Six

I usually wake up by 6:30 a.m., but I was so exhausted from the day before, I slept past 9:00. My mind was fuzzy, with threads of yesterday weaving through as I slowly woke up. At first I thought I had dreamed up the nameless girl, but when I ran to Eloise’s room, there she was—wide awake, sitting up and propped against the pillow, staring into space.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Hi, Oli,” she said.

“Did you remember anything?” I asked. “About what happened to you before I found you yesterday?”

She frowned. “I’m not sure,” she said. “Little things, maybe. I didn’t sleep that well, and I had weird dreams. They felt like memories, but not exactly.”

“What did you dream about?” I asked.

“Cats,” she said. “A lot of cats. And a little hawk—I think it was a hawk. And owls. So many, flying overhead, with yellow eyes that looked fake. Like plastic eyes in toys. In dolls.”

I shivered at that last part. It sounded like a horror movie.

“What else?” I asked.

“Girls our age, wearing long white dresses that looked like columns,” the girl went on. “And a blue van, driving around?.?.?.”

“What about your name? Your family?” I asked. “The person who hurt you? Did any of that come back to you in your dreams?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But there was someone driving the blue van. He didn’t seem real. He was like a ghoul, in a black cape and a hood pulled over his head, almost covering his face. But when I looked closely, he didn’t have a face. There was nothing in there.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” I said.

“It must have been,” she said. “It was too terrible to be a memory.”

“Why don’t you get dressed?” I said to the girl. I handed her a stack of Eloise’s clothes from her dresser. I hadn’t been able to give away any of my sister’s belongings yet, and now I was very glad I’d kept her things. “I’ll go downstairs and make breakfast.”

“Oli, I don’t want to be rude, but if there are other people in the house, I don’t want to see them.”

“Believe me, my grandmother and Noreen had nothing to do with your attack,” I said.

“I believe you, but even so?.?.?.” she began, staring off into the distance. “How do you know when someone’s good or bad?”

“I used to be able to tell,” I said. “I’m not sure I do now.” Losing Eloise had changed that.

“Same for me,” she said. “This isn’t an actual memory, just a sense. But I feel as if the person who took us was nice at first. Someone easy to trust. And then the bad things happened.”

“?‘Us’?” I repeated.

“What?”

“You said the person took us . Was someone else with you?” I asked, my pulse picking up.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say that. Nothing is clear, Oli. It’s all a blur. Those owls and those girls in the dream seemed more real than anything I can actually remember.” She looked around my sister’s room. “It’s nice here. I can think better than I could before.”

“What are you thinking about?” I asked.

“That black kitty we saw,” she said, her brow furrowed. “There was something about her that reminded me of?.?.?.?my old life. I think my family had cats. And those flowers in your garden, the ones that were so wilted?.?.?.”

“What about them?” I asked.

“What is the name of those flowers?” she asked, and I recalled that she had asked me that before. I pictured the garden, and I could see the delicate purple, yellow, and pale pink blossoms, the sharp leaves.

“They’re one of my favorites,” I said. “They’re beautiful—different colors, from pale yellow to dark purple. Eloise and I planted bulbs every fall, and the flowers come up each spring. They’re called?.?.?.”

The girl gasped.

“What?” I asked.

“Irises. That’s what they are,” the girl said, her eyes widening.

I paused, waiting for her to say more. After a minute, I asked, “Do you have irises at home, in your family’s garden?”

She didn’t answer, just gazed ahead. It seemed as if the effort of trying to remember had worn her out.

“You said you didn’t sleep well,” I said. “Why don’t you stay here and rest? I’ll bring breakfast back up here.”

“Thanks, Oli. I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes.

“Don’t be,” I said.

I ran downstairs. Gram and Noreen were watching TV in the living room, so I knew the girl and I were safe from discovery for now.

I looked in the refrigerator. I pulled out some strawberries and a container of Greek yogurt. Noreen and my grandmother had already had their coffee. A lot of kids my age don’t drink it, but I love coffee. It makes me feel older; it goes along with my feeling parental. I put on another pot. While waiting for it to brew, I stepped out onto the porch. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I felt a pang. I wished I was on the island instead of here.

There was a tiny island, just about a quarter mile off the rocky coast. Dauntless Island was perfect for beach picnics, crabbing and fishing, swimming and stargazing at night—lying on the sand and looking up at the sky. Every summer Eloise and I went out there to see the osprey nests.

I felt a small blip of resentment—toward Eloise for changing everything, and toward the nameless girl upstairs for throwing my whole day into turmoil. I didn’t like feeling that way, so I pushed it aside. I’d become good at that—burying emotions and certain other things, like that name I really didn’t want to think about.

I set a tray with breakfast things and headed back upstairs.

The girl had gotten out of bed and was dressed in Eloise’s shorts, T-shirt, and sneakers. I started to hand her a cup of coffee, but then I noticed her wide smile and bright eyes.

“Iris,” she said.

“Yes, the flowers.”

“No, me!” she said. “Iris. That’s my name! Seeing that garden unlocked my name.”

“Really? That’s fantastic,” I said. “Hi, Iris. Do you remember your last name?”

She shook her head. “My mind is so fuzzy. There’s so much else I can’t remember. It’s as if everything is hidden from me—behind a wall or something, blocking me from seeing.”

“You said you saw those words: No Police ,” I said.

“I know, it’s as if they are on a sign—but not just words.” She closed her eyes tight, and I could tell she was trying hard to bring something else to the forefront. “Paintings of girls. Three of them. They’re tall, beautiful, wearing long white dresses.”

