Pretty Girl-13

REPUTATION




“HON, HON. ANGIE. CALM DOWN. IT’S OKAY.” MOM PATTED Angie through a thick blue towel. “Just terrible timing, is all. Welcome to womanhood.”

Angie still trembled, as the last of the water slipped down the drain. She had a hideous feeling that it was more than her body maturing. It was a message of some kind, a parting message from Angel. They were bathed in blood, together. Her heart pounded, still reacting to the rush of adrenaline.

“I have to call Dr. Grant.” Maybe her psychologist could help her understand what had just happened. Whatever it was, it was bad. Of that she had no doubt.

“Are you that upset?” Mom asked. “We’ve never bothered her on a non-appointment day.”

“Considering how much you guys pay her, I wouldn’t call it bothering,” Angie snapped. “She said she’d be there for me if I had aftereffects. Well, I’m having them.”

“Okay. Of course.” Mom hesitated. “Is it something you can talk to me about?”

“No way, Mom.” She wasn’t about to share her worst suspicions with her mother.

She retreated to her room, clutching the mini-pad Mom had handed her wordlessly. When she came out again, dressed, Mom was on the phone in the master bedroom. “No, I’m sorry,” she was saying. She put a finger to her lips when she noticed Angie peeking through the door. “No. No comment … No, we will not be making a public statement today… . Yes, that’s true. September eighteenth … How would you feel? … Because we needed our privacy. We still do. Please don’t call again.”

She slammed down the phone on her nightstand. “Blasted reporters.”

“What?”

Mom ran her hands through her curls. “Oh, the questions. That’s the third call today.”

Angie’s heart raced. “What are they asking?”

“Crazy stuff,” Mom said. “Just ridiculous. You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do. I had to ditch them at school today. I need to be prepared.”

Mom huffed impatiently. “All you have to say is ‘No comment.’”

“Mom. Just tell me.”

She plopped into a chair and rubbed her cheekbones hard. Her fingers left red streaks across them. “They want to know why we didn’t contact them sooner. Why we’ve had the ‘lost girl’ home for two months and haven’t shared the news with the public. They want to know whether we’re hiding something.”

Angie’s heart skipped a beat. “Like what?” Her vision darkened for a second, but she pulled herself back. No one was taking over for her. She had to handle this. Still, she couldn’t shed the image—Angel’s hands dripping with blood.

She heard male voices in the living room, raised in excitement.

She and Mom hurried downstairs to see. The living room was full of policemen. Why were they still here? Brogan was on his cell phone, and Dad was pulling the curtains across the front window. “News trucks,” he said. “Right on our street.”

“How absurd,” Mom said. “Detective, can you get rid of them?”

The doorbell rang. One of the policemen went to answer it.

“Get rid of those damned reporters, will you?” Brogan said to him. He slipped a hand into his pocket. “We’ve called in the L.A. County coroner’s forensics team for the next step. Forensics will go over everything with a fine-toothed comb—working the cabin, working the site, looking for graves.”

“Graves!” A small shriek escaped Mom.

Brogan pinned his gaze on Angie with a sad twist to his mouth. “Angie beat the odds, however she escaped. You know that.”

She tried not to flinch. Yeah. However. She had the weirdest feeling. She broke away from his sympathetic look. She couldn’t take it.

Brogan misunderstood. He dropped a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. Angie, is there anything, anything at all helpful you can tell us before the report comes in? If you can handle it, I’d like to take you up to the cabin when they’re done—see if it triggers any memories. Or more confessions from your inner informants. Anything that would help us find this guy.”

Knees weak and feet filled with the urge to flee, she tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Maybe. I don’t think it would help. I don’t remember anything.” It was true, literally. She didn’t remember anything. Surely Angel did, however. Angel with blood on his hands, begging to be deleted before his memories infected innocent Angie. Oh God. She’d never get that picture out of her head, even if she did erase Angel.

She wiped her hands on the seat of her blue jeans.

Brogan’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Right. Okay. We’ll be in touch.”

“What do I do about the press?” she asked. “They were all over school this afternoon. Now they’re all over our lawn. They’re going to follow me everywhere, aren’t they?”

“Don’t tell them anything,” Brogan advised. “Call me if you need to.” He left, taking all the oxygen with him.

