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Chapter 8, continued
The girl's shoulder's gave a jolt as though she had been electrified, and her loud breathing seemed to cease altogether. For a moment, Don wondered if he should call a doctor, but then with a hoarse sigh, Mara's shoulders drooped and she rolled slowly onto her back and shifted into a sitting position. She peered at Don through her already aged looking eyes, a hollow and blank expression wrapped like cellophane around her face. "Hello," she muttered, in a bored, unaffected tone.
Don took a shaky step forward, "Are. . . are you okay? Would you like me to get your mother?"
Mara grimaced and shook her head slowly. Then with a sigh, she said, "No." Don waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.
Mentally, Don picked up his chisel and began hacking away at the ice that refused to break. "Do you. . . is there anything you want to tell me?"
It was Mara's turn to hesitate. But once again, she only shook her head and said, "No."
Her hesitation, however, spoke loudly enough for Don. She wanted to tell him, and she would before he left this room. He only hoped his triumphant departure would come sometime before next year. "Mara," he said, keeping his voice low and business-like, "your mother believes that you may have remembered something that could help the case. If you know something, you should tell me. It could mean stopping what happened to you and your sister from--" he broke off. At the mention of her sister, Mara had stiffened and her complexion paled in to a ghastly gray. She looked up at Don, her eyes wide and her lower lip trembling.
"You have to help her," she whispered. "She-- I-- I've tried to go back but I can't. . . I can't. . ." She trailed off, and stared at her bed, obviously willing herself not to cry.
In the same busines-like tone, Don asked, "Where can't you go back to?"
Mara switched her gaze back to Don and shook her head again and her voice regained it�s hollow echo, "You would think I'm crazy."
Don pulled a chair out of the corner of the room, pushed it to the bedside, and slid into it. He met Mara's eyes, and matched her dark tone and expression perfectly, "How do you know?" he said.
Mara shivered, "Because you're a cop. They don't let you be a cop if you're crazy."
"First of all," Don said queitly, "I'm not a cop, I'm a Private Investigator. Second of all, a good number of people thought I was crazy for a long time."
Mara looked impressed, "Why?" she asked in the tone of a person asking about the murderer on the news or the earthquake in Israel.
Don smirked, "That's my story. What's yours?"
Mara dropped her gaze for what seemed like the millionth time, "You wouldn't believe me, even if I told you."
"Sure I would," Don retorted, half a smile cracked on his face, "I'm crazy, remember?"
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