Chapter Thirty-Two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

If someone peeked into the back of my car, they'd assume I was going on a trip. A carry-on suitcase is wedged into the space, containing everything I need for the different scenarios my job requires.

Sneakers, socks, yoga pants, and a T-shirt in case a client wants to do something athletic. A baseball cap and pack of hair ties for the same reason. A hoodie, light raincoat, and umbrella, because sometimes people open up more easily when we're walking and they don't have to make eye contact. Extra legal pads, pens, and a backup charger for my laptop. A bag of granola bars and Snickers, because my teenage clients are always hungry, and a box of tissues in case they empty the one I keep in my console.

There's one other item in a hard plastic case, in an inner mesh pocket of my suitcase. A sophisticated recording device. It comes with a wireless microphone I can tuck inside my bra, where it'll feed the sound into the device tucked into my purse.

I've never had reason to use it before.

But something tells me I'm going to want to document every word Ian utters tonight, listening to them over and over for clues and telling inflections.

Ian doesn't want to meet at the family estate, which is curious. It seems he doesn't want anyone to hear our conversation—or even know we're having one.

He suggests a wine bar not far from his home.

I counter, saying I'd prefer to meet at a brewery just over the DC line.

It's a huge win for me when he agrees. Our location is critical.

In Maryland, it's illegal for one party in a conversation to record it without the other party's consent. The law is looser in DC. I can secretly document everything Ian says, and it will likely be admissible in court.

I'm a few minutes late because I had to go home to deal with the contractor and get the keys to my new door. I also tucked Angela's ziti into my fridge, squeezed in a quick shower, and changed clothes.

Now I stand in the doorway, shielded by a couple waiting for a table, and watch Ian. He hasn't noticed me yet. He's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt and his work boots, like he's come straight from a job. He's staring at a football game on a silent TV, his body slumped and his face drawn. Two beers are in front of him, their foamy heads grazing the rims of the pint glasses.

Ian may present a different image when he sees me, but this is a glimpse of how he feels: Stressed. Exhausted. His brain and body fried.

The couple moves aside and I step forward, my movement catching Ian's attention. He half-stands, and I join him at the two-top.

He slides one of the beers over to me. "I got you the house special—a Lumpy Dog—but you can order anything you want. The bar was crowded, so I figured…"

He lets his sentence trail off. For a moment, I'm wary of accepting the beer. Ian could have done something to it.

But it's true—the bar is busy.

Stress and lack of sleep are making me paranoid.

Ian wouldn't try to harm me here. Not in a public place, with witnesses and a barback who looks like he could be a professional wrestler.

"Thanks." I take a sip and lick the foam off my upper lip. "It's good."

This beer, along with Angela's cookies I gobbled on the drive here, constitute my dinner tonight. I've had worse. But I'm not going to drink more than half. I need to stay sharp. I'm waiting for an opportunity to test Ian.

"Yeah. This is my second. I got here a little early."

"So what's going on?" I ask.

Ian looks down at his hands, seeming to stall, and a flash of anger overtakes me. I'm tired of being lied to and feeling on edge. I hate not knowing if he called me here to perpetuate another smoke screen created by him, Beth, and Harriet.

"I guess it's Hail Mary time." Ian swallows hard. It's a football term, but he is no longer looking at the screen.

"My daughter is changing. It isn't just her being mute, though obviously that's huge. But the doctors say she'll talk again." Ian clears his throat and lifts his eyes to meet mine. "I know Beth and my mom would kill me for saying this, but it's true: Sometimes I feel like I don't know who Rose is anymore."

My gut tightens. Everything around me—the conversations and clank of beer glasses and bursts of laughter—fade away. Ian holds my absolute focus.

"Everyone says Rose is going through a lot, with Tina's death and the divorce," he continues. "And I get it. But the changes in her started a little while before that. I can't put my finger on exactly when."

Ian massages the bridge of his nose, like he's fighting a headache. "You've worked with a lot of kids. Is this normal?"

I give him a nonanswer. "It's hard to say."

Ian reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. I have the sense he's about to show me something on it; then he seems to waver. He lays the phone facedown on the table between us, as if his decision is still in limbo.

"Look, I acknowledge I wasn't a great husband. Tina wasn't my first affair. But I'm a good father. No matter what else they say about me, no one can take that away from me."

I'm struck by Ian's need for validation—and his apparent forthrightness. I can't see any universe in which he'd shape the narrative to include affairs that didn't exist.

"Tell me more about what's going on with Rose," I redirect.

He exhales. "I keep finding her up in Tina's room, standing there and staring out that window. When I ask her why, she tunes out. She loves making origami cranes, and it makes me think of them, the way she can fold up into herself."

Ian reaches for his beer and downs a third of it, his Adam's apple sliding down with each gulp.

"I swear I can feel her turmoil. It's palpable. She's scared at times, angry at other times, then she's just… blank."

I've witnessed all of those Roses, too.

"What do you think she's scared of?" I ask.

There's no other way to describe it: Ian collapses. His forearms hit the table, and his head curls down as his eyes squeeze shut.

When he finally speaks again, his words carry the hushed weight of a sacred confession.

"What worries me is that maybe she's scared of herself."

The hairs on the back of my neck rise. Ian isn't spinning me or trying to curry favor. He's desperately trying to get help for his daughter.

Ian glances at his phone again, but doesn't touch it. I need to see what's on it.

"I know Rose sees Dr. Markman once a week," I tell him. "I think she needs more help than that. Have you considered intensive therapy for her to try to get to the root of what's really going on?"

Ian nods. "I've suggested it until I'm blue in the face. Dr. Markman tried, too—she thought Rose could benefit from a deeper course of treatment. That's what she called it. But Beth won't do it. She says Rose is messed up because of what I did. And that if she gets full custody, the problem will be erased because Rose won't have to see me all that often."

"What about Harriet?" My voice is low and urgent. I'm acutely aware of the hard metal microphone against the soft skin of my chest. "Would your mother be an ally if you told her you needed her help?"

"An ally for me ?" Ian releases a short, sharp sound that isn't quite a laugh. "No one tells my mother what to do, least of all me. She's adamant that Rose simply needs time and the love of her family. She thinks intensive therapy is a load of crap. My mom has always been that way. If I did something wrong when I was growing up, she'd whack me with a wooden spoon rather than have a conversation about right versus wrong."

Ian glances down at his phone. I follow his gaze.

Turn it over, I silently compel him. But all he does is drink deeply from his glass again, his face drawn and tight.

It hits me: Ian isn't only worried that Rose may be scaring herself. I suspect she's scaring him, too.

So I throw a Hail Mary of my own.

"There's something you're not telling me, Ian."

My words hit their mark; I can see it in the way he flinches.

"Rose is my priority, and I'm duty-bound to serve her. I swear to you, Ian, I will do whatever it takes to help your daughter."

Something that looks like relief floods Ian's eyes. He flips over his phone and enters the pass code.

When he holds it up so we can view the screen together, I recoil.

It's a photo of a redheaded girl—Rose—splayed on the ground, near the spot where Tina landed.

A split second later my mind registers the details and recasts the scene. It isn't Rose. It's the doll from her room, the one that looks like her.

"I caught Rose pushing the doll out of the window Tina fell through," Ian whispers. "She opened the window and wedged her doll under the safety bar and shoved so it fell three stories. Why in the world would a little girl do something like that?"