THREE
GENEVIEVE HILL
The door opens, and I leap to my feet, throwing myself at Detective Layne, resisting the urge to grab his shoulders and shake him. “What’s happening? Did you find something new? Please tell me you got him. Is that why you called us in? Where’s Richard?”
Detective Layne raises his hand to stop me. “We don’t have any new developments in the case. We just wanted to go over your statement another time and see if we might be able to get some confirmation from Mason about it too.” He’s winded from the short walk down the hallway. A pitcher of water with Styrofoam cups sits in the center of the table, and he makes a beeline for it. A woman follows behind him. She stands awkwardly with her arms folded on her chest while she waits for him to fill a cup. She looks too small to be a cop. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but I can’t place her. Who is she?
I sit back down in my seat and instinctively pull Mason next to me. His body rocks rhythmically against mine. “What are you doing here?”
I trust no one right now. I can’t. It’s not smart.
She shrinks, taken aback, but Detective Layne doesn’t give her a chance to respond before he jumps in. “I think the two of y’all already know each other, but just in case you don’t, Genevieve, this is Ms. Casey Walker. Ms. Walker is the best of the best when it comes to working with kids with autism spectrum disorder.” Detective Layne slams the cup down like it’s a shot on the table. He gestures toward me. “And Casey, this is Mrs. Genevieve Hill. She’s the best of the best when it comes to taking care of her son, Mason.”
“Nice to meet you,” Ms. Walker says softly. Her hair is pulled into a low ponytail, and she tucks the loose strands behind her ears nervously. I don’t have time for small talk. I’ll worry about her later. I want my lawyer.
“Where’s Richard? I thought you said he was coming? He’s supposed to be coming.” The hysteria rises in my voice. I need to calm down. Just calm down, Genevieve. Getting upset has a terrible effect on Mason. He responds to all my stress. Deep breaths. God is in control. Everything is going to be okay.
“I don’t know what’s taking him so long. He should be here by now,” Detective Layne says in a super calm voice that only infuriates me more. A woman was brutally murdered in broad daylight just steps away from me and my son, and they’re not doing anything to keep us safe. Nothing. The Tuscaloosa Police Department should be doing everything in its power to protect us, but they won’t even put a squad car on our street. Thankfully, Camden Estates was more helpful than the police. They promised to dedicate a squad car entirely to our block for the next week at least. It doesn’t matter, though. I still didn’t sleep last night.
A murderer is out there, and he knows our faces.
“Okay, well, can you see what’s taking him so long? I keep calling him and I’ve texted a bunch of times, too, but he’s not responding. Maybe he will if he sees that it’s you.” I’m so irritated with Richard. His hourly rate is way too high for him to ignore me like this.
“Tell you what.” Detective Layne turns to Ms. Walker and points to the chair next to me. “Why don’t you take a seat while I go make a quick call to Richard?”
He turns on his heel and heads out the door before I can protest him leaving me alone with this strange woman. The door clicks shut behind Detective Layne, making Mason jump. He’s been like that since the murder. The smallest noise sends him flying. Last night a garbage can lid banged shut, and he hid underneath the sofa in the living room for two hours. I didn’t even try to get him out. Just crawled right under there with him. He was shaking uncontrollably. His shirt drenched like he’d jumped in a pool. He wasn’t the only one. I couldn’t stop sweating either.
Ms. Walker takes a seat a few chairs down. She’s watching Mason but pretending like she’s not. I’m used to it. That’s what everyone does when they notice something about him just isn’t quite right. It’s okay. It’s part of my job as a mother to educate people about his disabilities, and it gives me great purpose. But not today.
“Are you giving a statement too?” Detective Layne never actually said why she’s here. Just that she’s an expert on autism spectrum disorder, which is great, but I’m the expert on my son. We’re going to get that straight from the beginning.
She clears her throat. “No, I’m actually here to support you, I think.”
“Me?” I point to my chest. “Doing what?”
She tucks her hair behind her ears. Her fingers are naked. So is her neck. I’m always skeptical of women who don’t wear any jewelry. “I, um . . . well, I’m a pediatric psychologist, and I specialize in working with kids with autism spectrum disorder. I do most of my work in the natural setting because it’s where the kids are most comfortable, and it lets me really focus on their strengths. I’m all about developing skills that foster independence.” She laughs nervously. “Oh, and I’ve been in the field for over twenty years, so I’ve got experience in all different kinds of therapies and assessment too.”
Does she realize she just rattled off a job description from her résumé? What does she think this is? She continues before I have a chance to respond.
“I’m really sorry you’re having to go through all of this. I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you,” she says. Her eyes are kind and compassionate, good therapist eyes.
“Thanks, it’s pretty awful.” Mason’s been a wreck since it happened. He rarely cries. Only a handful of times since he was a baby, and even then, not with real tears. He just wails and whines when he’s upset. Today he’s cried twice. They’re the most pitiful little sounds you ever heard.
Ms. Walker reaches across the table and pours herself a glass of water. Her hands are shaking. Why’s she so nervous? What’s she got to be worried about?
“And who is this?” she asks, taking a sip and nodding toward Mason like she doesn’t already know. Our faces have been plastered all over the media ever since it happened. At least they used the ones from my blog. That’s my best headshot.
“This is my son, Mason,” I say, giving his knee a squeeze.
“Nice to meet you, Mason,” she says. He doesn’t acknowledge that he’s heard her or that she’s even spoken. Normally, I’d make him respond to her because it’s real important to be polite, but I don’t have that kind of energy today. Besides, I’m not trying to pretend like there’s anything normal about all this until I know more about what she’s really doing here. She gives Mason another second to respond before shifting her gaze back to me. “I know I said I work in the autism field with kids and families, but I also have a daughter. She has autism too.”
Now she’s speaking my language. No one knows what it’s like to raise a child with autism unless they’ve had to go through it. “Really?”
“She’s nine.” She nods. “She was diagnosed when she was three. We aren’t as far along on the journey as you are, since she’s younger than Mason, but I do know how challenging it can be to work with people who don’t understand your son or how to be sensitive to his unique needs.” Her voice is as soft as her eyes. Melts my anxiety like butter.