“I’m sorry,” she said, returning to the living room, blood high and with new purpose, “but it’s not a good time.”
The detectives looked up at her, half rising, then sitting again.
“We get that a lot,” Renton said, trying for a smile.
Instead of sitting, Katie rested her hands on the back of the wing chair, hiding her shaking legs behind it.
“We already told Officer Crandall everything we know. And we’re a sick house.”
We’re a sick house. Her words sounded funny to her, but they seemed to have weight, impact. That big way of talking, she’d never tried it before. Nothing on God’s green earth I wouldn’t do for my child.
“Mrs. Knox,” Furey said, his neck less pink now, expression oddly tender, “we do understand. We’re here to help you.”
She felt very tall, the detectives slunk so low on the ancient Sears sofa. She straightened her back. She would be ready this time.
“We reviewed security-camera footage of the gym lobby,” Renton said. “And you can clearly see Miss Belfour following your daughter into the locker room.”
“She was hunting her,” Katie said, “like my daughter was some kind of animal.”
“But you should know Miss Belfour’s injuries far outweighed your daughter’s,” Renton added.
“My daughter’s strong. She knows how to defend herself. Thank God.”
Her spine tight and taut, nothing they said touched her. It was like the rival gym parents at the meets, the way they would talk, trying to diminish Devon’s achievements, cast doubt. Noting the extra time Coach T. gave her, the special privileges. You had to be above all of that. Or trample it under your feet.
“And you,” Furey said, lifting his pen in the air, pointing it in her direction. “You too, Mrs. Knox. You defended yourself. Are those from Miss Belfour too?”
She followed his pen to her forearm, bare. The brown serrations etching that fish-hook scratch, elbow to wrist. Conscious of the gaping armholes of Eric’s shirt, air hitting skin, their eyes on her. Her marks.
“Of course they are. You see what Hailey’s capable of, then,” she said, discreetly displaying her forearm. Furey looked at it, noted it.
“Mrs. Knox,” Renton said, “have your daughter and Miss Belfour been involved in any back-and-forth? A kind of feud? There was talk of texts exchanged. Girls can—”
“No. Absolutely not. And, by the way, Hailey’s not a girl. She’s the adult who attacked my child. A minor. That’s what we’re talking about, right?”
“Right.”
“And she’s the adult whose car was seen at the site of her boyfriend’s deadly accident, correct?”
“That’s a separate investigation, Mrs. Knox.”
“And as for talking to my husband, he wasn’t there when my daughter was assaulted. I was. And I will tell you again what you already know. What a dozen people saw.”
She felt something stirring powerfully in her, and the words just came, her finger poking at them like Coach on the floor, To stick it, you gotta grind those baby-girl heels of yours, hand on the vault punching every word. When it hurts you know you’ve landed it right.
“That twenty-three-year-old woman, half a foot taller with at least thirty pounds on my child, a woman with a history of instabilities and juvenile delinquency, tackled her, pounded her head into the floor. Wrapped her hands around my baby’s throat. That’s what matters. And that is why you’re here, isn’t it? Because we don’t live in a place where adults are allowed to beat on children.”
Watching her, Detective Renton jiggled a pen on his knee. One of their radios crackled.
It didn’t matter that there’d been no head pounding, no hands to throat. Not like some of the fights she’d seen, long ago, waiting tables at the Magic Stick the summer after high school, or even late nights at the Kiwanis fair. That woman who’d bushwhacked her mom in the parking lot for giving her phone number to the woman’s husband. Her keys had been between her fingers, ready to pounce.
With Hailey and Devon, it was more chaotic, a blur, all elbows and knees and squeaking sneaker soles. It was blood and nails and teeth. But Devon knew how to take hits, had been taking them most of her life, chin to beam, knee to mat. The red marks from Hailey’s hoodie cord embedded in her palm were no worse than any day’s gym rips, than anything that might happen to Devon, whose body was so constantly tested, battered, shocked.
“You should know that Hailey Belfour has always been jealous of my daughter,” she went on, her voice gaining still more energy. Hands gripping the back of that ridiculous chair, still smelling of Gwen’s tuberose. Gwen was everywhere. “Of Devon’s talents, the attention she receives from Hailey’s uncle, from everyone. You see, Hailey was never a real gymnast herself. She was too big, too graceless. Maybe she watched my daughter and saw what might have been ten years ago. If she’d been a less troubled girl. If she’d had the discipline but also the innate talent. The thing Devon has that makes her exceptional.”