“I understand.” She didn’t want to be his next murder victim.
“I’d quit riding after that, so I wouldn’t see him anymore,” she said quickly. “He worked in the stables. I think he was some kind of handyman or something. He did other odd jobs, too, around the school.”
He. She wouldn’t say his name.
“I tried to avoid the stables as much as I could. But then one day after . . . it happened, Sister Regina Claire made our whole class go down there to lay a wreath for Lucia. And he was there. He came up and asked if he could speak to me and I had to say yes, you know, because it would have looked weird for me to say no. But I knew he couldn’t do anything, because they were watching. Anyway, he whispered that it was a shame what had happened to Lucia, and to her horse, and it would be an even bigger shame if I ever told anyone else about . . . about what we’d done, because then the same thing that happened to Lucia might happen to my parents, or Shasta—my horse.”
I felt a spurt of rage when she mentioned the horse, even though this wasn’t the first time I’d heard such a thing. Abusers often threatened to injure family members and pets in order to control a victim. They know that children worry more about loved ones than they do their own personal safety, and that pets are often as beloved as any human family member.
“What else did he say?” I asked, having a hard time keeping my voice steady.
Becca shrugged, picking at the bandage I’d affixed to her wound, attempting to peel it up from one side where the adhesive had come loose. “Just that he knew where I lived. He said it would be a shame if one day when my dad was driving to work, or my mom to the store, and their brakes didn’t work, and one of them had a terrible accident—”
I reached out and laid a hand across her fingers, stilling them before she could tear the bandage off completely, revealing the gouge marks she’d created earlier in the week.
“It’s all right, Becca,” I said, as gently as I could. “I completely understand why you didn’t tell anyone.”
“I should have.” Her voice was small. “If I had, Lucia would still be alive today.”
“Maybe,” I said, holding her hands more tightly. “Or maybe you’d both be dead.”
“That might be better,” she said matter-of-factly, looking down at the bandage. “That might be better than this.”
“No.” I held firmly to her hands, thinking of the shadows in Jesse’s eyes. “It wouldn’t. Trust me.”
“I’m a coward.” The tears fell again, hot and fast, dropping onto our clasped hands. “A stupid, weak coward. I made my parents sell Shasta. I told them I didn’t like horses anymore, which isn’t even true. I love them. I just . . . I thought Shasta would be safer living somewhere else. I even . . . this is going to sound crazy, but I still think I see him sometimes downtown, you know? I barely remember what he looks like, but I still think I see him, everywhere I go. And you know what I do when I think I see him? I hide. Even if it’s just behind a wall or a parked car. I’m so stupid!”
She tried to laugh at herself, but there was a sob in her voice. My heart wrenched for her as I remembered the word she’d carved in her arm.
“You’re not stupid, Becca,” I said. “You were a little kid who was traumatized and then did your best, given your limited resources, to protect yourself and the people you love.” I gently squeezed both her hands until, finding them finally still, I released them. “What I don’t understand, Becca, is if you kept thinking you saw him, why did you stay? Why didn’t you move away to New York with your mother, where you’d be safe?”
She blinked up at me as if astonished that anyone could ask such a silly question. “But what about my dad? He can’t leave because his company is here. So I have to stay here to make sure he’s okay.”
Of course. Indisputable kid logic. Becca could barely take care of herself, but she still considered it her job to protect her father from the man who’d killed her friend.
“Okay, Becca,” I said. “I get it. And I understand now why you feel as if you have to punish yourself by cutting your arm. But no more, all right? Jimmy will never be able to hurt you or anyone else ever again.”
She raised her tear-filled gaze to my face. “Really? Why not?”
“Because,” I said. “You’ve told me. And I’m a mediator.”
veintidos
In promising Becca that I was going to stop Lucia’s killer from ever hurting anyone else again, I may have been slightly overreaching.
I know that Becca had said she thought she’d seen him around town, and there was always a slim chance she had.