“Yeah. Like, I wonder where the hell the cops were.” He waves half a donut around, sprinkling sugar on the table between us. “That reporter said the guy had whacked around his wife before, and maybe his kid, so why was he even out on the streets? They should have had the loser locked up somewhere!”
“I agree, but I can’t believe I’m listening to you say it.” I shake my head, amazed. “When did you develop a moral code?”
“What the hell, Tori? I’m not some kind of creep!” Joel takes a swipe at my head, but I lean back out of the way.
“Even though you dropped ice cubes down a girl’s shirt just to get near her boobs?” I balance my chair on its back legs to avoid his wrath.
“It’s not the same thing and you know it!” He gets red in the face.
“Okay, sorry,” I say, liking this side of Joel.
He scowls and shovels in the last of his disgusting food. He marches to the sink to dump in his bowl and then digs in the fridge for the glass milk jug, drinking from the spout.
I make a face but say nothing. I won’t be pouring milk from that jug for a while.
“Where do you think he’s taken her?” Joel finally says.
“No clue.” I rub my eyes. “The police think he’s nearby.”
“Still?” He wipes his mouth and puts the jug back in the fridge.
“Yeah.” I scratch at the skin around my cast. “Maybe we should go look for her.”
“It’s the middle of the night!”
“Yeah, I know.” I sigh. “I just wish I could do something.”
Joel stares at me for a moment and then asks, “Why do you think he did it?”
“To get back at his ex-wife for leaving him.”
“Seriously?” He leans against the side of the stove.
“Yup. That’s what she said.”
“He’s a loser.” Joel snorts. “Why not just get a new woman?”
I scowl. “You think there’s another woman just waiting to hook up with this guy?”
“Good point.” Joel scratches his chest absentmindedly. “His reputation is in the toilet now.”
I think about Matt, and how Melody doesn’t know what he’s like, even though I tried to warn her. “Maybe we need a national database of creeps,” I say, only half joking.
“Not a bad idea.” Joel nods. “CreepWatch-dot-org. Protect yourself from creeps, stalkers and deadbeats.”
I grin—until I remember that Casey is somewhere with her father. I tap my fist on the table, wishing I could save her somehow. “I can’t stand waiting, not knowing where she is or if she’s safe.”
Joel gives me a long look and then strides over. “Come on, sibling.” He yanks me by the arm. “I have the perfect distraction.”
I’m pulled to my feet before I can object. “What?”
“A Buffy the Vampire Slayer marathon. It’ll be awesome.”
“But I don’t want to—”
“Yes, you do.”
I let him drag me into the den.
Joel lines up a sequence of Buffy episodes and collapses on the couch beside me. Under the blanket Mom crocheted, we watch hours of petite, blond-haired Buffy destroying the monsters that threaten her town. I find it strangely soothing.
Joel digs out a box of Fruit Loops, and I manage to eat a few handfuls. He’s a decent brother, at least tonight. When I tell him so, he pretends to punch me in the face and then smiles.
After a few episodes, I put my head on Joel’s shoulder, just for a minute.
I wake to someone shaking me.
“What?” I groan and roll over.
Sunlight streams through the windows. I squint, trying to remember why I’m in the den, sprawled on the couch, gripping a cushion like it’s a life preserver. Joel is asleep on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, a blanket twisted around his legs.
Dad is leaning over me. He’s wearing his boxers and a white T-shirt, and his hair is flattened on one side in a serious case of bed head.
“Didn’t you hear the phone?” His voice is urgent. “The police called. They found Casey. You’re wanted at the station right away.”
HAUNT
to torment continually
I switch radio stations in the SUV, hoping to hear details about Casey on the news, but there’s only tinny pop music, a stupid car commercial and boring Saturday-morning programming.
“Did the officer who called you tell you anything else?” I turn to Dad, who gave up the front seat to sit in the back by himself. Joel is still dozing in the den.
