It took Julia a moment to process what had just happened. She still had custody of Alice—for now, at least.
She heard John talking to Ellie about the logistics of visitation.
Julia knew all that. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d been appointed guardian ad litem to protect a child’s interests.
She eased away from the desk and started to leave the courtroom. In the back, by the doors, she saw Max waiting for her.
Then someone grabbed her arm. The grip was a little too tight.
George Azelle pulled her aside. His Hollywood smile was gone, watered down now by failure. In his eyes was a sadness she hadn’t expected. “I need to see her.”
She had no choice but to agree. “Tomorrow. But I won’t tell her who you are. She wouldn’t understand, anyway. We’re at 1617 River Road. Be there at one.” She pulled free of his arm and began to walk away.
He grabbed her again.
She looked down at his long, tanned fingers, wrapped possessively around her bicep. He was a man used to taking what he wanted; he didn’t care much about crossing personal space boundaries, either. “Release me, Mr. Azelle.”
He complied instantly.
She expected him to back away—cowards who were called out usually did, and men who beat their wives were always cowards and bullies—but he didn’t. He stood there, towering over her and yet cowed somehow, bent.
“How is she?” he asked finally.
She would have sworn there was a fissure in his voice, that the words hurt him to say. Murderers and sociopaths were often great actors, she reminded herself. “It’s about time you asked that.”
“You think you know me, Dr. Cates. The whole world does.” He backed away, sighing, shoving a hand through his hair and pulling his ponytail free. “Christ, I’m tired of fighting a war I can’t win. So just tell me: how’s my daughter? What the hell does developmentally delayed mean?”
“She’s been through hell, but she’s coming through. She’s a tough, loving little girl who needs a lot of therapy and stability.”
“And you think I’m unstable?”
“As you’ve pointed out, I don’t know you.” She reached into her briefcase and withdrew a stack of videocasette tapes, which she handed to him. “I made these for you. They’re tapes of our sessions. They will answer some of your questions.”
He took them cautiously, as if he were afraid the black plastic would burn him. “Where has she been?” he finally asked. This time his voice was velvety soft; she was reminded of his Louisiana roots. According to the trial transcripts, he’d been raised dirt poor in the bayou.
“We don’t know. Somewhere in the woods, we think.” Julia wouldn’t let herself be fooled by the concern in his voice. He was playing her; she was sure of it. He wanted her to think he was a victim in this, too. “But I suspect you know that.”
Ellie came up beside Julia, touched her arm. “Everything okay?”
“Mr. Azelle was finally asking about Alice.”
“Call me George. And her Brittany.”
Julia flinched at the reminder. “She’s been Alice to us for a long time.”
“About that . . .” He looked at both of them. “I want to thank you both for taking such good care of her. You literally saved her life.”
“Yes, we did,” Julia said. “I’ll see you tomorrow at one, Mr. Azelle. Promptly.”
Julia nodded and walked away. It was a moment before she realized that Ellie hadn’t followed her.
She glanced back. George and Ellie were talking.
Peanut came up to her, nodded back toward Ellie and George. “That’s trouble,” she said, crossing her arms. “Your sister can turn to Jell-O around a good-looking man.”
“I hope not,” Julia said, feeling exhausted suddenly. “But maybe you should go eavesdrop.”
“Glad to,” Peanut said, and she was off.
Sighing, Julia walked to Max, who was waiting for her at the back door.
TWENTY-THREE
MID-AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT, AS UNCERTAIN AS TOMORROW, shone through the small barred window and landed in a puddle on the hardwood floor.
The girl on the narrow twin bed whined like any other child at naptime. “No sleep. Read.”
From his place just outside the bedroom door, Max heard Julia say, “Not now, honey. Sleep.”
Very quietly, she began to sing a song that Max couldn’t quite hear.
It made him recall another life; in that one, the woman sitting on the bed would have had dark brown hair and the child would be a boy named Danny.
One more story, he would have said, that little boy they’d called One-More Dan and Dan the Man.
Max went downstairs. In the kitchen, he rifled through the cupboards until he found coffee. Making a pot, he then returned to the living room and made a fire.
He was on his second cup of coffee when Julia finally came downstairs. She looked worn; he would have sworn her cheeks were streaked by tears. He wanted to go to her, hold her in the way she’d held Alice and promise her that everything would be okay, but she looked too fragile to be touched. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” he said instead.
“Coffee would be great. Lots of milk and sugar.”
He went to the kitchen, poured another cup of coffee, doctored it for her, and returned.
She was sitting on the hearth, with her back to the fire. Her blond hair had come free from the twist she’d had it in. Now, pale tendrils fell around her face. The area below her eyes was puffy and shadowed, her lips were pale.
“Here.” He handed her the coffee.
She gave him a fleeting look, a flashing smile. “Thanks.”
He sat down on the floor in front of her.
“I want him to be guilty.”
“Do you? Really?”
Her face crumbled at that. She sighed and shook her head. “How can I want it?” she whispered. “It would make her dad a monster. No child deserves that. As her doctor, I want him to be a loving parent, wrongly convicted. As her mother . . .” She sighed.
