Body of Stars Laura Walter (chrome ebook reader .txt) 📖

folded the application and placed it in my bag. I did this covertly, quietly. It was a time when everything I did seemed tinted with shame.

A detective finally strode in and greeted me. The best way I could describe him was that he was soft—pillowy stomach, doughy hands, broad face. His eyes were not unkind. He took a seat next to me.

“What do you have for us today, Miss Morton?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. This moment would have to make up for the university admission interviews I’d never have. This was my opportunity to be grown up, to showcase my worth.

“I’m here about my case. I was abducted last month, and I was released from the hospital this week.” I paused, waiting. The detective did not have my file open before him. He was, in fact, empty-handed.

“Go on,” he said.

“Well. I thought you should know I have a new lead on the case.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes. I recovered some memories. I was kept in a basement room with wood paneling. The man who held me there was a teacher. I remember his face.”

The detective offered a sympathetic smile. “That’s very impressive, Miss Morton. And how, exactly, did you manage to recover these memories?”

“That’s not important. What matters is I remember.”

He was still smiling. “Let me guess. Bloodflower?”

“I’m not so great at drawing,” I said, “but if you take me to a sketch artist, I could describe him.”

He eyed me steadily.

“Or we could do a lineup,” I suggested. “He’s a teacher for students about my age, maybe younger. If you round up some male teachers and bring them in, I could tell you if he’s there. I’d remember his face. I’m sure of it.”

“Miss Morton.” His voice was gentle. “Memories recovered artificially, via illegal controlled substances, are not admissible. We can’t arrest someone based on that.”

“But I’m telling you that I remember. I can picture his face right now.”

“That’s not proof. I understand how you must feel. Helpless. Angry. You’ve had a lot taken from you, and it can’t be easy to accept. It’s not fair, certainly.” He nodded sagely, as if it was a big sacrifice for him to admit how unjust my situation was. “But don’t drag yourself through even more emotional turmoil over this. If you were to enter a bloodflower memory into the official record, I’m afraid that would just embarrass you.”

“Embarrass me?” My hands felt numb. I wondered if I was having a stroke, if I was about to die right there in the police station.

“Let me tell you something,” he said. “These cases are horrible for us, too. To see girls ruined and not be able to do anything about it.” He shook his head. “But we can’t allow unreliable evidence. Can you imagine if we started locking up men left and right based on false accusations?”

“They’re not false. They’re real.” I began to cry. “At least look into Chloe, the interpreter downtown. She works with trappers, she tips them off. If you investigate her, you might find this man.”

“I’m surprised, Miss Morton, that you’d blame a woman in all this. Chloe isn’t the one who ruined you, is she? Blaming her won’t help.” He shook his head. “My advice is that you go home and get a good night’s sleep. Let your body and mind heal. You’ve been through a lot.”

He stood up. The overhead lights reflected briefly off his badge, blinding me. I knew I was supposed to get up, too, to follow him out the door, but I couldn’t do it. I slumped deeper into the chair.

“You’re making this harder on yourself,” he said in a low voice. “Come along now. I’ll walk you out.”

I let him. I let him lead me by the elbow all the way through that maze of cubicles, where I refused to look at any of the other officers. The room was deadly quiet.

Outside, the midday sun blazed; that year, the autumn turned unseasonably warm off and on for weeks. I peeled off the black cardigan and marched home at a brisk pace. Anytime I encountered a neighbor or passerby, I lifted my chin a bit higher. By the time I made it to my house, a jabbing pain shot through my neck.

At home, I waited for Miles to return. Once he did, I rushed into his room. I didn’t even knock, I just ran in, and he jumped at my sudden entrance. I wrenched a sketchpad from the pile of books and papers on his desk.

“Here,” I said, and thrust the pad and a charcoal pencil at him. “I need your help.”

I sat on the edge of the unmade bed and described the face of the man that had materialized during my bloodflower vision. Miles listened, the pencil clenched in his fist, but he remained motionless.

“What are you waiting for?” I asked. It was only when I looked closer that I saw his eyes were red and unfocused. He must have been on bloodflower himself, must have turned to the drug as an escape. I pushed that knowledge aside. “Miles, please. Draw.”

And he did. My brother drew the face I described. It took a long time, and it wasn’t easy for either of us, but we worked at it together. Miles focused so intently on the task that he didn’t seem to understand the implications of what I had asked of him. He sketched as if in a fugue state, with faith and without fear.

When we finished, I pulled the drawing from his grasp. I held the paper so tightly I thought I might grind it to dust in my hands.

“Celeste,” Miles said. “What have we done?”

I lifted the sketch. “Everyone acts as though I’m the only one who played a part in my abduction, that it was my fault I was taken. No one ever talks about the man who did this to me. But here he is. He exists, and I just proved it.”

My brother’s face went white. “You know the police won’t accept