Page 81 of Daring You

She doesn’t flinch. Tilts her head up in rebellion. “No.”

“I’m not testifying,” I grit out.

“I know that.”

“If you think you’re tainting any testimony or evidence, you won’t be. So you can stop trying to protect these murderers like they’re your babies.”

A swirl of indiscernible passion floats behind her eyes, but she staunches it as before it can drift to the obvious. “I’m not trying to protect my firm, as much as you’d like to believe that’s the reason.”

“Then ask me,” I say.

“Ask you what?”

“If I were on the stand. If you had complete access to my memories—which you do, right now—what would you ask? What would you do to protect your client?”

“Fuck you, Ben.” She slams the laptop shut.

When I bend to grab it, she swipes it out of the way. Fuckin’ woman has better reflexes than I do.

“You don’t look this kind of gift horse in the mouth. I’m right here, ready and willing to answer any of your questions.” I know I’m goading her, but I don’t damn well care.

Her teeth grind together, a sure sign she’s putting that sharp mind of hers to use. Then, as if she’s coming to terms with something, she glances back at me. “You said it yourself, you don’t have any memories that are worth a courtroom’s ears.”

“I can tell you what I know.”

“Fine, Ben. Why didn’t they move you farther away? Why do you still reside in this city?”

“You mean WITSEC?” I’ll admit, I’m shocked she started off so light. But that’s the problem with Astor. You never know where she wants to end up.

She nods.

“They moved me to Connecticut. I don’t know why they chose that state. Perhaps because New York is so populated, so dense with people, that the risk was low by keeping me nearby. Hell, maybe it was better than shipping a four-year-old all the way to California.”

“And what do you remember that night?” She studies me closely. “Not what people have told you. What do you, personally, remember?”

“Having a bedtime story read to me,” I say. “Being under the covers with my mom. I don’t know the book. I like to think something by Dr. Seuss, but I’m pretty sure that’s my mind playing tricks on me.”

“Any noises? Triggers?”

I shake my head. “A light going on outside my closed door, maybe. Voices. No words. Then…” I close my eyes abruptly. “Bright lights. Like I was dragged out of my dark bedroom. Dark clothing—forms. Loud, yelling. Hitting the floor, hard.” I press fingers to my cheekbone. “I think I broke my face. The weight of Mom, the sounds of dad. Unfamiliar, grunting sounds…”

I’m aware of Astor stepping closer, but it’s not enough to pull me out of the memory.

“The smell of body odor. Laughter. Then…smoke. A lot of stinging, black smoke. Being unable to breathe…”

“Okay. Okay, Ben.”

Astor’s rubbing my back, and I guess I’m breathing rapidly, maybe gasping, but I can’t stop.

“Ben.”

My name has more urgency, but I still can’t crawl out. Whatever hole I’m in, whatever dimension, it has me by its talons and won’t let me into Astor’s light.

“Breathe. Breathe, baby.”

Hands, warm, thin, grab my face, force me to focus on wondrous, turbulent blue, a color that’s mesmerized since they first crossed my vision.

“Look at me,” she says. “Really look.”

I’m trying. Really, I am. But all I see are clouded forms, racing toward, then back, grabbing at my tiny body, holding my arms down, telling me, your filthy parents are gonna get the death they deserve, and so are you, little boy. Go to hell with them.

Heat sears my mouth, a tongue explores, and my eyes fly open.

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