“Ota?” I sink to my knees and take in her pristine smooth skin, those large pits she calls eyes, that familiar yellow pinafore, her dark ponytail looking clean and glossed. My entire body explodes with every emotion all at once. “My God, where’s Reagan?” I look to James.
“She wasn’t out there. I’m going to look around. Don’t you let this little witch out of your sight.” He pushes her into me and takes off thundering down the stairs. “And don’t call anyone just yet!”
In seconds, I hear the back door slam shut, and it’s just me and this pint-sized being that ushered in so much hell into our lives.
“Ota?” I give her shoulders a quick rattle, but the little girl doesn’t make a sound. Her eyes gaze up at mine as if her silence were a game she’s determined to win. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?” Maybe if I come at this from another angle. I mean, it’s not as if she was old enough to pull this off on her own. “Is your real name Allison?” My voice shakes as I say the lunacy out loud. “Is your mother Heather Evans?” My mouth hangs wide, anticipating something, anything, but her eyes examine me, her mouth remains sealed. “They hurt you, didn’t they?” I ease up my grip over her frail arms. She looks well. Her skin tone is good—not pale as if she were hidden from the light of the world in some dark closet. She looks just as healthy as I remember, and her cheeks are fat and filled. There is not one outward sign of abuse, not a bruise, not a hair out of place. “Ota, you have to talk to me. Reagan is your friend, and she’s in danger. You’re our only hope of getting her back.” My chest heaves with heartache that I won’t give into.
She blinks up at me, hard, haunted doll clicks that make me wonder if they’ve damaged her in other ways, irreparable damage that has stolen her childhood, her innocence, and her sanity forever.
“I can take you to a doctor.” I bring my voice down to a whisper. “I can get you the very best care. Those people who did this to you—who are still doing it to Reagan”—my voice grows tight—“they can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.” I caress the top of her head with my hand, and she nuzzles into it like a cat.
“Yes.” I wrap my arms around her and marvel at how solid she feels. “It’s okay. It’s all over. You’re here now. You’re never going back there. Please, help me bring Reagan home.” Her body tenses beneath me. “You can live here with us.” I pull back, desperate to bargain the moon and the stars. I’d give her anything in the world if she helped me find Reagan tonight. “You can be my little girl.” My voice trembles as I hold back tears. “You’ll be Reagan’s sister.”
The back door slams, and the heavy rustling of James’ footsteps come barreling up the stairs.
I spring to my feet, my heart and my eyes hopeful to see my little girl again. “Did you find her?”
James comes in empty-handed, out of breath, his hair windblown. “There’s no trace of anyone out there.” He drops to his knees and grips the little girl by the arms. “Is Reagan hurt?” Her tiny frame rattles in his arms. “Is she alive?” His voice roars over her like a fire, and it takes all of my strength to pluck her free.
“Stop! You’re scaring her!” I pull her out of the room into the cool of the hall and try to catch my breath. “Would you like to see Reagan’s room?”
The little girl looks up at me intently before offering a solemn nod.
A flood of relief fills me. Progress. “There.” I look to James as he comes in close. “We just need to get her settled. Get some food in her belly.” I lean into Ota once again. “Do you like peanut butter and jelly?”
She gives an enthusiastic nod. Her hungry eyes affirm this.
A smile tugs at my lips as the weight that’s pressed against my chest for weeks begins to ease. “Get to it, James. We’ll be playing in Reagan’s bedroom.”
It feels like a dream as I make my way down the hall. I stopped going into Reagan’s room the last few weeks because the pain was too unbearable. But with Ota here, I can feel this nightmare slowly drawing to a conclusion. I open the door to the pink sanctuary, the scent of my daughter’s hair still thick in the air. Ota takes an apprehensive tour of the room, fondling the stuffed animals that line Reagan’s bed, picking up a framed picture of the three of us—Reagan, James, and me—from off the desk. She cuts those dark eyes my way a moment with a sobering expression that if I didn’t know better come very close to hate.
“That’s okay.” The words come out breathy, Marilyn Monroe style, only my octave isn’t punctuated with lust. It’s dominated with fear. “As soon as you help us bring Reagan home, we’ll take a new picture.” Lies. The last thing I want to do is commemorate this nightmare. There’s something undoubtedly creepy about Ota, something I can’t quite pinpoint, but it puts my better judgment on notice to watch my back around the little girl.
James breezes back in, and I help Ota take a seat at the small white play table that Reagan and I used to sit at often for our famed tea parties. I take a seat across from her, and James sits on the floor, docile like a Golden Retriever. Too bad he’s not as loyal.
“You get anywhere?” He scoots in close, his hand has the nerve to thump over my thigh. But it’s warm. His thick fingers have always had the ability to make me feel safe.
I shake my head. I’m starting to lose faith we’ll ever get anywhere with her. “But she looks great.” Ota looks up at me, mean and disconcerting between bites. I clear my throat. “You look healthy. So very clean and neat. I—I’m proud of you.” What I meant to say was I hope Reagan is healthy and clean, so perfectly unsoiled looking. My heart wrenches for what she must be going through. For what they’ve both been going through.
I spot Reagan’s crayon bin in the corner. “I know!” I reach over and pull it open before plucking a handful of construction paper from off the floor. “You can color all night if you want to. Draw any picture you like. No bedtime.” My heart thumps so loud I’m half-afraid she’ll hear it, sense my fear and desperation.
“Yes.” James gives an exasperated sigh of relief. “That’s a great idea. If you can’t tell us where they held you, maybe you can draw us a picture, give us an idea of what these people look like.”
I kick him from under the table.
Moron. It was supposed to have been subliminal, something her subconscious pulled out without her knowledge. He’s probably frightened her out of the idea. There’s too much damn pressure attached to it now.
He leans in, his panting still unbearably loud. “What are we going to do?” He whispers so low, hardly audible.
Ota pushes aside the plate with her half-eaten sandwich, a dime-sized dollop of jelly still adhered to her cheek. In its place, she lands a fat stack of paper, baby blue, a color she fished out from the bottom. I push the crayon bin her way and she carefully examines them, the solemn expression on her face unchanging. She reaches in with her right hand and pulls out a red crayon—with her left she pulls out black.
An unnerving combination, blood and darkness.
“Ota?” I swallow down the nervous ball clenched in my throat. “Would you be okay if James and I left the room for a minute?”
She nods without looking up, both her hands already dancing across the page as a pattern of swirls emerges beneath her.
James takes my hand and we head back out to the hall, closing the door silently behind us. And just like that, we’re both back to panting, sweat beading at his temples, my body exploding with heat.
“Where did you find her?” I pull him in by the shirt. There is something comforting about his strong frame pressed to mine, and I wish to God he had never slept with Hailey. I don’t know if James and I have ever felt closer than we have these last few hellish weeks, and yet now Hailey and her swollen belly will forever wedge a distance between us.
“She knocked on the door.” He winces. “I went out to see my dad earlier.” His gaze shoots around the hall, the stairs, the floor. “He hinted that Monica might have something to do with Reagan’s disappearance.”
“What?”