by Margot Hunt
I was concerned that if Will and I were arrested at the same time, they’d immediately place Charlie in foster care, unless a family member was prepared to step in. I knew Mandy would take Charlie for as long as I needed her to, but I wasn’t sure if Child Protective Services would release him to a nonfamily member, especially if she and Dan hadn’t already been cleared to be foster parents. I remembered Jennifer Swain once telling me, when we were chatting at a school fund-raiser, about the hoops she and Peter had to jump through before they were allowed to foster Tate. I needed to make sure Charlie had a safe and immediate place to go.
“Of course I’d come get Charlie in an emergency. You don’t have to ask. I’m his grandmother.”
“Good.” I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Thank you.”
“Nat, what’s going on? And don’t say that it’s nothing. Obviously it’s something or you wouldn’t have called asking for vague future favors.”
For one wild moment, I thought about telling her. It would be such a relief to let someone in on our horrible secret, to be able to share this burden. Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I would remember what Robert did to Charlie, and again hear my son’s small, breaking voice as he told me about it. Then I would think about Robert’s body slumped back on the couch, his eyes staring lifelessly up at me. I would wonder if today was the day the detectives would show up to arrest me. If it was the last day of freedom I’d have for the rest of my life.
My mother wouldn’t be the worst person to tell. She wasn’t a gossip by nature, and she had a cold-blooded realism that might even appreciate the efficiency of our killing Robert. It solved a problem, removed a blight from the world. Or if not appreciate it, she’d at least understand it. What parent wouldn’t?
But in the end, I couldn’t tell her. For all I knew, the police had already heard Rio’s recording, were already listening in on my calls to build a case against me. It had been a risk to call and ask her for this favor, but I had decided that, as always, Charlie’s well-being outweighed my own.
“I really can’t get into it,” I said, watching as the pelican suddenly dived sharply toward the water and scooped up a fish in its oversize beak. “But thank you. I really appreciate knowing you’ll be there for Charlie.”
“You’d tell me if something was really wrong, right?” Lindy asked. “If there was something I should be worried about?”
“Of course,” I lied.
Chapter 31
I waited in the observation room at Camilla Wilson’s office, watching Charlie through the window. He was sitting at the low table, drawing on a roll of paper with colored pencils. His appointments with Camilla had taken on a familiar routine. He’d draw, and she’d sit next to him and ask him questions about his pictures. He’d happily discuss the subjects of his drawings, which were almost always of characters from video games. But as soon as she tried to direct the conversation to the abuse he’d suffered, Charlie would shut down. He usually stopped talking. Once he told her flat-out that he didn’t want to discuss it.
Camilla was good with him. She always wore soft, comfortable clothing that made it easy for her to sit or kneel nearby. She maintained the perfect balance between showing sincere interest without too much intensity. Still, I was starting to feel like we were running out of time. If Will and I were arrested, I knew my mother wouldn’t relocate to Shoreham, but would instead bring Charlie to live at her house. It would be better for him in a way—new surroundings to distract him. Lindy lived far enough away that hopefully he might escape media attention. But it would mean a new room, new school, new routine...and no more Camilla. I’d ask my mother to continue to bring him to see a child therapist, of course, but it would be yet another new person thrust into his life. Who knew if he’d ever become comfortable enough to open up?
“That’s new,” Camilla said, looking at Charlie’s picture. “No Nintendo today, huh?”
Charlie shrugged. “I like whales, too.”
“Those are great colors you’re using. The blues and grays. What’s your whale’s name?”
Charlie hesitated. “Fin,” he finally said.
“He looks like a Fin.”
Charlie lifted one corner of his mouth in a half smile. “He does, doesn’t he?”
“What’s Fin doing?”
“He’s swimming away,” Charlie said with such definitiveness, I felt a stab of pain in my chest. Eleven-year-olds should feel safe and secure in their lives. They shouldn’t need to swim away.
“Where’s he swimming to?”
Charlie didn’t answer her for long time. He just kept scratching the blue pencil against the paper, his attention focused on his drawing. Finally he said, “Just away. Away from here.”
“He doesn’t like it here?”
“No, he does. It’s just...sometimes I think it would be nice to go away, too. Somewhere where nobody knows you.”
“A fresh start,” Camilla suggested.
It was only when my vision started to blur that I realized tears were leaking out of my eyes. I grabbed a tissue from the ever-present box on the table in front of me and dabbed at them.
Charlie was quiet again. “I just wish everything was like it was before.”
“Before what?” Camilla asked.
“Before I told my mom about what happened.”
“I think your mom is glad you told her,” Camilla said.
“I don’t know. She’s been sad ever since.”
My tears were now steaming freely and unchecked. I leaned forward on the table, my hands clenched into fists. I wanted more than anything to run in there, pull Charlie into my arms, tell him that everything would be fine...and yet, I couldn’t. I had to let Camilla work with him. He needed her more than he needed me right now, in this moment, even if he didn’t realize it yet.
