“When he called . . . It was a while ago now, maybe a month. It was when they still thought Andrea had died on Mount Rainier.”
“You haven’t spoken to that detective since?”
“No.”
The lack of contact confirmed for Tracy that Fields had not been working the file. “We’re exploring several different scenarios,” she said. “I was hoping to get a little background about your niece. I understand she came to live with you when she was thirteen?”
Orr set her iced tea down on a coaster. “It was just before she’d turned fourteen.”
“Your sister and brother-in-law died in a car accident.”
“Yes,” Orr said. “Christmas Eve. It was horrific.”
“And Andrea was also in the car?”
Orr nodded. “The accident was late at night on a road not well traveled. Andrea was in the backseat and barely injured, but my sister and her husband died on impact. The highway patrolman said it was one of the most gruesome accident scenes he’d witnessed in twenty years.”
“I’m sorry,” Tracy said. “How long was Andrea trapped in the car?”
“Close to two hours,” Orr said softly. “I can’t imagine what that was like.”
“How was she, emotionally, when she came to live with you?”
Orr gave the question a bit of thought. “Quiet. Reserved. She had frequent nightmares.”
“And you lived here, in San Bernardino?”
“Not here in this apartment; a home out near the foothills, until the divorce.” She picked up her iced tea and took a sip, avoiding eye contact.
“Did Andrea have counseling?”
Orr sat back, glass in hand. Her demeanor appeared to have changed, more reticent and closed off. “Yes.”
“A doctor here in town?”
“Just a few miles from here.”
“What was that doctor’s name?”
“Townsend. Alan Townsend.”
“Do you know if he’s still in practice?”
“I believe he is. I don’t know for certain.”
“Did the counseling help?”
Orr shifted her gaze to the floor and shut her eyes, but a tear rolled slowly down her cheek. Tracy gave her a moment.
“I’m sorry if this is upsetting, Penny.”
Orr nodded, but the tears continued. Then her chest shuddered. “Andrea had been through so much,” she said. “I thought the nightmares were from the accident. I didn’t know.”
Tracy put it together—the divorce, the reluctance to talk about Andrea’s counseling. “Your husband?” Tracy asked, the scenario unfortunately all too familiar.
“He was abusing Andrea,” Orr said. “It came out in her counseling. He denied it, said she’d made it up, that she lived in a fantasy world.”
“What did the counselor say?”
“It was his opinion Andrea was telling the truth. The allegation required that he contact Child Protective Services. They removed Andrea from our home. I moved out because it was quicker than waiting for the divorce to become final, and found a place on my own, a small townhome. Andrea had been sent to another home until, eventually, she came back to live with me.”
“Did you determine the truth?” Tracy asked.
“Andrea was telling the truth.”
“I’m sorry. Did you become Andrea’s legal guardian?”
“Yes. My sister and brother-in-law had it in their will and the probate court had a hearing and the judge appointed me.”
“So you could authorize the release of Andrea’s counseling records?”
“I could,” Orr said. “But why would you need them?”
“We’re exploring every potential reason why Andrea walked off that mountain, trying to understand what happened. The records might help. How was she, psychologically, when she came back to live with you?”
“Worse,” Orr said. “She became very withdrawn, very nervous. She’d pick at her skin and compulsively bite her fingernails, sometimes until they bled. She also read constantly, everything she could get her hands on.”
“Novels?” Tracy asked. “Any specific genre?”
“No, just everything and anything. Westerns, romance, sci-fi, fantasy, mysteries, detective novels. Everything. I would take boxes of paperbacks to the used bookstore every month and trade them in for another stack.”
“What did her counselor have to say about Andrea reading so much?”
“He said Andrea had withdrawn from the real world because the real world was too painful. He said books offered her comfort.”
“Did she make much progress?”
“In counseling? Some, but she left San Bernardino when she turned eighteen. I came home from work one day and she was gone. She left a note thanking me and saying she needed a change of scenery.”
“She didn’t tell you she was leaving?”
Orr shook her head. “I understood,” she said softly. “Andrea needed to make a life for herself, whatever that was going to be. She needed to get away from here, away from the memories. I understood that.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“She said she wanted to live in Portland or Seattle because it rained all the time and she could read. She said she would contact me when she’d settled.”