Free Remember Me by Romily Bernard Page B

It used to be hate. Maybe it still is. It would have to be, right? I hate her for jumping. I hate her for leaving us with him.
    Mostly, I hate how our love was never enough, how his was somehow better because he withheld it.
    I can’t think about that right now. I minimize the video, calling first the city police department and then the county’s, asking the receptionists if I can speak with Officer Hart. Even though I’ve blocked my cell from showing on their caller ID, I’m still twitchy, ready to hang up if Hart answers—only he doesn’t because no one’s heard of an Officer Hart at either location.
    â€œIn fact,” the last receptionist says, “we’ve never had any officer by that name. Sorry.”
    She disconnects and I stare at my computer screen, my breathing high and wheezy. I should toss the DVD now. No Hart at either location? Then who is he? This is some sick game. I should . . . I hit the play button.
    â€œYou have to let me go.” My mom’s at the same table. Someone’s given her a wilted sandwich and she’s pulling it apart. The gesture is so Lily it cracks me. “You have to let me stop.”
    â€œWhen you’ve given us what we want.”
    â€œI’ve tried!”
    â€œHave you?”
    â€œI—I—” A sob hijacks her answer, but they keep pushing her, setting my teeth on edge.
    Or maybe it’s just from her crying. I have to force myself to sit through it and no matter how much I adjust the computer’s volume, bass, or treble I still know the sound of her. Coming through a set of speakers or overheard through the walls of my once-upon-a-time bedroom, I know her.
    And, suddenly, I miss my mom so much it makes my throat go thick.
    â€œWhat else do you have, Mrs. Tate?”
    It’s a new voice. Male. I rerun the video so I can hear it again. Even though I’ve been around a shit ton of Peachtree City cops, I don’t recognize this one. For the next four minutes, it’s nothing more than her soft sobs and their urgent words. I can’t make out anything . . . then the video ends. Black screen. White letters.
    Â 
    See How She Was Used?
    Â 
    Bile touches the back of my mouth.
    I turn the monitor off, lean my forehead against the edge of the desk, and focus on how my bare feet press the hardwood floor. I don’t understand. What’s the point of this? Why is someone sending me these?
    To make me feel bad?
    No. Obviously, no. That would be stupid.
    Then what? What am I supposed to learn? “See what they did to her?” “See how she was used?” Is this supposed to show me how I had it all wrong? She wasn’t a coward for refusing to leave . . . she was what? Brave for staying? That doesn’t feel right either. There’s nothing brave about letting your husband terrorize your kids.
    And who’s doing the interviews anyway? My instinct says Carson. It’s not his voice though—no matter how many times I try to convince myself it is. So that leaves . . . the Hart guy?
    Hell if I know. I don’t think I heard him in the video. Then again, we only spoke for what? A minute? Would I recognize him without seeing his face? Not likely.
    How did he send the new DVD anyway? How’s he know where I live? I grab the ripped-open box from my bed and study the postmark. Anyone could have mailed this. Maybe Hart was just a onetime messenger.
    But if that’s the case, who’s he working for?
    I rub both hands over my face and notice the time. Jesus, it’s late. I’m going to look like death warmed over tomorrow and I have a chemistry test I need to study for.
    Frustrated, I open my desk drawer, pull out the homework I should be doing . . . and my eye catches the sniffer.
    As long as I’m on the subject of people I don’t know shit about, I might as well take care of Milo too.
    I open another browser window, spend