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“Is that true?” an officer asks Madden.
Madden nods with uncertainty in her eyes.
“How did you know she was in here?” the officer asks, looking at me.
“Her mother sent me several messages asking if we could talk, telling me she needed my help. I came over and heard Madden thumping to let her out.”
“Where is the mother now?” the questions continue.
“She was trying to get into the room but then everything went silent. I don’t know where she is now. I stayed with Madden.”
The officer is jotting down notes as two other officers scout the room with flashlights. I’m not sure what they’re looking for, but it could be anything from a missing baby to a clue as to why another one of the Smiths’ children is holed up in her room while the father is being detained.
“Are you hurt?” the officer asks Madden.
She clutches her arms around her stomach. “No, but—” she says.
“Are you sick, sweetheart?” the officer changes his tone a bit to reflect Madden’s words.
“Mom says I’m sick here,” she says, lifting a hand and placing it on her head. “But I don’t want to be.”
THIRTY-THREE
MONDAY, JUNE 12TH 5:15 PM
The same questions are asked repeatedly, an interrogation technique to catch someone in a lie. There were only so many ways I could describe the minute-by-minute occurrences of what happened after arriving at the Smiths’ house. I’m not sure where Lara disappeared to or where Madden was taken after we arrived at the police station, or if Blakely is truly safe somewhere. I don’t know if Madden is responsible for all she’s being blamed for or even confessing to, because kids can so easily be manipulated to do and say what someone convinces them to. The police offered to let me meet them at the station for questioning, but I didn’t want to leave Madden until I knew she was here safely, so I sat with her in the back of the police car. Another ride I’ll never forget.
It’s sad knowing she likely won’t be going home anytime soon, and for multiple reasons, not just because she needs therapy.
It’s never ideal to separate a child from their family but the options aren’t great due to the decisions they’ve made.
Once again, I’ve walked out of the police station with the problems still floating around me like a cloud of dust. I haven’t received a call since the night I was detained, and I’m not sureif I’m still considered a person of interest, but I’m sure it’s clear I’m not the person they should be focusing on now.
I needed someone to hold my hand after experiencing trauma at a young age. Therapy was the least of what was best for me, but nothing was an option as my family was being sued for every dime we had. At least that’s what my parents told me. They tried to help me overcome the nightmares of surviving the fire but there was nothing they could say or do to fix what happened, or to bring back our belongings that were forever lost.
The day has come and gone as I stand outside of the police department, waiting for Willa to pick me up. I don’t think she’ll be thrilled to bring me back to the Smiths’ house to pick up my car, probably even less so than she is to pick me up from the police station again, but I couldn’t explain much when I called her for a ride.
An old slate-gray Durango pulls into the lot and my stomach tightens as I squint toward the vehicle. The car moves toward me faster than I can focus on the driver and by the time I confirm my concern, it’s too late to run and hide.
I hear the brakes grinding into place and the rickety door squealing open on the driver’s side. “My God, Haley,” he shouts, shuffling over to me with eagerness.
I wrap my arms around my chest and hold myself tightly. “Dad, what are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his head tilting to the side with frustration. He runs his hand over his bald head and growls before stepping up to me. He grips his hands around my arms and inspects the bruising along my neck. “What happened to you? It looks like you were in a fight. Are you okay?”
“There isn’t a simple explanation,” I reply, squeezing my arms even tighter. “I’m fine.”
“You call that fine?” he replies, his voice becoming grittier.
“Please…just don’t?—”
He takes a step back, the small space I need to take in a lungful of air. “Look, your mother and I have tried to give you the space you’ve demanded from us, but it’s been two years, Haley. Two years. Do you have any clue how long that is when you’re a parent? Then to see your face on the news of all places…and now I find you and it looks like you were beaten to a pulp. My God.”
“I’m twenty-seven, Dad,” I remind him. “You shouldn’t have had to try and give me space. I’m a grown woman and I had to enforce boundaries because you didn’t respect them.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I don’t care if you’re fifty. You’re my daughter—my daughter who blocked our phone numbers after we agreed to give you this so-called-space you needed.” He presses his hands to his hips and paces back and forth along the one large cement tile he’s standing within.
I peer around the parking lot, searching for Willa, wishing she were here so I could jump into her car. “How did you even know I was here?” My heart flutters with anxiety, witnessing a storm of anger illuminate Dad’s eyes.
