For a long, breathless moment, she was unresponsive, then, very slowly, as if the movement hurt, she turned away from the window. Pale moonlight slid through the clear glass and iron bars, slashed across her small face.
She was much younger than he'd expected, and even in the paltry light, he could see the breathtaking beauty that she had once been. Thick black lashes fringed eyes the color of whiskey; eyes that were now vacant and glassy. A silver line of saliva seeped down from the cor-
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ner of her slack, pink lips, hung in a cobweb-thin line to a wet spot on the bosom of her blue gown.
Giles pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped the drool from her lips. She blinked down at him, apparently trying to focus.
"The ... paper," she said in a scratchy voice. "Sliding or spring." She forced her chin up, gave the room a cursory, glassy-eyed glance. "Wine the drink grass." She turned away and stared out the window again. Her rocker started moving, back and forth, back and forth, in a rhythmic, scratchy thumping.
Giles's head bowed forward. "Believe it or
not," he said to no one in particular, "this is a good day for her."
Ian wanted to distinguish Elizabeth from Selena. He tried to ignore the similarity of the cases-the nonsensical sentences, the injury itself-and searched for a disparity, some small thing that separated Selena's prognosis.
Giles hadn't tried enough. Yes, that could account for a difference. Maybe Giles had given up too early and there was still hope....
He clung to the notion. "What treatments have you tried?"
"Everything. Shock treatments, sheet treatments, ice baths. Every half-baked psychological theory to come along-even that crazy Freud's psychoanalysis. Nothing worked. She's not crazy, Ian. She's brain-damaged. Pure and simple." He shrugged. "Her brain just doesn't work anymore. She can parrot a few words, she can feed herself and walk if she really wants to, but that's about it. Every once in a while she surprises me with a sentence that makes sense, but not often, and she never gets any better."
"Perhaps if you tried-"
Giles turned to Ian. A tear slid down his cheek and he made no effort to hide it. "She's my daughter."
For a second, Ian couldn't even respond. Shame crushed in on him. "Oh, Jesus, Giles. I'm sorry."
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Ian wanted right then to walk out of this hellhole and never look back. But he couldn't relinquish his hold on the tender strand of hope that remained. He needed to touch Elizabeth, delve into her psyche and see what was in her head. He had to know....
"Leave me alone with her for a moment." The words were out before he could stop them.
Giles's head snapped up. Watery eyes focused hard on Ian. "Why?"
"I need to touch her hand. That's all. It won't take a moment."
"It's true, then? The rumors that with a touch you can read a person's mind."
"Sometimes," Ian answered, then amended his half-truth. "Usually."
Giles stood up and faced Ian. "What if I don't want to know what she's feeling?"
Ian's gaze was steady. "Welcome to my nightmare, Giles."
Giles turned slightly, stared dully at the window. "If it's pain ... if she's inside there somewhere, hurt and lonely and lost ... don't tell me. Jesus, don't tell me."
Without another word, Giles turned and walked out of the room. Johann followed him, and closed the door quietly.
Ian kneeled before the young woman. She didn't seem to notice him. She kept rocking, back and forth, humming quietly to herself. Another stream of spittle slid down her chin.
"Elizabeth?" He said her name softly, wanting her to respond.
She kept rocking, kept humming. A quiet giggle slipped from her mouth.
He pulled off one glove and reached for Elizabeth's hand. Her fingers were icy cold, curled as tight as steel.