“I asked, but he didn’t know much.” Dad’s voice is husky with sleep.
I frown. “I still wonder why the police want to see me.”
Mom gives my newly shaved head a disapproving glance, although at least she hasn’t harassed me about it yet. “Maybe they want you to identify Stewart Foster in a lineup. Or interview you again.” Her hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Whatever it is, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“I’ve already identified him. And I told them everything I know.” I lean against the headrest and stare out at the blur of buildings we pass.
The radio plays an annoyingly cheerful tune. My mind churns. If only Casey and I hadn’t gone to the park that day. If only I had tripped her father or tackled him. I can’t shake the feeling that I should have done more to help.
When the news comes on the radio, I shush everyone. Casey makes the top story.
“An AMBER Alert was called off after Casey-Lynn Foster was found early Saturday morning,” a female announcer says.
I turn up the volume, desperate for details. Is Casey okay?
“The alert was issued after her father, 39-year-old Stewart Foster, who is separated from her mother, allegedly abducted Casey-Lynn from Mill Pond Park on Friday afternoon. Police report that Casey-Lynn was found in good health and has been returned to her mother. Stewart Foster is being questioned by police. Charges are pending.”
“So he hid out in someone’s shed?” I’m already trying to imagine what it was like for Casey. Dirty? Cold? Terrifying? “It sounds like he didn’t hurt her.”
“I hope not, but she’s still going to be traumatized.” Mom glances at me. “Something like that doesn’t leave you.”
I avoid Mom’s eyes. “I guess not.”
“I hope they lock him up for good,” Dad mutters. “Men like that aren’t fit for society.”
“No kidding,” I say.
At the station, TV crews and reporters are camped outside the front doors. As Mom parks the SUV, I sink lower in my seat.
“Why are there reporters everywhere I go?”
“You don’t have to talk to them.” Mom turns off the car.
Dad opens his door. “We won’t let them near you.”
Outside, I zip up my hoodie and hold my broken hand against my chest. As we head up the walk, Dad takes my right flank while Mom’s on my left and slightly in front, like a lopsided battering ram. Even though my parents can be controlling and demanding, I’m glad they’re here with me now.
I keep my head down and my eyes on my running shoes.
“Isn’t that the witness from the park?” I recognize Janice Reese’s voice and cringe.
The reporters, cameras poised, crowd us as we approach.
Then the questions fly. “Are you involved in the case against Stewart Foster?” “Do you know Casey-Lynn or her father?” “Did you injure your hand in an altercation with Stewart Foster?”
I keep my mouth shut and my feet moving while my parents ward off the attack. It takes only a bit of pushing to make it into the lobby of the police station.
I look around nervously before approaching a large bald officer at the information desk. As soon as I say who I am, he ushers us into a nearby room and then abandons us. In the room there’s a plain metal table, three plastic chairs and little else. I fiddle with a strap on my cast.
“Is this an interrogation room?” I spin in a circle. There’s no two-way mirror, like on TV crime shows.
<
br /> Mom puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be fine.”
Dad takes a seat and stretches out his legs. “Of course it will. They probably just want to talk.”
I’m pacing when two women enter the room a few minutes later—a tall brown-skinned woman followed by a smaller one with olive skin and dark hair. It surprises me that they’re both in regular clothes.
“I’m Constable Nancy Hobbs,” the tall woman says briskly, “the designated investigator in this case. You can call me Nancy.” She motions to the other woman. “This is Andi Chavez, the children’s-aid worker assigned to Casey.”
Mom opens her mouth to speak, but I interrupt her.
“How is Casey?” I blurt out.
Mom looks startled. She probably expected to do the talking.
“She’s fine physically, other than a few bruises.” The woman named Andi has a softer voice. “She’s been examined at the hospital. But she’s shaken, of course.”
“Stewart Foster is in custody,” Nancy adds.