Greg and Livvie had declared an all-out war on Angie—calling the press was only the first shot across the bow, ushering in a week of torture. Now her phone number was showing up in the bathrooms, both male and female. There were graphic descriptions of what she would and wouldn’t do with boys, girls, and animals, plus crazy claims of what turned her on—all untrue, all disgusting.

Angie started carrying around a small can of red spray paint to wipe out these little bombs of cruelty, as well as the crude drawings that often illustrated them. Now she wished she’d made more friends at school so she’d have more defenders, or at least more people who would recognize this as a hate campaign. But having painted herself as a blank, she left herself open to being painted in whatever colors Greg and Livvie picked.

Her friendship with Kate the leper didn’t help, but no way would she give up Kate. Kate held Angie’s head above water every day and yelled, “Just keep kicking and breathing.” Figuratively, that is.

“Did you see the new one in the stairwell?” Angie asked, threading her hair through her palms over and over. Her lunch tray sat untouched, as it had all last week, ever since the discovery of the actual cabin.

Kate rolled her eyes. “That’s not physically possible,” she said. “Not even for gymnasts.”

Angie groaned.

“It’ll pass,” Kate assured her. “It did for me. Worst case, they’ll repaint over the summer. The school is starting to look like it has chicken pox with all your tagging.”

“What I don’t understand is, why Liv? I mean, sure, I can understand why Greg would be pissed. But why is she helping smear me? She won. She’s got Greg. And … we used to be friends.”

“It’s the only way she can deal with taking Greg back and not feel like she’s eating your leftovers, so to speak. It’s how she changes the story of you dumping him into him dumping you because you’re trash—sorry—in her words.”

“Pathetic. How long till it all blows over?”

“Hey, relax,” Kate advised. “We’ve got our beloved five-day Thanksgiving break starting in a few short hours. They’ll lose momentum.”

“Doubt it,” Angie said. “They’ll stuff themselves on turkey and pumpkin pie and come back mean as ever.”

Darn Thanksgiving weekend anyhow. Dr. Grant was already at her sister’s out of town. Although Angie had pleaded with her about erasing Angel, Dr. Grant told her they couldn’t possibly do the next deletion any earlier than next Monday after the holiday—the facilities simply weren’t available. So Angie had to brood on her worries like an old hen until they were fully hatched. Any second now, Brogan would have a story put together, right or wrong.

Here’s how it would read. Angie had clearly lived in the cabin—hair and fibers everywhere. She’d been carrying a shiv away from the scene. Then a body would be found, with his throat slashed, or his wrists slashed, or his torso stabbed, or some other cause of death requiring a sharp, pointy implement—only Angel knew for sure. All the DNA evidence would come in next, linking the man to the cabin and Angie to the man. It made a neat, tidy package suggesting that Angie killed her captor (because who would blame her) and was faking amnesia and DID to get herself out of whatever they do to juvenile murderers. They’d stuff her under a lie detector. They’d hypnotize her and force Angel’s confession.

It would never stay secret. And even if what Angel did was ruled self-defense or justifiable manslaughter or something like that, no one would ever, ever look at her the same. Her life might as well be over. It was all coming down soon. She could feel it looming.

Kate snapped her fingers in front of Angie’s face. “Hey. Snap out of it. You’re sinking into self-pity again.”

“Not pity,” Angie said. “Just a reality check.”

“The guys want to double-date later tonight, but I’m not taking you along if you persist in acting like you’re getting hanged in the morning. I’ll take one of your other personalities. Who’s the funnest?”

“Depends on your idea of fun,” Angie said. “If you want to play dolls or dress-up, I’d suggest Tattletale. She’s six. If wreaking dreadful vengeance with a flaming sword is more your style, I’d send Angel. But he’s a guy, so perhaps not exactly right for Abraim. And if cooking over an iron-bellied stove trips your trigger, Girl Scout’s your girl.”

“Aw hell,” Kate said. “We’ll take Angie. She just better be in a better mood.”

Angie scowled. “Okay. I’ll try.”

But what she learned at home that afternoon didn’t help her lighten up. Exactly the opposite. Grandma and Yuncle Bill had been invited for Thanksgiving.

“Mom, can’t we make it just us, the nuclear family?” Angie pleaded. “I mean, it’s the first Thanksgiving I’ve had with you in a long time. Could we just enjoy it together?”

“It’s Grandma’s first Thanksgiving without Grampy,” Mom reminded her. “She needs us.”

“Can’t Dad pick her up, then? Or could she take the bus?”

