Laura placed her hands on Rebecca’s shoulders gently. “Pretty soon we’ll have to open up a gallery for your collection.”
Rebecca turned abruptly to her. “Mom, why’d we have to come here?”
“Rebecca—”
“Everyone hates me here.”
“No they don’t, sweetie.” Rebecca turned back around and continued to paint. Laura sat down on Rebecca’s bed and sighed, they’d had this conversation already. She’d tried before to explain the complications created when two parents separate, translating it into Rebecca’s nine year old language. Laura didn’t have a trade or a real profession. In order to make ends meet, they had no other choice but to move back to Lansing, into the old home she’d grown up in. Laura’s father had recently passed, leaving the house to her. By default — not decree, she was his only offspring. The house harbored some tough memories for Laura, many she had worked hard to forget. But it was a roof over their heads for now. And the way things were going, probably for a long time.
Rebecca had visited the house once before, when her grandfather was very ill. She remembered it smelled “yucky” and she was afraid to enter the room where her grandfather spent most of his day staring at the ceiling, writhing in pain. But curiosity won out and she eventually ventured inside. He broke the ice with a joke she didn’t get, but he laughed, and the odd sound made her laugh too. Laura had stood outside the door with her hand on her mouth, trying to hide her own sobbing.
Rebecca was very confused and asked her mother why she’d never met him before. Some things are just too complicated to explain was all Laura could come up with. A few weeks later he was dead. They hadn’t returned since.
Even though Rebecca was upset about leaving her friends in Livonia, she was actually quite excited to return to the house. She danced around when she realized her new bedroom was much larger than her old one. Her exuberance drowned out a lot of Laura’s trepidation about being in “that place” again, and for a while Rebecca gave her the strength she needed to deal with the anguish of the last few months. Maybe they could make it, maybe they could be happy.
But the joy was brief. It wasn’t long before the night terrors started. Laura had expected Rebecca to have a strong negative reaction to the divorce and the subsequent domestic upheaval — but this wasn’t normal.
Then the school called, asking her to come down to discuss Rebecca’s behavior in class. Laura was shocked when she heard some of the stories of what she’d done. The final straw happened during one outburst when Rebecca lashed out at a boy who’d approached her desk to ask to borrow a pencil. Rebecca screamed obscenities and smacked him hard across the cheek. The teacher described Rebecca’s eyes at that moment as if she was a demon, possessed.
Laura agreed to let that incompetent school psychologist sit with her daughter twice a week. He very quickly threw his hands up in frustration. Those sessions escalated to the hasty recommendation of Dr. Leonard Hellerman, Child Psychiatrist. At Laura’s expense, of course.
Not only was Dr. Hellerman also a failure, Laura blamed him for exacerbating the situation. Laura had heard enough these last few months, endured too many bullshit theories on Rebecca’s “condition”. Rebecca never knew a bad day in her life, as far as Laura was concerned. And Laura was all too familiar with what a bad day of childhood was like. She considered herself an authority on the subject, a purple heart veteran of domestic abuse. Sure, Rebecca’s father had left them, but statistically speaking, these days that was more the norm than the exception. Nothing accounted for Rebecca’s sudden, frightening metamorphosis from normal, well adjusted — even happy child, to the jittery, terrified, profanity spewing insomniac she had become. And while Rebecca mostly couldn’t recall details from her nightmares, what she did describe was suffocating in its horribleness.
Laura decided they needed to solve the problem in-house. Rebecca was her daughter; if she couldn’t help her, perhaps no one could.
Laura stood up from the bed and moved to Rebecca’s side. She caressed Rebecca’s red cheek with the back of her fingers. Rebecca let her.
“Warm milk isn’t doing the trick, so I brought home some herbal teas from work. Maybe we can try it, hmm? Try and get some sleep tonight?”
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Who is she?”
“Who?”
“The girl. The one the doctor was asking about? The one I talk about in my sleep? Carmen?”
Laura’s lips went tight, the question caught her off guard. She tugged at a loose thread in Rebecca’s sweater. “No one.” Rebecca seemed unsatisfied with that answer, but went back to her painting.
“Rebecca, everyone has nightmares. Yours are just worse than most, that’s all. But they’ll pass. I promise.” Laura kissed the top of Rebecca’s head, embracing her, growing emotional.
Her eyes landed on a framed photograph Rebecca kept on her dresser. There was Laura, her ex-husband Richard — tattooed and muscular, and Rebecca in the middle. All smiling, happier times. Rebecca had drawn a pink heart around the photograph. Laura allowed her to keep it out on display. She didn’t want her own pain to become Rebecca’s. He would always be her father.
Laura stared at Rebecca’s tiny face in the picture, Rebecca winking at the camera, something she did in virtually every photograph.
“I’m sorry, baby. I screwed everything up, didn’t I?”
CHAPTER 9
Jack had fallen asleep at his desk. The fluorescent lights blinded, like something sharp jabbing his brain. He winced, slowly lifting his head, a piece of paper stuck to his cheek peeled away.
He looked down bleary eyed at his notes, the text started to move like tiny ants. He shook off the cobwebs, trying to pick up where he left off. His last thought had been the realization that he’d read the same sentence over and over. He dragged his palms down his face and leaned back in his chair, any attempt to continue would just be grinding metal. He rubbed his dark, swollen eyes.
He felt each tick of the clock, each second wasted. On his desk was a stack of gruesome crime scene photographs, not for the faint of heart. Even Jack could only stare at them a brief moment before his stomach turned. Beside those was a single picture of Angelina. Her bright shining smile inspired and haunted him at the same time. He dreaded the day he would have to move her picture into the other pile. He pushed himself to continue.
Harrington entered the office.
“Victor’s state appointed council threatened a harassment suit if he’s questioned again without being formally charged.”
Jack turned to Harrington, holding up a report. “Take a look at these.”
Harrington flipped through, “Natalie Gonzalez, Cassandra Ruiz… What about them?”
“Both Hispanic, same age as Angelina, each one held captive several months, murdered, then dumped, no DNA, no trace evidence, nothing.”
“Gang related.”
“No, that’s a stereotype. Someone’s out there, targeting these girls. Easy prey, illegal, family afraid to come forward to report them missing. Maybe whoever killed these girls took Angelina too.”
“What makes you think Sandoval didn’t do it?”
“Keeping someone captive takes privacy. Victor lives in an upstairs apartment with seven other people.”
“Now who’s stereotyping?” Harrington joked.
“There’s a chance she could still be alive.”
“Held captive?” Harrington said skeptically.
Jack handed him an envelope.