“Chief Malone told me you’ve been exonerated. That’s great news,” he said.
“I was pretty relieved,” Andie said. Understatement of the year.
“So how’s it going?”
“Fine.”
“Have you come to an answer about whether you did the right thing?”
“I’m still not sure. Some days I’d say yes. Others, no.” A tidy, noncommittal response.
“Why would you think you didn’t do right?” Dr. Capoletti asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Andie said, as casual as a breeze. “Maybe if I’d been less afraid, I could have handled Christopher better, and I wouldn’t have shot him.”
“You mean you should have been the perfect cop? Medal-of-honor brave no matter what you faced?”
“I should have kept my cool.”
“I read the report. It sounded to me like you kept your cool just fine.” From a table next to his chair, Dr. Capoletti picked up a tobacco tin, which he set between his knees. “Mind if I smoke?”
“No.”
He pried open the tin’s top and asked, “Have you always required yourself to be brave and strong?”
“No,” Andie said, puzzled.
“How about when you were little? When your father died unexpectedly and your mother went to bed for weeks, and never fully recovered after that? During your hiring interviews, you told me you were only eight, but you had to take care of her and your brother. You called your best friend’s mother to find out how to work a washing machine. Remember?”
“Yes. It was a difficult time.”
“You said you were frightened, but you had to be strong. Do you think you should have handled Christopher the same way? Squashed down the fear? Been the superbrave cop?”
Andie could see where this was going. “I guess my reactions were the same,” she admitted.
“Christopher’s attack was very traumatic—perhaps as traumatizing as your father’s death.”
“What does my father’s death have to do with what’s happening now?” Andie asked.
“Because there’s a link between the two events, and you’re repeating a pattern,” Dr. Capoletti said. “When horrible things happen to us, they can resurrect pain from earlier times. You may have tucked away your father’s death so you don’t think about it much these days, but it can make killing Christopher more difficult to deal with. You’re handling a double whammy, past and present. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
As Dr. Capoletti struck a match and puffed clouds of smoke that smelled like burning cherries, Andie’s mind traveled back to her divorce, another time when she’d been blindsided and felt insecure and scared. She’d had to be strong then too. Her whammy wasn’t double; it was triple. But she didn’t feel like pointing it out and complicating the discussion.
“Being strong and brave can help you get through adversity, but it can block you from being honest with yourself and seeing that you’re vulnerable,” Dr. Capoletti said.
Andie insisted, “I’m really fine.”
He waved his pipe through the air as if he were shooing away her denial. “When we last met, you said repeatedly that you were fine. You don’t have to be fine. That’s the point. You don’t have to go through life always being strong.”
“I understand,” Andie said. “I really do. I get what you’re saying.” Now can I go back to work?
“I’m amazed how many police officers I meet like you who got pushed into adulthood too soon. They pick their career for the emotional security they missed out on as kids, or they want to control their environment since it was out of control when they grew up. Sound familiar?”
“Maybe,” Andie hedged. “But why I joined the force doesn’t matter.”
“It might.” Another cloud of burning-cherry smoke. “Christopher showed you that someone could kill you at any time, and you’re not secure or in control. Lots of officers in your position would acknowledge they’re vulnerable.”
“I can live with it. I know how to protect myself if I’m attacked.”
“I’m talking about more than physical safety here. I’m referring to emotional vulnerability.” Dr. Capoletti puffed again. The room got quiet except for Justice’s breathing. Andie didn’t know what she should say, so she said nothing.
Finally, Dr. Capoletti asked, “Have you had any nightmares?”
“A couple.” Like all the time.
“Want to tell me about them?”
“Oh, just that I was in a scary situation.”
“Were you brave and strong?”
“In one I tried to shoot a gun that wouldn’t go off.”
“That’s a typical anxiety dream. It could mirror your real-life anxiety,” Dr. Capoletti said. “What would you say might be behind that dream?”
“Nothing that I know of. It didn’t upset me.” That’s a lie.
Dr. Capoletti’s face told Andie that he also suspected it was a lie—and silence settled between them again like a field of snow. Just like in the nightmares, Andie began to feel anxious. She feared that she was failing this interview and Dr. Capoletti would keep her on leave forever. Justice seemed to sense Andie’s squirms, because he leaned against her ankle. “Please, can I go back to work?” she asked. “I really want to be there.”
Dr. Capoletti closed his eyes like he was pondering. When he opened them, he said, “I was hoping you’d see that vulnerability is behind your anxious dreams. It’s important to acknowledge it.”
“I do. Really,” Andie said. Not true.
Dr. Capoletti gripped a kneecap. “Okay.” He paused. “I’ll agree that you can go back to work on one condition. Last time we met, I warned you about nightmares, panic attacks, and flashbacks. If your nightmares continue or the other two get to be a problem, you come back and talk with me. As I said, they could be signs of something serious, like post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“All right.”
“And watch out for other emotional problems like anxiety and depression. I told you about them too. If bad feelings come up too often or linger too long, they can be pointing to bigger issues.”
“Okay.”
