“Do you feel comfortable talking about it?” Deborah finally asks.
“Sure.”
Both women keep looking at me. I wait for Deborah’s next question.
“How old were you?” she eventually asks.
“Eleven.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s young.”
Not that young. My brothers and I were basically raising ourselves by that point. It would be rude to correct her, though, so I nod.
“What happened?”
“Well, uh—” I clear my throat. “My grandfather was Henry Maddox.” Deborah’s expression shows that I don’t need to say more. Everyone in Manhattan knows the name. “And my father was, well, less than circumspect in mixed company. He flashed his money.”
“And your mother?”
“She was already gone by then.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Deborah says.
“No, she’s not dead. She left to live in Europe.”
“Oh.” Deborah picks up her pen and scratches something on her note pad. “Please go on.”
Go on with what? “I’m sorry. What is it exactly that you need to know?”
“What do you feel is important for me to know?”
What the fuck kind of bridge-troll-riddle shit is this? I dart a desperate glance over at Cora. She’s actually got some color back in her face, and she’s watching me closely. Her eyes are brighter than they’ve been in a while. Her body isn’t signaling that she’s about to run anymore. My irritation ebbs.
“Well, um, I was held for four days.” I didn’t know that until afterward. It felt like weeks. Months. In the pitch black, there was no way to mark time.
“That must have been terrifying. How did the ordeal end?” Deborah’s expression is a model of deep, sincere concern and compassion. How many times does she have to trot that out in a day? I wouldn’t have the patience.
“I got out.”
I settle back in my seat. After a few, long moments pass,Deborah’s brow furrows. “What else is important to know? To understand what happened to you?”
“That’s pretty much the whole story.” I rest my hands on my thighs and check the clock. Forty minutes left to go.
I let the silence sit. It doesn’t bother me. I negotiate for a living.
Cora’s gaze is riveted on my face now. Maybe that does make me a little twitchy. This is supposed to be for her. I don’t think it’s working. I take a deep breath, but I can’t think of what else to say. The second hand just keeps jerking around the clock’s face.
“How did you get out?” I blink in surprise. Cora’s question is soft, but almost defensive. Like she expects me to stonewall her. That’s not what’s going to happen.
“I escaped.”
“How?” she presses.
I don’t want to tell her. It’s nothing she needs to ever worry about.
“You don’t have to share anything that you don’t feel comfortable with,” Deborah interjects into the silence.
Cora, who’d somewhat straightened, deflates back into the sofa cushions. Hell, no. Deborah’s wrong on this one. If Cora’s talking in therapy, I’m doing whatever it takes to keep her going.
