“Then I suggest you walk back out that door, because this conversation never happened.”
“Oh, it happened.” Rich glances out the window. “And about twelve news outlets are witness to the fact I was here. That kid starts singing and telling everyone she meets she’s been here for days, you’re going to have a problem, too.” He moves for the stairs and I bolt to block him. “Where is she, man?”
“She’s safe.” I offer him a firm push away. “But you’re not getting to her. Back up, rewind. Give us just one more night. Believe me, we don’t want this any more than you do. But that little kid is freaked out enough. Once she sees you in all your uniformed glory, that gun you’ve got poking from your waist—she may never speak again. And child services? They’re going to hustle her out of here so fast we’ll never have access to her again. You and I both know she is our only link to Reagan.”
“Shit.” He does a little spin in a fit of frustration. Judging by that pitch in his voice, I’ve led him right to the brink of insanity. Welcome to my world, Rich. Sanity left the station about six months ago. “Do you realize the amount of evidence that might be lying out there right now? Tire tracks, hair, clothes, fingerprints. Whoever dropped her off could have littered the place with clues that might just lead right back to wherever they’re holding your daughter! But you waited—waited to call me! I’m on your side, dude.” He snatches his keys and phone off the coffee table in haste. “I’m getting a couple guys and combing the periphery.” He moves through the kitchen and heads for the door. “I’m walking back in here tomorrow, and you are going to have one fucking surprise for me.” He takes off and the door slams with a bang.
“Crap.” I lean against the wall and take a deep breath. One night. Allison had better get that little stray bird to sing. That kid knows something, and something useful had better vomit from her mouth.
* * *
In the unbearable hours of the late afternoon, with Allison and me making a mockery of ourselves in an effort to get this little whippet of a being to give up a squeak, my phone buzzes.
“It’s McCafferty.” I frown over at my wife, who now looks only vaguely at all like herself, with her electrified hair, those dark crimson circles around her eyes, her lips chalky and cracked. It feels as if we’ve been up for a week straight. Even when Reagan was a newborn, we got more rest than in this new hellish season of our lives. We had run ourselves ragged, and now we were facing a cruel end by way of delirium. Nobody could blame us for what we would do next, whatever dark and dangerous event it might be. We had formally become unhinged, lost all of our screws and marbles at the very same time. There was nowhere to go but down. And just when you think you’ve hit rock bottom, the floor gives way again. “She wants to stop by.”
“No.” Her voice is demonically hoarse.
Ota stares at the two of us with those dark ovals she sees the world through, her hair matted on one side from leaning against the wall. She’s still adding to her art collection, albeit slowly, and every now and again she takes a hearty bite of her crayon and chews it, pink, then yellow, then green. Neither Allison nor I say anything about it. She’s hungry and she smells that feast Allison has just out of reach. She’s bound to say something soon. Or at least she’d better.
I text McCafferty back and let her know we’re too tired to play her reindeer games today. Try again tomorrow. If I could keep everyone at bay another twenty-four hours, I might just have all I need to get my baby back.
Ota reaches into the crayon box and pulls out a pristine white stick of wax, miraculously unbroken from the snapping spree she went on earlier. She takes her tiny fingers and begins to work the paper off—quickly, like unwrapping a candy bar. I wonder what appeal she sees in this one. White the color of marshmallows, the color of taffy. Maybe it will have peanut butter in the center to offset that cruel craving we’ve invoked in her. God, we never even asked if she had a peanut allergy. We could have killed her and been harboring a corpse. But thankfully, she’s fit enough to eat all the peanut butter she wants and starved enough to desire it. Hell, I’m about to scarf one down myself or twelve.
Ota gives both Allison and me a bored glance before bringing the crayon to her lips, and without offering it another thought I pluck it from her.
She takes an audible breath, almost as good as speaking in my book. Her fingers dive back into the bin, but I swipe the box off the table and land it by my feet.
“Just a few words, Ota.” It comes out far more stern than I had hoped it would. “Tell us where they took you. How many were there? Are they your parents? Your family? Because if they are, they won’t get in any trouble. I can promise you that.” I’m lying. I think we both know that, but for better or for worse, this little girl is as close as I’m getting to hostage negotiations for my daughter.
Her gaze lingers over mine, angry, hesitant, but mostly I fear she’s regretful that she ever came back here. Maybe she expected us to call the cops, too.
Allison leans in and strokes Ota’s hair back, exposing a wall of a forehead, smooth and unblemished. I hope when she’s my age this episode plays back and steals her youth like it did mine.
“It’s okay,” Ally whispers in a soothing tone that has no basis in reality at this point. “It’s all going to be all right.”
I’m not sure whose lies she appreciates more right now, Ally’s or mine.
Ota brings her close-fisted hand over the table, floating across it with the grace of a cheap Vegas magician, and with a pop unfurls her fingers, exposing a broken purple crayon. There’s a defiance in her eyes, an arrogance that screams I have the upper hand, suckers. I have the ability to raise or deplete you. After all, I’ve already defeated you.
She plucks a crisp piece of paper from the quickly dwindling ream and proceeds to create a series of circular shapes until it becomes obvious she’s spelling something. Spelling her name. Otaktay. Then with the feathery grace and ease of a true artist, she draws an eye in each rounded letter, one in the O, one in each A.
“Otaktay.” Allison bites down over a smile. “It looks as pretty as it sounds.” Liar. It’s bad pig Latin. We’ve both firmly established that. But Allison is willing to strip the moment of any porcine implications just to move things the hell along. And I’m right there with her.
“Very pretty,” I echo. “How do you say it? Let me hear you say it.” For God’s sake, use those vocal cords for something. I’m beginning to think she had them removed, and for a second I imagine Reagan tied up in some barbaric lab with metal tongs reaching down her throat. The thought makes my gut wrench, my eyes water, and I shake my head hoping to evict the image.
Allison knocks my foot with hers. “These eyes.” She touches over the first one. “There are three of them, just like there are three of us!” Her voice rises with elation at the thought. “I see you. James sees you. And you, Otaktay, you see us.”