Chương 4
“And Taylor?”
“On his way in.”
My pulse changed.
“He came back?”
“He contacted patrol after speaking to you.”
“Did he go to the house?”
“I can’t discuss everything we’re doing.”
“Can you tell me whether anyone has secured the camera system?”
Ortega’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“Yes.”
Relief came too quickly.
Then he added, “The recorder is missing.”
The room seemed to tilt by one degree.
“Missing how?”
“The cabinet where your husband says the network recorder was kept is empty.”
“Since when?”
“We don’t know.”
“Evelyn said the cameras haven’t worked in months.”
“I heard.”
“She knew before anyone asked.”
“I heard that too.”
“What does Taylor say?”
Ortega closed his notebook.
“That he removed the recorder because it failed.”
“When?”
“He says about six weeks ago.”
“Where is it?”
“He says he threw it away.”
My laugh came out wrong.
Short and humorless.
“Convenient.”
“Maybe.”
“You believe him?”
“I believe evidence.”
I looked at the detective.
“So do I.”
“Good.”
He tucked the notebook into his pocket.
“Then don’t contaminate mine.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
“What does that mean?”
“It means don’t call Taylor again.”
“He called me.”
“Don’t answer.”
“He’s my daughter’s father.”
“And right now he’s also someone we need to interview without knowing exactly what you’ve told us.”
I folded my arms.
“What about Evelyn?”
“Same.”
“I’m not planning to call Evelyn.”
“People plan differently when they get angry.”
I almost told him he had no idea how disciplined I was.
Then I remembered the step I had taken toward Evelyn in the garage.
“All right.”
Ortega opened the door.
“One more thing.”
“What?”
“Do you know the password to the house Wi-Fi?”
“Yes.”
He wrote it down.
“What are you looking for?”
“I said one more thing, Colonel.”
Despite everything, Mara coughed into her fist to hide a laugh.
Ortega glanced at her.
She became professionally interested in her folder.
He left.
For a few seconds, neither Mara nor I spoke.
Then she said, “He does that.”
“What?”
“Ends conversations when he thinks he’s won them.”
“I dislike him.”
“You’ll survive.”
I looked at her.
“I’m beginning to dislike you too.”
“That’s usually a good sign.”
Something in my chest loosened.
Not much.
Enough to breathe.
A nurse came in and told me Lily was asking for me.
I was out of the chair before she finished the sentence.
Lily looked smaller in the hospital bed than she had in the ambulance.
They had changed her out of the damp clothes and into a child-sized gown printed with tiny green planets.
Her hair was dry now.
Her cheeks had some color.
A pulse oximeter glowed red on one finger.
“You took forever,” she said.
“I was twelve feet away.”
“That’s forever.”
“Fair.”
I sat beside her.
A muted television mounted near the ceiling showed a cooking competition.
Someone was crying over a cake.
Lily watched it for a moment.
“Why is she crying?”
“I think her frosting collapsed.”
“That’s dumb.”
“People cry about all kinds of things.”
“Did you cry?”
“Not yet.”
She considered this.
“You cry in bathrooms.”
I looked at her.
“What?”
“You cried in the bathroom when Daddy moved your boots.”
For one humiliating second, I had no idea what she meant.
Then I remembered the day Taylor packed the last of my belongings into the garage.
My combat boots had been tossed into a contractor bag with old towels.
I had found sand from Kuwait still caught in one seam.
I had gone into the downstairs bathroom and cried quietly over a pair of filthy boots because crying over a marriage felt too large.
“You heard that?”
“The fan is loud, but not that loud.”
“I’ll file a complaint with the fan company.”
Lily smiled.
The expression vanished almost immediately.
“Is Grandma here?”
“No.”
“Is Daddy?”
“Not here.”
Her eyes moved to the door.
“Can he come?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t want him mad.”
“He should not be mad at you.”
“He gets quiet.”
I waited.
“When?”
“When Grandma tells him things.”
“What things?”
“That I don’t listen.”
“Does he punish you?”
She picked at the blanket.
“Sometimes.”
“How?”
“Mom.”
The word was a warning.
I stopped.
“Okay.”
A doctor came in before either of us said more.
Dr. Patel spoke directly to Lily first, which I appreciated.
He explained that she had experienced mild hypothermia but was responding well to gradual warming.
He wanted her monitored for several more hours.
There were superficial abrasions on her hands and knees, bruising along one shoulder, and irritation on her toes that needed follow-up.
Nothing he said sounded catastrophic.
Every word sounded catastrophic.
“Could there be permanent damage?”
“At this point, I don’t see evidence of that.”
“At this point?”
“I don’t want to promise what medicine can’t promise.”
“What should I watch for?”
He listed symptoms.
I memorized them.
Then I asked how long someone her size would have to be inside a chest freezer to reach the temperature she had arrived with.
His expression tightened.
“I can’t estimate that reliably.”
“An hour?”
“I don’t know.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Sarah,” he said, gently enough that I disliked him for it.
“I need to know.”
“I understand why.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Lily turned toward me.
I saw her face and stopped.
Dr. Patel lowered his voice.
“The important thing tonight is that she was found.”
I nodded.
That was the correct answer.
It still felt useless.
He checked Lily’s chart and left.
Lily stared at the television.
The baker had fixed her cake.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to make me tell everybody?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“You’ll talk to someone whose job is to listen to kids.”
“What if I forget?”
“You can say you forget.”
“What if I say it wrong?”
“There isn’t a right way.”
“What if Grandma says I’m lying?”
My hand tightened around hers.
“She might.”
Lily looked at me.
I had expected fear.
May you like
Instead, I saw something closer to disappointment.
“She says grown-ups believe grown-ups.”
