look like?”
“Every sasa is different.” Dashay walked over to the bowl of nuts on the coffee table. She lifted out a walnut. “It was about the size and shape of this nut, but dark, and without a hard shell. It’s softer, you know. Like a tumor.”
I’d never seen or felt a tumor, and I hoped I never would. “So it doesn’t have eyes?”
Dashay laughed. “You looked at it, remember? No, it does not have eyes or ears or a nose.” Then she laughed again. “Don’t look so disappointed. It does have a little mouth—that’s how it attaches itself. And it vibrates and sometimes it sends out a high-pitched sound that only foy-eyes hear.”
I didn’t tell her that I’d heard it, too.
Later that day we received a visit from the FBI.
At the sound of the buzzer, my mother went down to the front gate. She returned a moment later, followed by Agent Cecil Burton.
I’d seen him only a month ago. He’d turned up at the place in Kissimmee where we stayed after the hurricane. He was still trying to find out who killed Kathleen.
Now that I was a “person of interest” in Mysty’s disappearance as well, he wanted to ask me some questions.
I was lying on the living room sofa, reading The Count of Monte Cristo and thinking about the nature of honor, when he came in. From our first exchange of glances I knew this interview wasn’t going to be anything like the last one.
Agent Burton’s eyes had always been world-weary, but this time they had a look of cold determination. His fingernails, buffed and trimmed the last time I’d seen him, were ragged now, as if he’d bitten them.
He said, “How are you, Miss Ariella?”
I sat up. “I’m fine.”
He sat in a chair across from me. Mãe offered him a drink and he said that water would be very nice. As usual, he wore a suit and tie, in spite of the heat. He looked fit, but his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept well in a long time. I had a sense that personal problems were keeping him awake.
“Lovely place you have here.” He took a small tape recorder out of his pocket and set it on the table between us.
Mãe came back with two glasses of water, which she set on either side of the tape recorder.
Agent Burton said he had some questions for me that were important in finding out what happened to Kathleen and to Mysty. He asked if I wanted to help.
“Of course.” I sent Mãe a quick question: Am I allowed to listen to his thoughts?
Mãe sent back, Of course. She sat on the sofa next to me.
The next hour went quickly, but I felt exhausted by the time it ended. Listening to Burton’s questions and his thoughts required concentration. Answering the questions was the easy part.
By and large, I told him the truth. We’d been over the details of Kathleen’s murder before, so I found myself repeating things I’d already said. Of course I didn’t talk about Malcolm, or his admission that he’d murdered Kathleen.
From time to time my mother let me know that I was doing a good job.
When we got to Mysty, Burton’s thoughts became fresher and more complicated. Now I had to think before I spoke. Yes, I said, I’d heard rumors that I was involved in her disappearance.
His thoughts told me he didn’t take the rumors seriously. He was mostly intrigued by the coincidence: two girls I’d known had come to “bad ends.” That was his phrase for it. Like most people, he assumed that Mysty was dead.
“Tell me about Jesse Springer.”
I told Burton all I knew: the kayak accident, the trip to the mall, Jesse’s interest in the stars and deep space, Jesse’s decision to stop drinking.
I even mentioned Jesse’s visit to our house the night I’d hypnotized him. All I left out was the hypnosis itself.
It was hard for me to talk at times, because Burton was thinking such contrary thoughts: that Jesse had deliberately capsized the kayak to get attention, that he’d only pretended to stop drinking, and that he’d killed Mysty without a qualm.
The
“Every sasa is different.” Dashay walked over to the bowl of nuts on the coffee table. She lifted out a walnut. “It was about the size and shape of this nut, but dark, and without a hard shell. It’s softer, you know. Like a tumor.”
I’d never seen or felt a tumor, and I hoped I never would. “So it doesn’t have eyes?”
Dashay laughed. “You looked at it, remember? No, it does not have eyes or ears or a nose.” Then she laughed again. “Don’t look so disappointed. It does have a little mouth—that’s how it attaches itself. And it vibrates and sometimes it sends out a high-pitched sound that only foy-eyes hear.”
I didn’t tell her that I’d heard it, too.
Later that day we received a visit from the FBI.
At the sound of the buzzer, my mother went down to the front gate. She returned a moment later, followed by Agent Cecil Burton.
I’d seen him only a month ago. He’d turned up at the place in Kissimmee where we stayed after the hurricane. He was still trying to find out who killed Kathleen.
Now that I was a “person of interest” in Mysty’s disappearance as well, he wanted to ask me some questions.
I was lying on the living room sofa, reading The Count of Monte Cristo and thinking about the nature of honor, when he came in. From our first exchange of glances I knew this interview wasn’t going to be anything like the last one.
Agent Burton’s eyes had always been world-weary, but this time they had a look of cold determination. His fingernails, buffed and trimmed the last time I’d seen him, were ragged now, as if he’d bitten them.
He said, “How are you, Miss Ariella?”
I sat up. “I’m fine.”
He sat in a chair across from me. Mãe offered him a drink and he said that water would be very nice. As usual, he wore a suit and tie, in spite of the heat. He looked fit, but his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept well in a long time. I had a sense that personal problems were keeping him awake.
“Lovely place you have here.” He took a small tape recorder out of his pocket and set it on the table between us.
Mãe came back with two glasses of water, which she set on either side of the tape recorder.
Agent Burton said he had some questions for me that were important in finding out what happened to Kathleen and to Mysty. He asked if I wanted to help.
“Of course.” I sent Mãe a quick question: Am I allowed to listen to his thoughts?
Mãe sent back, Of course. She sat on the sofa next to me.
The next hour went quickly, but I felt exhausted by the time it ended. Listening to Burton’s questions and his thoughts required concentration. Answering the questions was the easy part.
By and large, I told him the truth. We’d been over the details of Kathleen’s murder before, so I found myself repeating things I’d already said. Of course I didn’t talk about Malcolm, or his admission that he’d murdered Kathleen.
From time to time my mother let me know that I was doing a good job.
When we got to Mysty, Burton’s thoughts became fresher and more complicated. Now I had to think before I spoke. Yes, I said, I’d heard rumors that I was involved in her disappearance.
His thoughts told me he didn’t take the rumors seriously. He was mostly intrigued by the coincidence: two girls I’d known had come to “bad ends.” That was his phrase for it. Like most people, he assumed that Mysty was dead.
“Tell me about Jesse Springer.”
I told Burton all I knew: the kayak accident, the trip to the mall, Jesse’s interest in the stars and deep space, Jesse’s decision to stop drinking.
I even mentioned Jesse’s visit to our house the night I’d hypnotized him. All I left out was the hypnosis itself.
It was hard for me to talk at times, because Burton was thinking such contrary thoughts: that Jesse had deliberately capsized the kayak to get attention, that he’d only pretended to stop drinking, and that he’d killed Mysty without a qualm.
The
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