8.2 Shadows and Cages

I shed more than a few tears saying goodbye to Emily. It wasn't easy, leaving behind someone who had been caretaker and confidant for so long. Leaving her all of my gifts wasn't nearly enough of a thank-you, but it was the best I could do.

"You take care, Miss," she said, gathering my hands in hers. "I'll keep the kettle on, ready for when you return."

"Emily, I'm not coming back. I'm sorry. This is good-bye, forever."

"But the Master thinks otherwise. He says..." Emily bit her lip. "I've said too much, Miss."

"You should know by now that you can trust me."

She sighed. "He says you will come back. Next time, it will be of your own free will."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Whether he was pompously guessing or had seen it in a so-called dream, I didn't care. I just wanted to go home.

"Bye, Emily."

She kissed my cheek. "Good-bye, Miss."

I waved for the last time, then stepped through the portal, home.

My apartment was almost exactly as I had left it. Dark Dorian had placed the painting at the foot of my bed, so when I stepped through the portal, I would exit in a place I knew and loved. I flipped on the lights, astonied by the molded, expired food in the fridge and the thick layer of dust coating the furniture. I opened my closet, feeling lost as I stared at the clothes. After months of silk bonnets and dresses with crinolines and petticoats, modern clothes seemed strange and foreign.

I changed from my dress, sliding into a sweater and jeans, then walked to the window and threw the curtains open, surprised to see green grass, blue skies, and a watery spring sun. I walked to my desk, blew the dust off the keys and turned on my laptop, stunned by the date displayed on the monitor. It wasn't October anymore, it was April. I had been gone for six months.

"You have got to be kidding me..."

Helpless and stranded, with no phone, no wallet, not even the keys to my car, I left the apartment and started walking.

Hands gripping the bars of the tall, I gazed beyond the wrought iron gates to the mansion on the hill. On the cusp of summer and my family's home had never looked so dull and lifeless. My mother's spring flowers lacked luster, the elms dotting the property seemed to droop. Even the grass seemed less green. Something was missing. Something was off. For the longest time I thought I had no relevance in their world, no room to fit. Now I had to wonder...  Was I wrong?

I punched in the gate's security code, taken for a loop when the gate responded with an angry buzz. The code had changed - and me with it. With shaking hands and a pounding heart, I picked up the gate's phone and dialed the number to Jeff's office.

There were stages to being reunited with my family.

First there was shock.

"Amelia? Is that really you?"

"Where you have been?"

"What happened to you!"

Followed by grief.

"I can't believe it, you just disappeared!"

"It's been months, Amelia! Months!"

"I felt like it was my fault! Like I could have done more!"

And then there was anger.

"No texts, no calls, no letters! How could you!"

"Do you know what it's been like for us? Do you?!"

"We thought you were dead!"

They sat me down in the living room - my mother, my sister, and my stepfather - waiting for answers. And there was nothing I could say, or do, to fix it, or explain.

"Amelia, please..." Eyes brimming with tears, Mom took my hands in hers and begged me for the truth. "Tell us, please--why did you leave? Where did you go?"

I looked down at my hands twisting in my lap. "It's hard to say. I... can't."

"Can't or won't?" she demanded, sharing a helpless glance with Jeff.

"Amelia..." He took the empty seat next to me, laying a comforting hand on my shoulder. "This is serious--you were missing for six months. There was an investigation. The authorities... They think..."

"What?" I ask. "What do they think?"

"That you had something to do with the fire at the Talisman," Alessa quietly replied, arms folded as she lingered near the window. "It burned down the same night you disappeared. Someone died."

"Died? Who died? What happened?"

No one answered. Like a blanket of despair, a heavy silence fell over the room.

"I swear, I had nothing to do with that fire. You have to believe me."

"And we do, Amelia. Wholeheartedly." Jeff nodded. "But now you need to convince the police."

Twenty minutes later, the four of us stood on the stoop, watching as two squad cars pulled up the drive, blue and red lights flashing.

"Whatever happens, Amelia, we're here for you," said Jeff, placing his hands on my shoulders.

"When you found out I was gone, did you really drop out of the election? Just for me?" Despite all my previous bitterness, I was crushed when I found out Jeff had quit the race just to look for me.

"Amelia, I'd do anything for you." He kissed my forehead, and that was all the reassurance I needed. "We'll meet you at the station. Everything will be okay."

An officer approached. Technically I wasn't under arrest, so no cuffs were needed. Her hand gripping my upper arm, she lead me to the backseat of a squad car, and closed the door behind me.

They questioned me for hours, in a cold, dim room with one table and a tinted glass window. And they asked the same questions a million different ways, hoping I'd trip up and they'd catch me in a lie.

"There's not much to tell. I just... left."

"That's it? You left? With no word to your family, your friends, your co-workers? No one?" Officer Marcell exchanged a glance with her surly, silent partner.

"I-I know how it looks, okay? It was wrong. If I could take it back, I would." And if I could fully explain, without sounding crazy, I would do that too.

Officer Marcell swooped up the paperwork littering the table, collecting it in a neat pile. I could tell from the pinched looked on her face that she thought I was just another flighty, irresponsible piece of shit. Who else would just pick up and leave town like that, abandoning everyone that loved them, letting the world think they were dead?

Me.

"Am I under arrest?"

Her partner scoffed and left the room.

Officer Marcell shook her head in disgust. "You scared the hell out of your friends and family and you wasted the department's time. But no, as of right now you aren't under arrest. But you're in our spotlight. Wait here."

She left me to stew. I couldn't see them but I knew someone was watching from behind the impenetrable wall of glass. Elbows on the table, I pressed my forehead in my palms, cursing myself for letting things get this far. I let everyone down, and things I had tried to fix were extra broken. The Talisman had burned down. More people were dead. Could things get any worse?

The door to the interview room opened and closed. I looked up, watching a tall, dark-haired stranger with a natural tan take the seat across from me. He had a nice suit and expensive dress shoes, long hair slicked back from his face. There was something familiar about him, something I couldn't quite place...

Reaching in the inside pocket of his tailored jacket, he withdrew a small remote he aimed at the camera tacked in the corner of the ceiling. He pressed a button and the camera's red light shut off. Then he plopped a folder on the table.

"Amelia, I'm Detective Begay. I have a few questions."

I straightened in surprise. "Are you related to Daniel Begay?"

"Danny's my brother. And the woman who ran the Talisman was Genesee Begay, our grandmother."

"Was?" Talk about a conflict of interest. My mouth had gone dry. Underneath the table, I rubbed my sweating hands down the legs of my jeans.

"When the Talisman burned down, she died in the fire. It was arson."

"I'm sorry. I liked her. She was always nice to me."

"Then you were lucky." Eyes flashing, Detective Begay, looped his fingers together and leaned forward. "I've looked into you, Amelia. Good student. Wholesome family. Clean background--no charges, no arrests. Apart from ditching your family and friends for six months, you seem like a decent person. It's strange how you disappeared the night of the fire, however I don't believe you're the one who started it. But I do think you're connected." Detective Begay opened his file, withdrawing a large, glossy photograph that he slid across the table. I took the picture, wondering which version of the man I cared for that I was looking at.

The detectives dark eyes were cold and unforgiving. "What can you tell me about Dorian Gray?"

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