Before She Was Found

Before She Was Found Heather Gudenkauf ‘Eerily page-turning and wonderfully twisty.’ Kimberly McCreight, New York Times bestselling authorOne of them knows what happened that night…For twelve-year-old Cora Landry and her friends Violet and Jordyn, it was supposed to be an ordinary sleepover – movies and talking about boys. But when they decide to sneak out to go to the abandoned rail yard on the outskirts of town, little do they know that their innocent games will have dangerous consequences…Later that night, Cora Landry is discovered on the tracks, bloody and clinging to life, her friends nowhere to be found. In an investigation that leaves no stone unturned, everyone is a suspect and no one can be trusted – not even those closest to her. But who would want to hurt a young girl like Cora – and why?A shocking, unputdownable thriller, perfect for fans of Claire Douglas, Lucy Clarke, Nuala Ellwood and Paula Daly. A gripping thriller about three young girlfriends, a dark obsession and a chilling crime that shakes up a quiet Iowa town, from the New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence. For twelve-year-old Cora Landry and her friends Violet and Jordyn, it was supposed to be an ordinary sleepover—movies and Ouija and talking about boys. But when they decide to sneak out to go to the abandoned rail yard on the outskirts of town, little do they know that their innocent games will have dangerous consequences. Later that night, Cora Landry is discovered on the tracks, bloody and clinging to life, her friends nowhere to be found. Soon their small rural town is thrust into a maelstrom. Who would want to hurt a young girl like Cora—and why? In an investigation that leaves no stone unturned, everyone is a suspect and no one can be trusted—not even those closest to Cora. Before She Was Found is a timely and gripping thriller about friendship and betrayal, about the power of social pressure and the price of needing to fit in. It is about the great lengths a parent will go to protect their child and keep them safe—even if that means burying the truth, no matter the cost. HEATHER GUDENKAUF is the critically acclaimed and New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence, These Things Hidden, One Breath Away, Little Mercies and Not a Sound. Her debut novel, The Weight of Silence was picked for The TV Bookclub. She lives in Iowa with her family. Read more about Heather and her novels at www.HeatherGudenkauf.com (http://www.HeatherGudenkauf.com) Before She Was Found Heather Gudenkauf Copyright (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019 Copyright © Heather Gudenkauf 2019 Heather Gudenkauf asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9781474083133 Praise for Heather Gudenkauf (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) ‘This gripping tale will keep you up all night’ Heat ‘Fans of Jodi Picoult will devour this great thriller’ Red ‘Tension builds as family secrets tumble from the closet’ Woman & Home ‘Totally gripping’ Marie Claire ‘An action-packed thriller’ Mary Kubica ‘Keeps you hooked right up to the last page’ My Weekly ‘A great thriller’ Radio Times ‘A real page-turner’ Woman’s Own ‘A gripping thriller’ Inside Soap ‘Deeply moving and lyrical’ Company ‘A powerhouse of a debut novel’ Tess Gerritsen ‘Heart-pounding and compelling’ Diane Chamberlain ‘If you haven’t read Heather Gudenkauf yet, now’s the time.’ Lisa Unger For my parents, Milton and Patricia Schmida – thank you for teaching me the meaning of home. Contents Cover (#u6ce04b8f-abd5-5735-8c94-5439c988526c) Back Cover Text (#uccb8a04d-3f4a-530a-b155-c60e8f5c5d65) About the Author (#uaf003b78-7a34-5e80-b3b5-c1fe31b0bf83) Title Page (#ue37f02bd-7f85-504a-86f8-cbb5341f77b5) Copyright (#u78ac4224-4639-519c-8458-5b3a35e8b2ec) Praise (#ube864217-fbc8-53e7-bbb3-77ca168b219c) Dedication (#uf9c45d06-03c9-5fbf-913d-bad463436492) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#u6e66685e-3807-5e3a-a54f-a63ecdee9098) Monday, April 16, 2018 (#ua92488e5-b44f-5574-9430-3760981383a9) Case #92-10945 (#ub30bb4de-fd2c-5789-af70-da98462ab8be) Beth Crow Monday, April 16, 2018 (#u3bff6b5c-8721-5bb2-9de9-e83e64be2045) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#udcf148d4-4b82-53fe-a76e-40d1cdb99fa3) Case #92-10945 (#u41f519f0-86b9-5b4d-9baa-4274abad89cf) Beth Crow Monday, April 16, 2018 (#u2436a4a1-4214-5d83-aa34-a71358dab92f) Thomas Petit Monday, April 16, 2018 (#u53abd558-a1a9-5445-8e73-f2d96da39849) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#ucbd3837c-c1b6-5563-943b-05bf921f8262) Case #92-10945 (#uc0b89a0f-5789-549b-892e-3b8a47eb2315) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#u225335ee-df98-5500-a6e0-c74d4670e174) Case #92-10945 (#u7e975af4-90a0-5112-89df-98dc7dcb1719) Thomas Petit Monday, April 16, 2018 (#ua12ef63e-3aba-58d0-8e2e-bb373dbd66b6) Case #92-10945 (#u0275866b-5b4e-5182-96a0-73db80df84bf) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#u3874ff5b-c81c-55c1-8754-3da373fc1887) Case #92-10945 (#ue770e11c-e1b5-56fd-9085-48e95594aade) Interview of Jordyn Petit, Pitch Police Department Officer Bree Wilson, Thomas Petit—Grandfather of Jordyn Petit (#u0a360d2d-9cd6-53c2-9cc2-757279831b49) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Monday, April 16, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Monday, April 16, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Clint Phelps, Abby Ridgewood and Ryan Maren (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Interview of John Dover, Pitch Police Department Officer Bree Wilson (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Tuesday, April 17, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Wednesday, April 18, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Wednesday, April 18, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Wednesday, April 18, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Gabe Shannon (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#litres_trial_promo) Interview of Jordyn Petit, Pitch Police Department Officer Bree Wilson, Robert Peale—Attorney for Jordyn Petit (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Wednesday, April 18, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Interview of John Dover, Pitch Police Department Officer Keith Grady (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit Thursday, April 19, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow Thursday, April 19, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Nikki Dobric, Max Crow, Clint Phelps and Ryan Moren (#litres_trial_promo) Case #92-10945 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Five months later (#litres_trial_promo) Thomas Petit September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Beth Crow September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Dr. Madeline Gideon September 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Sept 14, 2018 (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) Before She Was Found Reader’s Guide (#litres_trial_promo) Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo) A Conversation with the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Extract (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) Text Message Exchange Between Jordyn Petit and Violet Crow (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Sunday, April 15, 2018 Jordyn: Going 2 Coras at 6 Violet: Me, too. Are you going to bring it? Jordyn: Yeah Violet: R we really doing this???? Jordyn: Yes! Unless UR 2 scared Violet: What if we get caught? Jordyn: Just keep your mouth shut and we won’t Monday, April 16, 2018 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) 12:45 a.m. The air is cold, but she barely notices. It’s the dark that fills her chest with terror, makes her limbs heavy with dread. But she feels something else, too. Something that she can’t quite name. It reminds her of how she feels the night before her birthday or on Christmas Eve but not exactly the same. Thinking about her birthday and Christmas makes her feel good, warm. This feels more like slowly climbing the ladder to the high dive at the swimming pool or like when the roller coaster at Adventureland reaches its highest peak just before it plunges straight down and she just knows she is going to die. The train yard, filled with the carcasses of gutted-out buildings, is illuminated by only a wispy, wayward eyelash of a pale moon. She stretches out her neck, tilting her ear toward the tracks, hoping to get a sense as to where the others have gone but all she can hear is the wind whispering through the tall grass. Too much time has passed. They may already be looking for them. It’s now or never, she thinks nervously. She can do this; if she doesn’t he’ll never show up. That was the deal. Together in the bedroom, door locked, they planned everything so carefully right down to the day and hour. In her right hand dangles the hawk-billed knife they secretly took from a kitchen drawer. Her other arm hangs loosely at her side. At first they considered bringing a crowbar but decided that it was too big, too heavy to lift. This fits her fingers better, feels comfortable, reassuring in her palm. She will use it if she has to. Over the past month or so he’s written messages, love letters, really. Sweet, sentimental words that if she could, she would tuck inside her secret shoebox filled with lucky coins and heart-shaped rocks found over the years. But he warned her, said they could get in trouble, so instead she memorizes each sentence and murmurs them at night before she falls asleep and it’s almost as if he’s right there with her. She picks up her pace and moves toward the tracks, dulled and worn down by time and elements. The rail ties are barely visible through the weeds, half-buried sun-bleached bones. She’s breathing hard and suddenly realizes tears are rolling down her cheeks. On the opposite side of the tracks where the last year’s winter wheat stands, unsown and bent like a wizened old man, is a field that in a few months will be filled with alfalfa. There she sees something. He is hidden in the shadows but she knows it’s him. He’s come. He beckons her with a raised hand and her heart leaps. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a familiar shape sitting on the train tracks, knees tucked beneath her chin. The girl turns her head as she approaches, stretches out her legs, holds her injured arm close to her side. They don’t speak. She trusts her. Of course she does. The figure in the dry grass tilts his chin as if to say, Go ahead. Do it. I dare you. Her legs are not her own as she approaches, the knife bouncing lightly against her thigh. She stops in front of the girl who stands and smiles crookedly up at her through tears, her small teeth flashing white. Beneath her feet the ground vibrates, warning her of the coming train. She has to hurry; once the engine comes into view it will be too late. He’ll leave. In the distance a dog barks. The rumble of the train grows louder. She strikes quickly, without thinking. The cold metal rips through fabric and skin easily. She thought it would be harder, take more effort. The girl looks at her in confusion, presses her fingers to her abdomen and pulls them away. The girl looks surprised to find them wet with blood. The tracks shiver and shake with the approaching engine. The girl tries to squirm away but she yanks her backward and the slick knife slides through her fingers and to the ground; she slams the girl’s head onto the track, the rusty bolts tearing at the girl’s cheek, the delicate skin below her eye. Again and again she thrusts the girl’s head down until her muscles burn and the girl goes limp. She considers leaving her on the tracks but in a burst of adrenaline she pushes the girl off the rails. As she breathes deeply, her eyes search for him but he’s gone. He’s slipped back into the tall grass. He can’t leave her behind. He promised. A wail from deep inside tries to find its way out but she finds she can’t make a sound. The freight train bears down on her with a long mournful cry and she considers staying still, allowing the engine to pull her beneath its iron wheels, but somehow her legs carry her over the tracks. She sees herself pushing through the plumes of winter wheat, painting them red as she brushes by, and finally catches sight of him. He pauses and turns to face her. He looks pleased. Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry Sept. 5, 2017 Today was my first official day of sixth grade and it actually went really well! Middle school is a lot bigger than my elementary school because three dinky towns have to share the building. For once I’m going to school with kids I haven’t been with since preschool. The good news is I don’t have any classes with Melody Jenkins, who was awful to me during fifth grade. She’s the one who sent the top four lists all around school. I was at the top of each one. Dumbest, ugliest, weirdest, most likely to be a virgin. That last one is just stupid. I tried to not let it bother me but it did. And I only have lunch and one class with Jordyn Petit. Jordyn isn’t as bad as Melody but last year she did tell everyone that I liked Dakota Richter. NOT true! The best news is that I have lunch and social studies with Gabe Shannon, who I’ve liked forever and I think he might actually like me, too. This summer I helped my mom in the elementary school office where she’s the secretary and Gabe helped his mom set up her kindergarten classroom for the new school year. We hung out a bunch this summer and really got to know each other. Anyway, I’ve got social studies with Mr. Dover, who is cute and is supposed to be a really fun teacher, and I’m even thinking about going out for volleyball. My mom says that it’s really important to be “a joiner” in middle school in order to discover what I like to do and to meet some new people. My sister, Kendall, says that this is Mom’s way of saying, Don’t be a loser, Cora. If you don’t make some friends now, you never will. I think that Kendall is probably right. She’s super popular and pretty and outgoing. I mean, I’m not a monster, but I’m definitely not as good-looking as Kendall. I’m pretty much her complete opposite. The good thing is in middle school everyone who goes out for a sport is on the team. They don’t cut anyone, which is a huge relief because I know I’m going to be terrible at volleyball. My only other option is joining the cross-country team and I can’t think of anything worse than running on purpose. So volleyball, it is. The first practice is tomorrow. Wish me luck—I’m going to need it! Beth Crow (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Monday, April 16, 2018 I’ve been called a lot of things in my thirty-six years: trash, slut, home wrecker. And much worse. All true, I guess, if I’m being completely honest with myself. But one thing I won’t let people get away with saying about me is that I’m a bad mother. Those are fighting words. Just about everything I’ve ever done has been for my two children. I may be stupid when it comes to men but I’m a good mother. Seven months ago I quit my job as an administrative assistant at an office supply company, loaded our belongings and squeezed a reluctant Violet, a pissed-off Max and Boomer, our basset hound, into our car that was more rust than steel and began the twenty-five-hour drive northeast from Algodon, New Mexico, to Green Bay. The plan was to begin a new life with my boyfriend, Jerry, who moved there to take a job with Proctor & Gamble a few months earlier. I had some hard selling to do but by the time we reached Kansas City I almost had them convinced that even though