“Angela Gracie, what has gotten into you?” Mom asked. “Yuncle will bring her.”

“But …” Angie stopped dead. She couldn’t put into words, at least not acceptable words, how much she dreaded seeing Yuncle again. The only consolation was that she was prepared this time. There was no way he would get her alone. She’d make absolutely sure of that.

At eight o’clock, the guys’ car pulled up in the driveway. Angie wondered how they decided to split driving since they were twins.

“Ali is twenty-six minutes older,” Abraim informed her. “So he claims the right of the firstborn. However, if I grab the keys first”—he dangled the keys in front of her—“I do not yield.”

Ali and Kate were snuggled in the middle of the backseat. From the looks of it, Ali didn’t object to having a chauffeur. Angie buckled herself into the front passenger seat and wrenched her neck around to say hi.

“Are we cheerful?” Kate asked.

Angie forced a smile. “Working on it.”

Abraim put his right hand on her shoulder. In a surprisingly in-tune tenor voice, he started doing Mick Jagger: “‘Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear?’”

Angie blushed and giggled. “Oh, please. That’s a sad song, isn’t it?”

“That depends on your perspective. Sure it’s kind of haunting, but think of the refrain.” He leaned toward her and crooned in her ear, “‘Ain’t it good to be aliiiiiiiive?’”

“Well, no doubt it beats the alternative,” she said.

Abraim rocked back into his seat, his face instantly contrite. “Oh, forgive me.”

“What? Oh.” She punched him gently in the arm. “No worries. As what’s-his-name said, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated.”

“Mark Twain, I think,” Ali supplied from the backseat.

Abraim still looked like he was beating himself for saying something foolish.

Angie found herself in the reverse position of cheering up someone else, forcing her to make light of everything, which made her feel a lot better herself.

They snuck into an R-rated movie—not sneaking for the boys, but sneaking for Kate and Angie. They were almost seventeen, sort of. Through whatever magic, whether it was Dr. Grant’s expensive therapy or Kate’s free therapy, Angie was growing into her age. She didn’t feel awkward about seeing a sexy spy thriller with a guy. In fact, she was looking forward to it. Abraim was very sweet, probably the right speed for her first real boyfriend. And if things didn’t work out, well, he’d be leaving for college eventually.

Angie wasn’t at all hungry so soon after dinner, but she happily shared the popcorn Abraim bought for the excuse of bumping hands in the dark. Two inches away from her, Kate was missing the whole movie, locked in a quiet kissing marathon with Ali. When the popcorn was gone, Abraim stowed the bag and pulled her against his shoulder with a long arm. Angie rested against him comfortably for a moment; then with a jolt she recalled the last time she’d snuggled up like this, right after Slut had started her striptease. Oh God. Angie flushed in the dark. What did he think about that? Explaining to him “I’m not that kind of a girl” required too many other explanations. Best not to bring it up unless he did.

After the movie, they went for ice cream, so by the time Angie was dropped at home, it was close to midnight. Abraim walked her to the front door and paused as she fumbled under the mat for the key. “I had a great time,” she said as she fitted it in the lock.

“Me too.” He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek and ducked his eyes. “Thank you for coming out with me. I hope you don’t mind that you got the slow, shy brother.” He glanced back to the car where Ali and Kate were making out again. Poor Abraim would have to play the chauffeur, avoiding the rearview mirror.

Angie rested a hand on his arm. “No. Not at all. You’re just right for me.”

A slight tension in his shoulders loosened. “Ah, I’m glad of that. The other … well, I wondered … I hoped I didn’t disappoint you.”

Oh hell. He’d brought it up. “That wasn’t me,” Angie said. “That was like another girl. And you knew exactly what we both needed. Just a long hug. So thanks for being the slow, shy one.” She leaned closer and kissed his cheek back. He smelled fresh and spicy at the same time.

His confused and startled expression made her giggle long after she’d gone upstairs. She’d managed a perfectly normal date, no blackouts, no lost time. A small victory.

She indulged in the treat of sleeping in, so that by the time she worked her way out of the warm covers, through a hot shower, and down to the kitchen, Mom had already put the stuffed bird in the oven and had an apple pie cooling on the countertop. Angie peeked out the window, happy to see that journalists had their own family obligations on Turkey Day, too. No sign of satellite trucks and roving reporters. Everyone was watching parades and football games.

“Can I help?” she asked. “What are you working on now?”

