Chapter Forty-Five

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Perhaps Rose cracked open the door to Beth's room, silently observing me as I explore it. The possibility chills me to my core: Rose slipping inside, creeping a bit closer to me as I studied the photos on the bureau, the rug swallowing the sound of her footsteps behind me.

My mind is whirling, leaping to the worst-case explanation. It's as if I'm being sucked into quicksand, flailing and desperate, every single time I'm in this house. It's impossible for me to think clearly here.

Can Rose sense my fear? I can't see her clearly; she's backlit by the strong sunlight.

I blink rapidly, trying to get rid of the sunspots in my vision.

Rose has caught me off guard too many times. I'm supposed to be the one in charge. But the power dynamic feels like it has shifted in her favor.

I have to tackle this latest issue head-on, before Rose feels as if she's gained the upper hand.

I remind myself to stand tall as I stride into Rose's room. The book of Mary Oliver poetry is spread facedown on her lap. But I have Rose's full attention.

Even without the sun beaming into my eyes, I can't read her expression. I don't know which Rose I'll be meeting today.

Last time I was in her room with her, I squatted down next to her. I wanted to put myself on her level.

Today, that's the last thing I want.

I perch several feet away, sitting on the edge of her bed. Rose is wearing a patterned blue-and-yellow dress with pockets. The folds in the fabric make it impossible to tell whether her pockets are full. I drag my eyes away from them.

"I was looking for you," I tell her. "I thought you might be in your mother's room. Didn't you hear me calling?"

Rose shakes her head, just once.

Still, it's communication.

I hate that I feel grateful for it. It's surreal that this young girl has left me feeling so off-balance and unsure of what she's capable of, especially given that I'm not someone who scares easily. During the course of my work, I've been threatened by more than one parent—I even had to hire a private security company for several months a few years back—and I had one mother jump in my car and drive off when I asked a question she didn't like, leaving me alone in a park at dusk in a sketchy neighborhood without my purse or phone.

Parents act in aggressive ways when they think someone is going to get between them and their kid; it's a feral response.

But this is the first time I've ever felt deeply shaken by a child client.

I look at the slight, oddly formal girl in front of me, and I acknowledge it again: I have no idea what Rose is capable of, or what secrets she holds inside.

But time is against me. So I need to find out.

I walk over to her desk, but I don't watch her face. I keep my eyes on her hands. A cop once told me to do that: If someone pulls out a weapon, you'll see it faster if you're watching their hands.

Rose's hands stay folded on her lap, on top of the facedown book. Her nails are neatly filed, with perfect half-moons at the base.

I reach around her, so close that she could reach up and touch me if she wanted. I grab the whiteboard and blue dry-erase pen, then return to my spot on the bed.

I write: Do you want to split your time equally between your parents after they divorce? Or is there another arrangement you'd prefer?

I turn the whiteboard around and hold it up.

I know Rose reads it; I can see her eyes move from left to right.

I extend the board and pen to her.

She doesn't reach for them.

I exhale and print another message directly beneath my first one.

Please answer. Your feelings matter to me.

I hold up the board, giving her ample time to absorb my message; then I offer it to her again.

This time, Rose reaches for it.

I hold my breath as she writes a message of her own. I can't see what it is because of the way she's holding the pad.

Then Rose turns the pad around.

Two words. An eerie echo of her message to me on the restaurant place mat.

GO AWAY.

I reach out, yanking the board away from her, anger flaring in me.

Is she playing with me? Did she do this to Tina, too?

I write six words that I know will spark a reaction in her. I just don't know what kind of reaction. I turn around my pad and watch her face transform as she reads them.

Are you glad Tina went away?

Storms erupt in her eyes.

I can see the emotions roiling her, powerful and turbulent. She's on the verge of losing control. The air between us turns metallic and swollen.

Show me what you're made of, I mentally goad her. Come at me. Or burst into tears. Tell me your worst secrets. Whatever it is—let me see it.

She's on the brink. I'm so close to knowing whatever it is she holds deep inside.

Then she pulls herself back.

Rose lifts up her Mary Oliver book, hiding her face from me.

She has turned herself off, as if there's a switch only she can access.

No matter what I say or do, Rose won't look at me again. I plead with her, telling her I need her help in figuring out where she should live, that her opinion is the one that matters most to me. I ask her to take me to meet Sugar and Tabasco. I promise not to ask her any more difficult questions today. I tell her that if she just looks at me, I'll take her to see Lucille and the baby squirrels again.

But she gives me nothing.

It's as if I don't exist.

I wait for what feels like an hour, just sitting on her bed, watching her. At one point I hear a door opening and someone hurrying down the hallway. A moment later a toilet flushes, then the sound of water running through pipes courses through the walls around us. It must be Ian—he's the only other person on this floor—but he doesn't come to check on Rose. Instead, his footsteps sound again, this time less rapidly, as they head back to his office.

Rose doesn't react to any of this. Now and then, she turns a page, the sound a soft whisper in her silent room.

Finally I stand up, completely out of options.

"I'll see you soon," I tell Rose, trying to pretend I have some semblance of control over the situation. But I'm not fooling either of us.

I exit the Barclay house and walk back to my car. I sink into my seat and exhale deeply. Before I turn on the engine, I check my email.

Samuel Prinz has responded, agreeing to my request for a conversation. Judge Morton has written back, too, this time with a request for me. She wants a target date for my report: Is the end of the week possible?

I have no idea how to answer her. I am running out of options.