Little Girl Gone: The can’t-put-it-down psychological thriller. Alexandra Burt

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      ‘Jack, I’m not a criminal. I don’t remember what happened. I’m beside myself!’ Is it possible for a nonexistent ear to throb? I know my outbursts only reiterate the fact that, in his eyes, I’ve lost my mind. I know I must look like a deer right before the bumper makes contact.

      ‘I woke up and she was gone. Everything was gone. That’s all I remember.’

      ‘Something must have happened. Did she cry and you got upset? Did you do something to her?’

      I try to sit up but the pain in my ribs is excruciating.

      ‘Look at me.’ Jack steps closer and he grabs my chin, turning my head towards him. ‘Look me in the eyes and tell me what happened.’

      ‘Do you think I’d hurt our daughter?’

      The candor of my question startles him. His eyes widen, but immediately he catches himself and lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘I’m not saying you hurt her, all I’m saying is that I blame you for what happened.’

      Jack opens his briefcase. ‘One more thing,’ he adds.

      There is always one more thing with Jack.

      ‘I’m not sure if you’re getting this, but there’s a possibility you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars or strapped to a gurney. Now is the time to grasp the severity of your situation.’ He pinches his lips into a straight line and adds, ‘I’ve talked to the doctors at length and if I can convince the DA, I’ll get you into a clinic with a doctor who specializes in memory recovery. I don’t see any other way, all I want to do is find my daughter.’

      I stare at him, and then I lower my eyes.

      ‘Where’s this clinic?’ I ask.

      ‘Here in New York. The doctor, some foreigner from the Middle East, specializes in trauma-related memory loss.’ His shoulders relax but even his expensive suit can’t hide the fact that suddenly he looks like a deflated balloon. ‘I need you to sign a voluntary admission to a psychiatric facility for an unspecified length of time.’

      ‘I don’t belong in a psych ward.’ I attempt to organize my thoughts into separate, manageable portions. It barely seems possible. Memory recovery. I imagine wires hooked up to my brain, truth serums, and my retinas relaying images to computer screens. A psychiatric facility. Unspecified amount of time. I’m agreeing to go to a loony bin and I won’t be able to check out.

      Jack cocks his head and raises his brows as if he has caught a kid in a lie.

      ‘In your eyes I’m just this crazy lunatic, right? Why don’t you just say it? You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’

      ‘Not crazy in a certifiable sense, not crazy as in failing a psych exam, but I believe that you need help and that this clinic might just be your only chance. And most of all, it’s Mia’s only chance.’

      His voice is soft now, almost seductive. ‘I don’t think you have any other choice. This is it.’

      Jack has spoken, there’s no alternative. He’s right, this is Mia’s only chance and so I force my legs off the side of the bed. My rubbery socks search for the sticky linoleum floor. I feel suspended, unable to find the ground. I sign my name in shaky letters and the second the pen rests, I feel an overwhelming urge to take it in my fist and scratch out my signature until the paper is torn to shreds.

      Jack grabs the pen and pulls it from between my fingers and checks his watch.

      ‘That doctor will help me remember and we’ll find Mia. We’ll find out what happened, right, Jack?’

      He closes his briefcase and leaves the room before I can even get my feet on the ground.

       Chapter 5

      One year, I told myself, take one year and figure out what you want. The concept of ‘wanting’ was a very vague one and after spending a larger part of the self-imposed deadline in bars, flirting with men who meant nothing to me, I was waiting for some sort of a sign, some sort of higher intervention one might refer to as palm reader stuff. I’d walk down 57th Street and tell myself the next billboard that catches my eye, the next car graphic, tote bag, or flier blowing my way was going to be the answer.

      At the time, I worked at a health insurance call center where I met a woman who, at first glance, seemed out of place. Delilah, middle-aged, short and heavy set, was covered in tattoos she hid amazingly well under white oversized blouses and cardigans. She was far removed from the twenty-somethings filling up the cubicles around her. Every time she pushed back her cardigan sleeves, a gesture signaling a difficult customer, a tattoo on her forearm emerged; ‘Dead Men Tell No Tales.’

      ‘You keep looking at my tattoo,’ she said and muted her headset in the cubicle next to mine.

      ‘Quite the message,’ I replied.

      ‘Kind of a funny story,’ she said.

      She told me she’d been a prison guard for 25 years and with every passing year her people skills took a turn for the worst. Her husband left her and none of her children were speaking to her. As a matter of self-preservation she decided to spend the rest of her working career in customer service.

      ‘Forces me to work on myself every day,’ she added and switched to a noncommittal voice accepting the next call in the queue.

      The concept intrigued me and I wondered about my own character shortcomings. If I had to challenge a part of myself, what part would that be? At the end of my shift I came to the conclusion that I did not like people very much, never sought lasting friendships, and distrust of humanity was an issue I ought to tackle. That day, I quit my job at the call center and decided to become a waitress.

      Two days later I found a job as a hostess at ‘La Luna,’ a bar and grill in Manhattan, mostly frequented by judges, DAs, defense lawyers, prosecutors, and armies of executives working in the surrounding buildings. La Luna’s neighborhood on Lexington and 50th was a hodgepodge of restaurants and bars, office buildings, law offices, and an occasional Starbucks to break up the monotony.

      I saw Jack standing in line, waiting to be seated. He wasn’t stunningly attractive or anything unusual that caught my eye, but still I couldn’t wait for him to get to the front of the line. I liked the way he looked into my eyes and weighed his words before he spoke.

      ‘Jack Connor,’ he said and straightened his tie. He was expecting a party of two to join him and demanded the best table in the house.

      ‘Important meeting,’ he added and followed me to a table at the far end of the restaurant.

      When we reached it, he looked around and pointed towards a table by the front window.

      ‘I think I’d prefer that one.’

      That’s how I met Jack. Me challenging myself, him telling me what I offered him wasn’t good enough. Later Jack read my name off the tag on my blouse, his voice a soft baritone.

      ‘Estelle Paradise.’

      Over СКАЧАТЬ