“You’re not in trouble.” Brett leaned over and squeezed Marcie’s hand once, then let her go again. “Now, can you tell me…people were wearing costumes at this party, right?”
Marcie nodded, eager to help now, ready to answer every one of Brett’s questions.
“Who wore the wolf mask?”
She thought a minute before squeaking out a name. “Zach Danforth.”
Brett cursed silently in her head. “Are you sure?”
She nodded again, more vigorously. “We were…it was a couple’s costume. I went as Little Red Riding Hood, and he was the Big Bad Wolf.”
“You two are dating?”
“Not anymore.” She stared at her hands a second, then added, “We broke up last week.”
“But you still went as a couple to the party?”
Marcie shrugged. “Not as a couple. But neither of us wanted to come up with a new costume. I mean, we’re still friends or whatever.” Her eyes grew wide. Her lip trembled. “Did he do something to her?”
Brett leaned forward in her chair. “Why would you say that?”
Marcie shook her head and bit down on the corner of her lip.
“Do you have a reason to think he might hurt someone?”
Her cheeks flushed. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. Finally, she said, “Zach can be intense sometimes, that’s all.”
“What do you mean by intense?”
“I don’t know. He doesn’t care very much about other peoples’ feelings. That’s all I mean. He can be pretty selfish. Like if he wants something, he just takes it.” Marcie shifted in the chair. Her eyes darted toward the clock. “I have an important test next period. I can’t miss it.”
Brett nodded and let her go. She had everything she needed now.
After Marcie left, Principal London leaned back in her chair and rubbed the bridge of her nose, sighing loudly. “These girls. They try my nerves.”
Brett offered a sympathetic smile. “I don’t remember being so difficult when I was that age.”
“Oh, but we all had a little devil in us, didn’t we?” Principal London said. “I used to hem my skirts so short I was always getting sent home to change. I lit my bra on fire once too, which almost burned down the whole school.” She shook her head as if embarrassed by the antics of her younger self. “We survived, though. These girls will too.” But there was doubt in her voice and worry in her eyes. “So, you think it was Zach who did this? What now? Will he be arrested?”
Brett wished it could be as simple as that, but since Zach was a person of interest in a murder case, she would have to coordinate with Irving first. Murders took priority. Always.
“We’ll bring him in for questioning, yes,” Brett said. “But then, I don’t know. It depends on what he decides to tell us, I guess. Without any other witnesses, it will just be Elizabeth’s statement against his. If he denies it, if he tries to say it was consensual, let’s say, or that he wasn’t the one in the room with her at all, then there won’t be much we can do.”
“He’ll get away with it.” Anger simmered in Effy’s hazel eyes.
“They almost always do.” Brett hated to say it, but hated even more that it was true.
Principal London sighed and shuffled some papers on her desk, then called her receptionist. After a few minutes of quiet back and forth, she hung up. “Not much of a surprise, but Zach didn’t make it to school today.”
“Does that happen a lot?” Brett asked.
“He has a history of delinquent behavior, yes,” Principal London said. “He’s been sent to my office more times than I have papers to file. He disrupts class, shows up late. His attendance record is scattershot. He’s truant more days than he’s here. He brought a knife to school last year, flashed it around at lunch, and made some poor freshman pee his pants. We’ve also found fake IDs in his locker on more than one occasion. He’s been suspended a few times. Practically lives in detention, though he doesn’t usually show up for that, either. D student on a good day. He’ll be lucky if he graduates.”
“His parents don’t care about any of this?”
“He’s basically on his own at his point. Single mother, but she’s been sick for a long time. I think more often than not, he’s the one taking care of her rather than the other way around. It’s too bad, really. He’s a smart kid. A lot of wasted potential there.” She rose and showed Brett out. “If you need my help with anything else, don’t hesitate to be in touch. I’ll do what I can. They may drive me crazy, but these kids, they’re like family to me.”
It was only after she was standing in the parking lot that Brett remembered Eli had dropped her off, and she had no easy way to get back to the precinct where her car was parked. She stuffed her hands into her pockets and squinted toward the soccer field where a group of pony-tailed girls jogged in a circle. A whistle blew. The girls scattered. They were all so young and vulnerable. Brett couldn’t tell one from the other, if Elizabeth was among them or not. She turned from their crackling, livewire energy, wanting nothing more at that moment than to go home, take a hot bath, drink a beer, and watch some stupid sitcom on television. She wanted to turn off her brain for a few hours and stop thinking about the many and terrible ways the world could wreck a girl. How so many were chewed up and spat out, and when Brett had a chance to do one small goddamn thing to make it right for one girl, she found her hands tied.
She was about to start walking the five miles to the precinct when Principal London came out of the school and, with an understanding smile spread across her face, walked over to where Brett was standing. “I’m heading across town to a doctor’s appointment,” she said. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”
Chapter 18
Clara came home from the grocery store to find Eli sitting on her front porch swing. He stood when she came up the steps and took both sacks from her, adjusting them to balance on his hips. She unlocked the door, and he followed her inside. He was dressed nice, and his hair was combed. She didn’t at all like the worried look on his face.
