“Thank you.” I watch Agent Foster carefully, searching hisface for any hint of a hidden motive. “So you just came here to apologize? Or was there something else?”
“Both. I realized I might’ve pushed you too hard. Especially considering the weight you’re carrying. I understand that this is your life, not just a case file.”
“Are you saying you don’t think I know where the bodies are?”
He doesn’t answer right away, which makes me uneasy. “Consciously, no.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t believe you consciously know the location. However, I think you might know more than you realize. Memories get buried deep, especially if they’re painful.”
I glance at the chipped edge of the tabletop, still feeling unsettled. “And you’re suggesting…what? I try to bring the memories to the surface somehow?”
I don’t tell him about my own theory that going to the studio might jog my memory, because right now, that’s all it is—a theory.
“Actually, yes. I know it might sound strange, but I was thinking we could try a hypnosis session, if you’re open to it. Just to see if anything surfaces.”
Disbelief has me laughing. “Hypnosis? Seriously? Is that what the FBI is into these days?”
He’s unbothered by my mocking tone. “We work with some very skilled therapists. A couple of licensed psychiatrists too. They’ve been quite useful in other cases, helping people suffering from PTSD resurface memories as to what might have happened in their past.”
I bite my lip, wondering if the FBI has access to my childhoodmedical records. Because Idohave PTSD. The child psychologist I saw when I first moved in with Gran said as much, though I only saw him for a year after my mom’s murder. At the time, I was happy to stop the appointments. They were long and boring and got in the way of my Saturday morning cartoons. Besides, I didn’t feel they accomplished anything. My nightmares still came, no matter how much we talked about my father and that night and all the horrible things he did. So what was the point of therapy if it didn’t freaking work?
“I saw a news report once that said the wholerepressed memorything is junk,” I inform Foster. “That the hypnotist was planting false suggestions in the victims’ heads, making them believe they’d seen something they really hadn’t—”
“Well, yes. That’s always a danger. But like I said, these aren’t quacks. They’re professionals we’ve consulted with before.” He shrugs. “I think it wouldn’t hurt to try to jog your memory. Wouldn’t you like to figure out why your father was under the impression that the daughter he last saw when she was seven might know where he took his victims?”
Gnawing on the inside of my cheek, I consider this hypnosis plan, even as a part of me recoils from the idea. Unbeknownst to him, we share a common goal. This is the precise reason I woke up early and drove to my old property. To answer that question.
“All right.” I let out a slow breath, nodding. “I’ll do it.”
My easy acquiescence startles him. Then he offers me a small, grateful nod, his expression unexpectedly soft. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything close to vulnerability in his face, and it’s throwing me off-balance.
“Thank you,” Foster says. “I think you’re incredibly brave for agreeing, and I promise you that either I or Agent Kulpa will be there with you the entire time.”
“I’m not promising answers,” I say with a pointed look. “It might not work.”
“All we’re asking is that you try,” he assures me. “If we can arrange a last-minute session, how’s sometime this week? Perhaps Thursday after school?”
“I’ll check with my aunt, but it should be fine.” I pause. “Anything else?” It’s a bit rude, but I don’t particularly want to have breakfast with this man. My appetite is already starting to leave me at the thought of letting a shrink take a crowbar to my brain and poke around inside.
“Not even going to let me order a coffee, huh?” His smile is wry.
I shrug in response, and Foster seems to get the hint, sliding out of the booth.
“I’ll text you later with the details. And you have my number now,” he reminds me. “You can call or text me anytime, no matter how late.”
He chooses the worst possible moment to utter those words—just as Chase Hedlund is striding past the booth.
Shit.
Chase tenses when he notices me. His gray eyes shift to Agent Foster, and he makes a scornful noise under his breath.
“Later, Ryan,” Foster says as if he’s a regular old college bro.
The moment he’s gone, Chase slides into the booth, shaking his head as he lets out an angry laugh. “Well. I guess I knowwhy you dumped Everett. I’m almost impressed by how fast you move.”
I try to think of a suitable excuse, but all of them are flimsy. I finally say, “He’s just a friend.”