we would be giving up Picacho Peak we would get Lambeau Field and the Green Bay Packers. And though we were trading in the Rio Grande there would be Lake Michigan where we could go fishing and water skiing. And though we would miss driving through the Mesilla Valley and seeing the fields of cotton, white, fluffy and soothing against the dusty, dry ground, once in Wisconsin we would have piles of crisp clean snow to build snowmen and have snowball fights. Max wasn’t buying it but Violet was easier to convince. Always in her own little world, Violet would retreat into her notebook of drawings and stories and a few hours later she’d look up, blinking rapidly as if trying to bring her surroundings back into focus. Max, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with the move. He was completely content in New Mexico and didn’t even try to hide his hate for Jerry. It’s to Max’s credit that he didn’t say I told you so when the car broke down in the middle of Iowa and Jerry suddenly had a change of heart and got back together with his ex-wife. Long story short, we stayed in Pitch, a dying railroad town with a population of about two thousand. We were rescued by a nice lady by the name of Tess Petit, who has a granddaughter the same age as Violet. I know I should answer the phone but for the first time in almost a year a man is beneath me and inside me. Our fingers intertwine and we move as one person. The phone rings and rings and I briefly think of my kids. Violet is spending the night at Cora’s house and Max, I hope, is fast asleep downstairs. Usually Boomer alerts me to the comings and goings of my kids but I have been a bit distracted for the past hour or so. Sam reaches out and cups my face in his palm, his fingers pressing into my cheek, keeping my eyes on his, and I push any thought of my children aside. Finally, my heart stops galloping and Sam presses his face to my neck, his beard velvety against my skin, and I remember the ringing phone. It’s late. Or early, depending on how you look at it—1:00 a.m. Way too late for any good news. “Don’t worry, they’ll call back if it’s important,” Sam murmurs in my ear, reading my mind. We doze. Then that voice, that good mother voice that I so pride myself on having says, Get dressed, you don’t want Max or Violet to see you like this. But instead I move closer to Sam all the while thinking it’s been so long since someone has held me like this. It isn’t Max or Violet or the telephone that wakes us up, it’s the sirens. At first a single alarm whoops off in the distance and then is joined by several more. I scramble from the bed, pulling the sheets around me, and run to the window and crane my neck to the left and the right, hoping to catch sight of the emergency lights. No such luck. No streetlights line our road and the houses across the street are still dark. “Max,” I breathe, somehow sure that the sirens are for him. That he has been in a car accident or is out doing something stupid—hanging out on the train tracks, drinking with friends. “Max!” I shout as I quickly throw on the clothes I wore earlier. “Max!” I move through Violet’s side of the bedroom that we separate with one of those room partitions. On my side of the partition I have pictures of Max and Violet and an old one of my parents. On Violet’s side are a few hand-drawn pictures of unicorns and fairies and landscape sketches of the railroad tracks west of town. I rush down the steps and to the family room. Max’s bedroom door is open and I slap at the light switch on the wall. His bed is unmade, but that doesn’t mean anything; he rarely makes it, anyway. I turn and push through a second door, the bathroom—empty—and a third door that leads to our narrow galley kitchen, also empty except for a few dirty plates and silverware in the sink. Max has been here between the time I snuck Sam up into my bedroom and now. “Try and call him,” Sam says, coming up behind me and laying a hand on my shoulder. His fingers feel like lead weights and I shrug them away. I suddenly want him out of my house. Gone. The sound of sirens fades and I allow myself a moment of hope. Pitch is tiny. Too little to have emergency services like a hospital or ambulance or a fire station. For these we rely on Oskaloosa to the south of us or the city of Grayling, about a half an hour northeast of Pitch. We do have a police department that consists of a chief, one full-time and two part-time officers. I run back upstairs and fumble around for my cell phone and finally find it on the floor next to the bed. I call Max’s phone and it rings and rings until it goes to voice mail. Behind me I’m aware of Sam pulling on his shoes. “No answer,” I say. I’m trying not to panic. This isn’t the first time Max hasn’t come home by his midnight curfew. I was hoping that this rural Iowa town might be good for him after Algodon where he had fallen in with a rough group—drinking, smoking and God knows what else. But I guess even Pitch has its share of wild teenagers. So now I get to worry about him being out at all hours of the night, raising hell in a cornfield or on the railroad tracks instead of in the mountains. Same problems—new setting. “He’s probably just at a friend’s house,” Sam says, pulling a sweatshirt over his head. I nod, wanting it to be true. “Do you have a picture of him? I can drive around, see if I can find him.” “No, no, that’s okay,” I tell him. “I know the places he goes.” This is not entirely true. I know that Max hangs around with a boy named Clint, who either wears the same camo pants every day or owns a pair for each day of the week. Clint, when he comes over to the house, won’t look at me and answers questions in the fewest amount of words possible. He has close-set, ferrety eyes and always has a pissed-off look on his face. I don’t know much about his family except that he lives in a trailer east of town with his mom and two brothers. “Do you want me to stay here, then? Wait and see if he comes back?” There’s no way that I’m going to leave this man alone in my home. “I think it’s best if you just go,” I tell him. “I’ll go and look for him myself. Thanks, though.” “Let me drive you around, then,” Sam says, looking at me as if he really wants to help. “You can keep trying to reach him while I drive.” He has a point. Though Pitch is just a speck on the map, I’m not so familiar with all the back roads. My thoughts turn to a girl that Max doesn’t know I’m aware of. “There’s a girl,” I say. “I think she lives out near the fairgrounds.” I think her name is Nikki. She’s pretty in a too-much makeup, overplucked-eyebrow sort of way. She comes into the convenience store where I work several times a week—Pitch Fuel and Feed. Seriously, that’s its name. She nearly always buys the same things: a can of Red Bull, cinnamon-flavored gum and a pack of powdered-sugar donuts. Sometimes she comes in by herself and sometimes she comes in with a girl of about five who has Down syndrome. I assume she’s Nikki’s sister. Nikki always waits patiently while the younger girl wanders the aisles with a dollar bill clutched in her hand. She doesn’t roll her eyes or heave big sighs when her sister chooses a pack of gummy worms, puts it back and then reaches for a bag of potato chips. The sister does this three or four times with different snacks and eventually always settles on the gummy worms. Nikki just waits, absentmindedly spinning the metal rack that holds everything from key chains to sunglasses. When her sister finally makes her decision, they lay their purchases on the counter and I ring them up. I want so badly for Max to talk to me about Nikki but whenever I ask him about his friends he just says that everyone in Pitch is stupid. I try not to push it, afraid that if I do he will stop talking to me altogether. Sam pulls open the front door for me and waits by my side as I debate whether or not to lock it. Max has a key but Violet didn’t bring hers to the overnight. “It will be fine,” Sam says. “You’ll probably only be gone for thirty minutes, tops. Your daughter’s got a phone, right?” “Yeah, but I better leave a note,” I tell him and then dash back inside and scrawl a few words on the back of an envelope. Violet, went looking for Max. Lock the door behind you if you get home before we do. Mom. Outside I find Sam sitting in his car, the engine idling. My car—not the one that we arrived with in Pitch, but one with fewer miles and fewer dents—is parked in the driveway just in front of Sam’s SUV. The night air is chilly and I wish I would have thought to grab a sweatshirt. I climb in next to Sam, who, seeing me shiver, cranks the heater to the highest setting. “Where to?” he asks. Though I’m grateful for the ride, for his willingness to come along with me on this trek, a persistent voice in my head is telling me to get out of his car and into my own. “Let’s check his friend Clint’s house first,” I say. “He lives out on Highway 162 about four miles.” Sam backs out of the gravel driveway before stopping in the middle of the street. “Or,” Sam says, sliding his eyes toward me, “we can follow the sirens. Might put your mind at ease.” His suggestion makes sense. We can drive all around the county and not come across Max, but if we go toward where we think the emergency vehicles went, then I’d know for sure that Max is safe. Or not. “West, I think,” I say and Sam throws the car into gear and tears off toward the railroad tracks that split Pitch in half. No one can say that one side of Pitch is any better than the other. The north side has the Lutheran church, the library and the Fuel and Feed while the south side has the Catholic church, the middle school and the old opera house. Both ends of town have their share of foreclosed homes. Sam turns onto Main Street and I tap my foot nervously as we pass the hardware store and an antique shop with a vintage soda machine sitting out front. He reaches for my hand and I pull it away to cover up a fake cough. I should never have invited him over. Though tonight was our first official date, Sam and I have spent time together. He comes into the Fuel and Feed twice a week—the first on his way to see his parents and the second on his way back home. He buys a cup of coffee or a pack of sunflower seeds and we talk. He learned that after coming to town, instead of fixing my car and heading on to Green Bay, I got a job at the convenience store, rented a two-bedroom house with peeling paint, no air-conditioning and a temperamental furnace and enrolled my kids in school. I learned that he grew up in Pitch, now lives forty miles away in North Liberty and works as a researcher in the College of Dentistry at the University of Grayling. Tonight, with Max out with friends and Violet spending the night at Cora’s, Sam and I drove to Washington to eat at an Italian place he knew about, and after one too many glasses of wine, we ended up in bed together. Big mistake. But big fun. We glide pass the post office and two empty storefronts with soaped-out windows and past Petit’s Bar and Grill. The closer we get to the railroad tracks, the faster my foot taps against the rubber floor mat. I want to tell Sam to turn around, to go back to the house. Max has been out all night before, shown up in the wee hours, bleary-eyed and rumpled and probably hungover, but he always comes home. I’m afraid of what I might find once we reach the police cars or ambulances. I strain to see if I can hear the sirens, even roll down the window, but all I can hear is the rumble of the car’s engine and the creak of branches rubbing against each other as we drive down Main. Sam slows to a crawl as he crosses the railroad tracks but still the car bounces and pitches as it rolls over the uneven iron rails. I expect Sam to make a left on Depot, a street that runs parallel to the tracks, but he keeps going. Once over the tracks we pass the bank and the tiny grocery store, and then three blocks filled with single-family homes. I glance down Juneberry, the street where Violet is spending the night at her best friend’s house. Cora Landry invited Violet over so they could spend their free day off school together tomorrow. I breathe a sigh of relief. No ambulances down that way. Pitch ends suddenly as if the town’s forefathers somehow knew that it would never really grow into the buzzing railroad town originally planned. Main Street turns into a country highway, treeless and lined with deep ditches and acres of farmland now hidden by the black night. The road dips and winds and gradually rises and I turn in my seat to look out the rear window. From here I can see Pitch below us. “There,” I say, grabbing at Sam’s arm. On the western edge of Pitch right along the railroad tracks and the old millwork district I see the rhythmic swirling of red lights. Sam knew exactly what he was doing coming up here. Without slowing down, he makes a U-turn and I clutch at the dash to keep myself from sliding across the seat. There is no train in sight. Surely if there was an accident with one of the freight trains that runs through Pitch four times a day, it would have stopped. Unless, of course, the engineer didn’t know that he hit someone. Sam pulls off to the side of the road and punches the hazards with one finger. “Try and call Max again,” he says and I lift the phone to my ear and this time it goes right to voice mail. “Do you want to go down there?” he asks. Apprehension, thick as mud, fills my chest. I’ve always known I would never have much money, never have a big house to live in, never have some great job, probably never get married again. And because I’ve expected so little I don’t think I’m asking too much that my kids stay safe. God and I have always had a complicated relationship, but I never held anything against Him. But if something bad happened to Max or Violet all bets are off. I don’t want to find out what’s going on down there. I will my phone to vibrate, but it stays still. “Go,” I finally say. I’m guessing that we won’t get very close to the scene, anyway, but I have to do whatever I can to find out what’s going on. Sam pulls back onto the highway and he speeds toward the train yard. He doesn’t have to worry about getting pulled over. It looks like every police officer and sheriff’s deputy in Johnson County is parked down there. In less than three minutes Sam manages to park just a block away from where all the emergency vehicles have converged. Two sheriff’s cars and the police chief’s SUV barricade the only entrance into the train yard where the depot is boarded up and empty boxcars, abandoned years ago, sit. An ambulance is parked a bit off to the side facing the road ready to leave in a hurry. A deputy strides toward us as we approach. He’s young. Tall and broad across the shoulders. His eyes dart left and right as if on the lookout for something or someone. He looks scared. Ill. “You can’t be here, folks,” he says, trying to usher us back toward the car. “We heard the sirens, saw the lights,” Sam explains. “What happened? Is everyone okay?” “Sorry, you can’t be here,” the officer says again. Behind him someone turns on their headlights and the darkened train yard suddenly comes into view to reveal a flurry of activity. A woman wearing running tights and tennis shoes is talking to another officer. With hands tucked inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt she gestures toward the tracks and then rubs at her eyes, leaving behind a streak of red across her face. “Is that blood?” I ask louder than I intend. Hearing me, the woman looks down at her hands and cries out. “Ma’am,” the young officer says more sternly, “you need to leave this area.” This is when I see the EMTs come toward us carrying a