“Wendy?” asked Detective James.
She didn’t know why he was asking when he obviously knew.
“Yes.” Sitting there, Wendy suddenly felt very small. Detective Rowan stood with her hands clasped in front of her while Detective James went into his pocket again and pulled out a notepad and pen.
“We just have a few questions for you and then we’ll be out of your hair.” He smiled at her, but it was the fake kind that didn’t wrinkle the skin around his eyes. His hair was dark and he had stubble and a scar running through his left eyebrow. Wendy wondered how he’d gotten it.
“Right.” She knew it was never as simple as that.
“We already got the paramedic and police report,” he said, flipping through at least five pages of notes. “So we don’t need to go over that again. However, what we do need to know is if you knew the boy, Peter?”
So much for no repetitive questions.
“No, I don’t know him.” Or didn’t know him? Should she talk about him in past or present tense?
“Are you sure?” he pressed, pen poised, waiting.
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Did he seem at all familiar to you?” Detective Rowan was the one to talk this time.
Wendy blinked. No one had asked it that way before.
“No,” Wendy said, a little too late. Was the boy familiar? Yes, but she couldn’t explain to them why. No one would believe her. It sounded impossible—it was impossible.
“You don’t have any memory of him? He didn’t look like someone you’ve met before?” Detective Rowan continued, slowly and even-toned. Wendy felt trapped under her stare.
“No.” That time she said it too fast. “I—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “No, I don’t know who he is.”
Detective James looked over at Detective Rowan. Wendy couldn’t read what they were thinking, but this sort of nonverbal communication was the result of years of closeness. Wendy understood, because she and Jordan could exchange looks across a classroom and she’d know exactly what her best friend was thinking.
Detective James turned back to Wendy and her mother. He clasped his hands in front of him, holding the small notepad and pen. Now the two detectives were mirrors of each other. Towering sentinels staring down at her.
“It was about five years ago that you and your brothers went missing, is that correct, Wendy?” Detective James asked.
Mrs. Darling inhaled a sharp breath.
The hairs on Wendy’s arms prickled.
He said it so nonchalantly, as if Wendy didn’t go through life carrying the burden of what had happened each and every day. As if it weren’t a stain on her childhood, a family curse that they never spoke a word of.
As if it were nothing.
“Y-yes,” Wendy croaked.
“According to the original police reports, you, your brothers—John and Michael—and your pet dog went missing from your backyard on the night of December twenty-third.” Detective James spoke slowly as he watched her. “I believe you were twelve, John was ten, and Michael was seven?” He said it like a question, but it was clear he knew all of the details by heart. Not once did he glance at his notes. “Only your dog returned from the woods that day, and they found blood on her fur.”
Michael’s blood.
Wendy’s stomach gave a nauseated lurch.
Her mother was still as a statue, her face nearly as pale.
“Officer Smith told us they had search parties combing through the logging roads and the woods, but nothing showed up. That is, until six months later when a park ranger found you in the woods. He said you were standing under a tree, looking up and not moving.” She felt frozen under his steady gaze. “He tried to get you to move but you didn’t respond, so he carried you out and called the police.” Detective James finally looked down at his notebook.
Wendy felt like she was watching a movie. One of the British procedurals her mother liked to watch. What did this have to do with Peter?
She wasn’t brave enough to simply ask.
“You had some minor cuts and bruises, but no major injuries,” Detective James went on, thumbing lazily through pages of his notes, not actually reading them. “The most pertinent things of note were that you had no recollection of what had happened during those six months, that parts of your clothing had been patched with natural materials native to tropical climates but nowhere in Oregon”—he paused for a moment—“and that there were traces of your brothers’ blood found under your fingernails.”
Wendy’s vision blurred. She barely registered that hot tears were trailing down her cheeks.
“Miss Darling,” Detective James said in a low, serious tone. “I’m sorry, but I have to ask you again: Do you remember anything that happened to you in those woods?”
A choked breath stuck in Wendy’s throat. She couldn’t remember, but whatever happened still lived in her bones. It hid tucked between her ribs and nestled in her spine, stirring on occasion. Her body remembered what her mind couldn’t.
Wendy’s chin wobbled, a sour mix of embarrassment and fear twisting in her stomach. She pressed her lips between her teeth and tasted salt. She wanted to make some smart reply, to shut them down and get them to leave her alone, but she couldn’t come up with anything clever.
It was her mother who took a step forward. “What exactly is this all about, detectives?” She raised her voice, but the hand she held against her chest trembled. Her face was pinched, almost in a grimace, like she was bracing herself for impact. Like she already knew what they were going to tell her.
Detective James spoke in a rehearsed tone. “After the police officers you spoke to reported to the main department, they noted some connections between your daughter, the location of the incident, and the dates. They pulled some dead files, and we got called in.”
Dead files. Wendy shuddered. Mrs. Darling didn’t say anything.
“Mrs. Darling.” His tone was quieter now. “The material the boy was wearing matched the evidence collected from Wendy’s clothing five years ago.”
CHAPTER 4
Thunder
Wendy felt a stirring deep inside her bones. It had first started when they found her in the woods. An uncontrollable shaking. Not the kind she would get after swimming too hard for too long, or the shiver she got from playing in the icy water at the coast. It wasn’t even the sort of terrified quiver you got in your hands or knees. This was at the very core of her body, like a small creature living deep in her chest, shaking her ribs like the bars of a cage in a wild frenzy. It was an immobilizing tremor.
It was her fault. It was all her fault. Wendy was the eldest—she was supposed to look after John and Michael. She was supposed to take care of them, and she’d failed. She was the only one to return.
Her brothers were still missing, and it was her fault. Everyone knew it—Wendy, her parents, everyone in town.
There must’ve been some way she could have brought them back with her. Why hadn’t she? And why couldn’t she just remember?
Wendy’s fingers flexed against her sides. She couldn’t let the shaking start, because she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to make it stop.