April Henry - The Girl Who Was Supposed to Die

“Good afternoon, Susan. Where is the Scott family? Police say their Portland home shows signs of a struggle. The family’s car, a dark green Forester, is missing, and neighbors say they haven’t seen the Scotts for several days. Friends fear the worst. Coworkers at Z-Biotech, where Patrick and Janie Scott have been employed for seventeen years as microbiologists, say the Scotts haven’t been to work since Monday, the day before Lloyd Dillow was murdered. Three-year-old Max Scott, who normally attends an on-site day care at his parents’ workplace, is also missing. Monday is also the last day that sixteen-year-old Cady Scott last attended classes at Portland’s Wilson High. Employees at Z-Biotech told KNWS the older Scotts have recently spoken about tensions at home, saying that Cadence—or Cady, as she is known to her friends—had begun stealing from them and using drugs and even selling.”

Drugs? I feel like I’m being whipsawed. Could it be true? Should I feel guilty for something I don’t know I did?

But even if I am a drug addict, it doesn’t explain a lot of things. Like what about the men? The men who pulled out my fingernails, the men who wanted to kill me, the men who were searching for me—where do they fit in? If I really have been selling drugs, have I somehow gotten on somebody’s very bad side?

While I’m thinking, the reporter is still talking.

“Police, however, have still not identified Cady Scott as a suspect in the shooting of Lloyd Dillow or in the disappearance of her family. They will say only that she is a person of interest.” From the tone of the reporter’s voice, it’s clear he thinks it’s only a matter of time until I’m charged.

The woman newscaster says, “But there is one person who does believe in Cady Scott’s innocence, right, Keith?”

“That’s right, Susan. I’m at the Portland hotel where Elizabeth Quinn, Cady Scott’s aunt, has been speaking to reporters about her niece. She flew into Portland as soon as she heard about her missing family members.”

Elizabeth Quinn? I’ve just been given one more piece of the puzzle of who I am. Thinking of the human remains, I wonder bleakly if it’s possible she’s now the only living relative I have.

“I am certain Cady didn’t do it,” a woman says emphatically. “I’ve known her since she was a baby. She sends me little notes on email all the time. She’s a sweet, quiet girl. There’s no way she could be mixed up in something bad. There’s either been a terrible accident or some kind of mistake. And I’m not going to leave Portland until I find out what really happened.”

The male reporter cuts in. “And that’s what everyone would like to know. What happened to Cady Scott and her family? This is Keith Pilligan, reporting to you live from the Winchester Hotel. Back to you, Susan.”

The newscaster says, “Cady Scott is sixteen years old, five foot seven, and about one hundred twenty-five pounds. She has shoulder-length dark blond hair and blue eyes. You can see a picture of her on our website.” She takes a breath and then says, “In other news around the region…”

Ty snaps off the radio.

Remains. Even when they were talking about other things, I kept going back to the first thing they said. The worst thing. They found remains at the cabin.

In the rearview mirror, Ty’s wide eyes meet mine. His skin is pale.

I try to think it through. “But I checked all the rooms of the cabin before I left. Nobody was there.”

“You said it was trashed and you were in a hurry.”

“I think I’d have noticed three bodies.” The words come out with a sarcastic spin that makes him flinch. Earlier I imagined—and I pray I only imagined it, I pray it isn’t some sort of memory—my family sprawled dead in the forest. What if the men had dragged them back into the cabin and then set the cabin on fire to cover up their crimes?

But thinking of dragging reminds me of something else. Someone else. And it’s wrong that it makes me feel better to think of it. But what if the man in the oxblood shoes came back to figure out what had happened to Brenner, why he wasn’t returning his calls? After he found him dead, he could have decided it was the perfect opportunity to cast more blame on me. He could have dragged Brenner back to the cabin before setting it on fire.

My mind whirls with possibilities. Am I an addict? A sweet girl? A girl who knows how to kill someone with her bare hands? What’s a lie and what’s the truth? I have no idea. But it sounds like the one woman who might be able to tell me is at the Winchester Hotel.

My aunt Elizabeth.

And we’re only thirty minutes away from Portland.

Once we’re in Portland, we hit a Burger King drive-through (Ty refuses to even consider McDonald’s), and then hunt for a pay phone. When we finally find one, he calls the Winchester Hotel and asks to be put through to Elizabeth Quinn. We decided it was safer to have a guy ask for her.

After he hangs up he walks back to where I’m sitting in the car. He’s smiling.

“At first your aunt thought I was a reporter who missed the press conference. Then I explained who I was—and, more important, who I’m with. She’s so happy to hear that you’re okay. I tried to explain about how your memory’s gone, but I don’t think she totally understood. Still it sounds like she might know something about what’s really going on.”

Something inside me loosens. To finally know all the answers. To let an adult be in charge. I grin back at Ty.

Elizabeth said the safest thing would be to meet at the Winchester Hotel, so we park in the underground garage and then take the elevator up to the third floor. I take a deep breath and knock on the door of 312.

A slender woman dressed in cuffed skinny jeans, Doc Martens boots, and a long black sweater opens the door. She looks down the empty corridor and then pulls me inside. Ty’s right on my heels. As soon as she closes the door, she hugs me.

“Oh, Cady!” Her arms are skinny and strong. “You’ve changed your hair!”

Encircled by her arms, I stiffen before our bodies make contact. I can’t help it. I’ve finally found somebody who knows me, but I don’t know her. Pulling back, she takes my cheeks in her hands and looks from one eye to the other, her face puzzled.

She has pale skin, shoulder-length black hair, and bright blue eyes set off by mascara and eyeliner. “Cady?” she says. “What’s the matter?” She lets her hands fall away.

I don’t say anything. I just stare at her face.

“It’s like I told you on the phone,” Ty says. “Cady doesn’t remember anything that happened before late yesterday afternoon. We’re pretty sure it’s something called a fugue state. It happens when you’ve had a terrible shock. It takes your memories and locks them away so you can’t access them, even though they’re still there.”

“And you don’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

“I remember some stuff,” I say. I feel oddly embarrassed, like I’ve been caught wearing nothing but a towel. “I remember the names of things, and how to walk and eat and drive. It’s just that if it’s something about me, then I can’t remember it.”

“So you don’t even remember me?” She presses her lips together, looking hurt.

The longer I look at her, though, the more she does seem familiar. It’s the shape of her cheekbones, the color of her eyes. “I’m pretty sure I remember your face,” I say. “But nothing more than that. Sorry, Aunt Elizabeth.”

She frowns. “Now I know you really don’t remember me. You always called me Liz. So you don’t remember your parents? Your brother?”