stretcher to the ambulance. A small body is strapped securely to the stretcher. My breath lodges in my throat. She is shaped like my Violet. Thin with long dark hair that could belong to Violet, too, but the child’s face is nearly unrecognizable. Bloody, swollen, grotesque. I try to push pass the officer but he steps in front of me and I bounce against his solid form and stumble backward. Sam is quicker than I am and skirts past the cop to get a better look. “It’s okay, I don’t think it’s Violet,” he calls back to me. “Are you sure?” I say, wanting so badly to believe him, but Sam hasn’t met my kids yet—how would he know? “What color is Violet’s hair?” he asks. “Black.” My heart pounds wildly. “Then it’s not her. This girl has lighter hair.” I want to cry in relief. From my spot on the hard-packed dirt I can now see it isn’t Violet. The girl’s ears do not belong to my daughter. The hair I thought at first glance was Violet’s isn’t naturally dark but slick and blackened with blood. This child looks a bit thinner than Violet. Still...there is something familiar about her, but it can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Sam comes back to my side and helps me to my feet. My stomach churns. What has happened to this little girl? What could cause this kind of damage? Not a car accident; there are no other vehicles besides the ambulance and the police cars. A fall from a bike? She’s deathly still and I wonder if she’s breathing. She looks like she could have been mauled by a dog or some other large animal. A flap of skin hangs loosely from her cheek and blood bubbles from her lips. The EMTs lift her into the ambulance and are quickly on their way and the scream of the siren once again shatters the late-night quiet. I watch as it speeds away, the tires kicking up clouds of dust, and wonder how they are going to find out who the injured girl is. I’m just getting ready to ask the cop this question when I realize that everyone else is looking back toward the railroad tracks. Another small silhouette appears. This time on foot, emerging from the tall winter wheat that fills the field on just the other side of the tracks. Again my heart nearly stops. It’s Violet. She is moving toward us as if in slow motion. Eyes unfocused, unseeing. The front of her white T-shirt blooms red. Her hands look like they’ve been steeped in blood. Something tumbles from her fingers and lands on the dirt at her feet. “Oh, my God,” I breathe. “She’s bleeding! Call another ambulance!” It feels like forever until I finally reach her. I sweep her up in my arms and run my eyes over her, searching for the source of all the blood. “Help her!” I cry, laying her gently on the ground. “Please,” I plead. “What happened?” I ask Violet. “Who did this?” Suddenly I know exactly who the other girl is. Violet’s best friend, Cora Landry. I feel arms pulling me backward and hear Sam telling me to let them do their work. Violet’s lips move but I can’t quite make out what she says. Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) September 14, 2018 Every doctor has a case that haunts them. A patient that runs through your thoughts while you sip your morning coffee, that tags along during rounds and therapy sessions. The case that sits shoulder to shoulder with you during the quiet moments and slides between the sheets with you at night and whispers in your ear, You could have done more. You could have done better. For me, that case is the girl in the train yard. She’s how I measure time. Before and after. Disorder—easy enough to define, right? A state of confusion. A disturbance that affects the function of the mind or body. Obsessive compulsive disorder, anxiety, ADHD, eating disorder, autism spectrum disorder, schizophrenia, mood disorder, posttraumatic stress disorder. And hundreds more. Every day, through a combination of talk, behavioral and pharmaceutical therapies, my primary goal was to provide an organized clinical experience to my patients in the evaluation, diagnosis and treatment of children, adolescents and their families. In the twenty-odd years I had walked the halls of Grayling Children’s Hospital, first as a medical student and then as a psychiatrist, I’d seen it all. I’ve seen children who compulsively eat dirt or paint chips or sharp tacks, and emaciated sixteen-year-olds who refuse to eat anything at all. I’ve counseled children who have been neglected, beaten and sexually abused. If it sounds like I say this with pride, I must admit that I do. Psychiatrists are scientists, after all. We are fascinated by the brain and all its intricacies. It’s not uncommon for us—in closed circles, of course—to refer to a patient by their diagnosis. I’ve got my mood dysregulation at nine and my trichotillomania at ten. We talk this way, as if the disorders are our own. It’s challenging, at times, to remain detached, to always approach each case with a clinical, dispassionate eye. We work with children, after all. It’s easy to become enamored with the idea of playing God. Desperate parents at a loss in how to help their child who is in pain. Mental anguish is just as excruciating as physical pain, if not more. The girl in the train yard. According to the referring doctor it was a simple case. I imagined meeting with the child once or twice. I would listen to her story. Certainly scary and traumatic, but not the worst I’ve encountered. I would nod my head in all the right spots and ask questions about what happened in the train yard. But not too pointed that she would shut down and not feel comfortable talking to me. I would instruct the parents on what to look for in their daughter in the coming weeks: intrusive thoughts, avoidance, negative moods, anxiety. I would tell them to seek follow-up professional care for her if any of these symptoms persisted. I wasn’t worried. I was intrigued. As I learned more I became more invested, more absorbed. Three twelve-year-old girls walk into a train yard and two come out unscathed. What doctor wouldn’t be fascinated? I often wonder what would have happened if Dr. Soto had called another psychiatrist. Perhaps the end results would have been different. But I picked up the phone and I made the long walk down to the emergency room. Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the Journal of Cora E. Landry Sept. 9, 2017 Well, volleyball lasted all of four days. I knew I would suck but I figured some of the other girls would be just as bad as me and we’d just end up on the B team. No such luck. There is no B team and I actually am the worst player. Of course Jordyn is also on the team and really good. I swear she kept serving the ball right at me and I couldn’t bump a single one. This happened like eight times in a row. At first the girls on my team were really encouraging and said, “It’s okay, Cora, you can do it!” and “Shake it off!” But after a while it was pretty clear I couldn’t do it, so they stopped saying anything. I tried, I really did. I even dove for one of Jordyn’s serves and ended up twisting my ankle. It didn’t really hurt but I started crying. Why do I do that? The coach told me to go get a drink of water and sit out until my ankle started feeling better. I sat on the sidelines the rest of practice. Afterward, when we were changing our shoes, everyone told Jordyn how good she was. No one said anything to me, not even to ask me how my ankle was. I told my mom and dad that I got hurt and didn’t think I’d be able to play anymore. Of course my dad was like, “You can’t quit! Landrys aren’t quitters. You’ll be fine!” and I had to go to practice the next day. And the next. And the next. Then it was like I had a target on me. Jordyn wasn’t the only one serving the ball right at my head. EVERYONE started trying to serve or spike the ball at me. Even the ones who are nearly as bad as I am. It was so obvious. Even Gemma, who is normally nice, got this mean look on her face just before she served. I swear she glared right at me and aimed. At that point I didn’t even try. I just stood there and the ball hit me on the shoulder. Everyone laughed. Except the coach and I bet that’s because she’s paid not to laugh at the kids. When I got in the car after practice my mom asked me how it went. I told her that I wasn’t going back. “You can’t quit,” she said and I started crying and I couldn’t stop. When we got home my mom tried to get me to tell her what was wrong but I couldn’t. It was so embarrassing. I finally told her that I hurt my ankle again and I might have sprained it or maybe even broke it. She got me an ice pack and told me that she’d make an appointment with the doctor. Obviously, the doctor didn’t find anything wrong with my ankle but he did say that I should take a few weeks off from playing. At school today Jordyn asked me why I hadn’t been at practice and I told her that the doctor said I couldn’t play anymore and she said that was too bad. She said it in a way that I thought she really meant it. She was so nice that for a second I actually considered going back to practice and trying again. Gabe and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk since school started. He sits with his friends at lunch and we don’t sit by each other in social studies but he says hi to me in the hallway and my stomach does a flip every single time. Guess what! A new girl showed up at school today. I can’t remember the last time someone actually moved to Pitch. Usually people move away from here. Or die of old age. My best friend since kindergarten moved to Illinois last year when her dad got a new job. Ellie’s mom said that Pitch was a dying town and I guess she’s right. Once the packing plant closed down lots of families left but no one who I liked as much as Ellie. Ellie and I wrote letters and emailed back and forth for a while but then I guess she’s made new friends that keep her pretty busy. I haven’t heard from her since summer. I miss her so much that my stomach hurts. It’s so hard to go from having someone you can talk to about anything to having absolutely no one to hang out with. After Ellie left, the world suddenly became very quiet. I can go days without anyone my age speaking to me. I told my mom that it would be much easier to keep in touch with Ellie if I had my own cell phone so we could at least text back and forth. Of course my mom said no. My parents think that I’m too young for one. Check back in when you’re fifteen, my dad said. I told him that by then everyone will have forgotten that I exist, so never mind. The new girl’s name is Violet and she has pretty black hair and is from New Mexico. Jordyn said that her grandma saved Violet and her mom and brother when their engine exploded outside of town. She said they were standing in the dark on the side of the road when her grandma pulled up next to them in her truck. They all piled into the front cab and Mrs. Petit drove them into town and dropped them off at the Do Pull Inn. I don’t know if I believe Jordyn. She doesn’t always tell the truth. I guess Violet and her family are going to stay because Violet says that her mom got a job at the gas station and they rented a house on Hickory Street. I felt kind of sad after she told me that. Violet seems nice but my mom will never let me go over to her house. Hickory Street is where my sister, Kendall, and her best friend, Emery, say the meth heads live. I asked Emery how she could possibly know that and she told me to get a good look at their teeth. Without trying to be too obvious, I tried to see Violet’s teeth and they seemed just fine to me. Emery told me to check again in a few months. It takes time for enamel to turn to mush. Not to brag, but we live in a pretty nice house. It’s made of brick that my mom says is salmon-colored. I think it looks more pinkish but whatever. I have my own bedroom and we have a rec room in the basement where we keep the foosball table, the karaoke machine and the Xbox. We have a huge trampoline in the backyard with a net around it so no one falls off and breaks their neck. Last year, after we got the trampoline, lots of my classmates came over to try it out but that stopped once school started again and it got colder. Kendall says it’s because I’m weird and if I tried harder I’d have friends. In social studies class we sit in pods and Mr. Dover pulled an empty desk from the corner and added it to my group so Violet would have somewhere to sit. She didn’t say much, just sort of watched everyone. At one point, when Mr. Dover said that we were going to take the ITP tomorrow and it was a very important test that the Department of Education makes every student take to see if we could make it to college, I thought Violet was going to start crying. Violet told me that she hasn’t been to school much in the last couple of months because of the move and all. I whispered to her not to worry, that it wasn’t that big of a deal. That all teachers seemed to talk about anymore was “college and career readiness.” I made air quotes with my fingers and Violet smiled. I was hoping that Violet would sit next to me during lunch but Jordyn got to her first. Oh, well, maybe tomorrow. I ended up sitting next to Joy Willard, which is okay. One thing I like about my school is that they don’t let people get away with saving seats or telling people that you can’t sit next to them. If Mrs. Morris, the lady who supervises the lunchroom, sees you don’t have anyone to sit next to she’ll send you to a specific spot. I swear she’s got this superpower that kicks in the minute you carry your tray from the food line. She sees you desperately looking around the cafeteria for a place to sit and then she swoops in and points. “No arguing, Landry,” she’ll say. “Sit there and start eating. This isn’t Perkins, you know.” Even the jerks don’t talk back. Then at lunch I felt something hit me in the back. I turned to see what it was and I saw a tater tot on the floor behind where I was sitting. I turned back around and it happened four more times. Plop, plop, plop, plop. The last tater tot landed in my hair and stuck there. I pulled it out and turned around to see who was throwing them. Jordyn and some other girls were sitting at the table behind me and were trying not to laugh. I know it was her. Violet was just staring down at her lunch tray like she didn’t see what happened. At least she wasn’t laughing. When I got home and took off my shirt there were four dark spots on the back. Like four greasy bullet holes. I don’t know why Jordyn’s being so mean to me. I’ve never done anything to her. Ever. At least I have just about every class with Violet. Everything but math and home base, which is what they used to call homeroom in elementary school. My mom is the school secretary at the elementary school I went to last year. It’s kind of weird not being in the same building together anymore, but I’m glad. I would never tell my mom that, though. She keeps saying things like, “Don’t you miss seeing me every day, Cora?” I really don’t miss it. I never realized how awkward it was having my mom around all the time. She knew every move I made. Let me tell you, the school secretary knows everything and I mean everything. Last year I found out that my second grade teacher was having an affair with the gym teacher. Of course, my mom didn’t come right out and tell me this; I overheard her telling my dad. I also learned that Mr. Simon, the custodian, had brain cancer and that Darren Moer, a kid in my class, had lice again for the third time. Needless to say, having a mom as the school secretary had its perks, but it feels kind of freeing knowing that she’s a few miles away and can’t peek in the classroom at any point during the day just to see how I’m doing. After