Chapter Sixty-Four

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

Time blurs. The house fills with cops, summoned by Rose's text from Tina's phone and my subsequent 9–1–1 call. Beth comes flying through the front door, her eyes huge and frantic, shouting Rose's name.

I'm in the middle of giving my statement to the police, but I pause and peek into the living room to take in the sight of Beth and Ian hugging Rose between them.

For the first time, they look like a family.

When I've finished, I join them, feeling light-headed from exhaustion. Rose is sandwiched between Ian and Beth on the couch, and I've taken the chair Harriet claimed earlier tonight. I'm aware that on some level, even though I know Harriet was handcuffed and taken to a police precinct, I've positioned myself between Rose and the entry point to the room. It's hard to take my eyes off my young client.

I feel as if I've never truly seen her before.

Beth and Ian each have an arm around Rose, sheltering her within their joint embrace. Rose is asleep, her head leaning on her mother's shoulder, the cut on her foot covered by a thick Band-Aid.

I've recounted all the details of my involvement with the case to the police, starting with my first day and going through my final encounter with Harriet.

But I didn't reveal I'd begun to suspect Rose. I never want those words in an official record—one the tabloids might spread and distort, scattering seeds of doubt in the public's mind about whether Harriet was actually taking the fall for Rose.

"I can't believe my mother did all of those things." Ian's voice is tight and low. "And you think Rose knew she was in the attic with Tina all along?"

I nod. "That's why Harriet wanted to keep Rose isolated."

"Rose must have been so scared." Beth shudders and bends her head to gently kiss Rose's hair. "She couldn't sleep, she was gathering weapons to protect herself… and Harriet made us think Rose killed Tina, either accidentally or on purpose. She told us Rose came running out of the house after Tina fell. Who could blame that on a little girl?"

Ian's face reddens in anger. "Rose hid that knife in her backpack because she was alone with Harriet on the drive to and from school and she was terrified. But my mother twisted everything. She made me start to doubt my daughter's sanity."

I look at Beth. She wears the same expression as Ian: anger mixed with guilt and shame. "You never had a phobia of glass."

"No." She lowers her eyes. "We were desperate. Rose kept collecting weapons, and when we got rid of all the knives in the house, she began breaking glass and hiding jagged pieces under her bed or beneath the car seats, so we got rid of the glass, too… We did everything we could think of to make Rose stop. She seemed so different after Tina died. And Harriet kept telling us even young kids can get locked up if they're convicted of murder. I thought maybe Rose was with Tina and there was an accident, but I knew it could be portrayed as something else if anyone found out… Her entire life would be destroyed. We talked to Rose and told her that if she was up in the attic when Tina fell, we wouldn't be mad at her, she just needed to let us know what happened."

Tears roll down her cheeks. "Rose knew we suspected her. That we were a little scared of what she might do next. She must have felt so alone. What did we do to her?"

I tell them they aren't to blame—and that a few days ago I considered grabbing a knife and tucking it into my purse in case I needed to defend myself, yet I had been unable to see that's exactly what Rose was doing, too.

Ian is still trying to make sense of everything; he's tilting old images in his mind and gaining new perspectives. "Remember how she threw her doll out of the attic?" Ian looks at me, his eyes widening. "Do you think Rose was checking to see if Harriet could push her out the window even with the bar over it?"

"She could have been," I say. "Rose could also have been trying to figure out exactly what happened to Tina. Rose is very smart; she was trying to make sense of things. She wanted to understand Harriet and how someone who'd done something so evil could camouflage it from the people who knew her well."

The book The Stranger Beside Me explores that exact theme. That was why Rose was reading it.

I missed that clue, too.

Behind me, I hear Charles calling my name. I twist around, and he rushes toward me, relief filling his face.

"You didn't call within an hour," he cries. "I phoned the number you gave me and told the detective who answered to come here and then I kept calling you. But you didn't answer…"

He looks as dapper as always in his blue blazer and khaki slacks, but his shoes are mismatched—one black loafer and one brown—as if he threw them on while he ran out the door, intent on getting here in case I needed help.

I see the full force of it in his face, the fear and worry he has carried on my behalf. Not just tonight, but for most of my life.

A bit of the hardness in my heart toward him softens.

I stand up, feeling a deep ache in my chest, and walk to him. I hesitate, then hug him. "I'm okay," I tell Charles.

It isn't the complete truth, but it's close enough for now.

As I pull away from him, I see Detective Garcia standing by the front door. She's wearing a leather jacket and jeans. It's a good look on her.

Our eyes lock.

"You've had quite a night," she says calmly. "How are you feeling? Any injuries?"

"A few bruises, but nothing major."

"I'd like to get you checked out. Being Tased is no joke. Mind coming with me? I've got an EMT waiting outside."

A warmth spreads through my stomach. She may just be doing her job, but I like it that she seems to care.

"Go ahead," Charles tells me. "I'll wait for you here."

Detective Garcia crosses her arms, and the sleeves of her jacket ride up. I blink because I can't believe what I've just seen.

On her inner wrist is a small tattoo of an eagle, its wings spread in flight.

I don't believe in signs, but I can't help but think of the eagle statue in the mediator's office that promised hope.

I choose my next words carefully. Because even though I don't believe in signs, I do believe in taking chances.

"I don't mind going with you at all," I say.

And I swear I see it: a little movement at the corner of her lips, quick as the flutter of wings, that tells me she understands exactly what I mean. And more than that, she likes it.