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“He’s probably just over his head with this girl. You should have called the University of Washington. They’ll have dozens of autism experts.”
“Yeah, God forbid someone smart should live in Rain Valley,” Ellie said, her voice spiking up. “You’re not even listening to me.”
Julia made a mental note to temper her comments. “Sorry. So, there’s more to the story than dirty hair and prodigious tree-climbing skills. Hit me.”
“She won’t speak. We think—Max thinks, anyway—that maybe she doesn’t know how.”
“That’s not unusual for an autistic. They seem to operate in a different world. Often, these kids—”
“You didn’t see her, Jules. When she looked at me, I got chills. I’ve never seen such . . . terror in a child.”
“She looked at you?”
“Stared is more like it. I think she was trying to communicate something to me.”
“She made direct, purposeful eye contact?”
“Hel-lo, I just said that.”
It was probably nothing, or maybe Ellie had it wrong. Autistics rarely made purposeful eye contact. “What about her physical mannerisms? Hand movements, way of walking; that sort of thing?”
“She sat in that tree for hours and never moved so much as an eyelash. Think reptile stillness. When she did finally jump down, she moved with lightning speed. Daisy Grimm claimed she ran like the wind. And she sniffed everything in this weird, doglike way.”
In spite of herself, Julia was intrigued. Perhaps she’s mute. And deaf. That would also explain her getting lost. Maybe she didn’t hear people calling for h
er.”
“She’s not mute. She screamed and growled. Oh, yeah, and when she thought we’d killed her wolf, she howled.”
“Wolf?”
“Did I forget that part? She had a wolf pup with her. He’s out at the game farm now. Floyd says he just sits at the gate and howls all day and all night.”
Julia leaned back and crossed her arms. Enough was enough. This had all been a ruse, another of her sister’s misguided attempts to save poor little Julia. “You’re making this up.”
“I wish I were. Unfortunately, it’s all true.”
“She really has a wolf pup?”
“Yes. And are you ready for the kicker?”
“There’s more?”
“She has a lot of scarring.”
“What kind of scarring?”
“Knife wounds. Maybe some . . . whipping marks. And on her ankle—ligature-type scarring.”
Julia uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “You better not be pulling my chain. This is a big deal.”
“I know.”
Julia’s mind ticked through dozens of possibilities. Autism. Mental or developmental delays. Early onset schizophrenia. Those were the easy, purely internal answers. But there could be something darker here, something infinitely more unique and dangerous. It could be that this child had escaped from some terrible captor. Elective mutism would be a common response to that kind of trauma. In any case, the kid would need help. And not just any psychiatrist could handle this sort of diagnosis and treatment. Only a handful of people on the West Coast specialized in this sort of thing. Fortunately, she was one of them.
“She really touched me, Jules. I’m afraid that when the bigwig authorities get involved, we’ll lose her. They’ll warehouse her in some state institution until we find her parents. I don’t think I could live with that. There’s something so . . . broken and sad about this kid. I don’t know if anyone has ever fought for her. With you, we could make a case for treating her while we search. No one could deny your credentials.”
And there it was: the reminder.