“I understand,” Camilla said. “But it’s okay for her to be sad. Just like it’s okay for you to be sad or angry or happy. It’s the way you feel and there isn’t a right or wrong way to feel about things.”
“I know,” Charlie said, with heartbreaking maturity I didn’t think he was capable of. “I just don’t want her to be sad because of me.”
“That’s completely understandable,” Camilla said. “Of course you always want the people you love to be happy. But that’s the thing about feelings. You can’t control how your mom feels, just like she can’t control how you feel.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “I guess.”
“Do you want to talk about how you feel?”
There was another long pause, while Charlie set down the blue pencil and began coloring with a dark gray one. I was just thinking Camilla had pushed him as far as he was willing to go, when he quietly said, “I feel angry sometimes.”
Camilla nodded. “I feel angry sometimes, too.”
“You do?” Charlie looked surprised.
“Of course.” Camilla smiled. “Everyone feels angry sometimes.”
“What do you get angry about?”
Camilla thought for a moment. “The other day, I was waiting in line at the grocery store, and the woman behind me bumped me with her cart. Right in my bum.”
Charlie laughed delightedly at hearing a grown-up say the word bum. I smiled, despite the tears still streaming down my cheeks.
“It’s true,” Camilla exclaimed. “And she didn’t even apologize! It made me so mad, I’m surprised there wasn’t steam coming out of my head.”
“Did you tell her?”
“Actually, no, I didn’t,” Camilla admitted. “But I wish I had.”
“Why?”
“Because I think it would have been better to say something. It was probably just an accident, after all. She might not have realized she bumped into me. And I was mad about it for like an hour after it happened. If I’d said something, and given her the chance to apologize, we both
might have felt better.”
Charlie nodded and chewed on the end of his colored pencil. If I’d been there, I would have told him to stop that, but Camilla—being wiser and more experienced than me—didn’t say a word.
“The thing is,” Charlie said, “Principal—wait I’m not supposed to say his name.”
I tensed. I was pretty sure that Camilla’s obligation to report that Robert had abused Charlie had ended with his death, but still. It was yet another risk.
“You can just say he,” Camilla suggested.
“Okay. He knew what he was doing was wrong.”
I stopped breathing. It was the first time Charlie had spoken about the molestation with Camilla. In fact, it was the first time he’d been willing to discuss it at all since the day he told me what Robert had done to him, when we were sitting beside the river eating ice cream.
“I’m sure he did.” Camilla nodded. “How does that make you feel?”
“Angry,” Charlie said shortly. He shrugged one shoulder up. “Like you were about the grocery cart.”
“Yes. It’s not okay when someone invades our personal space or when they touch us where they shouldn’t.”
“And he told me not to tell anyone or I’d get in trouble.”
“But you did tell,” Camilla reminded him. “And you didn’t get in trouble.”
Charlie considered this. “No. But...my mom was upset.”
“But that’s okay. People get to feel the way they feel. It’s what we were just talking about. We can’t control how we feel or how the people we love feel. All we can control is our own behavior. So if you’re feeling sad or angry you can’t just turn that off...but you can do things to cheer yourself up. Find things that make you happy that you can focus on instead. We can brainstorm some ideas together. Like going for a bike ride, or talking to a friend, or watching a movie you like.”
“Okay.” Charlie nodded. “I’m not sad all the time, you know.”
“I know.” Camilla smiled at him. “I’m so glad, Charlie.”
* * *
Camilla met with me privately in the observation room while Charlie stayed in the therapy room, finishing his drawing.
“It seemed like it went well today,” I said.
“Yes, I think we’re making progress. He just needed some time to know he can trust me. To know that it’s safe for him to open up to me.”
I exhaled. “Thank God.”
“We have a lot more work to do,” Camilla said. “But if we can get him to start processing his feelings about what happened to him, that’s definitely a good thing. How’s he doing at home?”
“He’s been having nightmares, and he wet the bed once. He was mortified.”
“That’s pretty normal for kids who’ve suffered abuse. It’s a regression to a younger age, to a time when Charlie felt safer.”
My stomach lurched. How safe is he going to feel when his father and I are in jail, and not around to protect him? I wondered.
“He started to tell me that it was the principal of his school who molested him,” Camilla commented. “But you heard that.”
“I did.” I looked levelly at her. “But he’s since died. Are you still obligated to report the abuse to the police?”
“It’s a judgment call,” Camilla said. She exhaled in a long, soft sigh. “Probably not. I’m more concerned with how Charlie’s dealing with his death.”
“He hasn’t said much about it,” I admitted. “Just that he’s glad he’ll never have to see him again.”
Camilla nodded. “I’ll try to get him to open up about it during our next few sessions. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s conflicted about that. It would be natural for him to have hoped that the man who abused him would die or go away in some permanent way and then feel guilt when he actually did.”