“Going back to work when you’re still processing a trauma can help you get on track, but it might also distress you. You have to be honest with me about that.”
“I will.” Andie had always been proud of being an honest person. But she knew she couldn’t pass a lie-detector test if challenged about a few of her comments today. She told herself to think of them as tiny fibs that she’d sprinkled into the conversation here and there. She may have glossed over the truth, but only a little, and she hadn’t committed perjury under oath. Gently misleading someone didn’t make her a criminal. Still, Dr. Capoletti was as perceptive as a mood ring. If she’d worn one here today, her anxiety would have turned it mustard yellow.
As Andie and Justice were leaving, she glanced at a poster behind Dr. Capoletti’s desk.Written in loopy white script on a black background was: A storm is as good a friend as sunshine.
No, it’s not, she thought. I’ve had my share of storms, and they’re no friends. She led Justice down the hall to the elevator.
CHAPTER 28
TOM
The worst part about being in law enforcement was worrying about your family. For years Tom had imagined scenarios that put his teeth on edge: A driver resentful of Tom’s speeding ticket could drag Lisa behind a Food Mart Dumpster and do unspeakable things to her. Or a hostile perp could get out of prison, kidnap her, and lock her in his basement for ten years. There were nutcases everywhere, and in Tom’s line of work he’d met plenty. Including Franz Vanderwaal.
After a Nisqually County Board of Supervisors meeting last week, Chief Malone had taken Tom aside, put an arm around his shoulders, and informed him, “Vanderwaal is outraged at you.” He had stormed into the station and snarled at the Chief, “How could any competent person conclude that Officer Brady should get off scot-free? Ever heard of miscarriages of justice? Somebod
y is going to pay!”
Tom was certain that he was Franz’s “somebody,” and, therefore, Lisa might be in his crosshairs too. Because she was small and innocent, she’d be an easy target. Franz, like Christopher, could come after Lisa with a knife on her school playground or in Mia’s backyard. You could never tell what an intensely wound-up man like him might do. At times like these Tom could have used a protective dog like Justice.
On his and Lisa’s last Skype call, he’d held up his gentle Sammy for her nightly wave and listened to Lisa’s weather and cloud report. She told him that her mood ring was blue—so her emotional outlook was peaceful. A good time for what I have to say.
“Lisa, honey, I went to a wonderful private elementary school in San Julian today. You want to visit there with me on Friday afternoon?”
“Why?” She was so damned cute when she screwed up her little face. She’d pulled her hair back with bow-shaped barrettes, but rebellious tendrils wisped over her ears.
“I’ve been thinking you might like to go to school there starting next term. It’s got a great academic reputation.” And a ten-foot spiked iron fence around the playground to keep out perverts and crazies. “Besides the usual subjects, you can learn photography and Spanish. Even martial arts!” One well-aimed kick to Franz’s cojones, and you could have him writhing on the ground. “The classes are small. Your fourth grade would only have twenty-one students, counting you.” The easier for your teacher to watch out for revengeful screwballs.
“I don’t want to change schools.”
“You’d have field trips to the Seattle Aquarium and the Nisqually County Fair.”
“I like my school now.”
“Maybe you’d like this one even better.”
“I’d miss my friends.”
“They could visit you here on weekends. And you’d make new friends in no time.”
“Da-ad. I don’t want to go there.”
“After I pick you up on Friday, let’s just stop and look around for a minute. If you don’t like it, we can leave.”
“Yuck.”
It was time for his ace in the hole. “The fourth-grade teacher said we could set up a small weather station for you in a corner of the classroom. I just found a perfect one online. I’ll send you the link.”
The kid’s smile could light up a cave at midnight. “What’s the station like?”
“It’s got a sensor outside and a monitor you read indoors to find out about the temperature, humidity, rain, and wind speed and direction. It also tells you the moon phase, rainfall rate per hour, and other wonderful things I’ve never heard you talk about.”
Lisa’s eyes were as wide as silver dollars. “My own station? Not the school’s?”
“All yours, and you can bring it home on holidays. The teacher was excited about it.”
“Would I meet her on Friday too?”
“Yep.”
Tom hung up and checked his bankbook balance. The tuition meant a sacrifice, and he might have to bribe Mia to drag herself out of bed half an hour early to get Lisa to San Julian. But anything to keep her safe.
CHAPTER 29
ANDREA
On her first day back at work, the dispatcher sent Andie to subdue two peace-disturbing neighbors, screaming at each other over their shared property line. One of the combatants, Dr. Jeremy Rosoff, was a short and squat cigar chomper, whose favorite gesture was shaking his fist. The other, Marigold Adams, looked refined in her suit and pearls, but she yelled like a drunken stevedore.
Justice flattened back his sensitive ears as he and Andie approached the mayhem. “I understand there’s a problem here,” she said.
Jeremy glowered at her and shook his fist at Marigold. “She started it.”
“Look what that jackass did!” Marigold pointed at the fence between them.
