Page 97 of You Know Why

I move in a circle, assessing. The couch was against the far wall; now it’s more centered in the room, perched under the window. The throw is folded neatly, and the cherry red stain on the arm is barely visible. Someone’s worked on cleaning it. A flashback: Four did that. He spilled a glass of Kool-Aid on the arm and didn’t tell me, just used the throw to hide it. I finally noticed the throw had a stain on it, and when I grabbed it to toss it in the wash, saw the real mess. I was furious—not because he’d made the mess, but because he pretended it didn’t exist. We had an excellent conversation about the difference between honesty and lying, as much as you can with a five-year-old.

The couch is old, designed for abuse. The kids play in here; their things should be strewn about. I don’t remember straightening up this room before we left. Getting everyone folded and packed had taken up all my time. Plus, the police and FBI said they’ve searched the house, and for some reason, I know that causes one hell of a mess, which means someone has gone through after them and cleaned everything up. Margot or Eden, probably. Eden is the more likely candidate. Margot’s known about that stain for years.

Damn. I overreacted downstairs. Eden was just trying to help, to be kind, and I bit her head off and tried to send her away.

“Trust your instincts,” the therapist told me. “You are going to have to rely on them for the time being.”

My instinct is to eliminate the stranger by making sure she stops breathing, but I don’t think that’s exactly what the therapist had in mind.

Bohdi appears, wagging his tail. I scratch his forehead absently. I need to get myself under control. Where these homicidal urges are coming from, I don’t know. I will absolutely need to have a chat with the therapist soon. My memories are faulty; the concussion is causing confusion. Even the accident, which I’ve seen multiple times on-screen, remains blurry.

Margot, Eden, the police—they have made memories for me. I have to trust that they’re real.

On the shelves, I see the strap of a camera hanging off the edge. Seeing it sparks joy and gives me back my breath. It’s one of my old Nikons, the FM2, that one I use to shoot black-and-white photos. I grab it from the shelf and immediately feel a sense of calm. I’ve spent so many years with a camera in my hand; this feels familiar, safe.

I bring it to my eye and look through the shutter. The room in front of me becomes a more recognizable space. I drop it, and it’s unfamiliar again.

So weird.

I hear Margot and Eden talking downstairs in urgent tones and try to ignore them. I really don’t like being talked about as if I’m not there. We established that early on. The nurses did it, the doctors did it, the therapists did it; my twin did it, too. I was reassured, I was told, I was commanded and directed. It’s only when I finally lost it and insisted that they talk to me directly that it stopped, though I could still sometimes hear them in the hall, discussing things. Margot was dutiful in relaying information, but for some reason, I wasn’t deemed need-to-know on my own recovery. I am a “case.” A successful case. Even the therapist I’ve talked to a couple of times has pretty much written me off as “so strong, so healthy, more than capable of handling things, but if you feel out of control, don’t hesitate to make an appointment.”

I do not feel strong and healthy. I feel out of control. I feel off balance. I feel like I want to put my hands around Eden’s throat and squeeze until her eyes bug out of her head. She is a threat, and I don’t know why.

This is not healthy thinking.

I move down the hallway, looking into the rooms. First with my naked eye, then through the camera lens. Each room is the same—alien upon first glance, but through the aptly named viewfinder, memories come. Four playing with his trains. Neve having a tea party. Trey rolling around on the floor with them both, the dog licking everyone’s faces frantically. Me, hair in a ponytail, back facing the door as I read them a bedtime story, the soft light glowing and haloed around my head.

Fucking hell, Trey. What have you done to us?

I drop the camera, hang it around my neck. Tears are falling, and I swipe at them furiously.

I hate to cry. I am not weak. I am not broken. And yet here I am, acting like a child, running off wailing instead of facing my life.

Granted, I don’t recall important portions of my world, so maybe I’m being a little hard on myself. The weird amalgamation of memories that the camera brings is interesting, though. It has been such a part of my life, practically a limb for more than twenty years. Will I recognize people if I look at them through the lens? Will photos taken with the camera help jog my memory?

This is an interesting idea. I go to the cabinet next to the shelves, where, for some reason, I know I keep old rolls of film. I pop open the camera, intending to thread the film through the roller, but something is blocking the way. It takes me a moment of wrestling to get the back to unlatch all the way.

Inside the small space, there is a piece of black plastic. It is rectangular and fits in the palm of my hand. I have no idea what it is, and that’s not a memory deficit. I’ve never seen anything like it. Have I? I rack my brain to access the memory that I feel hovering, but it doesn’t come.

Whatever this is, it’s certainly not a part of the camera. It actually resembles a USB drive, but slightly bigger and chunkier. I turn it over and over in my hand. No markings, just a small silver half moon etched along the top of the edge. Maybe some sort of business logo?

Whatever it is, it shouldn’t be inside my camera. Someone has put it there.

It has to belong to Trey.

I breathe deeply, relax my mind, allow the edges of my vision to become fuzzy. This is a technique OT taught me to try to remember things I find unfamiliar. I think of the conversations I’ve been having with the police, with Margot, with Eden, with Bob and Pat.

Everyone’s looking for the money Trey stole.

And I know what this must be. It’s a crypto wallet.

Time to Hear the Truth

I pocket the wallet, get the film loaded into place, and snap the back of the camera closed. Time to test my theory.

In the kitchen, Eden and Margot sit at the table, their heads together, chatting animatedly. I raise the camera to my eye and stare through the viewfinder at Eden Barrow.

The woman is pretty, but not conventionally beautiful. Her dark-blond hair is slicked back into a low bun, her eyes are hazel, and her features are softened by weariness. Her nose is a tad sharp, with a gentle slope. Her lips are a touch too full. I think she’s had discreet work done.