“I’m just wondering about the meaning behind your sign.” I keep my sunglasses on so she won’t recognize me, but I say it gently.
“The meaning?”
“Is this because of Emily Gardener?”
My daughter’s name sounds strange and formal coming out of my mouth—almost as though I’ve pronounced it wrong. I feel guilty for not telling the girl that I’m Emily’s mother, but I want an unvarnished answer. My heart pounds.
The girl blinks at me. “Well,” she says quietly, “she was the first.”
I swallow hard. “You mean . . . before the girl in Burlington.”
She shakes her head slowly, her gaze pinned to the sidewalk. Then she looks up. “I knew him. Personally. A few of us knew him personally.”
“He hurt you?”
She nods. “I was too scared to say anything.” She gestures at a fellow protester, a tiny red-haired girl with big blue eyes like Emily’s, watching from a few feet away. “It happened to Hannah too. She complained to the university. They said they would look into it. Then she lost her work-study job.”
I shake my head. “I am so, so sorry . . .”
“Jen.” She sticks out her hand.
“Camille.” I don’t tell her I’m Emily’s mom. I don’t know why. We shake, then hug, and it feels strange and natural at the same time, like distant relatives meeting.
“I did read about the girl in Burlington,” Jen says. “I’m glad she got away.”
“Me too.”
“And I’m really glad she told the cops. I wish I could write her a thank-you letter or something.”
“Me too.”
She waves, then hurries off to catch up with the rest of the group.
Around the time of the trial, I said it to anyone who would listen. This isn’t just because of my daughter. I want to make sure it doesn’t happen to other young girls. But I don’t know that I ever truly believed that it would happen to anyone else, weakened as I was by my own guilt—the idea that it was my fault, that if I’d only raised Emily differently, if I’d paid her more attention, if I hadn’t criticized her so much, if I hadn’t been so strict or so permissive or such a failure as a parent, she would never have died the way she did.
But what happened to Emily wasn’t my fault. I know that now. If any parents were to blame, they were Harris Blanchard’s, who had raised him to believe that his feelings were the only ones that mattered, that compassion and empathy were just words people printed on awards, that the world was his for the taking, literally.
We gave him exactly what he deserved.
As I head back to the parking lot, the wind dies down. The sun starts to burn through the heavy clouds, and while it doesn’t make me feel any warmer, everything looks a lot brighter than before.
Sixteen
0001: I have another assignment for you, but it is time-sensitive.
I see this once I’ve changed out of my funeral suit and into sweats and made a fresh pot of coffee, and even though I’m exhausted, both physically and emotionally, I answer quickly.
0417: I’m available.
I see the ellipses as my reply fades, and again it makes me wonder about 0001’s setup. How is it that she’s always available for a private chat? And how many people is she chatting with at once? I don’t have time to think about it long, though, because 0001’s reply comes as a rapid-fire series, and I have to read each message as carefully as possible before it disappears.
0001: Grab a pen and a piece of paper to take notes on the following.