing barefoot in the grass. Now, Dr. Forrest had led her to the memories that had been lost for so long.
"What did Whitmore say?" Julia asked, after reading the neighbor's unrevealing statements.
"Said he remembers following up leads at the school where your father taught. All dead ends. The case got buried pretty fast." Mitchell leaned over the table and held her hand. "Why don't you just let it go?"
She pulled her hand away. "I can't."
If only she could tell him about the image of the Black Mass, the recovered memory, the only piece to this puzzle that she had. However elusive that memory was, at least it was something. But part of her was afraid that Mitchell would be shocked, view her as damaged goods, and once and for all decide that her "behavioral disorder" was no longer just a cute little quirk and decide to cut his losses. Though she was unsure what place she had in Mitchell's life, she couldn't bear the thought of being without him and the secure future he offered. The other part of her was afraid that Mitchell would laugh in her face.
Dinner came, and they ate over small talk of Mitchell's legal cases, local politics, how Julia should re-invest the small inheritance that her adoptive parents had left. It was easy for her to fall into the role of sympathetic listener, nodding and affirming Mitchell’s rightness in all matters.
Mitchell walked her to a downtown hotel and rode the elevator with her. “Your skin smells sweet,” he said at her door, his breath on the soft nape of her neck.
“You feel good,” she said, her arms embracing his familiar and comforting form. He took that as an invitation and dug his fingers into her shoulders. She dodged his next maneuver, a nuzzle under the ear. He hadn’t changed his repertoire in her absence.
He would follow his instructional manual by rote until Tab A was inserted into Slot B. Part of her wanted to surrender, through the genetic instinct that needed a mate and provider, but her head was swirling so much she wouldn’t have been able to derive any pleasure. And though Mitchell was certainly not afraid to indulge himself irrespective of her response, she wasn’t up for a game of false enthusiasm.
She kissed his cheek and danced away from his grasp. “Not tonight, honey. But soon.”
His face darkened. “As soon as you’re better?”
“You’ve always said you don’t want half a woman.”
“I don’t want half, but I could at least get a piece.”
“Mitchell.”
“If I didn’t have so much invested in you . . . ”
“If you really love me, it’s worth the wait.”
“I can’t wait forever,” he said, anger flushing his cheeks red, portraying emotion he would never let loose in a court of law. “I’m under a lot of pressure. I’m out on the gangplank with some creditors, and these people play for keeps. Once we’re legal, I can get your money for you. For us .”
“My inheritance wouldn’t even cover the down payment on a house, much less bail you out of big trouble.
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