Page 45 of Property of Quake

Rather than continue arguing with me, she exhales and shifts her attention to Melissa. “Hi, honey.”

The term of endearment grates on my nerves, but Melissa gives a small wave.

“Hi.”

“Would it be okay if we talked for a little while?” Carrie asks her.

Melissa hesitates, and she automatically looks to Whitney, then me, then Stella. The action twists something deep in my chest because I’ve seen her do that several times as if checking to make sure we’re all still here, that she’s still safe.

Whitney offers her an encouraging smile. “It’s okay.”

Melissa nods and glances at Sister Beatrice, almost as an after thought. The elder nun dips her head in approval so the little girl looks back to Carrie.

“Okay.”

Carrie looks to me. “Is there somewhere quiet she and I can talk?”

“Yeah.” I lead everyone to a different entrance, the one reserved for patched members, and to my suite. “Make yourselves comfortable,” I say, feeling like I’m in the middle of a bad joke.

A biker, two nuns, a child protective services caseworker, a child, and a dog enter a bar…

Carrie and Melissa settle on the couch while Whitney, Sister Beatrice, and I stay on the other side of the suite to give them some privacy. The next hour is fucking torture.

I spent days following Keith around the state, watching him do absolutely nothing useful, and somehow, this feels worse. At least then I was moving, doing something, but now, all I’m doing is waiting.

I pace, sit down, stand up, pace some more. Whitney pulls out the folders she brought pertaining to the carnival and pretends to review the pages. I know she’s pretending because she can’t stop herself from darting her eyes toward the couch every few seconds.

At some point, Sister Beatrice pulls a small prayer book out of a small bag I didn’t even realize she had and settles on a chair at the table. She also keeps glancing toward the couch, and I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s lifted her eyes to the ceiling, her lips moving like she’s speaking directly to God.

Eventually, Carrie stands, ruffles Melissa’s hair in a way that appears more condescending than comforting, and walks toward us. One look at her face and I know she doesn’t have the answers I want.

“Well?” I demand before the nuns have a chance to speak.

“Well, what?”

“Did she tell you anything? Who hurt her? What the fuck happened?” The questions fly from my mouth like bullets from a gun at a firing squad.

“I don’t know,” she finally says.

“What does that even mean?” Whitney asks, stepping up to my side.

Carrie stuffs her pen into her notebook and tucks it under her arm. “It means she isn’t talking.”

“Shit,” I blurt.

Whitney flinches, and Sister Beatrice steps up to my other side.

“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Jeffries,” she says, patting my arm. “He’s grown fond of the child and is simply expressing the sentiment we’re all feeling and are unable to put into words.”

It’s not lost on me that the older woman doesn’t actually apologize for me, and I’m definitely not fucking apologizing. I don’t have it in me to, not with all the missing pieces of the puzzle locked in Melissa’s brain.

“Did you learn anything?” Whitney asks, her tone conveying more concern than frustration.

Carrie hesitates. Her pause is only a few seconds, but that’s long enough for me to wonder if she’s trying to decide how much to say.

“I’ve been doing this a long time, interviewed dozens of children,” she finally says, and as much as I want to interrupt, I don’t. “Children who’ve been neglected or abused. Children who’ve experienced things that they should never experience.” A knot forms in my stomach as Carrie glances toward Melissa, who’s still sitting on the couch, Stella snuggled against her. “I don’t know much, but I can tell you that whoever she’s afraid of is someone she knows.”

“That can’t be,” Sister Beatrice says. “She’s been at Sacred Haven. No one there would hurt her.”