the last bell rang I started turning my combination lock—56 left, 13 right, 2 left—when Tabitha came up behind me and reached over and spun the lock in the wrong direction, screwing everything up. I started over and then Charlotte did the same thing. My mom was waiting outside for me and I knew she would be mad at me for taking so long. I tried to open my locker for the third time and Jordyn came up and messed me up all over again. I leaned my head against the locker door and tried not to cry, then I heard Gabe say, “Real mature, Jordyn.” And like it always does when I see Gabe, my stomach flipped. Gabe was sticking up for me! “We’re just joking around,” Jordyn said. “You’re not mad, are you, Cora?” Jordyn asked in this fakey voice. I shook my head even though I felt like slapping her. “See?” Jordyn said, looking at Gabe all innocent. “Here, let me help,” Gabe said. “What’s your combo?” The last thing I needed was having Jordyn know my locker combination so I waited until Jordyn left before I told him the numbers. Gabe opened my locker and said, “Just ignore her. Jordyn can be such a bitch sometimes. See you tomorrow.” My face was burning up I was blushing so hard. Jordyn and some of the other girls might not like me but Gabe does. I grabbed my book bag, shut my locker, and that’s when I saw Mr. Dover watching me from his classroom doorway. My stomach flipped over again, but not in a good way. Beth Crow (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Monday, April 16, 2018 They load us into the back seat of a police car telling me that in the time it takes for another ambulance to arrive we can get to the hospital. I hold Violet close to me, doing my best to keep her as still as possible as we wind through the countryside. The nearest emergency room is twenty-five miles away in Grayling and the officer is determined to get us there in record time and I’m worried that the bumpy ride will injure her further. I’ve given up trying to find the source of the blood that blooms across her chest but am fairly confident that she isn’t bleeding anymore. Instead I focus on keeping her eyes open and on me. Violet’s skin is a scary shade of white and she seems to be floating in and out of consciousness. She isn’t going to pass out—it’s not that—but every few moments a light seems to go out behind her eyes and she disappears into some unknown, private place. “Violet, honey,” I say, shaking her lightly. “It’s going to be okay, I promise. Can you tell me where it hurts?” No response. “Stay awake. Keep looking at me.” Her dark lashes flutter, casting fanlike shadows across her cheeks. I smooth her hair away from her forehead and tell the officer to drive faster. My mind is swirling with questions. Who could have done this? What kind of sick monster would attack two innocent girls? The injuries on Cora are horrific. Has she made it to the emergency room already? Is she still alive? I think of her parents and wonder if they have been called. Another girl, Jordyn Petit, was supposed to be at the overnight, too. Where was she? Was she attacked, as well? The air is filled with the earthy, rich scent of newly tilled fields. The once hard-packed ground now loosened and velvety to the touch. So different than the red soil back home. We are approaching the city of Grayling and the officer merges onto Highway 218 and vehicles move swiftly to the right so we can pass. Signs for the University of Grayling Hospitals and Clinics let us know that we are getting close. Traffic thickens the closer we get to the hospital and despite the sirens it feels like an eternity for vehicles to get out of our way. Finally, we pass by a handful of restaurants, the university softball fields and a number of university buildings. We arrive at the newly constructed children’s hospital, a beautiful structure built of steel and glass that rises high above the others. The officer bypasses the main doors and drives directly to the emergency entrance. “They are expecting us,” he says, pulling to an abrupt stop. Three hospital workers converge upon us and Violet is carefully but firmly taken from my grasp and laid out on a stretcher. The officer reaches for my arm and Violet is whisked inside without me. “My name is Keith Grady and I’ll be right in. Keep trying to see if she can tell you anything, anything at all about what happened.” I nod and rush through the doors, looking left and right for any sign as to where they have taken my daughter. She’s gone. “Are you the mother?” A heavyset woman rises from behind a counter. “Yes,” I say. “Where is she?” My voice shakes and I press my hand against my throat as if to steady my words. “Can I be with her?” “The doctor is looking at her right now. Let me get some information from you and then we’ll take you back to her.” I answer her questions as quickly as possible and then take a seat to fill out the reams of paperwork. When I get to the section that asks for a list of family members I think of Max. I forgot about him. I pull my phone from my pocket. He still doesn’t answer and I shoot off another text to him telling him to call me immediately. “I’m going to kill him,” I mutter and am immediately sorry. How can I say something like that after what happened to Violet and Cora? “Ms. Crow,” the receptionist says, approaching me. “I can take you to see your daughter now.” She leads me down a hallway to a boxy room where Violet lies atop an examination table, face turned away from the door. Her bloody clothing has been removed, snipped from her body and tossed to the floor. All she is wearing is her underwear and a training bra that she doesn’t really need. Both are streaked with red. Her hands look as if they’ve been dipped in red paint, a stark contrast to her pale forearms. I scour her skin in search of any wounds but find none. I look to the doctor, a tall man who gives me a reassuring nod. “Looks like only a few bumps and bruises but we’ll check her over carefully.” He turns to one of the nurses. “Let’s get a heated blanket on her and then we can get her cleaned up.” “But all the blood...” I begin. “It’s not your daughter’s,” he says and I nearly collapse with relief. “I’m Dr. Soto. You can come on over next to her,” the doctor invites and I go to Violet’s side. I bend over her and lay the palm of my hand against her cheek. Her skin is cold to the touch. “Violet, honey,” I whisper, “what happened?” She blinks up at me and I see no recognition in her eyes. She opens her mouth but no words come out, only a weak croak. I think of head injuries, drugs and monstrous acts that might leave a child speechless. Panicked, I look to Dr. Soto, who has stripped the bloody gloves from his hands and drops them into a hazardous waste container. “She’s in shock,” he explains as if reading my mind. “We’ll get her warmed up, give her fluids and watch her vitals. Barring any complications, she most likely will be able to go home today.” “I want to stay with her,” I say, bracing myself for a fight. There’s no way I’m going to leave her side. “Of course,” Dr. Soto says and drags a chair from the corner of the room and situates it right next to the examination table. “Judy here will take care of you. I’ll be back in just a bit.” Dr. Soto briefly puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and exits the room. I sit down next to Violet, who still doesn’t seem to register my presence. Judy, a woman around my age with deep commas etched into the corners of her mouth, speaks to Violet in a low, soothing voice. “A little pinch here, Violet,” she says and I wince when she inserts a needle in the crook of Violet’s arm. She doesn’t even flinch. Judy draws several vials of blood and then sets up an IV drip of clear liquid. Then she reaches down with gloved hands and picks up Violet’s shorn clothing. I expect her to toss them into the wastebasket but instead she places them inside a plastic bag, seals it and affixes a label to the front. She reaches for a cell phone sitting on the metal tray and drops it into another bag and seals it shut. “Now I’m going to get you cleaned up, Violet. Does that sound like a good plan to you?” the nurse asks. Violet gives no indication that she hears the question. “Why won’t she answer?” I ask, tears stinging my eyes. “What’s wrong with her?” “Like Dr. Soto said, she may be in shock. It happens sometimes when there’s a traumatic event. You’ll come around, won’t you, Violet?” The nurse smiles down at her. “We’ll have you sitting up and talking in no time. But for now we’ll keep you warm and get all cleaned up.” The nurse holds up a small blue hospital gown. “First thing we’ll do is get you into this lovely outfit.” Judy deftly dresses her, nimbly shifting Violet’s weight so she can button the gown into place. Violet is nearly swallowed up in the fabric. “Do you know if Cora is okay?” I ask Judy, who situates a metal cart with an arrangement of paper envelopes, jars in a variety of sizes, a large tweezer, a camera and several other items I can’t identify next to Violet’s bed. “Cora?” Judy asks. I glance over at Violet to see if hearing her friend’s name brings any reaction. It doesn’t. “I don’t know who that is.” “She’s the other girl who was brought here. She came in an ambulance,” I explain. “She looked like she was hurt pretty badly.” “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Let’s just focus on Violet right now,” Judy says, holding up a small spatula-shaped tool. “See this, Violet? I’m going to use this to clean your fingernails, okay? It won’t hurt a bit.” I watch while Judy uses the spatula to scrape dried blood from beneath Violet’s fingernails and deposit it within one of the paper envelopes. This is when I understand that this nurse isn’t just treating my daughter for shock or dehydration, she’s collecting evidence. This is why they bagged up Violet’s bloody clothing and cell phone. That’s what the camera is for and the thought of others seeing photos of my daughter, half-dressed and covered in her best friend’s blood, is too much. My stomach lurches and I leap from the chair, unable to speak. I stagger out to the hallway in search of a bathroom. Probably from the look on my face, a woman pushing a cart of cleaning supplies points me in the right direction. I make it to the toilet just in time before I start heaving. The sour taste of the chicken marsala and wine Sam and I ate fills my throat. Who could have done this? She’s nearly catatonic and they are poking and prodding her to gather evidence. I think again of Cora, somewhere in this hospital being treated for terrible injuries. I need to know what is going on and at the same time want to know nothing. I only want to take Violet home with me and try not to think about any of this. I sit on the floor for a minute catching my breath before pushing myself up from my knees and flushing the toilet. I try to rinse the bitter taste from my mouth with water from the tap. I run my fingers through my hair and take several deep breaths before stepping back into the hallway. I’m still not ready to go back into Violet’s room. God, I’m such a coward. Dr. Soto is standing outside Violet’s room talking with the officer who drove us to the hospital. Dr. Soto glances my way, his face grim. My first thought is that Violet must have taken a turn for the worse and I press my fingers against the wall to steady myself. The officer turns and I register the worry in his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. I will my legs to move me forward but I don’t want to hear what they are going to tell me. I have only been away for a few minutes. What possibly could have gone wrong? Dr. Soto and the officer move toward me and for an instant I want to run. If they can’t catch me they won’t be able to give me the news. My thoughts travel to the darkest corners: collapsed lungs, a brain bleed, a ruptured spleen, internal injuries that might have gone undetected. I can’t catch my breath and as they draw closer I press myself more closely to the wall, trying to make myself smaller, trying to disappear. “Ms. Crow,” the officer begins. My eyes are on Dr. Soto, who must recognize my terror and lays a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Violet’s fine,” he says. I want to cry. I want to lash out at them for scaring me so badly. “What is it?” I ask, unable to keep the anger from my voice but instantly I’m sorry for it. “Is it Cora, then? Is she okay?” Officer Grady ignores my question. “I really need to ask Violet a few questions,” he says. “We need to get as much information about what happened as possible.” “I told him that he needed to talk with you first before speaking with her,” Dr. Soto says before excusing himself. “I don’t know,” I hesitate. “She’s in shock. I don’t think she’s in any condition to talk to anyone. She tried to say something at the train yard but I couldn’t hear what it was. Maybe one of the other cops heard what she said.” Officer Grady shifts from foot to foot, runs a thumb across his lips but doesn’t say anything. “What?” I ask. “Do you know something? Did she say who did this?” “I just really need to question your daughter. The more time that passes, the harder it will be to work out what happened. Do I have your permission to talk to Violet?” “No,” I say. “No one is talking to Violet. Not until you tell me what you know. Who is he?” Again, the worst pinballs through my head. A sex trafficking ring, a deranged drifter, a serial killer. “If you won’t tell me, I want to talk to someone who will.” “One of the other officers did hear Violet say some names,” Officer Grady tells me, though I know he doesn’t want to. “Names?” My stomach clenches again. “There was more than one person?” It’s bad enough to think that one horrible person attacked Violet and Cora, but the thought that there were two monsters is too much. “Yeah, Violet said two names. Joseph Wither and something that sounded like George or Jordan.” “Jesus.” I lean against the wall for support. “Jordyn Petit. She’s a friend of Violet’s. She must have been there, too. Did you find her? Is she okay?” “I don’t know anything about another girl but we have a guy back in Pitch checking into it.” “It’s Jordyn Petit. I know it is. You have to send someone to find out if she’s okay.” “Don’t worry, we’re on it,” he says and I want to scream. How can he tell me not to worry? I’m about ready to ask him this when it hits me that he mentioned another name. “Wait,” I say. “You said another name—Joseph...” “Wither,” Officer Grady finishes for me. I’ve heard the name before. Something to do with a school project, I think. I’ve been working so many hours lately. I really haven’t been paying attention as much as I should have. “Who is he?” I ask. “Did he do this? Is someone out looking for him?” Officer Grady sighs and he looks oddly at ease. “There is no Joseph Wither,” he says. This isn’t the response I was expecting. “What do you mean?” I ask in confusion. “He didn’t do this?” Officer Grady shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. He’s not real. Not anymore, anyway. Joseph Wither, if he is still alive, would be a very old man today. Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt the girls?” he asks. Officer Grady can see that my mind is still stuck on this Joseph Wither person and he holds up his hand to stop me from questioning him any further. “Trust me, Joseph Wither doesn’t exist. For every minute that passes we lose precious time finding Jordyn and who did this.” Impatience is creeping into his voice so I let Joseph Wither go for the moment. “They are twelve,” I say. