“Well,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”
He grabbed his coat from the hanger. I followed, taking mine, and was about to reach for Lacey’s, but Dylan was faster.
I watched as he walked over and gently lifted her from the couch. Her body was limp, unresisting, as he slid her arms into the sleeves. Carefully. Tenderly. Like he was dressing a porcelain doll that might break if he moved too fast.
It broke something inside me to watch him do this.
“This is all a misunderstanding, right?” I asked Jack. “Lacey didn’t do anything.”
“That doesn’t matter in situations like these,” Jack said coolly, adjusting his tie.
“What do you mean? Doesn’t it matter if someone’s innocent?”
Jack shrugged. “Not really. What matters in the eyes of the court is what you can or can’t prove. Let me do the talking. In the eyes of law enforcement and the world, your daughter is nolonger a victim. Now we have to make sure the court doesn’t get the evidence to prove that.”
Chapter 12
Nicole
The interrogation room at the New Hampshire State Police Station was tiny. No windows. Gray walls. And a plastic table with four plastic chairs. A red light blinked on the camera in the corner as it recorded us.
Detective Nolan sat across from us. Lacey sat between Jack and me. A closed yellow folder lay in the middle of the table.
Nolan leaned on his elbows, hands folded, shoulders rounded. He looked a little lost. He had agreed to let me sit in. I told him I was staying for this, and he let it slide. Which was kind, considering it was his call, and he could have thrown me out.
“She hasn’t said a single word since the incident?” he asked. He already knew the answer. He had been sitting here with us for over two hours. Going over everything. Over and over again. And Lacey hadn’t looked up once. Her head was tipped down toward her lap. Her hands rested limp on her knees. Her face was so pale. How was this the same woman who used to wake up every morning with a smile?
I shook my head. “Not a single peep. The psychiatrist said it’s Functional Neurological Symptom Disorder. He said the trauma made her brain shut off to protect itself from overload or something like that. Like an electrical outlet that trips when you fry it.”
Nolan let out a slow breath through his nose. “How long will it take for her to talk again?”
“The doctor doesn’t know.” My voice came out thin. “It could be days. Months. He said it’s hard to tell.”
Nolan nodded once. “Okay. Are you at least willing to sign a HIPAA form to let me look at the psychiatrist’s notes?”
“Yes,” I said at the same time Jack said, “No.”
Nolan’s eyebrows lifted. His gaze went back and forth between us.
“We could have Dr. Sanchez share the diagnosis,” I said to Jack. My hand settled on Lacey’s knee.
Jack thought about it. Then gave a quick nod. “We can sign a release form for the diagnosis only. But nothing else.”
The room grew quiet, feeling smaller by the second. Nolan stared at the yellow folder. His fingers brushed the edges. Then his gaze flicked from Lacey to me, back to the folder, then to Lacey again.
Then he shook his head.
“All right. For tonight, we’ll leave it at that,” he said. “But I need that confirmation of her diagnosis ASAP. An explanation from the psychiatrist would go a long way too.”
“So, no arrest?” Jack clarified.
“No. You can leave. But stay in town for the rest of the investigation.”
Relief hit so fast it made my shoulders drop and my head tilt back.
The door to the interrogation room opened before I could stand.
A woman walked in with two uniformed officers behind her.
