The detectives exchange glances. They are no more fooled by Madame Sade’s euphemism than I was.

“What can you tell us about Madame Sade?” Kevin asks.

My lips tremble. My grip on the quilt tightens. I can’t speak.

“Describe her,” Wyatt prompts more gently. “What does she look like?”

“A china doll. Beautiful but scary.”

“Is she as old as Vero’s mom?” Kevin presses.

“Older. Fifties maybe.”

“Does she have kids, a husband, a special friend?”

I look at him, the memories heavy. “Some of the men want her. But the girls, they whisper: Be careful what you wish for.”

“Are there other people in charge?” Wyatt asks.

I shake my head. “It is Madame Sade’s house. She makes the rules. She doles out the punishments.”

“How many other girls are there?”

“I don’t know. Until Vero is twelve, she stays locked in her tower room, a precious flower, a rare commodity.”

Kevin looks away. Wyatt’s face is too shuttered to read, but that’s okay; I’m too lost in the murky corridors of my mind to focus on him anyway.

“What happens after twelve?” he asks at last.

“There are other floors in the dollhouse. Vero moves downstairs, to a smaller room she shares with another girl. Chelsea is older and not happy to see Vero. She steals Vero’s makeup, cuts holes in her dresses. She won’t allow Vero to sleep on a bed. Instead, Vero is given a spot on the rug. Vero is no longer alone, but she’s still lonely. She has her stories, though. She whispers them, night after night. Once upon a time, in a secret realm, there lived a magical queen and her beautiful princess . . .”

“Do the men still come?”

“Madame Sade likes nice things. We make the men happy; she gets more nice things.”

“Can you describe the clients?” Wyatt asks.

I shrug. “They are men who have the right jobs and wear the right clothes and grew up with the right connections. Madame Sade doesn’t allow just anyone to come over to play.”

“Would you recognize these men if you saw them again?”

“Do you really think I was looking at their faces?”

Wyatt flushes, sits back.

“What can you tell us about the house?” Kevin asks.

“Vaulted foyers, marble parlors. Levels and wings and towers that go on and on.”

“A mansion? Something castle-like or more Victorian in style?”

I rub my temples. “Victorian,” I whisper.

“Were you ever allowed out of the house?” Kevin continues. “Can you tell us about the surroundings? Were there street signs, other homes nearby? What about neighboring woods, water, mountains, other distinct geological features?”

I shake my head. My forehead is on fire. The telltale nausea is back. I don’t want to have this conversation anymore. I don’t want to have these memories anymore.

“Vero . . . Nicky.” Wyatt tries to regain my attention. “What you’re describing sounds like a very high-end sex-trafficking ring. This is a big deal. Do you understand that? Some of these people could still be actively exploiting children. Organized operations such as the one you’re describing have a tendency to grow larger and more sophisticated with time. Think of the mafia. Thirty years later, the original don might be retired, but he has a whole new generation of lieutenants running the show. This place . . . We need to find it.”

I stare at him. He doesn’t understand. His words mean nothing to me. They can’t mean anything to me. If not for three hits to the head, I never would have allowed these memories to return in the first place.

I sigh. I can’t help myself. I’m tired. I’m so very tired and my head hurts and all these things he is asking of me . . .

“Vero is six years old,” I whisper. “She is gone. She’s disappeared. You can’t help her anymore.”

Wyatt studies me. “Then why are you still looking for her?”

And just for a moment, my eyes sting with tears.

They’re not going to let me go. They want what they think I know, details and memories that will bolster their investigation even if it destroys my sanity. Thirty years ago, a little girl vanished. Now a grown woman stands in her place. The cops can’t just let it be. Thomas understood this. So he lit a fire.

The problem with asking questions, he tried to tell me, is that you can’t control the answers.

The smell of smoke. The heat of fire.

My hand reaching out, still trying to find him.

“Vero is twelve years old,” Wyatt prods now. “She no longer lives in the upstairs room. Where is she?”

But I can’t play anymore. The memories are too hard, and I am too done.

“Shhh,” I tell them. “Shhh . . .”

For a moment, I don’t think they’ll listen. Or maybe they won’t care, being detectives on a case. But then Wyatt sits back. He eyes me carefully, maybe even compassionately.

“One last question?” he negotiates.

“One.”

“How did you get out of the house, away from Madame Sade?”

I stare at him. I think the answer should be obvious. But since apparently it’s not, I give him the truth.

“Vero finally learns how to fly.”

Chapter 24

WYATT AND KEVIN exited the conference room. Whatever questions they still had would have to wait. Nicky had placed her quilt on the table, then her head on top of the quilt, and that was that. The poor woman was out cold.

Now the two detectives took a moment to pull themselves together.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Wyatt said, standing just outside the door in the hallway, “we are not in Kansas anymore.”

“I need aspirin,” Kevin agreed.

“Well, start popping, because it’s gonna be a long night.”

They couldn’t very well leave Nicky unsupervised in the middle of the sheriff’s department. On the other hand, they weren’t getting any further with her until she got some rest. So being practical men, they took a seat in the hall, just outside the door, backs against the wall.

“Let’s start with what we know,” Wyatt suggested. “One, Nicole Frank is indeed Veronica Sellers, as proved by the fingerprints recovered from her crashed vehicle.”

“According to her,” Kevin picked up, “she was kidnapped by a high-end madam thirty years ago and held for at least six years until she finally got away.”

“What did you think of her story?” Wyatt asked him.

Kevin didn’t hesitate. “The flat affect? The way she refused to engage in the first-person singular, instead everything was in third-person omniscient . . . Vero did this, Vero did that. Consistent with acute trauma. Frankly, not even a serious actress could make that up.”

“She implicated herself,” Wyatt murmured. “First you are recruited; then you are a recruiter.”

“Which we know from other victims’ testimonies is exactly how these organizations work. Further proof Nicky’s probably telling the truth, because someone just trying to play victim would never think to go there.”

“So we now have a possible lead on a thirty-year-old brothel–slash–sex-trafficking organization. Very sophisticated to judge by what Nicky remembers. Very high-end.”

Kevin was more philosophical. “A lead that comes from a woman with a history of one too many blows to the head. Look, I’m not saying I’m doubting her; I’m just saying, this is hardly a slam dunk.”

“Post-concussive syndrome cuts both ways,” Wyatt said. “A good lawyer can argue the fact she’s suffered multiple TBIs proves her memories are suspect. But, on the other hand, it’s most likely because she’s suffered multiple TBIs that she’s now regaining these memories at all.”

“Lawyers hate recovered memories,” Kevin said flatly. “Judges hate them; juries hate them. Remember in the eighties, when all those kids magically ‘recovered’ memories of being victimized by satanic cults? Innocent people went to jail, good people eventually realized a bunch of pseudo experts had messed with their heads.”