“Why are you here, Eli?” she asked as she started to unpack the groceries.
“Marshall’s still at work?” He grabbed an apple from one of the bags and sat down at the kitchen table.
“You know he is.”
“What time does Elizabeth get home from school?”
She glanced at the stove clock. “She has soccer practice today.”
“Good.” He crunched into the apple. Juice sprayed everywhere.
Clara put the milk in the fridge. “I know you didn’t come all the way over here to eat my apples and ask me about my family’s schedule. So talk. What’s going on?”
“Well.” He inspected the half-eaten apple like he didn’t quite know what it was. Then he said, “There’s something I think you need to know. It’s about Elizabeth. You’re going to want to sit down for this one, Clare Bear.”
When he finished talking, she sat a long time not moving. She stared at her hands, which were pressed down flat against the kitchen table, knuckles faded white. Her insides were shaking. She felt the tremors deep within herself, the very marrow of her bones emitting a high-frequency scream. But outside, she remained perfectly still, seemingly unaffected. Except for her hands—which gripped the table so hard that even if the world tilted sideways, she would not slide off.
“Are you sure?” She couldn’t make her voice louder than a whisper.
He must have heard the name wrong. It was some other girl, not Elizabeth. Some other Crestwood High School freshman with long brown hair who had gotten herself into this mess. He was mistaken; that’s all this was. But even as she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew he was telling the truth.
“And you said this happened Saturday night?”
Eli nodded.
Elizabeth had told them she was spending the night at June’s house. In the past, Clara would have called to check up on her, but she’d been trying to give her more independenc
e. She thought of the next morning when Elizabeth came home wearing those strange sweatpants, looking tired like she hadn’t slept at all. Clara hadn’t pushed because Elizabeth was fourteen and, according to Marshall, entitled to privacy and secrets of her own. But this was the trouble with secrets, wasn’t it?
Someone always got hurt.
Clara remembered the blood stain she’d found on Elizabeth’s favorite skirt, and her grip on the tabletop tightened. Her daughter hadn’t started her period at all. Her daughter had been assaulted at a party. And that blood was from the act, the violation. That blood was Clara’s shame and her rage.
This was on her, as a mother. She should have done something to keep this terrible thing from happening. But what? If she had been paying more attention. If she hadn’t agreed to give Elizabeth more space. A laugh bubbled up in her chest, but she shoved it down. Don’t worry, Marshall had insisted. Our girl is a smart girl, a good girl. But that made it even worse, didn’t it? If Elizabeth was a wicked creature, a girl with claws and teeth and a black heart, maybe she could have fought her way out.
The laugh leaked out of her in a whimper.
Eli stretched one hand across the table toward her. “So I take it she hasn’t told you or Marshall yet?”
“No.” It was difficult to talk, the words slow to form. “What should I do?”
“There’s not much you can do,” he said. “Let Brett finish her investigation. Maybe the guy will confess. Maybe there will be enough evidence to prosecute, but a lot of times, cases like this, they’re he said-she said, and they die before they ever reach a courtroom.”
“So whoever did this to her is going to get away with it? Go on with his life like nothing happened?”
“That might happen, yes,” he said. “I want to be honest with you, Clare. So you won’t be surprised later if that’s how it plays out. But Brett, she’s a good cop. A great one. If anyone can track this guy down and put his feet to the fire, it’s her.”
Clara curled her fingers, but her fists were useless in this fight.
“I have to get dinner started.”
She rose from the table, grabbed a knife from the block, laid the cutting board out on the counter, took an onion from one of the grocery bags, and cut it in half. The paper skin peeled away. Tears sprang to her eyes as she diced; she let them fall.
Eli sat another minute at the table before asking, “Do you want me to wait with you until Marshall gets home?”
“Thank you, Eli, but no. I’ll be fine. I’m sure you have better things to do than babysit me.”
She brought the knife down again and again. She was so focused on the blade, on the sound of it striking the wooden board, she didn’t hear Eli leave.
* * *
When Elizabeth was a toddler, she suffered nightmares. In the middle of the night, she would wake screaming, a sound loud and desperate enough to wrench both Clara and Marshall from sleep. They would rush to her crib, thinking the worst, but always find her safe. Her little hands reaching to be picked up, which of course they did, lifting her, rocking her, soothing her until she settled back to sleep. Once she was quiet again, Marshall would go back to his own bed. But Clara always stayed, standing over the crib, watching the rise and fall of her baby’s chest, wanting to be there in case she woke again gripped in terror.
She stood in the doorway to Elizabeth’s bedroom now. In the dark of midnight, she watched the shape of her daughter underneath blankets, the smooth rise and fall of her shoulders as she slept.
The conversation that evening had gone much better than Clara had expected. She’d taken Marshall aside to allow him the space to move through his own emotions first without upsetting Elizabeth. From disbelief to shock to rage. He had slammed his fist against the wall when she told him, but not hard enough to break the plaster. He shook out his hand, wincing, then sat down on the bed and covered his face. He breathed in small ragged sips until he was calm again and ready to talk without shouting.