“The outside stuffing,” Mom said. “You know, some like it in and juicy; some like it out and crispy. And cranberry cobbler.”

Angie grabbed the stuffing bag and read the back. Melt tons of butter. Sauté tiny pieces of onions and celery, toss them with the seasoned croutons, and add broth to perfect moistness. “Simple enough,” she said. “I’ll do this.” It was nice to feel competent. And confident. She could handle stuffing, especially with Girl Scout on hand to advise.

“That’s great, Angie,” Mom said. “I’ve always said that if you can read, you can cook, but you were always so reluctant to try … before.”

Angie waved away Mom’s flustered expression. “True. I was. But I had to learn a lot of practical skills. One of the unforeseen benefits of being kidnapped, right? I don’t expect there are many.”

“Uh, no.” Mom made a pained sound. “So how do you feel about fruit salad?”

“Point me to the fruit,” Angie said. “I’ve got it under control.”

Mom showed her the collection of canned fruit on the counter—peaches and pears and apricots, as well as the bananas hanging on the monkey stand and a pair of green apples. “Cutting board is in the drawer, and the paring knife is right next to you.”

Angie found the manual can opener and got to work slicing and dicing fruit into a large bowl. She didn’t even hear the doorbell ring. Next thing she knew, there was a tall, strong someone behind her. Yuncle. She recognized his scent. He had his hands on her waist. A foot away, Grandma was kissing Mom, careful not to get flour on her visiting clothes.

“Smells wonderful, Margie,” Yuncle Bill said, but his nose was pressed to Angie’s hair. “Hey, Angie baby, turn around and say hi.”

Angie’s skin prickled, not with her own memories, but with others rising to the surface. She squashed them down. She’d handle this.

“You’re crowding a woman with a sharp knife,” she warned in a playful voice. “Bad move.”

He chuckled and stepped back.

Grandma tsk tsked at him. “Bill, darlin’, stop making a nuisance of yourself and get out of the kitchen. There’s women hard at work in here. Go watch the game with Mitch. I hear cheerin’ from the other room.”

“Yes’m,” Bill said with a slight chuckle. “I’ll bother Angie later.”

Was it only her imagination or was he sending her a coded message? Damn him, playing that game in front of everyone. Had he always pushed like that? She didn’t remember him well enough to know.

She shook off the gross feeling where his hands had wrapped her waist. She could handle this. She would handle this. She sent a message deep into her head, hoping Tattletale was receiving. You don’t need to come out today, honey. I won’t let anything bad happen.

She hung out with Mom and Grandma in the kitchen, set the table with the best china and crystal, started a load of laundry—anything to avoid coming into contact with Bill again before she had to.

Everyone was totally oblivious at dinner. Had it always been like this? Bill stared at her intensely the whole time and no one seemed to notice. Her heart ached for Tattletale—how lonely and scary and unfair it must have seemed.

Angie picked at the banquet on her plate and forced herself to eat enough to avoid attention. Finally, when Bill declared he couldn’t eat another bite, Grandma offered to do cleanup.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ma,” Mom said. “Angie and I have it covered.”

Bill stepped up. “Will it go faster if I help dry as well?”

Mom smiled broadly. “Well, of course it would. Come on in.” She tossed a dish towel at him. “Isn’t that sweet, Angie? You don’t see a lot of men volunteering to help with dishes.”

“No, ya don’t,” Angie said. Crap. He was on the prowl.

Mom grinned. “He’ll make a fine catch for some girl.”

Angie’s stomach burped up a little bit of dinner. She forced it back down.

Bill snorted at Mom’s comment. “Angie’s my best girl. You know that, Margie.”

Mom was charmed, as usual. She snapped her towel in his general direction.

Angie found herself scowling at the dishwater. Damn, he was smooth with the grown-ups. He probably always had been. The china plates clinked together under the suds.

“Careful with those, Angie,” Mom said. “Would you rather dry and put away?”

No, she’d rather not make eye contact with Bill. Washing the breakables gave her the perfect excuse to be glued to her work. The hot water ran in a gentle stream as she passed the soapy dishes through it and into the rack. Mom and Bill alternated grabbing plates to dry.

“So, how’s school going?” Bill asked her in a perfectly normal voice.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“Fine? That’s it?”

Angie imagined the look he gave Mom as he said, “Kids.” There was a shrug in his voice.

Mom, unfortunately, volunteered more information in a singsong voice. “Angie has a boyfriend.”