“Like brides?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. More like classical statues. Old-fashioned, like pictures you would see in a history book. Or a museum. Three girls in separate paintings, standing side by side. Wearing matching long, pleated gowns.”

“Like the ones in your dream?” I asked.

“Exactly. They’re sisters,” she said, and suddenly she got so excited she jostled the tray and spilled some coffee. “Sisters—I have a sister!”

I felt shocked. How could she just be realizing that now? How was it possible to forget having a sister? “What’s her name? Where is she?” I asked.

Iris closed her eyes tight, and I could see she was concentrating as hard as she could. “In a room where they — where he ,” she said, correcting herself, “kept us. We were prisoners. Those pictures?.?.?.” She trailed off.

“Pictures of what?” I asked, my heart pounding. We were getting somewhere.

“The girls in white dresses,” Iris said. “They were right there, the paintings of the girls, on the walls, in the place we were being held. Where she still is?.?.?.”

“She?”

“My sister,” Iris said. She blinked hard, as if coming out of a trance. “Hayley. That’s her name.”

“Hayley, your sister. She’s still a prisoner?”

“Yes,” Iris said. She held her head between both hands, began walking in circles, as if movement would jostle the memories, make them come back.

“Where is he keeping her?” I asked. “And who is he? Where did he take you from, Iris? Where are your parents, the rest of your family?”

“I don’t know,” she said, putting her hands over her ears. “I don’t know!” Then staring at me, she added, “He was nice at first. I liked him. I do remember that.”

“Did you go with him willingly?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I would have, at first. He seemed like someone I could trust. But then he changed into a monster.”

“Iris, we have to call Detective Tyrone,” I said firmly. “We need to find out who did this to you. And that will help find my sister’s murderer. It has to be the same person, right? To put you in the same grave where she was buried? He must have thought you were dead—that he had killed you, like he killed Eloise.”

My mind went white-hot with rage, terror, grief. Who was he? How could he have taken Iris and her sister? And Eloise?

“I played dead,” Iris went on. “I remember that part now. It wasn’t hard because he’d given me those drugs, knocked me out. He thought I wouldn’t wake up, but I did.” Slowly she touched two spots on either side of her head. I could see faint pink circles under her fingertips. “Sticky,” she said softly. “It feels like glue.”

“Who would put glue on your head?” I asked.

“Him,” she said. “He did.”

“Why? What does he look like?” I asked.

“I can’t see him,” she said. “His face is a blur.”

“Think, Iris. It’s in there, you just have to bring it up.”

She squeezed her eyes tight, trying to remember. Then she opened her eyes. “I can hear his voice. I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“You’d recognize it if you heard it again?” I asked.

“Yes, definitely.”

“That’s good,” I said. I wondered what his voice sounded like, and I thought of the terror it must have caused Eloise. “Iris, we need to call the police. To rescue Hayley. To get her away from him.”

“Oli,” Iris said. “I can still see the words I told you about: No Police . And now I know why. He said that to us over and over. That if we tried to escape, and if one of us ever managed to, and told the police about him, he would kill the other. If you call the police, my sister will die. Please, Oli.”

I took that in. Iris seemed clear now, levelheaded. I thought of Dr. Hirsch and what she had told me about trauma reactions. I knew it was possible to block out the worst—violence, terror—and I realized that that was why Iris had so much memory loss. But her emotions were intact. She was positive that whoever was holding Hayley would murder her, and her certitude convinced me.

I knew he was capable of it, because he had done it to Eloise.

“I’m going to find my sister myself,” Iris said.

“How can we do that?” I asked.

Iris stared at me. “You said ‘we.’?”

“Of course I’ll help you,” I said. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Something Iris had said before made me think there had been more than one kidnapper.

“You mentioned the room where they kept you,” I said. “So it wasn’t just him? There was someone else?”

“I’m picturing someone in a white dress,” Iris said. “Or maybe I was thinking of the paintings of those girls.” She paused. “If only I could remember when he took us, and how. I feel as if we were in the back of a truck, or a van, or something. And he took us somewhere strange. It wasn’t a normal room.” She sighed. “It’s still blurry.”

“We just need a clue of where to start,” I said. I was trying to put together everything we knew so far, even the barest hints.

He was nice at first.

She thought she could trust him.

But then he took them, Iris and her sister.

Held them in some room with paintings.

He knocked Iris out with drugs.

There was a sticky substance on her head.

He turned into a monster.

She played dead, and he buried her.

I suddenly felt terror, as if I had seen him transform into someone evil, just the way Iris had. The way my sister must have.

Who had turned into a monster and killed her?

Who had dropped a gold charm and a blue-gray feather?

How had the gold dust gotten there?

The name I didn’t want to think about flashed through my mind, over and over.

“I have an idea,” Iris said, interrupting my thoughts.

“What?”

“Tell me one thing about the day Eloise went missing. Not the whole day, okay? Just one incident that stands out. Or one word! Even if you think it has nothing to do with her being taken. Just something that really sticks in your mind. Something that made you really nervous, and you didn’t like the way you felt. Or?.?.?.?something you loved. That the two of you loved.”

I gave her a look full of skepticism.

“Oli, maybe there’s something in common with the day Hayley and I were taken. It might jog my memory,” she said.

“Like whoever took you has a signature?” I asked. “Something he can’t help doing that will tell us who he is?”

“Exactly,” Iris said.

Then I felt excited, because the possibility of uncovering the murderer’s identity was the first bit of hope we’d had so far.

The only thing was, I knew how painful it would be to remember that horrific day when my sister disappeared.

“Tell me,” Iris said.

I didn’t have to think very hard because everything about that day was emblazoned in my heart.