Chương 6
A clinic nurse.
Her name was Joanne Ellis.
She worked at the orthopedic office that had fitted Maya’s boots.
When detectives contacted the clinic, Joanne remembered Grant.
Not because he had threatened anyone.
Because he had been irritating.
“He kept asking whether she could take them off at night,” Joanne said.
The detective leaned forward.
“And what did you tell him?”
“That he should follow the orthopedic provider’s instructions. The specifics depended on what they were treating.”
“Did he ask anything unusual?”
Joanne thought.
Then she said, “Actually, yes.”
She turned toward her computer.
“I put it in a telephone note.”
The note was dated nine days before the emergency visit.
Grant had called because Maya complained the right boot was “pinching.” Joanne advised him to inspect the sock, skin, fit, and lining and to stop using the boot until they could assess it if anything seemed wrong.
Grant had responded that there was nothing wrong with the boot and said Maya “complained about everything.”
He called again two days later.
This time he said Maya was refusing to wear the right boot.
Joanne offered an appointment.
Grant declined.
He asked whether children could damage the lining by “digging at it.”
Joanne told him that if the boot was damaged, they needed to examine it.
Again he declined.
The notes were ordinary.
That made them powerful.
Nobody had written them expecting a criminal case.
No investigator had asked leading questions.
No doctor had reconstructed them after the screws were discovered.
They were simply there.
A record of Grant being told, twice, to bring the boot in if something was wrong.
He had not.
At the hospital, Maya did not know any of this.
She knew Aunt Leah had bought her new pajamas from the gift shop even though they cost too much.
She knew Rachel had returned for her night shift and brought a different donut badge reel because Maya had called the old one ugly.
She knew Grant had not come back.
That last fact made sleep difficult.
Children did not always relax when a threat disappeared.
Sometimes disappearance created its own terror.
Maya woke at 2:13 in the morning and asked Rachel whether her father was dead.
“No,” Rachel said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did he get hurt?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Is he mad?”
Rachel sat beside her.
“I don’t know.”
“He gets mad when he has to wait.”
“He may have to wait quite a while.”
Maya turned onto her side.
“What if he thinks I ruined everything?”
Rachel considered the safest answer she could give.
“What happened with the boots is not something you caused by telling us.”
Maya stared at the rail.
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rachel looked at her.
“No.”
“What?”
“No, I don’t think you ruined everything.”
“But things are ruined.”
“Some things are changed.”
“That means ruined.”
“Sometimes.”
Maya pulled the blanket to her chin.
“Dad says people change words when they don’t want to say the bad one.”
Rachel gave a tired little smile.
“He’s not completely wrong about that.”
Maya looked surprised.
“You think he’s right?”
“About that one thing.”
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s bad.”
Rachel rested her forearms on her knees.
“People aren’t math problems, Maya.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone can say something true and still do something harmful. Or love somebody and still hurt them. Or be funny sometimes and scary other times.”
Maya went quiet.
“Dad makes good pancakes.”
Rachel nodded.
“That can be true.”
“He burns the first one every time.”
“That sounds less good.”
“He says the first pancake is a sacrifice.”
Rachel smiled.
Maya smiled too.
Then she whispered, “I still want pancakes.”
“You’re allowed to.”
The next afternoon, Maya participated in a forensic interview at a child advocacy center connected to the investigation.
Nobody from the hospital went into the interview room with her.
That frightened her.
Leah drove with Dana and waited outside.
Rachel had told Maya before discharge, “You do not have to be brave the whole time.”
Maya had asked, “How much of the time?”
Rachel said, “None, technically.”
That answer stayed with her.
The interviewer, a woman named Grace Holloway, explained that she would ask questions and Maya could correct her, say she did not understand, or say she did not know.
Maya tested this immediately.
“What color is my shirt?” Grace asked.
“Purple.”
Grace was wearing green.
“Okay.”
“You’re supposed to tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Good.”
Maya narrowed her eyes.
“That’s a weird game.”
“It is.”
“Adults make weird games.”
“I agree.”
That helped.
At first Maya talked about school.
She liked art.
She hated multiplication tests.
A boy named Connor chewed pencils and denied it even when yellow paint was stuck between his teeth.
She said Aunt Leah used to take her to a diner where the ketchup bottle made a fart noise if you squeezed it wrong.
Then Grace asked about the boots.
Maya stopped swinging her feet.
She looked toward the door.
“Do I have to?”
“You don’t have to tell me something just because I ask.”
Maya pressed her hands between her knees.
“If I tell you, do I have to tell it again?”
“Other people may need information later, but part of my job is to make it so you don’t have to repeat everything to lots of different people.”
“That’s what Dr. Cole said.”
“Who’s Dr. Cole?”
“The doctor with crooked glasses.”
Grace smiled.
Maya did not.
“He cut my boot.”
Grace waited.
Maya swallowed.
“The night before the hospital, Dad made me sit at the kitchen table.”
“What happened before that?”
“I called Aunt Leah.”
“How?”
“Mom’s old phone.”
Grace did not interrupt.
May you like
Maya had found the phone months earlier in a box of Allison’s belongings Grant kept in the hall closet. It had no active cellular service, but when connected to the house Wi-Fi, some apps still worked.
Maya had remembered Leah’s email address because it contained the word buttercup, a nickname Allison had hated.