At first, Elizabeth was upset that they’d found out. “Who told you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Clara reached for her, but she pulled away. “We love you so much, Elizabeth. We’re on your side. What can we do to help you?”
“Whatever you need from us,” Marshall said. “Whatever we can do to try and fix this.”
“Do you know who it was? Tells us his name.”
Eli hadn’t given Clara very many details. Only that her daughter had been raped at a party. Only that the investigation was ongoing. Clara thought if she could pull the information out of Elizabeth, somehow she could fix this. She could set the world right again.
But Elizabeth curled into herself and shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Please,” Clara insisted. “We can help.”
“I just want to forget the whole thing.” Her voice was so small and delicate, splintered through with cracks.
“You don’t have to cover for him,” Clara said, which upset Elizabeth even more.
Clara knew she’d said the wrong thing the moment the words were out of her mouth, but it was too late to take them back. Elizabeth completely withdrew from them then, saying she was tired and done talking about it. She had homework she needed to finish before bed.
Clara was about to go after her when Marshall put his hand on her arm. “Let her go.”
She wrenched away from him, angry because wasn’t that how they found themselves in this mess in the first place? Because he had said they needed to give her space? Look at what had happened when Clara wasn’t there to protect them. Look at how quickly everything fell apart.
It had been raining on the day of Lily’s funeral. Not real rain, but a gray smear, a mist that hung over everything, settling slick across the roads and seeping into the cracks. It was a mist Clara was familiar with, her whole life dampened by this same salt air, constant and corrosive, turning everything ragged and slippery. That day, the weather fit perfectly with the somber mood of lowering a tiny casket into a tiny grave.
The doctor’s words echoed in her head as the minister recited a prayer she would forget as soon as the service ended. There was nothing you could have done differently. This wasn’t your fault—nothing you could have done.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, the doctors told them, and though Clara had heard the words before, they’d held no meaning to her then. Now they were words used to explain the unexplainable—how a perfectly healthy baby stops breathing. Her perfectly healthy baby dead for no reason, through no fault of her own. No one’s fault. These things sometimes happen, and it’s terrible, but there’s nothing anyone could have done, so try not to think about it. Try to move on. But as they were driving home from the hospital, Clara clutching a blanket that still smelled like Lily, she thought of a million tiny moments that could have made a difference. A single, small choice might have changed the entire course of their lives and set them down a different path, one with a happier ending.
If Clara hadn’t had that glass of wine before she’d let Lily nurse. If they’d done three minutes more tummy time. If she’d used the regular bath shampoo instead of the new bottle she’d brought home because it was a dollar cheaper. If she’d sung “Twinkle, Twinkle” instead of “Hush, Little Baby.” God, that song was morbid. If she’d gotten up to check when she didn’t hear her baby crying for a 2 AM feeding; if she hadn’t rolled over with a shrug, thinking, Finally, she’s sleeping through the night. Finally. But Clara had been so tired. Exhausted. And Elizabeth had started sleeping longer around this age, and so she stayed in bed and sank into a deep and tranquil sleep. And as she slept, her baby lay dying.
The doctor could say what he wanted, that no one knew why these things happened, why some babies die, and others live. You couldn’t have known, he said. You did everything right, he said. Talk and talk all he wanted, Clara would never believe him. This was her fault; her past sins returned to haunt her.
Quietly, she shut Elizabeth’s door and
went downstairs to brew herself a cup of chamomile tea, hoping this would quiet her restless mind and allow her to sleep.
For far too long, she had relied on luck, even though she knew better. Good luck never lasts. She should have seen this coming. Lily, Elizabeth, they were only the beginning. She felt it then, standing in the dark kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil—how easily everything could slip away from her, how quickly the threads might unravel.
Chapter 19
There were four holding cells in the basement of the Crestwood Precinct, and on Thursday morning when Brett arrived at work, all four were empty. She went upstairs to check the three interview rooms, but they were empty too.
She didn’t understand. After Effy London dropped her off at the station yesterday afternoon, Brett had darted inside and confirmed with the front desk officer that Eli had brought a lanky, dark-haired kid in for an interview. According to the officer, the interview was still in session. Brett jotted Eli a quick message asking him to hold Zachary Danforth on suspicion of rape if they didn’t decide to hold him for murder. She made it clear to the front desk officer that it was critical Eli got the note before he released the witness. The front desk officer nodded and promised he’d pass the message along. Then, because she could do nothing until Eli was done, she’d gone home. Let the kid sit in a jail cell for one night. It was less than he deserved. She’d deal with him in the morning.
Now it was morning, and Zach Danforth was nowhere to be found.
Brett hurried into the squad room, where she found Eli standing next to Irving’s desk. The two men were deep in conversation. Eli had traded his street clothes for his patrol uniform. Irving was stiff in a mud-colored suit. A long-legged white crane with red plumage decorated his tie. Both men looked up when she approached. Eli’s warm smile quickly fell away when he saw how agitated she was.
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