He had no words to give her. They both knew that either way, Alice—Brittany—would be wounded. She would either lose the woman who’d become her mother or be taken away from her biological father. Maybe that wouldn’t hurt her now, when she couldn’t understand what it meant, but someday she’d feel the loss. She might even blame Julia for it. “She needs you; that’s all I know, and you need her.”
Julia’s gaze met his. She slid off the hearth and knelt in front of him. “I want to wake up and find that this was all a bad dream.”
“I know.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. He felt turned inside out by that kiss, broken.
Now that he’d started feeling again, he couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. He drew back just enough to look at her, and whispered, “You told me once I could have all or nothing from you. I choose all.”
She tried to smile. “It took you long enough.”
WHEN GIRL WAKES UP, SHE GOES TO THE WINDOW AND STANDS THERE, staring out at the yard. She loves these new words, especially when she adds my in front of it. This word means something is hers.
There are hundreds of birds in her yard right now, though not so many as there will be when the snow is gone and the sun is hot again. Down below, lying on top of the melting snow, is a pink flower.
Maybe she should bring it inside. That would make Jewlee smile, maybe, and Jewlee needs to smile more.
She tries not to think about that, but already it is too late. She is remembering last night, when Jewlee held Girl so tightly she had to push her away . . . and how Jewlee’s eyes had watered at that.
Lately, Jewlee’s eyes water all the time. This is a Bad Thing. Girl knows this. Although it now seems long ago that Girl was in the deep forest, she sometimes remembers Him. And Her.
Her’s eyes watered more and more . . . and then one day she was DEAD.
The memory of it is terrifying. Before, in days past, Girl would have howled now, called ou
t to her friends in the deep woods.
Use your words.
This is what she must do now. Using her words is a Good Thing that makes Jewlee happy. But which words? And how can she put them together? How can she tell Jewlee how it feels to be warm . . . to not be afraid anymore. These words are too big; too many are needed. Maybe she’ll just hold Jewlee extra tightly tonight and kiss her cheek. She loves it when Jewlee does that to Girl at bedtime. It is like a bit of magic that makes Girl dream of the pretty things in her yard instead of how she used to sleep in her cave, freezing cold and all alone.
She hears the door to the bedroom open and close. Hears footsteps.
“You’ve been standing at that window a long time, Alice. What do you see?”
Is that a bad thing? There are so many rules in this place. Sometimes she can’t remember them all.
She turns to Jewlee, who looks like a princess in one of the books they read. Still, Girl can see the water trails on Jewlee’s cheeks and it makes her feel sad inside, like the rabbit who’d been forgotten by his little boy in the story. “Bad?” she wonders. “No window stand?”
Jewlee smiles, and just like that, Girl feels happy again. “You can stand there all day if you like.” She goes to the bed she sleeps in and sits down, putting her legs out on top of the covers.
“Book time?” Girl hopes, reaching for the story from last night. Grabbing it, she rushes over to the bed. “Teeth, first?” she says, proud of herself for remembering. It is hard to think of such things at story time.
“And pajamas.”
Girl nods. She can do it all—go potty, brush her teeth, and put on the pink jammies with the stiff white feet. Then she is on the bed beside Jewlee, tucked in close.
Jewlee pulls her sideways, settles Girl on her lap so they are nose-to-nose. Girl giggles, waiting for kisses.
But Jewlee doesn’t do that. She doesn’t smile. Instead, very softly, she says: “Brittany.”
The word hits Girl hard. It is what Him used to say when he was mean and wobbly from the stuff he used to drink. What does Jewlee mean? Girl feels the panic growing inside her. She scratches her cheek and shakes her head.
Jewlee holds Girl’s hands in hers and says it again.
“Brittany.”
This time Girl hears the question in the word. Jewlee is asking her something.
“Are you Brittany?”
Had those other words been there all along, only drowned out by Girl’s heartbeat?
Are you Brittany?
Brittany.
The question is like a fish swimming downstream. She grabs onto its tail, swims with it. She gets an image of a little girl—tiny—with short, curly black hair and huge white plastic underwear. This baby lives in a white world, with lights everywhere and a soft floor. She plays with a bright red plastic ball. Someone always gives it back to her when she drops it.
Where’s Brittany’s ball? Where is it?
She looks at Jewlee, who is so sad now it makes Girl’s heart hurt.
How can Girl tell her how happy she is here, how this is her whole world now and nothing else feels right?
“Are you Brittany?”
She understands finally. Are you Brittany? Very slowly, she leans toward Jewlee, gives her a kiss. When she pulls back, she says, “Me Alice.”
“Oh, honey . . .” Jewlee’s eyes started leaking again; she seems to shrink. She pulls her into her arms, holding her so tightly that Alice can hardly breathe. But she laughs anyway. “I love you, Alice.”
She says it again, just because she can, and because it makes her feel like she can fly. She isn’t just Girl anymore. “Me Alice.”
AT HER DESK IN THE STATION HOUSE ELLIE STARED DOWN AT THE HUGE array of papers spread out in front of her. The tiny black letters swarmed the pages, blurred. She shoved the pile aside, feeling a ridiculous satisfaction when the papers fluttered to the floor.
