White Space

What did that mean? Could McDermott have actually known Dickens in that other London? And what about the fact that there was no KRAMER on Lizzie’s quilt? She supposed not every single character in every single McDermott novel could be modeled on or incorporate bits of Lizzie. But if you believed the academics, writers always slotted in portions of their lives into their work, whether they knew it or not. So could Kramer be a piece of—or stand-in for—something or someone else? McDermott, perhaps? His first name was Frank … no, Franklin. So that would work; all the letters you needed to make KRAMER were right there.

Following that reasoning, she ought to have pieces of all of them: Bode, Tony, Rima, Chad, and on and on. So would that same tangled-ness make it easier for the machines to recognize her? It might even explain these weird echoes—how they all tended to use the same phrases, for example.

Whoa, wait. What if she was the one making up all of them? What if she had dreamed up Lizzie? But why would she do that?

Well, Jesus, all she had to do was think about her so-called life. She’d taken that psych course. Why did any little kid dream up imaginary friends? Because she’s lonely. No one wants her. She fit the bill: cast-off, ugly, traumatized, all-around weird. Sure, Jasper pulled a save, got her fixed up, made her … well, into a normal-looking person, a girl someone might even think was halfway decent-looking. Maybe.

But had she made herself a protector—because she’d desperately needed one? John Jasper was Edwin Drood’s uncle, and his guardian. So had she heard or read the story and then somehow brought John Jasper, unbound and unfinished, to her? Conjured up these people and this situation because she wanted friends? It fit. Wasn’t she the one lusting after an imaginary guy whose story she couldn’t finish?

Wait, wait. Slow down. She could feel the heat in her cheeks. Yes, Eric was nice; he was perfect, exactly what she’d always imagined. She felt the connection, this pull. Look how he’d risked his neck to come after her and Lily. The way he looked at her made her feel … special.

But there’s Casey; don’t forget that. She gave herself a mental shake. Eric knows him. Casey’s his brother. So that clinches it right there, you nut: you can’t possibly be causing this. Stop freaking yourself out. For God’s sake, you didn’t dream up Frank McDermott or purple panops or a cynosure or a Dickens Mirror.

Had she?

4

“SEE?” LIZZIE SAID to Bode. “That’s what I mean. You’re all me, some of you more and some of you less. It’s the way Dad wrote you. Emma’s just got more of me in her than the rest of you do.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Bode said. “Putting aside the fact that, you know, I’m a guy and in the Army, and you’re just this little kid … so you filch a couple letters and spell my name. So what? Those are beads. They’re glass.”

“No. They’re Mom’s thought-magic.” Sniffing, Lizzie smoothed the quilt over the hardwood floor. “It’s like Daddy said: look hard enough and all the pieces of me—and all of you—are tangled up, right here, forever and ever.”

“No.” Bode folded his arms over his chest. “It’s bullshit. I don’t buy it. I don’t see that this proves anything. You could make my name out of … Beauregard.”

“Sorry, dude,” Eric said. “No O.”

Bode flushed an angry plum. “You know what I’m saying. C’mon, Devil Dog, why are you so ready to believe all this?”

“Because.” Eric threw up his hands. “I want to move on already. Enough emo, guys, really. Fussing about this isn’t going to change the fact that we’re stuck here and have to deal, period. The sooner we get past this, the sooner we can figure out why we’re here and then get out.”

“I can dig that,” Bode said. “But I don’t have to believe this to—”

No, I think, actually, you do. The rules here were so different, they wouldn’t get far if they couldn’t start thinking outside the box. “Bode,” Emma said, “what’s your last name?”

“What? Well, it’s …” After another moment, Bode’s face darkened. “What kind of stupid question is that?”

“Stupid”—Eric hunched a shoulder in an apologetic shrug to Emma—“but she’s right, dude. Your name tape says BODE. Is that your last name, or first?”

“It’s my name,” Bode said.

“And you know that because …?”

“Because I know it, all right?” Bode touched the name tape with a finger. “Says so right there, and it’s … you know … in my head.”

Casey glanced at Rima. “Can you spell tautology?”