“He’s in one of our best therapeutic foster homes on the west side. He’ll be there until we figure out what’s happening with him and if it’s safe for him to be at home.”
The thought of him being with strangers breaks my heart. All I can think about is Harper and what it would do to her if she were suddenly jerked away from my care and placed in a house with strange people somewhere else. She’d be terrified just like he must be. Poor Mason.
“Now that a formal child abuse investigation has been launched, we can move forward with assigning a court-appointed special advocate like we intended to do from the beginning.” There’s no hiding the pleasure in his voice. Was that his motive all along?
“You’re still looking at him like he did this? He’s an abused kid. He’s messed up in ways we probably don’t even know yet. It will take a long time to unpack everything he’s been through and the extent of the damage.”
“It’s all the more reason he might’ve been responsible for it. If his mom is doing all that crazy stuff like you say, then there’s a chance he might have developed his own twisted and sick tendencies. That’s what happens sometimes when kids have to live with warped parents. Sorry, I know that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s good news for the case.” All of it makes my stomach hurt. Where’s the justice in any of this?
I want to be the one to hold Mason’s hand through all the difficult interviews and examinations that lie ahead of him. There has to be some kind of formal training to be his court-appointed advocate, so I should get started on it immediately. I have no idea how I’ll squeeze it into my schedule, but I’ll find a way to make it work. “When can I start the CASA training?”
“We can’t request that you be the CASA anymore. It would be a conflict of interest since you were the one that tested him and were involved in the initial child abuse report. There’d be a bit of a confirmation bias, you know?”
I didn’t have anything to do with filing a suspected child abuse report, but I don’t bother correcting him. “Who will it be?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve got my feelers out on one potential.”
Guilt hangs over me like a thick overcoat. My excitement over my discovery is gone and replaced with a sickening dread. How did I let myself get so caught up in this?
TWENTY
GENEVIEVE HILL
Nothing’s right with Mason gone. The house is empty. Flat with no life. Feels like it did after John died. The life energy just sucked out the door right along with him.
I don’t have any idea where he is. They won’t give me an address, like he’s in some witness protection program or something. Which would be fine. I’d love to go into witness protection right about now, just not separate from my son. They’re going to regret doing this if I have any say about it.
Not knowing where he is or if he’s okay makes my skin crawl. It’s like a thousand ants are burrowing underneath my skin and having a parade. None of my lotions make it better, but that’s because it’s not out there. It’s inside me. This disgustingness, and I can’t get it off.
I pour myself another glass of wine and stare at my phone like I’ve been doing for the past two hours. I wish there were an easy answer, but there’s not. There never is.
I can’t believe I fell for Detective Layne and Ms. Walker’s plan. They’ve been plotting against me all along. How could I have been so stupid? I really believed we could be on the same team. I was so naive.
Of course they think Mason did it. He’s so huge that he looks like he could snap someone’s neck without even trying or easily bash a grown person’s body against a rock. But that’s only on the outside. He’s my sweet, cuddly teddy bear on the inside. I should’ve made them see him differently, but it’s too late for all that now. It’s too late for anything. They’ve got it in their heads that I’m hurting him, and there’s no going back.
Or maybe they just want to get him away from me long enough to make him talk. The idea makes me laugh. Mason isn’t Mason without me. That’s the thing. His fourth-grade teacher even said so.
“He only lights up like that when you’re around,” she commented after the Gobbler’s Feast on Thanksgiving.
I tried to pretend it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I beamed. I’m his stable base. His due north. How is he going to get through this night without me? How am I going to get through it without him?
That Monster is out there, and he’s not done. I found another card on my windshield at Walmart after I went off on Casey. That’s who she is to me now. No more Ms. Walker. None of that. She’s lost all my respect. I shove my anger down as it tries to rise. I don’t have time for that. I’ll take care of it later. Right now, it’s only this.
I twirl the business card in my fingers. William Jones Landscape and Design, just like before. Same number. Same design. Same message scrawled on the back.
What does he want?
I’ve known what I was supposed to do since the moment I found the first card on my windshield. I’ve just been too afraid, but he’s not going to stop until I talk to him, so I might as well get it over with. I grab my phone from on top of the counter. My fingers shake as I tap *67 followed by the number on the card. A knot of anxiety balls in my stomach. Part of me hopes I’m wrong. Someone picks up.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to call.” The voice strips every thought from my head.
TWENTY-ONE
CASEY WALKER
I let Detective Layne in without saying a word. He insisted on finishing our phone conversation face-to-face, even though I wanted to end it and take a break from the case for the rest of the night. I lead him into the kitchen, where the pot of coffee is ready and waiting for us. He starts talking before we’ve finished pouring our cups.
“Look, your expertise has been so valuable. You helped push this case to the next level, and we wouldn’t be where we are right now if it weren’t for you. I want to make sure you know that and how grateful we are for you. I just want to make sure we’re good, because I would hate for you to not keep moving forward with us on this case.” He threads his fingers together around his mug and gives me apologetic eyes.
I wrinkle my face at him. “Did you send me to test Mason so that you could file a report?” It’s not that I necessarily disagree with the report—I don’t want Mason in a home he’s being abused in either—I just don’t like being left in the dark about what’s happening or how I’m being used.
“No, ma’am, I did not. That’s not even what we went in there looking for. Remember? You were the one that brought up the weird stuff going on with his tests. I don’t know anything about that. That was all you. Besides, there was no way I could’ve predicted there were bruises on his arms, and even if I did, there was no guarantee you’d see them.” He loosens his collar. Rolls his neck.
I study him closely, trying to pull facts from all the way back to graduate school on how to tell if someone is lying. It’s been so long I can’t remember. He seems genuine and real, but he looks the same way when he looks at Genevieve, too, and I’ve seen the way he spins half truths with her. They probably teach lying in detective school in the same way they teach psychologists to spot deception.