738 Days: A Novel by Stacey Kade Page A

someone else besides myself and the current fuck-up I was trying to make up for.
    “Was any of it spin?” Amanda asks.
    I frown. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, from what I remember, Brody Taylor was always quick to pound someone’s face in and he had … issues with alcohol, too.”
    Interesting that she hadn’t chosen to question me about that last part. Then again, mug shots made public tend to eliminate a lot of doubt.
    “Not spin,” I say. “Just art imitating life this time instead of the other way around, unfortunately.”
    That reminds me of something, though. I’m not sure how to bring it up without offending her, but it has to be said. “Listen, I should have mentioned this earlier, but this agreement, all of this, what we’re doing, you can’t tell anyone. If word gets out that I’m trying to manipulate the media, it would be bad.” Speculation is one thing; a tell-all interview from Amanda would be something else entirely. She would be the innocent victim, and I, the exploitive asshole using her, which is kind of true. And it would destroy what remained of my career. Way worse than anything they might print from today’s fiasco.
    Just thinking about it makes my stomach hurt. Telling Amanda the truth—well, most of it—was a huge risk, one that feels riskier by the second.
    She frowns at me, her expression serious. “Yes, because I feel the deep and abiding need to explain to a bunch of reporters that I willingly went along because I missed my imaginary friend who happens to look a lot like you. That’ll go over well.”
    “Fair point.” We both have something to lose.
    Amanda smiles to herself. She seems a little calmer, so something in this completely bizarre question-answer session is working for her.
    “Okay,” she says, settling back into her seat. “Next question. Most embarrassing—”
    “Wait,” I say, lifting one hand from the wheel to stop her words. “Why is it always your turn?”
    “You want to ask me questions?” she asks, sounding surprised.
    And exactly in that instant, I realize the inherent fallacy of that endeavor. “Oh. Uh…”
    Amanda shrugs. “Anything you can think to ask me, I’ve already answered and probably on record. Most of it I can talk about, as long as it doesn’t bother you to hear it.” Her voice holds the emptiness of someone used to poking at an old scar, repeatedly.
    I don’t know what to say. “What’s your favorite color?” I blurt finally.
    She makes a face. “Really? That’s what you want to know?”
    “Yes?” It seems a relatively safe topic.
    “Sometimes I think it’s harder for people to listen. Like maybe I should just have a name tag that says, ‘Amanda Grace, abducted and raped.’” She lifts her hands, blocking out the square space of the proposed label. “Gets the ugliness right out there, using the words no one wants to hear, so we don’t have to dance around them anymore. I mean, it’s all there anyway, underneath the surface of every conversation. Avoiding it, pretending it never happened, just makes everything else feel fake, forced.”
    Which is exactly what I was trying to do—pretend that part of her life never happened. I wince.
    Amanda looks at me, a challenge in her gaze. “So come on,” she says. “If you’re going to do it, then ask something you really want to know.”
    Words run through my head, but none of them makes it to my mouth except the two that have been circling relentlessly since I read Elise’s folder on Amanda. “Why me?” I’m the last person anyone should ever imagine in a life-or-death crisis. I can barely keep myself together, let alone help someone else. “The poster, I mean. Was it the only one there?”
    Amanda turns her head to stare out the side window, her breath moving across the glass in a fog. “No. But that’s the one that reminded me of home. And I think probably it had something to do with Brody and how real you made him seem.”
    She sighs, and the fog on the