Page 71 of Wicked Promises
“Are you envious?”
I sigh. “Isn’t everyone?”
“Probably,” she agrees. “It’s why the book is so widely regarded. But it strikes each person differently.”
“I’ve always been labeled the foster kid. And before that, the poor scholarship kid.” I pull the book out and flip through it. There’s writing on a few of the pages, tight cursive that I don’t bother trying to interpret. “Isn’t that… well, obviously it’s not racism. But being followed around shops just because I don’t really fit in, that’s not fun.”
Dr. Sayer stays silent.
“That’s not why I’m here, though,” I say. “I’m here because I was kidnapped.”
I put the book back on the shelf.
“We can discuss whatever you’d like.”
I exhale. “How many foster kids do you talk to in a week? Six? Ten? Thirty?”
She just watches me.
“I’m just the same as them.”
“I’m sure you share some qualities, but that doesn’t mean you’re the same. Isn’t that kind of like erasing your own identity?”
I finally sit. “I don’t think I really have my own identity.”
“Is that your own standpoint or one you might’ve had put on you?”
How did we get talking about this? Instead of thinking about the answer—a painful consideration—I shake my head. “You don’t want to know about me being kidnapped?”
“We can talk about it.”
I regard her. “I feel bad about it.”
“Why?”
“Lenora, my foster mom, shouldn’t have had to deal with that.” I rub my wrist. “Her daughter died in a car accident.And then I just imagine what she had to go through with her husband… Robert was in the car with me.”
“How is he doing?”
I brighten. “Good. He’s going home today, which means I get to go home, too. It’ll be nice to be back in a routine.”
“You were staying with a family friend? Your social worker mentioned they had been registered as a respite home a few years ago, so they were eligible. And your boyfriend lives there.”
I slowly nod. “Yes. Is that bad?”
“Perhaps he offered you a bit of stability that a different respite home wouldn’t have been able to.”
“Right.”
“So, you feel guilty because Lenora was going through all of that alone.”
“Right,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have gone to see my dad. That was where we were coming back from… The prison. It’s my fault we were out on that street in the first place.”
“But you were taken?”
“I was, but I don’t remember a lot of it. I was drugged with something, and… I don’t know. I think the detective brushed my case off when Caleb’s alibi held up.”
I wait for her to say something like,And how do you feel about that?For once, I have an answer: angry. Angry that I’m forgotten about yet again, tossed to the side. We’re well on our way to figuring this out ourselves—shouldn’t a detective, with more resources, be able to do far better?