“I imagine they’ll want you to go over it several times, Josie,” Caroline said, reaching for her hand.
Josie could go over things a million times, but it didn’t change what she knew. She didn’t see anything. Not really. Already the events of the night before were dissipating into a nebulous fog, but a few details remained clear: the sharp barks of a shotgun, the figure in the dark coming toward them, Becky falling behind.
“Ethan? Becky?” Josie asked. Her grandmother shook her head, and for a moment, Josie thought she meant that they, too, were dead. She inhaled sharply and the air snagged in her dry throat and she dissolved into a coughing fit.
Josie raised her hand to cover her mouth and felt the pull of the IV against the tender skin in the crook of her arm and quickly laid it back down.
Her grandmother sprang into action. She reached for a cup of water next to Josie’s bed and placed the straw between her lips. Josie took a sip.
“They haven’t found Ethan or Becky yet,” Caroline explained. “Your grandpa thinks they might be hiding in the field like you did. They have searchers looking now.”
The cool water soothed the fire in her throat. “Can I help?” Josie asked. “Can I go look for them too?”
“Not right now,” she said apologetically. “Your job right now is to rest and answer any questions the police have for you. That’s the most important thing you can do.” Caroline scraped her teeth across her lower lip and let out a shaky breath. “Do you have any idea who might have done this?” she asked.
Once again, tears gathered in Josie’s eyes. “I think,” she began in a barely perceptible whisper, “at first, I thought it might have been Ethan.”
Seeing the horror on her grandmother’s face, Josie quickly backtracked. “But I know it wasn’t him. He would never hurt us.”
“No, of course he wouldn’t,” Caroline said, clutching her granddaughter’s hand. “He’s a good boy,” she murmured as if trying to convince herself. “He’s a good boy.”
21
The girl’s father kept promising to bring her a puppy one day but never did. He did that a lot—made promises. “One day we’ll go to the ocean. We’ll walk on the beach and pick up seashells and sea glass.” The girl had talked about it for days. She drew pictures of the seaside and read about the Pacific Ocean and all manner of sea creatures from the set of World Book Encyclopedias on the bookshelf.
“Did you know that the blue whale is the biggest animal in the world, but its throat is smaller than my hand?” she said, holding up her fist in demonstration.
“He’s lying, you know,” her mother said, flicking through a magazine. “He does this all the time. It’s never going to happen.”
When the girl thought about it, she knew her mother was right. Her father was always saying things like this. Two years ago, he promised to take them to Disney World but balked when she kept bringing it up. “Do you think I’m made of money?” he snapped. “I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
And last year, he started talking about taking a trip to the Wisconsin Dells that had a hotel with a water park right inside. It seemed like this time they might really go, but then her father came home and said, “Sorry, I’ve gotta work.”
But still, the girl was hopeful that he’d bring her a dog—a cat even. She started standing on the chair beneath the window so she could hear the rumble of his truck’s tires. Each time her father came through the door, she stared at his jacket pockets hoping to see movement. That happened sometimes on television—the dad would come home with a puppy tucked in his pocket. But there was never a dog.
She had finally given up when one day her father came home carrying a big cardboard box. The girl’s heart soared. Finally, she thought. He set the box on the table and the girl rushed over in anticipation.
“Brought you something,” he said.
“Can I open it?” the girl asked, and her father nodded. Even her mother was intrigued and came over to see what he brought.
The girl lifted a flap on the box and expected to see a tiny nose poke out. Instead, a musty, dry scent filled her nose. She lifted the second flap. Inside were books. Dozens of books. Old ones based on the smell and the shabby covers.
The little girl looked up at her father and did her best to hide the disappointment. Books were nice. The girl loved books, but there wasn’t a puppy in the box and these books were dog-eared and not well cared for.