Still, he’s probably right. And since God only knows what the woman managed to find out from Deo, it may be a moot point anyway.
“I can’t find any information on a Daciana Badea,” Aaron says, pushing his chair back from the computer. “Or a Dacia Badea. Anywhere. The name itself appears to be Romanian. If she’s employed by Senator Cregg, she doesn’t show up on the official payroll. So, we’re at a dead end for now without Molly’s information . . .”
Everyone stares at me. Obviously, since I’m the one who has to make the decision, and since I’m where the show is about to happen, but I want them to look away. To give me some space. It feels weird to let control slip to Molly with all of them watching.
“It’s okay,” Deo says softly. “You really don’t look as spaced as you think.”
He’s trying to be helpful. I know that. And in one sense, he is helpful. His comment makes it sound like I’m super vain however, and it’s really not about how I look. It’s more . . .
Okay, it’s partly how I look. But it’s also an issue of privacy. I hate being the center of attention even when I’m in full control of my brain.
My vanity and desire for privacy are trumped by the fact that we clearly don’t have much choice, so I lean back and close my eyes. Then I visualize pulling a single brick from the top of the wall. It’s not even all the way out before I hear Molly.
That’s not Pa’s number. Someone else placed that bulletin board notice.
She pushes a brief image of hands—her hands, I guess, back when all of her fingers were in place—dialing a number on an iPhone with a skin that looks like a colorful explosion of musical notes. I can’t see all the digits, but the last four are 9949.
Maybe . . . he changed it? It’s been nearly three years, Molly.
It’s not even his area code! Aaron and Sam have his number. Get them to check.
Okay.
I wait, expecting her to keep talking.
Now! Get them to check NOW.
I’m tempted to press the point, since I think her info about Badea is more crucial, but Molly seems really frazzled. I don’t think it’s simply from being shut out. I’ve done that to her before, when I needed to focus and she was making me crazy. It’s more like she’s building up the courage to tell me the rest.
When I pull my eyes into focus, I’m not surprised to see that they’re all still looking at me.
“She says the number on the post isn’t Porter’s. His ends in . . . 9949. Wrong area code, too.”
Aaron digs both the printout and his phone out of his pocket, and after a moment, he nods. “She’s right. Not his number. Might be his office number, though . . . or more likely a burner phone. That way he doesn’t end up with a bunch of crank calls six months from now.”
“I’ll ask Jerome tomorrow,” Sam says. “What did she say about the Badea woman?”
“Hold on.”
Molly doesn’t exactly rush to the front this time.
Come on, Molly. You were banging on the inside of my skull a few minutes ago, and now you go quiet?
There’s a pause before she answers.
Daciana was one of the two girls at the house where Cregg was holding me. One of the Eastern European girls Lucas handed over to him. I thought everyone was saying Tasha, not Dacia. Otherwise, I might have pieced it together earlier. Her face looked familiar, but I assumed Cregg killed her after he killed me. She and I talked a bit when we were there . . . her English was really broken back then, but she said she was from this little place in Romania. Can’t remember the name, but it was a port town on the Danube. I remember that because when she told me, I hummed the waltz—you know, “The Blue Danube”?
She pushes me a few seconds of piano music from her memory. Ba bada bum bum, bum bum, bum bum.
When I hummed the song, she smiled and nodded. And said that was home.
Something about this conversation with Molly feels wrong. I’m not sure what it is at first, and then it hits me. Usually, when Molly is talking, I get visuals and audio. Not like a video feed. More like flashes, like when she was telling me about calling Porter’s number on her phone just now. Or I’ll see a face. A room. Some little snippet from her memory.
But aside from that one bar of “The Blue Danube,” there’s no memory of sounds or smells. No visuals. All I’m seeing is the back of my eyelids. It’s like Molly can’t bring herself to remember the details. And that frightens the hell out of me, because these things that Molly can’t bring herself to face right now, can’t bring herself to tell me in words? I’m going to get every bit of it in vivid color when I start unpacking her memories in my dreams.
I’m pretty sure Molly knows exactly what I’m thinking, but she ignores me and keeps talking about the girl.