She had to know we would discover that her forced confession was a web of lies.  Her addiction to invention, fiction as reality.  Her pubic hair and head hair were different colors.  Her secret was that none of it mattered.  Only her name was real because that mattered least.  Her name never changed.

Yes—Lucas went back to the tapes and checked—she never failed to supply weather details, for veracity’s sake.  You always knew the season.  She could recite who had been present as if reading a photograph.  One of the guards got a thing for her, like a keeper at a predator zoo.  They would share meals, pretend they were from the same hometown.  After she vanished, he never came back to work.  There was nothing to guard then anyway. 

If you erase the past, the space is still there, hand prints on a cave wall.  What’s locked in our snake brainstems are neither memories nor promises.  Just ask her.  She had no idea how attractive she was.  If you find her, ask her.   With her vaporizing past she never seemed to age.  No telling how young she would be now, but there are some clues in these old confessions as to what might be coming down soon.  I don’t have the guts to search for her.  I am pretty sure she won’t remember, but why take the chance?