“You better get your ass home before the lights go out so that creep doesn’t get you too,” Mason interjects again. Same manner. Same tone.
I hurry to ask my question before he interrupts again. “That other girl? The one who was with Scarlet that night? I think her name was Miranda? Do you have any idea what happened to her? Ever hear anything?”
“I have no idea.” Ms. Walker cocks her head to the side and takes a second to think about it. “I’m pretty sure she left town afterward, though. I don’t remember her doing any interviews or anything like that.”
“I looked her up, but there’s no sign of her anywhere online. She probably changed her name. I bet that’s what she did, don’t you think? Maybe I should change my name too. That way he won’t be able to find us. Or maybe the police can hide us. Do you have to qualify for witness protection programs, or can you just go into them? I—”
She raises her hand to stop my spiral. “It’s going to be okay. I know this is awful and it doesn’t feel okay. It probably feels like the terror is never going to end and you’re always going to be scared, but you’ll get through it. There’s another side to this. Bad things happen all the time, and people get through them.”
Does she really believe that? This is bad. Like really, really bad.
THEN
Just because I can’t talk doesn’t mean I got nothin’ to say. She can make me sit here till those leaves fall off the tree again. Orange. Purple. Pink and gold. But I won’t eat. Might not sleep neither.
I used to be small. Real little. Like that tree. But not anymore.
Dumb bell. On her. Stupid schedule. Stupid me.
Sit. Stay. Go.
Speaking to me in small words like I don’t understand big ones. No.
Nobody paying attention. No body.
Just because I can’t talk doesn’t mean I got nothin’ to say.
FOUR
CASEY WALKER
“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” I blurt out as soon as we’re back inside Detective Layne’s office and he’s shut the door behind us. He gives me a wicked grin, and I shake my head with a matching grin. That was pretty genius.
Genevieve and I were alone in the conference room for over twenty minutes before he returned with her attorney, Richard. Richard didn’t seem nearly as informed or as on board with my involvement in the investigation as Detective Layne had led me to believe, but by then, it didn’t matter, because Genevieve wanted me in the room with her while they talked. She held my hand while Detective Layne questioned her like we’d known each other for years. Her desperation for someone to listen to her was thick. So was her terror. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.
Still can’t.
Detective Layne reaches into his bottom desk drawer and pulls out a bucket of Red Vines. I expected whiskey or a hidden bottle of something. He pops off the top and offers it to me first.
“No thanks, I’m good,” I say, secretly wishing it were whiskey. I could use a drink to dull the beginnings of a headache pricking my temples. Or Tylenol. I quickly dig in my purse but come up empty handed.
“Tell me everything,” he says as he chews on the end of a piece.
“She seems more scared than anything else. She’s super jumpy. Mason is too. She’s not sleeping, and it’s been almost a week since the incident. That’s not good.” Genevieve reminded me of the parents I worked with back when I did volunteer counseling in high schools after school shootings. Her PTSD ruled the room. Same as theirs. She shook from the inside. Her back was damp with sweat when I touched it. Her eyes skirted the room like any minute someone might break through the door even though we were tucked in a police station. “Honestly, I’m fascinated by this case and honored to be asked to help, but I’m not sure you need a pediatric psychologist. You might be better off hiring a trauma psychologist.”
He shakes his head, chewing intently. “We need you. You’re the person.”
This is so far out of my comfort zone. I know kids’ brains. The neurological parts that make them tick. All the ways that neurons function together, and the unique ways they go awry. I can spot early warning signs in babies that most other experts miss. Everyone always assumes I got into working with autism because of Harper, but it’s because of the work I’d done before she was born that alerted me something was off when she was only a few months old. But trauma? Like this? It’s way out of my league.
Detective Layne interrupts my worrying with his voice. “Your number one focus is Mason, just like ours. If she likes you and she trusts you, then she’ll let you get close to him. That’s what you have to remember. What were your initial impressions of him?”
“He’s a big kid.” I blurt the first thing that pops into my mind. You can’t tell that from any of his pictures on the news. All they have are old school photos.
Detective Layne chuckles. “Big is right. Our boy is six foot one and still growing.”
Mason isn’t skinny big. His body fills out his tall frame. He’s fourteen but could easily pass for eighteen. Other than when I startled him, he spent the entire time hunched over and hugging himself while he rocked rhythmically in his chair. He moved his head like there was a beat coming from the red headphones on his ears, but there wasn’t any music playing in their speakers. They’re there to drown out the sound of the world when it gets too loud. “I didn’t have a chance to interact with him. He mostly just sat quietly while Genevieve and I talked. She talked almost nonstop until you showed up.”
“What’d she talk about?” he asks.
“She was all over the place.” The conversation was so odd. Her moods changed quickly, flitting from one extreme to the next. Her personality shifted along with her moods. At times, she seemed to really like me, but in the next instant, she’d grow suspicious or upset for no reason. Like when she asked me about my background the way she did.
I was talking about Harper’s school when she interrupted me midsentence to ask, “Did Detective Layne say you were the best of the best?”
I blushed since I thought she meant it as a compliment, and I don’t take them well. I looked at the ground while I answered, “He did.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “Have you heard of Dr. Lee Winslow?”
I nodded. Of course I’d heard of Dr. Winslow. Nearly every parent who has a kid with ASD knows who she is, since she’s been on the front lines of autism research since the beginning. She’s written over twenty books and given TED Talks all over the country on topics ranging from diet and nutrition to managing tantrums and practicing self-care. Oprah even had her on once. I don’t agree with everything she says, but our views are closely aligned on the important things.
“Dr. Lee Winslow”—Genevieve nodded her head with approval—“now, she’s the best of the best.” She locked eyes with me while she said it and refused to look away even after she was finished, like a dog trying to establish some weird form of dominance. “Was she unavailable?”
“I guess so.” I forced a smile and looked away, trying to hide my embarrassment.
A few beats of awkward silence stretched between us, and it was a few more seconds before she suddenly threw her arms around me and squealed, “Oh well, I’m glad I got you anyways!”