This moment felt similar. Except it didn’t seem like a moment at all, but a million moments, an ocean of time lapping, rolling, returning to a giant darkness, ever moving with no end.
A coldness enveloped her - the only sensation of discomfort. The chill penetrated her flesh, moved through her blood into her organs. Strange thoughts slipped by. She wondered if her spleen was cold, or was that her pancreas? She had paid little attention in anatomy class. If faced with identifying the location of an organ, she’d likely pick the wrong side of the body.
Now and then, she attempted to move. Wiggle a finger, lift her head, but her sense of her body was as boundless as time. She couldn’t seem to isolate a limb to move it, and the effort so exhausted her that she’d slip back into the abyss, only to emerge a short time later, flutter her eyelids, part her lips, and then recede again.
When Orla finally woke, the drug’s effects had faded. Her conscious mind no longer held any trace of the peaceful tranquility of her drugged sleep.
Her eyes flew open - not to darkness, but the drab gray of medical walls, a brick ceiling, a bit of light snaking beneath a doorway.
Heavy fabric bound her arms against her sides. Straps wrapped across her shins and over her thighs, pinning her to the bed. An additional bind cut into her forehead, pressing her skull against the hard surface beneath her.
She wanted a sip of water and to cry out, but something had been stuffed in her mouth and strapped in place. It cut into the tender flesh of her cheeks and the creases of her lips.
Her final memory appeared vague and dream-like. The woman in Spencer’s driveway sinking a needle into her neck. Where had the woman taken her, and why?
She wondered at the tooth in the driveway, the vision of the blonde girl gazing in horror at her own blood.
Adrenaline pumped through Orla’s blood, creating an infuriating sensation of wanting to rip from her binds and sprint from the room, but she could do nothing.
She lay gagged and bound and terrified at what lay ahead.
Chapter 10
Liz
“Fiona Sullivan?”
Fiona looked up from the sweater laid out on her table. She’d been fussing the seam for over ten minutes, unable to concentrate on the tiny thread.
A woman stood inside the shop’s entrance. She looked about Fiona’s age, with short blonde curls and a grim, sad smile. Wearing a wrinkled gray blouse and too-tight jeans, she appeared mildly disheveled. She had the air of a woman on the edge, a feeling Fiona was all too familiar with.
Fiona smiled, set the sweater aside and stood, frowning at the ache in her lower back.
“Yes. I’m Fiona Sullivan. How can I help you?”
The woman stepped forward, glanced around the shop at the piles of neatly stacked clothing pinned with the names of their owners waiting for pickup.
“My name is Liz Miner. I heard about your daughter.”
“Orla?” Fiona asked, though of course it could be no one except Orla. She had only one child.
The woman nodded. She clutched her handbag as if it held her together. If she dropped it, the woman herself might collapse as well.
“My daughter was Susan Miner, Susie. Have you heard of her?”
Fiona frowned, trying to recall the name.
“Is she a friend of Orla’s? I can’t remember all her friends. She rarely brought them home, such a secretive girl.”
Liz shook her head. She drew a folded piece of paper from her purse and strode across the room, handing it to Fiona.
Fiona studied the page. She took a moment to realize it was a missing person’s poster.
Missing: Susan (Susie) Lynn Miner
D.O.B.: April 7th, 1953
Last Seen: Sunday, August 27th, 1972
In Petoskey, Michigan
Wearing: A yellow Rolling Stones t-shirt with red lips and tongue. Blue or black shorts. White tennis shoes.
Fiona stared at the pretty blonde girl in the photo. Her wide-set eyes looked light, probably blue. Her nose was little, dotted with freckles over a wide smile with two rows of straight teeth. Hoop earrings poked through her long blonde hair.
“She’s still missing?”
“It will have been three years on August 27th.”
It was July 13th. Little more than a month from the anniversary.
“I’m so sorry,” Fiona said, her guts twisting as she considered her own daughter, missing now for five days. But Orla was different, bohemian, reckless in some ways. Surely, she had just hitched a ride with friends. She’d be back any day.
“I’m not sure how I can help, Mrs. Miner.”
“Please, call me Liz.”
Fiona offered her a polite smile and handed the poster back.
“There have been other missing girls, Fiona. Five I’m aware of. Six, if I include Orla.”
Fiona frowned and shook her head.
“Orla’s not missing. She just…” Fiona twiddled her fingers. “Left town for a week. She’s a wanderer. My husband’s mother was an Irish traveler - a Minkier. That’s where she gets it.”
Liz frowned and tucked the paper back into her purse, but stood firm.
“I don’t think so,” Liz disagreed.
“How do you know about Orla?”
“A friend who’s investigating the cases told me.”
Fiona held her up her hand, her voice rising.
“Orla is fine. She-”
“Three years,” Liz interrupted. She swallowed and shook her head, as if tasting something horrible. “Three years without my Susie. I’d give anything to get her back. I’d die if she could come back. But she’s dead. I know it. In my heart, I sensed it that very night when she didn’t come home. Fiona-”
“Orla is fine!” Fiona snapped, her voice shrill.
The bells on the door tinkled as they swung in. It was Patrick.
“Pat,” she sobbed, running across the room and clutching him. She buried her face in his chest and cried.
He patted his wife’s back.
“What is it, Fiona? Hmm?” He spoke in a gentle voice, low and husky, as if his wife were a child rather than a grown woman.
Liz stepped forward.
“I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to upset her.”
“Who are you?” Patrick asked, taking his wife’s shoulders in his hands and gently steering her back to the sewing table.
She sat in her chair heavily, staring at her hands clasped in her lap.
“My name is Liz Miner. My daughter disappeared three years ago. I came here because-”
“Orla? Do you know where she’s at?” His face shifted, concern softening his otherwise hard features.
Liz shook her head.
“No, but there have been others.”
“She just took a little trip,” Fiona interrupted, again the shrill edge, her eyes taking on a wild sheen.
Patrick rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder and shook his head.
“No, Fiona. I don’t think so. I reported her missing two days ago.”
“You what?” Fiona stood up, her lips pulling away from her teeth, her hands reaching toward him with claw-like hands.