Chương 8
“Was that before the neighbor found him?”
“About nineteen minutes before.”
Natalie looked at Eli, who was whispering something into Moss’s torn belly.
“Nineteen minutes,” she said.
“Based on the emergency call, yes.”
“They knew where he was.”
“That’s our position.”
“What were they doing for nineteen minutes?”
“Your mother made two calls. One to your sister’s attorney. One to an insurance representative.”
Natalie blinked.
“Insurance?”
“The jewelry was insured.”
The outline became visible.
Evelyn had not merely delayed because she panicked. She had used the delay to prepare two stories at once: one about a missing child and another about stolen jewelry.
Rourke continued. “Your mother reported the blue box missing at four-eleven through the insurer’s emergency line. She described a possible burglary.”
“With Eli outside?”
“Yes.”
Natalie felt something inside her grow very still.
“She thought she could make Vanessa look like a witness to a burglary instead of the person who took it.”
“We believe she intended to report the theft without naming your sister. The open back door, the missing child, and the missing jewelry would support an intruder narrative.”
“But Vanessa had the box.”
“She may have planned to return it later or claim it was found elsewhere.”
“Why would my mother help her steal her own jewelry?”
“That remains disputed.”
Natalie knew before he finished speaking.
“Because she was going to collect insurance and let Vanessa sell the pieces.”
Rourke’s expression gave nothing away.
“Vanessa’s attorney has requested a meeting with prosecutors.”
“So she’s talking.”
“Maybe.”
Outside, the air had warmed. Snowmelt dripped from the hospital awning. A car horn sounded in the pickup lane and was answered by another.
Natalie buttoned Eli’s coat.
He pulled Moss closer.
“Home?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Their house felt changed, though nothing had moved.
Eli stood in the entryway and looked toward the back windows. Natalie had never considered how much of the yard could be seen from there. A wooden fence enclosed a narrow patch of winter grass. Her own small storage shed sat in the far corner.
Eli would not walk past the kitchen.
Natalie followed his gaze.
“We don’t have to go outside.”
“Can it lock?”
“The shed?”
He nodded.
“It has a latch.”
“From inside?”
“No.”
He stared at it.
Natalie took her phone and called a locksmith. By evening, the shed door had been removed from its hinges and placed flat on the garage floor.
The locksmith, a heavyset man named Carl, looked from the door to Eli and asked no questions. He charged less than the estimate and declined coffee.
After he left, Eli stood on the patio in his coat and examined the open frame.
“It can’t close,” Natalie said.
“What if it rains?”
“Then everything gets wet.”
“My bike.”
“We’ll move it.”
“The shovel.”
“The shovel has endured worse.”
Eli looked up at her. “What’s endured?”
“Managed not to complain.”
“The shovel doesn’t talk.”
“Exactly.”
He accepted this and went inside.
That night he refused his bedroom.
Natalie made a nest of blankets on the living room floor. Eli slept beside the couch with Moss under his chin. Natalie lay awake above him, listening to every shift in his breathing.
At two, he screamed.
She was on the floor before she fully woke.
Eli kicked at the blankets, eyes closed, pleading for someone to open the door.
Natalie gathered him against her. He fought her for several seconds, then went rigid.
“It’s Mom,” she said. “You’re home.”
His eyes opened.
“Where’s Grandma?”
“She isn’t here.”
“Is she mad?”
“She is not coming here.”
“Ever?”
Natalie held him tighter than she intended. He made a small sound, and she loosened her arms.
“I don’t know about ever,” she said. “But not now. Not until you’re safe.”
He began to cry then, not dramatically, but with exhausted, embarrassed breaths. Natalie sat on the rug and cried with him.
In the morning, he asked for cereal and complained that the milk tasted like the refrigerator. Ordinary irritation returned in brief flashes. Natalie treasured each complaint until the third one, when she heard herself say, “Then don’t drink it,” in the sharp voice of a tired parent.
Eli looked wounded.
Natalie closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“You yelled.”
“I did.”
“You said I’m not in trouble.”
“You aren’t. I’m tired and I used the wrong voice.”
“Grandma says people use the voice they mean.”
“Grandma says many things.”
He pushed the bowl away.
Natalie sat across from him. Neither spoke for a while. A garbage truck groaned outside, lifting bins along the street.
Finally Eli said, “Can I have toast?”
She made toast.
The criminal case moved in increments that felt insulting beside the speed of fear.
Vanessa entered a not-guilty plea. Evelyn did the same. Their attorneys issued statements asking the public to respect due process. Marjorie Vale described Evelyn as a devoted grandmother who had acted under extreme stress during a medical emergency.
Natalie read the statement at her kitchen counter while Eli attended his first trauma-therapy appointment upstairs by video. The therapist had asked Natalie to remain nearby but out of sight. She sat beneath the ceiling vent, listening to the soft rise and fall of voices she could not make out.
Rourke called.
“Vanessa wants to speak with you.”
“No.”
“She’s offering through counsel.”
“Then definitely no.”
“She says she’ll provide a full statement if you agree to hear her first.”
“That sounds like a condition.”
“It is.”
“Can she do that?”
“She can offer. Prosecutors can decline.”
“What does she want from me?”
“To know whether you’ll support treatment instead of incarceration.”
Natalie laughed without humor.
“She locked him in a shed and walked away.”
“She says she intended to return immediately.”
“She threw his dinosaur into the mud.”
“She disputes that part.”
“She wants me to soften what happened so she can feel safer telling the truth.”
“That may be what she wants.”
“And my mother?”
May you like
“Vanessa’s attorney says her statement would implicate Evelyn.”
Natalie looked toward the stairs.
