She’s been doing my “Making Friends and Staying Safe” group since she was in kindergarten. Children with developmental disabilities are at an increased risk for victimization, so at least once a year I facilitate a group for kids and their caregivers on how to reduce that likelihood. Harper knows more about body rights and personal safety skills than most adults. Dad will make sure he shows them how to use TouchChat, too, so she’ll be able to speak in pictures, since that’s her preferred language.
I’ve imagined this moment with Harper so many times before that it’s filled with a strange déjà vu feeling. No awareness of her body and little reaction to physical pain means she’s continually covered in bruises in various stages of healing. I’ve always worried someone would notice and report their concerns to authorities because that’s the right thing to do when a child continually shows up with bruising. I was especially paranoid when she was still mainstream in school, but it’s better with her current teachers. They’re more understanding because they know her and her issues, but other people don’t have that same awareness. At least I don’t have to worry about Harper answering their questions. She’s had plenty of practice.
“It’s going to be okay.” Dad’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
“I know.” I sigh. “Part of me wishes I’d never gotten involved in any of this in the first place.”
“Maybe it’s time to think about getting out. Seems like this might be crossing the line into some pretty personal spaces,” he says softly.
He’s right. This case has consumed me, and Genevieve’s intent on making me pay for my involvement in Mason being taken away from her. I want to step away. I do. And I probably should, but I can’t. Not when an innocent kid is caught in the middle of this web. Even if he’s not mine. It’s my job to give voice to the voiceless.
THEN
Just like this. Peekaboo. Baby.
Peekaboo baby. I see you.
That’s all you have to play.
I don’t want to play anymore. I keep telling her that. She doesn’t listen.
You.
Can’t make me.
Liar. Liar. Pants on fire.
Ask. Me. About it. Please. I want to tell you.
Just this once.
Don’t make me go silent.
Not again.
You promised.
Just this last time.
One more time you said.
Not two. Not three. Not four or five.
Just one you said.
But we aren’t done.
You never stop. Not once.
Can we be done?
I don’t want to play. This game.
I never did.
TWENTY-NINE
GENEVIEVE HILL
I hope she’s over there crying a bucket of tears in her wine tonight. Serves her right for thinking she can stick her nose into where it doesn’t belong. The look on her face when I told her about Savannah was priceless. She has no idea everything I’ve been through with that girl. I bet she thinks twice before agreeing to another one of Detective Layne’s plans.
I’m so sick of him too. He’s just a big old dumb idiot who thinks he’s smart because he was good in football during high school and everyone worshipped him. He can’t see anything. Not even the things that are right underneath his nose.
There’s no way he’s keeping us safe. That much is for sure.
I tried calling the man on the card back. That’s the only way this ends, and I need this to end. I can’t go on like this. But the number has been disconnected or no longer exists. I wish there were a way to make him no longer exist. I wasn’t kidding when I said it.
I need to get out of here. The walls of the living room breathe. It’s like they’re coming to swallow me whole. Everywhere I turn, there’s another picture of what used to be my life. The tears bubble up my throat. John. My sweet John. Our sweet, beautiful life.
That terrible man has heaved all the memories to the surface. He doesn’t know how hard I work to keep them shoved down. Because if I don’t? Then all I do is miss the loving way John used to kiss me every day before he walked out the door for work and every evening when he got home at six. How he used to make me sit on the couch when I was spinning my tail off over something stupid, and he’d rub my feet until I calmed down. He was so good at getting the knot that settles in my arch, where I carry all my stress. How he smelled when he’d come in from playing tennis outside. I just—
I slap my thighs to stop the memories.
“No, Genevieve. Just no.”
I picked myself up from that emotional heap six years ago, when I didn’t think I’d be able to stumble out of that shock, and I barely made it. I’m not falling down again. I can’t.
I know what I have to do. It won’t be easy. It never is, but this has to end, and we’re ending it on my terms.
THIRTY
CASEY WALKER
It feels so wrong to be here. I’ve never seen a child without the consent of one of the parents. Detective Layne assured me it was fine since I’m a consultant on the case and it’s part of the investigation, but I emailed one of my old professors from graduate school just to make sure. I wasn’t about to accidentally break any laws.
The young woman who answered the door seemed nice enough, but I don’t trust foster homes, and it’s been a long time since I’ve been inside one. When you start graduate school, everyone thinks of the world so differently. You have this idealistic view that there’s this beautiful system put in place by the government and, ultimately, the universe that’s designed to keep kids safe and bring people to justice. It only took a few months in actual practice for my entire perception and worldview to shift. Not just on foster care; it made me question everything. Seeing humanity at its worst has that effect on people, and you never know how you’ll respond to a child who’s been kept in a cupboard and fed dog food until you meet your first one. Lots of people change programs or majors because they can’t make the shift.
I shove my past experiences aside and try to focus as a young man heads down the hallway in long strides. He’s younger than the woman who opened the door—tall and lean with a short fade and dark-brown eyes framed in thick lashes. He sticks his hand out. “I’m Sam, and you must be Ms. Walker?”