Chapter Twelve
Sadie
So, she knew his name?
Daphne
She must have.
Sadie
And the others?
Daphne
We’ll never know how much she knew. But it would seem after this much time has passed—it’s been over thirty years—that she won’t be surfacing with her story.
Sadie
Unless this interview—the true story—jogs her memory enough to make her talk.
Daphne
It could. But she didn’t say squat when Pygmalion w***e was published. At least, Emerson didn’t hear a word. I think by then, she had too much invested in her life to make that kind of stunning disclosure. The way the media pounces on that kind of thing, would you want the publicity? There’d be no point in it for her.
Unless, perhaps, she is finally so haunted by the memory—a posttraumatic stress sort of thing—that she needs to excise the