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt them. No one. Do you think someone was trying to kidnap them?” I ask, my stomach churning as sex offenders and human traffickers and other dark thoughts lodge themselves in my brain. “I promise you, we’ve got someone checking out that possibility. What about the girls?” Grady asks. “How did they get along with each other?” It takes me a second for his question to register. He can’t possibly think that Jordyn did this to Cora. I open my mouth to tell him he’s crazy, wasting his time, but then shut it again. I’ve only met Jordyn a few times, and while she is always polite to me, I get the sense that she is the queen bee of the group. Violet and Cora watch her carefully, gauging Jordyn’s reaction to what they say, what they do, how they dress. But violent? No way. “Ms. Crow?” Officer Grady raises his eyebrows, waiting for my response. “No,” I say firmly. “Jordyn gets along just fine with Violet and Cora. I can’t imagine her hurting anyone.” “What about Violet?” he asks pointedly. “Has she had any physical confrontations with anyone? With classmates? Friends?” “What? No!” I say. “Violet’s never been in a fight with anyone. You don’t think Violet had anything to do with this, do you?” I ask. “I have to ask,” Officer Grady says. “Can you think of anyone who would target the girls?” he asks, moving on, but the idea has been brought up; it’s crossed his mind. Officer Grady thinks that Violet and Jordyn may be behind the attack. Thomas Petit (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Monday, April 16, 2018 A shrill ringing yanks Thomas from his sleep. With his sons grown and his day-to-day role as owner of Petit’s Bar and Grill greatly diminished, Thomas thought perhaps he would finally be able to start sleeping past 6:00 a.m. In the early days his schedule had been brutal. For years, he tiptoed into bed well after 1:00 a.m., careful not to wake his wife and kids. The couple would get up just a few hours later to head next door to Petit’s to prepare for the lunch crowd. He is in the house alone. A predicament that is both unfamiliar and unsettling. Tess, his wife of forty-five years, is convalescing in a skilled-care facility in Grayling after a nasty fall and his granddaughter, Jordyn, is spending the night at the Landry girl’s house. The ringing continues and Thomas realizes that this won’t be his day to lounge beneath the covers. With effort he sits up, shoves the down comforter aside and eases his legs over the edge of the bed until his toes find the cold wood floor. He shivers through the thin fabric of his boxer shorts and T-shirt. Each step sends bolts of pain through the soles of his feet and coursing through the ropy purple veins that line his legs, the result of years of standing behind the bar. As the day goes on, the aches will become less pronounced but until then he will limp along, clutching at heavy pieces of furniture to keep upright. “Dammit to hell,” he mutters, nearly tripping over Jordyn’s soccer ball, and the house phone stops ringing. Thomas wishes briefly that he had kept the smartphone his youngest son, Donny, sent him last Christmas. “This one works just fine,” he said, holding up a flip phone that Jordyn called archaic. A word she said she learned in English class. It means old, Grandpa, just like you, she teased. “What do I need a fancy phone for?” Thomas asked incredulously. “Emergencies,” Tess said. “Shopping,” Donny offered. “Snapchat,” Jordyn giggled. Thomas gave them a look that let them know the topic wasn’t up for discussion and the phone disappeared back into its box and then reappeared a few months later on Jordyn’s twelfth birthday. Now he is considering buying two smartphones. One for Tess and one for himself. With the house quiet once again, Thomas debates whether to go back to bed or keep pushing forward to the kitchen. Again, the phone begins its maddening trill, making Thomas’s decision for him. He picks up his pace, trying to ignore the needle-sharp prickles of pain that he thought he would have become accustomed to by now. No such luck. “Hello,” Thomas says into the receiver, not bothering to disguise his irritation. “Mr. Petit?” an official, unfamiliar voice asks. “Is my wife okay?” Thomas asks. A shiver of fear runs down his spine. He knows how quickly hip injuries can lead to something even worse like pneumonia and blood clots and infections of the bone. “Mr. Petit, this is Officer Blake Brenner from the Johnson County Sheriff’s Office. Does a child by the name of Jordyn live in your household?” “What happened now?” Thomas asks. He loves Jordyn beyond words but drama seems to cling to his granddaughter like cockleburs. Last month, the local police brought Jordyn home after she was caught climbing the Pitch water tower east of town. “Relax, Grandpa,” Jordyn had told him. “It’s no big deal.” “Sir, does Jordyn Petit reside in your home?” the officer asks firmly, his voiced edged with tension. Thomas leans against the corner of the kitchen counter. “Yes, she’s my granddaughter. Is she okay? She’s supposed to be spending the night at a friend’s house.” “Is her mother or father available?” the officer asks. “No. My wife and I are her legal guardians. Jordyn’s parents aren’t able to care for her.” It pains Thomas to admit that his eldest son and Jordyn’s mother were deadbeats. Unfit to care for Jordyn. “Did something happen?” Thomas asks, finally registering the concern in the officer’s voice. “That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, you’re telling me that Jordyn is not at home right now?” “No, she’s at a friend’s house. Cora Landry’s,” Thomas says but uncertainty pricks at the corner of his thoughts. “Jordyn isn’t at the Landrys’ home at this time. That I can confirm,” the deputy says. “I’ll go check her bedroom,” Thomas says. “Maybe she came home and I didn’t hear her. Can you hold on a second?” Thomas lays the receiver on the counter and moves as quickly as he can to the bottom of the stairs. “Jordyn, are you up there?” he hollers. There’s no response. With a sigh he begins the ascent, one knee catching and crackling with each step, the other refusing to bend. By the time he reaches the landing, he’s out of breath, damp with sweat and thoroughly irritated. “Jordyn!” he booms, pushing through the bedroom door, finding it empty. Grabbing tightly to the banister, Thomas makes his way back down the steps and picks up the phone, hoping that the officer hasn’t hung up, impatient for his return. “She’s not here,” Thomas says, anxiety squeezing at his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.” “We’ll send an officer over to your house, Mr. Petit. She’ll fill you in on what we know.” The line goes dead and Thomas slowly lowers the receiver from his ear. He and Tess have raised Jordyn since she was four, after their oldest son, Randy, came back home and dropped her off. “I can’t deal with her,” Randy said, “and I can’t find her mom.” Then he left. They hear from him only a few times a year by way of a phone call, a postcard or birthday card. Thomas wanted to tell Randy to stop calling altogether. That the sound of his voice and his letters made Jordyn sad and out of sorts. But Tess told him that barring Randy from Jordyn’s life would be a mistake that Jordyn would hold against them one day. So he held his tongue. Jordyn is the daughter he and Tess never got the chance to raise. Betsy, their third-born, didn’t live to see her first full year and Tess never quite recovered from the loss. She loved her boys but they weren’t Betsy, and Jordyn reminded them of their daughter. If Jordyn wasn’t at the Landry house, then where was she? The bar and grill, Thomas thinks. Maybe Jordyn went next door. She spent a lot of time in the office and the restaurant part of the business. Thomas limps to his bedroom and pulls on a pair of jeans from the bureau and a shirt from the closet. Despite the recent trouble with the local police, the over-the-top drama, the slammed doors, the icy silences that come with a preteen girl, Jordyn has been more joy than trouble over the years. Tess taught her how to make gingerbread and ptichie moloko—birds’ milk cake—and how to knit. She braided her hair and told her about growing up on a farm, the daughter of immigrants from Russia, and stories of Baba Yaga and Kikimora, the House Hag. For his part, Thomas taught Jordyn about how to run a business. Put her to work sweeping and taking inventory, taught her, much to Tess’s chagrin, how to mix drinks. All alcohol-free, of course. Thomas pushes through the front door, the newly risen sun momentarily blinding him, the air mild against his face. Holding tightly to the wrought-iron railing, he picks his way down the four concrete steps that lead to the sidewalk. Directly next door is Petit’s. The twin buildings are two stories tall and made of red brick and weeping mortar. When the boys were small they lived above the bar in the cramped second floor but eventually bought the building next door after Tess complained that the noisy patrons kept the boys up late into the night and filled their ears with crass language and their heads with unsavory ideas. By the time Thomas climbs up the steps to the bar he is breathing heavily and sweating. Peeking through the window he sees Kevin, the young man who has taken over the day-to-day duties of running the bar, wiping down the scarred mahogany counter. He tries the door handle but it doesn’t open. Kevin keeps the door locked before opening time to ensure that no one wanders in with hopes of getting an early-morning cocktail. He raps on the door but Kevin doesn’t even look up. Thomas can hear the faint trill of the phone and bangs harder, the glass shivering with each strike. He must be listening to music, he thinks. That’s why Kevin doesn’t hear the bar phone ring, why he can’t hear him knocking. He waves his hands in front of the window and Kevin finally glances up. Kevin takes his time unlocking the door and when he does Thomas reaches up and rips the earbuds from his ears. Kevin looks down at him, startled. “Jesus, you scared me. What’s wrong?” he asks. “Jordyn,” Thomas says, his voice cracking. “Is Jordyn here?” “She’s in the back,” Kevin says, hitching a thumb toward the kitchen. “Why?” “Jordyn,” Thomas calls, brushing past Kevin. “Get out here.” “Jeez, what?” Jordyn rounds the corner in exasperation and halts at the sight of her grandfather’s angry face. She’s dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, flip-flops and a T-shirt as if she’s just rolled out of bed. “What did I do now?” “Why don’t you tell me,” Thomas says, hands on hips. Jordyn looks him directly in the eye and lifts and drops her shoulders and as if daring him to contradict her says, “I have no idea.” Thomas wants to shake the defiance from her face. He wishes that Tess were here. She’d know what to do and say. She would go to their granddaughter, pull her into a hug and Jordyn would apologize for making them worry. But Tess isn’t here and Kevin has returned to scrubbing the bar, earbuds placed firmly back in place. It’s just the two of them. “The police are looking for you,” Thomas says. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at Cora’s house?” “The police?” Jordyn asks, the confidence draining from her voice. “Yes, the police. They’re on their way over here right now. What’s going on, Jordyn?” “I don’t know, I don’t know!” Jordyn exclaims, looking panicked, eyes brimming with tears. Thomas almost believes her. There’s a tap on the door and both Thomas and Jordyn look over to find Officer Bree Wilson looking in at them. Curious, Kevin pulls his earbuds away from his ears. A freckle-faced redhead, Bree comes into the bar every so often with a booming laugh and a fondness for Bushmills Irish Buck. Thomas beckons her in and the door squeaks open as she enters. “Morning,” Officer Wilson says. “Glad to see you home safe and sound, Jordyn.” To Thomas she says, “We’ve got a bit of a situation here, Tom, and I think that Jordyn might be able to help us out.” Thomas’s relationship with the Pitch Police Department is made up of equal parts irritation and respect. Though the local cops tend to be hypervigilant in pulling his patrons over and running them through sobriety tests, Thomas had to admit that every time he called and asked for assistance with the occasional bar fight, they came right over. “We’ll do whatever we can to help. What’s going on?” “We’re just at the beginning of the investigation so I don’t have much to tell you, but there appears to have been some kind of incident early this morning and there were some injuries.” “Injuries?” Jordyn asks, gnawing on her thumbnail. “I’m afraid so,” Officer Wilson says. “Cora?” Jordyn asks. “How bad?” “Do you know something, Jordyn?” Officer Wilson asks. “If you do it’s very important you tell me right now. One girl was beaten and the other one is in shock. Someone attacked them, Jordyn, and we need to find out what happened.” Jordyn shakes her head and inches back toward her grandfather. “I don’t know anything.” “But you’re okay? Not hurt?” the officer asks and Jordyn nods. “You were with Violet Crow and Cora Landry last night?” “Yes,” Jordyn says in a hushed voice. “Are they going to die?” Thomas finds this question jarring, odd for a twelve-year-old, and he wants to shush her. Instead he puts a hand on her shoulder and Jordyn gives him a dirty look. Officer Wilson rubs her fingers across her lips as if she might find the right words there. “They’re in good hands,” she finally says. “But we need your help now, Jordyn. Can you answer a few questions for me?” When Jordyn doesn’t answer, Thomas responds. “Of course she’ll answer your questions, won’t you, Jordyn?” Officer Wilson walks slowly toward Jordyn much like someone approaching an injured animal. “Take a seat, Jordyn,” Officer Wilson says and they situate themselves on round stools in front of the bar. “What time did you last see Cora and Violet?” Her voice is gentle, warm. “I don’t know. It was late,” Jordyn says. “Late last night?” she asks in a soothing voice. “Yeah, I wanted to come home.” “You left? Can you remember what time?” “I don’t know, late. After midnight,” Jordyn says, her eyes fixed to the floor. “You walked home all the way from Cora’s house?” Thomas asks his granddaughter. “That’s almost two miles away. Why?” His voice is sharp. Lately, Jordyn has been a mystery to him, with more sass than he’s equipped to handle. “I just wanted to come home.” Jordyn’s eyes fill with tears. She lays her forehead on the bar top. “I don’t know what happened.” “She came over about thirty minutes ago,” Kevin pipes up from behind the bar. “Said you were out of milk and cereal at the house and was going to eat breakfast here.” Officer Wilson pauses, waiting for Jordyn’s crying to stop. When it doesn’t she sighs and gets to her feet. “Why don’t you and your grandpa come to the station and we’ll talk more, Jordyn. We could really use your help. There’s a bad person out there who hurt your friends. Anything you can tell us might help us catch him. Okay?” Jordyn peeks up and sniffles and nods. “Go wash your face, Jordyn,” Thomas says, “then we’ll go down to the station. Okay?” “But I don’t know anything.” Jordyn wipes her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” “Just tell the truth,” Thomas tells her. “The police will decide whether or not it’s important.” The three adults watch as Jordyn slouches off to the bathroom. “Jesus,” Kevin says when she’s out of earshot. “What happened to those kids?” “I’m not sure,” Officer Wilson says, “but there was a hell of a lot of blood. When we got there the Landry girl was being loaded into an ambulance. She looked really, really bad. The other girl emerged a few minutes later covered in blood. They put her in a police car and took her to the hospital, too.” “Jim Landry runs the Appliance Barn, doesn’t he?” Kevin asks. “Yeah, the mom works at the elementary school. Nice people,” Thomas says. “This happened at their house?” “No, down by the old depot,” Officer Wilson says. “The depot?” Thomas asks in surprise. “What were they doing by the railroad tracks so late at night?” “A lady walking her dog found the Landry girl and called for help.” Officer Wilson shakes his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Jordyn comes out of the bathroom. Her face is splotchy, eyes red. “I’ll meet you and Jordyn at the station in an hour,” Officer Wilson says and Jordyn’s eyes fill again with tears. “I don’t want to—” she begins but Officer Wilson stops her. “This isn’t a request, Jordyn. Someone messed those girls up pretty bad,” she says and moves toward the exit. “See you soon.” “Come on, Jordyn,” Thomas says. “You need to get dressed and then we’ll head over to the station. You got things covered here, Kevin?” Kevin assures them that he’s got things under control and Thomas and Jordyn walk next door in silence. Once inside Jordyn runs up the stairs to her bedroom. The smell of freshly brewed coffee beckons, and Thomas, aching for the rush of caffeine, lifts the carafe too quickly, sending searing liquid down the front of his shirt. Cursing, he quickly sheds the soaked shirt, makes his way to their small laundry room and tosses it in the basket overflowing with dirty clothes. Ever since Tess has been in the hospital the daily chores of laundry, dusting and sweeping have gotten away from him. Thomas pulls a wrinkled but clean plaid shirt from the dryer. