Page 113 of Lotus

“I…” My eyes case the image further, confused. And when my gaze dips, I notice exactly what has Sydney so upset.

The little girl has her shorts down around her ankles.

And the Faceless Man has his hand in her underwear.

Dear God… why would I draw this?

Sydney cups a hand over her mouth, her cry muffled, and the sickening realization washes over us at the same time.

“Clem.”

T W E N T Y – S I X

AFTER RETCHING INTO THE KITCHEN GARBAGE CAN TWICE,I throw my coat and boots on, kiss Oliver goodbye, and hightail it over to my parents’ house for Christmas Eve dinner with red-rimmed eyes and hot cheeks of shame, still wearing my holiday pajamas. My sobs almost force me to pull to the side of the road multiple times as the anguish attempts to suffocate me.

Anguish. Horror. Guilt.

Blinding disbelief.

I never knew. I neverfuckingknew.

I’m her sister and I failed her. I didn’t see the signs. Clementine was always a quiet, moody child, and we teased her mercilessly about it. She was shy, insecure, aloof—Clem was always the odd one out in our little friendship circle.

Is this why? How long was my sister being molested right under our noses?

Oliver hovered behind me, unsure on how to help as his hand gently cased my spine. Hot tears streaked down my face, my mind reeling, my insides cracking to pieces.

“Sydney… I’m sorry. I don’t remember drawing that,” Oliver told me as I heaved into the trashcan—and when I glanced at him, I saw his own guilt reflecting back at me. A sense of responsibility. He held onto that truth, spilling it into the only outlet he had.

And then he forgot.

Everything faded away—a defense mechanism, a repressed memory, combined with years of psychological trauma, force-fed lies, and PTSD. Missing memories are common with PTSD victims, even more so if Oliver witnessed a traumatic event prior to the abduction.

It makes sense.

Scattered and broken, I did my best to quell his remorse. I held his face between my palms and kissed his forehead, whispering gently, “I’m sorry I have to go, but listen to me,” I pleaded. “Do not hold yourself accountable for this. Whoeverisaccountable will pay the fucking price, and I swear to that.”

He stared down at me, wordless.

“I love you, Oliver. Thank you for my beautiful gift.”

His eyes glistened, his own words of love whispered from his lips as I left him standing in my kitchen, unprepared for the heart-wrenching conversation ahead of me.

As I pull into the familiar driveway, Clementine’s car is already parked along the street. She’s always early to family gatherings, eager to help our mother prepare the meal.

I accidentally set the kitchen on fire one time when I placed a potholder on top of a hot burner. It was Easter Brunch, and I was trying to help make a simple gravy, but that gravy turned into a visit from the fire station, thousands of dollars’ worth of damages after I threw the potholder in a panic and it lit the curtains on fire, and a permanent ban from using my parents’ stovetop. The memory only adds to my state of anxiety.

When I plow through the front door in my clunky snow boots and puffy eyes, Poppy is quick to greet me in her adorable holiday dress, which triggers an immediate breakdown before I even make it past the foyer.

“Auntie Syd, what’s wrong? You don’t like my dress?”

Poppy twirls twice, and I sob harder.

My dramatic entrance has my mother and sister rounding the corner from the kitchen wearing matching expressions and reindeer aprons.

Clementine eyes me with worry, and I realize this is the first time we’ve seen each other in person since her outburst in the car.

And now that outburst makes a hell of a lot more sense.

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