Angie heard his intake of breath. Soft and menacing. But his question came out in all innocence. “Angie! Is this true? Why didn’t you tell me?” And then pretend-hurt. “I thought your heart belonged to me.”

Mom leaped in to worsen the tension. “Well, she’s a bit shy about it. Besides the formal dance, they’ve only gone out once. His name’s Abraim.” She pronounced his name about as foreign as she could make it, with a long rolled r and the syllables stretched out. “Nice-looking boy. Angie tells me he’s very smart, applying to Harvard and all.”

The pride in her voice made Angie want to scream, Shut up, Mom. Just shut up. No-college Bill didn’t want to hear about Angie’s intelligent boyfriend. But of course, she didn’t. She just kept washing and passing the long-stemmed wineglasses.

Mom picked up the stack of dinner and bread plates. “I’ll stow these,” she said, walking toward the dining room.

As soon as Mom’s back was turned, Bill pressed up against Angie’s back, pinning her against the edge of the sink. His hands reached around and below her breasts. She froze.

“Boyfriend, huh?” Bill whispered against the side of her head.

Angie felt a pressure building inside. A flutter of panic. A tiny voice saying, Hide.

“No,” she said aloud to Tattletale. And in her head, I’m not leaving. This stops here and now.

Bill heard only the “No” and nuzzled her neck. His hands moved higher and squeezed. “Has he touched you here?”

The frantic feeling in her head increased. Go. Go now! Quick.

“No!” she said to Tattletale. And “Stop it” to Bill.

Mom’s return was seconds too late. Bill was innocently back to drying silverware. With his probing hands gone, Angie’s body tingled with feelings she loathed. Ugh. He had her body trained to respond to him while her mind resisted with all her strength.

Angie plunged her bare hands in the water. Red spots appeared on her arms, like oil spatter burns. She touched them, feeling nothing.

Mom had grabbed the four crystal stems between all of her fingers. The bowls touched with a gentle ping. She headed back to the china cabinet in the dining room. “You two finish up,” she called over her shoulder.

And Bill was back again, lifting the hair from her neck and pressing a kiss behind her ear. “We’ll sneak away as soon as we can,” he promised.

Angie shivered and whirled around, meat fork in hand. “No, we won’t,” she hissed. “Ever. Keep your goddamn hands off her.” She waved the fierce prongs under his nose.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked in a hushed voice. He raised a fingertip to his lips. His eyes darted to the dining room door.

“She’s reclaiming herself,” Angie said. Her voice came out deep and strange.

“Aw, come on, Angie baby. Don’t play games. You were burning hot for me last time. Oh yeah, babe.” He grabbed her shoulders and did a little hip dance. “Your little boyfriend doesn’t need to know you got a real man.”

Angie shuddered. Invisible wings opened on her back. She clung to her core, but with the threat level rising to red, Angel was roused and angry.

Mom’s voice came from the living room. “Anyone want coffee with their pie? Mitch? Ma? I’ll put on a pot. Who was ahead at the half?”

Angie followed it with her ears.

Distressingly normal sounds from the other room—Dad urging the team through the TV, Grandma asking for decaf, if it’s not too much trouble—can’t have real at this hour, or I’ll be up all night.

Angie’s hearing was supernaturally amplified, her consciousness elevated outside the room, moving into the distance. Fragmented. Part of her was the little girl trembling before this man, who was her beloved Yuncle—anything to avoid the fire, she was thinking. Part of her had white, rustling wings, and a sword at the ready. Part of her stood aside and watched, wondering what her role was supposed to be.

“That’s better,” Yuncle sighed. “That’s my girl. That’s my pretty girl. You want it.”

Angie snapped back to find herself running her hands under his shirt. She snatched a handful of hair between her fingers and ripped. “Like hell,” she screamed.

“Shit,” Bill grunted. He raised a fist.

Mom’s voice penetrated from a distance. “Angie? Everything okay?”

Angie’s arms rose to protect her face. He captured her wrists and squeezed so hard, her hands started to go numb. “Don’t … say … a … word.” His mouth was only four inches from her face. His spit rained on her cheeks.

The deep voice of Angel broke through again. “I will not permit.”

“What?” Bill’s face was a riot of confusion. His hesitation was a definite mistake.

Angel twisted his right arm out of Bill’s hold and smashed his elbow down through Bill’s grip on Angie’s left. Bill shook his battered arm, and Angel grabbed the fingers, twisting them backward till there was a snapping sound.

