“That’s probably what my dad told them. Jesus! What kind of father doesn’t even know how old his only kid is?”
“Maybe the kind who doesn’t want the cops to question that kid,” Mak said. “Who wants people to believe the kid is too young to remember or understand what happened the night her mother disappeared.”
Emma crossed and recrossed her legs again. “For a long time, I didn’t remember. My therapist says it’s called infantile amnesia. Because little kids’ brains aren’t physically developed enough to retain memories.”
“That sounds about right,” Mak said. “Emma, what do you remember about the night your mom went away?”
Her fingertips strayed to her right calf, picking at the scabbed-over tattoo. “There was a bad storm. The lightning woke me up. Usually, when that happened, my mom would come into my room and lay down on the bed with me. She’d hold me and sort of sing, and then I’d fall back asleep. But that night, she didn’t come. So I went into their room. But nobody was there.”
She glanced up at Makarowicz. “They were gone. I ran downstairs, and I went into the kitchen looking for my mom, but she wasn’t there. He wasn’t there either.”
“You’re sure of that?” he asked. “Maybe your dad fell asleep in the den, watching TV? I used to do that all the time, and my wife would raise hell with me.”
She shook her head violently, and the tiny gold seashell earrings she wore swung against her white-blond hair like a pair of miniature chandeliers. “That’s what he said, when he finally came into my room. He said I’d just had a bad dream. And he laid down in bed with me until I fell back asleep. ‘Mommy and Daddy are here,’ he said. ‘You had a bad dream. That’s all.’”
Emma stood, abruptly. The white pigeon was back, pecking at a smaller, darker bird. “Shoo! Shoo!” She waved her arms wildly in the air and all the birds scattered. She turned and scowled at Makarowicz. “I fuckin’ hate a bully.”
She slumped down on the bench, energy spent.
“You’re positive your father wasn’t anywhere in the house that night when you woke up?” Mak asked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“When did you start remembering that night?”
“Bits and pieces of it started coming together the last time I talked to my therapist. We do video conferences now, because of my work schedule. That was maybe last year? I lose track of time. It was after another bad storm, and I’d had a panic attack. She asked me to keep a log, of what I associated with lightning. It was bad stuff. Darkness. Loneliness. Losing my mom.”
“Is that why you got the tattoo?” He pointed at the lightning bolt.
“Uh-huh. My therapist said the best way to deal with my trauma was to finally start looking at it, instead of trying to forget. Or zoning out with drugs. I drew it, but it’s in an awkward place, so my friend actually did the inking.”
“You like to draw?”
“Yeah. I’ve been thinking, maybe I could take some classes at SCAD. A lot of students get ink from us, and they always tell me how cool my original designs are.”
“So you started remembering that night about a year ago. That it was storming and there was lightning the night your mom went away. Is that all?”
“Yeah. There was nothing more specific, until I saw that story in the newspaper. About my mom’s wallet. Something told me I should talk to someone about it. My therapist said I should call you. So that’s what I did.”
“But you didn’t say anything to me about your memories of that night when we met up,” Mak pointed out.
“I still hadn’t put everything together. Also, I don’t exactly have a great history dealing with cops. I wasn’t sure I could trust you. After we met, I thought you seemed pretty cool.”
“For a cop.”
She flashed a rueful smile. “I sleep in their old bedroom now, you know. My parents’ bedroom. The house is different now, because someone else bought the house when my dad sold it. But the night after I talked to you, things just started coming together. I went into the backyard, and I was on that swing, and it all came back—like whoosh! The storm, and waking up crying, and wandering around the house, looking for them. And then my dad, coming into my room. He was wet, his hair, clothes, everything. That’s the first time I remembered that.”
“And you realized it wasn’t a bad dream?” he asked. “That it really happened?”