Dr. A: You were on the ferry. You were making a plan, isn’t that right?

Me: I was. Or I was trying to. I knew that the key I had since I was eleven was to the safe deposit box. I knew I had to get there. Hayden is only thinking about Mom and Dad. I was thinking about them too.

Dr. A: What were you thinking, Rylee, when it came to your mother at that time?

Me: At that time? Right. I was just thinking about how we needed to find her.

Dr. A: Why?

Me: Like I said before, I knew he took her. I knew that she was alive because he wouldn’t kill her. He wanted her. Killing her would take away his motivation. His reason for being.

Dr. A: Which was?

Me: Owning her.

I remember the reason for the long pause that fills the tape just then. Dr. Albright looked at me with a mix of horror and disbelief. I wasn’t sure if it was because I’d said “owning her” with a bizarre casualness or if it was because the very idea of it shocked her.

That’s enough; I remove the tape and put it back inside its little clear plastic holder.

The breeze moves the kitchen curtain and the sound of laughter from the kids next door wafts into the room.

I was about seven when I first started to understand that we were a little different from other families. It might have been earlier, but when you’re not of school age, you don’t mark time the same way. Seasons blend together, and time seems to go on forever. No rituals divide the months. No back-to-school shopping. No carnivals. No winter breaks. I’m not even sure where we were living then, except I remember the smells of the country. Cow smells. A dairy farm was nearby. The land was flat, long and green all the way to the edge of the horizon. Later, I learned we had been living in eastern Nebraska, not far from the Iowa border.

Mom was on the sofa talking to somebody on the phone. It wasn’t a cell phone, but a landline that ran from the wall in the kitchen all the way to the living room. Her voice carried a sharp edge that brought me from my bedroom upstairs. She was crying. Seeing Mom cry made me cry too. I watched from the hallway. Something told me to stay put. Just listen.

“…what am I supposed to do now?” she was asking.

I moved a little closer, though still out of view. It was nighttime, and I was wearing a pale yellow flannel nightgown. On my feet were slippers made to look like pink bunny rabbits. I loved those slippers more than anything. I never saw them again after that night.

“…tell me just how that’s supposed to work?”