but she wanted to go home. When the cellar door had opened, she'd
grabbed Amy Anne and crawled under the bed. Even though she knew the man would
eventually make her come out, it still seemed plausible to resist in every way
she dared. She wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, but she was stuck with
him, just the same.
However, he hadn't come down as she'd feared, and when he yelled at her and
then slammed the door, she went weak with relief. She didn't care how loud he
yelled, as long as he stayed away. He smiled too much and was always touching
her face and her hair.
As soon as it was quiet, she crawled out from under the bed, pulling Amy
Anne with her, then smoothed the hair away from the other girl's face.
"He's gone now," she said, and led Amy Anne to the little table in
the middle of the room. "Want to color in the color books or watch
TV?"
Amy Anne didn't answer. Justine wasn't even sure she could talk. She hadn't
said a word since she'd been here. She didn't even know if the girl belonged to
the man, or if she was lost, too.
'We'll color," she said softly, and sat the little girl in a chair.
"That way we won't make any noise and wake him up."
She opened a coloring book for herself, then opened one for Amy Anne.
'Here," she said. "You can have the blue crayon and I'll pick
red."
She put the crayon in Amy Anne's lifeless hands and waited for her to move.
It didn't happen.
'It's okay," she finally said, and patted Amy Anne on the head.
"You can watch me, instead."
She picked up the red crayon and then started to cry, softly, so that no one
could hear.
'I want to go home, Amy Anne. I don't like it here."
Chapter Seven
Mary had started out dusting the bookshelves in the living room, but now the
dust cloth and furniture polish was sitting idle on a nearby table and she was
cross-legged in the floor with a picture album in her lap. Nothing could have
prepared her for what she'd found inside, not even the wildest of dreams.
The first pages were devoted to the first year of her and Daniel's marriage.
She remembered those times and the pictures being taken. The pictorial mementos
moved from there to Hope's birth, and then the first three months of her life.
Most of them consisted of pictures of Daniel holding Hope, or Daniel's parents
holding Hope. The images were burned in her mind.
But then she'd turned the next page and faced a truth that was impossible to
deny. Page after page, year after year, were pictures of Mary with Hope, and
Mary with Daniel, physical proof that she'd been present during all these
events. They were nonsensical pictures, the kind that were precious only to the
people taking them, ranging in ordinary diversity from braiding Hope's hair to
building a sand castle at the beach. Pictures of Christmases past and the f i rst Thanksgiving in their new
house, her thirtieth birthday and Daniel giving her the keys to her new car.
The more she looked, the more it seemed she remembered. But it made no sense.
How could she remember something that hadn't happened? Then she sighed and
rubbed the worry spot be,ween her eyebrows. What on
earth was she asking? This had to be more of her increasing insanity. More than
once during the past twenty-four hours she'd wondered if she was actually
locked up in some hospital somewhere and only living out this fantasy in her
mind. It made more sense than anything else she could think of. Then she looked
back at the pictures.
It just all seemed so real.
Many times over the past six years she'd wished for the ability to turn back
time-to relive that moment when Daniel had put Hope in the car and then started
to back out of the driveway into the path of that high-speed pursuit. She'd
relived that horror over and over every time she'd closed her eyes, but it had
always been the same. The fight-Hope crying-Daniel leaving in anger-and her
watching them driving away without trying to make him stop. The flesh suddenly crawled
on the back of her neck. It had always been the
grabbed Amy Anne and crawled under the bed. Even though she knew the man would
eventually make her come out, it still seemed plausible to resist in every way
she dared. She wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, but she was stuck with
him, just the same.
However, he hadn't come down as she'd feared, and when he yelled at her and
then slammed the door, she went weak with relief. She didn't care how loud he
yelled, as long as he stayed away. He smiled too much and was always touching
her face and her hair.
As soon as it was quiet, she crawled out from under the bed, pulling Amy
Anne with her, then smoothed the hair away from the other girl's face.
"He's gone now," she said, and led Amy Anne to the little table in
the middle of the room. "Want to color in the color books or watch
TV?"
Amy Anne didn't answer. Justine wasn't even sure she could talk. She hadn't
said a word since she'd been here. She didn't even know if the girl belonged to
the man, or if she was lost, too.
'We'll color," she said softly, and sat the little girl in a chair.
"That way we won't make any noise and wake him up."
She opened a coloring book for herself, then opened one for Amy Anne.
'Here," she said. "You can have the blue crayon and I'll pick
red."
She put the crayon in Amy Anne's lifeless hands and waited for her to move.
It didn't happen.
'It's okay," she finally said, and patted Amy Anne on the head.
"You can watch me, instead."
She picked up the red crayon and then started to cry, softly, so that no one
could hear.
'I want to go home, Amy Anne. I don't like it here."
Chapter Seven
Mary had started out dusting the bookshelves in the living room, but now the
dust cloth and furniture polish was sitting idle on a nearby table and she was
cross-legged in the floor with a picture album in her lap. Nothing could have
prepared her for what she'd found inside, not even the wildest of dreams.
The first pages were devoted to the first year of her and Daniel's marriage.
She remembered those times and the pictures being taken. The pictorial mementos
moved from there to Hope's birth, and then the first three months of her life.
Most of them consisted of pictures of Daniel holding Hope, or Daniel's parents
holding Hope. The images were burned in her mind.
But then she'd turned the next page and faced a truth that was impossible to
deny. Page after page, year after year, were pictures of Mary with Hope, and
Mary with Daniel, physical proof that she'd been present during all these
events. They were nonsensical pictures, the kind that were precious only to the
people taking them, ranging in ordinary diversity from braiding Hope's hair to
building a sand castle at the beach. Pictures of Christmases past and the f i rst Thanksgiving in their new
house, her thirtieth birthday and Daniel giving her the keys to her new car.
The more she looked, the more it seemed she remembered. But it made no sense.
How could she remember something that hadn't happened? Then she sighed and
rubbed the worry spot be,ween her eyebrows. What on
earth was she asking? This had to be more of her increasing insanity. More than
once during the past twenty-four hours she'd wondered if she was actually
locked up in some hospital somewhere and only living out this fantasy in her
mind. It made more sense than anything else she could think of. Then she looked
back at the pictures.
It just all seemed so real.
Many times over the past six years she'd wished for the ability to turn back
time-to relive that moment when Daniel had put Hope in the car and then started
to back out of the driveway into the path of that high-speed pursuit. She'd
relived that horror over and over every time she'd closed her eyes, but it had
always been the same. The fight-Hope crying-Daniel leaving in anger-and her
watching them driving away without trying to make him stop. The flesh suddenly crawled
on the back of her neck. It had always been the
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