She got up from her desk and left her office. There, alone amidst the empty desks and quiet phones, she paced back and forth.
Back and forth.
What now?
All of their investigations had led them nowhere. There was no way they could convince the court that George Azelle was an unfit parent.
Julia—and Alice—were going to lose.
Ellie went to the secret cabinet in the back room and grabbed a bottle of scotch so old it had once belonged to her uncle. “Thanks, Joey,” she said, nodding as she poured herself a drink. At the last minute she decided to take the bottle back with her. Switching on the light, she sat down at her desk in the main room and sipped her drink.
What now?
It kept coming back to that, like bits of flotsam circling a drain.
She was just pouring another drink when the door opened.
George Azelle stood there, wearing faded designer jeans and a black suede shirt that was open just enough to reveal a triangle of thick black chest hair.
“Chief Barton,” he said, stepping in. “I saw the light on.”
“It is the police station.”
“Ah. So you’re always here at midnight, are you? And drinking?”
“These are hardly ordinary times.”
He nodded toward the bottle. “Do you have a second glass?”
“Sure.” It wasn’t exactly professional, but she was off duty and right now she didn’t care. She went into the kitchen, got him a glass and ice and returned to her desk. In her absence, he’d dragged a chair over to sit across from her. She handed him the glass. The ice clinked against the sides.
She studied him closely, noticing the shadows beneath his eyes that told of sleepless nights; the thin strips of scarring that lined the inside of his left wrist. Sometime, long ago, he’d tried to kill himself. “I love her, you know. Regardless of what you think you’ve learned from all those reports on the floor.”
His words struck her deeply, found a soft place to land. They were compelling; no doubt as he’d intended. She leaned back from him, needing distance between them. “Tell me about your marriage.”
He gave a negligent flick of the wrist. The movement was strangely seductive. She was reminded of some rich, idle Lord of the Realm. “It was terrible. She slept around. I slept around. We fought like crazy people. She wanted a divorce. It would have been my third.” He smiled disarmingly. “I’m a romantic, in my way.”
Ellie knew about that kind of faith. A believer, she thought, like me. She pushed that comparison away. “And where is your wife now?”
“I don’t know. If you’re wondering why I sound so emotionless when I answer, remember that I’ve been answering that question for years. No one ever likes my answer. I thought she took Brittany and ran off with some new man.”
Ellie watched him talk. There was something deeply seductive about him. Maybe it was in the tone of his voice, so soft and confident, or the way his lilting accent made every word sound carefully considered. “Did you testify in your own defense?”
“’Course not. The lawyers said there was too much to cross-examine me on. I wanted to. I would have been convincing, too. I thought about that a lot in prison. Regrets keep you company in there. I paid a fortune to private investigators. The best lead came from that flower delivery man who reported seeing a man in a yellow slicker and Batman baseball cap sitting in a van across the street from my house.”
“And?”
“And we never found him.”
“So you wish you would have testified.”
“I didn’t know how it would . . . stay with me. People think I’m a monster.”
“Is that why you’re here? To use Alice—I’m sorry, Brittany—to prove your innocence?”
He gazed at her; there was no smile on his face now, no hint of it in his eyes. He looked as honest as a man with a deeply troubled past could look. “When the world sees that she’s alive, they’ll have to question all of it.”
“But she’s already been so hurt.”
“Ah,” he said quietly, sadly. “So have I.”
“My child,” he reminded her, and at that, she saw past the regret, past the sadness, to a wounded man who would do anything to have his way.
“I don’t think you understand how traumatized she’s been. When we found her, she was practically wild. She couldn’t talk or—”
“I’ve read the newspaper accounts and watched the tapes. Why do you think I’m talking to you? I know your sister saved Brittany. But she’s my daughter. You have to know what that means. I’ll get the best help for her. I promise you.”
“My sister is the best, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. If you love Alice—”
He stood up. “I should leave now. I thought if you knew how much I love my daughter, you’d be a cop. But you’re Julia’s sister, aren’t you? This is one more place I won’t find justice.”
Ellie knew she’d gone too far in questioning his love for his daughter. “You’ll ruin her,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Chief Barton. I truly am.” He walked over to the door, yanked it open. Then he paused, looked back. “I’ll see you—and Brittany—tomorrow.”
Ellie let out her breath in a sigh. His words—I thought you’d be a cop—stayed with her for a long, long time.
In all the tussle of facts and emotions and fear of the past few days, she’d been focused on Alice and Julia. She’d forgotten that she had a job to do. She was the chief of police. Justice was her job.
THE NIGHT FOR JULIA WAS ENDLESS. FINALLY, SOMETIME AROUND THREE o’clock, she gave up on sleep and went to work. For hours she sat at the kitchen table, in the glow from a single lamp, reading about George Azelle.
His life was a web of innuendo and speculation. Nothing had ever been proven.
Pushing the papers aside in frustration, she put on her jogging clothes and went outside, hoping the cool air would clear her head. She would need her wits about her today. She ran for miles, down one road, up another, until she was aching and out of breath. Finally, near dawn, she found herself back on her own driveway, coming home.
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