Bill stared in disbelief at his deformed hand and gasped, loud enough to carry. “Why, you bitch!”

He moved to take a full-fisted swing at her, but Angel moved Angie’s hand to reach for the meat fork and plunge it deep into Bill’s forearm. She felt the sharp points scrape bone, and a sick, triumphant feeling surged through her.

Bill’s roar brought the others running from the living room. “Look what she did! Look what she did to me!” he hollered. “She’s insane!”

Her parents pulled up short, confronted with the stranger in their daughter, the hard, glittering eyes of the Angel, the set of his jawline.

Angie’s heart swelled with certain knowledge. He would never touch her again. She was free. Angel grinned.

Your victory was short-lived. A moment later, your father tackled you to the ground. “Call the doctor, Margie! No, call 911! She’s having a total breakdown.”

Angie, you tried to breathe, tried to explain, but the fall had knocked all the wind out of you. You gulped for air, like a fish pitched out of a bowl.

Above you, Grandma already had a clean towel around Yuncle’s arm, staunching the blood flow. “Oh, Bill, how lucky she missed your torso.”

Dad’s chest heaved with short, quick breaths. “Thank—thank the Lord she grabbed the fork. Not the carving knife.” He pinned your shoulders against the hard kitchen tiles.

In total disbelief and unable to say a word, you lay there gasping. There was only hatred and fear in Grandma’s face. You blinked your eyes pleadingly at Mom, who was dialing the phone. Mom reached out her other hand to you, but Dad stopped her.

“Margie, keep away,” he barked, his voice cracking. His hands dug into you with strange energy. “God only knows what she might do to you and the baby. I knew this would happen. I knew … she’s been too calm … just waiting to break.”

You finally grabbed enough air to wheeze, “Dad, please. Let me explain.”

Dad’s head snapped around, and he looked straight into your eyes for the first time. His breath caught. “Angel? What—?”

“No, Daddy. Angel’s gone. It’s me, Angie.” You tried so hard to make him understand.

Bill’s good hand grabbed Dad’s shoulder from behind, and he loomed over both of you, there on the floor. “She nearly killed me, Mitch. She hit an artery. My goddamn fingers are broken.” His voice was level, but his eyes promised revenge. You flinched away, and the connection with Dad broke.

“Restrain her. Keep her calm,” Bill ordered.

Dad tensed and pinned you tighter. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His mouth was a pale slash in his dark red face. He looked like he was about to have a stroke. And his fingers pressed lines into your shoulders.

You twisted weakly, trying to escape his grip.

“They’re coming immediately,” Mom said. “Angie, hang on, honey. Help is coming.” She reached out again, met Dad’s warning glare, and retreated, twisting her hands. She looked away, toward the front of the house. “And thank God there aren’t any news trucks today. An ambulance would put them over the top.”

“Ambulance?” you squeaked. “I’m fine. I don’t need an ambulance.” Then you were babbling. “Maybe Yuncle the creep needs one. Yeah, I hope he needs one.” Babbling out Tattletale’s delight at the turn of fortune. “Now who’s gonna be in trouble?” she taunted.

“Oh, Mitch. Let her up. Let me hold her,” Mom begged.

“Margie, please. Just … I’ve got her.”

“Daddy, you’re hurting me,” you pleaded.

Tears filled his eyes, and his hands loosened slightly, but still he kept you under his control.

Bill stared down at you with false pity. “Poor child. Complete psychotic breakdown. I’ve seen it after combat. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying.”

Angel pushed to the front again. His growling voice tore through the confusion. “You lying bastard. You molested her. For years.” He twisted away from our father’s hold with renewed strength and broke free. He jumped to his feet, a towering fury. He reached to his side for the jeweled sword that hung there in the inside world, found only belt loops on your blue jeans. His dark eyes fixed on the knife block next to the sink.

“What is she saying?” Grandma demanded.

Angel reached for the knife block.

“Watch out, everyone!” Bill yelled. “Get back. I’ve got her.”

The sound of an ambulance siren drew closer. Mom ran to the front door.

Bill sprang at you, at Angel, at Tattletale, all messed up together in a tangle. He socked you in the stomach and wrenched your arms behind your back. “Sedative,” he called toward the approaching paramedics. “Quick. Knock her down.”

We felt a sharp pinch in the arm, and everyone collapsed into unconsciousness.