 So much screaming. The shrill high pitch of her baby brother's cries from his room tangled with the desperate guttural pleading of her father. Her mother's broken sobs punctuated the sudden silence until they too were cut short. A window silently opened and then grass and rocks, bloody feet, bare arms scratched by branches and brambles, her panting breath fogging the air as her legs carried her away, away, until... Neela? She stopped abruptly. She knew that voice. It was a man and it came from her left. Whose was it? Neela, sweetheart, it's the middle of the night. What are you doing out here? Her legs burned and her lungs too, but she turned to face the man. She knew that face. Whose was it? Leo. The man called, turning his head just slightly towards his house, never breaking his gaze away from the girl. Call the Thompson's. I think something's wrong. Neela's out here. She looks scared and she's bleeding. The man inched forward slowly, hands raised in front of him as though the girl were a horse he didn't want to spook. Sweetie. He began quietly. It's me. It's Richard. Remember me? I helped your dad build that tire swing last summer. Is it okay if I come closer? Richard, Richard, tire swing, creaking rope, a warm breeze and laughing, her father pushing her on the swing, her hair flying behind her as she spun and laughed, her father's hands on her back pushing her father's hands, her father screaming, crouched low on the ground cowering from something, someone, a rich, they're not picking up. Should I call the police? Another man wearing pants and nothing else. His hair looked like fire under the porch light and he held something in his hand. Yeah, good idea, Leo, Richard replied, not changing his tone or volume. Neela, can you tell me what happened? He was just a few feet from her now, resting on one knee, his hands still up and out. What happened? What happened? It was dark and she'd been asleep, dreams, dreamscapes, nonsense in games, gone upon waking, steamed from a mug. Why had she woken? The cops are on their way. Leo said, as she said anything. She hasn't even moved. Rich answered without moving. Neela, you're safe now, okay? You're in a safe place. Would you like to come inside? I'm sure you're cold. We can get you warmed up inside. There had been a sound, a creek, not like the rope, but a creek like a sneak, a window, moving almost silently, but not silently, holding something. Her door was open and it walked right past, kept going towards her brother's room. Her brother was sleeping, dreams, dreamscapes. Had he woken? Rich, get her inside. She's turning blue for God's sake. Neela, Richard said with a voice made of honey, is it okay if I pick you up? She didn't think he'd woken. Not at first. He hadn't started screaming until Richard took a shuffled step forward and another and another until he was right next to her. I'm going to pick you up now, Neela. I'm just going to carry you inside and then I'll put you down. Okay? Until Richard slipped one arm beneath her legs, the other bracing her back, and lifted. The trip took five seconds, but it felt like hours. Her hands didn't even move to wrap around his neck, hanging limply at her sides as though she were unconscious. Okay, Richard said calmly, setting her back on her feet and closing the front door behind him. I'm going to make some hot chocolate. Do you want some? Until she'd stood from her bed and crept forward, listening so hard she could hear the blood in her veins. It rushed, flowed, electricity through wires, water into a glass, air through, don't think about what happened. Someone said, try not to remember. Just let it go away. She didn't know that voice. It was big thunder on a cloudless day. It was old. It was a woman. Who wasn't? I want to help you, Neela, but you have to let me. I'm here with you, focus on my voice and forget what happened. What happened? Shadow, creak, rushing, shrill silence, sobs, thunk, window, blood. Stop it, Neela. Those things aren't for you to remember. Try to forget. Okay, she said, I'll forget. Sirens wailed their approach as Neela accepted a mug of hot chocolate from Richard. After a while, more sirens came. The police tried to get her to say what had happened, but she told them the truth. She didn't know, didn't remember. But I do. Her father, a man named Jeremy Thompson, was a kidnapper and serial killer. His wife, Melinda, had been under his thumb for so long, she did whatever he said when he said. She was the one who kidnapped the baby, the one Neela thought was her brother. Kyle Park was stolen from the hospital just two days after he was born when Neela was almost five. Melinda brought him home to Jeremy, probably thinking it would make him happy. But he just got angrier. The police would be looking for the baby, so he had to lay low for a while. It took me a while to figure out why Jeremy went to Kyle's room that night, but after some digging, I found a newspaper article that mentioned the Parks. It was the two year anniversary of his disappearance, and the police had reportedly gotten a new lead on the case. I think he panicked and decided there was only one way to solve the problem. The creaking of her father's footsteps had woken Neela, and the roll of duct tape in his hand was strange enough for her to sit up and take notice. She stood to follow her father down the hall, but something grabbed her arm and stopped her. I'll handle this. It said, wait here and cover your ears. It's not the first time I've gone into a patient's memories and found evidence of a guardian. Never have I seen one that directly intervened or interacted with their charge. It was certainly enough to catch my attention. Luckily for me, but not very lucky for Neela, covering her ears wasn't a very effective countermeasure. She heard everything. Her father's terrified screams, the thought of his weight as he fell to the floor, his pleas for mercy. Her brother's shrieks of fear, the sound of something heavy and sharp embedding itself into flesh once, twice, three times. Her brother's cries became whimpers, and then silence. The creak of footsteps trailing down the hall to her parents' room. The stuttering sobs of her mother followed by the sound of someone trying to speak through blood in their throat. Neela didn't know what those sounds were, but I do. From police reports, I know that Kyle was unharmed. The police found him in his bed, fast asleep despite the rapidly cooling corpse three feet away. He was returned to his real parents with no memory of the Thompson's or his life with them. Neela was adopted by her neighbors, but it didn't really work out. Not for her. I didn't meet Neela until almost a decade after her parents were murdered. She'd been hospitalized since she was nine, voluntarily. She said she didn't want to go back out there. She said that's where the evil was. She'd found out by accident what her parents had done, who they truly were, how many bodies were buried in the woods around their house, and whatever progress she'd made was erased. She'd spent the last eight years in a mental health facility. I was assigned her case when I got to Oklahoma by the psychologist whose job I was taking. Nobody ever got results like I did, and nobody was ever sure why. But I've had a good career, so I think it's time I tell the world, or what little of it cares. My truth. My name is Red, and I can see the memories of people I touch. It's not an exact science, but I try to help where I can.