It was eight feet tall, made of sturdy metal mesh. Newly planted along it on Jeremy’s side was a line of Leland cypresses that would eventually grow to fifty feet and block the sun on Marigold’s house. Every couple of yards just out of her reach if she wriggled her hand through the wire, he’d posted signs demanding: NO TRESPASSING! STAY OUT! In case Marigold didn’t grasp the idea, there were other signs, of crossbones and skulls with hollow eyes and clacking teeth. On one skull a pirate’s scarf was tied at a jaunty angle above a black eye patch, hinting of plunder.
“For twenty-five years the former owners of his house let me have barbecues over there beyond those cypresses. Then he came along and decided to build his #@%*$ gazebo on our picnic spot,” Marigold said.
“It’s my property,” Jeremy seethed.
“You’ve got five acres, and our tiny little spot meant nothing to you. You just wanted to be mean. You’re a power-hungry SOB.”
“That bitch was trying to take over my land!” Jeremy shouted.
“How about if we show some respect here. Calling each other names isn’t going to solve anything,” Andie said.
Justice, who was never keen on people he considered barbaric, bristled his eyebrows as if to do his own name-calling: Those odious philistines. Those rancid savages.
“I cleared a place for my gazebo. She set her wicker lawn chairs there and taped Do Not Remove signs to the seats. Can you believe that?!” Jeremy enlisted his fist into service again. “Every day I moved the chairs to her yard, and every night she snuck them back over here.”
“Have you two tried sitting down and talking politely with each other?” Andie asked.
“I put up the fence to keep her out,” Jeremy yelled. “The very next day I was here sawing wood for my gazebo and something whizzed by my head. She was hiding behind a bush and slinging dog shit onto my property!”
“You’re not telling her what you did, you #!@*%^ pervert!” Marigold snapped. “I came out here the other day to water my camellias, and I looked over at the fence. He was mooning me! You have to arrest him for indecent exposure.”
“Any video or photo of him, um, mooning?” Andie asked. “Without proof, it’s he said, she said.”
“I would never photograph that. He’s the deviant, not me.” Marigold looked at Andie like she had the intelligence of mold.
Andie squeezed her fingers tighter around Justice’s leash and thought, I want out of here. In her weeks off work, she had gotten out of practice for handling wackos, and Justice looked like he had too. He turned his back to Jeremy and Marigold and let them know he had better ways to occupy his time, such as watching the neighborhood fir trees grow.
Before Christopher, Andie would have been glad to intervene in this fight. After Christopher, she knew how hard a cop’s life could be, and all she wanted was to document this conflict and leave. She wanted to tell Jeremy and Marigold, Grow up. You don’t have time for stupidity like this. You could die tomorrow.
She scribbled the San Julian court’s phone number in her notebook, ripped out the page, and handed it to Marigold. “The city offers mediation. You two, give it a try.”
CHAPTER 30
TOM
“Christopher Vanderwaal’s homeroom teacher told me your English class was his favorite.” Tom showed his badge to Miss Mildred Ware.
“His death was a terrible shock. You’d never expect a San Julian kid to come to a violent end like that.” Miss Ware’s delicate hand reached for the cameo pinned at her throat. Her black-framed reading glasses magnified her eyes.
Since she occupied the classroom’s only chair, Tom dragged a student’s desk up to hers so they could have a private conversation. Her planning period was about to start, and the room was quiet except for students talking and slamming locker doors in the hall. Glancing at a photo of Hemingway pinned to the bulletin board, Tom squeezed between the desk’s seat and writing surface. High-school desks were not made for men his size.
“Was Christopher a good student?” he asked.
“He was intelligent, but he didn’t live up to his potential. I’d say he was a solid C-plus,” Miss Ware said. “Lots of days he’d sit at the back of the
room and read novels while I taught. I’d leave him be. I figured he was doing something positive.”
“Did he write very well?”
“Pretty well. He’d have been better if he’d applied himself,” Miss Ware said. “He told me he kept a journal.”
Bingo! A potential gold mine! “Where is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry.” Miss Ware must have seen the disappointment around Tom’s eyes, because she added, “Maybe it’s in his house.”
“We searched his room and school locker.”
“He could have written on his laptop. Kids these days prefer to type rather than write by hand.”
“Nobody knows where his laptop is.”
“That’s a shame.” Miss Ware absently lined up three pencils on her desk.
“Do you still have any of his essays?” Tom asked.
“No. Once I grade them I hand them back,” she said. “I can tell you that his best ones were personal experience, which is a lot like journal writing. Teens usually find it easier to tackle narratives about themselves than arguments about assigned topics.”
“Do you remember any personal experience Christopher wrote about?”
Miss Ware ran her finger across the pedestal of a Shakespeare bust on her desk. “I guess I wouldn’t be breaking confidentiality if I told you about his arrest.”
Tom blinked. “Arrest” rippled through his brain. “I’ve never heard about it.”
“Last year he and Kevin Engelbrit got caught stealing shirts from Northwest Threads. No reason for them to do such a thing. Their parents bought them perfectly good clothes. They were just acting out.”
“You’re sure they got arrested? I didn’t come across any record of it.”
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