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The sergeant shrugged. “Not yet.”
“You couldn’t find him?”
“Looks like he doesn’t work at that café.”
“He quit?”
The sergeant shrugged in a way that made clear he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, give details. “Something like that. We’re trying to track him down.”
Her throat swelled with anxiety.
“But if you can’t find him…are you making sure my daughter’s safe? He was—did I tell you? He was after her. He made that clear.”
The sergeant’s face darkened. He tap-tap-tapped a finger irritably on the arm of his chair.
His politeness, his belief, is conditional on you not questioning him.
“You told me.” The sergeant’s voice was clipped. “You ID’d the guy as a stranger. And like I told you, a criminal like that, it just doesn’t happen that he’d go after a victim who got away. It would guarantee he’d be caught, for one. And your father-in-law lives in a busy apartment complex, where cops are checking in on him and your kids. All right? Now, you feeling up to talking? Might help us get the guy.”
Her eye burned under the bandage. She ached with fury at the sergeant’s impatient dismissal of her concerns. She could smell her body, its reek of vinegar and old grease. Her jaw hurt. Speaking still scratched her throat. Her whole skull was soft around the edges and ragged from the pain. But they’d freed her arms. She could move her legs. Wiggle her toenail-less toes under the blanket. Think a little more clearly.
Remember what the psychiatrist said. You’re reasonable, efficient, effective, normal. Helping the police catch him is the quickest way to help the children.Help yourself. And maybe the sergeant’s right that the kids are safe. That the Corner wouldn’t go after them again. The sergeant would know that kind of thing, wouldn’t he? About crime? The facts, the numbers?
“Ma’am?”
“Right. Yeah, sure. I can answer questions.”
You’re as ready as you can be. You have to convince them. They have to catch him.
But she needed to see the children. To reassure herself they were safe. To read on their faces how their grandfather was treating them.
“Can we call my kids first?” she asked. “A video call? They’ve tried for me here, but my father-in-law won’t pick up for me. He might for you.”
The sergeant gave a resigned grunt. “Sure. Okay.”
Her father-in-law picked up on the first ring.
“Hello, Officer, what can I do you for?”
The sergeant told him. She could picture her father-in-law’s expression going sour from the change in tone.
“Fine, I’ll get them.”
The sergeant handed her the phone, and there were her children. Beautiful, shining. Worried.
“Mama, you look soooooooo bad,” her son said.
She laughed and it hurt. She cried and it stung.
“Don’t cry, Mommy!”
“I’m just so happy to see you two.”
“Your eye is all black. Like a raccoon.” Her daughter squinted closer to the screen at her bruises and eye patch. “Half raccoon, half pirate.”
“Yeah! A raccoon pirate!” her son agreed, as if this was exciting, a great compliment.
“That’s me, raccoon pirate Mommy.” She lightly touched the bandage over her eye. “How are you guys? I miss you so, so much!”
