Page 134 of Eternal Surrender

Fabian detected my reticence but kept his attention on her. “The memory is repressed. If she can’t see it, William, neither can you.”

“What happened inside that room?” I asked.

“Shall we see?” asked Fabian.

Ingrid gave a subtle nod, not really understanding what she was consenting to. Fabian closed his eyes and pushed harder.

Ingrid’s mouth gaped, her jaw slackened, her eyes glazing over as though Fabian had sent a jolt of energy right into her frontal lobe.

Something crashed.

Glass.

A thirteen-year-old girl standing before a closed door that towered over her. Her small hand resting on the doorknob.

“Turn it,” came Fabian’s voice.

On the other side of the door was a man dangling in the center of the room from an open attic. He was strangled. The chair kicked from beneath him, tipped over. A family photo smashed into pieces.

A thirteen-year-old Ingrid turned to see Fabian standing there in the corner. He gave a supportive gesture for her to continue. . .

Searching for the scissors she knew her mother kept in one of the upper linen drawers, Ingrid’s hands shook as she reached in and pulled them out, guilt ridden for disobeying her mother for even touching them. Righting the chair that had fallen, she stepped up onto it and reached for the rope around her father’s neck, cutting furiously. . .

“He’s already dead, Ingrid,” Fabian said softly.

The scissors fell.

All this time, Ingrid had suppressed this memory, never once facing her childhood pain, never standing still, perhaps unconsciously afraid it might one day find her. And it had, in the form of the underworld, in an altogether different kind of pain promising to drown out her torment.

With her small hand in his, Fabian led her out, pausing in the doorway, allowing her a moment to glance back and see that the room was now empty.

Ingrid broke away and staggered back, finding her footing, spinning awkwardly as though expecting to find herself in her childhood home.

The spell broke.

Ingrid let out a sob.

“It’s over now,” Fabian said, trying to comfort her.

Ingrid’s tears stained her cheeks. “All this time I didn’t think. . .”

I wrapped my arms around her, kissing her forehead again and again until she calmed. “You did everything you could,” I whispered.

Fabian picked up the flask, unscrewed the lid and poured a light brown liquid into it. He handed Ingrid the cup.

She took it and sniffed the contents.

“Tea.” Fabian gestured we were to sit again.

Something told me Fabian had put some thought into our meeting.

He pointed upward. “How was the London Bridge tour?”

“We missed most of it,” I said, taken with how swiftly he’d moved on, and glanced over to check on Ingrid.

“But not the important stuff,” Fabian continued. “Boudicca, Queen of the Celts.”

Ingrid sipped her drink, steam wafted.