He grabbed her again.
She looked down at his long, tanned fingers, wrapped possessively around her bicep. He was a man used to taking what he wanted; he didn’t care much about crossing personal space boundaries, either. “Release me, Mr. Azelle.”
He complied instantly.
She expected him to back away—cowards who were called out usually did, and men who beat their wives were always cowards and bullies—but he didn’t. He stood there, towering over her and yet cowed somehow, bent.
“How is she?” he asked finally.
She would have sworn there was a fissure in his voice, that the words hurt him to say. Murderers and sociopaths were often great actors, she reminded herself. “It’s about time you asked that.”
“You think you know me, Dr. Cates. The whole world does.” He backed away, sighing, shoving a hand through his hair and pulling his ponytail free. “Christ, I’m tired of fighting a war I can’t win. So just tell me: how’s my daughter? What the hell does developmentally delayed mean?”
“She’s been through hell, but she’s coming through. She’s a tough, loving little girl who needs a lot of therapy and stability.”
“And you think I’m unstable?”
“As you’ve pointed out, I don’t know you.” She reached into her briefcase and withdrew a stack of videocasette tapes, which she handed to him. “I made these for you. They’re tapes of our sessions. They will answer some of your questions.”
He took them cautiously, as if he were afraid the black plastic would burn him. “Where has she been?” he finally asked. This time his voice was velvety soft; she was reminded of his Louisiana roots. According to the trial transcripts, he’d been raised dirt poor in the bayou.
“We don’t know. Somewhere in the woods, we think.” Julia wouldn’t let herself be fooled by the concern in his voice. He was playing her; she was sure of it. He wanted her to think he was a victim in this, too. “But I suspect you know that.”
Ellie came up beside Julia, touched her arm. “Everything okay?”
“Mr. Azelle was finally asking about Alice.”
“Call me George. And her Brittany.”
Julia flinched at the reminder. “She’s been Alice to us for a long time.”
“About that …” He looked at both of them. “I want to thank you both for taking such good care of her. You literally saved her life.”
“Yes, we did,” Julia said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at one, Mr. Azelle. Promptly.”
Julia nodded and walked away. It was a moment before she realized that Ellie hadn’t followed her.
She glanced back. George and Ellie were talking.
Peanut came up to her, nodded back toward Ellie and George. “That’s trouble,” she said, crossing her arms. “Your sister can turn to Jell-O around a good-looking man.”
“I hope not,” Julia said, feeling exhausted suddenly. “But maybe you should go eavesdrop.”
“Glad to,” Peanut said, and she was off.
Sighing, Julia walked to Max, who was waiting for her at the back door.
TWENTY-THREE
Mid-afternoon sunlight, as uncertain as tomorrow, shone through the small barred window and landed in a puddle on the hardwood floor.
The girl on the narrow twin bed whined like any other child at naptime. “No sleep. Read.”
From his place just outside the bedroom door, Max heard Julia say, “Not now, honey. Sleep.”
Very quietly, she began to sing a song that Max couldn’t quite hear.
It made him recall another life; in that one, the woman sitting on the bed would have had dark brown hair and the child would be a boy named Danny.
One more story, he would have said, that little boy they’d called One-More Dan and Dan the Man.
Max went downstairs. In the kitchen, he rifled through the cupboards until he found coffee. Making a pot, he then returned to the living room and made a fire.
He was on his second cup of coffee when Julia finally came downstairs. She looked worn; he would have sworn her cheeks were streaked by tears. He wanted to go to her, hold her in the way she’d held Alice and promise her that everything would be okay, but she looked too fragile to be touched. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he said instead.
“Coffee would be great. Lots of milk and sugar.”
He went to the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, doctored it for her, and returned.
She was sitting on the hearth, with her back to the fire. Her blond hair had come free from the twist she’d had it in. Now, pale tendrils fell around her face. The area below her eyes was puffy and shadowed, her lips were pale.
“Here.” He handed her the coffee.
She gave him a fleeting look, a flashing smile. “Thanks.”
He sat down on the floor in front of her.
“I want him to be guilty.”
“Do you? Really?”