“God, I hope not. Charlie doesn’t have anything to feel guilty about.”
“That’s the way kids’ minds often work. If they don’t understand something, they’ll often process it in a way that blames themselves. It’s their way of making sense out of a world that’s often senseless.” Camilla looked at me carefully. “It is interesting that the man who hurt Charlie died so soon after the allegations of his abuse started to come to light.”
I looked at Camilla again, meeting her direct gaze.
She knows, I thought. Or, at least, she suspects.
“I certainly didn’t shed any tears over his death,” I said.
“No,” Camilla said quietly. “I don’t imagine you would.”
* * *
“I think she knows we did it,” I told Will that evening.
“Why do you think that?” he asked. “Did you say anything that would give her reason to suspect you?”
“No, of course not. But I could tell by the way she looked at me,” I countered. “She knows. She wasn’t even judgmental about it. It was more like she was...intrigued.”
We were sitting on our back deck after Will had gotten home from work. Where, I reminded myself, he had spent the entire day sitting just down the hall from Jaime Anderson. Had they spent time together? Had they shared a secret whispered conversation or a passionate kiss behind a closed office door? Will said it was over between the two of them, but why should I believe him about anything. I shivered. The day had been unexpectedly chilly for early March and had grown colder as the sun began to set. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to warm up.
Will noticed and said “Do you want me to get you a sweater?”
“I’m fine.”
I didn’t want to give him the opportunity to do something for me. Ever since he’d told me about his affair, Will had been overly solicitous. As though if he could stack up enough nice gestures, it would overshadow his infidelity. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t work that way.
Will stood up anyway, went inside and returned a few minutes later with my favorite black cardigan. He held it out to me.
“Thanks,” I said stiffly, putting it on.
“Of course.” Will smiled briefly, but his expression quickly turned serious. “The therapist can’t say anything to the police, right? That would violate doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Right. But I don’t think she would, anyway.”
“You don’t think she approves of what we did?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t seem horrified, but maybe she has a good poker face. Her job is to treat kids who are victims of predators like Robert, so I can’t imagine she’s overly sympathetic to him.”
Will shook his head. “That’s screwed up. Are you sure she’s the right therapist for Charlie?”
“She’s great with him. He opened up to her today for the first time.”
“Good.” Will gazed out at the sky. The sun was setting, turning the sky to a luminous orange-red, swirled with puffs of cotton candy clouds. “Did you hear anything more about the investigation? Any news floating around the courthouse?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“So it’s possible that the police still don’t know about the recording,” Will said.
“Anything is possible at this point.”
“Part of me hopes that nothing ever happens. Obviously.” Will waved a hand. “But...another part of me feels like waiting for the ax to fall is almost worse in a way. That it would be better to know something, even if it’s bad news, than constantly worry about what’s about to happen.”
“It’s not,” I said flatly. “Nothing happening is always better than something bad happening. Trust me on that.”
What I thought but didn’t say was, Better to be worried and home with Charlie. Better to spend every day of the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders than be in jail.
My phone rang from the wicker couch cushion beside me. I picked it up and checked the caller ID. It was the Calusa County Sheriff’s Office. Which
could mean nothing—it could be about a client or a case—or it could mean everything. I stared at it for a long moment before I hit the receive call button.
“This is Natalie Clarke,” I said.
I listened to the voice on the other end of the phone.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there.”
I hung up and set the phone down next to me with shaking hands.
“What’s wrong?” Will asked.
“That was the Calusa County Sheriff’s Office. Sheriff Nolan has requested a meeting with me tomorrow morning.”
Will stared at me. I could see the color draining from his face, the pink hue in his cheeks fading. “Has the sheriff ever asked to meet with you before?”
“No, never.”
“So this isn’t in connection with one of your cases?”
I shook my head slowly. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
“So tomorrow,” Will said. He stared at me, the terror in his eyes reflecting back my own worst suspicions. “Tomorrow we might know something more.”
“Tomorrow,” I agreed.
Chapter 32
I got up early the next morning to make Charlie pancakes before school. I took my time with the preparations—browning bacon until it was crisp, making the buttermilk batter from scratch, adding a handful of plump blueberries to each pancake as it cooked.
I tried very hard not to think about the fact that this might be the last time I would ever cook breakfast for my son.
Charlie came into the kitchen just after seven, still in his pajamas, wide-eyed at the sight of the pancakes on the griddle, the already cooked bacon piled on a plate lined with paper towels to absorb the excess grease.
“Why are you making my birthday breakfast?” he asked. “It’s not my birthday.”
“I just felt like it.” I smiled at him, then pulled him into my arms for a hug. I breathed in his sleepy smell and smiled even as I could feel tears pricking at my eyes. Charlie relaxed against me for a minute, but then began to wriggle out of my arms, eager to enjoy this rare breakfast treat.
