Free With Malice by Eileen Cook Page A

balloon. “That’s it?” I’d been hoping for something more impressive.
    â€œDon’t look so disappointed. In the old days, when I was still taking my horse and buggy to work, we had people use notebooks and a pencil. At least this way you can play games and take a call, too.” She smiled. “It isn’t very glamorous, but it works. Memory is a funny thing. Did you ever do one of those hedge mazes that you can walk through?”
    â€œWhen I was a kid, my mom took Simone and me to a corn maze.”
    Dr. Weeks pointed at me. “Bingo. Those mazes are complicated because you can’t see the whole picture. If you get up high, it’s easy to see how one way will lead you to the next until you get out, but when you are in the middle of them, you can’t tell.”
    â€œSo my brain is a cornfield.”
    She raised a finger in triumph. “Not just any cornfield, a sculpted maze of a field. Write down what you remember, even if it’s just a tiny flash. Often one memory will lead to another. Like a trail. Right now you can’t see the full image of what happened. All you have are pieces, but if you write down enough of the clues, snap the puzzle pieces in place, you may get the big picture.”
    I tucked the phone back into my bag. It was worth trying. I didn’t have a lot of other options, and it would be nice to use the phone for something other than playing games.
    â€œTell you what, let’s call it a day with the testing.” Dr. Weeks cleared her desk and leaned back. “That will give us some time to chat. I wanted to see how you feel about things with your lawyer. You mentioned last time you found him stressful.”
    I shrugged. I didn’t like talking to Evan Stanley. He was my lawyer, which should have meant he was on my side, but it didn’t feel that way. He looked at me like he thought I was guilty. That I was someone who had to be managed. I picked at the skin on my thumb and then made myself stop. “I don’t know what he wants from me. I don’t remember the accident. I can’t tell him—”
    I realized my hands were clenching the side of the chair, so I relaxed them. And tried to find another word to replace the one that was gone. “I can’t tell him what happened. He wouldn’t let me go to Simone’s funeral. I want to talk to Simone’s parents, apologize or explain or something, but Evan said I shouldn’t speak to them. That it might hurt my case somehow, or give them something they could use if they decide to sue us.”
    â€œAnd you don’t agree.”
    â€œThey lost their daughter, but she was my best friend. She was like my sister. We were both only children, so we used to say all the time that we were sisters by choice. I lost something too. It’s not right that they don’t seem to get that.” I bit my tongue, stopping myself from saying more. Blaming her parents wasn’t fair. “I know that’s wrong to feel that way.”
    â€œFeelings aren’t wrong. They just are.”
    â€œSo what do I do?” I asked.
    â€œYou answer his questions so he can do his job and then you focus on your rehab. You make notes and follow where those memories get you. You get better, and you move forward.”
    She made it sound so easy, but it was way more complicated. “Did you read any of the stuff online about my accident?” I asked her. Anna had shown me a site, a blog,
Justice for Simone.
Anna hoped knowing more about the accident might have poked something free in my memory, but reading about it had been like reading about something that happened to someone else. “Other kids who were on the program with us are saying that Simone and I weren’t getting along.”
    What the blog had posted was that everyone thought I was a stuck-up bitch. I was used to this. The truth was I was awkward around strangers, but it’s somehow illegal for