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to press his own clothes—he did—but Tess always said she didn’t mind and he had gotten spoiled that way. Thomas looks at his watch. There was no time for ironing right now; Officer Wilson was expecting them soon. He pulls on the rumpled shirt and tries to smooth out the creases with his fingers. A pair of Jordyn’s tennis shoes and her jacket are lying in a jumble next to the stacked washer and dryer. No matter how many times Thomas reminds Jordyn to pick up after herself it just doesn’t seem to stick. He has resorted to piling all of Jordyn’s scattered belongings into a laundry basket and dumping them onto her bed, thinking they will be impossible for Jordyn to ignore. No such luck. With a sigh he reaches down and retrieves the jacket, a light blue fleece that cost about fifty dollars more than it should have. To think that even in the dinky town of Pitch labels matter. Thomas finds it ridiculous, but Tess says that it’s important for Jordyn to fit in, especially with not having her mom and dad around. Thomas drops the jacket and tennis shoes into a laundry basket filled with more of Jordyn’s wayward possessions when a dark stain on the sleeve of the fleece catches his eye. He fishes it from the pile and examines the three-inch splotch on the cuff. His first thought is that chocolate is a bear to get out of fabric but this stain is more red than brown. He lifts it to his nose and instead of a sweet sugary scent his nose is met with the smell of copper. He scratches at it experimentally and a rusty patina is left behind on his fingertip. Blood. Thomas searches for any other drops of blood on the jacket but it only seems to be in that one spot, just below where the palm of the hand meets the wrist. Jordyn didn’t say anything about getting hurt, didn’t complain of a recent injury. There wasn’t a lot of blood. Barely enough to mention. But still. He thinks of Cora Landry lying in a hospital bed with her terrible injuries. Thomas turns away from the basket filled with Jordyn’s shoes, a hairbrush, a pair of socks, a soccer ball and an array of books and magazines and carries the jacket to the sink and turns on the cold water. He reaches into the cupboard for a stain stick and plastic jug of ammonia. It would be a shame, he thinks, scrubbing vigorously at the stubborn spot, if the jacket ended up being ruined. Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) September 14, 2018 I got the call about Cora Landry last April. I had rushed into my office to check my messages and to catch up on some paperwork before my next appointment. I had four voice mails. One from the parent of a patient hoping to reschedule their session, two from pharmaceutical reps and one from a fellow doctor at the hospital—Leo Soto, an ER doc with a smooth, timbered voice and a soothing bedside manner. He wanted me to stop down if I had time. A young girl had been brought in by ambulance early that morning with stab wounds. She was heading into surgery soon to repair the wounds from an attack. Extensive reconstructive work to her face was expected. Due to the violent attack, Dr. Soto anticipated a need for psychological support for the girl and her family. I remember looking at my watch. I was buried beneath paperwork and my next appointment was due to arrive shortly. It sounded like an interesting case. After getting the call from Dr. Soto, I made my way through the hospital’s maze of corridors and skywalks that admitted over twenty thousand patients per year and had more than thirty thousand ER visits. I was only one of about seven hundred physicians employed by the hospital but I loved the bustle, brainpower and the diversity the hospital had to offer. Plus, as a divorcee with no children it housed the only family I have left in the world. To get from the psychiatric tower to the emergency department I took an elevator down three floors and walked what felt like a mile. “Thank you for coming down, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said, greeting me. He was tall and slender. A dark-skinned man, with neatly trimmed silver hair and a matching mustache. At six-feet tall he and I, in my one-inch heels, were the same height. “I’ll take you to see Cora and her parents,” he said. “Cora is heavily sedated right now but if you can just say a few words to the mother and father about the resources available to them, I know it will be helpful.” “Of course,” I agreed. Once assessed, each patient in the emergency room has a private room that shields them from the craziness of the ER. Behind the sliding Plexiglas door was a preteen girl lying in the hospital bed. Her facial wounds were hidden beneath swaths of gauze, but even so, I could see that significant damage had been done. “We didn’t dare try to stitch her up,” Dr. Soto told me. “If there ever is a case for a plastic surgeon, this is it. All we are doing at this point is treating her collapsed lung and giving her antibiotics. My biggest concern is saving her left eye. They’ll be taking her to surgery momentarily. Frankly, I’m very worried about the parents. The mother is understandably distraught but the father is incredibly angry.” Dr. Soto paused as if hesitating to speak further. “Anger is understandable,” I said, feeling like a voyeur. Through the glass door, the mother sat next to the bedside holding her daughter’s hand, weeping. The father stood with his back against a wall, his arms folded across his chest. Not a tall man, he was broad-chested, powerfully built and looked ready to leap from his skin. “Do they know who did this to her yet?” I asked and Dr. Soto shook his head. “Are the parents suspects?” I hated to ask, but had to. I’d seen too many children hurt in too many ways to count by the people who are supposed to love them most in the world. Dr. Soto didn’t know. Didn’t know much more than the little girl had been viciously attacked. “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go find out if and how I can help.” Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry Oct. 31, 2017 In social studies class Mr. Dover assigned us a really cool project. At first I thought he was going to tell us we were going to have to write the same old Halloween essay like we do every year. Instead of writing about our favorite candy or the best costume ever, Mr. Dover is having us work with partners on a research project. He came into the classroom yesterday dressed as some guy from the olden times. He had on a white shirt and vest, these short pants, long socks and shoes with buckles on them. He even had on one of those hats they wore back during Colonial times. Mr. Dover carried a lantern and a silver cup. By now we all knew that he wasn’t going to just tell us what he was up to, so after we stopped laughing Andrew shouted, “Hey, it’s George Washington.” And Gabe said, “No, it’s Alexander Hamilton!” and then started rapping a song from the musical. Jordyn laughed real loud like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. She and Gabe were going out last year but he must have figured out what Jordyn is really like because now Gabe pretty much ignores her. Gabe is one of those guys who can get away with acting like a show-off. All the kids think he’s cool because he plays baseball and can play three different instruments and sing. He also always wears one of those old-fashioned hats with the brim around it, which manages to look cool on him. If anyone else wore it they’d just look stupid. Plus, he’s cute. The teachers like him because he knows when to stop. And Gabe did stop singing as soon as Mr. Dover raised his eyebrows at him. “Right century,” Mr. Dover said once it was quiet. “Let me give you another hint.” He set the lantern on top of his desk, put one leg up on a chair and in a deep voice said, “Listen, my children, and you shall hear of the midnight ride of...” and we all shouted, “Paul Revere!” Mr. Dover talked about how that poem was written nearly one hundred years after the actual ride and the ride wasn’t all that big of a deal. Mr. Dover likes to talk so it took him about half the class period to get to the point. We talked about all the fake news that went on throughout the last presidential election and that it was important to know what was true and what wasn’t. Two minutes before the bell rang he gave us the assignment. We have to do a group research project about an urban legend—what’s real about it and what’s made up. Then we have to get up in front of the class and give a presentation about what we learned. I wanted to throw up when I heard the details of the assignment. I don’t mind working in a group but there is nothing I hate more than getting up in front of the class and having to talk. I loathe it. My face turns bright red and my voice shakes. It makes me sick just thinking about it. In middle school, there are three ways we get put into groups: the teacher picks, you number off or first-come-first-serve where we get to pick our own partners. I hoped Mr. Dover would pick for us—it was less stressful that way—but just before the bell rang he said in this old-fashioned voice: “Chooseth thy partn’r, mine own scholars.” Luckily I caught on to what he was saying and right away turned to Violet and asked her if she wanted to be my partner and she said yes! When Mr. Dover assigns projects it isn’t just some one-or two-day thing; they usually last weeks, so it will be good to not have to worry about picking partners for a while. I looked over at Jordyn and she was whispering in Deanna’s ear and they were staring at us. I know they’re talking about me and Violet but for once I don’t care. Violet’s my partner and I think she’s going to be really nice. Usually I do whatever I can not to get on Jordyn’s radar. She somehow always makes me feel like an idiot. I’ll have to make sure to tell Violet to stay away from her. You just can’t trust her. When we were in fourth grade Jordyn invited all the girls in the class to her birthday overnight except for me. My mom went insane and called Jordyn’s grandma, who said it must have been a mistake and drove over to our house and made Jordyn deliver the invitation in person. It was MORTIFYING! Jordyn looked like she wanted to vomit and I wanted to disappear. I was sick the day of the party and couldn’t go, anyway, which was just fine with me and with Jordyn, too, I’m sure. Anyway, Violet and I already started a list of urban legends we could choose from: bigfoot, a twenty-foot alligator in the sewer or maybe Johnny Appleseed. After school some kids were talking about researching Bloody Mary or the Babysitter and the Clown Doll or the Mothman, who my sister says is this creepy seven-foot man with red eyes and wings like a moth who would show up just before something really bad happened. Gabe asked me and Violet what we were going to do our project about and Jordyn butted in and said, “Probably something babyish.” I swear she loves embarrassing me. But then Gabe came to my defense and said to Jordyn, “What’s your genius idea, then?” That shut Jordyn up and Violet and I told Gabe about our urban legend. * * * Me again... The weirdest thing just happened. My sister told me someone was on the phone for me and when I went to answer it no one was there. I kept saying hello but it was just quiet. I finally hung up and when I asked Kendall who it was she rolled her eyes and said she wasn’t my secretary. Like I said, weird. Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) September 14, 2018 “What do you think?” Dr. Soto asked. “Would you like to meet Cora?” “Sure, why not?” I remember saying. Dr. Soto rapped his knuckles gently against the window to announce our arrival and then slid the door open. “Mr. and Mrs. Landry, this is Dr. Gideon. She is the mental health professional I was speaking of. Dr. Gideon, this is Jim and Mara Landry, Cora’s parents.” “Hello,” I said and extended my hand out to Mr. Landry. “I’m sorry to hear about what happened to Cora. How’s she doing?” Jim clasped my hand and gave it a shake. His skin felt rough and dry against my own. Almost reptilian. “Not great. Look at her,” he said, voice shaking. “Some maniac stabbed her.” “She’s going in for surgery soon,” Mara said and swiped at her tears with a soggy tissue. She was a slip of a woman who looked as if she could collapse beneath the weight of her worry. “Dr. Soto says the surgeons here are very good.” “He’s right,” I agreed. “World-class. She’s in the best hands. Cora has been through an awful ordeal and so have you. Please know that we have many supports that you might find beneficial to Cora and to your family...” “Listen, Dr. Gideon,” Jim said, his voice tight with forced patience. “I don’t want to be rude, but honestly a psychiatrist is the last thing that Cora needs right now. The last thing we need right now. What we need is for Cora to get into surgery so that the doctor can try and put her face back together.” Jim’s volume rose with each word until his wife reached for his arm and shushed him. I got the feeling she had to do this often. “What I need—” Jim lowered his voice “—is a crowbar and five minutes alone with whoever did this to my daughter.” “Jim, stop,” Mara said, dissolving once again into tears. “I’m sorry,” Jim said as if surprised by the intensity of his own anger. “I’m going to go see if the police have any more information.” He brushed roughly past us and out of the room. “He’s scared,” Mara explained. “It’s just so hard seeing her like this. He hates that he wasn’t there to help her.” “Don’t be sorry. I understand.” I pressed my business card into Mara’s hand. “Please call me if you need anything or if I can answer any questions. I often work with children and families who have experienced traumatic events.” “Thank you.” Mara sniffed. “But I don’t think so.” “Is there someone I can call for you? A family member or friend to come sit with you during surgery?” I asked. Support systems are crucial during tragedies such as this. “My parents are on their way with our other daughter,” Mara said. “They should be here soon. But thank you.” I smiled and lightly touched Mara on the shoulder as Dr. Soto slid the door open. In silence we walked to the bank of elevators. “Maybe after the surgery the Landrys will be more open to visiting with you,” Dr. Soto said. “I worry about Mr. Landry. He’s a very angry man.” “Mrs. Landry does seem more approachable,” I agreed. “But I don’t expect a call from either of them. I can drop by Cora’s room later today and check on them.” “Thank you again, Madeline,” Dr. Soto said as he took his leave. “I owe you a favor.” I remember the elevator doors opening and inside was a young couple clutching hands. The man—a boy, really—held an empty car seat in his free hand and the girl pressed her face into his shoulder. He averted his gaze as if embarrassed by his red, swollen eyes. “I’ll grab the next one,” I said and turned away. Down the hallway, Mr. Landry was speaking to a police officer. Though I wasn’t able to see his face and couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, I could hear the frustration in his voice. The policeman stood placidly by, allowing him to say his piece. I knew that the father’s anger was understandable, normal even, but Jim Landry seemed to be becoming unhinged. Finally, the police officer held his hand up as if to silence Mr. Landry. “Do not tell me to calm down!” Mr. Landry’s voice filled the corridor, causing people to stop and stare. The elevator doors slid open and I reluctantly stepped inside. I had been in the presence of the Landrys for just a few minutes and already recognized the hallmarks of a family ready to implode. And there was something about Jim Landry that in my line of work had become much too familiar to me. Angry, aggressive men who liked to be in control, whatever the cost. I wish I had paid more attention to this—the family dynamics. Would things have turned out differently? Maybe not. I became so fixated on Cora and how she was dealing with the trauma of the attack and her injuries that I missed the bigger picture—what happened before they found her and why it all happened in the first place. Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry Nov. 4, 2017 Violet came over to my house yesterday after school and we had so much fun! We jumped on the trampoline for a while and then I showed her my room. She told me she thought I had the best room she’d ever seen. We found out we actually have a lot in common. Cheese pizza is our favorite food and we both like to draw. Violet is really good but I’m just okay. She showed me some pictures she made in her notebook. I told her that she should write graphic novels when she grows up. Violet got all red when I said that but I could tell that she knew I meant it. I told Violet I hated volleyball and she said she did, too. I said that social studies was my favorite subject this year and that the only bad thing about it was that Jordyn is in the class. “She’s not that bad,” Violet said. “She helped me open my locker the other day. Plus, I’m going to her house this weekend. Did you know her grandpa owns a bar?” HA! I wanted to say. Jordyn has no problem screwing me up when I try to open my locker but she’s all nice when Violet needs the help. I wanted to tell Violet to be careful, that Jordyn was two-faced and sneaky. I wanted to tell her about the time in second grade when Jordyn put her brownie on my seat just before I sat down and it looked like I pooped my pants and I wanted to tell her about how mean she was to me in volleyball practice. But what I really wanted to tell Violet was how last year Jordyn stole Gabe from Gemma, who was supposedly her best friend. Gemma liked Gabe first and they were “going out,” which is really stupid because going out in fifth grade just means sitting by each other at the high school football games. Gemma got mono and when she came back to school a few weeks later, Gabe and Jordyn were dating. Gemma didn’t talk to Jordyn for like a week but then, like Jordyn does, she acted all innocent and hurt. Like it was Gemma’s fault. Of course Gemma ended up forgiving Jordyn. I guess if I was being honest, I probably would have done the same thing. No one likes having Jordyn on their bad side. So I wanted to tell Violet all this but then my sister pounded on my door and yelled that Violet’s mom was there to pick her up so I didn’t get the chance. Then the house phone started ringing and when I went to answer it whoever was on the other end just sat there and didn’t say anything so I just hung up. This happened like five times until my mom stepped in and answered the phone and told them that we had caller ID and she was going to call the police and report them for harassment. We don’t have caller ID but the phone calls stopped. I bet it was Jordyn. Thomas Petit (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Monday, April 16, 2018 Thomas pulls Jordyn’s damp jacket from the washing machine. The blood appears to be completely washed away. He lifts it just inches from his face to get a better look. He’s tempted to douse it with bleach but quickly dismisses the idea. It was just a spot of blood. Kids bleed all the time. Hell, as youngsters his boys were plastered in Band-Aids on any given day from all the scrapes and scratches they collected. But niggling doubts keep crowding his head. As much as he loves his granddaughter, she has always had a bit of a devilish streak. A quick tongue and an even quicker temper. There was the time when Jordyn was about six and the school called saying that Jordyn pinched a girl in her class so hard it left a bruise. “Why?” Tess had asked, wanting to understand. Jordyn scowled and said, “She took my spot on the carpet. I told her to move but she wouldn’t.” There was the time when Jordyn was benched in soccer for purposely trying to trip her opponents. Jordyn promised she didn’t do it on purpose and Thomas wanted to believe her but there was also the incident last year when Jordyn slammed a locker door on a classmate’s hand, breaking two of her fingers. Again, Jordyn insisted it was an accident but the injured party disagreed and so did her mother. Jordyn was suspended for a day. But these examples are eons away from stabbing someone and Thomas pushes the doubts away. He tosses Jordyn’s damp jacket in the dryer, sets the dial to permanent press and then goes out to finally get that cup of coffee. His head pounds from lack of caffeine and the sharp ammonia fumes. He checks his watch. They need to be at the police station in fifteen minutes and he can still hear Jordyn banging around up in her bedroom. Thomas grabs a broom leaning against a corner and lifts it, soundly tapping it against the ceiling, and Jordyn stomps her foot two times in response. Normally, Tess would scold them both for this noisy mode of communication but over the years it has become a game between them. Today he finds no humor in it. Thomas pours a cup of coffee into a mug that Jordyn made for him when she was in second grade and takes a tentative sip. His stomach bubbles with nerves. When the boys were young, a visit from a police officer or a sheriff’s deputy wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. It shouldn’t have been a surprise given Donny’s and Randy’s lack of supervision. It was a catch-22, Thomas thought. If he and Tess kept the boys at the bar where they could keep an eye on them, the questionable clientele and their bad habits were sure to rub off on them. And if they let them run wild they were bound to go searching for trouble with no chance of Thomas or Tess being there to yank them out of harm’s way. It was no wonder that Donny and Randy found themselves in a number of scrapes with the law. There was many a night when Randy and Donny were deposited on their front step by Sheriff Tate after being caught drinking, carousing and trespassing on some poor farmer’s land while trying to tip a cow or two. It’s all harmless mischief,Thomas used to tell Tess after the boys, pale and hungover, were out of earshot. Yes, until someone gets hurt, Tess would shoot back until it became kind of a joke between them. They laughed halfheartedly at the time but it was with great relief when Randy finally graduated high school and went off to a nearby community college. Donny went his own direction and left Iowa for college in Oregon. Out of sight, out of mind, Thomas thought. And it worked, at least for a few years. Until Randy showed up on their doorstep with a round-faced spitfire of a four-year-old in tow and they found themselves worrying all over again. This time about Jordyn. Again Thomas pummels the ceiling with the broom handle. He’s discovered over the years that with girls, with Jordyn, anyway, it was different but much more complicated. The boys only had two moods: silly and sleepy. Jordyn, on the other hand, had too many moods to count. But how Thomas loved that girl. Thomas was sure that Tess felt the same way, though they never really talked about it. Maybe it was because they’d never had enough time with Betsy. Jordyn had the same round cheeks, the same widow’s peak, the same belly laugh as their daughter. Thomas knows that Jordyn is just on the edge of growing up. That there’s going to be a lot more sass than sweet in the years to come and it scares him to death that Tess might not be around to guide her, and him, through it. Jordyn needs her. He needs her. He tries not to think about life without Tess. It was just a fall, a bad fall, but Tess is tough. Hell, she put up with him all these years. She’ll be able to get through a pesky setback like a broken hip. With a sigh, Thomas gives up banging on the ceiling and makes the long trek up the stairs. He pushes open her bedroom door only to find it empty but in typical disarray. Jordyn must be in the bathroom. The book bag that Jordyn took with her to Cora Landry’s house for the overnight sits in the middle of the floor. Thomas bends over and pulls out the pair of sweatpants and a University of Grayling T-shirt that Jordyn wears as pajamas and adds them to the ever-growing pile of laundry to wash. His hand grazes something soft and Thomas finds Ella, the gray-and-pink stuffed elephant that Jordyn insists she has outgrown but that always seems to find its way into bed with her. He presses Ella to his nose and inhales Jordyn’s familiar scent. A combination of her shampoo and the Juicy Fruit gum that Jordyn chews incessantly. He digs more deeply into the book bag and pulls out a pair of socks and underwear, a hairbrush, a toothbrush sealed inside a plastic baggie. His hand lands on a social studies textbook. It’s heavier than he expects and it tumbles from his fingers and hits the ground hard, thrusting a folded sheet of paper from its pages. Thomas reaches for the paper. It is difficult to pick up but after several tries he is able to snag it with his thick, arthritic fingers. The paper is onion-skin thin and the color of weak tea. Thomas pushes aside a stack of books sitting on the foot of Jordyn’s bed and sits down to get a better look. Carefully he unfolds the paper and immediately recognizes Jordyn’s narrow feathery print. Pitch is written neatly across the top and below it is a remarkably detailed map of what looks like the train yard. Below a diamond-shaped compass in the upper right-hand corner is the boarded-up depot, the crisscross hatch marks of the railroad tracks and a half-dozen rectangular-shaped boxcars. Thomas wants to believe that the map is a geography assignment for Jordyn’s social studies class but the fact that his granddaughter and two friends snuck into the train yard the night before leads him to believe it’s no simple school assignment. Two girls, one with braids, the other with her hair in a high ponytail, are hiding behind one of the boxcars, mischievous grins slashed across their round faces. Jordyn and Violet. A third girl, smaller than the other two, is standing all alone in the middle of the tracks, her mouth opened in a round, black scream. He examines the drawing more closely and among the wispy pencil strokes meant to represent the winter wheat next to the train yard is a shadowy spot, more of a smudge, really. Thomas takes the paper to the window and holds it up to the light. Yes. There among the grasses is a vague, faceless shape of a person that inexplicably fills him with trepidation. Again he thinks of the bloodstain he just scrubbed from Jordyn’s jacket. Thomas folds the paper in half and then folds it again, and again until it’s the size of a thick postage stamp. He slides it into his pocket and steps into the hallway. “Jordyn,” he calls out gruffly. “We need to get going. Now.” Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry Nov. 9, 2017 Violet and I have been eating lunch every day for the last few weeks. She’s quiet, like me, but we talk to each other. I even told her that I liked Gabe and I held my breath waiting for her to say that he was too cute or too popular for me, but she didn’t. She just nodded like it made sense. We don’t even have to talk all the time. Sometimes we just sit there and eat, not saying anything, and it doesn’t feel weird. Violet always gets hot lunch and I bring cold lunch from home. I think that maybe Violet gets free lunch. I think this because for the last three days the lunch lady only gave her a peanut butter sandwich, apple slices and a carton of milk. My sister says that’s what kids get who are behind on paying their lunch bill. My mom always packs me a sandwich, a clementine, a bag of chips and some kind of dessert. Today she put in a monster cookie. I broke it in half and tried to give Violet some but she said no thanks. I put it on her tray, anyway. The other night my mom dropped Violet and me off at the high school basketball game. I was excited because I hardly ever go to the basketball games. Gabe was already there and waved us over so we could sit next to him and his friends. Jordyn was sitting behind us and I could feel her glaring at me from three rows up. During the game, Gabe asked me for my cell phone number and I had to tell him that I didn’t have one. Violet jumped in and gave Gabe her cell phone number and said that we could text each other using her phone whenever I wanted. No one has ever done something that nice for me before. Violet decided to do our urban legend project on Pop Rocks candy and soda. Violet said she heard from her brother that this kid from an old cereal commercial died when his stomach exploded after drinking Coke mixed with Pop Rocks. I’ve never had Pop Rocks but Violet said that she’ll ask her mom to bring home a few packs from the gas station where she works and I can try them. At dinner I told my mom, dad and sister about the project and how cool Mr. Dover is. I talked about how Gabe and his partner wanted to do theirs about a woman whose butt implants exploded but Mr. Dover said no way. A lot of kids wanted to research gross urban legends about murders and ghosts and sex and stuff. Mr. Dover told us that if we didn’t want our grandmas to hear our reports to choose a different topic. Later, Kendall said Mr. Dover was a perv. Kendall told me to watch how he looked at the girls who had big boobs, then I’d see. What she said makes me have a sick feeling in my stomach. Mr. Dover has only been teaching here for a few years. Some people say he came here because he got in trouble at his old school. But I don’t think that can be true. They wouldn’t have hired him at our school if he did anything bad, would they? Mr. Dover is cute. He is tall and has longish hair that he pushes out of his eyes about a thousand times during class. He has a young face but he dresses like a teacher (except