“We heard that on the radio.” Dad nods grimly, and it hits me like a slap across the face that Stewart Foster could be somewhere in this building. I stare into the hall, shaking. If I met him shackled and shuffling on the way to some cell, I’d want to punch him out.
“Sit down,” Nancy tells me. “You’re probably wondering why we asked you to come.”
No kidding. I perch on the edge of a chair. Nancy sits opposite Dad. Mom hovers nearby. Andi shuts the door and rests against it.
“We were hoping you could help us out.” Nancy leans toward me. “You see, we need to interview Casey while the events are fresh in her mind. It’ll help us figure out what charges to lay against her father.”
“And how to help her,” Andi adds.
Nancy nods. “But Casey won’t speak. Not to her mother, to me or to any other officer.”
“That’s terrible. She only started to talk again recently.” If Casey isn’t speaking again, she must have gone through hell.
“Yes. We understand that you’ve successfully encouraged Casey to talk in the past,” Nancy continues. “Her mother says you have a special connection. It’s a little unorthodox, but with your permission”—she glances at both of my parents and then back to me—“we’d like you to try to get Casey talking again.”
“Of course I’ll help,” I say, not waiting for my parents’ response.
“Are you sure you can handle it?” Mom asks. “It might be hard to deal with.”
“I’m very sure.” If she wants to argue this, she’ll have a fight on her hands.
A fleeting look passes between my parents.
“Okay,” Mom says. “It’s up to you.”
Nancy and Andi send my parents back to the lobby to wait. Then they lead me to another part of the building.
“We have an idea what happened.” Nancy takes large strides down the hall, with Andi and me a step behind. “But we need Casey’s statement to build a strong case against her father. If you can encourage her to speak at all, I can ask her a few questions.”
“I’ll try.” I hug my broken hand, dreading Casey’s reaction when she sees me. What if she blames me for what happened?
We stop outside a plain metal door.
“Casey is fairly withdrawn now, so don’t be discouraged if she won’t talk.” Andi puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure your presence here will be a comfort to her.”
“I hope so.” What if Casey doesn’t even want to see me?
“Let’s go.” Nancy opens the door and heads inside.
I’m expecting to find Casey in an interrogation room, but the room is large and bright, with colorful armchairs and a rainforest mural painted on one wall. Casey is sitting on the floor near a coffee table. She’s hunched over with her knees up, slowly winding the dirty lace from one of her shoes around one finger. Rita is crouched beside her with her hand on Casey’s back. Blank white paper and a box of crayons lie untouched on the table.
“Thanks so much for coming.” Rita stands when she sees me. Her hair is in a messy bun, and she looks like she’s had no sleep. Tears well in her eyes.
I swallow the lump at the back of my throat.
Casey doesn’t look up.
“Your friend Tori has come to see you, Casey.” Nancy touches her arm briefly.
Casey shies away. Her face is pale and drained of emotion. My heart aches for her.
Andi takes a seat near the door. Nancy sits closer. I notice a video camera discreetly mounted in one corner of the room.
Rita gives me a pleading look that says, Go to her.
I sit on the floor beside Casey.
Casey drops her shoelace and begins tracing the circular pattern on the rug with her finger.
I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I’m sorry for what happened at Mill Pond Park, Casey.”
Her finger stops.
“I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish I could have done more to help you.”
Her finger begins tracing again, this time in a counterclockwise direction.
I pause, not sure what else to say. I feel like I’m battling Stewart Foster for Casey. He’s done something to close her down again. How do I open her up?
“Go on,” Andi mouths.
Nancy, Andi and Rita watch me, waiting, expecting a miracle.
Casey’s eyes are hauntingly vacant. It’s like Stewart Foster has snatched her from me again. I’m flooded with guilt.
Nancy clears her throat. “Tori? Are you with us?”
“Maybe this is too much,” Andi says.
“I’m fine.” I sit straighter. I have to get it together. For Casey.
Casey tucks her knees under her chin and hugs her legs.
