Page 12 of If Anything Happens To Me

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—wherehe,” 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 whoishe? Where did he take you from, Iris? Where are your parents, the rest of your family?”

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