when he’s dressing up like Paul Revere or Abe Lincoln): khaki pants, button-down shirts with a tie. I told Kendall to shut up, that Mr. Dover was the nicest teacher at school. That he actually cared about kids. Then I came up to my room and cried, though I’m not sure why. For the next few days I watched Mr. Dover more closely. I didn’t see him looking at any boobs but it seems like he spent more time talking with girls than boys during class. In social studies, I whispered to Violet what Kendall said about Mr. Dover being a pervert and she laughed. She whispered back, “Hey, that should be our urban legend topic. ‘Mr. Dover: Social Studies Teacher or Child Molester?’” I laughed, too, but I felt icky that I brought it up. I like Mr. Dover. Jordyn came over and asked what we were laughing about and, thank God, Violet said it was nothing. I can just imagine Jordyn telling everyone that I called Mr. Dover a pervert. Jordyn actually sat down and talked to us for a few minutes about normal stuff. She even told me she liked the earrings I was wearing. Suddenly, I heard a voice say, “Ahem,” and when I turned around Mr. Dover was walking over to us. He stood really close behind Jordyn, put both of his hands on her shoulders and said, “Ladies, I hate to interrupt this obviously very important conversation you are having, but we’ve got work to do.” Violet’s eyes went wide and she gave me a look that said, Oh, my God, you’re right, he is a perv! She burst out laughing and I started laughing, too. Jordyn looked at us like we were crazy but then she started laughing, too, even though she had no idea why. Violet was laughing so hard she gave a loud hiccup. Then everyone started laughing. “Go get a drink, Violet,” Mr. Dover said, finally dropping his hands away from Jordyn’s shoulders. To the rest of the class he said, “Okay, comic relief is over, turn to page twenty-four in your books.” Violet hurried out of the room, hiccupping all the way. I pulled out my social studies book and when I looked over at Jordyn she was smiling at me. Smiling like a friend would. Maybe she’s not as bad as I thought. Dr. Madeline Gideon (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) September 14, 2018 Mara Landry came to my office that evening after our first meeting. I was sitting at my office desk flipping through the collection of notes that I jotted down throughout the day. I’ve always found that my young patients get anxious when I record my observations during our sessions and tend to spend more time trying to see what I’m writing about them rather than sharing their feelings. The sun was dipping behind the linden trees that line the campus streets when I heard a light knock on my door. “Come on in,” I called, thinking that it was one of the residents or fellows stopping by my office to discuss a patient. The door opened and Mara Landry stood uncertainly in the doorway. “Mrs. Landry,” I said, surprised. I really didn’t expect her to reach out to me after our initial meeting and after seeing her husband’s reaction to me. “Please, come in. How is Cora?” “I don’t want to interrupt you. I know it’s getting late and you probably want to get going,” she said apologetically. “It’s no interruption at all. Please, sit down,” I invited. Mara Landry looked worn out. Her face was drawn and pale, her shoulders slumped as if the events of the day were pressing down on her and she was suffocating beneath them. A look I’d come to know well on worried parents. “I can’t stay long. I just wanted to thank you for stopping by earlier and to apologize. I know that Jim wasn’t exactly...” She struggled to find the right word so I jumped in to rescue her. “No apology necessary. Tell me about Cora. Did surgery go well?” I asked. “The doctor said it went well considering all her injuries.” Mara’s face buckled momentarily as she struggled to keep her composure. I waited and she went on. “There will be scars.” Mara’s fingers fluttered near her cheek. “But it could have been much worse and Cora is a strong little girl. She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” “Is Cora awake?” I asked. “Is she in much pain?” “Some.” Mara nodded. “They’ve been keeping her sedated and she’s pretty out of it. But she’s scared. She’s absolutely terrified. I can tell. She starts to fall asleep and then jolts awake and cries out. I tell her over and over that no one can hurt her anymore, that she’s safe, but...she keeps calling out for whoever did this to her to stop. To please not hurt her anymore and Jim can’t stand it. The police aren’t telling us much right now. They just say they are investigating and once they have information to share they will.” I nodded sympathetically. This was a common refrain I heard from the families of victims of a crime. “My oldest daughter, Kendall, won’t stop crying and can’t even look at Cora. Can’t even stand to be in the hospital room with her. My family is falling apart, Dr. Gideon.” Mara’s voice cracked. “One minute we’re hosting an overnight for my daughter and her friends and the next Cora is bleeding next to the train tracks.” “Are the other girls okay?” I asked. “As far as I know. We ran into Violet’s mom down in the emergency room but she said that Violet was just being treated for shock.” Mara pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, God, that sounded terrible,” she said shakily. “I’m glad she’s okay. I really am.” “Of course,” I said. “I need to get back to Cora,” Mara said. “But tomorrow? Do you think you might have some time tomorrow to visit with her?” “Certainly,” I said. “How about I stop by around eight or so?” “Maybe closer to nine would be better,” Mara suggested and I wondered if perhaps that was a time her husband wouldn’t be around. It’s not a good sign if one parent is open to my services and the other is not, but it’s a start. “Nine will be perfect,” I assured her. “Try and get some sleep tonight and I’ll see you in the morning.” I watched Mara walk wearily down the hallway. I’d seen it hundreds, maybe thousands, of times: the unsteady, almost drunken walk of those suddenly in the midst of a life-changing event. Mara’s equilibrium was off, but with time and help and with some luck she’d gather herself up and see to it that her family get through this and whatever else was to come. No matter how determined I was to leave work at a reasonable time, I got home well after nine o’clock that evening. As usual, the house was dark and quiet. I immediately peeled off my clothes to shower but couldn’t wash away the thoughts of Cora Landry and what happened to her in that train yard. The world was a dangerous place even for a little girl from small-town Iowa. I stepped from the shower, toweled off and put on my favorite pair of sweatpants and a University of Grayling Wolves sweatshirt. All I wanted to do was go to bed but instead I poured myself a glass of wine, opened my laptop and logged into the hospital’s secured online system. I pulled up Cora Landry’s medical records and learned that Cora was born at the hospital five weeks early. She spent some time in the NICU and made several follow-up visits to the pediatric specialty clinic over the years. I jumped to the clinic visit just prior to her attack. Eight months earlier she saw one of the docs for a routine checkup and overall Cora appeared healthy. Height and weight measures indicated that Cora was quite a bit smaller than her peers. The physician wrote that Cora conveyed feelings of extreme anxiousness and worry when it came to school and relationships with her peers. When he broached the subject with her parents, they chose to forgo any sort of psychological or pharmaceutical treatment at the time. The doctor also noted that Cora had a series of scratch marks at various stages of healing on the inside of her forearms. Cora explained that they were from her cat and the doctor suggested an over-the-counter antibiotic ointment. I closed the laptop and flipped on the television. I scanned the channels in hopes of finding some mindless sitcom but landed on a video of a reporter standing in front of the emergency room of the hospital. The tagline read Urban Legend Main Suspect in Train Yard Attack on Preteens? I sat up and increased the volume. The reporter spoke into a camera while a flurry of insects buzzed around the bright red emergency room sign above his head. “Two twelve-year-olds are the purported victims of a decades-old urban legend known as Joseph Wither. Sources say that at least two Pitch girls were hospitalized early this morning after a brutal attack at the abandoned Pitch, Iowa, train depot. “Though police and hospital officials remain mum on the investigation and the condition of the girls, an anonymous source tells KQIC News that at least one of the victims pointed the finger at Joseph Wither.” “Oh, Jesus,” I murmured and increased the volume on the television. The reporter glanced down at the notebook in his hand and then back at the camera. “According to the legend, Joseph Wither began his crime spree back in the 1940s, over seventy-five years ago. While only a few disappearances of young girls have been officially credited to Wither, over the years Johnson County residents have reported sighting a shadowy entity matching the description of Wither corresponding to the time of a disappearance. “Tonight, the small community of Pitch is on high alert and eagerly waiting an official statement from law enforcement as to what happened to these young girls. Stay tuned to KQIC for the most up-to-date information on this bizarre, frightening case.” The news report sealed it for me. Ghoulish, I know. This case had it all: a vulnerable little girl, a crime apparently carried out by a fictional villain, a family in crisis. A challenge. I was up for it. In fact, I couldn’t wait to get started. Case #92-10945 (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Excerpt from the journal of Cora E. Landry Nov. 10, 2017 So all of a sudden there are now three people in our group and we have a completely different topic. Deanna Salas and her family suddenly up and moved to Saint Louis so Mr. Dover asked Violet and me if Jordyn could join us. Like we had a choice. Of course we weren’t going to say no even though I wanted to. Violet and I have become really good friends and having Jordyn work with us is not great news. She’s just really hard to figure out. One day she’s aiming volleyballs at your head and the next day she’s smiling at you like she’s your best friend. When Mr. Dover told Jordyn to work with us on our project she didn’t seem all that happy about it. She was like, “You’re really going with the Pop Rocks and Coke thing?” and she said it all snotty. Violet and I looked at each other, both of us not sure what to say. I wanted to tell Jordyn to go find another group if she didn’t like our idea but of course I just sat there. “Listen to what Deanna and I were working on.” She looked around to see if anyone else was listening. I rolled my eyes at Violet and she gave me a look that said, I know, she’s ridiculous. Jordyn leaned in so close that I could smell the tacos from the lunchroom on her breath. “Joseph Wither,” she whispered, like we were supposed to know what she was talking about. I’ve heard of Joseph Wither. I knew he was supposed to be some kind of ghost but I didn’t really know why everyone was supposed to be afraid of him. Thankfully, Violet was the one to speak up and ask who Joseph Wither was so I didn’t feel quite so dumb. Of course, just as Jordyn was going to tell us, the fire alarm went off and we had to spend the next fifteen minutes standing outside. By the time we got back to the classroom, the bell rang and Jordyn didn’t get a chance to tell us what his deal was. But get this! When Violet, Jordyn and I were going to our next class Gabe started walking with us. He made a point to walk between me and Violet. Jordyn was NOT happy. Gabe asked Violet how she liked Pitch so far and she blushed bright red and said it was okay. Then he said, “See you at lunch,” and I swear he was looking right at me! Jordyn huffed off and ignored us for the rest of the day, which was perfectly fine with me. Whenever Violet comes over, she lets me use her phone to text back and forth with Gabe. I try not to spend too much time on her phone, though. I mean, best friends don’t ignore each other because one of them has a boyfriend. Okay, maybe Gabe isn’t my boyfriend yet, but I think he might ask me. That’s if Jordyn doesn’t get in the way. I’ve never had a boyfriend before and Gabe is perfect. Things are looking up! It’s going to be a good school year. I can feel it. Interview of Jordyn Petit Pitch Police Department Officer Bree Wilson Thomas Petit—Grandfather of Jordyn Petit (#ua3ed6f61-7119-5cc6-9d58-5878148b90d7) Monday, April 16, 2018 OFFICER WILSON: Okay. We are at the Pitch Police Department and, um, I’m here with Jordyn Petit and her grandfather, Thomas Petit. For the record, Mr. Petit, you agreed to allow your granddaughter, Jordyn, to answer questions regarding the events of April 15 and April 16. Correct? THOMAS PETIT: Yes. OFFICER WILSON: You have waived the right to have an attorney present for questioning, correct? THOMAS PETIT: We want to do anything we can to help. Jordyn will answer any questions you have. OFFICER WILSON: So for the record, Mr. Petit, you have waived the right to have an attorney present for questioning? THOMAS PETIT: Yes. OFFICER WILSON: Also, I am recording our conversation. Can you please say your full name? JORDYN PETIT: (inaudible) OFFICER WILSON: Please speak nice and loud. JORDYN PETIT: Jordyn Ann Petit. OFFICER WILSON: And how old are you, Jordyn? JORDYN PETIT: I’m twelve. OFFICER WILSON: When’s your birth date? JORDYN PETIT: February 2. OFFICER WILSON: So you had a birthday not that long ago? JORDYN PETIT: Yeah. OFFICER WILSON: What did you get for your birthday? JORDYN PETIT: Some clothes. A cell phone. OFFICER WILSON: A cell phone? What a great present. Do a lot of your friends have cell phones? JORDYN PETIT: Some. What happened to Cora? Is she okay? OFFICER WILSON: Are you worried about Cora? JORDYN PETIT: You said she was hurt. OFFICER WILSON: Did I? THOMAS PETIT: You did. At the bar you said Cora and Violet were taken to the hospital. OFFICER WILSON: Please let Jordyn answer, Mr. Petit. There are no right or wrong answers here. JORDYN PETIT: You said that someone hurt Cora and Violet. OFFICER WILSON: Okay. You spent the night at Cora’s house? JORDYN PETIT: Yes. OFFICER WILSON: On a Sunday night? JORDYN PETIT: It’s spring break, so we don’t have school this week. OFFICER WILSON: What time did you go over to Cora’s house? JORDYN PETIT: Um. Around six, I think. My grandpa dropped me off at about six. OFFICER WILSON: And Violet Crow was there, too? What time did she get to Cora’s? JORDYN PETIT: Later than me. Around six thirty. Her brother and his friends dropped her off. OFFICER WILSON: Violet’s brother? JORDYN PETIT: Yes. Max and his friends. OFFICER WILSON: Do you know the name of the friends? JORDYN PETIT: Clint something, I think. OFFICER WILSON: You don’t know his last name? JORDYN PETIT: No. And there was a girl in the car, too. Max’s girlfriend, Nikki. OFFICER WILSON: Do you know what kind of car they came in? JORDYN PETIT: I’m not sure. OFFICER WILSON: The color? Or number of doors it had? JORDYN PETIT: I don’t remember. Blue or black, maybe? OFFICER WILSON: Okay. After Violet got there, what did you do? JORDYN PETIT: We ate pizza and talked. OFFICER WILSON: What did you talk about? JORDYN PETIT: I don’t know. Just school and stuff. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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