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“She stayed for a time at what was The Sanctuary.”
“Yes. It was very hard for both of us. When I was hurt, there was no one to care for her. I knew of the place from a friend, so I arranged for her to stay there. They were very kind, and tended to her for only a small donation as I couldn’t afford more. And one of the counselors brought her to see me in the hospital every day. But still, it was hard. I knew there were troubled young people there, and my Lupa was so innocent—young for her age, if you understand? But I was afraid if they took her from me, into the child protection, they might not give her back.”
“Was there a question of your guardianship?”
“No, no, but . . . I was very young myself, and not yet a citizen. So I was afraid, but I thought she would be safe at The Sanctuary, and she was. She did well there, though Ms. Jones told me Lupa had some fears as well, that I would leave her, too. We talked of it in counseling.”
“The report states that when she came back, she began to come home late, and wasn’t clear about where she’d been.”
“It wasn’t like her, the sneaking. She was an accommodating young girl. I thought maybe too much—afraid to do anything wrong or even a little bit wrong, afraid she’d be sent away. So I didn’t punish her. I should have been more firm,” she said and looked desperately at her husband.
He only shook his head, brought their joined hands to his lips.
“I said I wanted to meet her new friends, and we could have them over for pizza, or I could cook. She was evasive, just said maybe sometime. She was loving with me, and sweet, so I let it go. I thought she just wants something all of her own for a little while, and why should she sit alone in the apartment until I come home from work? She’s a good girl, and she’s making friends. Maybe it would help her with the grief. She had such grief, and still questioned why her mother and father died. Was it her fault? Had she done something? Had she not been good enough? Had they not been good enough?”
She glanced toward a table littered with photos. Eve picked out one of her sister—strong resemblance—young and smiling.
“For a time Lupa talked to our priest, but she still questioned, especially after I was hurt.”
“She was mugged,” Juan said. “There were two men, and they hurt her. Even when she gave them what she had without trouble, they hurt her. They cut her. You know how it can be, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“A lady saw it from her window and called the police,” Rosetta continued. “Then because I was hurt, and I couldn’t come home or take care of Lupa, they had to take her. That’s when I asked for her to be placed in The Sanctuary, and it was arranged. Lupa . . .”
She broke for a moment, then steadied again. “It scared her so, when I was hurt. And made her question even more. What had she done or not done? Why did terrible things happen to those she loved and who loved her?”
“It’s pretty common,” Peabody said, “for kids of that age to see themselves as the center. I mean, good things happen because they’re good, bad things because they’re bad.”
“Yes, this was Lupa. So I thought friends, girls her own age, without such grief, would be good for her. Then, that evening, I came home from work, and she wasn’t there. I tried her ’link, but she didn’t answer. I waited and waited, I asked the neighbors, schoolmates, everyone I could think of. No one knew where she’d gone, where she was. I went to the police.”
“Mrs. Delagio.” Peabody spoke up gently when Rosetta’s voice began to quiver. “You did everything right, and you did everything right for all the right reasons.”
“Thank you. Thank you for that. The police, they put out the alert, and they looked for her. I looked for her. Neighbors looked, people were kind. But days passed, nights passed. She never came home. I never saw her again. She would have come home if she could. I knew it even then. She must have been afraid. I hate thinking of her afraid, wanting me, wanting to come home.”
“Is there anything you remember, from looking,” Eve began, “from talking to people? Anything that sticks out?”
“Some people would say they saw her here, others they saw her there. People called the . . . what is it?”
“Tip line,” Eve supplied.
“Yes, and the police checked, but it was never Lupa. Detective Handy was so kind. We still talk now and then. I should tell her—”
“I’ve spoken with her,” Eve said.
“I’ll speak with her, too. She never stopped looking. She was my hope, even though we both knew, if she found Lupa, it would . . . it would be like this. I wrote down everything, every night for months. I have the little diaries I kept.”
“Could we have them? We’ll get them back to you.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ll get them.” Juan rose. “I know where you keep them. I’ll call in for you, for me. We’ll stay home today. Make arrangements.”
She murmured to him in Spanish, and for the first time her eyes filled, overflowed. He answered quietly in the same language, then left the room.
“I hadn’t met Juan when I lost Lupa. They would have loved each other. He loves her because I do, and he looked, too, long after she was gone. He knows we’ll want to have a service for her. Is it possible to . . . can I have her for a service and burial?”
“It may take a while, but I’ll see that you do.”
