Ilse winced, wondering exactly how to extricate herself from this uncomfortable situation. “It’s fine,” she tried again, “you can take the bed. I’ll go in the other room.”

“Please,” Samantha said, desperately. “Don’t leave me. Please—please don’t.”

Ilse was now propped up on one elbow, and she felt a jolt of discomfort as Samantha slid into the bed next to her, pulling near.

For a moment, Ilse just sat there resting on one elbow, frowning to herself. She tried to turn, to face the other direction, if only for a little bit of privacy. Inwardly, she cycled through what she might be able to do. Could she just tell Samantha to leave? Did she really want to offend the woman like that? If she got up and left to the other room, would Samantha be upset? She was clearly in a very fragile place. Still, this was extremely odd. Having a client in her house after hours was one thing. Sharing a bedroom, no less a bed, though…

“I can remember,” Samantha whispered, her voice close to Ilse’s ear. “I remember more now. So much more.”

Ilse remained stiff, not quite leaving yet, but not relaxing either.

“I remember how he would come home. You could hear his footsteps on the floorboards above.”

Ilse frowned as Samantha spoke; it was as if her client’s words were conjuring thoughts from deep in Ilse’s own mind. She heard the creak of the floorboards, could see the light beneath the door in her memories.

“…then the light would turn on beneath the door,” Sam continued. “The others were down there, and they would shiver and shake. We were all so scared.”

“What do you mean?” Ilse said, her voice dry all of a sudden.

“I mean,” Samantha murmured, her voice echoing in the still, dark bedroom, “he wasn’t a nice man. I remember how he killed that pigeon. Don’t you?”

A shiver pawed up Ilse’s spine, and she went as still as ice. She heard the crunch in her memories, could feel her sprained finger, could feel the blood beneath her hands. She swallowed.

“What did you say?”

Ilse felt a small hand rest on her shoulder, felt Samantha wrap her arms around her, hugging her from behind, her body warm.

“We have the same memory,” Samantha continued. “How couldn’t we? We are sisters, after all.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Ilse froze in terror, a wave of panic rushing through her like water surging through a burst dam. It all came flooding back. Her sister. One of many Ilse had left behind when she’d escaped.

Ilse, panicking, writhed and struggled to break free—but Samantha held her tight.

“Let me go!” Ilse said, her voice uncontrolled, desperate and high-pitched. “Get off me! Let me go!”

But Samantha ignored her, whispering still, her voice hissing in Ilse’s ear. “He loved those scissors. He liked the sound they made when they hurt us. He enjoyed doing horrible things. You remember. Do you remember? I’m so sorry that he did that to you. Your ear. You had such beautiful little ears.”