“I got away,” I told Alicia. “One day they accidentally left my door unlocked, and I ran for it. I didn’t know where I was, or even what year it was.”
Alicia’s eyes swam with tears, but she didn’t let them fall.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
“There’s so much I don’t remember,” I said. “For a long time I didn’t even know who I was. And . . .”
“And what?” she pressed gently.
“They’re powerful.” My hands clenched into fists in my lap. “More powerful than the police. If they find me, they’ll take me back.”
She put a hand over mine. “That’s not going to happen,” she said with the blithe confidence of someone who had no idea what she was dealing with.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “You don’t know who these people are, who they know. If I’m in some government hospital or mental institution, they’ll find me. They’ll get me out and I’ll disappear again and I’ll never get away a second time.”
“No one’s taking you anywhere,” she said fiercely. “We’ll go to the police—”
“No!” I said. “You can’t tell them who I am!”
“We have to,” she said, “but then you’ll be safe. Daniel, you’ll get to go home.”
 
* * *
 
Alicia took me back to the Collingwood Police Station, and soon we were entering the office of the detective who’d threatened to have me committed, Detective Barson. When we came in, he pushed aside a half-eaten sandwich and asked what we needed.
I told him I was Daniel Tate, that I’d been kidnapped from Hidden Hills, California, six years ago. He looked at me with total incomprehension, and I couldn’t blame him. I knew it sounded crazy.
“What did you say the name was again?” he said as he woke up his computer.
“Daniel Tate.”
He entered my name into a search engine, and the first hit was the Center for Missing and Exploited Children. Barson clicked the link, and up came a missing poster with the same information I’d just given him. My name, age, and the place I’d gone missing. Beside that was a picture. Dirty blond hair that was a few shades lighter than my hair now, hazel eyes, freckles across the nose, and a pointy chin. Barson looked back and forth between me and the picture.
“You sure this is you?” he said. “You said you don’t remember much.”
“I remember who I am.” Motherfucker, I added silently.
“It doesn’t look that much like you.”
“Come on, Frank,” Alicia said. “He’s ten years old in that picture. You know how much kids change between ten and sixteen.”
Barson thought about that, the frown lines on his face deepening. “Why didn’t you come forward before?”
Alicia’s patience abruptly ran out, and she threw up her hands. “The boy was imprisoned and traumatized! It’s a miracle he’s been able to come forward now!”
“Now, hang on there, Alicia. These questions aren’t unreasonable.” Barson studied me for another moment and then angled his computer screen so I couldn’t see it. “What’s your date of birth?”
I saw a brief flash of a blue birthday cake and foil balloons glinting in the sun. “November. The sixteenth.”
“Year?”
“Two thousand.”
Barson, his jaw clenched, stood. “Wait here a minute,” he said, and walked out of the office.
I turned to Alicia. “He doesn’t believe me.” My voice came out shaky.
“He will,” she said. “It’s just a lot to take in at once.”
The minute stretched into two and then ten. Barson stuck his head back inside the office.
“Do you remember your address?” he asked. “Phone number?”
I shook my head. “I-I remember I lived in Hidden Hills.”
“But you don’t remember what street?”
Alicia put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Daniel. No one could possibly expect you to remember something like that after all this time and everything you’ve been through.”
Barson just grunted and disappeared again. An hour passed and he still hadn’t come back. One of the officers brought us a couple of turkey sandwiches and sodas and told us Barson was talking to the chief. I grabbed a legal pad off the corner of Barson’s desk and started to sketch.
Alicia looked over my shoulder at the picture I was drawing of Tucker, scowling and holding up his middle finger.
She laughed. “That’s good. Can you do Martin?”
I worked on a drawing of Martin flipping pancakes and wearing a flowery apron while Alicia called Diane and filled her in. Alicia had just worked her full night shift, but it didn’t look like she was planning to go anywhere.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You must be tired.”
“Hush,” she replied.
When Barson still wasn’t back a half an hour later and I’d gone through a half a dozen sheets of the legal pad, I couldn’t sit still anymore. I began to pace his office. It was exactly four steps wide. I thought about that bus to Calgary. How I might be on it now if I had spotted Martin a minute sooner or just walked a little faster.
“What if they’re coming to get me right now?” I said. I couldn’t contain the words anymore. Everywhere I looked, I saw hands reaching out of the darkness to grab me. “What if they take me back there and—”
“No one’s going to take you, Daniel,” Alicia said. She tried to take my hand, to stop me pacing, but I threw her off.
“You don’t know that!”
That’s when the door opened. I jumped away from it, but it was just Barson, followed by another man. Barson stood against the wall while the other man took his seat behind the desk, and I sat down too.
“Daniel, I’m Chief Constable Harold Warner,” he said. “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait.”
“That’s okay,” I said shakily.
“As I’m sure you can imagine, there’s been a lot happening since Detective Barson informed me of your situation,” he said, “but if you’re ready, I have your brother on the phone.”
I felt like I’d hit the ground after a long fall. All the air rushed out of my lungs. “What?”
“I’ve spent the last half an hour on the phone with the Malibu PD, confirming your story,” he said. “They put me in touch with Patrick McConnell. He’s your half brother, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, he’s on the phone now,” Warner said. “Do you want to talk to him?”
“Oh, Daniel,” Alicia said softly.
My throat was too dry for me to speak, but they were both staring at me, so I just nodded again. Warner said something to me as he picked up the phone on Barson’s desk and hit a button, but all I could hear was the rushing of blood in my ears and my mind repeating Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. I had just slivers of memory from my past life—even added together they only showed how much was missing—but lots of those pieces were of my big brother. Patrick teaching me to swing a baseball bat. Helping me with my math homework. Letting me stay up late to watch scary movies with him when our parents were out for the night.
Warner handed me the phone, and I immediately dropped it. Alicia grabbed it for me and squeezed my shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said.
I nodded and lifted the phone to my ear.
“Danny?” a voice said. “Danny, is that you?”
“Patrick?” I choked.
Alicia stood and gestured to Barson. He followed her reluctantly from the office, and Warner left after them, leaving me alone.
“Are you . . .” Patrick hesitated. “Are you really my brother?”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “It’s me, Patrick.”
“They said you’re in Vancouver?”
“They brought me here,” I said. “I was with them for so long, b-but I got away . . .”
“Oh my God. Danny.” Patrick started to cry. “It really is you.”
I started to cry too. “I want to come home.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’re coming to get you.”