Part 30 (1/2)

I was one of the six victims of The Leaving.

Yes, we were gone for eleven years.

No, we don't remember.

No, they never figured it out.

Would she, too, eventually become bored by her own narrative?

If she did end up writing a book, would it be one she even wanted to read?

The room got quiet. She felt the soft pressure of their gazes, like feathers.

”Could you point me toward the restroom?”

Trish stood and pointed. ”Just this way.”

In the powder room, she checked the time on her phone and saw she had a message from Sarah.

Listened.

”It's me, Sarah. I think I'm remembering more things. I remembered someone else there with us. But not Max. Another girl, I think. But I don't know. It's like I can only see her as a police sketch in my head or something.”

Then voices through the line, then Sarah saying, ”I gotta go.”

Hanging up.

Putting her phone back into her purse, Scarlett examined herself in the mirror-another outfit that felt wrong on every level-and fixed her hair.

Another girl?

Was Sarah becoming unhinged?

I'm going on a trip.

To the leaving.

Going on a trip.

Tomorrow.

Or was it Scarlett who was losing purchase on reality?

Nothing about the novel had felt familiar at all.

But she'd said it.

I'm going on a trip.

To the leaving.

She felt the urge to go to the bathroom, but not here.

She shut it down.

And realized she could.

So maybe had.

But it wouldn't last.

Couldn't.