“I wonder what the kids at Haven are doing now.” My voice is fake-cheery and pitched too high. I try again, lower. “Let’s see. It’s Saturday. Do you sometimes watch morning cartoons in the TV room on Saturday mornings?”
I pause, leaving time for Casey to respond.
She stares at the rug without blinking.
“I hear that Sheerma makes blueberry pancakes for weekend breakfasts. Have you ever eaten them?”
Silence. Is she even listening?
“I’ve never had them, but I’d like to. Do you like jam or maple syrup on your pancakes?” I blabber on about my favorite breakfast foods, as if it matters, asking Casey questions every now and then.
Casey is a statue, still and unspeaking. What has Stewart Foster done to her?
Eventually, Nancy motions for me to join her in the hall. Andi comes too.
“I’m sorry,” I say as soon as the door closes behind us. “I’m not sure how to reach her.” I’m failing Casey and letting everyone else down too.
“Maybe give Casey a few minutes and try again?” Nancy’s voice is urgent. She reminds me of my mother in some ways. I bet she’s used to getting what she wants, but this time is different.
“That’s okay, Tori.” Andi directs a look at Nancy. “It was a long shot anyway. Unless you can think of something else to talk about, or an activity that might draw her out?”
Drawing.
I remember seeing the paper and crayons on the table. “There is one thing…” I bite my lip. Could it work?
“What?” Nancy perks up.
“Do you have a ruler?” I ask. “Casey always draws with one.”
“I can get one.” Andi hurries down the hall. She’s back in a few minutes with a clear plastic six-inch ruler.
“Thanks.” I grip the ruler. “Let’s hope this works.”
SPEAK
to engage in conversation
I lay out two sheets of paper on the coffee table, side by side.
Casey begins tracing circles on the rug with her finger again.
I open the box of crayons; there are sixteen, and they’ve never been used. I set the ruler and the purple crayon—her favorite color—beside Casey’s paper. Then I pull out the orange and black crayons and begin.
“I thought I saw Monty the
other day outside my school.” I keep my voice calm and pick up the black crayon with my injured hand. At least I can still draw. “But it wasn’t Monty. You know how I know?”
I wait. One beat. Two.
Casey stops tracing circles on the rug. Beside her, Rita shoots me an approving look.
“Because he didn’t have a torn wing,” I finish.
With the black crayon, I outline the shape of a butterfly with the tip of one wing missing. Casey watches my hand moving across the paper.
It’s a start.
I take more than five minutes to fill in the butterfly’s abdomen with black. I’m working slowly, deliberately. As I color and chat about butterflies, Casey moves closer. Eventually, she leans over my good arm to see my paper.
I’m thrilled, but I try not to overreact.
“Do you like my picture so far?” I ask, not really expecting an answer.
Casey nods.
A good sign.
I pick up the orange crayon, daring to hope now. “Monty may be small, but he’s really strong. He made it all the way here from down south.” I pause. “Do you want to draw with me?”
“Yes.” Casey’s voice is a whisper.
I slowly exhale. “Great.” I smile, and it dawns on me that what I’m doing is even better than punching Stewart Foster out. Maybe helping Casey speak about what happened is another way of fighting back.
Casey slides in front of her paper, her leg touching mine. She begins to draw her usual abstract lines with the purple crayon and the ruler.
At first I think she’s just drawing lines at odd angles, like I’ve seen her do so many times. It looks like shattered glass. Then an image begins to emerge. There’s a thick tubular shape in the center of the page and wings like stained glass on either side.
“Is that a purple Monty?” I ask. Her picture takes up the whole page.
“Yes,” Casey says solemnly.
“Nice,” I say. Then I notice Nancy pointing toward herself, like she wants in on the conversation. “Listen, Casey,” I add. “There’s a police officer here who wants to ask you some questions. Do you think you can talk to her?”
Casey’s crayon halts in midair. “Can you stay with me?”
Punch Like a Girl Page 11
