May 9, 2017
Sara’s hand is pressed to her mouth so hard that the skin around it blanches. Ashford closes the laptop.
ASHFORD: Miss Donoghue?
SARA: No. No, that can’t be—no, that’s not—
Her words devolve into incoherence, and she moans, rocking forward. Then she shoves back from the table, shooting to her feet. Her chair clatters to the ground. The table skids five inches, feet screeching on the concrete floor, and Ashford jerks out of his chair to avoid being struck. Abby steps forward, drawing the syringe from her pocket, but Ashford holds out a restraining hand and she stops, eyes fixed on Sara.
Sara covers her face with her hands and huddles with one shoulder against the wall, her breathing ragged.
SARA: We left him.
ASHFORD: Nick Dessen?
SARA: Nick. We left—we forgot him. We . . . how did we forget him?
ASHFORD: Do you remember him now?
Sara’s hands drop. She frowns, looking past Ashford, eyes unfocused.
SARA: I—no. Yes. I’m not sure. I remember something, but . . . She took him from us. And Vanessa—oh God. Poor Vanessa.
She scrubs tears from her cheeks. Then she sees Abby, still with the syringe out, though her arm hangs relaxed at her side.
SARA: What the hell is that?
ASHFORD: Just a mild sedative. We weren’t certain how you would respond. Sometimes this sort of thing provokes . . . adverse reactions.
SARA: What kind of adverse reactions?
ASHFORD: Seizures. Self-harm. Sudden violence.
Sara laughs nervously. She picks her chair up and takes her seat, sneaking another glance at Abby.
ABBY: We good?
ASHFORD: Yes, Miss Ryder, I believe that will be all.
She nods and exits, shutting the door behind her with a click.
SARA: So I was right. About Vanessa.
ASHFORD: It would seem so. Whatever she was, it was not your friend. Miss Donoghue, if you’d like to take a break . . .
SARA: No. I want to keep going. I want to get this over with.
ASHFORD: If you’re sure.