“Yeah, but she might want to hear it again. Doesn’t hurt to keep telling her that. You could frame it like we haven’t been doing our best, but now that we see how traumatized Mason is, we’re going to do better.” He gives a sheepish shrug, but it’s not the worst idea.
“What if I told her that we’d take the story to the media?” I ask, thinking along those same lines. He tilts his head to the side and raises his eyebrows with curiosity. “She’s convinced that y’all aren’t doing everything you can to protect her and that the killer is still out there, so we play into that. I act like I agree with her. That I’m disgusted with how you’ve handled the case, and I think we should have some concrete evidence to take to the media demonstrating that. I’ll convince her that a psychological testing report showing how much he’s struggling afterward will convince them to do it. Everyone gets riled up by a good ‘the police aren’t doing their job’ bit, and I’ll pitch it as that. She’ll probably jump at the idea.”
“Do you have any connections with the media?”
“No.”
“What are you going to do when she asks about that?”
“We’re just going to have to figure that one out when we get there.”
THEN
Burning.
It only feels bad if you want it to. I don’t want it to.
If you let it. Don’t. Let it.
Two.
Two times two. Then makes four.
Stupid boy he said. He called me that. Daddy called me that. Once.
Or twice.
He says no Mama. Stop Mama. Don’t do that Mama.
But Mama doesn’t listen.
She never does.
No good.
That’s no good.
It only feels bad if you want it to. I don’t want it to.
Turn it down. She can do that. Why not me? Why can’t I ever do anything by myself?
By myself.
Where I want to be but she won’t let me. Won’t let me go.
Beast.
Beast battle battle ram.
Stop it. Don’t pay attention. Just stop it.
It only feels bad if you want it to. I don’t want it to.
SEVENTEEN
CASEY WALKER
I still can’t believe Genevieve said yes. She actually said yes. Not that she had to call her attorney first to get his permission—just yes. I was so nervous when I called her. There was no way I was going to do it face-to-face. I’m a terrible liar. My cheeks flush bright red, and I inevitably start itching. It’s almost like I’m physically allergic to lying. Email would’ve been best, but it looks too formal, and more importantly, I also didn’t want my lies in written text.
All I could think about when I called Genevieve were all those times I taught the kids in my group about lying and how sometimes we have to tell lies so we don’t hurt people’s feelings. If Harper noticed that you got your hair cut and she thought it looked ugly, she’d tell you that. Not because she was trying to be mean but because she doesn’t have the same social filter as neurotypical folks. Telling lies is a developmental skill that needs to be mastered, and I helped teach it.
“It’s a stupid gift and I don’t like it”—that’s what Billy said about the baseball bat his aunt gave him for his birthday. He wasn’t being mean or defiant. Just truthful. Most of the kids in my group are like that. We spend lots of time teaching them what are considered socially appropriate lies.
And right now, I’m having one of those times.
A socially appropriate lie. That’s what I keep telling myself. Just like I told Billy.
She’ll arrive with him any minute, and I mentally rehearse everything I’ve been preparing the last two days. I rarely do testing anymore. I refer out to my colleagues for that. Testing kids is a different approach than crawling around on the floor and playing with them. I used to really enjoy testing, but over the years I’ve grown to favor the latter. I’ve studied and reviewed all my testing manuals again, but not to make sure I get the most accurate diagnosis. I’m not concerned with any of that today, and I’m not following the standard protocol. I’m interested in how he responds and his patterns, both on the tests themselves and his behaviors. Most importantly, what he’ll do if he’s thrown off from what he anticipates happening. He expects the testing to go a certain way because it’s all standardized and follows the same format every time.
The reception door sounds behind me, and I quickly scan the room a final time before heading out to meet them. Genevieve looks stunning in a white pantsuit and glittering jewelry. There’s an expensive purse from a brand I don’t recognize flung over her shoulder. She looks out of place in my tiny reception area, which isn’t even big enough for a desk, and I don’t have an actual receptionist. Only chairs. I end up seeing half my clients for free or reduced costs because it’s not fair that the only people with access to expert help are the ones who can afford to pay for it.
She takes in the room in one quick swoop, trying to hide her judgment and apprehension. Mason towers above her with his arms crossed, bouncing on his heels in a pair of gleaming white Nike running shoes. His red noise-canceling headphones are strapped to his head.
“Hi, darling.” She greets me with a huge smile and throws her arms around me for an awkward hug.
“Hi,” I say, stepping back and straightening myself uncomfortably.
She reaches for Mason’s hand and gives it a squeeze. “Mason, honey, say hello to Ms. Walker.”
“See you next Wednesday,” he says in a high-pitched, feminine voice that I wasn’t expecting. He doesn’t look up when he says it. His gaze stays stuck on the floor.
“It’s nice to see you again. I don’t know if your mama has told you or not, but I am going to do some stuff that feels like school with you today. We’re going to be—”
Genevieve interrupts me, waving off my explanation with her hand. Diamonds sparkle on her fingers. “Oh, please, you don’t need to waste your time explaining all that to him. He’s been through this lots of times, haven’t you, Mason?” She nudges him in the side.