All The Pretty Dead Girls. John Manning

know what to think anymore.”

      “But I don’t understand.” Dr. Marshall riffled through the pile of papers again. “Why did you come here? Why did you bring this with you?”

      “Because you’re the only person who would understand.” Because a woman in a psych ward told me to come here, that you could help me, that you were meant to help me, crazy as that might sound.

      Dr. Marshall set the papers down and picked up her teacup. “This is all very interesting. Obviously, I’m very familiar with all of this, since I’m writing a book about sightings of the Virgin Mary.” She smiled. “I’ve even been to Los Zapatos, when those young girls were having their visions.”

      “And what did you think?”

      “Sue, dear, I fail to see how this—I mean, you came all this way to talk about sightings?”

      “Please, just tell me what you think about the visions in Los Zapatos. And everywhere else.”

      Dr. Marshall sighed. “The Church has never recognized any of these visitations as miracles, you know.” She took another sip of her tea. “Of course, if it had been just fifty years earlier, the Church would have been all over these incidents. Back then, they seemed to like to publicize them, to whip the devout into a bit of religious frenzy. But things have changed, and now the Church isn’t so sure…”

      Sue closed her eyes.

      Dr. Marshall studied her with concern. “But what does any of this have to do with you, Sue? Why have you run away, made your grandparents worry? This is not like you. Are you sure you don’t want me to call your grandparents, let them know you’re okay?”

      “After I tell you—” Sue bit her lip. “Just let me tell you, okay? Then we can talk about my grandparents, if you want to.”

      But I am not calling them, Sue told herself, and if you call them, I’m out of here.

      “All right.” Dr. Marshall removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “I won’t call your grandparents just yet. But talk to me, Sue. Tell me what’s going on, what’s got you acting so differently. Explain it to me.”

      So Sue told her everything.

      2

      She talked for just over three hours. Dr. Marshall didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask any questions. She just let Sue talk until she finished, betraying no emotion on her face.

      The clock on the mantelpiece read just past five thirty when Sue finished her story. The sun had gone down, and an automatic timer had turned the lights on. Every so often as Sue talked, Dr. Marshall had stood and put another log on the fire. The tea service still sat on the coffee table, the water gone cold, the cups untouched for quite some time.

      They sat in silence, the only sound the occasional crack and pop from the fireplace.

      “So,” Sue said finally, “do you think I’m crazy?”

      “I’m not sure what to think, to be honest.” Dr. Marshall replied, standing up and picking up the tray. She carried it out of the room.

      She does. She thinks I’m crazy.

      Sue shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. The streetlights outside had come on, throwing strange-looking shadows into the room.

      Maybe it was a mistake to come here. Maybe there’s no one who can help me.

      But if it hadn’t all happened to me, I don’t know if I would believe it either.

      Dr. Marshall walked back in, carrying two wineglasses and an open bottle of Shiraz. She poured herself a glass and placed the bottle and second glass on the table. She settled back into her chair. “Help yourself,” she told Sue.

      “No, thanks.”

      “Sue—” Dr. Marshall looked at her with stern eyes. “Surely you’re aware of how fantastic your story is.”

      “Yes. But that doesn’t make it untrue.” She doesn’t believe me, Sue thought, clenching and unclenching her fists.

      “But you don’t have any proof, do you?” Dr. Marshall asked gently. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

      “You don’t believe me.” Sue felt her eyes fill with tears of frustration. It had been a mistake to come here.

      “No, that’s not quite true.” Dr. Marshall cleared her throat. “I don’t want to believe you. But I conducted a few investigations of my own before I left the college, and so parts of your story ring true.”

      Sue moved forward in her seat. “Do you know then? Do you know what was going on there?”

      Dr. Marshall took her glasses off and set them on the coffee table. “No, Sue. Like yourself, I have no hard evidence.” She shook her head. “But if your story is true…Sue, it’s frightening. Absolutely frightening. And without proof, I don’t know what we can do. No one will believe this, no one.”

      “My grandparents lied to me. I can prove that.”

      “But that doesn’t prove your story,” Dr. Marshall went on. “Your grandparents could easily explain away why they didn’t tell you the truth. I can think of any number of reasons myself they wouldn’t have told you.”

      Sue stood up and walked over to one of the windows facing the front yard. A truck drove by as she watched. Show her, a voice within her whispered. That’s the only way to make her believe. You have to show her.

      She resisted the voice, as she had any number of times since that horrible day.

      “You really should call your grandparents and let them know you’re all right.” Dr. Marshall was talking behind her. “They’re worried sick about you.”

      “No.” Sue replied. “They aren’t worried about me. Didn’t you listen to anything I said?”

      She turned to face Dr. Marshall, who sat in silence now.

      “I explained why they want to find me.” She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “It has nothing to do with concern about me.”

      “Sue…”

      She wiped her eyes. “I’ll go. But promise me you won’t call them. You won’t tell anyone I was here.”

      “Sue, you’re exhausted. I can’t just let you go—”

      “You can’t stop me.” Sue was hard, angry. “Promise me you won’t call my grandparents.”

      “All right. I won’t call them, if you don’t want me to. But I insist you not leave here until after you’ve rested a bit, gotten something more solid to eat than a peanut butter sandwich.” Dr. Marshall held up her hands. “And besides, I didn’t say I didn’t believe you, Sue. It’s just a lot—a lot to take in.”

      “Swear to me you won’t call them.” Sue was fierce. “I’ll lay down, take a nap, whatever you want, but swear to me you won’t call them!”

      “All right, I swear.” Dr. Marshall gave her a smile. “I won’t call them. But once you’ve gotten some rest…”

      I never want to see or speak to them again, Sue thought, and no amount of sleep is going to change my mind.

      3

      Sue fell asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow.

      Dr. Marshall closed the bedroom door and walked back downstairs into the living room. She refilled her wineglass and sat watching the fire for a moment. Picking up the pile of papers from her coffee table, she thumbed through them again. She’d read all this material before. She had most of it in her files and had, in fact, accessed information the news media had never gotten their hands on. She’d even been to visit many of these sites—and some that weren’t included in Sue’s folder.

      She